Scones and Sensibility (14 page)

The crying had desisted slightly by the time I reached her bedroom, but I heard her voice urgent on the telephone. “She what? My sister? Oh she did, did she? Well, don’t believe a word of it, Clint!”

I knew at once that Clint had spoken to my dearest sister about our conversation, and I readily made haste to my bedroom and locked myself inside for refuge.

Within seconds, Clementine’s pounding fist thundered on my door. “Polly, you better come out here now! I can’t believe you told Clint about that kid that came into the shop! I’m going to kill you.”

“But dearest Clementine! It was only you I was thinking of!” I pleaded through the door.

She paid me no heed. “Polly! Come out here!”

But I stayed still, unwilling to let her wrath inside.

“Well, you better tell Clint the truth. That you made it all up. You hear me?”

“But Clementine, I cannot. He is not your heart’s true love. I know this!”

“Call him, Polly!” I could almost hear the fire of her anger in every word.

“All right, all right.” Yet still, I did not open the
door. “I’ll call him tomorrow. Who knows, maybe by then you’ll realize I’m right.”

“Don’t push it, Polly. I’m gonna kill you if I hear you doing or saying anything else.”

“But Clementine, please do not be so hasty,” I yelled through the door. “Maybe you and I could go and converse about all of this at the Haven of Heaven like we used to do. Remember? We used to be the best of sisterly friends.”

But her ears didn’t hear me, for her heavy footsteps had retreated into her room and she’d slammed her door with a hollow slap.

I sighed, clutching my pounding heart. Life had almost ended for me, I was sure. But could I do it? Could I call Clint and tell him I had made a grave mistake?

I walked to my bed and took up the box of stationery upon which I had written my plans for Clementine.

Edward and Clementine. Truly, their names together were like music. Could I be willing to sacrifice Clementine’s happiness for all eternity for a moment of happiness at this moment? I thought of his comment on her hair shining like a lightbulb.

No, I could not.

In that light, it made everything even more clear to me.

I must intercede on her behalf, and to do that, greater action must be taken. I pulled out a sheet of stationery and took up my pen.

Dear Clint
, I wrote.
I am sorry to wound you so deeply. But I must sever all ties
.…

But no, that would not do. Clementine would never speak in such a fashion (more’s the pity). I folded up the sheet neatly and set it down. Instead I took out a sheet of notebook paper and a very unromantic ballpoint pen.

Hey Clint
, I wrote.
Sorry, but I’m dumping you. I hope you’re not too mad. Have a good life. Clemmy

Yes, that would do. But I would need to write a note also to Clementine from Clint. This letter, I knew, would break her heart for a short while. But really it was for her greater good. Years from now, with her own little girl (likely named Polly) sitting on her knee, she would utter thanks to me for this.

I sighed and wrote the same note over again except with “Dear Clementine” at the beginning and “Clint” at the end.

I hoped my attempt at a sloppily written note
would convince Clementine that it was from him and not me, her adoring sister.

I gazed upon my handiwork. Indeed, it was not pleasant, but had to be done. “For love,” I declared aloud. The gentle wind ruffled my curtains and kissed my cheek. Surely, it was a blessing upon what I had determined to do.

The telephone rang and I jumped at the sound. Indeed, it might be Fran! “Hello, the Madassa residence.”

“Polly, it’s me, Fran.”

“Oh, my dearest friend! I can hear the despair in your voice. Tell me, what new tragedy has struck on this midsummer’s eve?”

“Well, he just got off the phone with Ruthie and is waltzing around the living room. Polly, he seems to adore her.”

“That is what I feared. We will just have to move forward with my plan and hope that it isn’t too late. With a woman as distinguished as Miss Lucy Penny, I do not lose hope. Is there any other information you can give me? Did you speak with this Ruthie as you thought?”

“Yep. And she … she’s actually really nice. She
laughs a lot, but not too much. And she sent me a letter with a picture of her in it. She put it in a bottle, which was really cool. I got it this afternoon. And tonight we talked about all kinds of things, and she was so easy to talk to. I kinda—”

“Is this so?” I did not expect this outcome in the least. Not only was this a great surprise, but very discouraging. Fran and her father were likely becoming hoodwinked by the computer woman, and disaster was the only outcome I foresaw. “I fear, Fran, that though she laughs and has sent you a message in a bottle, this does not make her worthy to be your mother and your father’s wife. I will remind you once more of your mother and the Internet man she met.”

There was a slight pause on the other line. “Yeah, I remember. But I don’t think—”

“Please, do tell me what else you have found out about this woman.”

“Well, she’s allergic to cats. She loves the beach and the mountains. She knits and makes quilts and loves old movies. She’s also taking an acting class.”

“And what is her appearance?” I was confident that even though her interests were to be admired she could not be more elegant than Miss Penny. Still, I feared that Mr. Fisk might be taken by mere outward beauty.

“Well, she’s pretty normal looking. She has long black hair and bright green eyes. Her smile is nice.”

“Hmm, the description of her is of a highly suspicious nature. How about her teeth?”

“The top ones are pretty straight, but the bottom ones are a little crooked. They’re really white, though.”

The temptation to bicycle over immediately was almost too overwhelming. Curiosity often plagued my soul more than I could bear.

“So, do you approve of this woman? Because I must say that I think it much too early in knowing anything about her to make a proper decision. I, for one, am highly suspicious of the whole matter. Yet do you approve, dearest Fran?”

“I … I don’t know. I think I do … but really I still don’t know her very well. And I haven’t met her or anything. Maybe if I talk to her again, I’ll know for sure.”

“Well, then I will continue to plan a meeting between Lucy Penny and your father. I am still confident that my choice will prove far superior to any woman your father has found on the computer.”

“All right, Polly. I guess it couldn’t hurt.” She yawned very loudly into the phone. “I better go. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, of course. Farewell, dear Fran.”

I laid my head upon my pillow, allowing my curls to splay out across the ivory sheets. I needed much rest. For tomorrow was a new day, and with this new development with Mr. Fisk and the woman Ruthie Carmichael, I needed to have my whole being alert to the task of uniting Lucy Penny to Mr. Fisk.

My bosom friend’s future rested in my hands.

U
pon the morn, I felt refreshed and rested, all at once very alive and brimming over with adoration of love’s simple and romantic ways. Light as a feather, I skipped down the stairwell and met Mama with a kiss on her rose-petal cheek.

“Thanks, Polly. Now here are today’s deliveries,” she said, setting the brown bag on the countertop.

“But of course, Mama.”

I held the letter for Clementine in my hand and placed it by the front door. Surely she would find it this very day and I would make sure to comfort her when next I saw her.

And though to think of my sister weeping saddened my heart, I was hopeful and delighted at the prospect of her meeting her one true love, Edward. And I was
sure that by the evening, the sisterly bond between us would be mended.

Papa came into the kitchen at that moment, bearing in his hands another magnificent batch of chocolate chip muffins. He spun Mama around the kitchen and then kissed me on the cheek. At the prospect of what was to happen this day, all the love that would be kindled, I was at once overcome with joy. I grasped both Papa’s and Mama’s hands in my own.

“Dear Papa, you are angelically good, and my lovely Mama, you are divinely beautiful. I thank the stars and sun and moon, the waves that crash upon the shore, the geese that fly through the heavens, the—”

“All right, Polly. What’s this about?” My monologue was abruptly interrupted by Mama. “I’ve already said no to buying you a horse and carriage. It’s simply not going to happen.”

“No, I am not inquiring about the carriage, though maybe we can discuss that at another date. I was merely thanking life in its various forms for the love that is working even now. But, of course, you do not know all that has happened. And when you do, I want not a word of praise. For it is my duty and my burden, which I bear proudly for those I love.”

At that, Papa departed the kitchen with a smile. Mama squeezed my hands and sighed. “I’m not sure exactly what you just said, but … all right?”

I kissed her dimpled cheek and watched her fill the coffeepot with fresh grounds.

These pleasant thoughts brought me back once more to the unfortunate letter of admiration from the previous afternoon.

I wondered if my own admirer realized his efforts were in vain, or if he would continue his pursuit.

Only time would tell.

I lingered over the brown bag Mama had handed me, my cheeks blushing at the thought of being wooed, even if it was by an unwanted admirer.

I held the paper bag and twirled around, allowing my dress to swirl out around me like a delicate cloud.

“Polly? What in the world are you doing?” Mama stood in the doorway.

“Just basking in another day filled with joy, and laughter, and love.”

“Well, please bask your way to these deliveries before I make you pay for them yourself.”

“I am at your service, Mama.” And with that, I
selected two of our most delicious pastries: an orange cranberry croissant and a Danish filled with smooth, honeyed butter the color of a toasted almond.

Miss Wiskerton and Miss Penny would be receiving another token of love from the men who adored them. I knew that upon this day Miss Wiskerton and Mr. Nightquist would meet, as well as Mr. Fisk and Miss Penny.

And now with dear Clementine, Mr. Fisk, and Mr. Nightquist on the verge of everlasting bliss, I was upon the cusp of joy so profound that—

“Polly?! You’re still here? What is taking you so long?” Mama said, startling me to attention.

And with not a word, I departed the house toward Miss Wiskerton’s yard.

The genteel woman was outside, as was her usual habit, though I was relieved to find that she was not sizzling on the sun chair. Rather, she sat upon the porch swing fiddling with something in her lap while Jack the Nipper sat by her plump little ankles.

“Good morning, Miss Wiskerton. How are you and young Jack faring this wonderful summer day?”

“Oh, just fine. I finished
Persuasion
this morning and just started
Pride and Prejudice
again.”

“Miss Wiskerton, that is most wonderful! We must
talk often as you read through it.” I stepped closer so that I was able to see what it was she was occupied with.

Was that a kite she held in her hand? Upon my word, it was! Oh, my dearest lady was indeed in love.

I placed my bicycle upon the ground and stepped through the gate, receiving a rather unwelcome growl from Jack, who, thankfully, was properly restrained. I held out the small package identical to the one from yesterday. “I hope you have not eaten yet, for Mr. Nightquist had hoped that this gift would be a nourishment for not only your body but also your soul.”

She looked up and set the kite to one side of her, then lifted herself out of the swing. Her softly wrinkled cheeks had a rosy hue to them that was quite becoming to her face. If dear Miss Wiskerton could just be rid of her current clothing and rather adorn herself in a flowing dress that would tousle with the wind, Mr. Nightquist would be quite pleased, I was sure.

“Oh, isn’t he the sweetest, dearest thing?”

I nodded. “Yes, he is.” I walked back down the walkway and lifted my bicycle from the earth. “I only fear for his body’s health at times.”

“Why’s that?”

I sighed, and shook my head. “His dear daughter,
Melissa Anne, though with the best of intentions, provides Mr. Nightquist with meals. Unfortunately, she, like Clementine, was not endowed with the gift of cooking or baking. For days, he has had nothing nourishing besides tuna casserole, which, as you may guess, is a dish that can be tolerated but once a year.”

“Oh, poor man.”

“Indeed. But yet, I have heard of your own skill in the culinary arts! Perhaps you can concoct some savory dish that will awaken his taste buds!”

Miss Wiskerton’s cheeks blushed red. “Oh, I don’t know that I’m that good … but I do know how to make something other than tuna casserole.”

“Then you must bring it to him this very evening!” I declared.