by Donna Ball
As Derrick had predicted, Harmony had abandoned the idea of the Evolution of Man for the grand opening by the next morning—something about a dispute between the spirits—and had instead turned her attentions to cleansing the environs of astral negativity with chunks of burning sage and tiny tinkling bells. The entire house had smelled like a college dorm, and Purline had given them suspicious looks for days afterward. But for the sake of Nancy Reagan, they had kept their complaints to a minimum.
Harmony carried a fuchsia-bound notebook in her hand and a pen decorated with a bright pink feather, which she used to tap an open page of the book importantly. “August fifteenth,” she declared. “The first night of the new moon—perfect for beginning new projects! Mercury is in Cancer, trining Venus and Mars, and Jupiter is in the sixth house of successful partnerships, not to mention the sun in its native sign—my darlings, you couldn’t order a more auspicious date to launch your enterprise!”
Paul repeated carefully, “Mercury in Cancer?”
“The sign of home and harmony,” she assured him.
“Everyone knows that,” Derrick added smugly.
Paul gave him a mild warning look. “We can’t possibly put together an event like this by August fifteenth,” he explained to Harmony. “That’s only three weeks away.”
“Nonsense.” Harmony’s filmy sleeve rippled a kaleidoscope of colors as she waved away the objection as though it were a bad odor. “When the stars are aligned anything is possible. By the way, we’re out of TP in the public bathroom, and the flowers on the reception desk are looking a little droopy. You should tell your girl.”
Paul drew back his shoulders, his expression annoyed. “Purline is not our ‘girl.’ She’s a valuable member of our staff and—”
“We’ll take care of it,” Derrick interrupted with a quick smile. “Thank you, Harmony.”
She consulted the small glittered notebook in her hand. “Now, I’m thinking a wine and cheese reception in the garden for thirty-five on Friday night, followed by a sit-down banquet on the sun porch—”
“How can we do that? Derrick objected, horrified. “The law has closed us down!”
“It’s a private party,” Harmony explained patiently. “You’re not charging a dime, you’re entertaining guests.”
“We’ll line the garden paths with votives,” Paul said, forgetting his annoyance as his imagination came to life. “Thousands of them. And thousands more all around the porch.”
“We’ll hang white gauze curtains and put the votives behind them,” added Derrick. “They’ll look like fireflies.”
“We’ll have to use electric candles, then.”
“Only behind the curtains. And fountains!” exclaimed Derrick excitedly. “We’ll bring in fountains for each corner and a big one for the garden.”
“Fire and water,” agreed Harmony happily. “What about earth?”
Paul, who was still trying to figure out what Derrick meant about “bringing in” fountains, said, “We’ll have three long tables with white tablecloths, and the centerpieces will be low runners made of wildflowers and vines.”
“Perfect!” Harmony clapped her hands. “We have fire, earth, water … what about air?”
They all were thoughtful for a time. Then Derrick suggested, “Ceiling fans?”
Harmony nodded her approval. “Now, you see? You’re catching on.”
Paul said uncertainly, “Well, at least they don’t have to be brought in. They’re already installed.”
“You can accommodate seven couples overnight,” Harmony went on, “but only from your A-list. We’ll set up a tent for couples massages, hire limos for tours …”
“What are they going to tour?” Paul wondered.
“Oh, please,” Derrick insisted. “These people never even get to see grass. We’ll take them to the vineyard, a historic site or two …”
“What historic site?”
“There’s got to be a historic site around here somewhere,” Derrick replied dismissively. “It’s the country, for heaven’s sake.” And then his eyes flew wide with the onset of an idea. “Horses!” he exclaimed. “We’ll rent horses!”
“For what?” objected Paul.
“Riding! This is horse country, don’t you read the papers? And celebrities love to ride.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Definitely horses.”
Harmony spread her bountiful smile over them like a blessing. “Now you see how beautifully it’s all coming together? I’ll start making out our to-do list, you get started on the invitations. Chop-chop, fellows. August fifteenth is just around the corner.”
Paul said, “Seriously, we can’t begin to pull this together by August.”
“We couldn’t possibly get a caterer by then,” added Derrick.
“Not to mention design the invitations, order the wine …”
“Refine the guest list …”
“And the indigo room still has those hideous drapes …”
“We have to have entertainment,” Paul pointed out, “and the best chamber quartets are booked months in advance.”
Derrick tapped a couple of more keys on his computer. “Maybe we should start looking in November.”
“The holidays. Everyone is booked.” Paul scrolled down several pages. “January?”
“Too risky. The weather is foul.”
“August fifteenth,” repeated Harmony firmly. “It’s written in the stars.” She turned on her heel and sailed grandly out, leaving a trail of color and scent in her wake.
Paul put his glasses back on and looked across at Derrick, lowering his voice. “You know,” he said, “having a celebrity launch party was a fabulous idea …”
“A lot of her ideas are fabulous,” agreed Derrick, but he looked a trifle uneasy as he glanced at the door through which she had departed. “Others … not so much.”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate all her support …”
“And the idea for the hummingbird logo was wonderful,” Derrick added, “or it will be, once Lindsay refines it.”
“It’s just …” Paul lowered his voice another fraction, leaning close over the desk, “do you remember how she told us she had had this reservation for eighteen months? Well, I was looking through some of the old registers yesterday and it turns out this place wasn’t even open eighteen months ago!”
Derrick took off his glasses and leaned across the desk, too, casting a surreptitious glance over his shoulder toward the door. “I’ll tell you something else,” he said, practically whispering. “She’s been here a week and hasn’t said a thing about when she’s leaving … or settling her bill.”
Paul looked worried. “We have her credit card info.”
“I know, but our policy is to charge on check-out. I don’t think we can change it now.” Now Derrick glanced guiltily toward the door. “Can we?”
“Have you asked her when she’s leaving?”
“Well, that would be rude.” Derrick look offended at the thought. “But,” he admitted, “I have tried to bring the subject up in a more delicate fashion.”
“And?”
“And she always just says something about the stars, or the spirits, or angels.”
“That’s because she’s a nut,” Purline said flatly, striding through the door with a dust cloth and a bottle of lemon polish in her hand. “You all know that, don’t you?”
Both men started guiltily at the sound of her voice and sat back, trying to look busy. Paul said, a little pompously, “There’s no need to be unkind, Purline.”
Purline gave a disdainful snort. “She’s got no more pull with Ryan Seacrest than I do, and if you ask me the only stars she ever advised were the ones spinning around in her head.”
She started to squirt lemon polish on the dry sink and Derrick leapt from his chair, taking the bottle from her. “Please, my dear! Dry cloth only, remember?”
Purline gave him a sour look and retrieved the bottle of polish, turning to the bookshelves. “She’s eating you out of house a
nd home, too. I thought this was supposed to be a Bed and Breakfast, not a Bed and Three-Squares. I hope you’re charging extra for that.”
Paul and Derrick shared an uneasy look. They were a house divided about the entire meal situation. Derrick declared that having a guest in the house had improved their own dining experience considerably, beginning with Purline’s baked apples, homemade waffles and hash-brown scramble in the morning and ending with chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes with garden-fresh vegetables at night. Paul worried about what the three calorie-rich meals a day were doing to Derrick’s cholesterol—not to mention his own waistline—and was constantly arguing with Purline about it behind Derrick’s back. On the other hand, the one thing they both agreed on was that it was pleasant to have company for dinner again. Harmony was a never ending source of fascinating stories, and half the fun of listening to them was trying to discern which, if any, parts might be true. They had missed putting down a tablecloth, lighting candles, and being the gracious hosts they naturally were. For that alone, they could tolerate a great deal.
On yet another hand, neither of them had ever seen a woman put away quite as much wine as she did without showing a single ill effect. They had quickly learned the value of keeping several bottles of inexpensive table wine within reach while cellaring anything priced over 9.99. They were running a business, after all.
With this in mind, Derrick pointed out, “Actually, we can’t charge her anything at all. The restaurant is supposed to be closed, remember?”
“That reminds me,” Purline said, pulling a handful of envelopes out of her back pocket, “here’s your mail.”
They knew Purline too well by now to question how a discussion of meals should remind her of mail, so Derrick took the envelopes with murmured thanks and set them in his in-box—a beautifully refinished nineteenth century wooden tackle box with traces of the original faded blue paint still intact.
“By the way,” Purline said, liberally squirting furniture polish over the bookshelves, “I don’t cook for parties, in case that’s what you were thinking. I’ve got my own family to take care of. But if you need a singer, I might be able to help you out.”
Paul’s jaw dropped in horror at the very thought, and Derrick said quickly, “Thank you, Purline, that’s sweet of you. We’ll keep that in mind.”
Paul added, “We’ll probably bring a caterer for the party.”
Purline scrubbed at the bookshelves with the cloth. “Good idea. You shouldn’t have any trouble a’tall getting somebody out here in August. August is dead as a doornail, don’t know why. Seems like everybody’s kind of tired of summer by then, they’ve all done whatever they set out to do, nothing much going on. Anyhow, if you’re looking for somebody, I recommend Smokey’s Barbecue. He did my sister’s wedding and everybody just raved. He makes a cornbread casserole that’s to die for. Of course,” she admitted, “the cake was a little strange. The icing tasted like bacon.”
While the men tried to absorb that picture, she gave a final squirt of the lemon polish across the covers of the books. Derrick smothered a gasp of horror and started to lurch from his chair. Paul reached across the desk and grabbed his arm.“That’s a fabulous idea, Purline,” he said. “Thank you.”
Derrick widened his eyes until Paul thought they might very well pop out of his head.
Purline gave a final swipe across the bookshelf with her cloth and turned to go. “Mention my name to Smokey,” she told them, “he’ll give you a good deal.” And she swaggered out of the room, hips swinging in tight denim shorts, humming an old Kenny Rogers tune that was so off-key even Paul winced.
Derrick rushed to the bookshelf with a wad of tissues, scrubbing at the oil dampened covers. “This is an Agatha Christie first edition!” he moaned. And he turned on Paul accusingly. “Why did you let her get away with that?”
“We’re in the middle of a grand opening,” he replied, “we can’t afford to lose our only staff member now.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Besides, she had a good point.”
Derrick’s expression changed from dismay to indignation. “We are not serving barbecue at our grand opening!”
“No,” agreed Paul, smiling in a very self-satisfied way, “but we might serve pork belly, prepared by one of the most exclusive chefs in DC … in August, when absolutely nothing else is going on.”
Derrick looked at him for a moment, comprehension slowly dawning, and then he sank back into his chair, his hand over his heart. “Oh. My. God,” he said. “You’re right.” He blinked. “Purline is right. Nobody does anything in August. How many times have we simply died of ennui in the city for the entire month?”
“Wishing we had somewhere to go, something to do?”
“Because if you don’t make your reservations in April—”
“And nobody who’s anybody has time to do that.”
“Then you’re left high and dry in August!”
Derrick raised his palm for a high five, a habit which had become more than a little annoying of late, and Paul said, “Seriously. Don’t do that.”
Derrick frowned and dropped his hand, but brightened almost immediately, stretching out his arms with palms upraised as though receiving a gift from the heavens. “Harvest time in the country,” he announced grandly. “The perfect showcase for artisanal elegance.” He hesitated. “August is harvest time, isn’t it?”
Paul’s eyes shone. “The invitations will be printed on brown paper.”
“In gold!”
“And delivered with a box of …” He cast around in his mind. “What’s in season?”
“Everything is in season!”
“Blackberries?”
Derrick shook his head adamantly. “Too fragile. They’ll arrive as a box of blackberry jam.”
“Cherries!”
“Pits.”
“Zucchini?”
“We’ll think of something.”
Paul scrambled in his desk drawer for a pen. “We’ll use antique candlesticks as place cards …”
“Local wines in every room.”
“We’ll send out fifty invitations.”
“We only have seven rooms.”
“Celebrities stay overnight. Press are accommodated elsewhere.”
“Brilliant.”
“We’ll have to provide cars. You know how the press corps drinks. Do you have a pen? I need to make notes.”
Derrick took a pen from one of the cubbies in his in-box and passed it to Paul, disturbing the collection of mail in the process. One of the envelopes caught his eye and he used his embossed sterling letter opener to slit it open.
“We can get the invitations printed overnight,” Paul said, scribbling madly, “but it’ll cost the moon. Oh well, one does what one must.” He gasped with sudden delight and exclaimed, “Heidi Klum! Our new top-of-the-list. Even if she doesn’t come, although why she wouldn’t I can’t imagine because I’ve certainly written enough checks to her charities to float an armada, just having her on the list is bound to—”
He broke off at the expression on Derrick’s face as he studied the sheet of paper in his hand. “What?” he demanded. “What are you reading?”
Derrick swallowed hard and passed the paper to Paul. “Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better do it fast,” he said. “We’re due to appear in court next Wednesday.”
~*~
On Ladybug Farm
~*~
“I don’t know about you girls,” Cici said unhappily, “but I feel responsible for this.” She kicked off her shoes and sank into her rocking chair, a glass of white wine in hand.
A late afternoon rain storm had left the air sweet smelling and misty, and the green twilight that drifted in from the mountains brought on its breath the memory of cool autumn evenings to come. The heads of the pink and purple hydrangeas that surrounded the big oak tree in the front yard nodded drunkenly in the breeze, sate with the unexpected downpour. In the distance, the vineyard rows hugged the hillside like an extravagantly dre
ssed lady greeting her lover, and closer to home a chickadee tapped on the bird feeder that hung from the eaves of the porch.
“After all,” Lindsay agreed, taking a sip of her own wine, “we were the ones who told them to hire some help and open for business.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, girls,” Bridget said tartly, “we didn’t take them to raise. They’re great big grown-up boys who make their own decisions.” But at the look of astonishment from both women—after all, she was usually the first one to leap to the defense of the helpless and the incompetent—she frowned uncomfortably into her glass and admitted, “Although I’m not completely crazy about that Purline, if you want to know the truth. How old do you think she is? Eighteen?”
“Paul said she wasn’t old enough to drink,” Cici confided.
“Impossible. She has school-age children.”
Cici shrugged. “They get married young around here.”
Bridget pursed her lips in disapproval. “A teenager for a housekeeper. Surely they can do better.”
Lindsay raised her glass to her lips to hide her smile. “You’re just jealous because they aren’t calling you up every day begging for a recipe or hinting about how much they’d love one of your cakes. Face it, Purline is almost as good a cook as you are.”
“She’s okay, I suppose,” replied Bridget with studied negligence, “for a country cook. But the way she dresses …” She suppressed a shudder.
“I don’t think her short shorts and tank tops are going to endanger either Paul’s or Derrick’s morals,” Lindsay pointed out with a quirk of her lips.
“That may be. But it’s unprofessional.”
“Which is so important in a maid,” replied Lindsay with a modified eye roll.
“Purline is fine.” Cici dismissed the debate with a wave of her hand. “But that woman … what’s her name? Chastity? Peace?”
“Harmony,” supplied Lindsay.
Cici gave a small dismayed shake of her head. “Who names their baby Harmony?”