Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3)

by Gina Ardito

  “No. But let’s move on. What about her?”

  “She’s here. Now. Ready to book. I thought you might want to join us to go over what she’ll want to serve. You said you wanted to be in on all the decisions. Plus, let’s face it, this kind of stuff is more your expertise than mine. You can make suggestions on what foods are best for a tea party, what the kids would like, and stuff like that.”

  “You expect me to just drop everything and join you now?”

  And for the second time in one day, I was the recipient of the stink-eye. “Well, I…umm…I guess I could start the conversation, settle her on a date and the overall stuff. Then you can come sit with us, once you’re finished in here.”

  “Yeah? You think you can entertain her for the next three hours?”

  “Three…” I swallowed. “…hours?”

  His soft chuckle rippled down my spine. “No. I’m busting on you, ma puce. I’ll finish up here and join you in about fifteen minutes, okay?”

  “Okay. That’s good. I can do that.”

  He jerked his head toward the door. “Go. The longer you stand here gawking at me, the longer it’ll be before I’m done.”

  I scooted fast from the kitchen and approached Mrs. Beaumont where she sat, sipping what smelled like our Earl Grey blend tea. “Sorry about the wait,” I said. “I wanted to let our pâtissier know you were here. He’s finishing up a particularly intricate sweet in the kitchen and will join us as soon as he’s able, to discuss your pastry selections.” I sat in the cushy wingback chair and placed the appointment book on the table between us. “Now, what date were you looking for?”

  She took another sip of tea and swallowed while her face remained an impassive mask. She was probably afraid to show emotion and risk wrinkles. “The fifth of December.”

  I puckered my brow to feign doubt. Let her think we might have a scheduling conflict. “The fifth,” I repeated. “That’s a Saturday, right?” I was totally bluffing, but I figured it had to be a weekend day if she wanted to book a kid’s birthday party.

  “Sunday,” she corrected.

  “Sunday. Right. Do you have a time in mind?”

  “Early afternoon.”

  “Well, let’s see what we’ve got available.” I opened the book and flipped to December. By sheer luck, I’d tacked a pink sticky note on the corner of the box marking the fourth. I picked up the note and pretended to study it, keeping the words too close for Mrs. Beaumont to read. “Hmmm…would two o’clock work for you?”

  “So long as they’re here ‘til four. And I’ll expect you to provide all the party goods: tablecloths, dishes, balloons, streamers, etc., as well as entertain them with games. I’ll take care of the party favors.”

  Well, thank God for that, since she’d lost me at party goods. Clearly, there was more to throwing kids’ parties than I’d anticipated. I’d have to find an expert to give me some pointers. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of a single person I knew who was a kid expert. None of my friends had a family. Maybe Josh Candolero? He didn’t have any kids, but he did have a coupla sisters. He was cozy with Francesca these days. She could probably talk to him for me.

  Over the next few minutes, while she sipped her tea, we discussed a few more details, and I struggled through small talk until, at last, Gary showed up. I made the introductions and sat back, allowing him to take over the conversation and wow her with his charm.

  “I understand you’re our first party client,” he said.

  I stifled a grimace. There went all my carefully planned subterfuge.

  “I want something unique for Halston’s seventh. Terri has assured me you can do gluten- and lactose-free.”

  His gaze shot to me, dark with menace. Whoops. In my excitement over Mrs. Beaumont’s return, I had totally forgotten the caveat she’d tossed at me last week. And Gary didn’t look enthused to pick up the challenge.

  “Mrs. Beaumont, I’m sorry,” he said, his tone smooth as a mirror, “but that’s a tall order I don’t think we can provide. While I could devise some gluten-free desserts with puff pastry, butter and cream are basic staples in French cuisine. I don’t think I could do a proper tea party justice with such limitations.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry we wasted your time, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find another party site for your daughter.”

  “Oh, Halston’s not my daughter. She’s a Hovawart.”

  Okay, now I was confused. Mrs. Beaumont hardly looked like the nanny type. Still, what did I know about the Hamptons elite? “Perhaps,” I suggested, still eager to make this deal work, “we should speak to her parents then? Mr. and Mrs. Hovawart?”

  Mrs. Beaumont’s expression turned icy as she stood and retrieved her purse. “For heaven’s sake. Is everyone in this backwater town an idiot? A Hovawart is a breed of German working dog.”

  Well, crap. That blew up fast.

  While my face flamed with embarrassment, Gary tossed back his head and laughed himself stupid.

  ♥♥♥♥

  Jayne

  For the next several days, he remained in his car in my driveway at home, or in the parking lot at the office. He never approached me and only communicated by headlights and nods. Regardless, he kept his promise: he didn’t abandon me.

  Who was this man? Had Dom known Iggy would stick like a barnacle? Of course he did. That was why he asked him to watch over me.

  On the fourth night, I was sitting in my kitchen, debating on whether or not I should say the heck with the reporters and let him in, when my doorbell rang. I would’ve ignored the ringing, but I figured it had to be him. The reporters wouldn’t have the nerve to be so brazen. And he wouldn’t come to my door unless he had a good reason.

  I opened the door and faced a frantic-looking Iggy, his brow furrowed with worry lines. “Something’s wrong. My mother may need to see a doctor, or I might have to drag her to the emergency room.”

  “Go,” I told him, waving a hand to shoo him out to his car. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I can’t leave you alone.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll be fine.”

  He shook his head, and scrubbed a hand over his head. “You’re a doctor. You should come with me.”

  “I’m a vet!”

  “So what? You still know more about medical stuff than I do. You’ll know if she needs to go to the hospital.”

  “Call 911.”

  “God, no. She’d never forgive me.”

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “If I call an ambulance and they pull up in front of the house, sirens screaming, and draw out the neighbors, she’ll be mortified.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You don’t know my mother. Please, come. I’ll feel better knowing you’re with me, and she’ll listen to you because you’re a doctor.” Before I could remind him again, he held up a hand. “She doesn’t need to know you’re a vet.”

  “I don’t want to lie to the lady.”

  “You won’t have to. I’ll introduce you as Dr. Herrera. She can assume the rest on her own.”

  “I don’t know, Iggy. If she’s embarrassed about an ambulance coming to her house, how’s she going to react when I show up with a gaggle of reporters on my heels?” I gestured at the people loitering on my sidewalk.

  He dismissed my concerns with a simple wave. “Totally different issue. As long as the news van doesn’t bring the neighbors out to the street, to wonder what’s happening, she’ll be fine with it. Mom doesn’t like to draw attention to herself.”

  “And if they flash the big lights and buzz around her with cameras, shoving microphones in her face?”

  “I’ll tell her we’re filming for a reality television show.” I rolled my eyes into my head like a trauma patient. “No, really. She’d be thrilled. She watches most of them. The dancing ones, the singing ones, the cooking ones. Even the pet psychic one.”

  I frowned my disapproval and wrung my hands in front of me.

  To my surprise, he knelt on my po
rch and gripped my hands between his. His expression lost its humor. “Jayne, please. You’ve never met my mother, but let me tell you she’s an extremely stubborn woman. I’ve been fighting with her for more than a week now, insisting she go to the doctor.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s got some kind of numb tingling in her arm.”

  “Numb tingling?”

  He sighed and shifted his weight, still on his knees. “I think that’s what she’s saying. She only speaks Polish, and it’s not as native a tongue for me. See what I mean about her? She’s lived here forty-five years, and still refuses to learn to speak English. I told you she was stubborn. She keeps complaining that her arm is ‘sleeping’ and when it wakes up, it tingles. And she’s slurring certain words. Our neighbor, Mrs. Kessler, just called to says Mom’s out on the front lawn, calling for the cat. She doesn’t own a cat. I’m afraid she may have dementia or something. But no matter how sick I think she is, she won’t see a doctor until she believes she has no other choice. You can convince her for me.”

  “I don’t know, Iggy,” I said again. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “Please? You could quite possibly save her life tonight.”

  Oh, great. Play the guilt card. How could I continue saying no? “Okay. But I’m going to be honest with her—and you. I won’t lie about what kind of doctor I am, and I’m not taking sides between you. If I think she needs a human doctor, I’ll say so. If I find you’re overreacting or playing some kind of game with me—”

  “I swear I’m not.”

  Uh-huh. Sure. We’d see. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed my coat and we headed out for the drive to Mrs. Zemski’s house. In the good fortune department, no reporters followed us.

  When we walked into the house, Lucky didn’t even raise his head from the dog bed in front of the natural stone fireplace where he curled into a cozy ball. I was left to face Mrs. Zemski without the help of a four-legged friend to break the ice.

  Iggy’s mother was a petite, slender woman with snowy hair and sharp eyes that resembled her son’s, not the least bit intimidated by Iggy’s size or bluster. The two held a rapid and heated conversation in Polish. I didn’t know what was said between them until Iggy took my arm to draw me forward. Ah, this must be my introduction.

  I ducked my head and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Zemski. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Herrera.”

  Iggy translated, and the foreign words flew hot and fast again. Apparently, Mom didn’t appreciate him bringing home a doctor to examine her. Or maybe he did as I asked and confessed I was a veterinarian, and that was why her lips twisted in lemon-sucking fashion.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Look at her. Does she look sick to you?”

  How would I know? I was used to checking an animal’s general health by tail, eyes, and teeth. Checking Mrs. Zemski’s tail was out of the question, and I didn’t think she’d fancy my sticking my fingers in her mouth. I’d have to opt for eyes to start. I took her arm to draw her into the bright lights of the kitchen. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Zemski? Is anything bothering you?”

  Iggy’s translation and his mother’s reply seemed to take longer than my simple questions required. The conversation rose in volume and emotion. Mrs. Zemski’s face turned florid, and her slight figure vibrated against me.

  “Stop!” I said, stepping between them, and spreading my arms to create a barrier of peace. “Please. Iggy, go get your mother some water.”

  While he stomped off, I took his mother’s hand and patted her the way I would comfort a frightened animal. I disliked thinking of her as a non-human, but since I couldn’t communicate with her verbally, I had to rely on the same senses I used to treat my regular patients. I kept my tone moderated, even, and soothing, and I slowly drew her into walking the short distance between the kitchen and dining room so I could assess her gait.

  I almost hated to admit I agreed with Iggy. She seemed a bit off-balance, and the way she squinted and blinked suggested she might have some newly acquired vision problems. When he returned with the water, I asked, “Does your mom wear glasses?”

  “No.”

  Check one. “Does she normally have trouble walking or staying steady on her feet?”

  “Her?” He jerked his head in his mother’s direction. “She’s a battleship. It would take a category four hurricane to knock her over.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. I think you need to get her to the hospital. She may have suffered a TIA.”

  “A…what?”

  “TIA. A mini-stroke, in layman’s terms. A clot of some kind inhibited blood flow to the brain for a short time.”

  He swore under his breath. “I knew it. How bad?”

  “I don’t know. A doctor is going to want to run some tests to be sure, and to assess the damage.”

  “Can’t you do it?”

  “Oh, sure. As long as she doesn’t mind spending the night in a crate at the vet’s office.”

  His cheeks flushed beet red, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Right. I forgot. At least come with me to take her to the hospital. She likes you.”

  I glanced at Mrs. Zemski, who glared daggers at me over the rim of the water glass. “Uh-huh. I can tell.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s her ‘nice’ face.”

  “Then I can see where you get your charm,” I remarked.

  He grinned. “You haven’t seen us turn it on full-force. We’re deadly when we go into Super Charming mode.”

  “I bet.”

  “I need you, Jayne. Please. Don’t make me conquer the dragon lady on my own.”

  I should say no. I should tell him to call me a cab while he took his mother to the hospital. He could be stuck in the hospital for hours.

  With no one talk to. And whether he showed it or not, I could tell Iggy was worried about her.

  No. Don’t let him toy with your sympathies. I had no reason to go with the Zemskis. I wasn’t family. I didn’t belong there. I couldn’t even speak to the woman. Even so, the word was out of mouth while the denials still swooped around my brain.

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 12

  Terri

  For the next forty-eight hours, I was the butt of a thousand jokes about how I’d almost catered a dog’s birthday party. I could understand if my mistake bothered Gary. Let’s face it. Having a pâtissier create gluten-free, dairy-free, canine treats was like hiring Michelangelo to paint a garage. But Gary didn’t take offense. Nope. From the moment my potential customer announced the birthday girl was, in fact, a birthday dog, he’d just gone back to work in the kitchen without a single criticism or word of chastisement. Instead, every time I was within earshot, he’d bark or growl at me. Worse, he got the staff to make dog noises at me, too. Even my aunt joined in. Then they’d all start laughing. The only benefit to their antics was the continuous woofing and howling kept my mind off the deliciousness of Gary’s kiss.

  Wanna know the weird thing? Ever since he’d pulled me outside to bawl me out for bawling out Chelsea, I spent waaaaay too much time thinking about him. Not just about the kiss, but the guy as a whole. I mean, I actually dreamed him about him one night. Not a sexy dream, thank God. No kissing or anything. Just…pleasant stuff. Us together on a couch, laughing and hanging out with his kid, which was so out of character for me. Worse than oil and water, kids and I were Crips and Bloods. But in my dream, we were pals, tossing popcorn at each other while watching some creepy movie on a big screen tv. Go figya. Maybe my fantasy friendship with Christian grew out of my blooming real friendship with his father.

  Working with Gary here in the tea shop, I saw a side of him I’d never witnessed in his scary bartender persona. Drunk as I always was, I still could recall some of the names he used to toss my way when he worked the taps at The Lookout: pathetic, mess, sot, loser, and my personal favorite, drunken tart. Here, though, he never got angry with me, even when
he had every right to—like with the whole Halston episode where I’d really mucked things up. I should’ve asked more questions before getting carried away with dreams and schemes about little girls in pretty pink dresses and floral-adorned hats. I made that mistake a lot, blowing things up in my imagination to proportions impossible to achieve. These days, I had to remind myself when I was overly ambitious I wasn’t the only one who had to pick up the pieces when it all fell apart.

  So I swallowed my pride and put up with the teasing and doggy sound effects.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Max called me for the first time since our evening at his producer’s house and, in a moment of weakness, I answered the phone.

  “Where’ve you been?” he demanded in lieu of the standard phone greeting.

  “Working,” I replied. “Some of us have a business to run.”

  If he noticed the edge to my tone, he ignored it. “I’ve missed you. Think you can pull yourself away from that business of yours long enough to come to a meeting with me?”

  I hesitated. Did I really want to play booze babysitter again? Then again, at a meeting, there’d be no booze to tempt him. So maybe he really did just want my company. Maybe he really did miss me. Besides, attending an extra meeting certainly wouldn’t hurt me. In fact, I often found the guest speakers’ stories hopeful. If they could tackle their demons, so could I. And by the same token, so could Max. Honestly, I should have been encouraging Max, not avoiding him. Wasn’t that what I signed up for when I agreed to be his sober buddy? While I hemmed and hawed, he sighed on the other end of the phone, the sound sharp and mournful.

  “Please?” he wheedled. “I got some bad news today. I could really use your support.”

  My hard shell exterior cracked, and Mother Hen emerged. Bad news? Oh, no. Was he sick? Hurt? Or was it someone he cared about, like his mom or his grandma, maybe? I glanced around the shop. The place was on the declining end of a brisk afternoon’s business with just a few groups of women dawdling over teacups and chatting before they had to leave to pick up their kids from the bus stop. At this stage, my staff could handle the shop for an hour or two ‘til closing.