A Groom With a View jj-11

by Jill Churchill

  It was a very small room with a single bed, a nightstand with a kerosene lamp, a wardrobe closet, and a chair and small rickety table by the window, which was square, but hardly larger than a porthole. The furniture was old, solid, and plain. The bed had a rather flat pillow and a noticeably dusty quilt on it. Its colors were drab; it was the sort of quilt people used to make out of old dress suits. A second door led to a bathroom the same size as the bedroom, which had ugly, but clean, workable fixtures that looked as though they'd been installed in the 1950s. It had slightly peeling wallpaper with faded roses and a pink linoleum floor. The opposite door in the bath led to another identical bedroom.

  Shelley stepped out into the hall and opened a few other doors and came back. "They're all exactly the same," she said. "I'll bet these were themonks' rooms and one out of every three was turned into a bathroom."

  “They're certainly…" Jane sought the right word."… serviceable."

  “It was meant for hunters, Jane, and whatever few misguided wives who might occasionally come along. It's a 'guy' place. They'd go out killing things all day, come back, and eat and drink all evening and tell fabulous stories of the woolly mammoth that got away, then fall into bed half-soused. A great-uncle of mine had a place like this when I was a kid. Not as big as this, but pretty much the same. My dad took me on one of the hunting trips when I was about seven. I had to sit around with my dad and uncles in a cold, wet duck blind all day. Worst trip of my life, but the men seemed to love it."

  “I want to make a quick sketch of the rooms and assign them to the people who are staying here instead of the motel. Then let's go see what's upstairs," Jane said.

  “Ghosts of monks, I'll bet," Shelley said cheerfully.

  Jane glared at her. "If you try to tell me a ghost story in this spooky old place, I'll go home and stick you with the job of putting on this wedding!”

  TWO ·;,

  when they explored the upstairs, they discovered that the area over the main room on the ground floor had been divided into three good-sized bedrooms. Two were merely larger versions of the monks' cells. But one of them, presumably that of the original Thatcher, was more furnished — not better furnished, just more. There were hunting prints and more animal heads on the walls and a large, molting bearskin rug on the floor next to the double bed. There were also two leather easy chairs and a desk that sat before a large window with a wonderful view out over the woods.

  “I guess I'll put Livvy in here since the bride should have the best room," Jane said, "and move Dwayne in after the wedding. I'll put Mrs. Crossthwait in the middle one so she has plenty of room for her sewing and fittings. She's deaf enough that she won't be offended by sleeping next door to newlyweds. And I'll put Livvy's father at the far end, since he's the Big Cheese who's paying for everything. The other relatives and the bridal party can stay in the broom-closetsized rooms."

  “I wonder where that dear Uncle Joe lives?" Shelley said.

  “Probably in a cave somewhere," Jane said. "I was hoping he'd be enthusiastic, maybe even have the urge to be helpful. He is, after all, employed by the father of the bride and apparently has nothing to do most of the time."

  “Then you'll have to just insist that he make himself useful," Shelley said. "What's over the monks' rooms?”

  They crossed the landing at the top of the stairs and found a room that was a gigantic attic. It had a long row of dormers along the front side, so it could have been made into more sleeping quarters, but apparently there had been no need and it had become the catchall. There was a whole floor down, but nothing but the studs on the walls.

  There were old hunting rifles, heavy wool jackets, a box full of warm hats, some traps, hardware, cleaning utensils — all of this visible from the doorway. Jane could only guess what else was stashed here. At least most of the stuff was along the walls and there was an aisle through the middle. Someone had once put down a pretty rag rug near the doorway, but the colors were dulled by a long accumulation of dust.

  “We ought to take those quilts downstairs out‑ side to shake and air," Shelley said. "Maybe we could persuade Joe to string up a clothesline somewhere.”

  Jane went out to the landing and bellowed, "Joe! Joe! Where are you? We need some help here.”

  There was no reply, so she kept shouting periodically as she and Shelley made their way back to the small guest rooms. When they took the first quilt off the bed, they realized there was no other bedding. No sheets or pillowcases. Jane stared at the naked mattress. "Oh, no! Now what do we do? There must be linens somewhere.”

  Shelley went to the door and shouted for Joe, and jumped when he appeared in the doorway of the next room. "I ain't deaf, lady.”

  Shelley considered asking him what he was doing eavesdropping on them from the next room in that case, but instead said mildly, "Where are the linens for the beds?"

  “I sent 'em all out to the laundry last week. Ought to be back today.”

  Jane nearly collapsed in relief. She'd had visions of ransacking the countryside for an ungodly number of sets of sheets and pillowcases. "I'd like for you to rig up a clothesline and put these quilts out to air, please," she said. The "please" was only a nicety. She'd hoped the request sounded more like an order.

  “Gonna rain," he said.

  “If and when it does, you can bring them back in." Jane was starting to get a little testy. Livvy had led her to believe that Uncle Joe, while a bitcrusty, was something of a workhorse around the place, which obviously wasn't true. "There's a car pulling up outside. I hope it's Mrs. Crossthwait.”

  And so it turned out to be. She drove, somewhat surprisingly, a very sporty Jeep which was full of sewing paraphernalia. Her sewing machine, an ironing board, various ironing objects that Jane believed were called "hams," boxes of thread and fabric, pins and bias tape, envelopes full of tissue pattern pieces, and a lot of assorted items Jane couldn't begin to identify. There was also the enormous box containing the wedding dress and three smaller boxes housing the partially completed bridesmaids' apparel. "I'm so glad you're here, Mrs. Crossthwait!" Jane said.

  “What's that, dear?”

  Jane repeated herself, shouting a bit. "We'll help you get this all to your room. I'll have the handyman take your sewing machine when he finishes another job.”

  Mrs. Crossthwait was one of those people with round, plump faces that didn't quite match her tiny little body. Her hands were big-knuckled but still agile and she appeared to be bustling even when standing perfectly still. She flung up the back door of the vehicle and started loading Jane and Shelley down with boxes and small cases of tools and materials.

  “I don't like the looks of this place," Mrs. Crossthwait said.

  “I'm sorry about that," Jane said. "But we've given you an excellent room to work in. Lots of light and space and a good sturdy sewing table right by a window.”

  They started toward the house. "It's not that," Mrs. Crossthwait said. "It's a bad place. A bad aura. Wicked things have happened here and will happen again.”

  Shelley's intolerance of auras amounted to near obsession.

  “Well, it better happen pretty soon because the house is being torn down in a couple months," she said briskly. "Come along, Mrs. Crossthwait. I'm so eager to see the dresses."

  “Nice enough girls they are, the bridesmaids," Mrs. Crossthwait mumbled, puffing as she tried to keep up with the younger women. "Hope nothing happens to them.”

  Jane turned to roll her eyes at Shelley, missed her footing on the surprisingly slick steps, and nearly dropped a whole case of bobbins.

  They got Mrs. Crossthwait settled in the upstairs room, which turned out to be something of a mistake because she climbed the stairs so slowly and awkwardly. Jane and Shelley made three trips with sewing materials in the time it took Mrs. Crossthwait to ascend the stairs. Then they went looking for Uncle Joe. He'd strung a grungy old rope between a couple trees and was just trying to make his escape when they caught up with him. "We need you to take the seamstr
ess's sewing machine to her. It's in the Jeep in front and she's in the middle bedroom upstairs," Jane said."Sorry, miss. Bad back."

  “Then you can use that dolly I saw in the attic," Jane insisted.

  He muttered something that might have been an obscenity and shuffled off.

  Jane and Shelley started hauling quilts outside. The laundry truck arrived just as they brought out the first four quilts. The driver of the white van hopped down and started setting white butcher-paper-wrapped parcels on the steps. "This is the Thatcher place, right?" he asked.

  Jane confirmed that it was.

  “Did you know these are linen sheets? We had to charge extra."

  “Linen sheets?" Shelley asked. "The real things?"

  “Genuine antiques," the deliveryman said.

  Jane ran and got the checkbook Livvy had set up to pay for wedding expenses. As the truck pulled away, Shelley said, "Somebody has or had a lot of money. I wonder what's going to happen to the linens when the house is torn down."

  “I imagine they'll get an antiques dealer in before then," Jane said.

  “I wouldn't mind having some of those sheets," Shelley said, having opened one of the packages. She was greedily stroking a soft linen pillowcase.

  Another vehicle was coming up the drive. This, too, was a closed white van, but was painted along the sides with a colorful garland of flowers. A willowy young man with shoulder-length blond hair, perfectly faded jeans, and a violently vivid Hawaiian shirt hopped out and strode toward Jane, his arms outstretched. "My darling Jane, I have finally arrived. Traffic was positively deadly, but I persevered for your sake." He folded her in a careful embrace.

  Once Jane was released, she said, "Shelley, this is Larkspur. Larkspur, Shelley Nowack — my best friend who's helping me pull this wedding off."

  “You've mentioned her. I'm charmed to meet you, Shelley. What wonderfully Pre-Raphaelite cheekbones you have, my dear.”

  Shelley touched her face. "Oh. . have I really?"

  “Divine. If I were a painter, I'd paint you," he proclaimed. "I must see the gardens first."

  “I don't think there are any," Jane said, glancing around.

  “The ghosts of gardens, I should have said," Larkspur explained. "I saw the tiniest glimpse of a bleeding heart right over there and where there's bleeding heart, there has been a garden. The old heirloom plants are so much better than some of the new varieties, don't you think? I wouldn't think anyone would mind if I just dug up a few little plants, would they?"

  “I'm sure it would be fine," Jane said. "It's doomed to become a golf club this year anyway.”

  He threw his hands in the air dramatically. "Horrors! Horrible old men in light blue polyester pants traipsing around acres of boring grass. Then I must rescue some of the abandoned darlings that have survived the neglect. It's a sacred duty. And maybe I'll find time to search for the secret treasure as well." He laughed merrily.

  “Secret treasure?" Jane asked.

  “You don't know the story?" he trilled. "Then I shall have to tell you all about it, but I must explore the gardens first and see what poor, neglected plants are here." He wandered off, making happy little exclamations to himself.

  “Is he Larkspur Smith or Bob Larkspur?" Shelley said, smiling.

  “I have no idea. He refuses to be called anything but Larkspur. It takes a little getting used to."

  “I wonder what Pre-Raphaelite cheekbones are," Shelley mused.

  “I don't know, but you've got a couple of them, it seems.”

  They hung the first quilts. "We need one of those old-fashioned tennis racket-like things to knock the dust off," Shelley said.

  “A carpet smacker?"

  “I'm sure that's not the technical term, but I know what you mean," Shelley said. "Another arrival.”

  A rather old red compact car came up the drive and a young woman got out. "Is one of you ladies Mrs. Jeffry?" she asked in a soft voice. She was lovely — with a slim body, long legs, and a mass of dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was dark-skinned. Perhaps part Indian or Spanish, Jane thought, but had startlingly blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt with the tails tied at her waist.

  “I'm Jane, and you have to be Layla Shelton," Jane said.

  “How could you know?" the young woman said with a smile.

  “I've seen your dress. It couldn't possibly fit anyone else. It's done, except for the fringe on the shawl. Don't worry. I have Mrs. Crossthwait here under lock and key to make sure they get done in time."

  “Are you sure? I felt bad when you called and I tattled that she didn't seem to be getting along very quickly."

  “I'm glad you did tattle. We'll have everything done in time," Jane said, hoping she wouldn't have to eat her words. She introduced Shelley and then said, "There's supposed to be a handyman to help with your bags, but I think he's run away from home."

  “I don't need help," Layla said. "But it looks like you might. You're airing those quilts?"

  “We're just going in for the next batch," Jane said.

  Layla came along, seemingly eager to help. "I hope you don't mind that I'm very early," she said. "I don't suppose Livvy's even here yet. But with two children to escape from, a smart woman gets while the getting is good. I'll probably miss them by this evening, but the prospect of freedom went to my head.”

  They discussed Layla's children while putting the freshly cleaned linens on the first four beds. They were four-year-old twins, a boy and girl,and Jane and Shelley were amazed to learn their total birth weight was over thirteen pounds. Layla's waist nipped in and her stomach was as flat as a breadboard. Further proof that Life Isn't Fair.

  “Have you known Livvy long?" Shelley asked.

  “In a way. We were friends in high school, and kept in touch during college, but I hadn't heard from her in a good seven years until she called and asked me if I'd be her bridesmaid. I was surprised, but so eager to have a little vacation from my family that I accepted."

  “Maybe she just wanted to renew the friendship," Jane said. "You both live in the Chicago area."

  “Oh, yes. But I haven't heard from her again since she called."

  “That's very odd, isn't it?" Shelley asked, expertly making a hospital corner with a sheet.

  “It would be odd for me, but not so much so for Livvy. She's always been dead set on being a good businesswoman and never socialized much. I don't even remember her having a single date in high school. She was always studying."

  “What business is she in?" Shelley asked.

  “Her family's, I imagine," Layla said. "At least that was her aim then. She's an only child whose mother died when she was very young. She used to be determined to be both daughter and son to her father. I never met him and she never said anything outright, but I got the impression he was very demanding and never quite let her forget that she was a mere girl, something of a disappointment.”

  Jane nodded. "I've only met with her four or five times to work out wedding details, and I never asked about her personal life, but I can well imagine that what you say of her is still true. She's remarkably bland and self-controlled. Almost entirely detached from the wedding planning, really. And the only suggestions I made that were rejected were because 'Daddy wouldn't like that.' In fact, her wedding dress is a very simple style because Daddy doesn't like ruffles and lace."

  “I wonder if Daddy likes the groom?" Shelley said.

  Jane shrugged. "I've never met either Dad or the groom."

  “Then you're not a relative?" Layla asked.

  “I'm hardly even an acquaintance," Jane admitted. "She just hired me to take care of all the details. She mentioned having a couple of aunts, but when I asked why they weren't helping her, she just said they weren't suitable." Actually, Livvy had said they were a couple of old bats, but it didn't seem tactful to repeat the exact wording.

  Shelley cocked an eyebrow. "Unsuitable aunts? That's a bit scary. Say, Layla, the florist mentioned something about a treasure here. Do you
know what he meant?"

  “A treasure? No, I don't— Oh, maybe I do. Letme think. I believe her grandfather was extremely wealthy. This was his place, you know. A bunch of us were invited here once in high school for a dance not long after the grandfather had died and somebody asked her about a treasure. Livvy pooh-poohed the idea. Apparently he hadn't left as much money as her aunts expected and they'd been telling people he'd hidden the rest of his fortune somewhere." Layla took another sheet out of its packaging and snapped it open. "At least, I think that was the gist of it. I only remember that much because I was sixteen and this seemed the kind of spooky place where there might be a hidden treasure. I guess I'd read too much Nancy Drew as a child.”

  They finished making the bed and Layla added, "Oh, I know who could tell you about it. Livvy's father and his best friend and hunting buddy both had daughters the same age. I can't remember her name at the moment, but Mrs. Crossthwait mentioned her as being one of the other bridesmaids. Mrs. C. was complaining about all the fancy stuff on the dress."

  “Oh, that's Eden Matthews," Jane said.

  “That's right," Layla replied. "Livvy sometimes whined about having to spend so much time with Eden because their dads were friends. Eden is a bit on the earthy side, I assume."

  “She complained about her and still picked her as a bridesmaid?" Jane asked.

  Layla laughed. "My bet is that she was another decision that Daddy made.”

  Shelley fluffed up one of the limp pillows and stuffed it into a pillowcase. "Why do I have the feeling that we're not all going to be real crazy about Daddy?”

  Three

  Mr. Willis, the caterer, arrived just before noon. Jane had begun to teeter on the brink of panic again because there was hardly a scrap of food in the house and she had no idea where to even find burgers and fries for Mrs. Crossthwait, Layla, Larkspur, Shelley, and herself. Uncle Joe, wherever he'd taken refuge, certainly had food and probably wouldn't have shared it even if they'd begged for crusts.