Rest in Peach (21 page)

So we stood, huddled together behind a dusty four-door Crown Vic, spying on our friends. “At least she’s sitting at the table,” I said, watching as Pete helped her into a chair and poured two glasses of wine. Then he disappeared for a moment in the darkness toward the back of the room. Returning, he carried two covered dishes.

“He wanted me to fix the same meals that’d brought them together in the first place,” Ginny said. I knew the story already, but she explained to Cade how, last year, Ginny had purposely mixed up their to-go orders so they’d have a chance encounter. She’d known them both and said she’d felt in her
bones—her words—that they were made for each other. “Why, I’m pretty much the whole reason they’ve come this far,” she boasted with a nod toward the window. “Look, she loves it.” I turned just in time to see Pete lift the lid on her dish and Hattie’s hands fly to her cheeks in delight. Then she tilted her head and smiled, motioning for him to sit with her.

“You see,” Ginny stated. “It’s always the food that brings people together. Why, good Southern cooking can cure about anything that ails you. Don’t y’all agree?”

We did. And for the next ten minutes we watched while the two of them enjoyed their meal, sharing bites of food and sipping wine. “At least it looks like they’ve worked things out,” I said. All three of us were now leaning against the car’s bumper, unable to crouch any longer. Not that it mattered. Hattie and Pete wouldn’t notice us anyway; they only had eyes for each other.

“Isn’t this the most romantic thing ever?” Ginny gushed. In the light from a nearby streetlamp, I could see her eyes glistening with emotion.

“Was your marriage proposal this romantic?” I asked her, noticing that Cade had started shifting from foot to foot.

She folded her arms and shook her head slowly, letting out a tight little laugh. “Are you kidding? My marriage proposal consisted of Daddy telling Sam he could either make an honest woman out of me or become fish bait at the bottom of Hill Lake. Sam didn’t care much for the second option, so two weeks later we tied the knot. At least it was a church wedding. Small, but I wore a dress and—”

“Hey,” Cade interrupted. “I think he’s finally going to ask.”

Ginny and I turned our focus back to window, where we saw Pete push back from the table and drop to one knee in front of Hattie. I squinted, wishing the lighting inside the diner was better. I would have loved to be able to see the sparkle in
her eye as he opened the case and presented the ring to her. But what I saw was equally amazing. Wiping tears from her face, Hattie nodded while Pete removed the ring from the case and placed it on her finger. Then she leapt from her chair for what I thought was going to be a passionate embrace, but instead she crossed the room and headed for the front door of the diner.

“What the . . .” Cade said, grabbing me and scurrying around the backside of the car. Ginny was on our heels, giggling as she crouched down beside us.

“Hey, y’all!” Hattie’s voice cut through the night air. “Come look at the size of this rock Pete just gave me!”

“Oh no,” Cade moaned, leaning forward and lightly banging his head against the side of the car. “How’d she know?”

Ginny and I exchanged a quick hug and burst into giggles before jumping out from behind the car. We rushed right over to share in our friends’ new
happiness.

Debutante Rule #011:
In the face of trouble, keep your feet on the ground . . . and be sure you’re wearing nice shoes.

I woke up Friday morning still feeling elated about Hattie’s engagement. Her ring, a large solitaire diamond mounted high and haloed by a circle of smaller diamonds, was as elegant and stylish as she was. I had to hand it to Ginny: she’d done a good job helping Pete choose the perfect ring. And we could all rest a bit easier now that things were on the right track with the happy couple.

As for the rest of Friday, it flew by in a whirlwind of activity. The morning was spent packaging and mailing my online orders: a gift basket for a law firm in Macon and a case of preserves going to an upscale hotel restaurant in Atlanta that hoped to give their customers an authentic taste of Georgia. Harper’s Peach Products were catching on across the state. In addition to the online orders, Margie over at Sunny Side Up Bed & Breakfast phoned in an urgent request for a dozen more jars of spiced peach preserves. At the last minute, I
decided to throw in one of my new jars of sugar-free jams as a bonus. Hopefully, she’d like it and order more.

Between running errands and squeezing in some odd jobs around the shop, Ginny and I made a run to the Pack-n-Carry to pick up a few last-minute items for the cotillion dinner, after which we spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen of Red’s Diner, along with Hattie, precooking as much food as possible and carefully rehashing the plans for the next day’s events.

Not that all that planning made much of a difference, as I soon discovered the next day. That old saying: “The best-laid schemes of mice and men . . .” Well, it applied to cotillion dinners. Because as it turned out, no amount of planning could have prepared me for the flurry of chaos I encountered Saturday afternoon. For starters, Ginny had made arrangements for us to borrow the Baptist Church’s van to transport the food from the diner to the Wheeler Plantation, which was great, except we’d failed to account for the length of the vehicle—a fifteen-seater mainly used to transport seniors from the convalescent home to church Sunday mornings. As I tried to back it up to the diner’s back door for easy loading, I rammed the Dumpster on the other side of the alley, leaving a nice golf ball–sized dent on the bumper. Oops. Then Carla, bless her heart, stumbled while carrying one of the appetizer trays and sent a dozen or more peach salsa and Brie crostini flying through the air. No biggie, though. We had leftover ingredients, and Hattie was able to whip up some more. Nonetheless, by the time we pulled into the back service drive at the plantation, I was frazzled. How did I ever end up roped into this Peach Cotillion deal in the first place?

“Can’t you get any closer than this?” Hattie whined as I maneuvered toward the back entrance of the plantation house.

I threw the gear into park and turned off the engine, pulled out the keys and dangled them in front of her face. “Be my guest,” I said, shooting her a scorching look.

“Okay, okay. Never mind.” She waved away the keys with her newly diamond-studded hand. (She’d been doing a lot of waving since her proposal.) “Geez, you’re cranky.”

I heard a chuckle from the back of the van and glimpsed in the rearview mirror and caught Carla rolling her eyes at us. She was strapped in the back between several large roasting pans and stacks of trays, balancing a full pitcher of premade salad dressing on her lap. I was glad to see at least some semblance of happiness from her, even if at my expense. She’d been pretty miserable since learning that Maggie slipped into a coma. She was also feeling worried about the sheriff tracking her down over the two hundred dollars she took out of Vivien’s purse. I’d assured her that Ray had everything under control but reminded her that she wasn’t going to be able to keep the ill-gained money. As soon as the cotillion was over, we’d figure out a way to return the money to Vivien’s family.

All in all, despite the current chaos and the excitement ahead, regret hung over my head. I’d hoped that Vivien’s killer and Maggie’s would-be killer would have been brought to justice long before the ball. Instead, one woman’s murder was still unsolved, and another woman was in the hospital fighting for her life. “Do you suppose Maggie’s kids will be here today? Nash was supposed to bring Emily.”

Hattie took her eyes off her ring for a second and glanced over at me. “Last I heard, neither Nash nor Belle would be here. But Belle felt so bad about her marshal being left without a date and Nash not going with Emily that she asked her boyfriend to take Emily. Belle’s so thoughtful—like her
mama—and at a time like this with their mama so sick and all, well, it speaks of good upbringing.”

“You’re right,” I said, casting another look into the backseat. Carla had returned to looking miserable. “Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” I said, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject in the first place.

After a half hour of unloading, we finally had everything inside the kitchen and ready to start heating. The Wheelers’ kitchen was specially designed to accommodate large parties. Along the back wall was a double glass door cooler with shelving deep enough to hold large trays of food. The rest of the kitchen was set up with two cooking stations, both with large gas ranges, stainless steel work surfaces and enough pots and pans to stock a culinary school.

“Here’s the deal,” I said, glancing at the large wall clock that hung just outside the kitchen’s spacious walk-in pantry. It was just a little after two. “The roasts will take about three hours, so we’ve got to get them in the oven now.” I set the temperature on the large ovens to preheat. I paused and pulled the instructions Ginny gave me out of my back pocket. “Let’s see. It looks like things kick off around five with the presentation followed by a receiving line where the debutantes meet each guest. The guests will be served drinks and appetizers at that time.” I looked over my shoulder at Hattie. “We have all the appetizer trays, right?”

She pointed to the row of trays in the fridge. “Yup. There’s five trays of the crostini, three trays of prosciutto-wrapped peach slices with Parmesan and two roasting pans full of chipotle and peach–glazed meatballs.”

I scanned the directions. “Okay, it says here we should start reheating the meatballs around four o’clock. The crostini only takes a few minutes, so . . . Goodness! Are we going to have enough oven space with the roasts in there?”

Hattie bent down and glanced into the ovens. “I certainly hope so.”

“We don’t have to serve this stuff, too, do we?” Carla asked, frowning toward the trays.

“No, of course not,” I told her. “The Wheelers have hired a waitstaff for this evening.”

“And they’ll be on hand in plenty of time to start carrying trays of appetizers,” Stephanie Wheeler said from the kitchen doorway. She strolled into the kitchen, looking stylish in sleek black yoga pants and a quarter-zip jacket. Suddenly, my own choice of cargo pants and a T-shirt, not to mention my work boots, seemed out of place. I tugged at my shirt and watched as Stephanie started lifting foil on trays and peeking at our supplies. She must have liked what she saw, because after surveying the food, she clapped her hands together and flashed a bright smile. “Everything is going to be fabulous tonight, I just know it!”

I tried to match her enthusiasm, but I barely felt capable of getting the food heated and ready to serve on time, let alone worrying about it tasting “faaabulous,” as she put it. Then she started droning on about the evening’s schedule and how we should have the appetizers ready by such and such time and please don’t forget to make an all-vegetable plate for Mrs. So and So who had just recently turned vegetarian. By the time she finished her checklist, I was feeling like a hurricane of stress had just blown through my life. I’d handled the aftermath of real hurricanes by just sucking it up and pitching in to work. Certainly I could handle a little ol’ cotillion dinner. Couldn’t I?

“That woman must have us confused with the hired help,” Hattie declared as soon as Stephanie excused herself to go get beautiful. “Maybe someone forgot to tell her we volunteered for this job.”

“Hawk has told me that she’s demanding,” I said, reaching into one of the boxes I’d packed. “Look what I brought,” I said. At the last minute, I’d thought to bring the old Czar radio from my shop. “This should make working a little easier.” I set it on the counter and turned it on. Instantly, the room flooded with the sounds of Johnny Cash’s song “I Walk the Line.”

Hattie squealed. “Oh yes, Johnny’s old songs always make things better.”

“Who’s Johnny?” Carla asked. “And do we really have to listen to this?”

“Shut your mouth, girl,” Hattie countered. “The man’s a legend.” She started swinging her hips to the tune, filling in here and there with her own high-pitched version of the lyrics.

As it turned out, the local station was featuring a Johnny Cash marathon. So—much to Carla’s chagrin—Johnny spurred us on for the next couple of hours. Together, we chopped, mixed and cooked until everything was set for the dinner.

“Pour me another glass of that, would ya?” I told Hattie, who was busy mixing extra punch. While the adults were having cocktails prepared by the Wheelers’ personal bartender, Hattie and I were in charge of providing liquid refreshments for the younger set. We’d come up with a sparkling peach punch made from peach nectar, ginger ale and lemon-lime soda. It was good, too. I was already on my third glass.

“Yeah, I think we should all have some,” Hattie said, filling up cups for herself and Carla. “With all these ovens going it’s hotter than Hades in here.”

I took my glass and leaned against the counter, enjoying the cool sweetness of the drink, while I surveyed our progress:
The roasts were ready to come out of the oven, which would leave them plenty of time to rest before slicing. A pot of peach chutney was simmering on the stove, ready to be paired with the pork at the last minute. The salad was chopped and waiting to be dressed, and the appetizers were heating and almost ready to be plated. “Uh-oh,” I said, glancing up at the wall clock. “We’d better get the punch upstairs before guests start arriving.”

Hattie slid two large containers our way. “Take Carla with you to help. I’ll start getting the appetizers plated.”

I handed a container to Carla and took the other myself. “We’ll take the back stairs, so we don’t run into the guests,” I suggested, heading to the rear of the kitchen to a large butler’s pantry. In the back of the pantry, another door opened up to a short hallway leading to the formal dining room, sunroom and another set of stairs that led to the second and third floors: a common setup for antebellum mansions where back stairways were often used by servants.

By the time we’d reached the second floor, I was breathing heavily, my arm muscles straining with the weight of the pitcher. Too much of Mama’s fried chicken and not enough exercise, I thought. Finally, we reached the third floor, emerging into yet another hallway. This one, however, opened up onto a wide landing with inlaid parquet floors and potted topiaries. Over the tall banister to the right, I could see to the bottom of the sweeping stairway to the foyer where several debutantes in flowing white gowns were already gathered with their dark-suited marshals and doting parents. I pressed up on my tiptoes and squinted to see if Emily had arrived, but there was no sign of her or Ginny and Sam yet. I did see the congressman and Stephanie, looking every bit the dashing couple as they greeted their guests
and welcomed them into their home. Standing behind them were two tall men dressed in usher uniforms ready to show guests upstairs. “They’re getting ready to come up,” I told Carla, directing her toward a set of massive carved doors, opened wide to invite guests into the ballroom. “Let’s get this inside.” We dashed into the ballroom with our containers, stopping short when we saw the magnificent room.

“Holy crud!” I heard Carla mutter.

I agreed. The ballroom, with its historic architecture, crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows, was breathtaking. Then there were the decorations. Absolutely stunning, I thought, as I took in the brocade linen tablecloths and straight-backed chairs covered in cream-colored fabric and tied in the back with flouncy peach-colored bows. In the center of each table, a tall brass vase filled with white and peach colored roses and trailing vines was offset by glowing tapered candles. Crystal glasses and gold-rimmed chargers seemed to sparkle in the candlelight, creating an almost magical air to each table.

“How do you like it?”

My eyes snapped across the room to where Pete was standing at the cake table putting the final touches on a large arrangement of roses. “They’re gorgeous,” I told him after we joined him. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” In the back of my mind, I felt a tiny niggle of regret over having missed my own cotillion. Although I didn’t think my cotillion, held in the back room at the VFW, would have been such an elegant affair. For a second, I wondered what Mama would say when she and the others on the governess’s board arrived and saw all this. The board always occupied a table of honor at the cotillion, a small way to say thank you for all their efforts to bring such an event to fruition. I couldn’t help but think that Mama would be sitting at the head table, eating
more than just peachy food tonight. No doubt she’d also be eating her words about not wanting the ball to be held here at the Wheeler Plantation.