“I’m going to make you earn your lunch today,” Camille warned her friends. She ushered them into the dining room, where the table was set up for what Rosemary had lately termed “the craft of the week.” A pile of little twig nests from the craft store was the centerpiece. “We’re going to make favors.”
“Make favors?” As though checking for bird droppings, Bridget chose one little nest for close, squinty-faced inspection. “Or make-do favors?”
“Not ‘make-do’ favors. These are going to be fabulous favors. Sit,” Camille ordered on her way to the kitchen. She returned with a pot of tea and began pouring it into the cups she’d already arranged. “When you do it yourself, you give of yourself. It’s a personal touch.”
“She’s become a Martha Stewart disciple,” Ellie told Bridget across the table.
Bridget was checking out the rolls of satin ribbon and the plastic bag stuffed with iridescent shred. “Aren’t you afraid this is all going to look sort of homemade?”
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.” Camille took her seat at the head of the table. “I call it ‘personalized.’”
“What kind of tea is this?” Ellie asked between sips. “We should be drinking green tea. They’ve discovered that green tea gives us some percentage less chance of something. I don’t remember now whether it has to do with menopause or cancer. Or bone loss. Something really bad.”
“Turning into a witch,” Camille suggested as she handed out the scissors to go with the rolls of purple and lavender ribbon. “Green tea keeps you from turning into a witch. Prevents the warts, the stoop-over, and the raging crabbies.”
“How about the green skin?”
“As long as you add milk, you’re all right. All we’re doing is decorating these to hold the traditional candied almonds. Jordan’s almonds, as it were. Make sure you use the piece of ribbon I gave you as a guide for length on those.”
“Yes, teacher,” said Ellie.
“Well, I determined the amount of ribbon for this project by the number of pieces we’re making, and I’m not going back to the craft shop again until next week.” Camille sighed. “If I don’t get some real work done this week, it really will be ‘yes teacher.’”
“The truth is, she doesn’t want to go back to the craft store until another coupon comes out in the Sunday paper,” said Bridget.
“What’s wrong with that? Saving money is not a bad thing, my friend. You wait and see how all this comes out before you turn your nose up at my personal touches.”
Bridget glanced askance as she snipped off a piece of ribbon. “I see that somebody finally did some personal touching up on that back door that’s been broken forever.”
“What are you talking about? My trick door?”
“I noticed that, too,” said Ellie, who had already devised a method of measuring and cutting a whole roll of ribbon in two snips. “All I had to do was turn the knob. No pulling up on the knob, twist, jiggle, whistle the ‘Minnesota Rouser’ while you’re standing on one foot and pushing in. I just turned the knob—and wahla.”
“That’s ‘voilà,’ Ellie,” Bridget said. “It’s French. So, Cam, did you finally call that handyman I recommended? He’s better than a husband.”
“You can pay him in regular U.S. currency?” Camille asked with a smile.
“After he does the job and you’re completely satisfied.”
Ellie knew better. “Is Creed still in town?”
“For the summer,” Camille said.
“What else is he repairing besides your doors?”
“He didn’t repair any doors.” But Camille knew better, too. If the door had been fixed, Mr. Fixit had done the deed. Whether he did it to be helpful to her or to himself, she didn’t know. She shrugged. “Or maybe he did. It’s just like him to be gone forever and suddenly wander back into the house and start messing with things.”
“We’re going to sing a duet during the wedding,” Ellie announced quietly.
Camille turned on Ellie as though she’d pinched her from behind. “Who says?”
“It’s going to be a surprise for Jordan. You two are sworn to secrecy. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Mutual, I think. You brought it up not long ago, that you thought we sounded good together. Wouldn’t it be fun if we could surprise Jordan and James?”
“I think I was the one who brought it up,” Bridget claimed. “It’s a great idea. You’ll be Creedence Clearwater Revival meets Eleanor in the church where a wedding…is being?” She glowed with her cleverness. “That’s where Creed got his name, isn’t it?”
“He’s been Creed since birth, which obviously predated Creedence Clearwater Revival,” Camille said. “He says it came from his mother’s mission period. He has a sister named Faith.”
“His mother was a missionary? I thought she was an Indian.”
“I think it’s possible to be both, Bridge,” Ellie said.
“In this case it was his father who was the missionary. I guess when he decided his work in the Dakotas was done, he left her with the kids and headed for Alaska.”
“You mean you can’t even depend on a man of the church?”
“Sometimes they’re the worst.”
“Now, cut that out, you two,” Ellie scolded. “We’re working on a wedding here. A church wedding. In case you two haven’t heard, the Lord works in mysterious ways.” It was her turn to instruct Camille. “Obviously Creed’s mother didn’t depend on Mr. Burke. After he left, she went right on living her life, raising her children, probably still going to church and—”
“She actually died way before her time.”
“You mean she was too young and too dear to the people who loved her, but who’s to say when it’s time? Who but…?”
Ellie glanced from Camille to Bridget and back again, trying to decide whether to say the word and be forced to defend it. Not that they weren’t believers. They simply couldn’t hold a candle to Ellie, even though on occasion when she got started on the subject, they’d threatened to do just that.
Ellie lifted one shoulder as she pulled on the loops of a purple bow. “Well, I just think time is an illusion, and death is like the river flowing.”
“What sense does that make?” Bridget asked.
“Sense is an illusion, too,” Camille said, reaching across the table. “Ellie’s way out there, Bridge. Have another nest.”
“So Creed is more spiritual than musical,” Ellie mused.
“Way out there,” Camille said. “And, Bridget, you’re behind on your nests. Look at my pile already. You’ve made exactly two. We’ve still got shower favors to do.”
Bridget looked up from her work, scandalized. “You’re not giving the shower, Cam. The mother of the bride does not give a shower. That is simply not done.”
“What would Martha say?” Ellie teased.
“I’m just helping out the bridesmaids with a few of the details.”
“Hello, girls.” Rosemary had suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Speaking of bridesmaids, guess what I just scored on eBay. A complete bridesmaids’ breakfast set.”
“Set of what?” Camille asked, dreading the answer. Her mother had already “scored” at least a score of antique wedding handkerchiefs, an assortment of crystal votive candleholders, and three Victorian birdcages.
“It’s a gorgeous rose pattern, almost like chintz. I printed out the picture.” Rosemary swept aside strips of ribbon and placed the paper on the table next to Camille’s teacup. “It’s a service for eight, but look.” She pointed out each piece as though she’d unearthed an assortment of prehistoric tools. “These darling coffee-and teapots, cream and sugar—all porcelain. No chips, no cracks, no crazing,” she recited from the listing. “And look, it even has eggcups and dome covers for the toast plates.”
“Mama, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Sense is an illusion,” Ellie reminded Camille, eyes twinkling.
“I couldn’t resist,” Rosemary chirped. “I got such a great deal on it. The starting bid was really low, and hardly anyone bid against me.”
“I wonder why,” Camille said dryly. “Who’s ever heard of a bridesmaids’ breakfast set? What did you pay for it?”
“None of your beeswax.” Rosemary’s smug expressions—facial and verbal—were equally impish. “We are having a bridesmaids’ breakfast, aren’t we?”
“I guess we are now.” Camille turned to Bridget. “Did you have a bridesmaids’ breakfast?”
“We went out for a nice lunch.”
“Brunch would be fine, as long as we can use the eggcups, but we must host it here in our home.” High on bid-winning adrenaline, Rosemary slipped into the empty chair at the end of the table. “The bridesmaids’ breakfast is a wonderful southern tradition. Like the groom’s cake. My people are from Virginia, you know.” She drew a quick frown. “We are having a groom’s cake, aren’t we?”
“We haven’t gotten around to cakes yet, and I don’t recall any of your people ever purchasing a complete bridesmaids’ breakfast set for any wedding,” Camille quipped. “And does this have anything to do with that new magazine that appeared in the rack in the living room? Southern Weddings?”
“I subscribed,” Rosemary confessed. “And I had a groom’s cake and a bridesmaids’ breakfast for my wedding. We used my grandmother’s china.”
“Which would have been just fine, Mama.”
“I told you, I couldn’t resist.” Rosemary rested her chin on the heels of her palms and smiled wistfully, a bewigged cherub. “It’s so sweet and elegant. The little eggcups and toast covers.”
“How’s the dress coming, Rosemary?”
“Slowly but surely,” she told Bridget. “I wish I could show it to you, but I don’t want anyone to see it until Jordie walks down the aisle. I think it’s the best work I’ve ever done.”
“What a special gift,” Ellie said.
“I found something else on the Internet that I’d like to contribute.” Rosemary withdrew a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her long cotton jacket and unfolded it with some hesitancy. “This might seem a little foolish to the ‘everything’s up to date in Kansas City’ crowd, but with the forties-style dress, I think we must have this 1949 limousine.”
“What a great idea.” Ellie craned her neck to get a peek at the picture. “Who cares what they say in Kansas City? That’s awesome.”
“I can’t believe this, Mama.” Camille shot her friend a cool-it glance. “What happened to your favorite line from Shakespeare?” She waved an instructional finger and quoted, “‘Thrift, Horatio.’”
“Well, if I die right before the wedding, I expect you to remember me,” Rosemary said with histrionic, haunting emphasis on the last two words, followed by an impish smile. “By not letting the leftovers from the funeral table go to waste. But since I’m not dead yet, I’m having a little fun with my money.”
“Spend it on…”
Camille glanced at the ink-jet print of the dishes, delicately hand-painted with sunny yellow, pink, and blue flowers. She looked at the picture of the old car with its ornate hood ornament and gleaming grille. She could sense her mother’s knowing smile, knowing the appeal, the sentiment, the way their strong female minds made their apologies about going soft and finding meaning in such matters.
“What do the kids think of the limo?”
Rosemary shook her head. “It’s been two or three days since I’ve seen Jordie.”
“When she’s not at work, she’s spending every waking minute with her fiancé,” Camille explained.
“Isn’t school out yet?” Bridget asked.
“This is the last week. Then I’m hoping she’ll get more involved in these plans. We’ll start looking into cakes.”
“Oh, you must use Barnett’s Bakery,” Bridget advised. “They’re the best. That’s where we got Lauren’s cake.”
“It was beautiful. What did you pay for it?” Camille felt her face flush. “Sorry. If I may ask.”
“Right around a thousand.”
“Dollars?” Camille nearly choked. “I think I’d better take a cake-decorating class.”
“Now, this has to stop, Cam,” Bridget said, tossing aside a tiny flower with a wire stem. “If you try to do it all yourself, how are you supposed to enjoy the wedding? This is going to be an important day for you, too. You don’t want to miss it.”
“Okay, scratch the cake decorating. But wait till you see my plan for the banquet room.”
“Are you renting chair covers?”
“No, but I promise you won’t miss them, Bridge.” Camille decided to turn the tables. “Have you picked a place for the rehearsal dinner yet?”
“No. I haven’t been able to get Timothy to commit to…” Bridget stared down at her hands, slowly pulling a piece of satin ribbon between her thumb and forefinger. “He’s selling my house.” Her lower lip trembled. “That son of a bitch is selling my house.”
Camille scowled. Not that it missed the mark in any way, but “son of a bitch” rolled surprisingly trippingly off Bridget’s tongue.
“He can’t sell the house.” Ellie searched for confirmation in the faces around the table. “Can he?”
“How can he sell the house?” Camille demanded. “It has to be in your name, too.”
“He agreed to take out a second mortgage for the wedding, and now he claims that was all my idea. He says there’s no way I can keep the house in the divorce settlement.”
“What does your attorney say?”
Bridget shook her head quickly. “I think I’m going to have to find a better attorney.”
“He suggests selling the house,” Camille deduced.
“She,” Bridget corrected her. “I thought a female attorney would be more apt to look after my interests, but I’m beginning to wonder if she knows what she’s doing. All you need is a good attorney.” She paused, hoping for confirmation. When all she got was silence, she insisted, “Well, isn’t that right?”
“Bridget…” Camille was very much afraid she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask. “I don’t mean to sound nosy, but how much equity do you have in the house?”
“I don’t know,” Bridget admitted sadly.
“You must know, honey,” Ellie said. “You just took out a second mortgage.”
“Actually, we haven’t paid off Lauren’s college education yet, so maybe it’s a third mortgage. Is there such a thing as a third mortgage?”
“Oh, Bridget.”
Four pairs of eyes stared at the two piles of little nests in the middle of the long oak table. The smaller pile had been feathered up with ribbon, flowers, cushy iridescent shred. They were ready for nesters. The larger pile still needed attention, but suddenly the mood for attending to frivolous party favors had passed.
“It’s such a big house, hon,” Ellie said finally. “You don’t want to be rattling around in that big house all by yourself now. Think of the upkeep. You can take your share of…” She caught Camille’s worrisome glance. “Or just rent something. Let the landlord worry about keeping the sidewalks shoveled.”
“Or become a bag lady.” Bridget’s hollow humor echoed out of a vacant stare.
“You’ll be the only one on the street with designer clothes in her bags.” Camille laid her hand over her friend’s forearm. “You’ll be Bridget, the stylin’ bag lady.”
“You think this is funny, Camille?” Bridget suddenly came to life, jerking her arm away. “Oh, I get it. Now it’s my turn, right?”
“Your turn for what? You made the bag-lady comment, which I took as my cue to lighten up. Although, as a rule, I don’t laugh at bag ladies.”
“Are you saying I do?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’m saying…” Camille shook her head. She wasn’t going to let Bridget wallow in it too much, but she did have some sympathy for her. It was a vision she’d had herself from time to time. “I’m saying it’s a scary thought.”
“There but for the grace of God—”
“Knock it off, Ellie,” Camille said. “We’re not holding a prayer service here. Nobody’s going to be a bag lady.” She offered Ellie an apology in a glance.
Ellie was still smarting, but the pain was heavier on Bridget’s side of the table, and there was only so much sympathy to go around before things turned sloppy. Be damned if Camille would let it all turn to sap right there in her dining room.
“Bridge, the only thing we’re taking turns at is being mother of the bride. I’ll welcome any advice you can give me.”
“Don’t try to do too much of it yourself,” Bridget said quietly, welcoming the chance to advise. “Hire people or…ask your friends. If I had known…” She drew a deep, steadying breath and shook her head firmly. “I wouldn’t have done anything differently, and I don’t regret one penny of what it cost. It was a beautiful wedding.”
“Yes, it was.”
Creed found the door unlocked, as promised. The house was dark and quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the mantel, which sounded like someone thumping a hickory stick on the floor in the schoolhouse. It felt like the old days. Not the old school days, when acting like a boy was justified, but the crazy days when a man enjoyed feeling like a boy sneaking into class late. He’d been a smart boy, terrified of riling the teacher. But as a man he’d miscalculated. His wife had been somebody else’s teacher, somebody else’s mother, but he wanted her to play all the roles for him as well. He had expected too much and taken her way too lightly.
Sneaking into the house in the middle of the night had felt a little risky, which was the part he’d always enjoyed. He was a night owl. Being stealthy was part of his nature, part of his game. It was too much to hope that he’d hook up with a woman who shared his nature, so he’d married simply for love. He knew Camille had done the same. It had been good while it lasted, but miserable as hell when it had all started going south.
“Creed?”
The whisper came from the living room. He followed it to the sofa. A flailing hand found his leg. He grabbed it and knelt, catching his elbow on the arm of the sofa when his knee threatened to pain him. Getting old was a bitch, all right. You never expected it to happen to you, and you didn’t anticipate the changes that it brought with it. Aging was full of surprises, just like the hand he was holding. Certain things you expected when you reached for a familiar hand. Not the cold or the weightlessness or the feel of dry tissue paper passing for skin.
“I came as quick as I could, Rosie. What’s going on?”
“I’m going to need a little help getting to your pickup.” She struggled to sit up. He lent his arm to her effort. “How far away is it?”
“You told me not to pull up in the driveway, but it’s not far. Rosie, we have to tell Camille about this.”
“No we don’t.” She sat up briefly on her own support, then sighed as she swayed against him. “You’ll have me back here before she wakes up.”
“Damn, Rosie, you’re like a rag doll. What’s the matter?”
“The matter is…” She slipped her arm around his shoulder. “I got turned into a rag doll. Can you carry me?”
He wrapped her in the blanket she had brought from her bed and lifted her in his arms. His knees cracked.
He chuckled. “Never thought I’d be sneaking around with my ex-wife’s mother.”
“Oh!” Her limp arm suddenly found enough strength to flop her hand to her head. “Oh. Forgot my hair.”
“You mean you didn’t fix up for me?”
She laughed a little as she rested her head on his shoulder. Against the side of his neck he could feel the fine down that covered her head. He might have been carrying a long, skinny baby.
They’d reached the door. Fortunately, because he’d repaired it a week ago, he was able to open it easily, noiselessly.
“Rosie? You gonna make it?”
She made a sound that passed for affirmative.
He carried her down the driveway, stopping once to adjust the slipping blanket. A streetlamp guided him past the dappled shadows of the huge maple tree in the front yard. He treaded softly, no dragging his boot heels against the pavement, no displacement of gravel. Only the crickets and the squeaky door on the passenger’s side of the pickup disturbed the wee-hour quiet.
“I should’ve called for an ambulance,” he said under his breath when he slid behind the wheel.
“Too noisy. You—”
“I can be pretty sneaky, all right. I guess you’ve heard.” He wanted an answer from her. “Rosie?”
“I’m here,” she assured him, head back, eyes closed. “Still here.”
“Don’t worry, Rosie, there are some advantages to having a sneaky son-in-law. I know how to get you from here to there and back before anybody knows you stepped out.”
“Stopped thinking of you as a bad boy…long time ago.”
“I know you did, Rosie, but I tell you what.” He covered her baldness with his big, callused hand. “You listening?”
She nodded.
“If my daughter told me she was gettin’ married to some honky-tonk man, I’d lock her in the tower and wish her luck growing out her hair.”