Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Ranch or bleu cheese?”

  I give her a blank stare.

  “On your salad. Ranch or bleu cheese?”

  “Sorry. Bleu cheese—on the side, please.”

  Kendra sighs and makes a note on her pad. Looking up, she points the eraser end of her pencil at Kelly.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Everything?” the waitress queries.

  “Yep. How about you, Lucy? What are you having?”

  “I’d like a small salad with—”

  “Forget it. She’ll have the special too,” Kelly orders.

  “But—,” Lucy tries.

  “No buts,” interrupts Kelly. “Remember the FAC creed, ‘Friends don’t let friends eat dessert alone.’ That goes for meat loaf too.”

  After cleaning our huge blue plates of every morsel of Sally’s scrumptious meat loaf—and sharing a huge slice of homemade Mile High Coconut Cream Pie—we waddle to the car for the drive back to Omaha.

  “I hope whoever created elastic was awarded a Nobel Peace Prize,” I say while trying to devise a way to fasten my seat belt with the seat reclined so I can sleep on the way home. But considering Kelly’s driving record, I opt for safety and forgo my nap.

  “Well, you’ve put it off long enough.” Kelly glances at Lucy through the rearview mirror. “Don’t you think it’s time to find out what’s in your aunt’s letter?”

  “Maybe, but you both have to promise me something first. I want your word that you won’t tell the rest of FAC what’s in the letter until I decide to share it.”

  “Why?” I twist around to rest my chin on the seat so I can see Lucy’s face. “Do you think it could be a confession? Maybe Aunt Bette was a member of the mob? The grand dame of the Soprano family . . . hiding out in Tredway, Nebraska?”

  “Very funny, Liz. It’s just that I have a lot to sort out, and I don’t want to feel pressured into making any decisions. I love you all, but you can be a bit opinionated at times. This is something I need to work out myself.”

  “Keeping secrets presents a clear journalistic dilemma for me,” I announce. “But you’ve got us at a weak moment—strung out on comfort food. What do you think, Kel?”

  “Don’t worry, Lucy. We’ll keep it to ourselves. Go ahead . . . read the letter.”

  Lucy takes the ivory envelope from the pocket of her coat, runs her fingernail under the flap, and extracts a single sheet of paper with “Henrietta Crawford” engraved across the top of the page. And then she reads aloud:

  My dear Lucy,

  Since you are reading this, I know you have been to Locust Hill, and that fact brings me immense delight. I left explicit instructions with Janelle, as well as my attorney, not to forward this note to you. I wanted you to find it yourself.

  Why all this intrigue? Really, dear, no intrigue at all. I know you have been through a great deal of trauma in the past year and a half. The last thing I wanted to do was add another burden.

  At the same time, I have been praying that you wouldn’t make any rash decisions about the disposition of Locust Hill without first exploring the house’s history. I knew if you felt strong enough to make the trip to Tredway, you would be strong enough to hear what I have to say.

  My great-grandfather, Joseph Simmons, built Locust Hill in 1861. He, along with his wife and daughter, was one of the first settlers in Cramer County. Joseph was a man of strong faith who was not afraid to act on his principles. He served President Lincoln and the Union in the 46th Nebraska Cavalry during the war at great personal cost.

  Joseph’s wife, Emily, was also a person of strong convictions. She fought courageously, in her own way, for the values she shared with her husband—both before and after the war. As a woman living during the Victorian era, she did not receive any acknowledgment for much of her work.

  Since it was built, direct descendants of Joseph and Emily have occupied Locust Hill. In fact, both your grandfather and I were born in the house. Its halls hold many fond memories.

  For a time I left Tredway and Cramer County. When I returned to teach at the college, I accidentally came across some important information regarding our family history. Things that truly surprised me. That changed my views of our family . . . and perhaps the course of my own life. I will pass these documents along to you when you feel ready to read them. I think you’ll find the information quite interesting.

  For now, I ask that you indulge your old aunt and not make any hasty decisions regarding Locust Hill. Take some time to get to know the house. Although you may not understand it now, the history within its walls is part of you, and you are part of it. Please come see me when you are feeling up to it.

  Much love,

  Aunt Bette

  “Is that it?” Kelly asks.

  “Yes,” replies Lucy, “except for her address and phone number at the retirement home. She is now living at Pacific Meadows over in Orrick, just as Officer Callahan told us.”

  Kelly’s brow furrows in thought. “That means she must have written the letter recently . . . when she knew she’d be moving to Orrick.”

  “Her letter sounds a little mysterious,” I say. “What do you think this important information about your family history might be?”

  Lucy shrugs. “I have no idea, but I feel like I’m in the middle of an old episode of Murder, She Wrote.”

  “How can you say that, Lucy? We are decades younger than Jessica Fletcher!” exclaims Kelly. “Remember, dear, I have a toe ring!”

  To ease Lucy’s concern about Aunt Bette’s cryptic letter, I promise to run a search of the newspaper’s database to look for clippings about Locust Hill when I stop by the office on Monday. Thanks to the emergence of the Internet, a reporter can link to a host of online libraries as well as the files of newspapers around the country. It never ceases to amaze me what typing in a few keywords and a couple of clicks of the mouse can bring up on my computer screen.

  “Liz, you are so sweet.” Lucy gives me a quick hug.

  We are standing in Lucy’s driveway as Kelly roars down the street—finally free to cruise without my white-knuckled comments from the next seat. Maybe I should offer to drive next time.

  “No problem,” I say. “I’m happy to do it. You know I love a good mystery. But I have to warn you, we’ll probably be disappointed. These articles are usually pretty dry . . . like they were written by a Joe Friday wannabe. ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the less intrigue the better.”

  “Killjoy!” I tease, climbing into my car. “I’ll e-mail you what I find if you promise to send me a return message confirming that you’ve received it. I’d hate to see all my sleuthing lost in the hundreds of messages you’ve let pile up in your inbox.”

  “Scout’s honor.” Lucy leans into the open car window and holds up three fingers in the Girl Scout pledge. “Liz, thanks again for being such a good friend. I’ve always been able to count on you.”

  “Me? You’ve got to be kidding, Lucy. Granted, I have great intentions, but I’m the one who’s always losing her to-do list.”

  “Sweet Lizzie, when are you going to give yourself some credit?” she asks. Then she turns and walks up her driveway, leaving me in stunned silence.

  TOM KA GAI

  3/4 pound boneless, skinless chicken breast

  3 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1 (14 oz.) can coconut milk

  2 cups water

  2 tablespoons fresh ginger, minced

  4 tablespoons fish sauce

  1/4 cup fresh lime juice

  2 tablespoons chili sauce

  1 small, hot red pepper

  2 tablespoons green onion, thinly sliced

  1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro

  Instructions:

  1. Cut chicken into thin strips and sauté in oil for 2–3 minutes.

  2. In a pot, bring coconut milk and water to a boil. Reduce heat. Add ginger, fish sauce, lime juice, chili sauce and pepper. Simmer until chicken is cooke
d through, 10–15 minutes.

  3. Sprinkle with onion and fresh cilantro. Serve hot.

  PAD THAI

  1/2 lb. dried thin rice noodles

  3 tablespoons fish sauce

  3 or more tablespoons tamarind juice the thickness of fruit concentrate, to taste

  2 tablespoons sugar

  4 tablespoons vegetable oil

  1/3 lb. fresh shrimp, shelled and deveined

  4–5 cloves garlic, finely chopped

  3 shallots, thinly sliced

  1/4 cup sweetened salted radish, chopped

  1–2 teaspoons ground dried red chilies

  3 eggs

  3 cups fresh bean sprouts

  2/3 cup chopped, unsalted peanuts

  1 lime, cut into small wedges

  4 green onions, sliced

  Instructions

  1. Soak dried rice noodles in lukewarm water for 40 minutes to soften.

  2. While the noodles are soaking, make sweet-and-sour seasoning by mixing fish sauce with tamarind juice and sugar; stir well to melt the sugar. Set aside.

  3. When the noodles have softened, drain and set aside. Heat a skillet or wok over high heat. Add 2 teaspoons oil and quickly stir-fry shrimp just until pink. Sprinkle lightly with fish sauce and remove from the pan.

  4. Coat the skillet with remaining oil (except 1 teaspoon). Add garlic and sliced shallots. Cook for one minute. Add sweetened salted radish and ground dried chilies. Stir and heat through a few seconds.

  5. Add noodles and toss well with the ingredients in the pan. Stir-fry 1–2 minutes. Push the mixture to one side of the pan. Add the remaining teaspoon of oil to the cleared area, crack the eggs onto it, and scramble lightly. Toss scrambled eggs with noodle mixture.

  6. Add the reserved sweet-and-sour mixture. Stir well to evenly coat noodles. Taste and adjust flavors, if necessary, with more fish sauce, tamarind juice and/or sugar.

  7. Toss noodles with 2 cups bean sprouts. Add half the chopped peanuts and shrimp to the wok. Stir until vegetables are partially wilted. Transfer to a serving platter. Garnish with remaining bean sprouts, chopped peanuts, lime wedges and green onions. Serves 4.

  The next Tuesday, evidently prompted by Michael’s bragging about his big night out with Jessie, John surprises me by planning a date night of our own. To break the news, he comes home from work an hour early, carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  “So tell me,” I say, placing the flowers in water while John rubs my shoulders, “what’s the occasion?”

  “Does there have to be an occasion to bring my lovely wife flowers?” he replies, nibbling on my ear. Little tingles run up my spine at the feel of his five o’clock shadow tickling the back of my neck.

  “Um, no, but . . .” How do I gently say that my husband is not the kind of guy who would normally think to bring me flowers without the prompting of an officially sanctioned occasion?

  “Well, since you asked,” he persists, “I was hoping you would join me for dinner and a movie tonight.”

  “Tonight? Dinner and a movie? It’s Tuesday!”

  “Liz, there’s no rule that says parents cannot go out together on a school night. I’ve already ordered a pizza for the kids and arranged for Katie to pick Hannah up from soccer.”

  “You’re kidding!” I swivel to face him, resting my wrists on his broad shoulders and loosely lacing my fingers behind his neck.

  “No, I am not.” His deep brown eyes sparkle with the pleasure of surprising me. “It’s true, my dear. You are free of domestic encumbrance tonight. Now quick—get ready before something changes!”

  I love it when John surprises me this way, but his thoughtfulness causes a predicament that would never occur to him, being a member of the male community. I have nothing to wear. Further complicating my anxiety, I can’t utter a word about this conundrum. If I do, John might overhear and try to help.

  I can hear him now: “You have plenty of clothes, Liz. What about these pants and this blouse? That looks great together. No, wait. Why don’t you wear this? I love this dress.”

  Poor man. He hasn’t a clue.

  Unfortunately, in the midst of my wardrobe crisis, the last thing I have the time for is to explain to my husband the truth about a woman’s wardrobe. In his naiveté, John assumes by my overstuffed closet that I have numerous outfits suitable for an evening out . . . when the reality of the situation is that I have nothing to wear.

  John won’t understand that the blue dress is too tight in the wrong places. Plus, he will never comprehend how finding out that I’m a “winter” completely excludes two-thirds of my wardrobe from consideration. (And yet I can’t bear to give these items up because they are still “good” clothes. What would my laundry-loving mother think if I gave away a perfectly good sweater because my color consultant told me it was wrong for my skin tone? Mom probably never even heard of a color consultant.) Then there’s the shoe issue. I can’t wear my black slides with brown slacks—as if I could even consider the brown slacks, which obviously only work for “autumns.” Yikes! It’s hard being a woman!

  Ten minutes later, with a pile of discarded clothing littering my bedroom, I finally decide on a pale blue sweater and black pants. The sweater is actually a “summer” color, but it is still in the “cool” family. I’ve been told that a “winter” wearing a “summer” color isn’t a major fashion faux pas.

  As I complete a series of deep-knee bends, designed to stretch out the seat of my pants, I wonder why deciding on an appropriate outfit is such a production. John seems to be happy regardless of what I wear. In fact, he rarely says anything unless I specifically ask for his opinion. I think his hesitancy stems from an exchange early in our marriage . . .

  “How do I look, sweetheart?” I asked, doing a little twirl in a new dress I had bought for a friend’s wedding.

  “Fine,” he replied in a distracted tone as he perused the day’s mail.

  “Fine?” I asked with a bit of hysteria creeping into my voice. “What’s wrong? Does this dress make me look fat?”

  “No, Liz, I said you look FINE.”

  “Not good or great? Just fine?” On the verge of panic, my heart was now hammering wildly in my chest.

  John scratched his head. “Good. Great. Fine. What’s the difference?”

  “John, come on! Everyone knows what ‘fine’ really means!”

  And with those words, I fled to the bedroom to change clothes, leaving John in serious doubt about his knowledge of vocabulary . . .

  It took me a lot of years to realize that men just don’t understand the fragility of a woman’s ego when it comes to her appearance. I know I’ll never stack up to a Hollywood hottie, but I am definitely passable for a woman over forty. And while a few of my body parts may be a bit worse for the wear, at least they’re original. The bane of my existence, however, is my hair. And not just on certain days. Every day is a bad hair day at my bathroom mirror.

  In spite of trying everything from setting my drab, brown hair with soup cans in junior high school to, most recently, overheating my tresses with my daughter’s flatiron, my hair is totally unruly. Who says those of us with naturally curly hair are the lucky ones? My dream is to wake up one morning with a head of lush locks falling to my waist in a silky sheet, like one of those hair-product commercials.

  Every time I see actress Julianne Moore shaking her thick red hair and saying she’s “worth it,” I can’t help but feel a flush of envy. No amount of crème conditioner will ever make my hair ripple. The best I can do is invest in a set of snazzy ponytail holders—and a variety of hats.

  Peering into my mirror, I realize my skin still looks pretty good unless, as I recently found out, I happen to lose weight. While working on a column about new beauty products, one of my sources told me that overweight people appear to have smoother skin because fat deposits plump up wrinkles. As you can imagine, that little tidbit does nothing for my will power. Cheesecake or wrinkles? You decide.

  Regardless of hair, weight, and/or fut
ure wrinkles, I can count on John to tell me that I have a “natural beauty” regardless of what I wear or slather on my face. Of course, I don’t believe him, but it’s always nice to hear.

  Tonight we agree there will be no talk of kids, dogs, or bad hair allowed. We both feel the need to reconnect. In my opinion that means staring at each other in dim candlelight. In John’s, it’s sitting next to each other in the flickering light of the movie theater. Tonight we intend to do both.

  “So where do you want to go for dinner?” he asks as we walk to the car.

  “Anywhere but Drucillina’s. Clarenzo wants to fatten me up.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  This comment stops me in my tracks. “So you think I’m fat enough already?”

  He frowns. “That’s not what I meant, Liz. It just surprised me that Clarenzo—”

  “Better stop while you’re ahead, don’t you think, Johnny?” I interrupt, winking at him to lighten the mood.

  “Definitely. You pick the restaurant. You always keep up on the good places to eat. No hidden meaning intended.” He grins and opens the car door for me.

  And we drive away, feeling like a couple of teenagers—albeit older, wiser teenagers—on a date again. We know the benefits of getting to bed by eleven o’clock.

  John and I have dinner at Tasty Thailand—a great little restaurant located in the rear of an Asian market. As is our custom, we decide to share soup and an entrée instead of ordering separate meals. This makes it easier for me to justify dessert and usually brings a smile to John’s face when he peruses the check at the end of the meal. John’s not tight, but let’s just say he likes to wring as much as possible out of a dollar.

  We begin with a volcano pot of our favorite soup—Tom Ka Gai. John describes this soup as “a symphony in my mouth.” I’m not exactly sure what he means, but it sounds so poetic that I always heartily agree. We choose spicy Pad Thai noodles topped with chopped peanuts for the main course and finish up with a bowl of sweet rice and juicy mango. Pleasantly full and somewhat sleepy, we opt to skip the movie and have a latte at a neighborhood coffee bar.