Rocky shrugged. “What choice do I have? If I don’t, you might rescind my invitation to the biggest shindig of the year.”
“You mean you weren’t invited to Prissy Olin’s wedding?”
“Hell, yes, I was,” he said. “I’m quite the prestigious invite around here, but still, you’re like the daughter I never bothered to have.”
He leaned over my shoulder, looking at the photo of the seating area by the water.
“Oh, good. We can all go gator-huntin’ after the wedding. I just love a well-planned event.”
“Rocky, please,” I said. “I’m trying to make this whole thing work, and you’re not helping.”
“Sorry, Betsy. But you know you don’t need to worry so much. Pecan Bayou loves you, and we’re just happy for you.”
“Rocky, there is something I think I need to share with you. Martha put a rose scent in her calamine lotion. She gave me the jar because she didn’t want to ever see it again. I gave it to my dad, and they’ve tested it.”
“Rose scent? Really? Like a smell bees like?”
“Yes. Now she’s terrified it might have killed him.”
“That would be great.”
“Huh?”
“If she killed him with her rose-scented kindness, the paper can’t be blamed,” Rocky said. “It was all her doing.”
“Well, there was something extra in her lotion that the police are comparing with another jar in the batch. We just have to figure out who put it in there.”
“And why?” Rocky said.
The police scanner cackled in the background. “We’re going to need an ambulance to the Olin residence, right away. We have someone going into shock.”
I shot a glance at Rocky. “Do you think that’s Prissy Olin?”
Rocky grabbed his raincoat. “Don’t know, but if it is Pecan Bayou’s other bride-to-be, this reporter is going to find out. Why don’t you come on along, just in case we spot another baby food jar full of your goop. You can hide it before anyone else figures it out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Orley Ortiz was just pulling into the driveway as Rocky pulled his pickup to the curb in front of the Olin house.
As I got out of the passenger side of the truck, Orley called out, “Betsy, I think you’re a little early. Dispatch didn’t say this one was dead yet.”
“Nice seeing you too, Orley,” I called back.
Nancy Olin came running out of the house, her hands shaking. “Thank goodness you’re here! Prissy’s in the living room. She’s swelling up like a tick.”
We followed Orley in as if we were part of the paramedic team. Mrs. Olin was too upset to notice two extra people in her first responder party. Upon entering the two-story Victorian home, we made our way through a foyer crowded with pictures of Prissy placed tastefully on the walls.
“She had a little rash. Pre-wedding jitters, you know,” said Mrs. Olin. “She’s marrying Theodore Obermeyer, the mayor’s son. I mean, you can’t do much better in this town. Still, she’s nervous, and it was starting to play out in her complexion.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Orley said as he pulled an epinephrine pen out of his bag. We walked in on a grotesquely swollen Prissy weeping on the couch.
“Miss Olin? Are you having any difficulty breathing?”
“No, I’m breaving, but you have thu make dis betta. I have vedding announcethment picthures thomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” Orley turned to Prissy’s mother. “Has she come in contact with something that she’s allergic to recently?”
“No, nothing that I know of.”
Prissy started motioning wildly to a small cold cream jar on the coffee table.
“Did you put this cold cream on today?”
“No!” Her scream was muffled by the swelling of her lips.
“You didn’t put this cold cream on?”
“Yeth!”
“I think she’s delirious,” Rocky said.
Mrs. Olin took the cold cream from Orley. “Prissy, did you put some of this on your rash?”
“Yeth! Yeth!”
“Has she had a reaction to cold cream before?” Orley asked.
“No!” Prissy said.
“No, she hasn’t.” Mrs. Olin unscrewed the cap of the small white jar. “But this isn’t cold cream. This is the batch of calamine lotion I made with the ladies group at church. We brought our own jars and chose not to put tacky flower stickers all over them.”
Prissy was now jumping up and down, overwhelmed with joy that she was being understood. I decided to slowly back out of the room, bumping into Rocky, who was doing the same thing.
“You made your own calamine lotion? I didn’t even know a person could do that,” said Orley. “Where’d you get the recipe?”
“Well, I think someone got it out of the paper. That helpful hints advice column or something.” Mrs. Olin stopped mid-thought and turned in my direction. It was as if a bright, hot spotlight hit me cowering in the corner, trying to make a run for the exit.
“Betsy? Did they get this from one of your Happy Hinter columns?” Orley asked.
“Maybe,” I answered.
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Orley, I wasn’t there when the ladies made up this batch. They could have put in all kinds of stuff that wasn’t in the original recipe.”
“Like what?”
“Like a rose scent or something.”
Orley took the open jar and sniffed at it. “No rose scent. Mrs. Olin, I’ll need you to get me the exact list of the ingredients for us to take along to the hospital. It could be that Prissy here had some sort of bad reaction.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Olin pulled her cashmere sweater close around her and left the room.
“You did vis,” Prissy said, pointing her swollen finger at me.
“I certainly hope not,” I answered. “We’ll get you to the hospital.”
“You jus wannabe da only bribe.”
“No, that’s not true,” I said. “There’s room for two Pecan Bayou brides on Valentine’s Day.”
“You did vis!” she screamed as Orley stabbed the epinephrine pen into her leg.
Mrs. Olin came back in with her purse on her arm. “Prissy, calm yourself. We’ll get this all straightened out.” She reached out her hand to her daughter and looked at me. “Do us all a favor and stay away from the hospital. I think you’ve done enough damage here, Betsy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
That evening, as I turned out Zach’s light and closed his door softly so as not to wake him, my cell jangled where I had left it on the coffee table.
“Hey, Bets.” It was Leo. “So I was online working out where we are going to be staying in Vermont, but I couldn’t stop thinking about whether we should put a contract on that house I showed you. It’s still on the market, and we could go through the closing process and be in it a month after we’re married. It would really shorten how long we stay in the apartment,” he said.
“How much time do you think we have?” I asked.
“About a week, but calling the realtor now would be even better.”
“We also need to figure out what to do about the boys while we’re on the honeymoon.” I said, changing the subject away from the real estate contract.
“Could they stay with Aunt Maggie or down in Galveston with my mom?”
“What about school? Zach doesn’t need to miss all that school.”
“Okay, Betsy, here’s the problem. We can’t make this decision because we have been putting off making the other decision.”
I dreaded the direction our conversation was going. We had to choose whose town we were going to live in, and we had to do it now.
“Leo, you have to understand … moving to Dallas is a really hard thing for me,” I said. “My family is here. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“It’s not like you’re moving across the ocean.”
“Do you know how many times a week I call and get together with m
y family?”
Leo didn’t answer me.
“Betsy, you know I love you, but I don’t think it’s out of the question for me to want to live in the same city as my wife.”
I pulled the afghan from the couch over my legs. A chill was descending in the room.
“You’re right. I know you are.”
“Betsy, we’ve discussed this,” he said. “My job is here, and you can write your column anywhere. Dallas is the logical decision for us right now.”
“I know,” I said, a single tear escaping and making a lonely journey down my cheek.
Leo was right, but what I was giving up was immeasurable. I wouldn’t have my father stopping by for coffee and then telling me the latest story of the goofy residents of Pecan Bayou. I wouldn’t have Danny and his beautiful smile and ever-present hug any time I wanted it. Mostly I wouldn’t have Aunt Maggie, dear sweet Aunt Maggie, who was the mother my heart recognized.
“Betsy?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just realized I need to do something to help me with this.”
“What’s that?”
“Talk to Aunt Maggie.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Don’t worry about the honeymoon. I’ll take care of it, okay? You just worry about getting everything arranged for the wedding. That’s plenty. Talk to Maggie. Love you, Betsy.”
“Love you, too.”
And I really did, but why did I feel so unhappy?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next morning I waved to Zach as he settled in a seat on the bus headed to Buzz Aldrin Elementary. Next year he would be in middle school with Tyler, and that scared me. The thought of him being in middle school in Dallas took me up another notch. The schools there were gigantic. Would he get lost in all those kids?
Right now the concept of living in Dallas was exciting to him, but next year when he would start to miss his grandpa and Danny, it would be different. I headed back to the house as my dad pulled up in his squad car. He jumped out holding a copy of the morning paper.
“Betsy. Have you read this thing yet?”
Mine was still rolled up in its plastic sleeve on the kitchen table.
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “Why don’t you come in and you can tell me all about it.”
I poured him a cup of black coffee and set it down on the table as he spread the paper flat. The headline read: “Battle of the Brides: Attack with Killer Calamine Cream.”
“Oh my God,” I sputtered.
“You look surprised. According to the article, you were the one who started it.”
“What?” I scanned the newsprint, and indeed I was named as one of the battling brides. Rocky had snapped a picture of Prissy Olin’s swollen face as she raised what looked like one grotesquely shaped middle finger at him.
“That old rascal,” I said. “I’m surprised he would even touch this, seeing as it reflects so badly on the paper.”
“We know there was something extra in the calamine Martha made, but the rest of the town doesn’t,” said my dad. “There wouldn’t be anything else in it, would there?”
“No, yes, maybe. I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t think so. I’ve used it on Zach, and he didn’t swell up like Prissy. I certainly never told Rocky he could use this story in the paper.”
“Yeah, well that never stopped him before,” Dad said. “Rocky is like The Enquirer at an alien sighting in the Elvis Lives Here Trailer Park. He can’t help himself.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“The problem we have now is all the people in this town who will believe it. The loonies will start coming out of the woodwork.”
“Don’t forget, Dad. This paper is online.”
Judd shook his head. “Damn computer age.”
******
“Mrs. Livingston?” I had finally decided to answer my cell phone after my house phone had been ringing nonstop since the newspaper article came out three hours earlier.
I sighed. How could they get my cell? I only gave that out to people I actually had face-to-face conversations with. “Yes?”
“This is Yancey Fischer, Mrs. Livingston. We have ourselves a real problem here, missy.”
“What’s that? If this is about the article in the paper …”
“No, ma’am, we don’t take much stock in the paper at our house. Rocky Whitson’s an idiot,” said Yancey. “No, we just had a visit from Prissy Olin and her mother. Seems that Morton might have booked them for a reception out here, a week before I booked you.”
“A reception? Out there? Well, that’s really not my problem that you can’t keep your appointment calendar straight,” I snapped. “Prissy Olin has already used the church we we’re also using. I think we should at least be able to use that field you call a chateau.”
“Now there’s no need to get ugly about this, Mrs. Livingston. Everyone has a right to make a livin’, you know.”
“Fine, so how do you fix this mistake?”
“Well, Morton and I discussed that very fact. We would be willing to give you folks 10 percent off your fee if you reschedule for another weekend.”
I was underwhelmed by his offer.
“Seriously? You want me to change the date of my wedding? Do you know how difficult that is?”
I slammed my hand down on the counter.
“There is no need to get angry and go all crazy on us. My missus told me you wouldn’t be happy about this.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be out to pick up my deposit.”
“About the deposit …”
“It will be returned in full, or maybe the Pecan Bayou Police would like to know about it,” I threatened.
“I was saying, about the deposit, that we will be glad to refund it in full,” Yancey Fischer hung up. I uttered a frustrated scream and pushed “end call” on my phone. Was there anything else that could go wrong?!
The phone rang in my hand, making me jump. If this was Yancey Fischer, I was ready to let him have it with both barrels.
“What!” I said sharply.
“Betsy?” Aunt Maggie inquired as though she’d just found me sitting by the side of the road.
“Oh, Aunt Maggie. I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were Yancey Fischer. He just called and told me we couldn’t have our reception at Chateau Fischer.”
“Why not?”
“Because our favorite bride, Prissy Olin, had booked a week before we did, and the Fischer brothers lost track of it until now. Just how does that happen when they told us we were the first wedding they would have out there?”
“I’ll tell you how,” Maggie said. “Nancy Olin and a collection of dead presidents. That’s how.”
“You really think so? I can’t believe they would do that. They were so well organized. Why would they be booking the reception just now?”
“Maybe they had something fall through in their plans and they’re scrambling too?”
“Getting married seemed like such a simple idea,” I said. “A bride, a groom, a sunny honeymoon. I have headaches, dead florists, snippy guys with two-bit fields they call chateaus, and my own mother couldn’t even stick around to see it through.”
“Don’t be saying things like that, baby girl. You’ll curse yourself,” my aunt said. “We’ll figure something out, I promise you. Maybe we can get the old VFW hall.”
“Wonderful, then later we can all play horseshoes.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll start making some calls.”
So now I had another deposit to pick up. I punched in Mr. Andre’s number to tell him about our latest crisis.
“What do you mean they made a mistake?” he demanded. “That’s crazy. They told us we were their first customers.”
“I know they did. It seems they accidentally had another first customer that they conveniently forgot about. Aunt Maggie thinks Prissy’s mother slipped them some cash to cancel us and put their own reception on the calendar.”
“Well, I suppose that happens,” he said. “No o
ne would believe what a cutthroat business wedding planning really is. Let me at least give Mr. Fischer a call and see if I can straighten this out. It is what you’re paying me for, after all.”
“Thank you. Do you have any ideas for somewhere else to have the wedding at this late date?”
“I have a few possibilities, but I’ll have to check that out first. You told me your colors are red and black, the classic V-day wedding, right? I need you to head over to Martha Stokes and find out if she is going to have something that will complement those colors.”
“Can’t we just call her?” I said.
“No, and I’m too busy. You need to eyeball things in order to get true wedding perfection. The last thing we want to do is to rely on what a vendor tells us. Best to see things in person.”
“If you say so.” I hung up the phone and rubbed my eyes with my hands. I suddenly felt very tired. Too tired to get married, and too tired to go over to Martha’s place. I took in a deep breath, trying to work myself into getting up off the couch. My front doorbell jolted me from my meltdown.
I opened the door to see Wilhelm Mueller, owner of Wilhelm’s B&B, standing at my door. “It’s Frau Happy Hinter herself. I’m honored to meet you.” He clicked his heels together and extended his hand. “I come bearing gifts.” All of a sudden his German accent seemed to vanish and was replaced by a Texas drawl. “Sorry, we put that on for the tourists. I’m from Waco,” he said, holding up his hand, “but a proud German Texan. Your mother left our establishment so quickly she didn’t get her refund. I can’t seem to get hold of her, so I brought you the money. Would you see that she gets it?”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure, Mr. Mueller.”
“She said she was here for your wedding, so we were surprised she didn’t stay. I’m hoping we didn’t do anything wrong. My missus would be very upset.”
“No, that’s just my mother,” I assured him.
“Well, not everyone is partial to living in a German bed and breakfast. We put on the lederhosen for the tourists, and sometimes it gets pretty loud, what with the accordion playing the polka music. Our party room was booked with the Lutheran ladies the weekend she was there. I never made so much potato salad. I hope we didn’t run her off.”
Buzzkill (Pecan Bayou Series) Page 11
