Divas Do Tell (6 page)

Have I mentioned how prophetic I can be?

FAST FORWARD THREE days. I had just finished feeding the furry flocks when my cell phone rang. It’s not a device I care much about, since it too frequently connects me to people I’m trying to avoid. This time, however, it was Kit on the other end of the pesky thing. Kit Coltrane is our local veterinarian and my Significant Other.

“Hey,” he said, and my heart went pitty-pat. I can’t help it. When he calls or I see him I revert to my teenage years. It’s one of the facets of being over fifty that I find most unnerving.

“Hey yourself,” I responded cleverly. Witty repartee is not my strong suit. “What’s going on?”

“I just wondered if you’d like to take a break one evening this week. We could go out to dinner and a movie. What nights are you free?”

I could have said every night. It’s usually true. This week, however, I’d reluctantly agreed to go with Bitty to one of her meetings for the upcoming pilgrimage. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Any night but Thursday,” I said, and Kit promptly suggested we go out Tuesday night. I agreed, of course. I may not be interested in remarrying, but I’m definitely interested in keeping company with the handsomest man in all of Holly Springs.

I was still smiling when I went into the house to clean up after my stint as zookeeper. Brownie met me in the kitchen. He was sulking because I wouldn’t let him out while I fed all the cats. He likes to keep the yard bird and squirrel-free, and while the cats may have the same goal they aren’t that fond of a beagle-dachshund mix running crazily around and baying at the sky while they’re lining up at food bowls. It makes my life a lot easier when I skip that part of the routine.

My mother had left Brownie’s food frozen in ice cube trays. Each little cup held exactly the right amount of homemade food to go atop his dry food. It had to be microwaved first so he didn’t have to eat cold food, of course. Mama chooses to ignore the fact this is the dog that ingests metal, paper, and cat poo without regard to proper warmth or consistency. But I dutifully heated his food, mixed it in with his dry, and set his bowl on the nice little placemat my mother keeps in a kitchen corner. For a dog that showed up as a stray on the back deck one cold day a few years ago, he certainly has it good now.

I’d just put a frozen pizza in the oven for me when the house phone rang. There’s one on the wall in the kitchen and another cordless phone in the den. I grabbed for the kitchen phone.

Bitty said without preamble, “Have you been watching the news?”

“What news? You mean on TV? Has something happened I should know about?”

“Just go turn on the TV, Trinket. And don’t hang up. I want to be with you when you hear about it.”

“Hear about what? Bitty, is this another one of your silly dramas? Has the price of gold gone up? Or there’s an embargo on designer shoes? Has—”

She rudely interrupted with, “Turn on the TV, Trinket. CNN or MSNBC.”

Annoyed, I went into the little den off the kitchen, found the remote, and switched on the TV. It took a moment, but I found CNN just as the announcer said, “. . . and the Italian cruise ship that ran out of fuel and power in the Mediterranean is in danger of drifting out to sea. Authorities have begun to rescue passengers. More details as soon as they become available.”

My head got light. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. I didn’t even remember sitting down, but I must have because suddenly I wasn’t standing up. Bitty’s voice in my ear sounded far away.

“Trinket? Are you still there? Talk to me. Talk to me, or I’m calling nine-one-one. Trinket?”

There was a loud buzzing in my ears, but I managed to say, “I’m here. Did they say the name of the ship?”

“
Costanza Regencia
. Is that the one they’re on?”

I tried to think. They’d told me of course, several times in fact, but the information hadn’t stuck since I was so annoyed and apprehensive about them going anyway. But I did recall that they’d left their itinerary under a magnet on the refrigerator. Somehow I made my way to the kitchen. There it was. I took it off the refrigerator door and anxiously scanned it. It listed their departure and flight numbers, the name of the airline and arrival times, their hotel reservations for the night before they would board the cruise ship, and the time and place they were to board. Everything but the name of the cruise ship.

“It doesn’t say,” I got out.

“What doesn’t say?”

“Their itinerary. They left me one so I’d know just how much to worry and when. They’re on that ship, Bitty, I just know it. Maybe that’s why I’ve been so nervous about them going off like that. My God, right now they could be floating in the ocean on a lifeboat—or trapped in their cabin while the water rises and they slowly drown—I don’t think I can take this, I really don’t think I can.”

“Give me the information off their itinerary.”

I read it off to her but started hiccupping before I could finish. My breath was short, and my ears still buzzed like a hornet’s nest, and I started to cry.

Then Bitty said, “I’m on my way.”

When the phone went dead I walked to the kitchen wall and carefully replaced it in the cradle. In a matter of two minutes my world had upended. I didn’t know what to do, where to get information, who I should call. I didn’t even know how to make an international call. What could
I do?

Something nudged me, and I looked down to see Brownie gazing up at me. His doggy brow was furrowed in a frown, and he had a worried expression. Maybe he was just picking up on my stress. Maybe not. Maybe he knew my parents were in trouble. Then I did something I rarely do. I bent down and picked him up. I needed comfort. I went into the den, turned up the volume on CNN, and collapsed on the couch.

I was still sitting numbly on the couch with Brownie in my arms when Bitty got there. She didn’t bother to knock but just came into the house. She’d brought her gargoyle. Brownie immediately defected. He leaped from my lap to the floor and headed straight for the pug. He likes Chitling for some reason. Maybe because they’re both spoiled rotten and share tips on how to manipulate their guardians.

Bitty set a big wicker basket on the couch. “I’ve called Jackson Lee, and he’s calling Italy. He’ll find out what’s happening and if Uncle Eddie and Aunt Anna are all right. Something’s burning. Are you cooking?”

“Oh. I forgot my pizza in the oven.”

“Just stay there. I’ll take care of it.”

Since Bitty has single-handedly managed to burn up the kitchen in her house I should have been more aware of my burning pizza. That shows you how far gone I was in my stupor. I let her handle it. She disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard a loud squeal, some cussing, and the slamming of the oven door. Then she was back in a few minutes with a small glass and fried hair. A sooty streak darkened her face.

“Your hair,” I started to say but she shook her head.

“It’s nothing. I didn’t know pizzas can actually catch fire. It’s out now. Here. Hold the glass. I brought something to help settle your nerves.” She took a bottle of brandy out of the wicker basket and poured two inches in my glass. “Drink all of it. I brought dinner, too.”

I knew Bitty doesn’t cook, for obvious reasons, so I just nodded as she took a casserole dish out of the basket and took it to the kitchen. I heard the dinging of microwave buttons before she returned. She eyed the glass of brandy in my hand.

“You didn’t drink all of it,” she said. “It’ll help. If I had Valium I’d have brought you one, but I don’t have any.”

“Brandy and lasagna will do. That is lasagna I smell, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sharita just made it this morning. It didn’t even have time to freeze.”

Sharita Stone is a local woman who cooks a week’s worth of meals for limited clientele. She also owns a small catering business and a little shop that sells delicious baked goods and homemade jams and jellies. If not for Sharita, Bitty would probably have starved to death years ago. Sharita’s brother is Marcus Stone, an officer on the Holly Springs police force. There have been a few times we’ve had the benefit of his professional attention, not always a positive thing.

The brandy warmed me, which was good since I’d begun to shiver like I was standing out in the cold with no coat. With the setting of the sun it felt like January again. I should turn up the heat. Or put on a warm robe. Since I was still in my barn clothes—a plaid flannel shirt over a tee shirt and an old pair of Lee jeans with frayed cuffs—I didn’t want to put a clean robe over clothes that smelled like cat food and barn dust.

Bitty was bustling around the house tending to the food, fussing over me, bringing me a blanket from my parents’ room. There are times my scatterbrained, self-centered cousin is anything but that. She can be the only thing that keeps me sane in a crisis.

“Here,” said Bitty, and handed me a plate with lasagna, a chunk of French bread, and a small salad on it. “Tea or Coke?”

I opted for sweet tea. There’s always a pitcher of tea in the refrigerator, two in warm weather. Since two dogs instantly became my best friends when I had a plate of lasagna in my lap, I decided to eat in the kitchen. Bitty fixed herself a plate, too, and we sat at the table where I’d eaten my childhood meals. My two brothers—both killed in the last days of Vietnam so many years ago—and my twin sister and I had fought over the last pork chop at this table, squabbled over who got the most ice cream, helped blow out candles on birthday cakes. It had seen years of Truevines. To think that my parents might never again sit at this table was wrenching. It had only been three days since they’d left. Would I ever see them again?

When I looked up I met Bitty’s gaze and knew she was thinking the same thing. She stretched her arm out to me, and we clasped hands wordlessly, each knowing what the other felt. Bitty had spent a lot of time at this table, too, during our childhood. We’d been inseparable since we were six. Even my years away from Holly Springs had faded the instant we were together again. It’d seemed like we’d never been apart.

Bitty’s cell phone rang, startling us both, and my fork dropped to the china plate with a clatter. It could be Jackson Lee, was all I was thinking, calling to tell me my parents were gone. I felt frozen in time as I waited for Bitty to relay his message.

“Are you sure?” she said into the phone after a very brief discussion; then she looked at me and smiled. “They’re both okay. Alive, well, not even wet. That’s great. As always, sugar, you saved the day. Yes, I’ll tell her right now. She’s looking at me like she’s about to grab the phone anyway, so—”

That was when I reached across the table and grabbed the phone. I had to hear for myself, make sure Jackson Lee wasn’t just being cautious and saying what he thought would calm me.

“Tell me,” I said, and he chuckled.

“Everything is fine, Trinket. They weren’t on the
Costanza Regencia
but MSC
Preziosa
. They knew you’d worry, so they’ve been trying to call you, but with all the chaos over there it was difficult for them to get to a landline. They’ll be back as scheduled in two weeks and said to be at the airport to pick them up. They’ll call when they get back to their hotel in Italy just to let you know if any plans have changed.”

I felt giddy with relief. “Thank you, Jackson Lee,” I said, “from the bottom of my heart. I didn’t know what to do. You’re amazing.” When we hung up I sagged in my chair and put my face in my palms. I was still shaking but not for the same reason.

“Trinket? Are you okay?” Bitty sounded concerned, and I nodded, then looked up at her.

“I’m better than okay. Now I just feel so terrible for those people on the
Costanza Regencia
. And their families—oh, I cannot imagine getting awful news. I hope everyone got off the ship okay.”

Bitty licked tomato sauce off her fingers. “Well, I think you’re psychic. You knew something bad was going to happen. Maybe you got the name wrong, but you did get it right about the ship.”

“Not completely. I suspected pirates. Fire. Storms. I never thought the ship would run totally out of power.”

“No, you were too worried about icebergs. Well, I still say you have a sixth sense about things. So tell me what’s going to happen to Dixie Lee Forsythe. Is someone going to murder her? Is the movie going to be a flop and she’ll lose all her money?”

“How would I know? I’m not a psychic. I’m just a compulsive worrier.”

Bitty sighed. “A pity. It’d be nice to be able to see the future. Especially if Dixie Lee is going to lose all her money. Or get run over with a power mower. I rather like that idea.”

I gazed fondly at my cousin. She’s so predictable. While she rises to the occasion when there’s a necessity, she’s still Bitty. That’s a good thing. Beneath her blonde helmet—now charred black in places from the pizza fire—she may be occasionally selfish and a bit vindictive, but she does try to do the right thing for people. She’s one of the most generous people I know. She supports any number of charities, and not just in Holly Springs, either.

“So long as you’re not the one hitting Dixie Lee with a mower I don’t care either way,” I said. “I don’t want you to end up decorating a cell in the Marshall County Jail. I’m not sure your designer drapes would be appreciated.”