I shook my head. “Nope, can’t say I’ve given her a single thought in forty years.”
“But that’s exactly my point, Carol,” Nancy said, not willing to let the subject go. “It’s forty years. That’s a heck of a long time. I think we need to celebrate. All of us. Well, as many people as we can find from our class. At a reunion lunch at Mount Saint Francis.
“Before it’s turned into a senior living facility.”
Chapter 2
I lost my temper twenty years ago and haven’t found it yet.
“Well, you’ve succeeded in capturing my attention,” I said, opening the kitchen door and letting Lucy and Ethel, our two English cocker spaniels, back into the house after a romp in the yard. I tossed each dog a treat, then continued, “Tell me what you know about Mount Saint Francis. And who’s your source for this rumor? I don’t remember reading anything about this in the local paper.”
Nancy started to answer, but I stopped her. “Let me make a fresh pot of coffee. I have a feeling this is going to call for lots of caffeine.” I pulled out a kitchen chair and gestured her to sit. “And for Pete’s sake, take that blazer off. You’re giving me the willies.”
“It’s not a rumor, Carol. It’s a fact. I heard it today from Sister Rose. And she’s hardly one to spread unfounded gossip.”
“True,” I agreed. “I’m sure all the gossip she spreads is founded in absolute fact.”
“Carol, how can you say that? She runs a domestic violence crisis center, for heaven’s sake. If anyone believes in confidentiality, it’s Sister Rose.”
I set two mugs of steaming coffee on the kitchen table. Black, in case you were wondering. I’ve decided it’s way past the time to shed those extra pounds around my middle, and giving up sugar is an easy way to start. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“All right, already. You’re right, Nancy. I take back my remark about Sister Rose. It was unfair and completely untrue. Now, tell me what’s going on with Mount Saint Francis.”
“The volunteer in the back of the shop insisted on checking over my donation, to be sure there wasn’t anything ripped or stained,” Nancy huffed, veering completely off the subject. “As if I’d ever do something like that! Then, the shop has this whole long paperwork thingie that had to be filled out. Name, address, phone, and estimated value of the donation. That last part was tough. I gave them two cashmere sweaters that I’d barely worn, a Calvin Klein suit, four pairs of Ralph Lauren pants, and a beautiful black leather purse. I had a lot of trouble figuring out what to put down, but Sister Rose told me that if I put down more than five hundred dollars, I had to have receipts to justify the amount in case I was ever audited by the IRS. So I put down five hundred dollars.”
I rolled my eyes. And waited. I knew Nancy would get to the point. Eventually.
“Once that was out of the way, Sister Rose spent at least fifteen minutes giving me an earful about what was going on at Mount Saint Francis. You know that it’s been a conference center for the last ten years, right?”
I nodded. “I’ve seen ads for it in the local paper. It would creep me out to go to a conference there, though. I just can’t imagine going back.”
“Sister Rose told me that, even though the conference center has been run by an outside company, the nuns still own the property,” Nancy said. “But the outside company wasn’t able to host enough conferences to make a profit. So when their lease expired, the company didn’t renew it. The good sisters were pretty upset. I mean, let’s face it, the place really is a white elephant.”
“True,” I said, finally getting a word in. “But even if the building itself isn’t worth much, I bet the land it’s standing on is. Views of Long Island Sound always hike up property values in Fairfield County.”
“I know that, Carol,” said my friend Nancy the Realtor, giving me a disgusted look. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Sorry, Nancy. Of course you know that. I was just reminding you.”
Nancy patted my hand. “I kind of overreacted there. I just don’t like anyone suggesting I don’t know how to do my job.”
Sheesh.
“Anyway,” Nancy continued, “as luck would have it, Dockside Living, the big Connecticut senior living conglomerate, was looking for something in Fairfield County. The nuns are going to lease the property to them, and they’re getting some nice money from the deal. Much more than they got from the conference center company. The plan is to turn our school into an active adult community with an assisted living component. The permits have gone through without a hitch, so the renovations will begin immediately. Don’t you think that’s great?”
“I’m not sure that ‘great’ is exactly the word I’d choose,” I said. “But I can see why the nuns agreed. I hope you didn’t sign us up for a unit.” I narrowed my eyes. “Or, more to the point, hustled Sister Rose into giving you the exclusive right to be the listing agent for the place.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Nancy said. “What a great idea. After all, I am the best Realtor in Fairport. I’ll have to suggest that to Sister the next time I see her.”
She whipped out her smartphone and made a quick note.
“Anyway, Sister Rose had a really terrific idea,” Nancy went on. “The renovations to the building are supposed to take about five months. Dockside Living would like to do some sort of grand opening event, marketing to an appropriate age bracket.
“Sister Rose suggested the event be our fortieth class reunion. And for you and me to organize it.”
Chapter 3
There is nothing more boring than looking
at someone else’s yearbook.
I carefully put my coffee cup down, then blotted my lips with a napkin and prayed for inner peace. And the right words to nix this nutty idea right now.
“Of course, you said no to Sister, Nancy. You did, didn’t you?”
I looked closely at her face. Guilt was written all over it. In capital letters.
“Are you out of your mind?” I sputtered. “I hate the very idea of going to a class reunion. No way am I helping to organize one. Forget it.”
Nancy sighed deeply. “I knew this would be your first reaction. But I’m sure that, when you give the reunion some thought, you’ll decide that it’s going to be loads of fun. And we’ll get Mary Alice and Claire involved, too. It’ll be great!” Her eyes sparkled at the very thought.
Yuck.
“There is absolutely no way I’m going to do it, Nancy,” I said again, “so save your breath. You know that I haven’t gone to any of our high school reunions. And I never want to. Ever. So why the heck would I agree to help organize our fortieth?”
I paused for emphasis, then leveled my very best friend from pre-puberty days with the most chilling glare I could come up with. And believe me, I had plenty of glares to choose from. Practice makes perfect, and all that stuff. After more than thirty-five years of marriage to Jim, and raising two children – who were almost perfect but not quite – I’d had plenty of practice.
Nancy opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. Instead, she matched my glare with one of her own. I could almost hear the wheels in her brain clicking, as she searched for the perfect rebuttal for my argument.
But I’d been on the debate team at Mount Saint Francis Academy, too. I was confident that whatever she came up with, I could refute. And thereby end the conversation.
“How can you disappoint Sister Rose and all the other sisters who are counting on this facility to give the order a much-needed shot of cash? So even more victims of domestic abuse can be helped at Sally’s Place. You know how important that program is. Those poor people flee from an abusive situation with absolutely nothing. And they need the help that Sally’s Place gives them. How can you say no?”
“You know I want to help Sally’s Place,” I said, i
gnoring Nancy’s questionable leap of logic. “But this reunion idea is nuts.”
The more I thought about the reunion, the more I was convinced that the idea hadn’t come from our teacher at all.
“Is this really something Sister Rose suggested, or did you give her the idea?” I eyed my very best friend and she looked away without giving me an answer.
“Why didn’t she just ask me herself?” I continued. “And why would she have anything to say about it, anyway? It’s our class, after all. Is she still trying to call the shots after all these years?”
“Well,” Nancy admitted after a lengthy pause, “maybe I mentioned the reunion to Sister Rose first. And asked her for some input. After all, she was our English teacher for junior and senior years. And she’s the only nun from school who we ever see.”
“Whom,” I said.
Nancy looked at me and raised one eyebrow. I hate people who can do that. I’ve tried for years to master that technique but always look like I have an uncontrollable twitch.
“Sister Rose is the only nun from school whom we ever see. Whom is the direct object of the verb in that sentence.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Carol,” Nancy said.
“Moving on, when I mentioned that our class graduated from Mount Saint Francis forty years ago, Sister Rose wanted to know what we were planning to mark the occasion. I didn’t know what to say, since nobody had talked about a reunion.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Because nothing is planned.”
“Well, you remember how persuasive Sister Rose can be,” Nancy said.
“I remember how intimidating she can be,” I countered. “That’s not exactly the same thing. But close enough, I guess.”
“Ok, Carol. I admit that the reunion was mostly my idea. But Sister loved it.”
“I thought so. And whose idea was it to get me involved? Tell the truth, Nancy.”
“Well,” Nancy said, coming clean at last, “I guess it was mine. But Sister immediately agreed with me. I mean, Carol, you’re the best party planner I know. Your neighborhood Bunco parties are the stuff of legend. And your holiday open house, well, everyone who’s anyone in Fairport wants to be on your guest list.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Nancy,” I said. But it was true, I’m a good organizer. And my parties are, well, fun. I just had no desire to use my party-planning skills to organize my high school reunion.
Unless, of course, I could organize the whole darn thing and then not go.
Chapter 4
Shake it up, baby! Twist and shout!
Oh, damn, I threw my back out!
“I think a high school reunion sounds like a blast,” said my darling daughter Jenny, turning to her brand new husband, Fairport police detective Mark Anderson, for his opinion. “Wouldn’t it be great to get some of our old gang together again?”
“That’s because your old gang isn’t as old as your mother’s,” my own husband reminded Jenny.
“Watch what you say, buster,” I said to Jim, shaking my fork at him. “Your old gang and mine are the same vintage.”
“Oh, these family suppers,” Jenny said, laughing. “Another chance to watch Mom and Dad try to one-up each other. It’s sort of like watching one of those political talk shows with a liberal pundit trying to outshout a conservative one. And each trying to convince the other one that he’s right.”
“But we do it with love,” I said, smarting slightly from the implied criticism. “That’s the difference.”
“Of course you do, Mom,” said Jenny. “And if you don’t want to be involved in your high school reunion, that’s your business.”
“Exactly right,” I said, beaming at her.
“Still,” she said, not wanting to let the subject drop, “you’d do such a great job organizing it. And I bet it would be fun. Just think of all the old friends you could find.”
“People I haven’t thought about in years are hardly what I’d call old friends, Jenny. And no cracks about ‘old,’ Jim. I’m exactly one month younger than you are.”
So far, Mark had remained quiet during the Andrews family entertainment hour. But he couldn’t resist adding a comment.
“You know, Carol, you could be smart skipping all your reunions. I’ve been hearing some stories down at police headquarters that are downright scary. About people who’ve been holding a childhood grudge for years, and then, bam, they go to a class reunion and all the old hurts and insecurities come back.”
“Who’d harbor a grudge for all those years?” Jim asked. “Nobody I know.”
“Then you’re lucky, Jim,” Mark said. “As a matter of fact, there was an instance a few months ago about some guy who always felt he’d been blackballed from the high school football team by another classmate. He tracked the classmate down through the high school reunion committee, went to his door and rang the bell. When the poor sap answered, he took a shot at him. Fortunately, the shooter had lousy aim and hit the doorframe, not the intended victim. But he was still arrested. And the victim didn’t even remember who the shooter was.”
I was so shocked by Mark’s story that I almost dropped the basket of rolls I was passing around the table.
“I doubt that anyone from my class at Mount Saint Francis Academy is holding that kind of a grudge, Mark. That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Carol,” Jim said. “I’ve heard you, Nancy, Claire and Mary Alice swap stories about girls who stole other girls’ boyfriends. Not that any of you did, of course.”
I was speechless. But not for long. I’m sure all of you who’ve known me for a while aren’t surprised by that.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear,” I shot back. “And, by the way, maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations that don’t concern you.”
And, as far as I was concerned, that was the end of our discussion about my high school days. And a possible high school reunion.
But to be absolutely sure that my well-meaning, and nosy, family wouldn’t gang up on me again, I immediately switched the subject of our conversation to Jim’s favorite subject – local politics. In no time at all, he and Mark were deeply embroiled in the merits of the police department’s request to add six more patrolman to the roster. Which would mean safer streets and better service and more protection for the citizens of Fairport (Mark), and a hefty increase in the police budget to pay for the additional personnel, which the town couldn’t afford (Jim).
Am I good or what?
Chapter 5
I used to be indecisive. But now, I’m not sure.
I knew Monday was going to be a bad day as soon as I stumbled into the kitchen. It was empty.
Oh, Lucy and Ethel were there, curled up together in a weak patch of sunlight. Sorry if I misled you.
But apparently Jim had left the house early in the morning, and I didn’t hear him. Ohmygod. I was always accusing him of losing his hearing. Maybe I was losing mine, too. Or my mind.
Nah, that went bye-bye a while ago, to hear my family tell it.
And there was no coffee made. Rats. Jim always made the morning coffee. It was one of the few perks (pun intended) of his being retired. I’d become accustomed to coming down to breakfast and being able to pour myself a cup of caffeine right away. Plus, he made it better than I did. I don’t know how – he just did.
No coffee. And no “I’ve gone, and I’ll be back, and have a good day” love note, either.
Double rats. But it looked like Jim had walked and fed both dogs, from the two dirty dog bowls in the sink and the open bag of kibble on the granite countertop.
“You drink far too much coffee, anyway,” I told myself. “How about starting the day with a nice cup of Earl Grey tea for a change?”
Feeling extra virtuous, I reached for the t
ea kettle just as the phone rang. Caller ID told me it was Claire.
I checked the time on the stove – it was barely 8:30 a.m.
“I guess Larry is up and out early too, Claire,” I said by way of greeting. “Good early morning to you.”
“I called to tell you that you’re being a real jerk,” said my former good friend. “I think it will be lots of fun to go check out our old high school. None of us are signing a lease to live there. Sister Rose really wants us to see it before the major construction work begins. Mary Alice and Nancy refuse to go if you won’t come with us.”
Say what?
I was shocked. This really hit me hard. Claire and I have been close friends since way before puberty. Heck, we were close before either of us understood what puberty was.
Claire has always been the ultrasmart one in our group. All A’s, without really trying. Well, maybe she pulled a few all-nighters now and then, but good grades – great grades – mega good grades – just seemed to happen to her.
Nancy was the pretty one in our group. Mary Alice was the sweet one. As for me, well, maybe I was the comic relief. Or the mouthy one. You pick. My feelings won’t be hurt. Much.
Back in the day (and I’m not saying what “day” I’m referring to), grammar school teachers used to seat their students in alphabetical order by last name. So when I started first grade at Mount Saint Francis Grammar School in Fairport, Connecticut, I was placed next to a cute, dark-haired girl named Nancy Kendrick. I was Carol Kerr then, in case you didn’t know that. (Or Carol Elizabeth Kerr, as my mother referred to me when I was in trouble.) Nancy and I became best friends instantly, and it helped that the Kendricks lived two blocks from our house. Those were the days when children could walk to school unsupervised, and safely play outside for hours. We even got our first bikes the same day.
Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery Page 2