The Secret's in the Sauce (23 page)
“But you’re a newlywed,” Lisa Leann countered. “I was just trying to relieve you of any unnecessary work.”
“Get over it, Lisa Leann,” Donna said, then popped a meatball in her mouth.
Lisa Leann was nonetheless gloating about something.
“What are you grinning at, Lisa Leann?” I asked her. “What do
you know that we don’t know?”
She merely raised her perfectly penciled eyebrows and said, “Not we. You.”
I pointed to myself. “Me?”
With a wave of her hand she walked away, saying, “I’m not saying another word. You can’t make me. Take away all my makeup and make me wear hand-me-downs and I’ll still not say another word.”
Evie walked up and stood shoulder to shoulder with me, peering after the tiny bit of dynamite that had left the scene. “Good grief, I think she’s serious.”
“A bare-faced, Goodwill-dressed Lisa Leann,” Donna said from
behind us. “Who can imagine that?”
All through our lunch and prayer meeting Lisa Leann kept grinning at me. I narrowed my eyes at her (as best I could . . . I’m not good at veiled threats), but whatever little hush-hush was going on in her brain was staying confidential.
Oh well, I thought later as I pulled my car out of Evie’s driveway. I have enough on my plate without wondering what Lisa Leann is up to.
I rushed to see my mother before meeting Michelle, Adam, and his mother Esther at the teahouse. I found Mom curled up in her bed like a little girl, sound asleep. I didn’t want to disturb her so I slipped back out of her apartment and headed back for the parking lot, only to be stopped by Luke Nelson. He was at the front doorway, and I had a sneaking suspicion someone had alerted him of my arrival. It was just too convenient that he was at this particular place at this particular time. He looked more like a roadblock than the handsome administrator of the Good Samaritan Assisted Living Facility.
“Why, hello, Luke,” I said with a forced smile. “Do you work every Saturday?”
“Every other.” He sighed as though he’d been holding his breath since the last time I’d seen him, when he’d told me my mother had worn a teddy to the residents’ pajama party. “Mrs. Prattle . . .”
“What has she done now?”
Luke shook his head. “It’s not one particular thing. But she’s slipping rather quickly.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, then opened them again. “What do you want me to do, Luke?”
Luke smiled at me, I suppose in hopes of softening whatever blow he was about to deliver. “My records on your mother indicate that you and your brother are co-executors of her estate.” He nodded his head as though he agreed with his own statement.
“You think my mother is dying?”
“Oh no, no, no. Nothing like that.” He swung his head from side to side. “But do the two of you take care of the decisions concerning your mother? Together?”
“I suppose so.”
Again he nodded. He was beginning to remind me of one of those bobbing head dogs that my father kept on the dashboard of his car back when my brother and I were children. “I would simply suggest that you contact your brother and talk. Start looking into something more along the lines of a nursing home. A twenty-four/ seven care facility.”
I sighed. “Luke, my brother’s wife is still recovering from a very serious heart attack. My daughter is getting married soon. You remember those last few weeks and months just before you got married, don’t you? I’m dealing with senioritis at the high school— spring break is just around the corner, not to mention prom—a new business venture and the wedding, and now you want me to find my mother a new care facility when we just got her settled here?” My voice managed to raise an entire octave as I spoke. My chest tightened, and for a moment I thought I was going to have my own heart attack.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Prattle. I’d say within the next month or so,
you’ll want to have her in another facility.”
I looked beyond Luke to the glass doors of the Good Samaritan. Outside, the gray clouds that had been gathering all day began to break apart and the sun was shining. God, I reasoned, was—in his own way—reminding me that in the midst of trial there was hope. I just had to stay focused. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I’ll call my brother later this evening or perhaps tomorrow after church.”
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’ll be here to help in any way I
can.”
I took several steps toward the doors.
“And, Mrs. Prattle . . .”
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around.
“I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Me too,” I said. “Me too.”
Michelle had asked that we meet at a new and quaint teahouse called Abigail’s. It had been open for less than a month, and I’d not had the opportunity to go yet, so I thought it was the perfect choice. Not only was it different from what I was accustomed to, it wasn’t Apple’s. Right now, I didn’t trust myself at Apple’s. Tension was mounting in my shoulders. I either needed a drink or a massage.
I had the desire for one, no time for the other, so a relaxing teahouse on a lovely Saturday in mid-March was the perfect solution. “See, Lizzie,” I said to myself as I pulled into the parking lot in front of the new establishment. “You can make good choices. Tea. Not wine. Plain ole coffee. Not Irish.”
Adam’s car was parked two cars down, so I knew that the others had arrived. I stepped out of my car and into a pile of slush, frowned, but kept going. Inside Abigail’s small foyer, I stomped my shoes free of excess snow and sludge onto the damp welcome mat, then removed my coat, hanging it on a nearby antique coat tree. I had no sooner done so when a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her midthirties met me. “Welcome to Abigail’s,” she said. “I’m Abigail Bohman.”
“Hello, Abigail,” I said. “I’m meeting my daughter and her—”
“Michelle and Adam?”
“Yes.” I beamed.
“They’re here and are waiting for you.” She turned and led me into a charming, brightly lit room laden with Victorian furnishings. Painted white tables covered in pristine and crisp white linen displayed fine Victorian china and heavy silver. The walls were papered in a pale yellow and white stripe and bordered with a floral pattern. One window was topped with an ornate stained glass insert that sent prisms of color and light across the room.
In the far corner, at a table for four, my daughter, Adam, and his mother smiled toward me. Michelle was so excited; she actually spoke “Mom!” as she waved me over.
I waved back and was soon seated to the left of my future son-in-law (who politely stood when I arrived at the table and pulled my chair out for me), to the right of my daughter, and across from Esther Peterson.
Adam’s mother is an attractive woman who carries about fifteen pounds too many. She has porcelain skin and medium length dark blonde hair that is worn straight and pulled away from her square face. I’ve seen her at church a good number of times and have, of course, spoken to her over these past few months, but haven’t yet felt we were even close to being friends. Just friendly.
Adam looks more like his father—tall and dark—and Britney like their mother sans the extra weight,
I thought as I said, “Good to see you, Esther.”
“Lizzie. It’s always good to see you.” She glowed as she spoke and spread her hands over the table as though she were showing it on The Price Is Right. “I hope that this tea will be the beginnings of a new and long-lasting friendship.”
I looked over at Michelle. She was reading Esther’s lips, and once Esther was finished speaking, she turned to me to read my response.
As is my habit with my daughter, I signed, “Hear, hear!”
Michelle applauded lightly and then signed, “I’m so excited.”
Out of habit, I spoke her words for her, but before I could finish Esther signed back, “You have every right to be, sweetheart.”
Something inside me stirred, and it wasn’t pretty. As the mother-in-law of Sis’s husband Isaac, Samuel Jr.’s wife Mariah, and Tim’s wife Samantha, I was accustomed to loving them as my own children and my own children being loved and endeared by their in-laws. But Michelle is my baby. She’s the one I spent the most time with over the years, taking her to the deaf academy, learning sign language with her, teaching the others in the family, speaking for her, all the while encouraging her that she could do anything a hearing person could do . . . except hear.
There was something about Esther calling Michelle “sweetheart” that rubbed me the wrong way. And I felt something even darker about her being able to sign so fluently. I hated the feeling, but there it was.
Michelle signed to me, “Are you okay?”
And I nodded, yes. “I’m fine,” I said and signed. “I guess I’m just a little tired.”
Over the next hour we were treated to tea and petit fours, finger sandwiches, and easy listening music from an overhead system. Adam shared with us his work on securing the details of their honeymoon (they’d decided on an Alaskan cruise) and—no surprise to me—a find on their starter home, which would be in Breckenridge, close to their work.
“Apparently,” I quickly signed to Michelle, hoping the others weren’t quite as fast at interpreting sign language, “I need to send Adam out with Tim; Adam was so quick to find a house.”
Michelle laughed, then shared with the others what I had said. I had not meant for her to do that, but what was done was done.
We talked about the upcoming shower that the club would be catering and in which I would be an honorary guest; the bridesmaid shower; another shower that had just been scheduled by a few of the ladies at Grace Church; and a final dinner that was to be given in the bridal couple’s honor by their fellow employees. All the while, Esther and Michelle kept giving each other knowing glances, as though they were in on some secret I wasn’t yet privy to. It reminded me too much of Lisa Leann’s expression earlier.
I was beginning to smell a rat. “What’s going on?”
It was then that Michelle became her most animated. “Mom,” she signed. “I know you and I talked about going to Denver to look in the bridal shops, but I showed Mrs. Peterson a few of the gowns you and I were looking at—”
Esther jumped in. “Now, Lizzie,” she began as tactfully as anyone could in this situation. “I know you and Michelle were looking at a more straight-lined gown, strapless, and that sort of thing. But what I have suggested to Michelle is this: because of her princess-like beauty”—she paused to beam at Michelle—“my suggestion is that she goes with a more princess-like dress. Think of your Michelle as Cinderella and my handsome son as her Prince Charming.”
“Ah—”
The next thing I knew, Esther was whipping out pages of bridal gown designs in clear protective sleeves, each one more elaborate and . . . princess-like . . . than the next. Adam excused himself from the table. “I’ll get a breath of fresh air,” he said, pointing toward the door. We women watched him leave, then turned back to one another.
“Now,” Esther said, sliding one of the pages toward me. “This is our favorite.”
Our favorite?
“Right, Michelle?” Esther said.
“I like it, Mom,” Michelle said.
I looked down at the glossy picture before me. It was, indeed, an exquisite gown. Sleeveless. Alençon lace. Hand-sewn pearls and authentic crystals on a tulle overlay. The hem was detailed and the skirt was full. Most importantly, it sported a black satin sash that trailed from the tied bow at the base of the spine to halfway down the back of the skirt. This would tie in with her bridesmaids’ dresses.
“But do you love it?” I asked my daughter.
“I do,” she signed. The look on her face confirmed it. She must have read my face because she reached over and touched my hand. “Don’t be mad, Mom,” she spoke.
“Oh no. I’m not—”
Esther prickled a bit. “Oh, Lizzie. I’m so sorry if I’ve stepped on toes. After all, Britney will be marrying Clay next year, and then it will be my turn to be the mother of the bride. But I just couldn’t help myself. After all, this is a first wedding for us . . . but for you . . . well, this is old hat for you by now, no doubt.”
Old hat? How could picking out a wedding dress with your baby girl ever be old hat?
But I said nothing. Right now, I needed only to smile and look pleased.
“That’s fine.”
And then the blade fell. “Here’s the best part,” Esther said. “Lisa Leann Lambert, who you know well, of course, has ordered this gown and two or three others for us to swing by and look at as soon as we’re done here.” She clapped her hands together. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Aha. The smell of a rat had led to the rat.
At this news, I decided, I didn’t need to smile and look pleased. This was the sweet icing on the wedding cake as far as my day had gone. For this news, I needed a drink.
I pulled out of the parking lot to start my evening shift, hoping for the kind of slow night that would give me time to reflect on my socalled life. Despite the drama of recent days, my phone had barely a chance to perform the new Newsboys tune I’d programmed into my ring tones. The only calls I’d received had come from Dad or one of the Potluckers. The boys, it seemed, were only interested in me when they were in the mood to compete.
I flipped on my blinker and sighed as I pulled onto the highway. My life was pathetic, but not as pathetic as what was happening to the Horn family. I’d been able to keep up with the latest from Dad, who was keeping a sharp eye on the situation. I’d learned that since last Monday, when Pete was released from the hospital, social services had awarded Wade temporary custody of the boy while Wade’s sister, Kat Cage Martin, took Pete’s two younger siblings, Molly and Jeffrey. At least, that was the plan as long as Pete’s dad sat in jail for child abuse and Pete’s mom stayed missing. Though I’d heard through the grapevine that Thelma had left town a week back to “visit relatives.” Personally, I hoped I wouldn’t find her buried somewhere in the backyard.
I shivered at that thought. That kind of thing didn’t usually happen up here in the high country, especially not when the ground was still frozen.