A Groom With a View jj-11

by Jill Churchill

  Mr. Willis was a tubby little man with a big round head like a pumpkin, perched on top of which was a tottering chef's hat. Jane wondered if he didn't have to glue it to his sparse fair hair to keep it in place. He was probably only in his late twenties, but was stuffy and formal enough to have been much older. He had a spotty teenaged girl assistant who looked like she could step right into the role of Victorian skivvy. He didn't bother to introduce her.

  “This kitchen," he exclaimed, investigating his domain, "is a disgrace."

  “I did warn you that it might be," Jane said rather than argue with him.

  Actually, the kitchen was the only place Uncle Joe seemed to have done much to. The old-fashioned six-burner gas stove was reasonably clean; the big double ovens were ancient, but had only a dusting of crumbs on the bottom. The refrigerator, which was empty except for a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk, was huge and old enough to qualify as an antique. There was also a smallish, more modern freezer, entirely empty, but recently defrosted. There was a very unattractive brown and cream linoleum floor, but the big, deep sinks almost made up for it. Except for a coffeemaker, there were no modern appliances, but Mr. Willis had brought his own favorite gadgets anyway.

  The skivvy dragged in a Cuisinart, a blender, a box full of very expensive-looking utensils and truly wicked knives. Then she went back for pots and pans, some of which Jane guessed were worth a good deal more than most large pieces of furniture.

  “What about dishes?" Mr. Willis asked, impervious to the skivvy's puffing and panting.

  Jane opened a series of cabinets across the room. The house had been built for entertaining and feeding vast numbers and there was a generous and surprisingly high-quality selection of plates, bowls, silverware, and glasses. She had expected Mr. Willis to be impressed, but he just sniffed, "They'll all have to be washed."

  “I suppose they will," Jane said mildly and thought, If you think I'm doing it, you're doomed to disappointment.

  The skivvy was now hauling in food in grocery bags and coolers while Mr. Willis gazed about disapprovingly. Jane noticed a neat pile of Field and Stream magazines stacked in the pantry and an ashtray with what looked like a fairly fresh cigar stub in it. The kitchen, she figured, was probably Uncle Joe's favorite room.

  Jane and Shelley made their escape as quickly as possible. Layla was sitting in the main room, idly flipping through a magazine. "It's so quiet here," she said, smiling. "No children. Do you suppose there's a jigsaw puzzle somewhere?"

  “I wouldn't be surprised," Jane said. "This place was meant for leisure activities." With a little searching, they found a cabinet full of entertaining items. Jigsaw puzzles in abundance, packs of playing cards, board games, checker and chess sets. Even a Ouija board. They'd have to make sure Mrs. Crossthwait didn't learn about that and go off on auras again.

  “I'm so glad I had to come early for my last dress fitting," Layla said. "I can hardly remember the last time I had Nothing To Do. I'm loving it."

  “Have you had the fitting?" Jane asked. "Is your dress nearly ready?"

  “Yes. Mrs. Crossthwait is buzzing away up there on her sewing machine. She's a bit short on the social graces, isn't she? Jumped all over me for having the wrong shoes and underwear and then went off on a tangent about being careful of bad auras.”

  There was a sudden loud "Bong!" which startled all of them.

  “What was that?" Layla asked.

  “Either the doorbell, or someone announcing the end of the world," Shelley said.

  The woman at the door was not so much overweight as stocky. Short, but with a big-boned look. With that figure and the oddly crimped short hair, she reminded Jane of the field hockey mistress at a school she'd attended in England when she was a teenager. "You must be Mrs. Jeffry," the young woman said. "I'm Kitty Wilson."

  “Bring your things in, Kitty, and please call me Jane." Jane introduced her to Shelley and Layla and said, "I'll show you where your room is, then we better get you up to Mrs. Crossthwait for your last fitting."

  “Are Livvy and Dwayne here yet?" Kitty asked as they made their way to the corridor with the monks' rooms.

  “No, they don't arrive until tomorrow. There are lots of rooms, but they all share a bath with someone. I've put you and Layla together. Is that all right?"

  “Oh, of course. Isn't Layla gorgeous? I wonder how Livvy knows her."

  “They were in high school together. What's your connection to Livvy?"

  “I'm a secretary at Novelties.”

  “Novelties?"

  “The Thatcher family company. Livvy is vice president."

  “I knew there was a family business," Jane said, "but I didn't know what it was. What does Novelties do?"

  “We supply companies with personalized novelty items. Company t-shirts, mugs, pens, key chains, that sort of thing. With their company logo imprinted. We also make up award plaques and framed tributes to retiring employees. Most of the items are little junky things, but some are very nice. Expensive fountain pens with names in gold, crystal paperweights with carved accomplishments — fifty years' service awards and such."

  “Here's your room. The bathroom is there and Layla's room is just beyond," Jane said. "What an interesting business. I never even wondered where all those things came from.”

  Kitty set her suitcases on the bed. She looked as if she'd packed for a month instead of just a couple days. Kitty had carried two big suitcases, Jane had carried a small one and a box. Jane half expected a trunk to be delivered later. "It's an old company," Kitty said. "Livvy's grandfather, Oliver Wendell Thatcher, founded it, I think. Or maybe it was his father. We have a little museum in the office complex with a bunch of old stuff they did. Wooden rulers with lumberyard names, stamped leather change purses from the twenties."

  “This sounds like a big operation," Jane said. "And Livvy is vice president?"

  “She's really the president and CEO although her father still officially holds those titles. But Livvy does all the work."

  “And you're her secretary?"

  “No, I'm the secretary of two of the sales reps. Oh, you're wondering, I imagine, why she chose me as a bridesmaid? That's because I introduced her to Dwayne. I had a blind date with him and we ran into Livvy at the movies. I introduced them and the rest, as they say, is history."

  “Oh, I see. I'm sorry to rush you, but—"

  “I know. The fitting.”

  Jane showed her to the big upstairs room where Mrs. Crossthwait had been installed. Layla and Shelley were there as well, apparently out of sheer boredom. Kitty stripped down to her slip and tried on the jacket of her boxy suit. It was really enormously flattering to her chunky figure. Mrs. Crossthwait fussed about, measuring and turning the sleeves and pinning them in place.

  “Is that all that remains to do?" Jane asked loudly.

  “That and the skirt hem," Mrs. Crossthwait said. "Take off the jacket, dear.”

  Kitty slipped the skirt on and fumbled at the back of the skirt waistband for the button.

  “I'll do that, dear," Mrs. Crossthwait said. "Hmmm. You've put on a bit of weight, haven't you?"

  “I have not. You must have put the button inthe wrong place." Kitty looked extremely embarrassed at having her figure criticized while she was standing around in her slip in front of strangers.

  “I never mismeasure," Mrs. Crossthwait said firmly. "I'll have to let out a little of the ease and move the button.”

  Jane almost groaned out loud. More alterations. More delay.

  “Shelley, could you help me make up the rest of the beds?" she asked.

  “I'll help," Layla said.

  “No, this smacks of housework. You're on vacation. Work on your jigsaw puzzle.”

  Jane was surprised and delighted to find that most of the little monk cells now had casual flower arrangements on the bedside tables. "I guess Larkspur has been busy," she said. "How pretty they are!"

  “Did I hear my name being taken in vain?" Larkspur said from the doorway.<
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  “These arrangements are marvelous. We hadn't talked about them in our planning, though.”

  He laughed. "If you're worried about your budget, don't. I found all the flowers in the woods and just stuck them in whatever containers your Mr. Willis would part with. No charge, Mrs. Midas. He's a bit of a dish, isn't he? The Willis."

  “Is he cooking yet? I'm starved," Shelley said. "Yes, in fact he sent me to find everyone. Lovely little cress sandwiches.”

  Lunch was elegant. They all gathered around the big, scarred kitchen worktable, although Mr. Willis wanted to serve them in the dining room. He was extremely unhappy to learn that there wasn't a dining room. "Where am I to serve the reception dinner then?" he asked.

  “No problem," Jane assured him. "The rental people will set up the main room with rows of chairs, church-style with an aisle. As soon as the wedding is finished and pictures are being taken outside, they'll move the chairs back against the walls and put up the buffet table.”

  Larkspur was tapping his foot impatiently. "Oh, I'm not too fond of that plan. I'll have to be tearing about with the table flowers like a mad thing.”

  Jane said, "I'm sorry, but we have to work with the layout we've got. There's a smaller room just off the main room that probably once had a billiard table and we'll use that for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon and the bachelor party later in the evening. You'll both be able to get in that room as early as you like to get set up. Meanwhile, we'll have to have our lunch today here in the kitchen.”

  Larkspur and Mr. Willis agreed, but grudgingly.

  The skivvy served them. Mr. Willis ate his lunch silently, while double-checking the lists he'd made in a small notebook. Jane was doing the same with one of her notebooks. Shelley, Layla, and Kitty tried to find some commonground for conversation and Larkspur told Mrs. Crossthwait a string of arch little jokes. She stared at him as if he were from outer space, but probably harmless. "You're one of 'those' people, aren't you?" she finally said to Larkspur.

  “Those people?"

  “One of those pansy boys.”

  Larkspur's usual smile faded. "More of a sunflower, I'd have said," he snapped. And added, under his breath, "Dirty-minded old bat.”

  Halfway through the meal, Uncle Joe turned up, looking outraged at the invasion of his kitchen.

  “We'd have invited you to lunch if we could have found you," Jane said sweetly. "Help yourself. Livvy's aunts will be arriving later this afternoon and we'll need you to carry bags. Please don't disappear again.”

  Uncle Joe just scowled at her.

  When lunch was finished, everyone scattered. Jane sat down with her notebooks at the old-fashioned dial phone in the front hall. She called the local motel to confirm the rooms for the guests who wouldn't be staying at the house, checked that the rental people had the correct tables, chairs, and linens ready to go and had their directions for reaching the lodge right. She gave her mother-in-law a ring to make sure the kids were doing okay and got stuck hearing at length about how Willard, Jane's big, stupid, yellow dog, had brought a live (if only barely so) chipmunk into the house. The creature was still at large. Thelma speculated that it might be rabid. That it might bite her. That it might have babies somewhere in the house. Thelma tended toward dramatic speculations.

  “Don't worry. The cats will find and dispatch it," Jane assured her. She didn't mention what sort of nasty messes this might involve. Thelma would find out soon enough.

  Jane worked her way through the rest of her list, feeling very efficient and smug, then went to check on Mrs. Crossthwait's progress — which turned out to be nearly imperceptible. "I'm getting a little concerned," Jane said to the seamstress. "We're running out of time, you know.”

  Mrs. Crossthwait said, "Don't you worry, dear. The wedding is still two full days ahead. Plenty of time."

  “But I don't want you to be sewing until the last second," Jane said. "I'd really like to have all the dresses done, pressed, and hung up for the girls by this evening."

  “I'll have them done by noon tomorrow," Mrs. Crossthwait said, glaring. "I've been doing weddings since I was a slip of a girl and I know about deadlines. More than you do, I'd venture to say.”

  Jane suddenly felt an irrational wave of dislike for this woman. She was doing a meticulous job on the dresses, but couldn't she be a little less meticulous and get the damned dresses finished? Jane didn't want to be nagging the old woman, but everything else was so thoroughly under control and Mrs. Crossthwait was making Jane crazywith her dawdling and her outspoken rudeness to everyone.

  “I plan to hold you to that promise," Jane said firmly.

  But this turned out to be an empty threat. A very empty threat.

  Four

  By mid-afternoon Jane was fretting about the third bridesmaid. She hadn't arrived and her dress was the most elaborate and farthest from completion. Jane was rummaging through her notebooks for Eden's telephone number when the young woman arrived.

  “I hope you're Eden Matthews," Jane said to her. "I was about to set up a search party."

  “And you must be Jane Jeffry. I'm sorry I'm late. Car problems," Eden said breezily. She dumped a large suitcase in the front hall, evidently certain that it would be handled from here on by someone else. "The old lodge never changes," she said, strolling into the main room. "I'm going to hate seeing this old place torn down. I've spent a good deal of time here over the years."

  “You're an old friend of Livvy's, aren't you?" Jane said.

  Eden made a "so-so" motion with her hand."We've known each other all our lives," she said. "Our fathers are best friends and business associates. Ah, this is the best chair in the place," she said, flopping down on a deep leather armchair.

  Jane was surprised at Eden's appearance. They'd never met before, only talked on the phone, but Eden had a very soft voice and Jane had formed a totally unfounded impression that Eden was small and meek. But she was a tall, well-rounded glamour girl — reminiscent of a young Farrah Fawcett, but with a voluptuous figure. Lots of artfully tousled hair, stunning teeth, perfect skin, and a runway model's walk.

  The bridesmaid dress she'd chosen — a mass of draped ruffles cascading down from a deep neckline — now made sense. Tall, gorgeous, long-striding Eden was going to make poor Livvy look like Cinderella before the Fairy Godmother took her in hand. It was hard to outshine a bride, but Jane suspected Eden was going to do just that.

  Jane was about to launch into a nag about dress fittings when Eden said, "So poor little Livvy really is going to marry Dwayne, the gas station attendant? She hasn't backed out yet?"

  “Backed out! Not after all my work, she won't. The groom works at a gas station?" Jane asked.

  Eden laughed softly. "No, he just looks like it. Sexy as hell, I have to admit, but greasy-looking. Like a gigolo at a cheap casino. But then" — she held up a finger and moved it back and forth like a metronome—"the clock is ticking. Livvy's nearly thirty and it's time to provide grandsons.”

  Jane sat down across from Eden. "You don't like her, do you?”

  Eden looked shocked. "I do like Livvy. We grew up almost like sisters and you can't dislike a sister—”

  Jane, who had a sister she wasn't crazy about, nearly objected to this premise.

  “—but mostly I feel sorry for her," Eden went on. "She's so vanilla custard, poor thing. So obedient. Jack Thatcher, her father, has thoroughly damped down any spirit or personality she might have had. She's spent her whole life trying to please him.”

  Eden stared at a moose head on the opposite wall and went on, more to herself than to Jane, "I remember when we were about seven years old. We came out here for the weekend and Livvy and I wandered off to play. We found some perfectly luscious mud and had a great time making absolute messes of ourselves. When we got back, Jack went ballistic. She'd ruined her dress, she was a mess, he was ashamed to have a daughter who could make such a pig of herself.

  “Livvy cried for the entire weekend. I never saw her with so much as a
smudge on her face or a wrinkle in her clothes again. And I never heard her laugh again, except politely."

  “That's very sad," Jane said. "Does her father approve of Dwayne?"

  “Good question. I don't suppose he cares much one way or the other. It's Livvy who has to live with him. Jack will probably just ignore him — aslong as some handsome, healthy, intelligent grandsons come along pretty soon. And I'm sure Jack's arranged for a prenuptial agreement that would result in Dwayne standing in the cold in his Jockey shorts if the marriage doesn't work out or the grandsons don't appear promptly."

  “Grandsons mean so much to him?"

  “Oh, yes. Livvy is just the stopgap between him and the next generation of male Thatchers.”

  “Livvy's his only child, right?"

  “Now she is. There was a son. A year or two older than Livvy. The light of Jack's life, my dad said. But he died when Livvy was just a baby. Of mumps, of all things. And Jack, who hadn't had mumps as a child, got it too. My dad said Jack nearly went crazy when the little boy died and Jack realized he'd never be able to father a replacement."

  “And Livvy's mother? What about her?" Jane asked.

  “She was a nice woman, meek and pretty like Livvy. But she died of breast cancer when Livvy was about five. Poor Livvy. If she had to have a husband, I don't know why she couldn't have made a better choice."

  “We don't always fall in love with the best choice," Jane said, thinking about her own ill-fated marriage.

  “Love? I don't think it's love. It's necessity. As I say, the clock is ticking. Oh, dear, is that the aunties' shrill voices I hear?”

  The voices in the front hall sounded a bit like outraged chickens squabbling over a choice piece of corn.

  “Probably. They weren't supposed to come until tomorrow, but insisted on coming today." Jane and Eden got up and went to meet the newcomers.

  The two tiny elderly ladies were virtually indistinguishable except for their hair. One had a snowy white do that towered over her like an impossibly fluffy cloud. The other had the identical style, but in a maroon red verging on purple that never grew from a human head. Jane wondered if they got a discount on the two dreadful wigs. They looked like something from a Disney cartoon.