Badly Done, Emma Lee

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Carmine? Toxic? Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorts. “Carmine doesn’t pose a health risk, but I can’t imagine it is entirely hygienic for one to smear pulverized beetles onto their lips.” He shudders, and it takes all my self-control not to laugh. I cannot help but feel Miss Belle would be proud of my restraint. “Seventy thousand beetles are killed to create one pound of dye. All that effort to manufacture lip rouge.”

  “Vanity run amok, if you ask me,” sniffs Mrs. Waites.

  Deidre looks mortified, and I suspect it is not the first time she has been embarrassed by her overbearing mother.

  “Mrs. Waites, William,” Knightley says. “I recently acquired a first edition of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Would you care to see it?”

  “Emily Brontë.” William clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Such a talent. Such a waste. A simple cold, unattended, developed into tuberculosis. Emily was frightfully mistrusting of doctors. She rejected medical attention and the disease ate away at her until she was a skeleton of her former self. Her coffin measured only sixteen inches wide. Can you imagine?”

  “I cannot,” Knightley says.

  “Thank you,” William says. “I would like to see your acquisition.”

  “As would I,” Mrs. Waites concurs.

  Knightley holds out his arm, but Mrs. Waites begins walking unassisted.

  “Emily Brontë was not the only author to die of tuberculosis,” William says, walking beside Knightley. “Orwell, Thoreau, Keats, Maupassant, Molière . . .”

  Knightley looks over his shoulder and smiles.

  “I am sorry about my mother,” Deidre whispers. “Macular degeneration has blunted her vision but not her tongue.”

  “No worries,” I say. “I love your blouse. Are those flowers?”

  “Violets.” Deidre beams. “Violets are my favorite flower. They were also Queen Victoria’s favorite flower, though I don’t hold that against them.”

  I laugh. “Good of you. There’s no room for floral prejudice in today’s progressive climate.”

  Deidre giggles.

  Isabella strides into the library, her head held at a regal angle, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She sees me and hurries over.

  “Emma Lee,” she says, pulling me into her arms. “I am sorry I wasn’t here to greet you properly. The Cornish game hens required a bit of my attention, I am afraid. Basting is a time-consuming business, you know.” She squeezes me before letting me go. “Have you met everyone?”

  I look around the room at the people gathered in clusters in front of the fireplace, beside the grand piano, around a massive antique globe, and shake my head.

  “Well, then,” she says, linking her arm through mine, “shall we?”

  Half an hour later, Isabella introduces me to the last guest, Vicar Parsons, an affable man with kind eyes, though not as cute as the actor who plays Sidney Chambers in Grantchester. Besides William Curtis, Deidre, and Mrs. Waites, the eclectic group includes Hayley Bartlett, the pretty though tomboyish owner of the only fresh, organically grown produce market in Northam-on-the-Water; John Barrington, an intensely quiet farmer who bears a striking resemblance to the actor Michael Fassbender; Harriet Cole, a middle-aged widow and the owner of Call Me Darjeeling; Annalise Whittaker-Smith, a striking brunette who happens to be Hayley’s half sister, though I sense little sisterly affection between the pair; and assorted members of Isabella’s book and women’s clubs.

  Bingley and Brandon Nickerson arrive as Vicar Parsons is trying to convince me to join the church choir, despite my confession of being practically tone-deaf. Isabella’s younger sons kiss their mother’s cheeks and offer me warm welcomes. All Isabella’s sons are handsome, though Knightley is the hottie of the trio.

  Bingley, the baby, is cheerful, clever, and quick with a quip. He has a thatch of artfully messy curls, bright, sparkling blue eyes, and what my sister Manderley calls designer stubble. He wears his stylish blue-checked suit with nonchalance, like a male model posing at the end of a runway. Yet, when I compliment his fashion-forward wing-tip boots, he beams with obvious pleasure.

  Brandon, the middle son, is tall and muscular, with close-cropped dark hair and a wired-up-tight military bearing. Isabella told me Brandon attended Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and served with Prince Harry before joining Nickerson Publishing as director of marketing and promotions. Frankly, I am surprised Bingley, with his outgoing, jovial personality, doesn’t work in marketing and promotions. Isabella told me Brandon is an adventure junkie, always pushing himself to learn and excel at some extreme sport.

  I’m not gonna lie, y’all, looking at Knightley, Brandon, and Bingley Nickerson, I am stunned, I mean flat-out floored, they’re still single. Handsome heterosexual men with good breeding and superior education. It defies logic. While Bingley tells his momma about an article he is writing for the men’s magazine The Rake, I build a mental dossier for each of the Nickerson men. Brandon, with his serious demeanor and athletic bent, might be perfect for Kristen, my overachieving, hypercompetitive sorority sister. Too bad she is squatting her little heart out three thousand miles away.

  In my heart, I just know Bingley will be the easiest to match. Who wouldn’t want to date a young, stylish freelancer with a wickedly great sense of humor and loads of fashion sense? Maddie would die. Keel over, kick out her legs, and gasp her last breath die to date someone like Bingley, someone smart and irreverent.

  A maid in a starched black dress and apron enters the library, clears her throat, and announces, “Dinner is served.”

  Knightley is seated at the head of the table, while I am seated in the chair of honor beside Isabella, at the opposite end. Happily, Bingley is seated to my right. The hypochondriac pharmacist and tea-hocking widow are across from me.

  “Our first course is parsnip and potato soup”—Isabella gestures toward the maid holding a tureen—“made with vegetables from Hayley’s farm. Bon appétit.” Isabella looks at William and lowers her voice. “William, you will be happy to know Mariah used arrowroot powder to thicken the soup.”

  “Splendid.”

  Isabella looks at me.

  “Arrowroot powder is gluten-free, grain-free, and paleo-friendly,” Isabella says, smiling. “Isn’t that right, William?”

  “Arrowroot is excellent for digestive disorders. Most people think of it as an alternative to cornstarch, but its applications and medicinal benefits are considerable.”

  I imagine Miss Belle’s spirit, flitting around us unseen, having an apoplectic fit when William uttered the words digestive disorder. I reckon she would classify his casual reference to GERD and IBS as a grievous infraction of the rules of etiquette.

  Bingley entertains me with scathingly witty stories about life in sleepy old Northam-on-the-Water, projected trends in fashion, and biting social commentary. He is a charming dinner companion. He is the kind of guy a girl wants to meet for coffee and gossip, the superfun, super-snarky BMF—best male friend—in every rom-com made since Bridget Jones’s Diary.

  During a lull in the conversation, William Curtis makes a random declaration that captures everyone’s attention.

  “Nutella will kill you,” he says.

  Harriet smiles. “Nutella?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The hazelnut spread?”

  “I noticed you offer Nutella-toasted muffins on the menu at Call Me Darjeeling.”

  “I do.”

  “You realize palm oil is a key ingredient in Nutella?”

  “Don’t tell me,” Deidre quips. “Palm oil is made from the pulverized carcasses of the extremely rare South African cabbage palm caterpillar, right?”

  Bingley snickers. Isabella presses her lips together, as if restraining a laugh. William rolls his eyes.

  “Palm oil is carcinogenic.”

  “Carcinogenic?” Harriet looks from Deidre to the pharmacist. “Ferrero is a major corporation. I simply can’t believe they would purchase carcinogenic palm oil.”

&nbs
p; William sighs. “Palm oil isn’t carcinogenic.”

  “You just said palm oil was carcinogenic.” Harriet looks at me. “He just said palm oil is carcinogenic, didn’t he?”

  “When the palm oil is refined at a high temperature, as it is during the processing of Nutella, glycidyl fatty acid esters, or GE, form.” William talks in the slow, measured voice one uses when explaining simple concepts to intellectually challenged children. “GEs occur in nearly all refined edible oils, but despite that fact, they are potentially carcinogenic.”

  “Potentially?” Harriet sniffs. “My Nutella muffins are my most popular item. I refuse to stop making them simply because they might contain a potentially carcinogenic oil.”

  “Suit yourself”—William shrugs—“but I would remove Nutella from the name; think of a different name.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Malignant Muffins?” Bingley quips.

  “Benign Biscuits?” Deidre adds.

  Later, after the Cornish game hens and garlic mash, after the baked apples and Brie, we gather in the library to drink digestifs and engage in pleasant chitchat that does not include carcinogens, wasting diseases, or pulverized insects.

  Hayley Bartlett reminds me of Judy Greer, the actress who played the wisecracking best friend in 27 Dresses and 13 Going on 30. Only Hayley is prettier, much prettier, if a bit challenged in the style department—hmmm, maybe Bingley could help her with that? With a riotous mane of ashy blond curls and a strawberries-and-cream complexion, she looks like a rom-com leading lady, not a sidekick. More than once, I catch her eyeing John Barrington, which confuses me. Hayley is beautiful and lively. John Barrington, in his rumpled khaki pants and workman’s Henley, is just . . . well . . . I don’t mean to be uncharitable, y’all, but John Barrington is as bland as a bowl of Cream of Wheat: plain, without the butter or brown sugar heaped on top.

  By the time Knightley is helping me on with my coat, I have made plans to meet Hayley for lunch, join Bingley on a trip to scout out a new boutique in Marylebone, and become a member of Isabella’s All Austen Book Club. I have concisely written dossiers for Bingley, Brandon, Hayley, Deidre, and even William, though finding the germophobe, medical-trivia-obsessed pharmacist a mate would challenge Patti Stanger’s impressive matchmaking skills.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:

  The greatest relationships are the ones you never expected to be in.

  I am sitting in Call Me Darjeeling, listening to Miss Cole and William engage in the Great Nutella Debate Part II, when my phone chimes.

  Text from Alexandria Armistead:

  Cash has been acting strange.

  Text to Alexandria Armistead:

  Cash is strange. Don’t tell me you’re just noticing it.

  Several minutes go by without a response from Lexi. I sip my tea, a house blend called Chai Love You, made with white chai tea, fresh strawberries, and a “loving dose of sugar,” and wait for Hayley Bartlett.

  A stylish little British birdie named Miss Isabella whispered a few biographical details about Miss Hayley. Apparently, Hayley was raised by her grandparents and grew up working on their farm. She won a prize from the National Federation of Young Farmers’ Club when she was a teenager and used the money to open a small produce market on the edge of the village. She was born a month after Bingley Nickerson, though their social circles rarely intersected, what with Bingley having attended a posh boarding school and Hayley up to her elbows in soil.

  I study William Curtis, in his buttoned-up navy peacoat, a heavy scarf wound several times around his neck. Would he be a good match for Isabella Nickerson? With messy, finger-combed brown hair, sunken cheeks, and a piercing gaze, he reminds me of the actor David Tennant. He’s handsome-ish. Stable. Local. He obviously cares deeply about the well-being of his friends and neighbors. Miss Isabella is a caretaker, too. So, they would have that in common. William appears younger than Miss Isabella by at least ten years, but hang-ups over age disparity are so last decade. Hollywood has made the May-December romance superhot. Look at Kate Beckinsale, caught smooching a steamy actor half her age. J.Lo bust a sexy move with her significantly younger backup dancer. Aaron Taylor-Johnson, the hottie who played Count Vronsky, Keira Knightley’s lover in Anna Karenina, married a woman old enough to be his mother.

  William has a thick, hardback book tucked under his arm. Germs: The Biological Weapons Outside Your Front Door, Stay Inside, Stay Alive.

  Then again, I reckon he might be too much of a homebody for a woman as worldly and sophisticated as Isabella Nickerson.

  My phone chimes again.

  Text from Alexandria Armistead:

  I’m serious. Cash been distant ever since our engagement party. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he doesn’t want to marry me.

  Text to Alexandria Armistead:

  Cash talks slow, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid, darlin’. He’s lucky to have a girl as smart, kind, and beautiful as you. If he forgets it, I’ll sure enough remind him. Chill, girl.

  I read Lexi’s text again. Should I be more concerned about Cash? He was a major player in high school. Major. I always thought he just needed the right coach, a strong, confident woman who could whup his crazy ass into shape. Sure enough, Cash went to college, dated a few strong, confident women, and gave up his major player ways. Hmmm. I should send him a text just to be sure he hasn’t suited up and hit the playing field again.

  I open my photos application and scroll through the pictures of the engagement party. Lexi, looking prettier than any old Disney Princess, leaning her head against Cash’s broad shoulder. Cash laughing with his best friends. Cash and Lexi dancing too close for Jesus; whenever we had dances with our brother school, Miss Belle would thrust her hands between dancing couples and say, Leave room for Jesus.

  Instead of texting Cash, I write a second, more supportive message to Lexi, including a link to an article on theknot.com, “How to Deal with Pre-Wedding Jitters.” I sip my tea and think about the reasons Lexi Armistead and Cash Aiken make a mighty fine pairing.

  I love my best friend something fierce. She is beautiful, compassionate, and generous. She has great taste in designer handbags and Disney heroes. She can be loads of fun—nobody brings the High School Musical heat to Kappa Kappa Karaoke Night better than Lex—but she also has this supersaaad side to her. Occasionally, she gets real blue and seems to disappear inside herself. She looks as fragile as the pale purple petals that used to tremble on the branches of the old crape myrtle outside my bedroom window, like the slightest breeze might sweep her away.

  Lexi’s daddy was diagnosed with leukemia when she was nine-years-old, and it affected her something fierce. Most people die within months of being diagnosed with that terrible-awful disease, but Lexi’s daddy laid up in his bed for two years. Two long, agonizing years. Lexi said watching him suffer made her feel small and helpless. I think it’s why she decided to study nursing, because a part of her still feels small and helpless.

  I thought Cash, with his sturdy, corn-bread-fed physique, and Southern boy sense of fun, would be a good match for my fragile friend. He has the body of a Clemson Tiger and the heart of a pussycat, big and strong, but gentle as all get-out. He graduated two years before us with a business degree and returned to help manage MeeMaw Creek, his family’s corporation. I know what you’re thinking. MeeMaw Creek sounds like a sparse patch of land with some tin-roofed shanties selling moonshine out of recycled Mason jars, but don’t let the name fool you. MeeMaw Creek happens to be the largest pastured pig farm in the South. When he was still a teenager, Cash’s daddy used his trust fund to purchase MeeMaw Creek Farm and every farm within a twenty-mile radius. MeeMaw Creek has the finest heritage hogs in the country, and Cash Aiken Senior is considered an expert on humane pig husbandry.

  Cash worships Lexi. When they aren’t together, he sends her a wake-up text each morning: Have a good day, babydoll. I love you. When they are together, he gets up early,
drives to the closest Starbucks, and returns with Lexi’s favorite: venti skinny vanilla latte with soy and an almond croissant. Lexi brings out Cash’s softer, sweeter side, and that big, old brawny boy makes my girl feel safe.

  Isn’t it romantic when two halves come together to form a whole? You complete me. Remember that scene in Jerry Maguire? Tom Cruise barges into Renée Zellweger’s living room and declares, You complete me. Two halves coming together to form a whole.

  “That was a deep sigh.” I look up to find Hayley standing on the other side of the table. She pulls a slouchy cap off her head, and her riotous blond curls fall around her shoulders. “Homesick already?”

  “Hayley!” I jump up and give my new friend a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Hayley stands with her arms at her sides. I give her a quick squeeze and sit back down.

  “Sorry,” she says, shrugging out of her coat. “I am complete rubbish at greetings. I become awkward and gangly. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Should I hug, shake hands, offer a solid fist bump?”

  “I’m a hugger!”

  “Yes, you are.” Hayley chuckles. “I will take a quick, enthusiastic American hug over the strangely cold, but too intimate French cheek kiss. Annalise is fond of the French greeting. Three bloody kisses every time I see her.”

  Annalise Whittaker-Smith. Hayley’s beautiful half sister, who spent most of the dinner party flirting with Knightley and Brandon Nickerson. I thought I picked up some bad vibrations between the sisters.

  “My sister is in the south of France. I can’t imagine Manderley greeting people with cheek kisses, though. She’s sweet but crazy shy.”

  “Are you close to your sister?”

  “Manderley? She is the best big sister ever. My momma died when I was a baby, so Manderley practically raised me.” I open my photos app, find the picture Manderley sent me last week of her standing on the red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival, and show it to Hayley. “What about Annalise? Are you two close?”