by Tamara Leigh
A half hour later, having assisted with the remaining cleanup, I replay my conversation with Leah as I traverse Red Sea Lane. I’m surprised that I opened up to her—not in any detail, but more than I usually allow. As for Anna…
I let myself into my mobile home, put the talk I agreed to out of my mind, and focus on The Coroner rerun that awaits me. But before I switch on the light, I sense—rather, see—trouble. The VCR lights should be lit.
I flip on a lamp, which sends Dumplin’ running. And well he should, I fume as I catch sight of the chewed cord that’s been pulled from the socket. Well he should!
“No, Harri.”
“But you don’t even know why I’m calling—”
“You want me to take Dumplin’. Well, I’m not going to. Two cats are too many for a bachelor—the smell, the litter they track everywhere, and the fights those two get into. No. Dumplin’ is all yours.”
I grit my teeth. “All right, but we could trade. Dumplin’ for Doo-Dah.”
“No.”
I sag against the headboard. “Why?”
“It’s called responsibility.”
Something he doesn’t think I’m capable of, though surely I’ve proven myself time and again.
“Look, Harri, for the past nine months I’ve had both cats—”
“But you’re a cat person!”
“The point is that the burden has been on me. You didn’t even offer—”
“You were the natural choice, especially since you’d just lost George…” Oh, why did you bring that up? You know he’s sensitive about that mangy cat. “Sorry.” Of course, is it my fault that his gallivanting feline ignored the advice not to play in the streets at night? He was worse than Dumplin’, always getting into scraps—
That’s why Tyler dumped Dumplin’ on me rather than Doo-Dah. Because of the scrap Dumplin’ and George got into years ago that left the latter minus a piece of ear. Tyler was not happy. In fact, it’s amazing that he didn’t unload Dumplin’ on me sooner. I ought to be grateful.
Yes, you should. If he’d turned down Mom, all of it would have been in your lap, which was the original plan per her suggestion that you move home while she and Dad were on mission.
I sigh. “No problem, Ty. I’ve got Dumplin’ covered. In fact…” Do I have to? “…if you need a break, I’ll take Doo-Dah off your hands.”
Silence.
“Hello?” Did he hang up on me? “Hello?”
He did, and though I accept that things aren’t well between us, I’m hurt. It has been years since he hung up on me.
Sinking farther down the headboard, I push the handset’s Off button, only to yelp when the phone rings. Since it’s approaching ten, I consider not answering, but when one lives among senior citizens, late-night calls are not to be taken lightly.
“Hello?”
“You hung up on me.”
What’s he doing on the other end? “No, Ty. You hung up on me.”
“No, I didn’t. I was just in shock.”
Replaying the conversation that ended with my offer to take Doo-Dah off his hands, I roll my eyes. “Hardy-har-har.”
“Seriously, that was a nice offer. Thank you.”
He’s acknowledging that I did something right? I start to go all warm and fuzzy, which is a state usually reserved for the restocking of Jelly Bellys, but then he speaks again.
“I may be going out of town next month, so I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
Good-bye, warm and fuzzy.
“It was a sincere offer, wasn’t it, Harri?”
“Yes. I’d love to do it.” So I’m exaggerating, especially tossing out love in reference to Dumplin’ and Doo-Dah, but Tyler rarely responds to a peace offering—so rarely that it has been a while since I made an effort.
“Great. So how’s the job going?”
This cannot be my brother. “Which one?”
“At the church. I understand lots of changes are happening over there.”
Which he must have heard of through friends, as he now attends a megachurch—the better to blend into the background, I heard him tell Mom.
“Yes, First Grace is going through changes. You’d hardly recognize it.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Not really, but some of the changes are for the better, I suppose.”
“You’re not causing trouble, are you?”
The hair on my neck rises. “As little as possible.”
His silence has teeth. “You do realize that the reason Mom and Dad undertook this mission was to give the new pastor room to make First Grace his own?”
“The thought occurred to me.” I wince at my sarcasm. Great! The longest conversation you’ve had with Ty in years and you’re about to blow it! I draw a deep breath. “You know, you might like the new First Grace. You ought to drop by.”
“No, thanks. I’m good where I’m at.”
His tone warns of what’s coming, and I flounder for a way to keep him on the line, at least until we get back to the semblance of civility I enjoyed after my offer to keep Doo-Dah. “How about you, Tyler? How’s the world of accounting?”
“Not too bad now that April 15 is behind me. Look, Harri, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh. Good night.”
Hearing the click, I’m swamped by a feeling of loss. Though I regret the mess my rebellion made of my relationships, the one with Tyler carries the deepest wounds outside of those inflicted on my parents. I miss my big brother, and if I could restore what he lost years ago, I would. But she’s long gone. And I’m to blame.
Harri’s Log: • 4 days until the next rerun of The Coroner (must duct tape VCR cord)
• 12 days until Jelly Belly replenishment
• 196 days until the completion of Bible #8
I had a blessedly uneventful weekend. On Saturday, I fobbed off Maddox’s table on Lisa (probably should have thought that through, as it cost me a Jelly Belly tip and I’ve been “clean” two days too many). The meeting at church went well, except for the amount of attention Stephano paid me, Bea’s bitter comments about the projection screen, and Maddox’s announcing the formation of a “vision” committee to be comprised of a diverse group of church members. On Sunday, Maddox sat elsewhere when I squeezed a place for myself between two hefty ladies, Bea behaved, and the introduction of the projection screen suffered a setback when the bulb didn’t light and the replacement bulbs couldn’t be found.
Okay, so not exactly uneventful, especially in light of the mutterings when the band started up and the contemporary music selections weren’t to be found in our hymnals. I really didn’t care for the looks some of the younger folks slid Bea’s way, as if she was responsible for the AWOL bulbs. Of course, her smug expression didn’t help.
Today at the café, she sits alone at one of four tables that have been pushed together for the Red Hat Society meeting held the third Monday of each month. Elegantly decked out in a flowered hat and purple gloves, she wears a wistful expression.
No, she wouldn’t sabotage the projection screen. As I start to turn away, a slow smile spreads across her face. Though I’d bet a handful of Jelly Bellys (had I a club-sized container) that she isn’t smiling at anyone in particular, I follow her gaze.
That would have cost me a lot of Jelly Bellys. I glance from a smiling Jack, who must have slipped in while I was in the kitchen, back to Bea, who gives him a wave. Dare I hope romance is in the air for these two who’ve lost their spouses?
“Oh, look! Bea’s already here.”
I turn and meet Harriet’s twinkling eyes beneath the brim of a red pillbox hat edged with purple feathers.
“Of course she’s here.” Pam, whose arm is linked with Harriet’s, pushes back her red cowgirl hat to better display a flamboyant blond wig. “Bea’s always early.”
Harriet halts before me, and I curtsy to the founder of First Grace’s chapter of Red Hatters. “Greetings, Queen Harriet.”
As I straighten, she gives me a nod and smoothes h
er purple drop-waist dress. “Everything in order?”
I size up the early lunch crowd that occupies a fourth of the available tables. An hour from now, it will be a different matter. “Yes, Your Majesty. Allow me to show you to your seat.” Hostess is a role I play every month, and one I never miss, though I have to swap my usual morning shift at the café with my afternoon shift at church.
As Harriet and Pam take their seats, Harriet scans the tables. “I understand we’re expecting a larger-than-usual turnout.”
I unfold her napkin and hand it to her. “Mrs. Feterall invited a potential member to join you, Lorraine’s bringing one herself, and Elva’s daughter, Maria, is coming.”
“Maria!” Bea pins Harriet with her gaze. “She’s not fifty.”
Harriet inclines her head. “Next year, I believe.”
“But we’re a Red Hatter group, not a Pink Hatter.”
Pam turns to Bea. “That’s because no one under fifty has been interested in joining. Of course, if they’d like to join, they’re welcome to.”
Color blooms on Bea’s cheeks. “Says who?”
“Says the Red Hat Society,” Harriet intercedes. “And I wouldn’t be opposed to having younger ladies join us. It would liven things up a bit.”
Bea scowls. “We don’t need livening.”
Pam rolls her eyes heavenward. “Lord, would You give our friend Bea something to smile about? She’s ruining a perfectly good day.”
Bea smacks the table with a gloved palm. “Don’t you be praying for me, Miss Hoity-Toity.”
I brandish my order pad. “Ladies, can I get you something to drink while you wait for the rest of your party?”
Bea glances toward Jack, then lowers her hands to her lap.
“What do you think about younger ladies joining our group, Harri?”
I blink at Harriet. “I think it would be great if Maria became a Pink Hatter. She’d fit right in.” A sidelong peek at Bea reveals narrowed lids and tightly pressed lips. If not for Jack’s presence, she’d have a lot to say to me.
Shortly, I scurry off with their drink order, and when I return, they’ve been joined by Elva, Maria, and Lorraine Ibbley. But that’s not all. I falter at the sight of the lady on Lorraine’s right, who wears a pink hat rather than red and a lavender outfit rather than purple. As if joining the Red Hatters is a done deal. Why, she can’t be much older than me! What’s Lorraine thinking? Yes, Pink Hatters are welcome, but this woman is a bit young—by at least a decade! And just where did Lorraine find her?
Ah! Church. She’s one of the two with whom Lorraine was sharing her pruney recipe this past Friday. So much for all that chumming.
“Coming through!” Mrs. Feterall sings out. “We’re late!”
I sidestep, and she pats my arm in passing. Her red pirate’s hat with its purple plume buoys my mood, and I smile. However, as she hastens toward her fellow Red Hatters with a guest in tow, my buoy deflates. Another Pink Hatter. Hopefully, not of the twenty-something/almost-thirty variety—
The twenty-something glances over her shoulder. “Hiya, Harri.”
Vi is Mrs. Feterall’s guest? She’s nowhere near thirty! In fact, she’s barely out of her coming-home-from-the-hospital pink stocking cap!
I stare at the group as they greet one another—except Bea, who looks like I feel. This will never work! The age gap is too wide.
“Who would have thought?” Gloria draws alongside me, her smile rubbing against the grain of my emotions. “Makes me want to take red spray paint to one of my old straw hats.”
“But you’ve never expressed an interest in becoming a Red Hatter.”
She winks. “Perhaps once I retire, which is in the near future, I believe.”
Warmed by the dream that momentarily displaces the chilly threat under which my emotions labor, I nod. “Yes, the near future.”
She lays an arm across my shoulder. “I’m looking forward to it, though I have no idea what I’ll do with all that time I’ll have on my hands.”
I smile. “Enjoy life.”
“Doing what? Twiddling my thumbs?”
“Well, for starters, you’ll be able to sleep in, spend more time with friends, travel, maybe take up gardening—”
“Grow old.” Her voice catches, lids flicker, mouth compresses, causing alarms to go off in the middle of my dream.
I don’t want to ask the question that settles like dead weight around me, but I have to. “Gloria, are you sure you want to sell the café?”
“I’m sure, Harri.” She sighs. “It’s just that I’ve begun to wonder how I’m going to fill my days. Oh, on the surface, retirement sounds wonderful, but it’s bound to get old. And drag me down with it. Maybe what I really need is a change.”
I’m relieved that my dream is intact, but I’m worried for her. “Like what?”
“I wish I knew.” She throws a hand up. “But now is not the time to explore options. We’ve got work to do.” She starts to turn away but comes back around. “Will you have time this week to sit down with me and Ruby to discuss the fall menu?”
One of my contributions—a menu that changes with the seasons. “Sure, but with all that’s going on with the women’s ministry, it will have to be in the evening.”
“That’s fine.”
She heads back to her hostess stand with her usual bustle and sense of purpose. What will Gloria do when she passes the café into my hands?
“Oh, Harri!” Harriet beckons. And once more I’m faced with a table full of Red Hatters and the Pink Hatters who have launched an invasion.
Over the next half hour, I try not to be offended when the Pink Hatters agonize over the lunch selections they deem to be too high in carbs—Maria excluded (she fits, as I knew she would). I try to hide my frustration when the side salads are left untouched (“light” dressing isn’t light enough). I try to hide the roll of my eyes when a chicken tortilla soup is sent back to the kitchen for another without the swirl of sour cream. I try not to snort when the Pink Hatters order peach cobbler and chess pie and all but lick their plates clean. Moreover, I try to stamp out my jealousy when I observe the three generations enjoying one another’s company…and my smugness when Bea refuses to be drawn into a conversation with the Pink Hatters…and my disappointment when Lorraine’s guest makes Bea crack a smile.
As the group draws out their visit over refills of coffee and tea, the lunch crowd picks up and Gloria asks me to take two more tables.
“I hear your movie night was a success,” Lisa says as I enter the beverage station.
My hackles rise, not because the event was a success, but because of what that success appears to have bred. “We had a great turnout.” I set out three glasses.
“Seems like there’s some bonding going on with your ladies. Must make you feel good to know you’re part of the positive changes happening at First Grace.”
“Yeah.”
“Still, it’s hard, isn’t it?”
Just as I’m about to pour, I leave the pitcher of fruit tea hanging over the first glass. I meet Lisa’s gaze, and though denial reaches my tongue first, honesty rolls over it. “It is hard. It’s happening so fast. Everything familiar is… disappearing.”
Ack! What’s that in my throat? And creeping up my nose? And stinging my eyes? And making my hand tremble?
Lisa takes the pitcher from me and gives me a side hug. It’s over before I can protest, yet I’m not sure I would have.
“Listen, Harri—”
“Hello, Harri…Lisa.”
I swing around, and there’s Maddox with one foot in the beverage station—a big no-no, especially as there’s all this wet stuff in my eyes.
He frowns. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” I clench my hands to keep from wiping my eyes. “What are you doing here?” Hardly friendly, but it has the desired effect of distracting him from my emotional state.
He shrugs. “Having lunch.”
“But you’re a Saturday regular, and it’s Monday
.”
“Is there a rule against frequenting the café on Monday?”
“Of course not. It’s just… you surprised me.” At an awkward time, I might add.
“That’s a relief. For a moment, I thought you were unhappy to see me.” He glances at Lisa. “So are you going to shove me off on Lisa again?”
I certainly am. Oh! But mustn’t be hasty—it’s been days since I had a Jelly Belly fix. “I’d be happy to wait on you.”
“Then I’ll ask Gloria to seat me at one of your tables.” He strides away.
“Thanks for throwing me a bone,” Lisa says.
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry. I know it’s you he’s interested in. Still, it was nice waiting on him Saturday.”
“But he’s not interested—”
“Get real. The man knows what he wants. And I think you do too.”
I gasp. “Lisa Beauregard, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Prove it.” She taps my shoulder. “You.” She taps her chest. “Me. Dinner at my place. Friday night.”
Another Friday night without The Coroner? Of course, I could record it, but then I’d have to resolve the issue of the chewed VCR cord (must buy duct tape). And even if it were a night other than Friday, I’m not good at the “girlfriend” thing—all that nonsense like painting each other’s toenails and sharing secrets. Not my thing. “I’d like to, but—”
“You’re turning me down? And after you were ready to kiss my feet the day you nearly ended up on Maddox’s lap?”
She’s calling in a debt. And one I owe her for always picking up my slack when I overreach. “All right. What time?”
“Six thirty.” She steps from the beverage station. “I’ll do din-din. You bring dessert.”
Shortly, I halt beside Maddox’s table where Gloria sits leaning toward him. “Oh, Harri!” She lays a hand on my arm. “Maddox has the most interesting idea.”
Oh no.
He settles back in his chair. “A monthly jamboree at the café.”