by Robin Roseau
"Something you're willing to part with," Mrs. Grafton added. "Nothing you would be sorry to see go."
"The house is filled with art," I said. "I don't know what any of it's worth. It was all appraised by the lawyers, but most of it I can't match against the list I received."
"Maybe we can help," Mrs. Grafton suggested. "Why don't you get the list? And the three of us will snoop."
"Be my guests," I offered.
The three were kids in a toyshop, immediately heading in three different directions. They prowled through most of the rooms. I retrieve the list the lawyers gave me, and periodically one or another would call out, "This is a Landingham." And so I would rush to her side and find the piece of art in the list, adding more notes so I could identify the pieces again in the future.
Mrs. Shaffer kept returning to the same place in the parlor, and I could tell she was growing frustrated. Finally she called out, "Where is it?"
"Where is what, Mrs. Shaffer?"
"Your grandmother kept a sculpture here," she said. She pointed to a blank section of wall. "On a table. I don't even see the table. You didn't sell it, did you?"
"That is twice you have impugned my honesty, Mrs. Shaffer," I said. "Perhaps you have little respect for me. Of course I didn't sell it."
"Well, where is it? I can't find it anywhere."
"You're talking about a sculpture in some grey material, about this big, sitting on a plant stand?"
"That's the one."
"Why are you looking for that thing? It's hideous."
"Tell me you didn't throw it away!"
"It gave me nightmares just looking at it," I said. "What is it?"
"A gargoyle."
"Gargoyles belong outside," I declared. "Why is this one in the house?"
"To taunt me," she said. "Please, where is it?"
"In storage," I said. "If I had realized it was a gargoyle, I would have stuck it outside somewhere."
"No!" she said. "It wouldn't survive the elements. You truly don't like it?"
"Hideous. Don't tell me you gave it to her."
"Good gracious, no. She gave it to me."
"Then why was it here?"
"I gifted it back the following year."
"That seems..."
"Rude? Of course it was rude. It was rude of Cadence to give it to me in the first place. We attended an art exhibit together, and it was filled with these gargoyles. I told her how hideous they were. And what do I find for Christmas three months later? One of those hideous gargoyles. Of course I gave it back the following year. We exchanged it back and forth for a while until one birthday I opened my present and received a delightful little piece by another local artist, this one far more to my taste."
"You won. She gave up."
"I didn't win. Cadence won! The next time I came to visit, it was sitting right here, and she told everyone how I had given it to her."
I began to laugh, and by now, Mrs. Grafton and Ms. Hart were clustered around us.
"Which technically was true," Mrs. Grafton added with her own chuckle.
"She told that story at every opportunity for a while," Mrs. Shaffer said. "And then it changed."
"She began dressing it," Ms. Hart said.
"What?"
"She sewed the clothes herself."
"Not all of them," Mrs. Grafton said. "I knitted that little sweater."
"Oh, that sweater was ugly," Ms. Hart declared. "Ugly with a capital F."
"Ugly doesn't have an F."
"It does when describing that sweater," Ms. Hart said.
"You really don't like the gargoyle?"
"It's terrible." I replied.
"Then that's what you should donate."
"Excuse me?" I said. "Who would want it?"
"If you can find the clothes, include those," Mrs. Shaffer added.
"It's going to scare the kids."
She ignored that. "And the stand."
"You're not serious."
"Absolutely."
"I thought the ideas was to donate something tasteful and expensive."
"But not too expensive," Ms. Hart added.
"Or too close to your heart," Mrs. Grafton added.
"So the gargoyle is perfect," Mrs. Shaffer declared. "You don't want it. It's a unique piece of art, so it has value."
"But it's so ugly no one will buy it," Ms. Hart said. "So you'll get it back."
"Um. Isn't the point to help the school?"
"You will," Mrs. Shaffer said. "When you donate it, put a minimum bid of $1000 on it."
"I wouldn't pay ten bucks."
"And yet, there will be a bidding war," Mrs. Grafton said with a chuckle. "Because everyone knows the story of the gargoyle."
"What are you going to do with it once you get it?" Ms. Hart asked, looking at Mrs. Shaffer.
"I'm going to put that little sweater on it, stick it in the hall, add a sign that it's from the collection of Cadence Todd, clothing design by Melanie Grafton, and make sure everyone sees it."
"You can just have it."
"No!" all three said together.
And then Mrs. Grafton sighed. "Please tell me you don't know where the clothes are."
"There's a bin in storage. I had no idea what they were for. I can show you. It's upstairs. I can bring it down."
"We'll go up," Mrs. Shaffer said immediately. And, much to my surprise, she led the way to the third floor. I knew exactly where the gargoyle was, and as soon as she saw it, sitting on its stand, she rushed over and knelt in front of it.
"Oh Cadence," I heard her say softly. "I surely do miss you."
"I don't know where my grandmother is," I said. "And while I'm sure there are people who might think she could be embodied in that ugly thing, I don't believe any of those people are in this house."
"You're right," Mrs. Shaffer said. "So you'll do it? You'll donate the gargoyle?"
"Are the three of you sure?"
"Absolutely," Mrs. Grafton said. "But I hope the clothes are long gone."
"Would my grandmother be angry?"
"She would laugh," Mrs. Grafton said.
That was an odd thought. Grandmother Cadence didn't often laugh around me, but these three women knew a far different side of her.
"All right," I said. "I think I know where the bin is." I led them across the hall, which was purely a storage room, filled with shelves. It took me a minute to find the proper bin. That was when I remembered my confusion the first time I went through these things. Grandmother Cadence had labeled everything, and this bin was labeled as Gargoyle Clothing. I knew it was the right bin now that I had the entire story.
As soon as Mrs. Grafton saw it, she groaned. "You have to donate them all. The stand, too."
"Make sure you label it," Ms. Hart said. "Art stand, gargoyle, and clothes from the collection of Cadence Todd. Certainly a lot will have no idea about the story behind this, but quite a few will remember."
"Maybe the sweater isn't in there."
"It's there," Mrs. Grafton said. The bin was clear, and she tapped the side. "I can just see an edge of it. You'll have to give everything a good sniff, and if necessary, have the contents dry cleaned. I'm sure they won't stand up to a regular washing."
"Especially not your knitting," Ms. Hart added with a snort.
* * * *
And so, a year passed. I continued to help whenever asked, fitting in the time around my business commitments.
I dated a little, too, but sporadically, and I didn't meet anyone special.
Business itself was going well. Oh, it was a lot of work, and I spent at least as much time marketing myself as I did actually making money. I hoped someday the ratio would improve, and I could spend more time actually billing to clients. But I knew I'd always have to engage in my own marketing. That was just a cost of doing business.
Thanksgiving approached. I invited my parents to come. In the conversation, I asked Mom, "Do you think Uncle Pete and the cousins would come?"
"Only if t
hey think they can make off with a Van Gogh."
"I sold all the art."
"What?"
"Kidding, kidding," I said. "There aren't any Van Gogh's. In fact, I don't actually recognize any of the artists."
"Your grandmother preferred to support local artists. Do you still have that horrible gargoyle?"
I didn't invite my Uncle Pete. No one from that side of the family had made the slightest effort to reach out to me, and after the things they had said, I wasn't sure how I felt about them. But when I heard Mrs. Gruenwald's son wasn't coming into town, and she'd be alone for Thanksgiving, I invited her as well.
We had a lovely time.
Christmas came and went, again spent in the Todd home in West Hollow. I spent New Year's Eve at a party hosted by Ms. Morgan. I had a lovely time.
Dinner Party
The invitation was quite formal. I was invited to a dinner, hosted by Mrs. Franklin for two weeks hence. Attire was formal, and unlike previous events, a "plus one" was not invited.
I RSVP'd by having flowers delivered with a note indicating I would love to attend. And then I reviewed my choice of gowns. I had a few of my own, but I wanted something different, and I didn't want to buy one.
I'd donated some of Grandmother Cadence's clothes to charity, but I had kept most of the formal pieces. There was one gown I'd never seen her wear. It was clearly old, but well cared for. It was made of red satin, floor length, and tastefully showed a fair amount of my shoulders and arms. I pulled it from its garment bag and tried it on, then looked at my reflection in the mirror.
"Grandmother Cadence," I whispered to the mirror. "I bet you looked amazing in this." The next day I took it to a seamstress for alteration.
"Oh my," she said at sight of the dress. "You will look stunning."
"It was my grandmother's," I explained. "Is it terrible for me to wear it?"
"Imagine your granddaughter at some distant point in the future. How would you feel if she chose a dress of yours to wear?"
I smiled. "How soon can I have it back?"
* * * *
I was not the first to arrive. In fact, I felt like I was nearly the last, even though I arrived promptly at six. I was greeted at the side of my car by a young, uniformed man. He took my key and asked for my name. "Blythe S. M. Todd."
"Thank you, Ms. Todd," he said. "We'll take good care of your car." And then instead of driving away, he escorted me to the door.
Inside, I was greeted by a young woman in her late teens. She was dressed in a simple white blouse and black skirt. She welcomed me to the home, took my coat, and then directed me deeper through the house.
Mrs. Franklin's house was similar to my own home only in that both were quite stately. But otherwise there was hardly any similarity at all. Still, I had no trouble following the sounds of conversation into a large living room or parlor. As I stepped inside, I saw there were nearly twenty other women already in attendance. Most were significantly older than I was, but Claudine Grafton was there along with several others near our age or only a few years older.
I didn't see anyone markedly younger.
It was Claudine who noticed me first. She hurried over, offered me a cheek kiss, and then declared the gown "stunning".
"You look amazing, too," I said. She was wearing her own gown, deep blue, and shimmery, and I thought she actually looked quite ravishing. I wouldn't have minded at all to learn she was gay, but eventually I would learn she was not. Pity, but not unexpected.
Claudine took me to Mrs. Franklin, who was deep in conversation with Ms. Hunt. I kissed her cheek and was told my grandmother had never looked so good in the gown.
"It's not a faux pas to wear it, is it?"
"Only if you spill on it." She smiled. "Cadence would be touched. If she didn't want you wearing these things, she could have done something about them when she realized she was ill."
And so she took my arm, and together we worked the room. I met everyone, including a few I recognized from years earlier, once my memory was jogged. In total, there were 18 of us, which I thought was a very full dinner party. I was glad I wasn't trying to host it. I grew flustered with more than six.
Somehow, and I don't know how it happened, I found myself sitting on a stool of all things, nearly dead center in the room, with everyone facing me. It was quite unnerving. And then the questions began. Did I like the house? Did I like living in West Hollow? How was my business doing? Had I made friends?
It was all quite intense.
But then, much to my relief, a servant announced that dinner was ready, and I felt like I had been saved by the bell.
It was Mrs. Shaffer who collected me at that point. "You did well," she said.
"What was that about?"
"They've seen you about. Everyone wanted to know about you."
I eyed her carefully, then smiled. "How's your gargoyle?"
She laughed. "Ugly as ever. And Melanie knitted another sweater."
We arrived at the dining room, and I discovered there were assigned seats. The more elderly women were at one end of the lengthy table, and the youngest of us were seated at the far end. In a way, I felt like I'd been relegated to the kids' table, although it was only one long table.
But it was easier in a way to be around women of my own age, or thereabouts.
We took our seats, and a servant announced the first course.
Conversation during the meal was casual.
I leaned over to Claudine. "Can you verify something for me?"
"I can try."
I gestured with my nose. "Ms. Bell. The mayor of Broadwater is Jean Bell. Any relation?"
Claudine nodded. "You could say so. That's Madam Mayor."
"Oh, my. Rarified company."
"Naw. The senator isn't here."
"Senator?"
"State senator Marsha Adams. She's from Broadwater. She would normally be here, but there's something going on at the capitol tonight."
"Wow."
Then I received a summary of some of the other women in the room. Two of the women were lawyers with the same firm Ms. Hunt was in. "That's Doctor Hart. She's Donna Hart's sister. Doctor Hart is a cardiac surgeon. Beside her is Leanne Mayer."
"I know that name."
"CEO of Brighten Pharmaceuticals. That's her partner beside her."
"Oh god. She checked me out."
"That's okay. Leanne checked me out. I think they play. If you flirt with them, you might get an offer." And then she laughed lightly. "And for the record, everyone checked you out. I checked you out."
"Did you?"
"Down, girl," she replied. "I like 'em big and rugged. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a fine female form."
"I think I recognize the woman talking to Mrs. Shaffer."
"You should. That's Mary Ellen Hankins."
"Of Hankins Marketing."
"The very one."
"Do you think she knows who I am?"
"That you're Guerrilla Girl? I guarantee she does."
"And yet, I didn't find a knife in my back. I stole some business from them last spring." That wasn't a common occurrence for me. Most of my business came from people who hadn't considered marketing, but they found my own advertisements intriguing, especially when I promised it didn't cost as much as people thought it did.
"I know. You should ask her about it later."
"I don't think so."
"You should. If you don't, I might be forced to ask her about it in front of everyone."
"Please don't."
"Give me your dessert later and I'll think about it."
I laughed.
In between courses, Claudine gave me the run down on nearly everyone at the table. It wasn't that everyone was a politician, a corporate CEO, or a judge, but the atmosphere was definitely rarified.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but what are we doing here?"
"I heard that," said the woman across the table from me. I struggled with her name then remembered. She w
as Sylvia Appleton. "We're the up and comers."
"I'm hardly an up and comer."
She smiled. "You're living in West Hollow and you own your own company. Pah-lease. You're definitely an up and comer."
"What she means is we're the go-fers," Claudine said, but she said it with a smile. "Sylvia's right. We represent the next generation of leaders."
"You know, you never said what you do."
"Me? Oh, not much."
"Not much?" Sylvia briefly guffawed. "She's an account rep at Hankins Marketing."
"Oh god," I said. I fumbled for my water. Beside me, Claudine laughed. Sylvia actually snorted, but she did so in a very ladylike fashion.
"Tell her what you do, Sylvia," Claudine said.
"Oh, I'm boring. I'm not a judge or politician or anything."
"Uh huh. Tell her."
"I like to write."
"Write what?" I asked.
"The occasional novel."
"Do you publish under your own name?"
Sylvia shook her head. "No."
I waited for her to say more. She smiled sweetly. Then I turned to Claudine. "Is she always like this?"
"Yes. But she claims she doesn't like the attention, so don't ask her for her pen name."
Sylvia scowled at Claudine while Claudine smirked. I looked back and forth between the two of them, finally saying, "I'm sure if she wanted me to know, she would tell me. I wouldn't want to pry."
"I'm writing both of you into my next novel, and you won't like how I kill you off!"
Claudine laughed. "That's her favorite threat."
"I think I'll make you lovers," Sylvia continued.
"I can imagine worse," I replied.
"Claudine will slowly go insane, and she'll jail Blythe in a dungeon she builds in the basement. And every day she comes down and lops off a small piece. A toe. A finger. And then she deep fries it and makes Blythe eat it."
"Sylvia Appleton!" said Mrs. Franklin from the far end of the table. "Are you threatening to kill off one of my guests in one of your horrid novels?"
"I'm only offering to immortalize them," Sylvia responded. "Followed by deep frying."
"That is not polite conversation over dinner."
Sylvia looked at our host for a moment then bowed her head. "My apologies."
"That's right," Mrs. Franklin said. "Deep frying is so base. Next time, I recommend you sauté the victim in a red wine reduction sauce."