“They’re coming.” I motioned to Kylie. “Take Jocelyn with you. Take her now.”
The twins each took an arm and led her across the ramp. Joe pushed the lever and the ramp slowly rose and locked into position. The engine kicked up a notch, the water churned, and the Ongiara slowly backed away from the dock.
“Have fun,” I called, and waved my arm in a big arc. I’m fine, see? Everything is just fine.
The four girls lined up along the railing. Three waved back with equally big arcs. Okay, you’re fine. Jocelyn crossed her arms. Liar.
The woman with the toddler stood slightly back from them, looking at me like I was indeed the crazy woman of the Island. The way things were going, she was probably right.
I sniffed back tears, made my smile bigger. “Be sure to come back,” I called to Jocelyn.
She smiled at last and blew me a kiss. “Count on it.”
RUBY
Never having been married, I had no idea a wedding, even a simple one, required so much organization, documentation, and tulle. Tulle for decorating, favors, headpieces—as far as I could tell, no wedding was complete without miles and miles of white, frothy tulle. Apparently brides sold it on eBay after the big day. People who made a living planning such events knew these things. Lucky for me, Mary Anne had been planning hers since the day she turned ten.
Within twelve hours of our engagement, she had a wedding checklist in front of us with stars beside the first three items: Fix a date. Book the church. Rent the clubhouse.
By Sunday night, Mark and I had completed items one and three. However, because he is stubbornly Catholic and I am third-generation agnostic, we skipped item two and hired a justice of the peace to do the honors instead. It was either that or risk having me burst into flames at the altar, which might have made Jocelyn smile, but would have meant a messy cleanup for the church ladies, and that hardly seemed fair.
Along with the checklist, she had also gave me a file marked VENUE with pictures cut from magazines, showing me how fabulous the clubhouse would look with white tablecloths, satiny chair covers, and all of that tulle draped and pouffed on every conceivable surface.
Mary Anne hadn’t mentioned tiny white lights, but judging by the pictures, I would doubtless be looking for miles of those on eBay as well because as unlikely as it was, I admit I had been sucked into this wedding madness. Entranced by fairy-tale settings, swept up in the search for a theme, and amazed that cakes could be art. She had not yet tried to convince me that I needed someone to walk me down the aisle, which meant that so far, the only point of contention had been our choice of date.
“You cannot pull a wedding together in three weeks,” she’d said. “It takes longer than that to print the invitations.”
“Why don’t we just put the invitation on the phone chain?” I suggested.
“Or why not run off a few flyers and staple them to lampposts.” She lowered her chin and looked at me over her reading glasses. “This is not a rave, Ruby. This is a wedding. And the invitations are always engraved.”
I was beginning to understand the terror her students must know on a daily basis.
Now, on Monday morning with a rush order about to be placed for invitations, and two and a half weeks to go, the biggest decision facing us now was the menu. A file with our choices was sitting in the middle of the table when we came back from canoeing this morning. Right next to the large manila envelope Lori from Algonquin had dropped off as well—the envelope containing her offer to buy the assets and client list of Chez Ruby.
“Mary Anne left that for you,” Grace said, taking a sip of tea and disappearing around the corner into the storage room to join Jocelyn in a search for sponges.
The two of them were getting ready to take down the mockingbird cage and eating breakfast on the run—morning glory muffins from the clubhouse instead of eggs, which had left me staring at the stove for a moment. Grace didn’t seem bothered by the change, however. In fact, she looked happy as she rooted around in the cupboard under the sink.
Reminding myself to be grateful for small things, I put it down to wedding madness and poured tea for myself, coffee for Mark.
“These are really good,” Grace said, retuning to the table to pop the last bit of muffin into her mouth. “You should try one.”
Jocelyn said nothing, of course. Just kissed her dad on the cheek, curled her lip at me like a mongrel, and followed Grace out the door. But as mad as she still was at me about the wedding, she had not resorted to covering her face with white makeup and black eyeliner. And she stopped wearing her Hated skirt after only a few hours on Friday. Seems it was not conducive to birding in the bush. I learn something new every day. And usually forget it the next. But not today. Not so far.
“They do look good,” Mark said, peering into the muffin bag. “You want one?”
“Why not?” I shook this morning’s pills into my palm and swallowed them down with pomegranate juice, pleased that Big Al had not yet joined us for breakfast.
In fact he’d been rather lax about coming down at all these past few days, leaving me with most of my marbles, most of the time. Perhaps he was taking a vacation. Resting up after our last dance. While it would be nice to believe Dr. Mistry’s latest shift in meds was finally paying off, I knew better than to count on anything where Al was concerned. Told myself not to get excited. Take things day by day and keep that notebook handy at all times.
Speaking of which, I took the notebook out of the back pocket of my shorts and set it down in front of me. Open me, you stupid cow. That sticker still made me smile, but Mark had been horrified the first time he saw it. “Why would you write that?”
Because it was the first thing that came to mind. No longer confident that there would be a second thing, I’d scribbled it down right away, only later realizing I’d come up with a theme without my even trying.
I flipped open the book, printed Today’s List at the top followed by: Sign papers. Meet Lori. Find out about cuckoo. I laid the pen down. What kind of cuckoo? Not the clock kind. Something else. A black something. Close enough. I crossed out cuckoo and printed the more precise, if not entirely complete, black something cuckoo.
Mark set a muffin in front of me. Kissed the side of my neck and sat down. “What’s Mary Anne have in mind for the menu?”
It was more curiosity than a genuine need to be part of the wedding madness that had prompted the question. His involvement in the process had ended on the night of his proposal when he handed me his credit card and said, “Whatever you want is fine by me.”
He hadn’t shown any sign of regret either when he climbed into bed with me the following morning—his first foray up my stairs since he arrived on the Island, possible only because the girls left for their bike ride before I was even up—still searching for the elusive black something cuckoo as I understood it.
Seemed that bird was proving harder to find than any of the others, and I was beginning to wonder if there was more going on during those morning bike rides than Grace was telling. But the worry drifted away when Mark started kissing my lips, my throat, the ticklish spot behind my ear. And when his hands moved down the length of my body, only to come right back up, sliding my nightgown up and off, my mind filled with memories of other mornings, other nights when he’d kissed me just this way before starting the slow, tender trek down between my breasts to my stomach and beyond.
I was grateful that Big Al slept on, mercifully oblivious to the sighs, gasps, and occasional hoots of laughter going on all around him. And that he stayed that way while Mark and I lay in each other’s arms afterward, sweaty and smiling, waiting for skin to cool and breath to calm. It was with a clear head that I decided then and there that I really did want to get married. Not just to save the house or to protect Grace but for myself. For Ruby Donaldson who could finally admit she’d been an idiot to throw him out and wanted a chance to make up for all the lost years. To have him there in her bed every night and every morning for as long as possibl
e. To go out remembering the touch of this man, this love, on her skin.
Sitting at the kitchen table now, watching him read the menus, I knew I’d made the right choice. Invitations be damned. Three weeks was long enough to wait.
“I’m leaning toward number three,” he said, laying the pages in front of me. “What do you think?”
All three menus were from Mary Anne’s most trusted caterer and included assorted hot and cold appetizers, chef’s wedding soup, green salad, and a lemon cheesecake rich enough to satisfy the most expensive taste. The only difference was the main course. Chicken, veal, or roast beef. I didn’t need to look to know that menu number three must be the roast beef.
I picked up the envelope instead and held it out to him. “I think we should look at this first. Lori said she’d come by this morning for a decision, and I’d like your opinion.”
“You know my opinion.” He went to top up his coffee. “Why the rush? What difference will it make if you sign your company away today or wait until after the wedding?”
“I’m not signing my company away, I’m selling it and making a nice profit in the process.” I dropped the envelope back on the table and reached for the milk jug. “Besides, I can’t wait any longer even if wanted to. Grace knows something is up because dear Mrs. Charlton told her I was winding things down. She hasn’t said much, but that bottle of peroxide is proof enough that she’s feeling her oats, pushing my buttons to goad me into a discussion about this, and I do not want to open that door.”
“Why not? What would be wrong with a discussion?”
“It would upset her, that’s what. Grace functions best with structure, and I’m sorry she found out anything at all. I wanted to present her with a done deal so she could adjust to her new situation without any advance fretting and worrying. Like the wedding. We didn’t ask her if she minded if we got married, we simply told her what was going to happen, and she adjusted. It’s different with a girl like Jocelyn, but it works well for Grace.”
“What are you plotting for me now?” We both jerked around as Jocelyn came through the door. “An all-girls school in Switzerland?”
“Something much more important.” Mark slid the envelope to one side and held up the menus. “The wedding dinner. What do you think we should serve? Chicken, veal, or roast beef?”
Jocelyn did the eye roll that was always so attractive. “Who gives a shit?”
It was the first time we’d agreed on anything. I would have been happy with potluck. Let everybody bring something and see what happened. Three tables of desserts, a tray of deviled eggs, and one chickpea salad, if my guess was right. But that menu wouldn’t fit with the white tablecloths and satiny chairs of my shocking new fantasy, leaving me no choice but to set the notion adrift and say, “Roast beef could work,” setting myself up for an in-depth analysis of au jus versus gravy when Mary Anne came over later.
“I can’t believe you two,” Jocelyn said. “Doesn’t anybody want to talk about the stuff that really matters? Like where we’re going to live?”
Mark carried his plate to the sink. “We can discuss that tonight. Right now, Mary Anne needs a decision for the caterer.”
“Will you stop the bullshit?” Jocelyn said. “The wedding will last one day. Our living arrangement will last the other three hundred and sixty-four. That should be item number one on your fucking checklist.”
“Jocelyn, if you don’t watch your language—”
“She has a point,” Grace said.
None of us had heard her come in and we all turned at the same time.
“I’ve been wondering where we’ll live too,” she said, crossing to the sink and opening the cupboard again. She reached in and pulled out a bottle of bleach. “I mean, it’s okay if she shares my room. It’s pretty big, and we could move in another bed. Or we could have bunk beds.” She closed the door with a smile. “That might be fun.”
“I am not sleeping in a bunk bed. I need my own room.” She turned to Mark. “So here’s the deal. I’ll agree to live here as long as I have my own room.”
Mark raised a brow. “You’re agreeing to live here, just like that? No discussion, no fighting, no more Hated skirt at breakfast?” He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter. “Why?”
She threw up her hands. “Because what choice do we have? Our beautiful four-bedroom house in Rosedale perhaps? The one with a flat-screen TV, heated pool, and your house-swap buddy, Seth, in the hot tub? We all know that isn’t going to work for Grace.”
Color burned its way up into Grace’s face and she turned away. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine anywhere but here,” Jocelyn said. “While I’m sure that will change in the future, I know it’s the case now and I’m okay with living here. I just need a room of my own.” She pointed at me. “And for her to stay out of my face.” She turned back to her dad. “Are these things going to be possible?”
“I suppose we can tie Ruby up for a few years. As for your own room …” He shrugged and took a look around. “We’d have to have an architect look at the place. See if another floor is feasible—”
“Not necessary,” I said, because this was still my house and I would not be tied up or left out of any discussion concerning what would or would not be added or subtracted. “The solution is right in front of us.” I rose and walked to the sink, gestured to the storage /laundry room off the kitchen. “That used to be Liz’s room. We renovated so we could bring Chez Ruby here. But there’s no reason we can’t put it all back the way it was for Jocelyn.”
“Except that’s where we keep all the salon stuff,” Grace said, and walked over to the storage room. “We can probably fit the roller carts and your workstation in my room, but that would still leave the towels and the washing machine and …” She stopped and faced me. “Unless you’ve got something else in mind. Unless you’re winding things down.” She came a step closer. “What does that mean? And why did you cancel my appointments without telling me?”
Definitely feeling her oats. I sighed, remembering only too well where that had led the last time, and wishing Lori had already been and gone with those papers. But since Grace was determined to open the door, there was nothing left but to walk through and hope for the best.
“I canceled the appointments because I wanted us both to have more time off. And ‘winding things down’ simply means slowing things down, enjoying life more. That’s what I’m doing with Chez Ruby. Slowing it down so we can enjoy life more.” I got up from the table and cupped her face in my hands. “Sweetheart, I’m fifty-five. I want to relax, retire. I thought we’d try it out by taking the summer off. Find out what it’s like to have a little time to ourselves.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “You want me to try out your retirement? Mom, I’ll be thirty next week. I don’t want to retire. I want to work. I like to work.”
“I understand that, but as you know I haven’t been well—”
“The cancer, yes,” she said, her beautiful face filling with compassion and empathy, making my own flush with guilt. “You didn’t tell me about that either.”
“That’s because I only found out recently myself,” I said, refusing to acknowledge Mark’s cough or his sudden need for more coffee, because it was true—I had no idea where the cancer notion had come from. Something was going on with Grace. Something more than birds, I was sure of it.
I sat down and picked up my cup. “Of course, I’m perfect now. Right as rain, but I want more time to myself. And running a business takes a lot of time and energy—”
“I have time,” Grace said. “And energy. Lots and lots of energy.”
“If only that was enough. But there’s also bookkeeping and paperwork—”
“We can hire a bookkeeper,” Mark offered, and had the audacity to look all wide-eyed and innocent when I scowled at him. “It’s just a suggestion.”
“A really good one,” Grace said, beaming, dreaming—both equally dangerous. “If we
hire a bookkeeper, then I promise to keep everything else the same.” She all but danced over to the table. “I’ll make sure the floor is swept after every client and the water cleaned up after every shampoo. I’ll book the appointments every forty-five minutes, just like you do, and I’ll always play Big Band music.” She pulled out the chair and sat down beside me. “I’ve done almost all of your clients’ hair at least once or twice, and most of them like what I do.” She grinned at Jocelyn. “Mary Anne really likes what I do.”
“So do Marla and Audrey,” Jocelyn said.
I waved a hand to cut her off, to cut all of them off. “No one has ever disputed Grace’s ability to cut and color hair.”
“You’d think that was the most important thing in a salon, wouldn’t you?” Jocelyn said. “Otherwise people would go to their bookkeepers or their bank managers or someone else who was really good with paperwork when they wanted their hair done. But they don’t. They go to someone with the ability to cut and color hair.”
I closed my eyes. “My God, it’s like having Liz in the house.”
“Jocelyn, that’s enough,” Mark said.
“But she’s right,” Grace said. “If people are happy with their hair, why won’t they keep coming back just because someone else is doing the paperwork? And I won’t change the name or the color of the towels or anything. All you need to do is give me a chance.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jocelyn said.
Even Mark was carried away. “She certainly has the drive.”
I turned to her again. “Grace, sweetheart. You know I love you, but running a business is more than bookkeeping. There’s inventory, ordering—I can’t begin to name all the things that are second nature to me now. I can’t possibly teach you everything else you’d need to know.”
“How can you say that?” Jocelyn demanded. “You haven’t even tried.”
I rounded on her at last. “Little girl, you have no idea what you’re talking about. For seventeen years, I’ve been showing my daughter what it is to run a business. Hoping she’d start to get it, to understand even the basics, but she hasn’t. And the proof is right here in front of us.” I went to the supply cupboard, picked up the brand-new bottle of peroxide, and plunked it down in front of Grace. “Do you know where this came from?”
Island Girl Page 31
