The Secret's in the Sauce (4 page)
“I’ve seen them.” Donna dismissed the implied notion of looking at the pictures of her father and me frolicking along the beaches and resorts of Nassau and Freeport. Instead, she walked over to the window and peered out. “There’s Vonnie.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “Girls, feel free to sit and look over the pictures. I did that creative memories thing so each picture practically has its own commentary. You won’t need me.”
I left the living room and went back into the foyer, opening the door for one of my oldest friends before she could reach the front steps.
“Good afternoon, Vonnie,” I said as she ascended them.
She looked up at me. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Vesey. I’m the last to arrive, no doubt.”
I stepped out on the front porch and pulled the door nearly shut behind me. “How’s David?” I kept my voice low.
Vonnie shook her head sadly. “Pathetic. I understand Donna choosing Wade over David. After all, Donna and Wade have a . . . history.
”
“I suppose you could call it that.” Between me and the lamppost I might call it something else, but that’s neither here nor there. After all, Donna is my stepdaughter now and I have to be careful about what I think concerning her.
“But poor David . . . And what really concerns me is his sudden interest in Velvet James.”
“Velvet James? That tart?”
Velvet James is Donna’s half sister, the daughter of Donna’s mother, who left Vernon back when Donna was about four years old. But that’s another story, and since I’m not inclined to gossip, I’ll avoid saying that Doreen Vesey left with the church’s choir director only to live a hard life, marrying a whole handful of times, having a pack of children, living life doing illegal things to support them and her, but in the end losing them to the state or their daddies, whichever was in the best interest of the child.
But, like I said, I don’t much care for gossip.
Vonnie shook her head. “Don’t get me started. No matter what I say, he thinks he’s actually got something going there.”
About that time the front door swung open. My hand was still on the doorknob, and my arm was nearly ripped out of its socket. “Ow!”
“Hello, ladies.” It was Donna standing before us. “Sorry about that, Evangeline,” she said unconvincingly. “Talking about anything interesting?”
Vonnie has always been like a second mother to Donna, so I know this whole situation has been difficult for them both. “Hello, precious,” she said to Donna.
Donna gave us her best “uh-huh” look and said, “Don’t ‘precious’ me, Vonnie Westbrook. And do not think I don’t know about David and Velvet. I am, after all, a deputy sheriff. I get paid to know things.”
“Does it bother you?” I asked. “At all?”
“The only thing that bothers me is that David will, no doubt, get hurt.” She looked at Vonnie with compassion. “And I really don’t want that, Von. He is, if nothing else, my friend.”
“That’s nice, dear.” Vonnie stepped toward her and patted her on the arm. “And I believe you mean it.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Shall we go inside then? I can smell the coffee from here, and I’m anxious for another piece of Lisa Leann’s delectable wedding cake.”
In other words, subject closed.
Over cake and coffee I heard the story—once again—as to how the catering club came about.
The first time I heard about it was from Vonnie, who came by the morning after Vernon and I had returned from our honeymoon. She and I curled up on the family room sofa like the old friends we are while Vernon went to his old house to help the movers load up the U-Haul truck.
“It all started the morning of your wedding,” Vonnie told me. “Actually, it goes back to last year’s Christmas tea when we were all saying in jest that we should open a catering service because so many of us were such good cooks.”
“I remember that.” I pulled my feet closer to me. “You call it last year’s tea, but it was a mere few weeks ago.” This being the middle of February and the tea occurring just before the New Year, after all.
“Nevertheless, on the morning of the wedding, when everyone was at the boutique helping out, Lisa Leann got a phone call that Mandy had gone into labor.”
“I remember that too. But how does that lead to a whole new business venture? For crying out loud, Vonnie, I was gone just a little over a week.”
“Well, naturally Lisa Leann had to leave, which of course left the rest of us at the boutique to handle things.” Vonnie threw her hand about in the air and tossed her fading blonde hair. “I don’t know who said it for sure, but I think it was Lizzie who said something about the Potluck Club Catering party, and the next thing you know, an idea was born.” Vonnie grinned, and I could tell that, even at less than two weeks into the venture, she was quite pleased with it. “While you and Vernon were basking in the sunshine, we all met over at Lisa Leann’s and put everything on paper.”
“A game plan,” I commented.
“So to speak. Anyway, we managed to get an advertisement in the paper, which came out on Thursday, and two days after that we got a call to do our very first event.”
“Which is?”
“Hannah Lowenstein’s bat mitzvah. They had hired a caterer from Breck,” Vonnie explained, referring to Breckenridge as the locals so typically do. “But apparently Mrs. Lowenstein and the woman who owned the service had something of a misunderstanding . . . don’t ask me about what.”
“Hannah Lowenstein? Is she Ed Lowenstein’s girl?” I asked. When Vonnie nodded, I added, “I had no idea she was that old.” The Lowensteins live right down the street from Vernon and me. I discreetly cleared my throat. “I don’t mean to throw a monkey wrench into this, but you say you have a game plan.”
“We do.”
“But what about some sort of legal business agreement? In my line of work I see all sorts of disasters when you don’t have a good legal agreement.” I own an accounting service that I operate from my home.
Vonnie laughed lightly. “Don’t worry, Evie. We will. And, yes, you will be very much a part of this too.”
I hate it that she knows me so well.
It nearly killed me not to participate in the Potluck Catering Club’s first event (I was still focusing on getting Vernon moved in, which included helping him get rid of some of the tackiest household items I’ve ever seen, not to mention a few things I knew were left over from his marriage to Doreen, and not to mention that this is my busy season). However, I heard all about it immediately afterward when Lizzie came by to fill me in, telling me that Lisa Leann practiced making chocolate macaroons with matzah cake meal at least five times before she felt she’d gotten it right.
I smiled. It was now three weeks since my wedding, one week since our little coffee-and-cake get-together.
“So how do you think it’s going to go?” I asked. “Any more calls for business?”
“Not yet.”
I’d poured us some homemade lemonade, and she took a long sip as we stood in my kitchen, leaning our hips against the countertop. “I’m going to take this whole thing very slowly,” she said. “So I’m glad we’re not bombarded with business so far. After all, school is still in session, and I’m not about to leave my job when I’m so close to retirement. When we see where this thing is going, I’ll rethink it. Not to mention that I’m still taking care of Mom.”
Well, I can’t say that I blame her. Like she said, she is close to retirement and her mother is somewhat senile and living in a nearby assisted living center. Goldie has a good job with Chris Lowe, who is an attorney, Donna has her position with the sheriff’s office, and I’m heading toward April 15th.
Vonnie is the only one of us fully retired, but she has her hands full taking care of her cantankerous mother, and beyond all that . . . with Lisa Leann at the helm, who knows where this ship will go?
So, yeah. I vote for taking this one step at a time too, at least until I can get into the real swing of things. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if it weren’t for me, there’d be no catering club.
I am beginning to think I’m married to a pretty wonderful guy.
Not that I always felt this way. For far too long Jack Dippel was an adulterer. I have to say, though, that since the fall of last year when I left him and his cheating ways and he started counseling with our pastor, he’s become something of a Prince Charming.
Take last evening, for example. I returned home from work completely exhausted. I work for Chris Lowe, Attorney at Law, and we are in what is known as trial term—a two-week period that rolls around every so often so that the courts hear current cases on the docket. Or, at least as many of them as they can. For those of us who work within the court’s system, it’s a time of great stress and physical fatigue, but necessary nonetheless.
On my way home I nearly fell asleep at the wheel. If it hadn’t been for Lisa Leann’s call, I would have.
“Goldie,” she said in that Texas way she has that always gives me the impression she has a nonstop party going on inside her head. “Darlin’, do I have news for you!”
I blinked at the red traffic light before me. “It must be good. You sound even more excited than usual.”
“And I am. Listen, now. I just got a phone call from Beverly Jackson. Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Of course I do, Lisa Leann. I’ve lived in this town since I was a child bride. She’s married to Steve Jackson.”
“Vice president of the bank.”
The light turned green, and I drove through the intersection. With every turn of the wheel, I was getting closer to home. “I know that. So?”
“So, Miss-Hurry-Me-Along, she and the ladies of the bank— meaning the female employees and the wives of the male employees— want to throw a bridal shower of unforgettable proportions for Michelle Prattle and—”
“They want us to cater it!” I squealed.
Lisa Leann laughed. “You’ve got it, girl.”
I pressed my hand against my breast and took a deep breath. “Whew! When? Where? How many?”
Lisa Leann continued to laugh. “One month from today. That gives us just the right amount of time, but we’ll have to keep our noses to the grindstone, as they say. I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
My mind was suddenly wide open. “I have an idea, want to hear it?”
“You know I do.”
“It’s a bank function, right?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I kept talking as I turned onto the street where Jack and I live. “Why not have a ‘money tree’ for the kids. We can get some silk ficus trees with the little white lights—”
“I’m liking where this is going.”
“White lights everywhere.”
“An entire theme of white and green.”
I pulled into our driveway and shut off the car’s engine. “People can bring money cards that can be clipped to the leaves.”
“Elegant dinner wear.”
“Oh, absolutely. Not to sound materialistic, but you said it right when you said ‘posh.’”
“I didn’t say ‘posh,’” Lisa Leann said with another giggle. “But I should have.”
“Let’s ask if they’d like to make it a couples event. The women may be throwing it, but I’m thinking black tie.”
“We’re on the same page, my friend. I’ll let you know more as soon as I know more.”
I pulled myself out of the car. “Have you talked to Lizzie yet?”
“Her line was busy. I hear you getting out of the car. Enjoy your evening.”
I felt my shoulders droop of their own accord. “I’m so tired. I’m going to beg Jack to go to Higher Grounds and pick us up something while I soak in a tub of hot water.”
“Now that’s the way to train a man. I’m thinking I’ll have Henry do the same thing. Ciao for now, baby.”
I closed my cell phone with a smile, then trudged up the walkway to the front door, keeping my eyes on my feet. It wasn’t until I’d reached the bottom step of the front porch that I saw the large wicker basket lined in white linen and graced with a simple pink bow along the side of the handle. I stopped for a brief moment, then carefully approached and squatted down. I felt my light overcoat pool around my feet as I fingered the contents of the basket.
Lavender-scented bath salts, complementary body lotion and spray, a thirsty lavender-colored towel, a terry cloth sponge, and half a dozen lavender-scented floating candles. Tucked between the towel and the sponge was a CD of American standards sung by none other than . . .
“Frank Sinatra,” I whispered.
It was then that the front door opened. I looked up to see my husband standing there, looking fairly fine in a pair of dark khaki chinos and a navy blue V-neck sweater over a plaid oxford shirt. There was a time when I rarely saw him out of sweats, but since our reunion he seemed to take special care of his appearance when we were together. “There’s a tub of hot water and a new terry robe with matching slippers waiting for you in the bathroom.”
I grew uncomfortably nervous; an old voice whispered to my still-fragile heart. Is Jack having another affair? In the past, the end of an affair meant some eye-boggling piece of jewelry for me. This wasn’t jewelry, but . . .
Jack must have read my thoughts. He frowned at me and said, “Can’t a man buy a gift for his wife without having . . .” He looked away for a moment. “Goldie, I love you. I’m trying to get it right this time.”
I pursed my lips to keep from laughing (or perhaps crying) at the whole thing. Relief does strange things to a woman’s emotions, especially a woman married to Jack Dippel. Even in his early fifties he managed to look so handsome. His face bore hardly a wrinkle, his gray hair only making him look all the more striking. He kept a year-round tan, and his glasses only served to give him a studious appearance.
I stood, bringing the basket up with me. “What made you think to do this?” I asked, calling something akin to a truce with my words.
“Hard day, right?”
“Very.” I took a step toward him, and he met me, the basket keeping us physically separated. But I managed to nuzzle his neck. “I’m sorry for the slight lack of trust.”
“It’s going to take time, I know.” Then to change the subject: “I’ve got dinner warm in the oven, straight from Higher Grounds.”
I pulled back. “Now you really have read my mind.”