by Lee Winter
“And how about yours?”
“I’m sorry?” Catherine’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to look at Meemaw.
“If I recall, you printed a bunch of whopping lies about powerful folk. So, you’re not afraid of getting dirty and printing a bit of fake news now and then.”
Her expression was curious and her tone lacked any real bite. Nonetheless, fury sliced through Catherine at the unfair charge, even though it was hardly the first time she’d heard it. She’d been set up on that story. It had seen her demoted and sent packing to LA as a lowly gossip writer, humiliated, and worse. To have all of that categorized as “fake news,” as though she was complicit? She stared morosely at the field, biting back an acidic retort as the fearful redheaded boy was struck out.
“Well?” Meemaw probed. “To think I heard you were a sharp thing, all angles and pointy bits.” Her eyes gleamed with humor. “Not afraid to say her piece? What was that name? Caustic Queen? Where is she now? Or are you all crust and no pie?”
Her expression was keen, and once again Catherine couldn’t see any malice, but she didn’t appreciate the line of inquiry, either. She sighed. Why could her past not stay buried? Her thoughts darted into dark places as she considered her response.
John stepped up to home plate. He was windmilling his arm in ferocious circles while holding a bat, a determined look on his face.
“I smell vvvvictory!” Lucas taunted from third.
Catherine turned from his daring expression to Meemaw’s matching one. I can be nice, she’d told Lauren. She studied Meemaw, a woman who believed herself impenetrable. She was the matriarch…queen of her domain and very sure her worldview was right and everyone else’s dead wrong, or at best, mistaken.
One sentence. Catherine could bring her down in one, biting sentence. She could dismantle her lofty confidence, shake her to her core. She’d even had a vaguely polite invitation to show off her claws. A few years back, when she was at her lowest, she might have even been tempted. Instead, she met Meemaw’s gaze evenly. And, in the briefest flicker of expressions, she saw it.
Worry. Those cool, appraising, ancient eyes said that no one was going to hurt someone in her family if she had anything to say about it.
Catherine drew in a breath and prepared to do the two things she hated most: explain herself and rehash the worst time of her life. “Believing in a source you trust and being betrayed by them is quite a different thing to deliberately printing a lie,” she said quietly. “I was horrified to learn my story was all wrong. No one felt worse about it than I did, I can assure you.”
“Must have been some source,” Meemaw said, sounding curious. “To risk your whole career on it.”
“Yes.” Catherine squinted at the field. She forced her tone to neutral. “She was…some source.”
Meemaw eyed her for a long moment. An uncomfortable silence followed, but Catherine wasn’t about to elaborate. The woman hadn’t earned that, no matter who she was in Lauren’s life.
With a nod of finality, Meemaw turned back to the game. “I see.”
For some odd reason, Catherine wondered if maybe she did.
John took the bait on one of Lauren’s slower balls and misjudged its speed. The ball shot into the ground, then bounced straight back at Lauren, who caught it cleanly, spied Lucas on his homeward dash, and hurled it to the catcher.
Lucas scrabbled to stop in his tracks and sprinted back for third, with Suze, waving the ball, wheezing, and hot on his tail.
Shouting “rundown!” Lauren bolted toward home. The first base fielder called out “Huh?” and looked so baffled that Meemaw laughed.
By now, the catcher was huffing hard and not coming remotely close to tagging Lucas. She pitched the ball back to third with another superb throw and turned toward home again as fast as she could muster. About the speed of an asthmatic turtle, Catherine judged.
Lucas spun around again and headed for home as well. He gave a mocking wave to Suze as he dashed past her, gaze boring into Lauren who was now taking up position at home.
“What on earth is going on?” Catherine asked.
“Now, see, Lucas is in what they call a ‘pickle,’” Meemaw said, sounding delighted.
Third base threw the ball back to Lauren at home, who shot a wide grin at Lucas. He was still pelting toward her, so she waggled her glove at him, containing the ball. He scrambled once more to slow himself, watching, with a wary look, as she burst forward toward him, still clenching the ball.
“This is insane,” Catherine said. “It could go on forever.”
“They’ll get him sooner or later when he gets tired. That grandson of mine is not built for sprints.”
It was true. Lucas had more a tractor-hurling look to him than that of an agile athlete.
Lauren had started closing the distance, putting on an impressive surge of speed.
Glancing over his shoulder again, Lucas spotted Lauren’s hand come up to toss the ball back to third base, which was now just in front of him.
She drew her arm back. At the moment of her letting go of the ball, he spun suddenly around and sprinted toward home yet again. His grin became wide as he saw Lauren so close to him. Even Catherine now grasped the problem: Lauren was far from where she needed to be, protecting home plate. And Suze, still waddling slowly while bent over, was sucking in shaky lungsful of air, and nowhere near a threat.
Catherine felt a burst of disappointment. Lucas looked like he was mentally practicing his victory dance.
As Lucas thundered by Lauren, she simply leaned over and tapped him with her glove.
“Yer out!” Owen shouted.
“What!” Lucas spun around, eyes widening.
“Ha, foxed him.” Meemaw cackled. “I was waiting for it. She never let go of the ball. Oh, and I’d keep my eye on Suze, too. She’s Lauren’s old softball teammate from college. They have a whole bunch of sneaky plays worked out between ’em to amuse each other.”
Lauren snapped the ball back to third, getting Matthew out, too, as he slid into the base.
Suze immediately sprang upright and jogged easily over to Lauren, high-fiving her with a laugh. “Juilliard here I come.”
“Fu-udge!” Lucas scowled at home plate. “Thought I was about to nail it.”
Lauren laughed at his indignant expression.
“That girl is a star,” Meemaw said with satisfaction. “The moment that bat slid into her hand, it was like she was made for it. She only took the game up after Margaret died.”
“What was she like?” Catherine asked. “Lauren never talks about her mother.”
“I s’pose I’m not too surprised. See Lauren adored her mom, and some days it feels like only last week, not twenty years ago. It broke her in half when she died. Breast cancer. Margaret didn’t tell any of us she had it, either, only Owen. I figured it out myself and confronted her. She said she didn’t want her last months spent being anybody’s pity case. But by the time Tommy was born, there was little left of her to fight. She’d been hanging on for him. A week later, she was gone. Lauren had just turned twelve.”
“I’m sorry. And twelve years isn’t much time to have with your mother.”
“No. Not near long enough. Especially given the close bond they had. Margaret always loved to read. She shared that joy with Lauren. Read to her all the time. I think she would have been so happy to know Lauren’s job’s all about words. That’d have pleased her no end.” Meemaw stood, dusting off her floral yellow dress. She drew her light blue cardigan closer. “Well, I think I should get in and start prepping a feed. We’ve got quite the brood for lunch today.”
Catherine frowned. Had she caused offense by touching on old wounds?
Straightening, Meemaw said, “Now, since we’re on the topic, maybe you can promise me one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Can you try and get my
granddaughter to stop cursing? Last thing I promised my daughter was I’d try to help raise Lauren right. I don’t like feeling that I’ve let my girl down. Either of them.” Meemaw sounded aggrieved at the mere thought.
“I’ll try.” Catherine bit back a smile.
Meemaw studied her for a long moment, nodded, and bustled back to the house.
Lauren jogged over and pecked her cheek, ignoring an amused chorus of masculine catcalls from behind her. “Did you see that? Lucas’s ass was mine. Toast. He always falls for a fake out.”
“Toast,” Catherine repeated, still watching Meemaw’s disappearing form.
“The toastiest.” Lauren glanced between Catherine and her grandmother’s back. “Everything okay between you two?”
“I believe so.” Catherine turned to face her.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Although I’m apparently tasked with getting you to stop swearing. A matter of family honor.”
Lauren laughed. “Boy, have you got your work cut out for you.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Um, is there some reason you’re sitting on a hay bale when there’s a perfectly good chair beside you?” Lauren pointed at Meemaw’s vacated seat.
“I’m fine. I’m getting used to it.” Strangely, she was. “So, what happens now? Is the game over?”
With a laugh, Lauren said, “Please. It’s just begun. Soon you get to watch my fine ass bat.”
“Ah.” Catherine stretched out her legs again, feeling a surge of anticipation. “Well then, by all means, proceed.”
Chapter 9 –
Finding Dreams
Mrs. Clarice Potts was a squat, no-nonsense woman with a round face, a shock of white-blonde hair, and large black glasses that made her brown eyes seem huge. She talked quickly, as though she had a million things to do and needed them all done this instant. Catherine wondered if this made her feel more efficient, because so far, the only thing she’d observed that was fast about her was her tongue.
Mrs. Potts seemed to know everywhere possible to get married within the bounds of Iowa generally, and Cedar Rapids particularly. And this also extended to…
“Barns?” Lauren repeated. “Those are possible venues?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Potts said. “Done up real nice.”
Lauren turned to Catherine, grinning. “You probably always wondered if I’d been raised in a barn.” She nudged her. “So, Ayers, fancy getting married in one?”
Catherine didn’t even bother with an eye roll. She heard a faint padding noise and glanced down to see a swish of white tail. Miss Chesterfield took one look at her and leaped into her lap, stalked around in a circle, piercing her designer jeans with her kneading claws, then curled up to go to sleep.
Lauren stared at Catherine in amazement before turning back to the wedding planner. “I’m not sure Catherine’s a barn person, Mrs. Potts. She’s from Boston. They don’t do barns there. They probably don’t even do cows. Too plebeian.” Lauren’s eyes sparkled.
“I’m quite certain even Bostonians do cows,” Catherine retorted. “But we put the bovines in the barns and marry people in buildings. We’re quaint like that.”
Lauren laughed and reached out to pat Miss Chesterfield’s head, only for a blurred paw to flash out, claws extended. Giving a startled yip, Lauren retracted her hand just before it made contact.
“Maybe we should scratch the barns for now.” Mrs. Potts darted an exasperated look between the pair of them. “Although I could leave some brochures just in case.”
“Oh, yes. You do that.” Catherine gave the cat a thorough rub behind the ears.
“Having said all that,” Mrs. Potts added, “we actually drive straight past the best barn on our way to Linn County to get your marriage license this morning, so I could point it out as we go by. You can see for yourself. They really are something else. Fancy even for the Boston cows.”
Catherine paused, stroking Miss Chesterfield, wondering if the woman had just made a joke.
“Okay, have you sorted out wedding dresses?” Mrs. Potts gave them each a moment’s consideration. “What exactly is your preference?”
Catherine slid a glance to Lauren, whose expression had lost all humor.
“We haven’t discussed it,” Catherine admitted.
Mrs. Potts studied Lauren, who now looked pained, before offering her a smile. “Tip Top Tux does some lovely suits, if that’s your area of interest instead?”
Lauren exhaled. “Whatever I get, I just don’t want to look like I’m off to my prom. That was traumatic enough.”
“Oh yes, I saw the photos,” Catherine said. “Hot pink. Ruffles, too.”
Lauren groaned. “It was Meemaw’s idea. And she made it herself, so I couldn’t say no. I’m not wearing pink ever again.”
“Good plan,” Catherine said.
“No pink.” Mrs. Potts wrote herself a note. “White?” She looked up.
Lauren shrugged helplessly.
“Why don’t we talk about this and get back to you?” Catherine told Mrs. Potts. “What about reception venues?”
Mrs. Potts looked up from her notes. “That depends. Any thoughts on cuisine? And are we talking formal, casual, something in the middle…?”
Catherine hesitated. A lot of their media friends would be attending. Some from LA, some from DC. Her oldest friend, or frenemy—they never could decide exactly what they were to each other—Cynthia Redwell would almost certainly show. Anything with basic regional fare on the menu would see Catherine mocked for eternity. Besides, Meemaw’s pork still sat heavily in her stomach—the ring of fat might never entirely dissolve from her throat.
Lauren turned to her. “Somewhere that has a showcase of local specialties? So everyone sees how awesome Iowan food is?”
Catherine steeled her jaw. Yes, Cynthia would dine out on this forever.
“With matching craft beer?” Lauren added.
For. Ever.
“Why not just hand out Hawkeyes hats at the door and be done with it?” Catherine suggested in a murmur.
“Perfect.” Lauren laughed, then slid her a knowing look. “Mrs. Potts, could you give us a minute, please?”
The wedding planner glanced at them, nodded, and left the room.
“Catherine, if you can barely get through Meemaw’s best dish—and don’t think I didn’t see how hard it was for you—I’m not going to insist we have more of the same at our wedding.”
“It seems to matter a great deal to you to have the Iowa experience.”
“Sure, but come on. You think I’m gonna insist we feed our uptown friends grits?” Lauren laughed. “Hey, you know we don’t actually do grits in Iowa, right? Besides, deep-fried anything would make Cynthia gag.”
“Very true.”
“Although, you know, that would almost be worth it,” Lauren said, looking positively evil. “Hey, why are you inviting her, again? Don’t think I’ve forgotten how she mocked me in LA and everything about me. Hell, if you’re the Caustic Queen, she’s, like, the Acid Overlord.”
“Well, yes, but she insists on coming.” Catherine gave an aggrieved sigh. “I did try to talk her out of it, but she says she’s already bought her ‘Middle America galoshes.’ The thing is Cynthia goes back to a time when we were both young and the only two women in a particular newsroom together. Our colleagues thought it hilarious to make inappropriate comments about us every day. Her comebacks kept me amused and sane. And not long afterwards, when my family disowned me, she fed me copious cocktails and told me I counted and to hell with anyone who couldn’t see it. She was the first person who’d ever said that to me.”
“Really? Cynthia did that?”
“Of course, she was trying to get into my pants at the time, but I still appreciated the sentiment.”
Lauren glowered. “I knew there was a reason I
didn’t like her.”
“She never had a chance.”
“No?”
“Dating her would be like dating myself. I prefer someone not like me.”
Lauren laughed. “Well, you took that to the extreme.”
“So it seems.” Catherine ran her fingers through Miss Chesterfield’s fur.
“Which brings me back to our wedding menu. Are you really worried about our friends’ opinions? Because if you are, we can pick somewhere classic and refined instead. It’s okay. I’ll understand.”
Catherine thought about that. Actually, it seemed absurd one lifelong friend was making her second-guess how her own wedding should look. What did it matter how any of the guests might view their choices?
“I don’t care what any of our friends think,” Catherine said, reaching a decision. “It’s our wedding, no one else’s.”
“Same goes for me. But insert family as well as friends. I don’t have to have a wedding my family loves, just one that we do.”
“Really?” Catherine found that hard to believe. She decided not to argue the point. “Let’s get Mrs. Potts back in here so we can hear about the rest of Cedar Rapids’ wedding hot spots. All I ask for is somewhere dignified for the actual vows.”
“I’m sure we can manage that.”
Wedding couture shops were scratched off the list by two o’clock. It turned out Cedar Rapids didn’t have a large selection of ladies’ wedding suits.
“Well, that sucked.” Lauren’s glare was grim as they stepped outside the last bridal store. Her mood had gone from somewhere north of optimistic to south of depressed. “So much for my grand plan to go local and support Iowa. I loved being called ‘sir’ and snickered at in that third place. Just because I don’t ooze femininity doesn’t make me a man. Or the man, which I suppose is what he was implying.”
“It was appalling.” Catherine’s voice was icy. She appeared to be fighting not to say something more.
Lauren braced herself for a vicious serve about Iowa. Her shoulders slumped. She could hardly defend it right now.