The party started much like the last one, except this time they met up with their hosts on the covered patio at the back of the house, which was set up with multiple tables that spilled onto the grass, signaling a sizable party. David was still unable to come up with Camellia’s proper name, this time calling her Karina, and Geri once again managed thirty seconds worth of small talk before excusing herself to attend to a “situation.” But this time, as the woman’s slight figure disappeared into the house, Camellia followed.
“So Geri.” Her voice was shaky; even more so when Geri came to a halt in the hallway, clearly surprised to find Camellia on her tail. “Um, how long have you and David lived here?”
Geri turned and looked down her nose at Camellia, scowling. “Three long years.” Without waiting for a response, she swiveled and headed for the kitchen, Camellia continuing to follow.
“Where did you move from?”
Geri inspected a selection of cheeses on a sterling silver tray polished to perfection and shook her head. She placed her hands on the counter, leaning her weight into them, as if the condition of the cheese tray was more than her fragile disposition could handle.
“Thomas? Where’s Thomas?” she demanded. The catering staff scattered out of the way as a short, stocky man with a pencil mustache stepped cautiously forward.
“Yes ma’am.”
Geri bowed her head, Camellia assumed for maximum dramatic effect. “Thomas, didn’t I say no Camembert? I seem to clearly remember specifying no Camembert, didn’t I?”
Thomas looked at Camellia as if she might intervene at any moment. She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders in reply.
“Yes ma’am,” he finally replied, shuffling his feet, “I believe you did say no Camembert.”
“Then why is there Camembert on this cheese tray? Why?”
Camellia wondered if this was typical Geri or if her host was putting on a show for her. She was itching to intervene, to take the heat off of Thomas while making Geri look like the nutjob she was, but she was here to fall into favor with Geri, not humiliate the woman. So she remained silent and watched the performance that clearly wasn’t over yet.
“Perhaps one of the catering staff confused it with the Brie, ma’am.”
“Thomas, do I look stupid to you? Who confuses Camembert with Brie?”
Camellia felt the laughter rising from her chest into her cheeks, and she fought to suppress it, going so far as to fake a sneeze just to drop her head out of view for a second to hide her amused expression.
“I’ll fix it myself, ma’am,” Thomas assured, whisking the tray to the far end of the kitchen where he stood with his back turned. Camellia was sure it was so Geri wouldn’t see him laughing, either.
Geri abruptly turned her attention back to Camellia. “Now, what did you want to know?” she asked sharply.
“Oh, um, I asked where you moved from.”
“Chicago.”
“A beautiful city,” Camellia cooed. “I took many trips there when I was editing Flair.”
“How nice for you,” Geri replied coolly. “May I ask: have we begun a game of Twenty Questions? I have guests coming, you know.”
Camellia’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t manage the forced pleasantries any longer. “I’m just trying to get to know you,” she mumbled, humiliated.
Geri sighed. “This isn’t the best time.”
“Is there some reason that you don’t want to know me?” Camellia questioned. Her fists clenched.
Geri checked her blue St. John sheath, which was perfect, and turned her head to the side, avoiding eye contact with Camellia. “I hear you’re working at...a diner. Is that correct?”
“Yes, I am.”
Turning back to look directly at Camellia, Geri clicked her tongue and shook her head slowly. “Apparently, David isn’t paying your husband well enough. I’ll be sure to have a chat with him about it. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Geri stepped past Camellia, who had turned and raised a fist, trying to decide whether or not to strike. It was Thomas who made the decision for her, catching Camellia’s hand and guiding it back down to her side.
“Won’t do any good; she’s icy to the core,” he said in a hushed tone. “You’ll only hurt your hand.”
Camellia grinned and patted his arm. “Be sure to give me your card. You’re my caterer for life.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a stack of business cards. “Excellent, maybe you can hire me to throw you a Camembert party.”
Camellia laughed so hard tears ran down both cheeks. “Speaking of parties, I think this one is over for me. Good luck to you!” She breezed along the hallway and out the back door, spotting Henry sitting at a nearby table, surrounded by colleagues. They appeared to be engrossed in serious conversation, which meant most likely they were discussing a case. Camellia didn’t want to disrupt him so she kept walking, pulling her phone from her bag and typing him a brief text message:
Pick me up at Deb’s when you’re done. No rush. XO
The laid-back atmosphere at Deb’s comfortable A-frame house with its cool blue color palette was exactly what Camellia needed to decompress, which she did by kicking off her shoes, plopping onto the crisp white sectional, and putting back a frozen margarita courtesy of Deb’s new power blender. Deb explained over the second margarita her good intentions for buying the blender.
“My sweet Charlie passed in 2003, and Lisa tells me six years is too long to be alone, so I figure I better drop a few pounds and get back in the dating game.”
Camellia glanced around the living room, noticing a menagerie of framed photos featuring the same burly man with full beard and friendly blue eyes. “I didn’t know you were married,” Camellia said. “How did he die?”
“Aneurism,” Deb said, tapping her head to indicate the location. “Real sudden.”
Camellia put a hand to her heart, reacting to the dull pain that had found its way to her chest. She couldn’t imagine losing Henry, especially so young.
Deb must have picked up on Camellia’s distress, because she elbowed her then and clinked her glass. “It was a long time ago. I’m fine. As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure why I’m considering dating. I haven’t had a problem with my life. Lisa’s the one who’s forever worried about me living out here alone.”
“Lisa wants everyone to be happy,” Camellia acknowledged.
“I am happy,” Deb insisted. “Or at least I was. Now that I’ve got dating on the brain, I’m turning stupid. For God’s sake, I blew two-fifty on that stupid blender to make juices and smoothies so I could lose a couple of pounds.”
“You’re not that stupid,” Camellia needled. “The thing makes incredible margaritas.”
Henry rapped on the door as the third round of margaritas were getting polished off. On Deb’s insistence, he joined the ladies at the kitchen table, where they had moved to be closer to the blender.
“Your house is charming, Deb,” Henry said, looking around and nodding. “How long have you lived here?”
“Four years,” she said, pushing her glass across the table, appearing to be done. “Before that, Charlie and I had a ranch in town.” She peered at Henry, said “He passed,” and fixed her eyes on Camellia, obviously not caring to go over the details again.
“What made you want to live out here by yourself?” Camellia asked, resting her cloudy head on Henry’s shoulder.
“It was different. I needed something different. If it wasn’t for The Snobs, this place would be perfection.”
Camellia picked her head up and turned to Henry. “Speaking of The Snobs, how was the rest of the party?”
“Manageable,” Henry said, rubbing his wife’s back. “I take it from your text things didn’t go so well with Geri.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “That’s an understatement. I don’t think things will ever go well with Geri. Or any of those women, for that matter. I don’t know what their problem is with me.”
“I do,
” Deb said, getting up to root in the pantry for snacks.
Camellia and Henry exchanged a puzzled look. “You do?” Camellia asked.
Deb emerged from the pantry with a bag of Doritos. “Sure. You adapted.”
“Adapted...you mean to Markleeville?” Henry asked, still looking bewildered.
“Exactly. They don’t like that.” She tore open the bag, spilled some of the chips onto the table, which was apparently filling in for a bowl, and took a handful, munching loudly. “See, none of them wanted to come here, just like you. But while they clung together, relishing in their misery, and hoping all the doom and gloom will be the catalyst to their spouses finding jobs elsewhere, you gave Markleeville a chance. That’s like the kiss of death.”
“Wow,” Camellia said, giving in to the chips and snagging the few closest to her. “That makes a hell of a lot of sense.”
“I have to admit, it really does,” Henry conceded, shifting in his seat and crossing a leg. “But Deb, how do you know all this?”
“A group of them power walk past my house every evening in good weather,” Deb explained, one hand filled with another round of chips. “And lord can they talk. It became sport to eavesdrop. You can’t imagine how many times I weeded the same little plot of land in my front yard, just to listen to those baboons babble.”
Henry had to hold Camellia upright as she shrieked with laughter.
TWENTY-SIX
Once Labor Day weekend had passed, the town of Markleeville wound down from a touristy roar to an early off-season hum, with some of the older part-time residents, who no longer had to rush down state to get their kids back to school, staying on a bit longer to relish the quieter side of summer.
Meanwhile the last of the detail work was in full swing at Camellia and Henry’s lake house: carpeting was being laid, the remaining light fixtures were getting installed, a re-ordered marble countertop was being secured into place. With the patio finally in place, the landscapers were due out that week to install sprinklers, grass, and a lush grouping of shrubs and trees.
Now that the diner had finally slowed down, Camellia was able to take an extra day off during the week, which she used to give Shelby an additional afternoon out of the house. While there were a hundred other things she could have done with that time, especially packing their things at the cottage and measuring for window dressings at the new house, Camellia didn’t mind. She knew Sharene was getting weaker, and she wanted to take advantage of the time she could spend with her newest friend.
However, Camellia was shocked to discover Sharene looking energetic and happy when she arrived for a Wednesday afternoon visit.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Shelby remarked, grabbing her shoulder bag and keys from the chair nearest to the door. She hugged her mom and held Sharene’s face in her hands. “She woke up like this, all sparkling and lively. Sure looks like remission to me!” She kissed her mom on the forehead and then grabbed Camellia, bestowing a bear hug. “Be back soon, have fun!”
Camellia and Sharene watched Shelby drive away, making sure she was out of sight before Camellia closed the front door and pulled Sharene onto the couch. “Do you think you’re in remission?”
Sharene grinned sardonically. “No. But Shelby can think it all she likes. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in such high spirits.”
Camellia pressed her lips together and knit her brow. “So what do think it is?”
“I did a little research while Shelby was in the shower this morning. There’s a lot of talk out there about one last burst of energy before dying.”
Slack-jawed for a moment while digesting the information, Camellia shook it off and frowned at Sharene. “Well, if that’s the case, shouldn’t you be spending this time with Shelby?”
Sharene crinkled her nose. “I don’t want her to know. Besides, I could be wrong, right?” She patted Camellia on the knee. “Come with me. I have something for you.”
Following closely behind, Camellia climbed the stairway to the second floor and then ascended another narrower set of steps hidden behind a door. It led to a crowded attic that smelled of cedar and mothballs.
“Over here, by the window,” Sharene called out, bending over a row of old packing boxes that had softened with age.
“What is it?” Camellia wondered aloud, expecting Sharene to bring out old family photos to show her.
Instead, Sharene held up a spectacular black trench coat with a detachable shawl cape. Camellia stood dazed, feeling pretty sure she knew exactly what she was looking at. “Is that...Yves Saint Laurent?”
Nodding, Sharene said, “From the ‘70s. It was my mother’s.”
“M-May I?” She could barely speak. Sharene placed the coat in her arms. Inspecting it carefully, Camellia’s eyes continued to widen. “It’s perfect. No wear.”
“She was quite the collector in her day,” Sharene explained, opening each of the boxes in front of her and pulling out armfuls of vintage clothing; the sight of them making Camellia gasp. “My father was a defense attorney in Chicago,” she went on. “Had a lot of high profile cases, which made him a lot of money. My mom always knew how to spend it.”
“Does Shelby know?” Camellia couldn’t believe such a treasure had been sitting untouched in this attic for years, possibly decades.
“Sure,” Sharene said, unfolding a Chanel pantsuit with wide, cropped legs. “Unfortunately, she’s way too tall. My mom was only about five-foot-four.” Camellia gasped again as she took the fitted Chanel jacket from Sharene’s hands, running a hand across the gold-button detailing. “I thought you could find some use for them.”
Camellia whipped her head up to look at Sharene. “You’re...giving them to me? But they’re so valuable.”
“You’re valuable.” With only minor trouble, Sharene lowered herself to the dusty floor and sat cross-legged. “You’ve done so much for Shelby and me. So much. This is the least I can do.”
Peering through the contents still in the boxes, Camellia exhaled heavily, taking it all in. “I’m not sure how much of it will fit me, either. I’m on the taller side, too.”
“Actually, I thought it would be a nice start for your own vintage boutique.”
“A vintage boutique?”
“I don’t know how much of it would sell in Markleeville, but I’ll bet you could have some success online.”
Camellia leaned against the windowsill and gazed down the quiet, tree-line street, pondering the thought. She adored vintage clothes. And she certainly knew her designers. There would be a bit of a learning curve, figuring out how to price the items, but that could quickly be remedied with enough research, which she was willing to do. She fingered the hem of the Chanel jacket she was still holding. She did have a website she wasn’t using for anything now that the modeling agency idea was kaput. With a few instructions, her web guy could turn it into a shopping site. Maybe she could write a weekly column for it, too, educating shoppers on the eras and the designers and what to watch out for when shopping vintage. Henry could photograph the clothing. And she could run the business from home, which would be convenient if there was a baby.
She turned back to Sharene, who was staring at her intensely as if willing Camellia to say yes. “I can’t thank you enough,” Camellia gushed. “I want to do it. I want to have my own online boutique.”
“Thatta girl.” Sharene smiled brightly, and held up a hand. “Now help me up, would you? I want to save some energy for Shelby.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
On Monday, Camellia and Henry met with the builder and his sales rep for the official walk-through. Room-by-room they turned on lights, flushed toilets, opened and closed windows, and checked faucets and drains. Henry kept a keen eye on paint finish and nail holes, while Camellia made sure all their choices were accounted for. The house felt vast at this stage, with the rooms finished but not yet furnished. With the exception of a few minor fixes, including one set of lights wired to the switches in the wrong order, the home was perfect. The sales
rep marked up the paperwork, indicating the changes needed, and Camellia and Henry signed off.
They were scheduled to close on the house on Thursday, giving the builder plenty of time to make the repairs and clear out. Camellia booked the moving company for Friday morning, but she and Henry were planning to spend Thursday night there, with carryout and a makeshift bed on the floor. It had been Camellia’s idea. She had waited a cycle after having her IUD removed to try to get pregnant, and she had a romantic notion of conceiving that first night on the floor with nothing else present but the two of them.
After the builder left, Camellia and Henry walked out to the back patio to watch a large flock of geese feeding on the vegetation by the water.
“They’re getting ready for winter,” Henry noted, as a smaller flock flew overhead.
“I feel like we are, too,” Camellia said, sliding her arm around Henry’s back. “No more ugly wood stove.”
“No more country-blue, overstuffed furniture,” he added.
“And I was worried you would attempt to take it with us,” she teased, reaching up for a kiss. Her cell phone rang and she let go of Henry to dig for it in her oversized tote. “It’s Shelby,” she announced brightly.
Shelby’s low wail eradicated Camellia’s smile. Her pained expression revealed everything to Henry, and they bolted for the car with Henry behind the wheel and Camellia pressed against the passenger door, ready to run to Shelby. Her foot tapped the floor wildly. Neither of them spoke.
The tires squealed as Henry took the turn onto Shelby’s street. He pulled into the driveway, and Camellia leaped from the Escalade before Henry could come to a complete stop. She tore through the front door, following Shelby’s cries upstairs.
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