A Catered Birthday Party (12 page)

“Leave me alone,” he snarled.

Bernie kept going.

“You come back here!” he screamed at her.

Like that’s going to happen
, Bernie thought as she picked up her pace.

“I’m going to sue you!” Rick yelled at Bernie as she reached the door. “I’m going to sue you for millions of dollars for the pain and suffering you’ve caused me. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Bernie turned around. “Go right ahead. And I’m going to countersue you for the pain and suffering and mental anguish you’ve caused by inflicting on me the worst performance of Brick that I have ever seen.” Which wasn’t quite true, but at this moment exaggeration seemed to be the order of the day. As Bernie watched Rick ball his hands up into fists, she decided she might have gone too far. “Okay, maybe I did overstate,” Bernie told him. “But you shouldn’t have done what you did to Marvin either.”

It didn’t seem to help. Rick took a step toward her and Bernie ran out the door. Luckily Libby was pulling up alongside the door just then.

“Go!” Bernie yelled as she yanked open the van door on the passenger side and jumped in.

“What’s going on?” Libby asked.

“I’ll explain later,” Bernie cried. “Just move.”

Libby tromped on the gas. The van lurched forward and they were off—at forty miles an hour. They were clearing the parking lot when Rick came bursting through the door with Priscilla in hot pursuit.

Libby checked the rearview mirror as they made a right onto Church Street. Nobody was behind them. She sighed in relief. It would have taken all of two seconds for Rick’s BMW to catch up with A Little Taste of Heaven’s van.

“Don’t do this again,” she told Bernie as she slowed down to thirty miles an hour, the speed the van was happiest at. The van could actually do fifty if pressed, but it began to get the wobbles.

“I won’t,” Bernie said. And she meant it too. For the moment.

I
t was a little after seven-thirty the next morning, and Bernie and her dad were sitting at the breakfast table talking about last night’s events. The morning was cold and gray. The weather forecast had promised more snow later in the afternoon. For now, though, things were quiet.

As Bernie looked out the window, she could see the first of her customers filing in for their early morning coffee, muffins, and scones. There was Mr. Ryan, Mrs. Cortes, and the Gleason twins. The twins always came in for one cranberry muffin and one chocolate chip muffin each, plus two large coffees with double sugar and skimmed milk.

Some of the shop customers, like old Mrs. Frederiks, had been coming here since Bernie’s mom had opened the place. As Bernie watched Nathan Landow come in for his walnut scone and hot chocolate after his morning run, she decided that their customers—most of them, except for a select few—made all the aggravation of running a place like this worth it.

She would miss them if—God forbid—something happened. So many small businesses were going under these days, they were lucky they were hanging on. Well, they were doing better then just hanging on. They were paying their bills and having enough left over to put some aside, which was all you could ask for, really. She even had enough to indulge her shoe addiction from time to time.

As she thought about it, she realized she would miss more than the customers. She would miss the early morning risings when everyone was asleep and the world was hers. She would miss the sweet, rich smell of butter and sugar, the feel of the bread dough between her fingers as she kneaded it out, and the satisfaction of seeing the cookies lined up on the baking sheets like so many soldiers. She was thinking about how it had happened that she’d come to embrace the shop instead of running away from it when she became aware that her father was speaking to her.

“What did you say?” she asked her dad as she took a bite of the apple crumb cake she’d decided to eat for breakfast. She’d used half whole-wheat flour and half white. It had, as she suspected, resulted in a slightly more flavorful batter and a chewier crumb.

“I was saying that I thought what you said to Rick Crouse was ill-advised,” Sean replied.

Bernie raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious. There’s no point in going for a man’s weak spot if you don’t have to. Most of the time it just makes him madder. It’s like cornering an animal. You always want to leave him a way out if you can.”

Bernie took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. She’d heard this lecture before. Multiple times. “You would have said the same thing if you’d seen him onstage. In fact, you would have probably gotten up and walked out.”

“Was he really that awful?”

Bernie automatically smoothed out a crease in the tablecloth before replying, “Yes, he was. And I wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t punched Marvin. That went way over the line.”

“Agreed.” Sean grimaced. “That whole sticks-and-stones-may-break-my-bones-but-words-can-never-hurt-me thing. Whoever made up that saying got it backward.”

“Well, he put on a terrific performance offstage. I will give him that. I can see how all the women love him. It’s the onstage part that’s the problem. Maybe I should tell him that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Sean said as he took a forkful of home fries.

As he did he reflected that his girls always got the balance just right. The onions were slightly charred around the edges, the green pepper had a nice flavor, and the cubed potatoes were soft on the inside and crispy on the outside. Add some fresh ground pepper and he could eat these every day of his life.

Bernie poured herself a tiny bit more coffee and added a smidgen of heavy cream. She was trying to cut down on both but wasn’t having much luck. “I think I’m going to have to,” she said after a moment’s reflection.

“Then meet him somewhere public. It’ll be safer that way.” Sean ate another forkful of potatoes and chewed slowly. “On a different topic,” he said after he’d swallowed, “let’s talk about what happened to Marvin last night.”

“That was a slight miscalculation,” Bernie said.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “Slight? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“That’s what I’m calling it. God only knows what Libby is saying.”

“Nothing very nice.”

“That’s what I figured,” Bernie said gloomily.

“How could you?” her father asked her.

Bernie didn’t give him an answer because she didn’t think her father was looking for one.

Her dad continued, “Libby put enough pancake make-up…”

“Foundation,” Bernie corrected.

Sean gave an impatient wave of his hand. “As I was saying, your sister put enough make-up on Marvin’s jaw to coat an elephant. I told her not to bother. I told her it would only attract more attention, but you know your sister. Once she gets an idea in her head there’s no stopping her.

“Even Marvin agreed with me. For once. He went in the bathroom and washed it off. Of course, he’ll need it today. Can’t have a funeral director with purple bruises. It’s too distracting. No. I bet his dad was really pissed when he got a look at Marvin last night. You know Marvin’s dad. It’s all about the work.”

Bernie swallowed another piece of the apple crumb cake. A few toasted walnuts on the top to add a nice contrasting crunch and it would be perfect. “So what’s the story you guys came up with?”

Sean took another sip of his coffee and ate some more of his scrambled eggs. “Are the green flecks in the eggs chives?”

“Dad!”

“What?” Sean said in his most innocent voice.

“Tell me you didn’t leave that to Marvin,” Bernie pleaded. Marvin was good at many things, but coming up with alibis wasn’t among his strengths.

“Well, I don’t like to lie,” her dad said.

Bernie snorted. “This is me you’re talking to, remember?”

“It’s true,” Sean protested. What he did was interpretative speaking.

“Anyway,” Bernie continued, “this isn’t lying. This is an act of mercy. A mitzvah.”

Sean gave his daughter an irritable glance. “Of course Marvin and I came up with a story. What do you think I am? We rehearsed it too, so when his dad cross-examines him he won’t get flustered.” Sean paused for a moment to take a sip of Libby’s freshly squeezed orange juice and allow the dramatic momentum to build.

Bernie leaned forward. “Tell me, Dad.”

Sean put his glass down. “Fine. Marvin rescued Libby from a mugger as she was getting into his car and got punched in the jaw for his trouble.”

“That works.”

“Of course it works. How could you think that I wouldn’t come up with something that works?”

“I actually never doubted you would for a second.” Which was true. She hadn’t.

Sean looked mollified. He ate another bit of his scrambled egg. “The bigger question is: What were you thinking when you put him in that situation?”

“You already asked me that.”

“I’m asking again because I didn’t get an answer the first time.”

“Well…”

“I’ll tell you why you can’t answer….”

“Because you won’t let me?”

“No. Because you can’t think of anything to say. What you did was totally irresponsible.”

Bernie mashed one of the crumbs on her plate with her fork. “Dad, you sound as if you’re taking his side.”

“I am. Poor Marvin,” Sean said.

“Come on, Dad,” Bernie protested. “Admit it. This was good for him. It broadens his worldview.”

“Getting punched in the jaw does nothing for one’s worldview. It may do something for the dentist who replaces your teeth. Like make him money. But that’s about it. And I should know. I’ve been punched enough. Ask Brandon. He’ll say the same thing I just did.” Sean put his fork down and looked his daughter in the eye. “Bernie,” he said, “you really have to think before you speak.”

“I know,” Bernie told him. “I’m working on it.”

“You’ve been working on it since you were a little girl, and I don’t see much progress in that direction.” When she didn’t reply, he told her, “I mean it. Words matter. They matter a lot. And you of all people should know that.”

“You’re right,” Bernie told her father.

And he was. It was just that the moment she thought of something she tended to put it into action. Sometimes that was very good and sometimes, witness last night, it wasn’t. She took another sip of her coffee.

“Marvin could have been really hurt,” her dad continued.

“But he wasn’t.”

“But he could have been,” Sean insisted. “And so could you, if we come down to it.”

Bernie thought about Rick bursting through the front door of Leon’s. He’d looked pretty angry. Pouring beer over Rick’s head had been a satisfying but unnecessary thing to do, she had to admit.

“How did you know that Libby was going to be there at that particular moment?” Sean asked. “Exactly,” Sean said when Bernie didn’t say anything. “That’s what I thought. I’m going to say to you what I used to say to my men: Planning is the key to everything. You have to know what you’re doing before you do anything. Otherwise you’re relying on luck and luck only takes you so far.”

“Are you done?” Bernie asked, trying to stem the rising tide of irritation she was feeling at her dad’s lecture. She hated when he kept on repeating things over and over. Like she didn’t get it.

“Yes, I am,” Sean said.

He ate another mouthful of home fries and scanned the front page of the local paper. Not that there was anything worth reading in it today, unless you were interested in the fact that Mrs. Gardenia had six cats living in her house, one more than the local ordinance allowed for.

A moment later, Libby came into the room. She was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe and had a purple towel wrapped around her head.

“I don’t know why you can’t get white towels,” she complained to Bernie as she reached over and took a sip of coffee out of Bernie’s cup.

“Hey, get your own,” Bernie told her.

“I will in a minute. Why do you have to get all of these weird colors?”

“Because that’s what’s on sale, that’s why. Have you heard from Marvin yet?”

Libby shook her head.

“So that’s good news.”

“I guess so,” Libby said. It was true. When something bad happened, especially something with his father, Marvin always called her. “But what happens if his dad wants him to file a police report? You know what he’s like.”

“Marvin will tell him he doesn’t want to,” Bernie said.

“But if his dad insists?” Libby said.

Sean shrugged. “Then Clyde will take it and it will conveniently be buried.”

The things his eldest child found to worry about continually amazed Sean. She’d been like that ever since he could remember. At five she worried about what happened to the lightbulbs when they burned out. She didn’t want Rose, their mother, throwing them out because she didn’t want their feelings hurt. They’d had to sneak them into the trash at night.

“Because,” Libby continued, “I would feel terrible if we filed something and the police picked someone up because of it.”

Sean snorted. “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Things that happen around Leon’s don’t get investigated. That’s just the way it is,” he said, forestalling his daughter’s next question. Even though they were older he still didn’t like discussing payoffs with them. He knew this was ridiculous, but there it was.

“And I certainly don’t want Clyde to get in trouble,” Libby continued.

“He won’t,” Sean assured her. “Everything will be fine. Really.” He rolled his wheelchair back from the table to give himself another inch of room. “Anyway, on a different note, did you learn anything from last night?”

Libby gave Bernie a bitter look. “Besides the fact that saying the first thing that comes out of your mouth is not a good idea?”

“Yes. Besides that,” Sean replied.

“We learned quite a bit,” Bernie said.

Libby sat down, took a piece of raisin toast off the plate set in the center of the table, and bit into it. There was the sweetness of the raisins, the nuttiness of the whole-wheat flour, the slight hint of orange rind, and the sharpness of cinnamon. The bread was so good it didn’t need butter or cream cheese. They would just mask the flavors.

Libby took a second bite of toast and poured herself a cup of coffee out of the carafe sitting on the table. “I suppose we did.”

“So?” Sean prompted.

He’d gotten a general idea of what had happened last night, but between Marvin moaning, Libby running up and down the stairs to get ice packs, and she and Bernie arguing, it had been difficult to sort out the particulars.

Bernie ate the last piece of her cake. “For openers, we learned that Rick Crouse has poor impulse control.”

“A lot of guys would have done what he did given the circumstances,” Libby objected.

“That’s true,” Bernie admitted. “But an equal amount of guys would have walked away or they would have said something, but they wouldn’t have punched Marvin in the jaw.”

“I thought it was a bad idea from the beginning,” Libby told her. “Marvin thought it was a bad idea too. We told you it was.”