“I thought I would order invitations from Le Papier. On second thought… I have an idea, Charlie! How about I buy everything from the market? It would save money and our guests would think it absolutely delightful! I think I can do everything else myself. I’ve gotten quite good at Granny’s macarons and the bread pudding was a hit. You said so yourself. Can’t you see it – a party in the country? I promise not to spend too much. It will be simple, quaint…”
Quaint.
He had used that word – quaint – to persuade her to move to Coraloo. She continued on while his mind recalled their initial plan: simplicity. Had they achieved it here? Their house was smaller, they lived on a much tighter budget, and Velveteen had a glow about her he had not seen in years. They weren’t over scheduled, Gideon was doing well in school and had friends… but Charlie was still far from finding the simplicity he desired. The stresses of providing, deciding what to pay first, and dreaming of extras had not left his wonderings.
“Oh, Charlie! It would be so good for us, don’t you think? And I don’t believe they would mind the drive. They can stay in the bed and breakfast around the corner.”
“Why would they want to do that when they can walk? It’s not far.”
“Not far! Charlie, I hardly think they will want to walk from the city!”
He shut his laptop. His jaw stiffened. “Who are you inviting, Vee?”
She sensed his confusion. “Well, I was thinking the people we always invite to our Christmas party. Who else would want to come?”
“Vee, we haven’t talked to any of them in nearly a year.”
“All the reason why we should invite them!”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Charlie, I don’t understand. We always used to have a Christmas party. Since you sold the French horn –”
“It’s not about the money.” It was partly about the money. “I don’t understand. Why those people? I don’t know those people anymore – do you? In fact, I don’t think I ever really knew them even when they were at my house, eating my food. And that Rutherford –”
“Rutherford?” Velveteen opened her book and pretended to read.
“I don’t care who his great-grandfather was. There’s not enough crab puffs in the country to feed that one. I swear he stuffed some in his wife’s purse.”
Velveteen giggled and then bit her lip.
“Oh and the Brunswicks. Oh, the Brunswicks! I would absolutely love for him to tell me again how much bigger their house is than ours. He’ll have a heyday with this place.”
“So we won’t invite the Rutherfords or the Brunswicks.”
“Or the Rogers. What are you doing these days, my man?” Charlie mocked his former banking colleague. “Oh you know, hanging out at the flea market…”
Velveteen held her book in front of her face to hide the huge grin.
“And Carl will say, And how’s that working out for you, my man? And I’ll say… Well, I don’t know what I’ll say; another reason not to invite them.”
“So, I can have the party?”
“Can I invite a few guests?” If they were having a party, he wanted it to be comfortable.
Velveteen jumped up, hugged him around the neck, and kissed him delicately on the lips. “Invite whoever you want. I don’t care as long as we have the party. Thank you, Charlie Price! Thank you!”
He hugged her back – his bride, his wife, and his love. Moments of closeness seemed far removed from their daily life. He didn’t want to let her go.
“I’ll start planning right away!”
“Take it easy on me, okay?” He would have to work harder, maybe lower the price on the Boy Scout memorabilia. It would be a challenge, but he could do it… for her… for them.
The mantel clock chimed a quarter to ten. Velveteen released her grip around his neck. “Now out with you! Are you going to the market?” She paused. “You’re sure Shug’s still out of town?”
“Yes, don’t worry. I promise not to be hung and quartered, at least not by Shug.”
“He’s been gone nearly a month. Who’s running the shop?”
“One of the cousins.”
“Don’t you find that odd?”
“All I know,” he said, setting down his laptop and picking his coat off the coat rack, “is I’m going to the market.”
“And when he comes back?”
“I have a plan.”
“Are you going to tell me about this plan?”
“Maybe,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
Velveteen quickly set a tray of pink macarons – made exactly the way Granny had taught her – on the table, fluffed the cushions on the couch, and then wriggled her bare feet on the wood floors. Even in the cold of November, she liked the way the floors felt under her feet. Opening the door, she welcomed the Blackwell ladies into her home.
Each lady sat in the same seat they had sat in for the past month. They intentionally left the armchair free – it had been Granny’s seat; no one dared to sit in it. Originally, Velveteen thought it was out of respect, but later Clover explained that the younger cousins were afraid Granny would haunt them. She had been tough in life; they were sure she’d be a terror in death. It was Clover’s suggestion the book club move back to Velveteen’s. Granny’s remained closed; not one of the Blackwell ladies felt comfortable taking her place in the kitchen, even though a few of the aunts were more than capable. Running the concession would mean giving up their own storefronts – their art and their joy.
Velveteen held up a book showing the portrait of a lady in a lavish green ball gown standing in front of a barn. The ladies cheered.
“It’s gorgeous!” one of them exclaimed.
Velveteen handed a copy of The Princess of DuMont: Straw to Silk to each of the women. This was her second favorite in the series – the first remained her personal handbook for how to handle every social obstacle life tossed her way. She watched as the ladies caressed the matte finish cover, turning the book over to read the back, and thumbing through the pages to get a peek at the new life of Melba DuMont.
“Since we are beginning a new novel, I decided we should start by looking back on the attributes of our heroine.” Velveteen glanced at her notes. “Anyone want to start?” She had a few things of her own to say, but etiquette required she allow the guests to speak first. Selflessness was an attribute she was hoping to improve upon.
“Strong,” Clover stated. “She lost every part of the life she had always known, picked herself up off the road, and in order to survive took employment as a shepherdess. She had never worked a day in her life, but was willing to do whatever it took to survive.”
Velveteen shifted uncomfortably. “I agree, Clover. Anyone else?”
“She must not be stupid either,” one of the aunts added. “The woman had to figure it all out. She was patching her dress up with chicken feed sacks and making Ryegrass soup!”
The ladies laughed.
“My favorite part was when she tried to color her hair with cherry bark!” Gavina said. The ladies laughed again. Velveteen forced a smile. She was oddly uncomfortable. “Or when Count Horace –”
There was a knock at the door. Velveteen froze. The macarons were on the table, Melba was the topic of conversation, the ladies were looking at her. It was happening again. Charlie had not mentioned they were behind on the rent, but it was possible. It had happened once, why not again? Another knock. Velveteen stood and walked slowly to the door – her hand shook and her heart pounded. If Granny were here, she most definitely would have thrown up on her again.
Velveteen closed her eyes and reached for the handle. Please, no envelope. Please, no envelope. There would be no hiding behind deception – no lies this time. These ladies had heard her story, she had told them everything. She could not go through it again – the selling, the moving, the starting over.
Another knock.
She turned the handle.
“Well, actually –” Before Velveteen could explain, Sylvia Toft pushed past her and into the presence of the Blackwell women.
“Oh – Blackwells! I didn’t know you were…” Sylvia stuttered, obviously unnerved by their presence. “Velvy, can I have a word with you? Maybe in the other room?”
“We should go.” Clover stood up. The other women followed her lead.
“No!” Velveteen yelped, much louder than she had intended. “No, sit, please. I’m not sure I know… I mean, um, why don’t you all discuss the Le Moge family. We’ll visit with them later in book two.”
Sylvia marched into the kitchen. Velveteen followed, relieved she was not being served a foreclosure notice, but wondering if this situation was not somehow far worse.
“Do you know who is in your living room, Velvy?” Sylvia asked with arms flailing wildly.
“Yes, I do.” Velveteen did not care much for being called Velvy; it somehow reminded her of an automobile part. “It’s my –”
“You are associating with the enemy. I told you what happened.”
Velveteen didn’t exactly recall the entire conversation. She was certain whatever was in the cream Sylvia had smeared on her face – which made her feel as if she had been in the sun too long – had some sort of soporific effect. When she woke, it was as if she’d been drugged. Not only that, she’d had to use half her jar of coconut oil to remove the layering of Sylvia’s artistic gifting in cosmetology.
“They’re my book club, Sylvia.”
“Blackwells don’t read, Velvy. They are deceiving you. I’ll help you get them out.” The woman started back toward the living room, but Velveteen was able to grab her arm before she crossed the threshold.
“No, no, no! They’re my friends, and they can read.”
Sylvia’s smile drew into a taut line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. There has always been talk in town that your husband frequented the market, but I thought you were above such things. I’ll go.”
Although opposite in almost every way, somehow this woman with her over-dyed hair and heavy cosmetics reminded Velveteen of the acquaintances – quick to judge and hung up on a family name. No matter where she moved, she wasn’t getting away from it. She had an idea.
“Do you like to read, Sylvia?”
“Well, I can’t say I’ve read much, but I guess it’s a pastime.”
“Great! Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t think –”
Velveteen finished the sentence for her. “I think it is a fabulous idea. We are starting a new book. It’s the second in the series, but I absolutely know you will love it. I do!”
“Blackwells and Tofts don’t usually –”
“Today you are a Price.” The next phrase slipped out before Velveteen could stop it – a problem she was having more and more as of late. “Like sisters.” She regretted it the minute she said it.
Sylvia’s eyes lit up. “Then can I give you a makeover?”
Velveteen did not know what that had to do with the book club, but she was determined she could have a part in bringing peace between the women. “Of course, a makeover would be lovely.”
Sylvia Toft sauntered into the living room, blinked her elongated false eyelashes at the Blackwell ladies, and sat her bottom down in Granny’s armchair. Velveteen opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“The Toft’s tooshie sat on Granny,” Greer muttered. “Maybe Granny will bite her.” A few of the women giggled.
Velveteen gathered herself and cleared her throat. “Ladies, we have a new member. I’d like you to meet Sylvia Toft. We met not long after Gideon’s accident.”
“I brought Velvy a batch of burgoo and gave her a treatment. We might as well be sisters.” Sylvia confidently crossed her legs. “Do I need a book?”
Clover handed the Toft her copy. “It’s nice to have you.”
“Maybe if she and her family would move back to where they came from we could claim what’s rightfully ours.” Velveteen couldn’t tell which Blackwell had said it; they were all sitting up with their backs straight and exaggerated smiles spread across their faces.
This was a mistake. Velveteen sat back down in her chair across from Sylvia. “Where were we?”
“The attributes.” Velveteen knew she could count on Clover to be the sane one of the bunch.
“Yes, the attributes of Melba DuMont, our heroine. As we begin book two, let’s keep in mind the type of woman she was and also the woman she became. Does anyone recall what happened at the end of book one?” Velveteen lifted her eyes, half expecting Sylvia to be filing her nails or touching up her garish lipstick. Instead, Sylvia Toft’s eyes were glued to Velveteen. “Anyone?”
Clover hesitantly raised her hand. The ladies usually didn’t raise their hand to answer. “The sheepherder revealed his identity to Melba and asked her to come live in his palace, but Melba was conflicted – torn between her life on the farm and returning to her station as the heiress of DuMont.”
“Aren’t you excited?” Velveteen’s voice cracked as she forced a squeal, but the ladies did not return her enthusiasm. The awe and anticipation for the new book was gone. The ladies had something else – someone else – on their mind. She had to do something to bring the meeting back.
Sylvia spoke up. “I for one can’t wait to read what happens to… What’s her name?”
Clover leaned over to her. “Melba.”
“Right, Mel-va. You know what? It just occurred to me. I have a great idea!” Sylvia clapped her hands on both sides of her face.
Velveteen tried to speak, to stop the woman from saying whatever it was she was going to say, but Sylvia’s tongue was too fast.
“After the meeting, I’d be happy to give you all makeovers. I’ve got my kit. A few of you could use a bit of fixing up.”
Velveteen watched as Moira Blackwell reached for one of the petal pink macarons. Moira turned it over in her wrinkled hands. She raised her eyes toward Sylvia and then looked back at the macaron.
No. Velveteen had worn that look once before.
Sylvia thumbed through the pages. “It’s too long for my taste. Velvy, why don’t we read something else! Maybe something from the library? You ladies do know there is a library in town, don’t you? It’s named after my grandfather, Ernest Toft.”
Moira nudged another aunt, a near identical, minus seventy pounds or so, version of Granny. She nodded at the macarons. The aunt grinned and reached for one of the pink confections. Velveteen didn’t know what to do. She had to stop Sylvia from speaking.
“Clover…” Velveteen’s voice cracked again. She shuffled through her notes. This was not going as planned. “Um, will you, um –”
“Yes! Of course! The, um, heiress, Melba, is kind-hearted. She looks past the shortcomings of others…”
Velveteen took back over. “And she would never do anything to harm another human being…”
By now Greer and Gavina were holding the round sweets.
This isn’t happening. Oh God, please don’t let them do this!
Moira continued to stare, passing the macaron back and forth from arthritic hand to arthritic hand.
Sylvia Toft reached for a treat.
Velveteen held her breath.
Sylvia took a bite. “My mother makes the best macarons in the town. Everyone says so, even the tourists. She’s thinking of opening her own bakery. You can’t keep all the business up on the hill.”
Of all the places in the world, Velveteen had landed in one obsessed with macarons.
“You know my mother, Nora Toft, don’t you M
oira?”
Moira didn’t answer, but took a deep breath… continuing to turn the sweet cookie over in her hands.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sylvia leaned in to Moira. “There was a teensy weensy bust-up between the two of you, wasn’t there?”
It was the first time Velveteen fully understood how deep the hatred ran between the two families.
“You did a fine job, Velvy. Family recipe?” Sylvia took another bite.
“Yes, it’s Granny Blackwell’s recipe.”
Velveteen had no more than said the name Blackwell, than Sylvia spit the partially chewed bits of macaron out of her mouth and onto the digitally enhanced face of Melba DuMont. “I’ll have to have mother come over and show you –” She couldn’t finish her taunt because a pink macaron hit her between the eyes. Sylvia jumped to her feet and tossed her half-eaten cookie into the lap of Moira Blackwell.
Gavina threw back – this time hitting Sylvia on the cheek. In a matter of minutes, puffy pink lemon curd-filled macarons were sailing from one side of the living room to the other.
Oh no! It’s happening again!
Charlie Price had news. The Boy Scout badges had sold to a collector in the South. He could have them packaged, shipped, and expect feedback before the week was over. The sale of the badges was nearly as big a victory as the French horn. He planned to pay what needed paying and then give Velveteen some extra for next month’s Christmas party. He couldn’t wait to tell her.
When Charlie walked in the door to the Toft house, Velveteen was lying on the couch with the second Melba DuMont novel open across her face. The floor was covered in a smattering of badly damaged macarons.
“Sweetheart! What happened? Are you okay?”
Velveteen Price pulled the book off her face and turned toward her husband. “I should have never told them, Charlie. It was The Rooning all over again! Not our Rooning, my Rooning! They went to war. First Moira threw one at Sylvia. Then Sylvia –”
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 19
