by Leslie Meier
And then, finally, her wedding day. Her mother and bridesmaids had fussed over her, taking forever to fasten the twenty or more buttons that went up the back. Then, sitting on a white sheet in the backseat of her uncle’s Cadillac, she was driven to the church, where the long, white carpet stretched before her. Clutching her father’s arm with one hand and her bouquet with the other, she had stood waiting for the organ chords that marked the beginning of Mendelssohn’s wedding march.
“Mom! We’re gonna be late!”
Sara’s voice roused her from her reverie and she quickly replaced the dress in its box. She slid it back on the shelf and grabbed her best pair of khakis.
Lucy was only fifteen minutes late, having disregarded all speed limits and practically tossed the kids from the car at their various destinations, but Ted wasn’t amused.
“It’s deadline day, you know,” he told her.
“I know—I had car trouble,” she lied, unwilling to tell him the real reason.
Fortunately, there were no last-minute glitches and the paper was finished well before the noon deadline. To celebrate, Ted treated Lucy and Phyllis to coffee and doughnuts. They were gathered around Phyllis’s desk when the bell on the door jangled and they all looked up.
The visitor was a young man in his late twenties. One glance told Lucy he wasn’t from anywhere around Tinker’s Cove: he had practically shaved his head and was wearing snug black pants and clunky green leather oxfords and had a messenger’s bag slung over one shoulder. He advanced, smiling to reveal a row of pointed teeth and a tongue stud.
“I’m looking for the editor,” he said.
“That’s me,” said Ted, putting down his jelly doughnut and brushing his hand against his pants before extending it. “Ted Stillings.”
“Andy Dorfman,” said the young man, grasping Ted’s hand and shaking it energetically. “From CyberWorld.”
“Really?” Ted’s interest was piqued. Journalists from national publications rarely showed up in Tinker’s Cove. “How can I help you?”
“Well, you know Ron Davitz is in town. . . .”
“No, I didn’t,” said Ted. “In fact, I don’t know who the hell he is. Why don’t you sit down and have a doughnut and tell me all about it.”
“Thanks.” Dorfman pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him,” he said, taking a big bite of double-chocolate.
“They say he’s the next Bill Gates,” said Lucy and Phyllis in unison.
“Is this true?”
Dorfman nodded, his mouth too full to answer.
“What’s he doing in Tinker’s Cove?”
“Getting married,” said Dorfman.
Lucy and Phyllis nodded.
“To Sidra Finch,” said Lucy, belatedly remembering Ted had assigned her to find out who was on the yacht.
“You know her?” asked Dorfman. “That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to get some background on his bride.”
“Sidra’s marrying the next Bill Gates and you never told me?” demanded Ted, turning on Lucy and Phyllis.
“I told you she was getting married,” said Lucy. “And what did you say? ‘I hope this wedding isn’t going to interfere with your work.’ That’s exactly what you said, if I remember correctly.”
“Exactly,” said Phyllis.
Ted ground his teeth. “You left out one important element. The name of the groom.”
“I thought you knew,” said Lucy.
“Everybody knows,” said Phyllis. “He’s the guy on the yacht.”
Ted gave Lucy an evil glance, and she shrugged her shoulders apologetically.
“So who exactly is this guy on the yacht?” asked Ted, turning to Dorfman.
“Typical Internet millionaire,” said Dorfman with a grin. “He’s got a company called Secure.net. They’ve got a way of encrypting communications programs so the information remains confidential. Unlike now, where anything you put out there can pretty much be intercepted. They’ve got fab technology.” He paused to reach for another doughnut. “He’s rich already and he’s going to make a fortune when the product hits the market next month.”
“I don’t understand. What does the company do?” Ted was scratching his head.
“They don’t actually do it yet, but they say they have figured out a way to transmit information on the Internet and keep it confidential at the same time.”
“So CyberWorld is doing a story about this Davitz?”
“Yeah. A profile. Boy from New Jersey makes good, marries beautiful girl. That’s what I need your help for. I can’t find out much about Sidra Finch.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d go talk to her folks. They live just a couple of blocks from here.”
Dorfman took out his notepad. “And what would their name be?”
“Finch, of course,” said Ted, prompting disapproving glares from Lucy and Phyllis.
“Oh,” said Dorfman. He sensed he wasn’t going to get any more information; Lucy and Phyllis had fallen silent. “Well, thanks for everything,” he said, getting up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m staying in town for a few days. If you want to reach me, I’m at the Queen Victoria Inn.”
“Right,” said Ted, smiling affably.
As soon as Dorfman had gone, Lucy pounced. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now he’ll go and bother Sue and Sid.”
“This man’s a colleague. It’s professional courtesy.” Ted leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You know, Lucy. You owe me a story. It’s too late now, but we can run it next week.”
“I’ll get right on it,” said Lucy. “But to tell the truth, I’m not really sure what this Internet is. I mean, I know what it is, but I don’t see how people make money from it.”
“Me, either,” said Phyllis. “That NASDAQ keeps going up, and people are getting rich, but the companies don’t make any profit. I don’t get it.”
“Maybe it’s time we figured it out,” said Ted.
“I’ll do my best,” promised Lucy. “In fact, I can start right away because I’m going to have lunch with the next Bill Gates’s mother!”
Chapter Seven
Lucy was a few minutes late when she arrived at the Greengage Inn—these days it seemed as if she was always late—but there was no sign of Thelma in the charmingly understated dining room with its glazed ochre walls and linen-covered tables. Sue, however, was sitting at a corner table, staring at the clear glass vase that contained a single orange flower.
“You’re meeting Thelma?” asked Lucy.
“Who else?” replied Sue with a sigh. “What kind of flower is this?”
Lucy looked at it and shrugged.
“Never saw one before. Why?”
“Just curious,” Sue replied in a monotone.
Lucy sat down next to Sue and leaned close. “Everything okay?”
Sue looked directly at her. “What do you think?”
Lucy would have loved nothing more than to verbally rip Thelma to shreds, and she was dying to discuss what Sidra could possibly see in Ron, but she hesitated, sensing that Sue would feel she had to defend her daughter’s choice.
“Sid’s really behaving like the classic father of the bride,” she finally said.
Sue was just starting to answer when Thelma arrived.
“Yoo-hoo,” she yodeled from across the room, turning a few heads. Lucy thought it was probably the first time anyone had yodeled in the Greengage Inn.
Waving to Sue and Lucy, Thelma tottered across the room on a pair of ridiculously high-heeled sandals and plopped gracelessly onto a chair.
“Whew!” she exclaimed in a shrill voice. “All the fashion magazines rave about these Manooloo Blahnik shoes, but I gotta tell you they’re hell on your feet, especially if you’ve got a few corns.”
“Beauty knows no pain,” said Lucy, repeating a favorite expression of her mother’s and happily wiggling her toes in her comfy boat shoes.
“It’s difficult to be fashionabl
e in Maine,” said Sue, perking up a little as she talked about her favorite topic. “High heels are risky because you can’t be sure there’s a sidewalk. Besides, people don’t really dress here. I mean, look at this crowd.”
Lucy glanced around the room, which was filled with women dressed in clothing from the better sportswear racks. Thelma was the only one in a designer suit and heels—and the only one who was carrying this year’s fashion rage: a large leopard-skin purse.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?” asked the waitress.
“I guess we don’t really need to wait for Corney,” said Thelma, unfolding her napkin. “I’ll have an iced . . . tea.”
After Sue and Lucy had also ordered iced tea, Sue turned to Thelma. “Did you say Corney is coming? Corney Clark?”
“You know her?” Thelma raised her eyebrows.
“Of course. But we hadn’t discussed hiring a caterer.”
“Oh,” said Thelma, pausing to unfold her napkin. “I just thought it would be a good idea to explore all the possibilities.”
“What possibilities?” demanded Sue, her voice rising a notch. “This is going to be a simple wedding in a gazebo, with simple homemade refreshments. The big question is whether we use whole wheat or white bread for the cucumber sandwiches.”
“Half and half, I think,” volunteered Lucy.
“That is such a good idea,” trilled Thelma. “But, you know, I do think we could be a little more adventurous. Especially when you think of the sort of people who will be coming.”
“Just family and friends . . .”
“I don’t think you quite realize how important my son is,” said Thelma, eyes flashing. “He can’t sneak off and get married in some dark corner, now, can he? Surely you haven’t forgotten Norah Hemmings, and there’ll be lots of other important people, too. Ron knows so many highly successful people—the sort of people you read about in the columns. They’re used to a certain style, a certain standard of entertainment. That’s why I have to tell you the gazebo just won’t do.”
Lucy and Sue were too stunned to reply; they sat dumbly as Thelma took a sip of tea, grimaced, and added several packets of sugar-free sweetener. Then, spotting Corney across the room, she began waving.
“Over here,” she shrieked.
Corney hurried across the room and took the empty chair. “Hi, girls,” she said in greeting, neatly propping her portfolio against the table leg. Then, reaching across the table, she took Sue’s hand and made eye contact. “I am so happy for you,” she said in a professionally sincere voice.
Lucy wanted to roll her eyes but didn’t. Instead, she looked down at her plate. She was thinking that, in other circumstances, she and Sue would have thought Thelma and Corney were hilariously pretentious, but today they didn’t have that luxury. Today they had to take them seriously.
“Thank you,” said Sue in her polite voice.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Corney demanded, hunching up her shoulders and hugging herself. “Sidra’s wedding! Why, I remember when she was just a little girl.” She paused and switched gears, becoming serious. “I want you all to know that I will do my very best to make this the event you’ve been dreaming of. That is my pledge to you.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. It seemed as if Thelma had already hired Corney.
“I’m puzzled—” began Sue, but she was cut off by Thelma.
“Corney, I just want you to know that money is no object. My son has given me a blank check. ‘Mom,’ he said, ‘I know how much this means to you, and whatever it costs is fine with me.’ ”
This lofty sentiment, so touchingly expressed, brought tears to Corney’s eyes. Rendered momentarily speechless, she clasped Thelma’s hand.
“Sid and I are fully prepared—” began Sue, only to be interrupted by Corney.
“I see doves,” she said, looking at the ceiling and gesturing with her hands. “A sea of fluttering white wings, released just as the happy couple depart in . . . a silver hot-air balloon!”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” cooed Thelma.
“I don’t know . . .” began Sue, doubtfully.
“We can time it so they leave at dusk, and as the balloon disappears into the distance we light up the sky with . . . fireworks!”
“Ohhhh,” sighed Thelma, in bliss.
“There’ll be music, of course—a music and light show. I know just the people. And then, when the fireworks are over, we’ll have the orchestra stay so people can dance.”
Sue cleared her throat and placed her hands firmly on the table. “I don’t—” she began.
“Are you ladies ready to order?” asked the waitress.
“I think we are,” exclaimed Thelma. “Now don’t be shy. Have whatever you want. This lunch is on me.”
Figuring they would share the check, Lucy had decided to have the cheapest thing on the menu, but now she changed her mind. “I’ll have a lobster roll,” she said.
“The seafood pasta,” said Sue, apparently feeling an unusual need for something sustaining.
“Shrimp cocktail for me,” said Corney. “I’m on that protein diet.”
Thelma ordered lobster ravioli for herself. Glancing at the menu, Lucy wondered what could possibly justify the price.
“I’ve promised myself that while I’m in Maine, I’m going to eat as much lobster as I can,” said Thelma. “It’s so delicious.”
“We could serve lobster at the wedding,” suggested Corney.
“What a good idea!” Thelma was nodding approval, but an expression of annoyance had replaced her smile. “You know, these lobsters are good to eat but they create a lot of mess, don’t they? I mean, those traps are piled up all over the place, even in people’s front yards! And it’s worse down at the harbor. There you get the smell. When the wind’s blowing in a certain direction, you can’t escape it.”
Lucy and Sue exchanged glances.
“And the noise! They come and go at all hours, with no regard for people’s sleep. They woke me up this morning when it was still dark! Clattering up and down the dock and yelling and starting motors and I don’t know what all. Who would ever think that catching a few lobsters would require so much noise?”
Thelma looked up as the waitress reappeared, carrying a tray. As soon as the plate was set in front of her, she dived in and speared a ravioli with her fork. She popped a few more of them in her mouth while the others were being served, then checked her watch.
“I hadn’t realized it was so late!”
Corney consulted her watch. “You’re right. We’ve got to go.”
“I hate to pull you away from your lunch.”
“Not at all,” said Corney. “I’ll nibble on something later. Believe me, I’ve dealt with these people before and they have a little bit of an attitude. They don’t rent the mansion and garden to just anyone, you know, so we’d better do our best to make a good impression.”
“Mansion?” inquired Sue.
“Just an idea, dear,” said Thelma, rising.
“The Hadwen House,” said Corney, referring to a luxurious private home that was occasionally leased for weddings. “I mean, I’m not promising, but wouldn’t it be great if we could get it?”
Before Sue could frame an answer, the two were gone. Left alone at the table, Lucy and Sue stared at Thelma’s and Corney’s hardly touched meals.
“I’m a victim of my class,” confessed Lucy. “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t waste food like that.”
“Me either,” agreed Sue. “I grew up hearing about the starving Chinese.”
“I always volunteered to send them my lima beans, but my mother wouldn’t let me.”
Lucy was relieved when Sue smiled.
“Mine either.” Sue sighed, and took a bite of pasta. “That Thelma is something, isn’t she? She’s hijacking the wedding.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll assert my rights as mother of the bride,” said Sue. “The bride’s parents give the wedding. Everybody knows
that. It’s custom. I don’t think she can just take it away from me. Can she?”
“I think she has.”
“Maybe I can take legal action. Get a cease-and-desist order or something.”
“Before you do that, maybe you should talk to Sidra. She’d be horrified if she knew what Thelma is planning.”
Sue put down her fork. “I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, lately I’ve had a terrible time getting ahold of her on the phone. She’s always out and if I call her at work she’s too busy to talk. We haven’t had a real conversation in a long time.”
“But I thought she wanted you to plan the wedding.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Well, she certainly knows what sort of wedding you’d give. I don’t think she’s expecting fireworks and doves and hot-air balloons!”
“You’re right, Lucy.” Sue seemed to brighten at the thought.
“Why don’t you pay her a visit? Then you could present a united front to Thelma. Maybe Sidra could get Ron to call his mother off.”
“I’d love to go to New York.” Sue’s tone was wistful.
“Well, what’s stopping you?”
Sue lifted her glass and took a long drink of tea before she answered. “Sid.”
“Sid won’t let you go?”
“It’s not that.” She paused. “I don’t dare leave him here alone.”
“He can take care of himself for a few days.”
Sue shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m afraid he’ll . . . Sid really hates Ron. You should have heard him last night. He went on and on.” Sue lowered her voice and imitated her husband’s growl. “ ‘That Ron’s not good enough for Sidra. He doesn’t look like he’s done an honest day’s work in his life. Wouldn’t know the business end of a hammer from the handle. Couldn’t hit a nail on the head if he tried, which he wouldn’t because he’s too damn lazy.’ Not to mention he didn’t much like the way Ron criticized his mother.”