“I’m sure everything will be delicious,” I tried to reassure her.
I might have told her a child’s finger painting would look just fine over her authentic 1824 camelback sofa.
“Of course, but that’s not the point,” she fretted. “Everything on the menu is authentic to the period. We’ll be sampling foods that would have been served in a home like this in the early 1800s. I can’t expect a modern caterer to know how to prepare such things, which is why I researched and gave them most of the recipes. Their job is to follow my orders, not just ignore them.”
Nick and I both nodded soberly, but I suspected we shared a much different thought: Jeez, major control freak!
Whitney sneaked in through the back door, carefully dodging around the catering staff, who were chopping vegetables and opening oven doors to check on various dishes. She again wore her riding clothes, along with a bored expression. When she spotted me, she grinned, but mainly because of my connection to the family pet. “Hi, Cassie. Did you bring Leya back?”
“Yep, she’s in the guest room, just chilling out,” I said.
The girl started in that direction, but her mother’s voice halted her. “Leave the cat for now. Go change your clothes, then come help out in the kitchen. Herta is setting the buffet table and I have to get dressed.”
Whitney’s pale brows drew together, as if she might have liked to hear a “please” tucked in among all of those orders. “Is Daddy coming home for the reception?”
“He wasn’t sure. Depends on what’s happening at work.” Gillian shooed her daughter with a hand. “Go on, hurry!”
The blond girl lingered with a sly smile. “I don’t need to change. And I rinsed my hands with the barn hose, right after I picked out Glory’s hooves.” When Gillian curled a lip in disgust, Whitney giggled and headed down the hall, presumably to her room. The only one in the house that her mother had not completely “colonized”?
Nick and I lingered out of the kitchen’s flow of traffic until Gillian finally remembered us. “Oh, goodness, I need to pay you both, don’t I?” She located her purse, produced a checkbook, confirmed the amounts she owed each of us, and wrote the checks. “Thanks again, Cassie, for suggesting I contact Nick.”
“I’ve never seen a repair problem he couldn’t solve,” I told her, while he demurred modestly. Hey, if this lady was willing to give him more work and pay him promptly, I’d gladly encourage her.
Since Nick and I both had parked out front, we were headed down the hall in that direction when Donald Foster came in the front door. He greeted me with a sunny smile, and I confirmed that I had brought Leya back home. Introducing Nick, I also noted that the cabinet door now hung in perfect alignment.
“Oh, boy, you don’t know how glad I am to hear that!” Donald stage-whispered, as he clapped the handyman on the shoulder. “The state of the union is safe, eh?”
“Piece o’ cake.” Nick smiled, obviously hesitant to join in any mockery of Gillian’s compulsive nature. He still had her fat check in his pocket, after all.
Donald glanced into the dining room, where the roughhewn oak table had been draped with a handwoven runner. A weathered, two-handled copper cooking vessel served as the centerpiece. Herta, the blonde in the apron, had begun setting out stacks of colonial yellow ware dishes and a ceramic tureen, probably also antique. The cutlery must have been new but looked as simple in design as possible.
“Speaking of cake,” said Donald, “you two should stay for the reception. It’s a buffet, so I’m sure there will be plenty to eat. Unless you have other plans?”
I started to say that I needed to get back to my shop, but Nick subtly elbowed me. “Sure, that’d be great. I’d like to hear more about the house. I’m always fascinated by the way these old places were put together.”
The two men began chatting happily about joists, framing and footings. Although I had the impression Donald worked for an advertising firm, he sounded as if he’d picked up a lot of knowledge about home improvement. Not too surprising, if he and Gillian also had renovated two other houses.
“The one area we haven’t touched yet is the cellar,” he told Nick. “That’s going to be a bear of a project—dirt floor, wooden posts and beams. Someone actually did put electricity down there, at one time, but the wiring’s all knob-and-tube.”
Nick hissed and shook his head. “Ah, you can’t have that, not with today’s currents! It’s a fire hazard.”
“Don’t I know it. Luckily my dad was an electrician, so I learned a lot from him. I already upgraded most of the main floor wiring myself, though it wasn’t as old as the stuff in the cellar.”
Gillian called to her husband then. He lifted his chin, squared his broad shoulders and joined her in the kitchen.
Left alone with Nick, I asked him, “You really want to stay around? It’ll probably be just a bunch of stiffs from the historical society, and Gillian blathering on and on.”
He threw me a sly look. “Hey, it’s not often that I get paid whatever I ask on the spot, no haggling, just for an easy, fifteen-minute job. If the Fosters wanna sing my praises to their rich friends, I can make nice and get myself more work. You should think like that, too, Cassie. How many folks around here can afford to bring in their cats to be groomed and boarded? But you might find a whole bunch of those people in this room today.”
He made a good point. I shouldn’t let my aversion to Gillian and the Foster family drama blind me to this marketing opportunity. “Nick, you’re not only a ‘gem’ of a carpenter, but a very shrewd businessman.”
Chapter 8
I pulled out my cell phone to tell Sarah I’d be getting back a little later than planned, so she could close the shop for the day. She reminded me with a laugh that she’d warned me not to linger at the Foster house. I pointed out that, as Nick had said, “It could be good for business.”
“I know you have Bernice’s funeral tomorrow,” I added.
“Yes, thanks again for giving me the day off. See you Monday.”
After that, Nick and I loitered in the front hall, killing time before the reception officially began. We watched Herta transport various appetizers into the nearby dining room—raw carrots and celery, a dish of walnuts, a plate of small sausages with a dip. Knowing how particular Gillian was, I presumed all of those things would have been available to a prosperous farm family in the early 1800s.
On one of her trips, the maid must have heard my stomach growl, because she took pity on me and Nick. “Grab a couple of those little plates and help yourself to some hors d’oeuvres,” she said. “Plenty more where they came from. And would you like some cider?” She nodded toward a punch bowl, filled with a pale-gold brew, and winked. “It’s not really hard, but it’s got a little kick.”
When I accepted the offer, Nick did, too. “I got nothing else lined up ’til later this afternoon,” he admitted to me, “and I only got to drive a few blocks home.”
I had just as short a distance back to my shop, and surely I’d be sobered up by the time I had to tackle the next cat with a matted coat. Besides, a glass of cider might help to make the next hour or so of historical chitchat more entertaining; I suspected Nick was thinking the same thing.
I’d just plucked a carrot stick from the crudités tray—with a glance over my shoulder in case Gillian should sweep in and scold me for ruining the symmetry of the presentation—when the front bell rang. Herta had her hands full with a big salad bowl, so I told her I’d get the door.
At first I could not identify the person who stood on the stoop, until Linda Freeman peeked out from behind a bouquet of summer wildflowers. She looked surprised but pleased to see me again. I introduced her to Nick, and we stepped aside to let her bring the flowers into the dining room, where she deftly arranged them in the antique copper vessel. When Linda had finished, the daylilies, sunflowers and snapdragons, along with other blooms I couldn’t name as easily, formed a sunny array of yellows accented by some soft peach and lavender-blue. They echoed
the colors that appeared in the table’s patterned dinnerware, which surely was no accident.
“Robert didn’t come with you today?” I asked Linda.
She straightened and smoothed the lines of her trim, teal-green skirt suit, short-sleeved in a nod to the warm weather. Her dark updo also looked more controlled and chic than when I’d met her last time. “I gave him the afternoon off,” she said with a diplomatic smile. “He works hard enough as it is.”
I heard the subtext. If I’d been Robert, I wouldn’t have wanted to come back to this house, either, after the way he’d been treated on his last visit.
Just then Gillian appeared, having changed into her hostess garb—a midcalf skirt in a dark floral print and a white gauze blouse with a scooped, gathered neckline. I figured this was her nod to country-colonial fashion. She’d also softened her practical pageboy hairstyle with a few waves around her face, and her tasteful makeup played up the feline slant of her eyes. Gillian would have been a very pretty woman, I thought, if not for the defiant set of her chin and the tense lines that bracketed her thin mouth.
“Oh, good, the flowers are here,” she said without directly acknowledging Linda. Of course, she had to fiddle with the already perfect arrangement and move a stalk or two. Then she noticed that Nick and I held plates of hors d’oeuvres, and arched her neatly penciled eyebrows.
The handyman spoke up first. “Mr. Foster invited us to stay for the reception. Hope that’s okay.”
Gillian almost swallowed her tongue, which told me Donald had not cleared the invitation with her. But she must still have felt grateful for the emergency repair of her cabinet. “Did he? Yes, why not. Help yourselves. Of course, you may not want to stay for the whole reception. There probably will be a lot of boooring speeches.”
“That’s okay,” Nick said with an easygoing shrug. “I’m kind of a history buff.”
Gillian had no more time to discourage us, because the doorbell rang again. She glanced around, as if irritated that Herta was not available, before answering the summons herself. In delighted tones, she welcomed the first members of the historical society to arrive. She had no choice but to introduce them to her only other guests, Linda, Nick and me.
“This is Bill and Nona Stafford,” she said. “He’s the society’s president and Nona is VP of membership.”
We shook hands with the tall, white-haired man in the open-necked shirt and seersucker jacket, and the much shorter blond woman in the lime-green sleeveless shirt dress. I wondered if she’d chosen the color to keep from being overlooked; at least it actually worked on her.
Knowing I’d be coming to the house in advance of a fancy occasion, I’d dressed a little better than for my usual workday. Still, I felt self-conscious now in my “good” dark-washed jeans and a knit top with a tan-on-white zebra pattern (or, as Sarah had once pointed out, more like tabby stripes in my case). Nick also was pretty dressed down, in denim pants and a chambray work shirt. I wondered if I should explain to the other guests that our invitation had been last minute.
Herta bustled in, a bit breathless, as if aware that she’d made a blunder by not being in two places at once. While Gillian made small talk with the Staffords, the doorbell rang again, and the maid let in another couple. Nick and I introduced ourselves to them, Adele and Jack Dugan. Reed-thin Adele, tastefully casual in beige linen pants and an aqua camp shirt, was the group’s vice president of Events; her portly banker husband, in a white shirt and tie but no jacket, merely volunteered with the historical group.
Before long we had almost a dozen pillars of Chadwick society hovering around the hors d’oeuvres and quizzing Gillian about her venerable home. Better late than never, Donald joined us to explain the construction challenges of the renovation. Linda occasionally slipped in a comment to make sure the guests understood that she had a hand in creating the authentic color scheme and styling the rooms.
Kay Lombardi, the group’s secretary, asked how Leya had weathered all the excitement. I saw my chance, and explained that the Himalayan had boarded with me for a few days.
“Kay’s a great cat lover,” Gillian told me, and once more cast an impatient glance toward the kitchen. “If I knew where Whitney was, I’d ask her to bring Leya out . . .”
“Want me to go get her?” I asked. “The cat, I mean.”
Another surprised look, as Gillian realized that I knew where Leya was stashed and could handle her at least as well as any family member. “Oh . . . yes, would you?”
On my way down the hall, I stole a glance into the kitchen. Whitney appeared to be helping Herta get the main dishes ready. Despite her threat to stay in her riding clothes, the girl had changed into a dotted sundress and freed her long, straight hair from its ponytail. I didn’t bother to interrupt her—bringing the cat out myself would give me a chance to talk up my business, after all.
The Himalayan had recovered from her nerves and lay sprawled on the rope bed, more comfortably, I was sure, than any human would. She even greeted me with a meow.
“Hi, sweetie,” I said. “Would you like to go out and see the people? Just for a couple of minutes, then I’ll bring you back here. Okay?”
As if she understood, Leya let me scoop her up and carry her from the room. She made quite an armful, though much of it was fur. When we entered the dining room, the guests all made admiring sounds, though you could quickly spot the ones who preferred to appreciate her from afar. Bill Stafford made the excuse of a mild cat allergy, so I kept at a distance from him. But Adele, Jack and Kay approached by turns to stroke the fluffy coat and exclaim over Leya’s Siamese coloring and blue eyes. I stayed alert for any sign that the Himalayan was growing cranky and might strike out at someone, but she bore all the attention with good grace.
Meanwhile, I did get to talk up my shop and services. Jack owned a cat that he said sometimes needed boarding, and Kay knew a neighbor who had been struggling to groom a Persian mix on her own. Once I had returned Leya to the guest room, I fished a couple of business cards from my purse and gave them to anyone who was interested. I overheard Nick promoting his handyman business with a few people, too.
After the hors d’oeuvres and cider, Bill Stafford gave a brief talk on the home’s original owner, John Ramsford. He explained that, although the property originally had encompassed several acres and a working farm, Ramsford made his fortune primarily from an iron mine and forge located a few miles away. One of the earliest in the area, it helped supply troops during the Revolution, and continued to thrive through the dawn of railroad travel.
“As most of you know, the Ramsford mine has become a historic, educational site today,” Stafford added.
The Fosters then led all of us on a brief tour of the house. First, Donald took us around the outside and told how they had preserved most of the original brickwork and the proportions of the doors and windows. He pointed out such details as an old hitching post, a stone-walled well, and a weathervane on the garage roof. Indoors, Gillian took over to explain which seating pieces and tables were authentic antiques. Linda finally got a word in edgewise to talk about the “primitive” American artworks, weavings and quilts they’d used as accessories.
I still marveled at how a modern, well-to-do family could live comfortably in this home, which almost resembled a museum. The army of toy soldiers lined up in that hutch, for example—who would have collected those? Whitney? Her father? And those picturesque stacks of hand-painted, oval boxes—could you actually store anything in them and ever hope to find it again?
The master bedroom looked most livable, because it had been enlarged to accommodate a four-poster king-size bed. But around its fireplace, on tiny chairs and clad in little calico dresses, sat more of those eerie, faceless dolls. Not an audience that would put me in the mood for romance, or even a good night’s sleep!
We did not venture into Whitney’s room, presumably because she had refused to go along with the historic scheme. Donald did allow us a peek into the cellar from the wooden staircase. Tru
e to his description, it was pretty rough, with timbered walls and a dirt-and-stone floor. When he switched on the lights, they even flickered a bit. He and Nick discussed possible renovations as we all retreated back to the dining room.
There, the table had been reset buffet-style with an assortment of unusual foods, although everything smelled wonderful. The caterers had left, but Herta and Whitney brought in the last few items. The historical society folks made a game of guessing what the dishes were, until Gillian helped them out. “There are two different types of meat pastries, beef and pork. The tureen has a barley-and-vegetable soup.”
Adele surveyed the whole spread with a wary eye. I heard her quietly ask Gillian, “Do you have anything that’s gluten-free?”
“Absolutely,” her hostess responded. “I made sure of that, because I have a problem with gluten myself.” She gestured toward a large serving bowl that held some kind of thick yellow concoction.
“Hummus?” Jack Dugan asked, peering more closely. “I didn’t think they had that in Colonial America.”
“No, it’s pease pudding. Just split yellow peas, boiled down into a porridge, with spices and a little ham.” She assured Adele, “No flour of any kind. I tested the recipe last week, just to be sure. And believe me, if it had gluten, I would have known.” She laid a hand on her flat stomach and made a face.
“I appreciate it.” Smiling, Adele took a generous helping.
“And we have fresh summer berries for dessert, with cream if you want it,” Gillian announced to everyone. “I think you’ll agree that our ancestors in Colonial New Jersey ate pretty well.”
Starving at this point, I went for a couple of the pastries, even though the fillings were meats I normally avoided. Nick did the same, and also took a little of the pease pudding and a big chunk of the rustic-looking bread.
“I get so sick of all that ‘gluten-free’ business, don’t you?” he asked me, his whisper a bit too loud for the small gathering. “People been eating bread for centuries. If it was that bad for us, we’d never have survived this long.”
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