The Secret's in the Sauce (9 page)
I looked down at her. “What?” I felt myself tremble with rage. It was like all the frustration I’d been hiding was pushing its way toward my mouth. I knew if I released a word of it, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
The phone rang, and Fred ran to answer it.
It was too late; I could taste my anger. “Mother, if you think for one minute that—”
“Vonnie,” Fred called. “It’s for you.”
I had to take a breath before I could answer. I turned to him. “Tell whoever it is I’ll call back.”
He turned his back and repeated my wishes to the caller. He paused then looked back at me. “It’s Lizzie. She says it’s an emergency.”
I turned my back on the family and walked to my bedroom to take the call. I shut the door behind me and sat down on the bed as I reached for the receiver.
“Lizzie?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No, no. Is something wrong?”
“It’s Goldie. She just called me from Georgia. Her dad died this morning.”
I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. “Oh, poor Goldie.”
“Yeah.”
I paused. There was something funny about Lizzie’s voice. She’s probably grieving for Goldie.
Lizzie continued. “Goldie says things aren’t good back there, and she’s asked us to pray.”
“Will do. Prayer sounds like a really good idea.”
“Um, Vonnie. Would you mind calling the other girls? I’m really tired and need to get to bed.”
“Sure,” I said as though I’d be happy to do it. I hung up the receiver, though I continued my conversation with Lizzie in my head. But I have to call on someone else first.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and leaned my face into my hands. “Oh Father” was all I could say before my tears interrupted me. I got up and took the box of tissue from the dresser then locked the bedroom door. I sat back on the bed, allowing my shoulders to quake with both anger at Mother’s shenanigans and despair over Goldie’s loss.
I dabbed at my eyes and blew my nose. It looked like I was going to be here awhile. My saving grace was that Mother had left her bell in her bedroom.
I stood in the checkout line at Wal-Mart, my arms stretched to the point of aching as my fingers gripped the handles of a shopping basket full of magazines, cookbooks (including the latest from Paula Deen, which my sister Peg said no self-respecting cook would be without), and even one of those magazine books (would that be a magabook?) titled Operating a Successful Catering Business from the Comfort of Your Home, if one can believe that title. Comfort? I didn’t know about that. But, I was determined to be as knowledgeable about cooking and catering as Lisa Leann any given day of the week. My plan was to study from the privacy of my living room and then shock the Crisco and cream of tartar out of Mrs. Lambert at our next meeting, which was—unfortunately—that afternoon.
I berated myself for having waited until Saturday morning to do this, even as I studied the endless covers of rag-mags that lined the shelves before me. Somehow despite the latest in the sagas and gossip headlines of the Hollywood elite, I managed to focus on the fact that Lisa Leann had insisted that we all get together early in the afternoon to start planning Michelle’s shower and here I was feeling as ill prepared as I could possibly be. I’d intended to do this days ago, but between continuing to settle Vernon in, beginning to see clients again, and the ins and outs of running a household, I’d found it impossible.
When it was finally my turn at the checkout I heaved my basket up and onto the conveyor belt, then began removing the items one at a time.
“You’re Miz Benson, aren’t you?” I heard a voice drawl from the other side of the counter.
Looking up, I immediately recognized Velvet James, all decked out in the trademark royal blue vest over a dark blue long-sleeved oxford shirt worn tucked into a pair of belted black slacks. She looked so remarkably like her sister I felt my words catch in my throat before I managed to state, “I am Mrs. Vesey.”
She gave me a half smile before she began scanning my merchandise. “Oh, that’s right. I remember now. You married my mama’s first husband.”
“I will ignore that.”
“I’m sure Mama sends you her condolences.” She continued to scan, studying my purchases as she went along. “Is the new bride learning to cook?”
“I know how to cook.” I placed my purse on the small counter near the credit card scanner and pulled out my wallet. “I’m simply expanding my already vast culinary skills.”
As my luck would have it, at that moment she picked up the catering book, waving it at me like a parade queen greeting her fans. “What’s this? Are you thinking of catering a party with all your culinary skills?”
“If I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.” I sounded as sarcastic as I dared allow myself to sound, considering my status in this community.
With the exception of the gum popping between her molars, Velvet wisely stayed quiet until she announced, “That’ll be $83.59.”
I tried to remain calm. But $83.59 for a bunch of cookbooks? I pulled a credit card from my wallet and slid it through the machine, then waited for approval, feeling quite uncomfortable as Velvet kept her eyes on me. I scanned the rows of checkout lines as though on a mission, then stopped short when I saw David Harris dressed in his paramedic garb stepping through the front door, a thin cloud of snow blowing in with him. I suppose my gaze caught Velvet’s attention because the next thing I knew, she was looking in his direction, a broad smile coming to her face. “There’s my sweetie now,” she cooed, then looked at me with an arched brow. “I suppose you know that David and me are dating now.”
“So I’ve heard. And it’s David and I, not David and me.”
“You say potato,” she commented, shocking me that she even knew the line from that old song. The register began spitting out my receipt, and Velvet returned her attention to it, reaching for it with manicured fingertips that looked as though they’d been dipped in blood.
Donna’s, no doubt.
David spotted Velvet and walked toward us, stopping at the end of the register. “Mrs. Vesey,” he said.
“Mr. Harris.”
“Hi, honey,” Velvet gushed.
I couldn’t help but notice that, though he said nothing, David blushed.
“He blushed?” Vonnie asked when I called her from home. “Are you sure he blushed?”
“Like a schoolboy. Vonnie, what in the world is your son thinking? And since when does Velvet James work at Wal-Mart?”
“I have no idea what that girl is up to. As for David, I don’t know the answer to that either, Evie, but I can hardly say anything to him, can I? After all, he’s a grown man. And it’s not like I raised him. I’m barely getting to know him myself. I just don’t think I can tell him what I really think.”
“Well, let me tell you what I think,” I said, pulling books and magazines from plastic shopping bags.
“You don’t have to tell me, Evangeline. I know what you think.”
“Well, maybe you do and maybe you don’t.”
“You think David is rebounding with Velvet.”
I simply hate it that she knows me so well.
“Did I tell you he brought her to the house the other night?”
“You did not.”
For the next few minutes Vonnie entertained me with a less than positive story of her dinner guests from a few nights before. I was horrified.
“Wouldn’t you think that David would have known Velvet was a vegetarian?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
In the background I could hear Vonnie’s mother hollering like a banshee for her daughter. “Oh, Evie. I’ve got to run. See you at Lisa Leann’s shop at two?”
“Two o’clock it is.” I glanced down at my watch. That gave me all of a few hours to read as much as possible of my new catering book. By the time this day was over, Lisa Leann would be a little impressed by my savvy and a lot worried about what I might know about the business side of cooking.
We Potluckers, sans Goldie, sat in the parlor of Lisa Leann’s wedding boutique. Lisa Leann had romantic instrumental music piped in at just a breath above a whisper. She was, as usual, dressed to the nines for a Saturday afternoon, wearing (what appeared to be) a new outfit: dark blue jeans, a creamy white, long-sleeved sweater, and Ugg boots. I know they were Ugg boots because she told us so. “They’re the latest thing. Very chichi.” She said the last bit with a wrinkle of her nose.
I frowned at her words, mainly because while she was out spending her money on “chichi” boots, I had been spending mine on cookbooks.
I was the fourth to arrive. Donna pulled up the rear five minutes late. Before we got to the business side of the meeting, we talked about Goldie, who had called Lizzie that morning.
“The funeral is today,” Lizzie said. “This afternoon at 4:00 eastern time.” She glanced at her watch. “Which would be right now.”
“We should pray,” Vonnie said.
“I was going to suggest that.” I cast a sideward glance at my friend. Unlike Lisa Leann, she was looking less than fashionable today. In spite of our having a business meeting, she appeared more like a frazzled beggar woman than a business owner, even if only a one-sixth share. I, on the other hand, had taken special care in choosing what I would wear. After all, I was the wife of the sheriff now. Keeping up appearances was important in my role.
From the other side of the room, Donna rested her elbows on her knees. She was sitting in one of the occasional chairs, unlike the rest of us who sat on the settees. She cracked her knuckles and cleared her throat before saying “I can’t imagine losing my father” in a tone so faint we almost didn’t hear her.
My heart leapt to my throat and then to my chest again. “I can.” I looked around at the group and added, “Not Vernon, of course. What I mean to say is that the feelings of losing my father are as real to me today as the day of the accident.”
Vonnie, who sat next to me, patted my knee. “God love you, dear friend. You had the double whammy of losing both parents at the same time.”
I nodded and straightened my back. “Let’s pray, then.”
And we did. We prayed for Goldie, for her kin—as she called them—and for the peace that passes all understanding. Knowing as little as we did about the dynamics of Goldie’s family, it was the best we could do.
With the last amen, Lisa Leann stood, walked over to the countertop near the front door, and retrieved a clipboard and four white notebooks, the latter which she passed around the room. “Ladies, I have taken the liberty of speaking at length with Beverly Jackson, whom I’m certain you all know.”
We all mumbled our affirmations.
Lisa Leann sat again, this time in a chair opposite Donna. She crossed her petite legs and placed the clipboard firmly in her lap. But before she could open her mouth to speak again, I interjected, “Might I inquire about our business? A few questions, if you will, seeing as I was away previously.”
Lisa Leann turned a shade of pink complementary to the red in her hair. “Well, Evangeline, we have gone over all the details in earlier meetings, but I can see why you are . . . in the dark, so to speak.” She scanned the others in the room before returning her attention to me. “What do you need to know?”
“For one, legalities.” I jutted my chin forward a bit. “As I’m sure you are aware, the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services requires that all cooking be done in a kitchen separate from a personal or residential kitchen.”
Lisa Leann’s jaw dropped. For a sliver of a second I felt a shimmer of victory. But only for a sliver. “Evangeline,” she said calmly, waving her hand toward the back of the building. “What do you think the kitchen in the back is for?”
She had me there. “What about the labeling of the food? The Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services requires that all food be labeled properly and—”
“Evie, I know all this. I know how each individual container must be labeled. I know all about inspections.” She lightly touched the single row of pearls at her throat. “I thought you and I were friends.”
“We are friends. What does our being friends have to do with this?”
“Then, why are you challenging me?”
“I am not—”
Lizzie stepped in, so to speak. “Girls! What is going on here?”
Donna chuckled. “Looks to me like the church ladies are at it again.” She cocked a brow at me. I narrowed my eyes at her, flashing a warning that read: I’m married to your daddy now.
Not that I knew exactly what I meant by that, but that’s what I meant.
I raised my hands in protest. “I’m not trying to argue. I’m merely trying to ascertain whether or not we’ve got all our bases covered.”
Lizzie answered in her usual gentle tone. “Evie, Goldie had Chris draw up all the necessary papers—”
“Which I have for you to sign today, Evangeline.” Lisa Leann pulled papers from the back of the clipboard. “Right here. Once you’ve signed, I’ll take them to Chris and he’ll file everything for us. He’s ready to file for corporate status—”
I opened my mouth, but Lisa Leann kept going.
“As far as taxes—which is truly your forte—I was going to chat with you about that after our meeting today, which, may I remind you, is supposed to be to discuss Michelle’s bridal shower to be given by the bank employees. And, by the way, a most important event because this one party could put us firmly in the black.”
“We’re in the red?” Donna asked.
Lisa Leann answered, but not before taking a deep breath and exhaling. “Girls, girls. To start a business, one must have the necessary tools of the trade . . . so to speak. Now, we got off easy with the Lowenstein bat mitzvah. But this soirée that the bank is planning for our Michelle”—she paused long enough to beam at Lizzie—“is a very big deal. As I was saying before this little . . . interruption . . . I have already spoken at length to Beverly Jackson. Now, if you will open your notebooks . . .”
I had been dismissed. Me, Evangeline Benson Vesey. Daughter of the late mayor. Wife of the local sheriff. President of the Potluck Club. I had been dismissed with an instruction to open a notebook.
I glanced down at the hardback, three-ring binder in my lap. Lisa Leann had printed pink decorative cover sheets with the words “Prattle Bridal Cocktail Party” and slipped them into the front sleeve.