The Chocolate Bridal Bash

by JoAnna Carl

  I do have a degree in accounting. When Joe and I met, nearly two years earlier, he’d been in terrible financial shape—saddled with debts incurred in starting up the boat shop and unable to access money he’d invested jointly with his ex-wife. He’d been living in a back room at the boat shop, with his mortgage weighing on him like an anchor and his credit card debt as high as the clouds over Lake Michigan.

  Then his ex-wife was killed, and Joe discovered that she’d never changed the will she made while they were married. He inherited what appeared to be a substantial fortune. This turned out to be more of a bane than a blessing, since her debts were also substantial, and Joe was determined not to benefit financially from his legacy. Her affairs were such a mess that it had taken him a year to get things on the road to some sort of order.

  Just the previous fall he’d presented his ex-wife’s Warner Pier estate to the city for use as a conference center. In typical Joe fashion, he’d forbidden any official recognition of his gift. He still had to live frugally; he relied on his small salary as part-time city attorney to pay the rent on an apartment over an antique shop on Warner Pier’s main street.

  But I was making a good salary, now that TenHuis Chocolade’s financial situation was improving. Joe and I believed that we could do all right if we pooled our financial resources.

  I had been watching the clock, but a half hour before I was to meet Joe I got a call from the buyer for a Detroit gift shop. She wanted information before she could place her Easter order. TenHuis makes a lot of money selling fancy bunnies to her, so I talked to Aunt Nettie about ordering special packaging, and the two of us went back to my office to do a little arithmetic on pricing. I’d almost forgotten my lunch date when I heard a loud clatter from outside our front window—my office is glass-enclosed and overlooks the workshop, our retail area, and beyond that, Peach Street, Warner Pier’s main drag.

  The noise got my attention, and I looked out and saw a ramshackle truck loaded with garbage bags. An old woman in a dirty white stocking cap with an enormous red pom-pom had just dropped a similar bag, and dozens of aluminum cans were rolling around on the sidewalk.

  “Oh, gosh!” I said aloud. “Lovie’s scattered a million cans all over the sidewalk.”

  Lovie—I didn’t know her last name—was a well-known figure around Warner Pier. She collected aluminum cans for recycling, following a regular route. Her presence and way of life in our little resort town had always amazed me. Warner Pier won’t even allow McDonald’s in the town on the grounds that it would be an eyesore in our pristine Victorian community. But nobody ever complained about Lovie, her sacks of cans, her rattletrap truck, and her falling-down junk shop out on the highway.

  My report on the scattered cans made Aunt Nettie look stricken. “Don’t say anything to her!”

  “I won’t, since you don’t want me to, though I don’t understand why Warner Pier merchants put up with her and her junk. But I’m late to lunch. I’ll call about the Detroit bunnies after you figure the packaging cost.”

  Aunt Nettie nodded, and I got my ski jacket and left. I would have hurried down the block to the Sidewalk Café if I could have gotten through the cans outside the shop without kicking them out of the way. But I couldn’t. The old woman in the cap with the red pom-pom was picking them up slowly. I simply couldn’t walk by her and ignore them.

  “Here, Lovie, let me help you,” I said.

  “No need, pretty girl! I’m not so old that I can’t pick up a few cans.”

  “You hold the sack open, and I’ll dump ’em in,” I said.

  But Lovie didn’t pay any attention to me. She didn’t spurn my efforts to help, but she wouldn’t cooperate either. I’d pick up a couple of cans, and I’d almost have to snatch the big black plastic bag away from her to return them to her stash. It was very frustrating. My shoulder bag was swinging around, I was digging cans out of the slush in the gutter and almost slipping on icy patches near the curb. And I was late to lunch with the man I loved.

  Then I heard Joe’s voice. “Here, Lovie,” he said. “Mom sent these over.”

  Joe had appeared from the direction of his mother’s insurance office, which was located across the street. He was also carrying a garbage bag. There were a dozen or so cans in the bottom. Apparently Mercy Woodyard saved aluminum cans for Lovie.

  “Lee and I can fill this one up,” he said.

  “I don’t need help!” Lovie’s cracked voice was loud.

  “I know you don’t,” Joe said, “but we need the exercise.”

  The old woman couldn’t physically stop us from picking up the beer and soda cans that were scattered all over the sidewalk. But she would have if she could have. She muttered, “Smarty-pants kids. Think I can’t take care of myself!” and similar remarks. Once or twice she yelled, “Don’t mess with me! Just let me alone!” Our efforts were not being appreciated.

  But at last the sidewalk was clear, and Joe knotted the top of the sack he and I had filled, then swung it into the back of her truck. Lovie tossed in the second sack herself. As she stood beside Joe, I was surprised to see that she was just a couple of inches shorter than he was. Which made her about my height, since I’m just under six feet and Joe’s a bit over.

  She stepped up on the curb, still glaring at us. “I s’pose you want thanks,” she said. Her dark eyes, peering out from under the formerly white hat, snapped angrily.

  “They’re not notorious,” I said. “I mean, necessary! There’s no need to thank us.”

  “Well, I won’t!” The old woman leaned closer to me. I tried not to shrink away. “You’re that TenHuis girl, aren’t you?”

  “My mother was Sally TenHuis,” I said. “My name is Lee McKinney.”

  She giggled. It had a wicked sound. Then she pointed at Joe. “All the TenHuis girls—they like ’em tall and dark!” She climbed into the old truck, still giggling maniacally. Before she closed the door she leaned out and spoke once more. “Tall and dark! Tall and dark! That’s the way those TenHuis girls like’em!”

  Joe grabbed my arm. “Come on,” he said. He turned me toward the Sidewalk Café and our belated lunch.

  “That old woman is spooky,” I said.

  “Yep,” Joe said. He grinned and slid his arm around me. “How do you think your mom would have liked having her for a mother-in-law?”

  Chapter 4

  I whirled to look at Joe, stepped on a piece of ice, and nearly fell flat on the sidewalk.

  Joe grabbed my arm and kept me upright. “Whoops!” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “No! I’m shocked beyond words! Are you telling me that old crazy Lovie is the mother of the guy my mom almost married?”

  Joe looked down, shuffled his feet, and umed and ered the way men do when they realize they’ve put a foot into it up to the hip joint. “Well, uh, I thought Aunt Nettie told you last night.”

  “No! She told me about Bill Dykstra. And she told me his mother was still here in Warner Pier. But she dodged away from telling me who his mother was. I was going to ask you about her. Aunt Nettie said I wouldn’t have any reason to know her.”

  “What? Everybody knows Lovie Dykstra.”

  “I know Lovie by sight, of course, but I didn’t know her last name. Besides, Aunt Nettie called her by a different first name. Vita.”

  “I’ve never heard her called that.” Joe gestured toward the Sidewalk Café. “Come on. Let’s get some lunch.”

  “I can’t eat a bite. I’ll just go back to the office.” Then I stamped my boot. “No! I can’t do that! I can’t let Aunt Nettie see how upset I am!”

  Joe looked at me closely. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “No!” I denied it, but the tears were already oozing over my lids and down my cheeks.

  Joe looked so woeful I thought he was going to hug me, right there at Fifth Avenue and Peach Street, a public display of affection that would be most unlike him. But he merely turned me around. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll go up to my place.”<
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  I didn’t argue. I followed him across the street to a door between an antique store and a dress shop, both closed for the winter. He opened the door, and led me up the narrow steps to the apartment we were planning to share in three months. He waited until we were inside before he hugged me.

  “I’m sorry, Lee. First, I thought you knew Lovie was Bill Dykstra’s mother. Second, I didn’t realize how shocked you’d be by the news. Lovie’s such a joke around Warner Pier . . .”

  “That’s what upsets me, Joe! Last night I learned that my mother jilted her high school sweetheart practically at the door of the church. Then he committed suicide! Aunt Nettie told me his mother had been a science teacher. Now I learn that she’s become so eccentric that she’s a joke to everyone in town! She must have gone completely insane! Was this all my mother’s fault?”

  “Don’t be silly! Mental illness—bipolar disorder or schizophrenia or depression or whatever was wrong with Billy and with his mother—is not caused by being jilted! Or by the suicide of a son. It has a physical cause. Your mother wasn’t to blame for Bill and Lovie having some sort of chemical imbalance.”

  “I guess not. But it’s so sad!”

  Joe helped me out of my coat, seated me on his couch, and put his arms around me again. “It is an unhappy story,” he said. “Lovie has become such an object of derision around here that I forgot that she has a tragic past. I’m sorry I was callous, Lee. Thanks for reminding me that her life is truly sad.”

  I laid my head on Joe’s shoulder and cried silently for a few minutes. He was smart enough not to say anything until I sat up and blew my nose.

  “I guess you’re still not in the mood for lunch at the Sidewalk,” he said. “I can make us a grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Sounds great. If you’ll do that, I’ll try to do something about my face.”

  I went into Joe’s bathroom, washed my face with cold water, and repaired what damage I could. Thank goodness I gave up wearing elaborate makeup when I left Dallas and my earlier career as a trophy wife. If I’d had to contour three shades of eye shadow, I think I would have started crying again. But I managed to keep my eyes dry while I redid the minimal makeup I wear these days, and I had brushed my hair and put it back into its George Washington–style queue by the time I joined Joe in the kitchen.

  He’d made six grilled cheese sandwiches and heated up at least a quart of cream of tomato soup.

  “Why so much food?” I said. “Are you opening your own café?”

  “No, but I did something nervy. I called Mom and asked her to come up and have lunch with us. Do you mind?”

  “Why should I mind? I like your mom.”

  “I asked her because she knows as much about Lovie as anybody in Warner Pier does, and I thought you might have some more questions.”

  “As long as we don’t have to argue about the reception.”

  “I’ll try to head her off.”

  A few minutes later, Mercy Woodyard came up from her insurance office, just a few doors down the street. As usual, she looked as if she were posing for a fashion spread on what a successful career woman should wear. The black flannel double-breasted coat—full-length—topped a gray pantsuit that could have stepped right out of Vogue or Elle. She had a sterling silver pin on her lapel and wore a string of pearls I was willing to bet had not come from Wal-Mart. The shine on her dressy black boots made me hide my feet under my chair, and her makeup was perfect.

  The only thing I could top her with was my hair. Thanks to the DNA I pulled out of the TenHuis gene pool, I’m a natural blonde; Mercy gets her tasteful shade though regular appointments with a good hairstylist.

  Mercy always made me feel unkempt, but I reminded myself that she was not really suitably dressed for Warner Pier. A businesswoman shouldn’t outclass her customers, and Warner Pier is a resort town whose usual wear is divided between khaki and denim. A more casual style would be better for Mercy’s situation, I thought, though my flannel-lined jeans, turtleneck, and scuffed boots might be erring in the other direction.

  Mercy, who owns Warner Pier’s only insurance agency, is very likely the most successful businesswoman in Warner Pier. I guess she figures she might as well look like it. But Mercy is also a nice person, and she seemed to like me. Plus, she was busy with her own affairs and usually didn’t show signs of wanting to run Joe’s life or mine. That’s quite a set of advantages in a future mother-in-law.

  The wedding reception was the first bone of contention we’d run into, and I was determined to stand firm on that.

  We sat at the kitchen table, and I told Mercy that Joe and I were going into Holland that week to pick out dishes and silver.

  “I’ve had people ask about our selections,” I said, “so I guess we should do it, even though I’m embarrassed about the whole thing, since we’ve both been married before.”

  “Of course you should do it,” Mercy said, tapping a finger on one of Joe’s plastic plates. “It’s not as if you don’t need those things. And it’s not as if anybody in Warner Pier gave either of you a present the first time around. Besides, people don’t have to buy a wedding gift unless they want to.

  “Which reminds me, somebody told me about a band that sounds great. They play oldies—for my generation—and new stuff, too. They’re out of Ann Arbor, and they’re called the Neocrats.”

  “We decided not to have a band,” Joe said.

  “Oh, I know. But I could handle it—it wouldn’t be much. And I’d love to do it for you.”

  “No, Mercy,” I said.

  Then Joe cut in. “Forget the band, Mom. I told Lee that you could tell her about Lovie.”

  “What about Lovie? I saw you two helping her with her cans. And I could see that she was swearing at you over it.”

  “I was being selfish,” I said. “I wanted all those cans off our sidewalk.” Then I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Mercy, Warner Pier merchants are so—well, snotty—about anything that might ruin the appearance of the town. You have to paint buildings certain colors. You have to have signs of a certain style and size. But poor old Lovie has that awful junk business—unpainted and trashy—and nobody ever says a word. Is it just because people feel sorry for her?”

  “I assure you it’s not! In fact, there have been several attempts to get Lovie’s Recycling Center closed down.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “It was one of the first things I had to research after I became city attorney,” he said. “She’s grandfathered in. She had the shop there on the highway before that area was annexed to the city, so they can’t get rid of her.”

  “Even with all that junk and trash?”

  “As long as she keeps it indoors or behind that high fence, she’s legal. Sentiment has nothing to do with it.” Joe turned to his mother. “Until an hour ago I didn’t realize that Lee didn’t know about Lovie’s connection with the guy her mom almost married.”

  I felt tears welling again. “That was awful.”

  “Yes, Lee, it was tragic. But it has nothing to do with you. And there’s more to Lovie’s story than her son’s suicide.”

  “Joe says you know a lot about her.”

  “As much as anybody, probably. Her husband died shortly after I began working at the insurance agency. Joe was just a baby. We had to settle her insurance claim, get all the legal records together.” She looked at me sharply. “There’s no secret about any of this. I mean, if you have any questions, I wouldn’t be giving out any confidential information.”

  “For one thing,” I said, “what’s her name? Aunt Nettie said her name was Vita. But Joe says he’s never heard of her being called anything but Lovie.”

  “Her name is Lovita. Before her husband died, most people called her Vita. But he always called her Lovie. A pet name, I guess. After he died, she began to identify herself as Lovie Dykstra, and it caught on.”

  “Does she have any relatives?”

  “Not that I know of. She had that older son, Ed, the one who went to Canada.
So far as I know, he never came back, even after the draft dodgers who took asylum in Canada were pardoned. He might still be alive.”

  “There are so many Dykstras around here . . .”

  “Yes, but they’d be only second or third cousins of Lovie’s husband, if they are related at all. I’m under the impression that she avoids them. Lovie was originally from Wisconsin. If she has any relatives, they’d be over there.”

  Mercy sipped her cup of tomato soup. “You young things won’t believe it, but Lovie was a real stunner when she taught me high school science. A beautiful woman. And a talented teacher.”

  When Lovita Dykstra—then a newlywed—moved to Warner Pier, Mercy explained, she had been tall and slim, with dramatic dark eyes and hair. She and her husband, Edward, had lived quietly, and their two little boys were four years apart. When the boys were still small, Lovita had commuted to Western Michigan University, in Kalamazoo, to get her degree and teacher’s certification. Then she’d landed a job as a science teacher in Warner Pier.

  “She developed a great science program,” Mercy said. “She focused on ecology before the rest of us even knew what the word meant. She was—well, nuts isn’t too strong a word—she was nuts on the environment.”

  Apparently her older son, Ed, had followed in her ecological footsteps. “Ed was a class ahead of me at Warner Pier High,” Mercy said. “He was a straight arrow in high school, but he went off the track in college.”

  Ed had been an Eagle Scout and a camp counselor, leading all sorts of groups and training programs to get young people to understand and protect the natural environment, she said. That had apparently led him into trouble.

  “This was the late sixties, early seventies, remember,” Mercy said. “There was still a lot of demonstrating going on. Ed joined a group that was protesting about the environment. Then he moved into the antiwar movement. He grew the required mat of hair and reportedly smoked a lot of pot. The gossip was that he lived in a commune. We all knew what that meant. Or thought we did.”

  At one time, Mercy said, Lovita had said she blamed herself for involving Ed in her own concerns for the environment, concerns that had eventually led him to the antiwar movementand his subsequent flight to Canada.