Three Times a Charm

by Jean Stone

“Or those that will return the greatest profit,” Jo added.

  Andrew had remained behind his desk and didn’t say a word, even though he, their pseudo-receptionist, had been responsible for the business’s glorious predicament of being overbooked.

  Elaine stood up and passed a plate of silver-frosted macaroons. “I’m with Sarah,” she said. “First come, first served. It’s only fair.” It was difficult to comprehend that Elaine, though always thoughtful, was now on the same side of the business world as them. She’d been such a fifties kind of girl, who clung to polyester pantsuits while the rest had moved on to natural fibers. She’d been born a generation too late for her style, or her lack of it—until now, as if her newfound confidence and independence had yielded sophistication too.

  “Oh, pooh,” Lily said, “my do-gooder friends.” Unlike sensible Jo, thoughtful Elaine, or, yes, secretive Sarah, Lily was not in charge of anything that counted (didn’t want to be), never bothered to try to read anyone’s inner thoughts, never kept one single feeling a secret for very long. “Well, you’ll soon be bored, and that’s a promise.”

  Jo shook her head. “There’s nothing boring ahead of us.” She shuffled through some papers. “Valentine’s Day is the first requested date. A couple from Pittsfield had asked right after Christmas. Before we made the news. They want sixty guests. They want the ceremony on the ski slopes at Southfield Mountain and the reception in the lodge.”

  Sarah envisioned a decor of white faux fur and plump, angelic cherubs romping in the snow.

  “Next is a woman named Julie Pearl from Stockbridge. She says she can’t afford our full-blown services but will pay for our advice. She has multiple sclerosis and is in a wheelchair and wants our expertise on how to make her wedding special.”

  Even Lily wouldn’t suggest they should skip Julie Pearl.

  “Next is Rhonda Blair.”

  Eyes flashed like LED lights in a child’s toy.

  “The Rhonda Blair?” Lily asked.

  Rhonda Blair was the reigning queen of daytime soap operas—hers was called Texas Truths, an updated version of the eighties’ Dynasty. One didn’t need to be a fan to recognize the woman’s face, which frequented tabloid covers at supermarket checkouts. Sarah stifled a groan. She supposed Rhonda would want a lot of glitz, a lot of bling, with very little taste.

  “I think we’ll be too busy,” Sarah said, “what with the couple from Pittsfield and Julie Pearl.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jo continued. “There will be no guests, just a private ceremony with a justice of the peace. She wants it in the bridal suite at the Stone Castle. But she wants it decorated, lavishly was her word. Apparently Rhonda is a friend of Irene Benson.”

  It was hard to picture Irene with the sultry maven of the at-home matinees. Perhaps lavish was the one thing they had in common.

  “No reception?” Elaine asked. “No food?”

  “Only for the two of them. A private supper, a private everything. Elegant. But just for two.”

  “What about the media?” Lily asked.

  “None. In fact, that’s a condition. We are not to divulge anything about the wedding—or that we even know about it—to the press or to anyone. Not before, not during, and maybe not even after.”

  “Well,” Lily said, “that sounds easy enough.”

  But Sarah’s jewelry-making years had taught her that the simplest requests often turned out to be the biggest pains.

  “So those are the first-comers for Valentine’s Day,” Jo continued, looking once more at her notes. “Do we think we can handle all three?”

  “Absolutely,” Lily remarked.

  “Sure,” Elaine replied.

  Sarah simply shrugged.

  “Andrew?” Jo asked.

  The man who had been quiet now smiled and said, “Well, you’re the bosses,” he said. “I think I warned you to be careful what you wished for.”

  Lily tossed a macaroon at him.

  He caught it with a laugh. “I do have one event I’d like to add to your list,” he said. “Cassie will be twelve next week. Will you help me throw a birthday party that isn’t too mature?”

  Lily wanted Cassie’s party to be held at Laurel Lake Spa, where the twelve-year-old guests (“only girls,” she said. “Boys at that age are so tiresome”) would be treated to facials and manicures and pedicures and maybe a session in mud therapy.

  “They’re little girls,” Andrew protested. “They don’t need beauty treatments yet.”

  Lily said that wasn’t the point, that it was about helping young girls feel good about their bodies and themselves.

  Elaine said they’d feel better at a house party with boys. She’d raised three children, hadn’t she? And twelve was a perfect age. Young enough not to get into real parental nerve-racking, opposite-sex stuff; old enough, though, to like to feel that they were grown-up.

  Sarah wondered if Cassie would like a party at her log cabin, where she could teach the preteens jewelry-making. If it were summer she could take them on a hike to look for healing herbs, blackberry root, or sumac. They’d done that when Burch turned twelve; his friends had loved learning the Cherokee traditions. She didn’t tell the others now what a perfect day it had been, or that her heart ached from its memory.

  Jo suggested a party at the stables, where Cassie loved to ride.

  Andrew laughed again and said this shouldn’t take precedence over the weddings that needed planning. Just then the small bell over the front door jingled. In unison, they turned to see a dark-haired, dark-eyed, bronze-skinned man. He was dressed in a long black coat that looked to be cashmere, one hundred percent. A white shirt and navy tie poked out from the neck.

  “Hello,” the man said, pulling off black leather gloves and sliding them into the pocket of his coat. He was cool and confident, not confident like Elaine had recently become, but the kind that floated on an aura of knowing everything. His eyes landed on Sarah, but it was Lily who jumped up.

  “Welcome!” she called, directing him toward the seat she’d just vacated. “Can I interest you in tea? Or lunch? We have a fabulous selection from our catering division.” Lily was a magnet, especially with men.

  The man did not sit down but stood in the doorway looking more in charge than Jo, which might have been because, like Sarah, he was so tall. His legs were long, his arms were long, even his cheekbones were set high. It was hard to tell his age because his hair was devoid of gray.

  “How about a cup of chowder?” Lily flirted.

  The man held up his hand. “Thank you, no,” he said. “But I see why you’re successful, if you treat all your customers with such grace.”

  Lily laughed as if the two of them were the only ones in the Second Chances showroom. “Lily Beckwith,” she said, extending her fine-boned hand in an upward, slightly arced fashion, so that he could kiss it if he wanted.

  He shook her hand instead. “Sutter Jones.”

  The name flicked through Sarah’s mind as if it were familiar, a name she should recognize. Was he another celebrity come to book a wedding?

  “Please,” Lily persisted, “you really must sit down.” She led him to her chair. Then she made quick introductions all around. “So,” she remarked when the hellos ended, “when is your big day? And, please, don’t say February fourteenth.”

  Sarah turned her head away, embarrassed by Lily’s overt silliness.

  “Actually,” he said, “I don’t have a wedding date.” His voice was clear and strong.

  “We have some openings in May,” Jo quickly interjected.

  “May’s a nice time for a wedding,” Elaine added, nodding assuredly.

  “Are you looking for a venue in the Berkshires? The Mount, perhaps? Or the Stone Castle? You’re not from West Hope, are you?”

  His eyes traveled around the group, then landed on Sarah once again. She shifted in her chair. “No,” he said. “I live in New York.”

  “City?” asked Elaine.

  “Well, of course, dear,” Lily said, �
�they don’t have that kind of cashmere up in Albany.” She pointed to his coat and gave a wide Crest Whitestrips smile.

  Andrew stood up. “You’ll have to excuse the ladies,” he said. “We just finished a big wedding and they’re a little giddy.” He picked up his dirty dishes and deposited them in Elaine’s carryall.

  “You might say I’m here because of the Benson wedding,” the man named Sutter said.

  Lily’s hand lightly touched her throat, as if protecting her triple strand of pearls. “Do you know John and Irene?”

  Sutter shook his head. “The event had lots of television coverage. Thanks to all of you, no doubt.”

  “Well,” Lily said, “yes, of course,” though Sarah doubted that this man spent many evenings in front of a TV.

  “And that’s why you’ve come to Second Chances?” Jo asked.

  “In a way.” His smile seemed genuine. But there was something that disturbed Sarah…

  She scanned his high cheekbones, his smooth forehead again. And then she sucked in a short breath. Of course, she thought. Sutter Jones is Indian. He is one of…me.

  It was enough for Sarah. It was enough of how-de-dos and ain’t-life-grands and cashmere from New York, wrapped around a bronze facade. She stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”

  Sutter quickly rose as well. “But, Sarah,” he said as if he knew her, “you’re the reason that I’ve come.”

  5

  You don’t want a wedding?” Lily asked.

  The sense of knowing that Glisi had believed everyone could tap into if only they listened to their head and to their heart surfaced in Sarah now. The knowing came from deep inside, from her place of stillness that she’d found long ago and lately didn’t listen to as often as she should.

  “He’s here for me,” Sarah replied, and gestured for Sutter Jones to follow her into her studio, while the others were left there in the showroom, not knowing what to do or say.

  “So you’re not a groom,” Sarah said once they were in the back and she’d meandered to the long table that held her samples. She folded the last of the velvet and faux fur and wondered if Rhonda Blair’s event would require satin. “Are you Cherokee?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She put the fabric into antique wooden bins that Frank Forbes had donated to Second Chances. Then she placed the bins with others that were stacked along one wall, giving the studio an old-fashioned general-store look. “A wealthy Cherokee, I expect. Those are mighty fine clothes you’re wearing.” She knew she sounded sarcastic. But it was a rare Cherokee who worshipped money, and it usually meant he cared for little else. Yet it surprised Sarah that the notions of her heritage could still evoke such feelings.

  He leaned against her drawing table. “I knew your grandmother,” he said. “My mother was Margaret Jones. Little Tree. Do you remember her?”

  Sarah focused on Sutter’s face, searching for recognition, remembering Little Tree with surprising clarity. She’d been a tiny, petite woman with a quiet nature and a gift for weaving colorful, detailed blankets. Her husband had gone north in the seventies to work the Alaskan pipeline. Like many of the men who left, he had not returned. He’d left Margaret with a son, older than Sarah, who had been gone, too, by the time Sarah had been old enough to understand.

  Averting her eyes to the pads of layout paper on the table in front of Sutter, she wondered if she should order more for the rush of weddings that lay ahead. She wondered if Sutter Jones would leave if she suggested it, demanded it, pleaded that he leave her alone. “How did you find me?” she asked, then added, “And why?”

  “You sell jewelry in Boston, don’t you? In Quincy Market?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “I saw your name on a bracelet tag. It said you were a Cherokee, a Native American. I remembered you.”

  She smiled at the political correctness of the way he said “Native American,” as if he were not an Indian too. “Did the tag say where I lived?”

  “No. That’s what the Internet is for.”

  Burch had set up a Web site for her jewelry business last year. She never dreamed the link would have retrieved her past. “So,” she said, “here I am.” She went to the storage cabinet, counted one pad of tissue layout paper, half a pad of vellum. Yes, she’d definitely need more paper for the onslaught ahead.

  “I came to town on business,” he said, brushing his silky hair back with his hand. “I thought I’d look you up. A clerk in the coffee shop said I could find you here. There aren’t many of us left, you know. California Cherokee.”

  Sarah nodded. She went over to the desk and picked up the wool jacket that she had draped across the back. She realized that her head was aching now. “I have to run to the graphic-arts store for supplies. Did you want to ask me something?”

  His smile was wide, his black eyes so much like hers. The fluorescent lights captured small leather-cracks at the edges of his eyes: He might be in his early fifties. “I thought I’d ask you out to dinner,” Sutter said. “I thought that we could share some stories about the old days on the reservation.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be humorous. “I don’t think so,” she said. “But thanks for looking me up.”

  She opened the back door, stepped outside into the winter sunshine, and wondered what had just happened and why she couldn’t breathe.

  6

  I want my party at the stables,” Cassie said as Andrew drove toward Jo’s. He’d told his daughter of the options that the women had suggested. She’d only thought a second before she gave her reply.

  “I thought you didn’t much like riding anymore. You hardly went over Christmas vacation.” More than once Cassie had informed him she was too old for that now, that riding was for little kids. He’d have bet she would prefer the idea Elaine had offered: a boy-girl party, where the most fun (for the adult chaperones) would be in watching the dynamics. If they still lived in the sophistication of the city, not the boondocks of the country, wouldn’t Cassie already have had such a party? But the thought of Cassie entering the boy-girl scene gave him acid reflux. The longer she avoided that, or he avoided that for her, the way better with him.

  He took a right onto Main Street. “Did you pick the stables just because of Jo? Because she thought of it?”

  Cassie laughed and shook her head. “Dad, you are so lame.”

  Well, he knew that. His daughter mentioned it often enough. “That’s beside the point,” he said. “Honey, I want you to have the party that you want. Not because you think it will make Jo happy and subsequently make me happy and we’ll all live together happily ever after.”

  She rolled her eyes and turned her head toward the window, toward the string of shops that held the luncheonette, then Second Chances, then McNulty’s Catering. “What difference does it make, Dad? I’ll have the party. It will be fun.”

  “We could invite some boys,” Andrew said, another lame comment, no doubt. “It’s too bad Sarah’s son is in New York now. He might have liked to ride.”

  “Burch is too old, Dad.”

  He knew she’d had a crush on Burch; Burch was, after all, an older (almost thirteen), wiser man. Andrew would admit to no one that he had been relieved when Sarah announced her son had moved away. Andrew cleared his throat. “Anyone else?” he asked. “Any boys in your class?”

  “Sure. Scott Baines and Russ McGuire used to ride, I think.” He sensed a furtive look from the corner of her eye. “And maybe Eddie Mindelelewski.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “Who?”

  Cassie lifted her chin toward the ceiling of the old Volvo. “Eddie Mindelelewski.”

  “Good grief, that’s quite a name.”

  “Don’t make fun of him, Dad. Everyone else does. I spend half my life telling people not to make fun of him.”

  He stopped at the red light in the center of town. He wondered if this would be one of those moments he’d later bookmark as the dreaded beginning of the end of Cassie’s child
hood. “I’m not making fun of him, honey. I don’t even know him.”

  “Well, you will,” she said. “His parents own the big farm off Bramble Road. We bought corn on the cob there last summer. And tomatoes and green beans.”

  He tried to recollect a sixth-grader at the farm stand, but no picture came to mind. “Sure,” he said, “it was good corn.”

  Just then Cassie swiveled in her seat belt and looked him in the eye. “And I haven’t known how to tell you this, but he’s my boyfriend, Dad.”

  There weren’t many closets in the place. Andrew guided Cassie from Jo’s kitchen through the dining room toward the living room, so she could watch television while he pretended that she was still a little girl, too young to want a boyfriend. His denial might give him sixty peaceful seconds to spend alone with Jo.

  On the way to the living room he took note of his surroundings: The kitchen was good size, but it could use an update, with extra cabinets. The dining room, which Jo seemed to be using as a place for storage boxes, had a built-in china cabinet that was mahogany like the woodwork. Through the archway that led into the living room was a nice wall of tall windows, next to that a fireplace that was flanked by more built-ins (this time, bookcases), then an open wall to the front door, the stairs, and back to the kitchen. There was only one small closet, and that was in the hall.

  Cassie settled in front of the TV. Andrew assembled kindling and newspapers, opened the flue, and lit a fire. He watched the embers flicker, flicker, then quickly catch. The action made him smile: Andrew David Kennedy, who’d never learned to swim or row a boat or ride a horse (at least not very well) had, in his five years in West Hope, mastered the art of starting a warm and cozy fire.

  That accomplished, he slipped from the living room and back into the kitchen, where Jo was peeling potatoes at the sink.

  The perfect picture of domesticity, he thought, snapping a mental photo of the only woman worth savoring since Patty. It was a good thing, he supposed, now that Cassie was making plans (he was quite sure of it) to grow up and get married and leave him alone.