by V. M. Burns
“Laugh and you’re a dead man,” I whispered and gave him a look that had once brought a two-hundred-pound football player to tears when I taught in the public high schools.
The look worked, and Frank wiped the mirth off his face and helped the sales consultants untangle the fabric binding my feet. Once I was free, I turned and stomped, well shuffled, back to the dressing room with as much dignity as I could muster. Oh, yes, my sister, Jenna, would pay dearly for leaving me to suffer alone.
Dressed, and in my own clothes, I marched out of the dressing room to find my audience had dwindled down to a party of one, Frank Patterson.
“Where’d they go?” I looked around.
Frank opened his arms and engulfed me in a warm hug. “You look like you could use a hug.”
I sighed and snuggled closely. I took a deep breath and released the tension that had built up in the past few hours. Frank owned a restaurant a few doors down from my North Harbor bookstore and he always smelled of coffee, bacon, herbal Irish soap, and red wine. I took a large sniff and felt the ripple of laughter rise up inside him.
“Let me guess, I smell like bacon and coffee?”
I took a big whiff. “Don’t forget the Irish soap and red wine.”
He laughed. “It’s a good thing I don’t serve liver.”
My stomach growled. “I’m so hungry I’d probably eat it if you did. Where’d they go?”
He pulled away. “I told them we’d meet them at The Avenue.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, that was Harold’s idea?”
“Actually, I think Grace suggested it. Your mom wants you to taste some pastries or cake or something.”
I sighed. “I thought when they said they wanted a small wedding, it would be simple.”
We walked to the front of the store and Frank held the door. “Small doesn’t necessarily mean simple.”
I should have known my mother well enough to know better. She’d always had grand taste. Nana Jo blamed my grandfather. He’d always referred to my mom as his little princess and she’d spent her entire life living up to it. My father had been equally guilty of perpetuating the princess mindset. He’d done everything for her. When he died, she couldn’t write a check or pump her own gas and she had never paid a single bill. Jenna and I spent quite a bit of time arranging her finances so her rent and utilities were automatically withdrawn. Jenna took away her credit cards and arranged for Mom to have a weekly allowance, which was the only way she seemed to grasp the concept of budgeting. Now, she’d met and fallen for Harold Robertson, one of the wealthiest families in Southwestern Michigan. Harold was a widower who seemed content to continue the princess legacy.
Frank drove us the short distance to The Avenue hotel, one of the finest hotels in South Harbor. The Avenue was an older building that sat atop the bluffs and looked out over the Lake Michigan shoreline. From a distance, the hotel looked grand and imposing. Up close and personal, the wear and tear of chipped paint, cracked marble floor tiles, and wallpaper that had once been white but was now yellow showed. The bones were there, but the building needed an update. Despite these shortfalls, the grand staircase that greeted guests at the entry was still quite impressive.
Guests entering the building from the semicircular driveway found themselves on the landing and could ascend to the lobby or descend to the dining area. We spotted Mom and Nana Jo and followed the downward path to the restaurant. Waiters hovered around in red livery with gold braids and black pants. Frankly, it seemed a bit much for lunch, in my opinion, but my mom loved it and smiled brightly at the young freckle-faced youth who brought her iced tea.
“Are you sure you’re warm enough, Grace?” Harold took my mother’s hand and stared into her eyes.
Mom shivered and looked into Harold’s eyes like a lost fawn in a vast forest. “It is rather chilly, but I don’t like to be a bother.”
Harold hopped up and removed his jacket. With a flourish, he draped his suit coat around her shoulders. Then he turned and got the attention of a passing waiter. “Can you please see the heat is turned up?”
The waiter practically snapped to attention and hurried off to see the heat was increased.
Before Harold was settled back into his seat, the manager came to the table, apologized for the inconvenience, and offered a complementary hotel blanket to go over her lap, and another log was added to a nearby fireplace.
I felt drenched just watching all of the activity.
Nana Jo picked up a menu and fanned herself. “Grace it’s an oven in here. Your hormones must be out of whack. You need the patch.”
Mom ignored her mother, a skill she’d honed over the decades, and I removed my cardigan and drank a half glass of ice water to help lower my core temperature.
Ignoring Nana Jo wasn’t an easy task. She was tall, loud, and very opinionated. Few people would recognize Grace Hamilton as a relative, let alone the only child of Josephine Thomas. Nana Jo was tall, while my mom was petite, barely five feet tall. Nana Jo was about a hundred fifty pounds heavier than Mom, who weighed an even one hundred pounds. However, the two women were alike in their ability to annoy and aggravate their children.
Lunch itself was uneventful, apart from seeing the attention the hotel and restaurant waitstaff dedicated to Harold and consequently to Harold’s guests. Harold Robertson was a tall, white-haired, bearded man who was one of the only people I had ever met I would describe as jolly. He had been a successful aeronautical engineer with NASA for over forty years. However, his brain power wasn’t the reason the waitstaff were falling over themselves to ensure his every wish was fulfilled. Harold’s claim to fame in Southwestern Michigan was that he had the good sense to be born into one of the wealthiest families in either North or South Harbor. Robertson’s Department Store had been the premiere store in this area for over one hundred years. The store catered to the lakeshore elite. As a child, I remembered the grand building with its high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and marble columns. Even though we couldn’t afford to shop on the upper floors, I remembered the red-coated doormen and elevator operators. My excursions to Robertson’s were limited to the bargain basement. The store had weathered the economic downturn of North Harbor better than most and had only closed its doors completely about ten years ago. In fact, I went to the liquidation sale, expecting to finally buy things like furs and jeweled evening gowns like the ones I’d dreamt about as a child. Unfortunately, the old building had lost its charm. I was underwhelmed and depressed by the yellowed, peeling wallpaper, the threadbare carpets, and the smell of mothballs that assaulted my senses when I stepped through the door. The world had changed, but Robertson’s had failed to adapt. The old cage-styled elevators were a fallback to a time that no longer existed.
Harold inherited the store and the family fortune, but he had pursued his dreams by becoming an engineer with NASA. He’d only returned after his wife became ill and he wanted to be close to family. He nursed her until she took her last breath. He now seemed dedicated to caring for my mom in much the same way.
I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the way he catered to her every whim. No detail was too small.
Nana Jo leaned close and whispered in my ear, “I wonder how she manages to find men who fall over themselves to make her happy.”
I shrugged. “Luck, I guess.”
Nana Jo snorted. “Luck, my big toe. More like a curse, if you ask me.” She shuddered. “Who wants that kind of attention?”
I agreed with Nana Jo. Harold’s constant attention, no matter how well-meaning, would drive me batty. However, my mother was a different breed.
“I prefer a man with more spunk, someone you can argue with.” She laughed. “You should have seen some of the fights your grandpa and I had.” She gazed off into the distance. “Makes a marriage stronger.” She tsked. “Of course, then you get the fun of making up.” She guffawed.
“Nana Jo, I don’t want that image in my brain.” I shook my head as if trying to erase an Etch A S
ketch.
She laughed.
Lunch was tasty. Good food and a glass of wine restored my humor. After lunch, we ate cake. In fact, cake was the main reason Mom wanted us to eat at The Avenue. The pastry chef presented us with samples from three different cakes as possible choices for the reception.
The pastry chef was a tiny little woman with electric blue hair. She presented the first sample. “This is a chocolate almond cake with raspberry mousse filling topped with chocolate ganache.” She watched our faces as we tasted.
“This is delicious. Chocolate cake is my favorite.” Harold’s eyes sparkled, but then he turned to my mother. “What do you think, Grace?”
Mom took a small bite and then washed it down with a long drink of water. “It’s very good, and I know a lot of people like chocolate, but . . . well, I was hoping for something a little more . . . well, unique.”
Harold promptly nodded in agreement. “Of course, you’re right. It’s delicious, but you can eat chocolate cake anywhere. A wedding is a special occasion.” He gazed at my mother as though she was the first person to entertain the idea the earth was round.
For the second tasting, we were presented with a white cake. “This is a traditional white cake with vanilla mousse filling and white fondant topping.”
I’d never quite understood if you’re supposed to eat fondant. It made the cake look nice and smooth, but it wasn’t the tastiest topping I’d ever had. This one was no exception.
Based on the look on my mom’s face, she wasn’t a fan of this one either. “White is definitely traditional, but not very unique, is it?”
I agreed with her on that one.
The third tasting was presented. “This is a pink champagne cake with a filling of rum-infused custard and whipped cream frosting.”
“Hmm. That’s good stuff.” Nana Jo licked her fork.
Harold turned to see my mom’s reaction so he could know what his opinion should be.
Mom took a bite and smiled. “I really like the pink, don’t you, Harold? It will go with the color scheme.”
The cake wasn’t the bubble gum color my mom seemed to like best, but it was definitely pink. Regardless of the cake’s color, it was by far the tastiest of the selections. The chef explained she used champagne in place of water for the cake. I struggled to think of anything that wouldn’t taste good if it was doused in champagne.
Cake choice made, we moved on to the ballroom, which was massive. The crystal chandeliers and marble columns, with views of Lake Michigan from nearly every window, would be an ideal space for a large wedding.
“Grace, I thought you wanted a small wedding? You could hog-tie cattle in this room,” Nana Jo said.
Mom fluttered her hands around. “Well, we want to make sure the guests have room to dance, but maybe you’re right.”
“Our library can accommodate up to thirty-six guests comfortably and the patio could be used for cocktails,” the manager continued his sales pitch.
“Well, this room isn’t big enough to cuss a cat,” Nana Jo said.
Frank whispered in my ear, “How much space does it take to cuss a cat?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. None of us have one.”
“What do you think, Sam?” Mom asked.
“I agree with Nana Jo.”
The manager looked as though he was about to provide all of the sales features for the library, but I’d beat him to the punch.
“The ballroom is too big. The library is too small. The—”
“If you say, there’s a room that’s just right, I’ll gag.” Nana Jo stuck her finger in her mouth but thankfully didn’t actually gag.
“Actually, I was going to say the library is too small for the reception, but it might make a nice place for a family breakfast.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” Mom said with such amazement the compliment made me question when was the last time I’d had a wonderful idea.
I mumbled, “I do get good ideas every decade or so.”
Frank chuckled until he saw the look my mom shot my way and then coughed to cover up his laughter.
We reserved the library for a family breakfast and avoided the manager’s sales pressure to reserve the ballroom to ensure it would be available. His, I’m only looking out for your best interest suggestion would require a nonrefundable thousand-dollar deposit, which Harold was glad to pay, but Nana Jo’s Midwestern frugal nature refused to concede.
“I have to get back to work,” I said.
“I’d better go with you.” Nana Jo grabbed her purse.
“Well, if you must go.” Mom fluttered and looked around in the “I’m so helpless” way she had.
However, Nana Jo and I were immune.
“Yep, we gotta go. See you tonight at Frank’s place for the family dinner. We’ll talk then.” Nana Jo gave Mom a kiss on the cheek and hurried out of the door mumbling, “Once I’ve had a glass of whiskey to steady my nerves.”
“Don’t be late to dinner tonight,” my mom yelled at our retreating backs as we made a quick exit out the door.
Despite my frustration with shopping for bridesmaid dresses, I wouldn’t have missed tonight’s family dinner for all of the fish in Lake Michigan. Tonight, my mom and Harold were introducing the two families. I didn’t know a lot of truly rich people. This would be my chance to see how the other half lived. Plus, it would allow me to be nosy and learn what I could about my mom’s intended.
Frank drove us back to my car, and I drove the short distance over the bridge from South Harbor to North Harbor. All of the one-way streets in downtown South Harbor made the drive about two miles total. However, the differences between North Harbor and South Harbor felt like the twin cities were separated by more than a bridge. The two cities shared the same Lake Michigan shoreline but were light-years apart. South Harbor was affluent and thriving, with cobblestone streets, a bustling downtown, and beachfront property both on the beach and on the bluffs above the Lake. In contrast, North Harbor had abandoned and burned-out buildings and boarded-up houses and downtown offered very little foot traffic. There was a small area of renovated buildings, bakeries, art galleries, and cafés, which were trying to revitalize the economy and bring people back downtown. My bookstore, Market Street Mysteries was one of those. The brick brownstone stood on a corner lot with a parking lot shared with a church. There was an alley that ran behind the buildings, and I was fortunate to have a garage. The previous owner built a fence to connect the garage to the building, probably in an attempt to keep the homeless and late-night bar hoppers from trespassing. However, the result was it created a nice courtyard area where my dogs, Snickers and Oreo, loved to play. The garage had an upstairs studio apartment my assistant, Dawson Alexander, called home.
Nana Jo and I entered the store through the back. There was a glass door that led up a flight of stairs to the right. Snickers and Oreo must have heard us coming because they were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The two chocolate toy poodles pounced and barked their greeting. I hurried to let them out to keep the noise down while Nana Jo went through to help Dawson take care of the Christmas crowds. This was my first Christmas season, and I’d been pleasantly surprised by the traffic we’d received so far.
December in Southwest Michigan was cold and snowy. Christmas was only a few weeks away, and the wind off Lake Michigan was harsh and bitterly cold. Snickers, the older of the two poodles, true to her nature, stepped over the threshold, squatted and took care of business quickly, and hurried back inside to heat and warmth. Despite the red and green Christmas sweater she wore, she didn’t like the cold and would just as soon have taken care of her bio needs inside as out. Oreo, on the other hand, had a more carefree, frolicking nature. He leapt into the air and tried to catch snowflakes. He was halfway across the yard before he realized his paws and his underbelly were cold. He then hurried to the back door, expecting to be let back inside. After ten years of Michigan winters, you would expect him to have caught on that snow was cold. Unfortunately, he wa
s a slow learner. Snickers and I coldheartedly stood our ground and watched him through the glass until he hurried to the corner of the fence, hiked his leg, and heeded the call of nature. Snickers looked up at me as though to say, Remind me again why you wanted a second dog? I shrugged and opened the door to admit him as he bounded inside. He shook, scattering wet snow around the room, and then pounced, getting my jeans wet. I pulled the towel I kept at the back door off its hook and cleaned as much snow from his underside and legs as I could before letting him down. The static from the towel made the hair on his ear flaps stand out, and I smiled. Oreo might not be the brightest member of our pack, but his zeal and energy always put a smile on my face.
I went upstairs to the area I’d converted into a loft where I now lived. I grabbed a couple of dog biscuits from the jar I kept on the counter and tossed them into the dogs’ beds and then hurried downstairs to help.
Each time I went into my bookstore, I was overcome with joy. Owning my own mystery bookstore had been a dream my husband and I shared. After his untimely death just over a year ago, I fulfilled my promise to him to sell our house and take the insurance money and live out our dream. Death of a loved one helped to put things into perspective. For me, Leon’s death reminded me life was too short not to be happy. So, I quit my job as an English teacher at the local high school, sold the house Leon and I had lived in, and bought the brownstone we’d walked by and dreamed of one day owning. It was bittersweet to live the dream without him by my side, but, over the past year, I’d found a host of friends and family who helped to fill the void.
The store was bustling and Nana Jo was running the cash register. My assistant, Dawson Alexander, was stocking a shelf. Dawson was the quarterback for the Michigan Southwest University Tigers—or, MISS YOU, as the locals called it. He was tall and slender, the MISU trainers asked him to “bulk up.” So, he’d gained over twenty pounds of pure muscle, which was helpful on the football field and also came in very handy for hoisting boxes of books. The fact Dawson loved to bake, and was exceptionally good at it, provided the conduit for some of the weight gain. Unfortunately, I suspected I too had gained a good ten pounds since he started working here and baking all sorts of sweet delicious items.