Auld Lang Syne

by Judith Ivie

  “Things are very good,” I reported to Emma now. “There wasn’t much flack at all, and what little there was has been eclipsed by the praise heaped on everyone involved. There have been countless e-mails and Facebook comments from other young people facing the same dilemma, and they all get referred to reputable sources for support. They’ve even established a lesbian and gay youth group at the community center. It really is a whole new world from when I was in high school.”

  “At least next year Duane has a shot at having a more compatible date for the New Year’s Eve dance,” Emma joked. “Charlie, too, for that matter.”

  “And you and I will still be freezing our tails off, feeding the birds on Spring Street Pond.”

  “Hey, some traditions are worth continuing.” Emma seemed content with the prospect as she unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat. I gave her a see-you-later wave and continued to my sedan, waiting patiently in the shade of a tree. “By the way,” she called after me, “did I tell you my high school class is planning to have its ten-year reunion later this year? Right around Thanksgiving, I think.”

  I stopped dead. “You’re really going to go to a reunion?” High school had not been one of the best periods in my free-spirited and headstrong daughter’s life.

  “Absolutely,” she winked at me. “How bad could it be?”

  Meet Author Judith K. Ivie

  A lifelong Connecticut resident, Judith Ivie has worked in public relations, advertising, sales promotion, and the international tradeshow industry. She has also served as administrative assistant to several top executives.

  Along the way, Judi also produced three nonfiction books, as well as numerous articles and essays.

  In 2006 Judi broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the popular Kate Lawrence mystery series, set in historic Wethersfield, Connecticut, was launched. All are published by Mainly Murder Press in trade paperback, and all are available as e-books at a variety of online sites.

  Whatever the genre, she strives to provide lively, entertaining reading that takes her readers away from their work and worries for a few hours, stimulates thought on a variety of contemporary issues and gives them a laugh along the way.

  Learn more about Judi and her Kate Lawrence Mysteries at www.JudithIvie.com or contact her at Ivie4@hotmail.com.

  Sample of another great holiday mystery in the

  Kate Lawrence series

  Drowning in Christmas

  by Judith K. Ivie

  “I wouldn’t ask you,” said my ex-husband, “but I’m desperate. I really need your help here.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Did you hear the desperate part, Kate?” Michael wisely refrained from whining, which he knew would only make me crankier. Instead, he allowed sufficient time to pass for his surprising request to replay in my mind. Yes, the man had to be on the edge.

  I sighed heavily and closed my partner Strutter’s copy of A Homemade Holiday, which was supposed to be giving me great ideas on how to cook a Christmas goose. Something told me that my goose was pretty well cooked already. As ex-husbands go, mine was about as agreeable as they get, but this conversation sounded like big trouble to me. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the headache that began to throb through my temples.

  “You know I don’t even attend weddings anymore, Michael, let alone organize one. Not now, not ever again. I endured enough family weddings, birthdays, anniversary parties, and holiday gatherings in the twenty-two years we were married to last me the rest of my life. I just send a lovely gift and decline the invitation. I’m done, through, finished. Am I getting through to you?”

  “The fact that I’m even asking you should give you some idea of my state of mind.” Michael dropped his voice several decibels, the better to keep our conversation private from his present wife, I presumed. “Sheila already has her hands full with her teaching and the holiday pageant at the school, plus her mother will be spending Christmas with us this year.” He paused to let the full horror of having Sheila’s ditzy maternal relative as a houseguest sink in. “Having a wedding in this little apartment would be impossible under the best of circumstances, but right now …” He trailed off miserably.

  Grudgingly, I admitted that he had a point. After years of working and saving, he and Sheila were finally on the verge of seeing their dream house, currently under construction on Lake Pocotopaug, become a reality. Having been lucky enough to sell their previous house sooner than expected in the current crummy real estate market, they were waiting out the final months of construction in a one-bedroom rental, not the ideal setting for a family wedding.

  “So rent the church hall or the V.F.W. or a room at the community center,” I countered weakly, knowing that would never do. Schmidts were married at home. It was a family tradition with which I was well acquainted. Michael and I had been married in his parents’ living room nearly thirty years ago, and we had hosted our share of nuptials for cousins and nieces in our own home in the ensuing years. Still, I wasn’t caving in without a fight this time. I had quite enough on my plate already.

  Michael regrouped and tried another approach. “We just need your house for the afternoon. Well, maybe the evening, too. There has to be a little party after the ceremony. You and Armando wouldn’t even have to be there, if you didn’t want to be. The caterer will do absolutely everything, including the clean-up. It’s just family and a few friends.” He played his ace. “Come on, Kate. I wouldn’t ask you, but you are Jeff’s godmother, after all. If you won’t do it for me, do it for him.”

  That one hit the mark. When it comes to family ties, I’m notoriously unsentimental. I firmly believe that you can choose your friends, but your relatives are thrust upon you without your having any say in the matter. I have no great fondness for my mother’s and father’s numerous kinfolk, so I have aunties and first cousins I literally wouldn’t recognize on the street; but for Michael’s nephew Jeff, I have a soft spot. He’s the youngest of the three sons of Michael’s late brother and his wife, who were taken in an automobile accident several years ago.

  Jeff’s quirky outlook and lightning-quick wit endear him to me, as well as to my son Joey and daughter Emma, above all of their less-interesting cousins. Besides, as Michael pointed out, I am Jeff’s godmother, however reluctantly I had agreed to assume that role upon his birth. I had performed my duties casually in the twenty-five years since, but now that Jeff’s parents were no longer among us, who else was there to help him out with his wedding? My heart softened.

  I carried the phone and my coffee mug to the back windows of my freestanding condominium unit and gazed at the gray December landscape. My elderly cat Jasmine was perched on the back of the sofa. She stared fixedly at three wild turkeys pecking contentedly on the snowless lawn. No doubt they were grateful to have dodged a bullet now that Thanksgiving was safely past.

  “When is this wedding in my house that I don’t have to attend supposed to take place?”

  Sensing that he still had a shot, Michael brightened. “The twenty-seventh, which is the Sunday after Christmas. Jeff has to leave for North Carolina two days later, which is why he and Donna decided to move up their wedding date. The University offers housing for married graduate students only. Hey, you won’t even have to decorate, since even you must leave your Christmas stuff up until New Year’s Day.”

  I ignored this slur on my holiday spirit. “Great. You do realize that Emma is bringing her new boyfriend here on Christmas Eve to meet us. Jared, I think this one is named, and I’m expected to do the whole Norman Rockwell bit. Chestnuts roasting, pumpkin pie, et cetera et cetera. She’s gone a little nuts over this guy, and she’s taking me with her. When you called, I was looking at recipes for roast goose.”

  “You’re cooking a goose?” The disbelief in Michael’s voice was evident. Then, straying from the point as he often did, “Why not turkey?”

  I considered my feathered friends, now making their leisurely way toward the marsh that bordered The Birc
hes. They strolled the grounds of our Wethersfield, Connecticut condominium community daily and roosted in the surrounding trees at night. Before I’d come to live here, I hadn’t known that turkeys can fly. Now I regularly watched them helicopter up to their favorite branches as the sun slipped beneath the horizon.

  “Too much like pets, I guess.” Truth be told, I wasn’t much looking forward to roasting a goose either. The things we do for our children. “So the situation is that I’m entertaining Emma’s steady on Thursday evening, and three days later, I’m throwing a wedding.” I sighed again. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, and it was for Jeff and his absolutely darling fiancée Donna, whom he had been dating since high school.

  I could almost hear the grin of relief breaking across Michael’s amiable face. “I’m telling you, this caterer is incredible. You won’t have to lift a finger, Kate. He and his staff will do everything … food, flowers, music, photographer. They bring everything in and take everything away afterwards. Sheila’s friend Millie used him for her daughter’s wedding last summer.”

  The headache teased behind my eyes again, and I interrupted Michael’s rhapsodic litany. “Okay, okay, I get it. I won’t have to do a thing.” Yeah, right. “So send out the invitations, and let’s get it done,” I said rashly. “Now can I go to work, please?”

  “You bet, sure! Thanks a million, Katie. You’re the best. We’ll talk again in a couple of days.” He was gone before I could take back my words. Not that I would, I amended my thoughts guiltily. I swallowed the last of my tepid coffee and watched the turkeys melt into the marsh, becoming one with the colors of the dried undergrowth. Now you see them, now you don’t. Invisibility has its appeal, I thought wistfully. At the moment, I was feeling far too visible, not to mention vulnerable, on several fronts.

  Work was one of them. For the past two years, since meeting at the downtown Hartford law firm where we all worked at that time, my friends and partners Margo Harkness, nee Farnsworth, and Charlene “Strutter” Putnam, nee Tuttle, had owned and operated MACK Realty in Wethersfield’s historic district. Starting our own business had been an adventure, to say the least, and the hot real estate market had taken us on a wild ride.

  A couple of months ago, the financial market had crashed, taking real estate and every other kind of sales down with it. Temporarily, at least, MACK Realty operated out of Margo’s dining room, where she and Strutter had hunkered down to weather the storm. Our receptionist Jenny had opted to return to UConn Law School full time. Because I had administrative and computer skills, I decided to put them to good use in a temporary position in the local office of Unified Christian Charities, situated in Hartford.

  “We need you!” had been Sister Marguerite’s opening salvo. Sister Marguerite is the CEO of Unified Christian Charities, and she is one smart cookie. Notwithstanding the fact that I haven’t seen the inside of a church in more than a decade, she and I have worked together on several charitable endeavors over the years and become firm friends in the process. She is unlike any other nun I have ever met, not that I’ve met many. In fact, her lack of sanctimony and earthy sense of humor have seen me through more than a few dreary fundraising dinners.

  Almost before the moving van carrying MACK Realty’s office furniture to a storage facility had disappeared over the horizon, the wily sister had left a message on my answering machine, shoring up my wounded ego with a job offer. “Mary Alice is expecting her fourth baby, saints preserve us, and this time, her doctor insists that she take to her bed for the last two weeks, although how a woman who already has three little ones manages that is beyond me. So here I am, a rudderless ship sinking fast in a sea of meetings and paperwork, plus the holiday fundraiser at the Wadsworth that’s hard upon us. Can you help me out, Katie? It’s not forever, just for a couple of weeks until the child is born and Mary Alice’s mum arrives to take charge of the household,” she wheedled.

  I knew I was being manipulated, which was always a good bet when dealing with Sister, but her offer did seem to be the answer to a prayer, no pun intended. Without MACK Realty taking up sixty hours a week of my time, I was feeling more than a little rudderless myself. My housemate and longtime love, Armando Velasquez, had just departed to San Diego on an assignment for his employer, TeleCom International. So what with one thing and another, time stretched emptily ahead of me. A temporary assignment would be just the thing to fill the gap, and a little money coming in wouldn’t hurt. What better way to use my time than helping out my old friend Sister Marguerite?

  Today was to be my first day on the job, and I hurried to get myself together. Without the wild turkeys to offer entertainment, Jasmine trailed after me down the hall to my bedroom. She was missing Simon, her feline companion of more than fifteen years. He had recently succumbed to a combination of health issues rooted in old age, devastating our household. I knew Jasmine was lonely, but Simon had been my devoted old boy, my best buddy. I still grieved for him and couldn’t face bringing a newcomer into the house. Not yet, but as soon as I can, I promised Jasmine silently. As I rushed about from bedroom to bathroom to closet, she settled herself on the foot of my bed, where she knew the mid-morning sun would fall, and was soon snoozing. This afternoon, she would return to the living room, where the west-facing windows would make the most of the wintry sunshine on the sofa.

  After a fast shower and five minutes in front of the mirror with my blow dryer and minimal make-up, I hurried into a navy blue pantsuit and tucked a gauzy scarf with a wild floral print into the neckline. I jammed my feet into low-heeled pumps and blew Jasmine a kiss on my way to the front-hall coat closet, not that she noticed. Two minutes later, I was backing my Jetta out of the garage.

  All things considered, I was feeling pretty chipper. Armando might be gone for a week or so, but I had never minded solitude. Part of me was looking forward to having some of it for a while. Still, it was good to have somewhere to go and useful work to do. Now that I was once again gainfully employed, however temporarily, I would be alone only in the evenings, and there was always the telephone. Armando has a wonderful telephone voice, a warm baritone touched with a Spanish accent. In the early days of our relationship, some six years ago, I had looked forward eagerly to his evening calls. Now that I knew all of the other sexy qualities that went along with the voice, I found myself smiling in anticipation once again.

  The drive into Hartford on I-91 wasn’t quite as frightening as I had remembered. Perhaps the truly suicidal commuters got on the road earlier in the morning. For whatever reason, I was allowed to lollygag along at a mere ten miles per hour over the posted speed limit without being harassed, which gave me an opportunity to absorb the changed city skyline. The Travelers tower, which along with the Old State House had been Hartford’s most identifiable structure during my growing-up years, had been encircled by newer, taller structures. These included the Phoenix Insurance building, an oddly boat-like structure; the Gold Building, which housed United Technologies and more than twenty additional floors of corporate offices; two buildings of pink stone that overlooked the Connecticut River; and the newest additions to the city scene, a modern convention center and adjoining Marriott Hotel. Several blocks removed from this cluster, but still tall enough to be seen from the highway, were CityPlace, whose slanted green roof resembled a beret, and the CIGNA building at the corner of Church and Trumbull Streets. Standing cheek-by-jowl with the old brownstones and more conventional downtown structures, the new additions had transformed a fairly humdrum skyline into one that invited admiration.

  I eased off the highway onto the sharply curved ramp that led beneath an overpass bearing the image of the Charter Oak, then swooped into Pulaski Circle with the rest of the traffic. As Sister Marguerite had instructed, I swung around the circle to Elm Street, which ran between Bushnell Park and the block anchored by the Bushnell Memorial Theater. It was a place that held magical memories for me and most other Connecticut theater-goers, as well as visitors who came by the busload. Armando and I had shared m
any wonderful evenings there together.

  Pausing at the light, I gazed straight ahead at the gleaming dome of the State Capitol. The Legislature must be in session, I surmised from the packed parking lot and plethora of Capitol Police in the area. No doubt the lawmakers were in a last-minute flurry, trying to get pending legislation passed before the lawmakers could adjourn for the holidays.

  The light changed, and I swung left past the Capitol building and right onto Capitol Avenue, which I followed several blocks past the State Library, Legislative Office Building, and assorted residential and commercial structures. A right onto Flower Street took me up the grade leading to Farmington Avenue and the area of Hartford referred to by the locals as Asylum Hill. It had been so nicknamed for the Asylum for the Education and Instruction of Deaf and Dumb Persons that had commanded the hill until around 1920. Then the institution was moved to West Hartford and more appropriately renamed the American School for the Deaf.

  Today, the king of the hill was The Hartford Insurance Group. No, it was now The Hartford Financial Services Group, I reminded myself. It was one of the many huge insurers, including The Travelers and Aetna, that had given Hartford its national identity as the Insurance City.

  Another lengthy traffic light gave me a chance to check out the current landscape of the Hill. I had never really paid much attention before, but now I took note of the churches that competed for pride of place. Among the older edifices were Emanuel Lutheran, which I had already passed on Capitol Avenue, Asylum Hill Congregational, and Trinity Episcopal, but there could be no question that The Cathedral of St. Joseph dominated the area.