The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  Three pairs of eyes blinked at me rapidly in perfect synchronization–they must be clones.

  “Now, I know you all think that you’re working toward a common goal,” I continued, thrusting my chin up and planting my hands on my hips. “To take the weeds out of your pretty garden. But do you even really know that it’s a weed? A plant that doesn’t flower isn’t always a weed and a weed that flowers isn’t always a plant. Instead of finding out for yourself, you just bob your heads in agreement with someone, who is no horticulturist, just because she said so, and to formulate your own diagnosis is either bad form, because minions aren’t supposed to think for themselves, or you’re really just that gullible.”

  Two pretty-pink mouths opened to interject but I was on a roll—well, more like a freight train, really.

  “Which brings me to my next point,” I rambled on. “If you’re all as worldly, sophisticated, and expensively educated and raised as you all claim to be, then why can’t you make your own decisions other than the one to go worship at your mistress’s feet? Why do your good manners and sense of right and wrong shrink and expand at her will? Is she the boss of you? Has she held your first-born captive? Has she threatened to wipe out your family if you don’t cooperate? It must’ve been something dire and desperate that she held over your head if you’ve submitted yourselves to do her dirty work. For women who probably never worked in a diner, she’s sure got a server girl out of each of you.”

  “We’re not Layla’s servants!” Clone 4AXX finally sputtered, her face red and puffy with indignation.

  I smiled. “Well, you would no longer be one considering you just outed her. Don’t worry, it’s for your own good.”

  “Stop distracting us from the fact that you’re not meant to be part of the Society,” Clone 3AXX said through gritted pearly whites.

  “Why not?” I asked in genuine confusion. “Do you think coming from a family of money and influence, or having married well, or being at least twenty-five years old, or knowing the science of stirring tea, or wearing clothes the price of some child’s entire education in another country, is going to make me a more qualified person to do charity? Because I’m looking at the three of you right now, each having perfectly met all those said qualities, and all I see is a bunch of adult women acting like they’re still in high school, milling about in an effort to please the queen bee, and thinking they all look pretty while doing it. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I agree.”

  I straightened up when I heard Brandon, recognizing the barely restrained anger in his voice.

  The three clones tensed and sharply inhaled a breath as my husband came to stand by my side.

  “I’ve always admired the Society’s efforts at reaching out to the unfortunate,” he said calmly—too calmly—his hand pressing against the small of my back, lending me his strength, and I fought the urge to sag against him. “It gave me the impression that while there’s not a lot we can do to prevent the gaps that divide society, we can at least build bridges. But now I’m wondering whether I’ve misjudged you. I can’t see why you would want to help those you only condescend to anyway.”

  “If this charity is all for show, I’d rather not spend my money on such an expensive production,” Jake, to my half-surprise, half-mortification, announced, as he came up on my other side. He and Brandon were practically flanking me.

  The three women looked like they wanted to punch a hole through the ground and have it open up and swallow them.

  “It seems like you’ve definitely succeeded in convincing people today,” Mrs. Rossiter, of all people, said as she came up to join our little group. “Not that Charlotte here is a bad fit for a charitable society—but that you, other girls, are.”

  It now seemed as if half the party had come our way and listened in on the drama unfolding. I could hear murmurs around us.

  I felt bad for the three women whose face were blanched but also beet-red on some parts. Humiliation was not a pretty look on anyone.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Clone 3AXX said lamely. “We were just... um...”

  “You were ganging up on the girl, that’s what,” a man from somewhere in our audience said.

  I gave the crowd a quick scan and saw Tom speaking, Melissa standing beside him with a deep frown. “She’s had far too many accidents in the space of three hours. The girl has a swelling ankle, for God’s sakes.”

  I felt Brandon stiffen behind me in the exact moment I knew he saw my ankle. He hissed sharply under his breath and crouched down to carefully slip my shoes off, supporting my weight as I leaned against his shoulders. Jake held me by the elbow and between the two of them, I was able to stand barefoot on the grass, putting my weight on my uninjured foot and partially being supported by Brandon’s arm around my waist.

  “Everyone was watching Charlotte because she's a curiosity—a rather grave miscalculation on your part,” Mrs. Rossiter added. “The fact that you thought everyone here in this party was too daft not to notice your highly blatant and dangerous pranks is an incredible insult to us—one that only serves to encourage me more to withdraw my support from your group.”

  “As I do.”

  “Me too.”

  “This is terrible of you ladies.”

  “I don’t approve of this.”

  As the other guests put in their two cents in—more like hurled them at the women—the trio had tears in their eyes.

  I instantly felt remorse.

  The fact that a couple dozen people were taking a stand similar to mine washed me over with a sense of pride, but it was one thing to gain support against bullies, and another to become the bullies.

  I held a hand up. “It’s alright, everyone. It’s just a tiny misunder—”

  “What in the world is going on?” Layla’s sugary voice—currently more tart than sweet—floated from behind the group as she wove her way through to get to us.

  Francis, Simone and Bessy came through right behind her. Now the cast was complete.

  She stopped short when she saw me sandwiched between Brandon and Jake, and she took a slow, sweeping glance of everyone else within the inner circle, her pale blue eyes sharply assessing the situation.

  “An epiphany, I think,” Brandon said to her. “It looks like your group is busy breaking spirits when it’s not pitching charity causes. I’m seriously considering suing everyone involved in the scheme that led to my wife’s ankle injury.”

  Layla’s nostrils flared ever so slightly as she took the impact of Brandon’s statement with a stoic expression, which lasted as long as Mrs. Rossiter’s succinct recap of the mishaps I was put through.

  I had no idea she had been watching—or the whole party, for that matter.

  Being a curiosity apparently has its upside—no one misses you getting shoved into the mud. The trouble is in whether or not anyone would stick out a hand to help you up, at the risk of getting shoved in along with you.

  “Let me be the first to say how ashamed I am of the appalling behavior displayed by some of my members,” Layla finally said, a grave expression on her face. She then quickly turned to the trio who stood huddled together, starting to get mad as wet hens.

  “I’m deeply disappointed by your childish antics. This is not how a true Championette acts and I’m afraid that we are going to have to review your membership with the Society. We do not want your behavior to reflect negatively on the good that the Society is trying to do.”

  My jaw dropped open about the same time as those of the three clones—okay, women—did.

  “But you told us we could—”

  “You wanted us to make sure—”

  “How is this our fault—”

  “You’re throwing them under the bus?” my incredulous statement rang out more loudly and clearly than the simultaneous sputtering of the three women.

  Everyone turned their heads in my direction but I could only stare at Layla and the smug look in her eyes, as if challenging me to defend my three tormentors. She probably
thought I wouldn’t.

  This is where you’re wrong, Layla. I’m neither vengeful nor vindictive like you. You should’ve anticipated that.

  “They were merely doing someone’s dirty work—yours, specifically,” I said in an even voice. “While that in itself is nothing to be proud of, just like weeds, the same problem would keep growing unless we pull the roots out of the ground for good.”

  “Is it too soon to re-evaluate the current leadership?” Mrs. Rossiter asked, eyeing Layla with unwavering scrutiny. “As one of the Society’s biggest sponsors, I propose a change. This kind of petty behavior has no room in a charity group with a serious commitment to its beneficiaries and shareholders.”

  Simone stepped forward (Oh, look, look! She could actually stand up for someone!), coming up behind her stunned and silently furious friend. “Now, Mrs. Rossiter, we don’t have to be so hasty—”

  “I will withdraw my support if Layla remains as the chairwoman,” the older woman firmly said, drawing hushed gasps from the crowd. “I do not condone hazing or any leader who encourages it among her ranks.”

  “So will I,” Brandon said.

  “Me too,” Jake added.

  “I will quit the Championettes if Layla stays on,” Melissa announced in a strong, clear voice. “I’m afraid that along with my departure, the Society will need to find another suitable head office.”

  “And another financial backer to take our place,” Tom added, putting an arm around his wife.

  “And who do you intend to lead the Championettes?” Layla demanded, turning her hot glare to me. “Her?”

  “Your first good idea,” Mrs. Rossiter said dryly. “We’ll need more than one from you.”

  Goodness, I was probably going to be this woman in a few decades.

  If I was a freight train, she was a tanker.

  “Everyone, hold up!” I finally said, raising my hands to catch people’s attention. “Before we get too carried away here, let’s clear up a few things. As much as I appreciate the vote of confidence, I’m not knowledgable enough to run the Championettes. I will not take on a role I’m not prepared to do competently. I don’t want to fail at the expense of our many beneficiaries. I’m sure Layla knows what she’s doing—as long as she’s not sidetracked by some personal vendetta.”

  “Look, I’m not withdrawing my support despite all of this,” I appealed to them. “There are a lot of things we can change and do better but shutting down what’s been counted on by others to help champion their cause isn’t helping anyone—least of all, the people who need help. The end goal is charity—not my comfort, or yours, as we’ve all got plenty of that.”

  I was met with silence and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  Jeez, Charlotte. When did you become such a freaking preacher? They probably think you’re crazy now. They stood up for you but you’re telling them that Layla should probably stay. Why didn’t you just spit in their faces?

  It would sound twisted but I didn’t want myself personally to be the reason for the change that was much needed in the Society.

  I didn’t want to be the bottomline of all of this because this wasn’t about me. That was the very reason the pranks on me today annoyed the hell out of me.

  It was a complete waste of time and creative energy we could be using for more important things than a shallow catfight.

  And yes, I was a little pissed off about my sprained ankle but that would heal in a few days whereas the consequences of their actions today were going to mar the Society’s reputation forever—for a very stupid, useless reason.

  “What about co-chairmanship?” Mrs. Rossiter asked, looking at me expectantly. “You can partner up and work together.”

  Layla gasped in outrage and I burst out laughing.

  I loved this woman. Mrs. Rossiter was a gold mine of outrageous ideas.

  I was clutching my stomach and sniffling back tears when Brandon squeezed me on the waist and murmured, “I think she was actually serious about that, babe.”

  The rest of my laughter dived back in my throat when I realized that no one but me had been laughing.

  “You’re serious?” I asked in disbelief, before narrowing my eyes at them. “Alright, who spiked the punch? Because that’s the only reason I can think of that would make you suggest something so ludicrous such as that.”

  “It might work,” one of the older men—a politician, from the looks of it—who’d come to join the chaos earlier, said. “You could keep each other in check. Layla knows how to run the operation and Charlotte can keep the group to the straight and narrow.”

  I glanced at Layla.

  She didn’t look happy at all. In fact, she looked downright apoplectic.

  If we weren’t surrounded by a crowd of the Society’s most vital supporters, she probably would’ve already lunged at me and torn me to pieces.

  In the space of three hours, her petty scheme had unraveled, thanks to careless henchmen (I could say henchwomen but that didn't sound right). Her newly-acquired rule in the Society was also now in jeopardy.

  It was a pretty simple set of tricks, really—none of them too crazy although they were escalating to dangerous—but they were enough to cause big enough cracks in someone’s credibility and eventually cause it to shatter at the force of scrutiny.

  There was nothing amusing about pranks coming from nearly thirty-year-olds who were supposed to be respectable champions of the unfortunate—especially since the goal was to alienate a member they didn’t like. It was catty.

  Here you are, an hour into your membership, and you’ve already destabilized the Society’s executive board.This surely can’t be a good sign.

  “Layla will do it,” a gruff male voice said.

  I glanced up and saw Layla’s husband, Don LeClaire, step out from the crowd and stand next to his wife, his unnervingly even gaze settling on me.

  There was nothing charming about the man.

  In fact, he looked downright dour.

  He was a physically attractive man. He was probably in his mid to late thirties, with perfectly groomed sandy blond hair and a tall, lean build. His eyes though were a dark color and looked like they were permanently narrowed in disapproval. His mouth was a thin, grim line and his unflinching gaze, I suspected, would evoke two kinds of female reaction—either a seduction or a scare.

  No wonder Layla has such a sunny disposition in life. She wakes up next to a thundercloud everyday.

  Mrs. Thundercloud—I mean, Layla—glanced at her husband with furrowed brows as if she were looking for confirmation, but he didn’t look at her.

  Apparently, that was some form of response from him because Layla turned back to us and nodded.

  I wasn’t sure if I was the only one who noticed her visibly swallow with effort.

  That bothered me. For someone who was always so confident and strong-willed, Layla acquiesced to her husband’s announcement without a single protest.

  Maybe she knows better than to get struck by lightning.

  “What do you say, Char?” Melissa asked, drawing my attention back to the deliberation at hand. “This is very unconventional but our sponsors are proposing for you to co-chair with Layla.”

  From the look on Melissa’s face, I knew she wanted me to do it.

  In fact, from the looks on most people’s faces, except for Layla and her crew, especially her cousin Bessy, I knew they wanted me to do it.

  I suspect a different kind of conspiracy layered over the one Layla concocted. I have a feeling this was a compromise on the desired end-result.

  I glanced first at Jake, who smiled at me supportively, and then at Brandon, who laced his fingers through mine and gently squeezed in encouragement.

  You sure have a habit of making big, spontaneous decisions. Going to Paris, marrying Brandon, now running a charitable society. You don’t do things in half-measures, Char, do you?

  I turned back to Layla and studied her face.

  The mutinous look she had on ear
lier was completely gone. She looked quite complacent, actually. I wondered if it was her husband's encouragement—if ignoring her was how he showed it—that got her mellowed down.

  She probably realized what hasn't been spoken out loud in this little congregation—that no one wants her to lead and they've used the fact that she was conspiring against you to push their case. She knows she has very few friends here, right now. Her only chance at keeping some hold on the Society is to co-chair with you. The final decision is on you.

  "This is not the official process to select a new leader," Catherine, one of the older women on the board who was present during that tea-party and endearingly called me trailer trash, spoke up. "And there's no such thing as co-chairmanship in the Society. You can't just change the rules. Layla has been selected and she should stay on."

  Mrs. Rossiter gave her a pitying sideways glance. "And you can keep her, if you refuse to bend your traditions when they clearly don't work or have been compromised in integrity. If you keep her, you just lose a good chunk of your sponsors. It's now a political decision that your Society has to make, Catherine."

  Catherine looked chastised but she stubbornly made another attempt, "Well, I wouldn't say a good chunk. I mean, it's just you and—"

  "Anyone present here who is either a current or future sponsor of the Society and would withdraw support if a change in leadership isn't made under these circumstances, raise your hand," Melissa announced, raising her hand and cutting off Catherine.

  I watched, amazed, as several hands slowly rose.

  Holy crap. When did the tables turn? I was probably not looking.

  "You wouldn't say a good chunk, hey?" Mrs. Rossiter remarked wryly to Catherine who was flushing a deep shade of red.

  I sighed loudly. "Alright, 'fess up, peeps. Why me? There are a lot of other tenured Championettes who can co-chair with Layla much better than I can."