Great, I think. Just what I need to cheer me up. A reminder that I am so not invited to the dance. But it’s better than sitting home alone brooding, so I allow myself to be talked into going along.
We end up taking the train into Boston with her mother. Mrs. Chadwick wants to go to some fancy gardening store on Newbury Street, right near this awesome thrift store I discovered the last time I was downtown with my grandmother.
I have Gigi to thank for getting me interested in vintage stuff. It started last year, when she gave me this beautiful material she brought from Hong Kong. It was practically antique, and completely unique. People went nuts over anything I made out of it, and I’m pretty sure it’s what got me in the door at Bébé Soleil.
I used to make fun of thrift stores, but now I think they’re cool. Shopping at them is like going on a treasure hunt—you never know what you’re going to find. And at the fancy ones in Boston, you can find some really great stuff. Like the ‘60s prom dress I pull off the rack a little while later to show Becca.
“Look at this!” I tell her. “Doesn’t it remind you a little of that dress of Jackie Kennedy’s we saw at the Smithsonian last year?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Try it on,” I urge.
“You don’t think it will make me look too old or out of style or something?”
“No way. Vintage is always in style. Besides, check out the color—peach is gorgeous on you. And, it’s strapless.” I waggle the hanger enticingly.
Becca has been dying to wear something strapless.
While she goes to try it on, I dig through a big basket of purses on the floor. Some of them are tacky—just your basic used stuff—but I unearth a lime green designer clutch that I know Gigi will love. Plus, it’s only $9.50, which is another reason thrift stores totally rock.
Becca comes out of the dressing room and twirls in front of the mirror, beaming at her reflection. “You’re right, it’s gorgeous.”
“Told you so,” I tell her smugly. “Zach will faint when he sees you.”
“I hope not—that would be awkward.”
She laughs, and as I catch a glimpse of myself standing next to her, I’m struck as always at how different the two of us are. Becca has what my mother calls “girl-next-door looks”—she’s blond and blue-eyed and a classic beauty, like Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. With my dark hair and eyes and ivory skin, I’m like night to her day. Plus, she’s a cheerleader and super outgoing, and I’m more on the quiet side.
“Yin and yang,” says Gigi.
Somehow, though, our friendship works.
Becca’s mother comes to get us as we’re ringing up our purchases. She’s loaded down with packages and bags, and there’s a small trellis sticking out of one of them. I ask her what it’s for.
“Clematis,” she tells me. “It’s a climber and needs something to scramble up. I thought I’d put it back by the shed, as the centerpiece of the new seating area I’m planning.”
Despite Hepzibah Plunkett and the Patriot’s Day pie fiasco, Mrs. Chadwick seems a lot happier these days. She really loves all this landscape design stuff. And actually, Mr. Chadwick’s dire predictions haven’t come true. Their yard looks really good, especially now that everything’s starting to bloom. The neighbors love it, and a bunch of them have asked her to help them with their gardens too. My parents have told her that as a graduation present, they want to hire her to completely redesign our property, and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid has invited her to do a guest spot on her show.
“I vote for dinner here in town,” she says, and takes us to a really nice restaurant down near the Public Gardens. It’s warm enough that we can eat at a table on the sidewalk, and we sit and watch the Swan Boats floating around the pond across the street. I feel very grown-up, and wonder if this is what Paris is like. My parents have promised I can go there next year with Gigi, when I’m sixteen.
By the time our train pulls into the Concord Depot, it’s nearly nine o’clock. Both my parents are there waiting for us, which strikes me as a little odd. I thought Mrs. Chadwick was planning to drive me home.
“How was your shopping trip?” my mother asks.
“Great! Becca found a fabulous dress, and I got a present for Gigi.” I open the bag I’m carrying and pull out the lime green clutch.
“That’s so thoughtful of you, sweetheart.”
There’s something wrong with my mother’s voice. And when I look more closely at her face, I can tell she’s been crying.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Calliope, hang on a second,” says my father. “You and Becca need to hear this too.”
Mrs. Chadwick frowns, and Becca and I exchange a glance.
“We have some sad news,” he continues.
All of a sudden I can’t breathe. I look around wildly. Where’s my grandmother?
“Is it Gigi?” I blurt out. “Is something wrong with Gigi?”
My mother shakes her head. “No, no,” she says quickly. “Your grandmother is fine, honey. It’s Mrs. Bergson.”
“What happened?” asks Mrs. Chadwick.
“She passed away this afternoon.”
Mrs. Chadwick and Becca and I stare at her blankly.
“But I just saw her at the rink yesterday, when we went to pick up Stewart!” Becca protests. “Are you sure?”
My father nods. “Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid called us with the news. I guess it happened shortly after Cassidy’s practice session earlier this evening with Tristan Berkeley.”
“You mean she died at the rink?” My voice cracks.
“It was very quick,” my mother replies. “Apparently she sat down to take off her skates, and then she was just—gone.”
I stand there, stunned, trying to absorb this news. “Does Cassidy know?”
My mother nods. “I guess she’s taking it pretty hard. So is Tristan.”
“Why didn’t you call us?” asks Mrs. Chadwick. “We would have come straight back.”
“We didn’t want to spoil your girls’ day out,” says my father. “And there wasn’t anything you could do. There wasn’t anything any of us could do.”
I can’t believe it. Mrs. Bergson? I mean, I know she’s kind of ancient and everything, but she’s so vibrant. So alive. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over.
My mom puts her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go home,” she says. “Gigi really needs some support. Mrs. Bergson was her best friend here in Concord.”
“Who’s going to tell Emma?” I ask.
“Jess and her mother called the Hawthornes a couple of hours ago. You might want to give Emma a call, too—but not until tomorrow, since it’s the middle of the night in England. I’m sure she’s needing lots of extra love right now. Mrs. Bergson was like a grandmother to her.”
All the way home I stare out the window of our car. Why do people have to die? It’s horrible. I’m really, really going to miss Mrs. Bergson. Plus, part of me can’t help worrying about Gigi, too. She’s always talking about how she wants me to have her jewelry and stuff someday when she’s gone, but I just took it as a joke. I’ve never really thought about it seriously—I mean, my grandmother seems ageless. But she’s not, she’s the same age as Mrs. Bergson. Tears slide down my cheeks again as I realize I’m going to lose her someday too.
“You okay back there, Megs?” my father asks, his eyes flicking worriedly to the rearview mirror.
I nod, and my mother reaches over the back of the seat and pats my knee, then wordlessly passes me a tissue. I wonder if she’s thinking about Gigi too.
The memorial service is set for a week from Sunday. It’s going to be held at the rink, which was what Mrs. Bergson requested. There’s a note from her in the paper and everything. “No sad faces, no glum clothes,” she wrote. “Think of it as a going-away party.”
The Mother-Daughter Book Club takes her at her word, and at the appointed time we show up in our brightest, cheeriest clothes. My grandmother is dripping with diamo
nds—“ice in honor of the queen of the ice,” as she puts it—and so am I. Well, my earlobes are at least. Gigi lent me her diamond earrings again. She didn’t say a word this time about her wanting me to have them someday when she’s gone. I think she knows that I don’t want to think about that right now.
The bleachers around the rink are packed. Over the years she lived in Concord, Mrs. Bergson taught hundreds, maybe thousands, of people how to skate, including her minister, who talks about how much fun he had with her when he was a little boy.
“Whenever I think of Eva Bergson, I think of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians,” he says. A carpet has been placed in the center of the rink, and he’s standing at a podium in the middle of it. He glances down at his Bible and starts to read: “ ‘Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.’ ”
Beside me, Gigi is sniffling into a hankie. I see my mother reach over and squeeze her hand.
The minister’s words really do sum up Mrs. Bergson. I think about how patient she was with Emma when she wanted to learn how to skate, and how kind she was in giving Pip a home when it looked like we were going to have to take him back to the animal shelter. Pip must be missing her too, even though he’s got plenty of company at Half Moon Farm, where the Delaneys are keeping him for now.
I glance over at Cassidy. She’s leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder, and Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid has her arm around her. I’d forgotten all about Chicks with Sticks! Mrs. Bergson put so much time and effort and love into that project too. And all those pies she bought from us this year! She really was one of the kindest people my friends and I have ever known.
A lot of other people think so too. After he finishes his eulogy, Mrs. Bergson’s minister invites people to share their memories of her, and there’s practically a stampede. Cassidy wipes her eyes, blows her nose, and joins the long line on the red carpet that stretches from the side of the rink to the podium. When it’s her turn, she talks about how generously Mrs. Bergson volunteered her time and energy helping launch Chicks with Sticks, and she smiles wryly as she recalls being asked if she’d consider being Tristan Berkeley’s practice partner.
“I’m a hockey player,” she tells the gathered listeners. “Not an ice princess—oops, I mean ice dancer.” She flashes a grin at Tristan, who shakes his head as a ripple of laughter runs through the crowd. “So her idea came as a bit of a shock. In fact, I actually thought maybe Mrs. Bergson was a little nuts at first. But she helped me see another side of myself that I didn’t even know was there. She told me I should never put limits on myself, and I will always, always be grateful to her for that.”
I notice Tristan nodding in agreement as she finishes, and I’m hoping that’s a good sign. If he thaws, maybe Simon will eventually, too. Right now they both still seem pretty disgusted with us.
Afterward, while a slideshow of scenes from Mrs. Bergson’s life is projected onto a giant screen at the far end of the rink, the skating party begins. This was another of Mrs. Bergson’s requests, along with a full selection of desserts from Pies & Prejudice, which we spent all day yesterday baking.
“I’m so glad we have this one last chance to show people we really can bake,” I tell Jess as we start serving the crowd. “I think they wondered, after the shaving cream incident.”
She laughs. “No kidding.”
“Hey, have you talked to Emma this weekend?”
She nods. “She really, really wanted to be here, but there was just no way she could.”
“I know Mrs. Bergson would understand.”
“I promised I’d videoconference with her later, and tell her how everything went,” Jess adds, glancing at her watch. “I wonder how long people will stay.”
I cut into another apple pie, which looks like the hands-down favorite this afternoon. Comfort food to comfort those that mourn, I guess. “I think the program said that the skating party ends at three. Hey—how about Stewart? Has he called her or anything? Maybe this will be the push he needs to get over his stupid wounded pride. Which had no reason to be wounded in the first place.” I snort. “Rupert Loomis! As if!”
Jess shakes her head.
“Wuss.”
My mother comes running over. She really made an effort to look good this afternoon, ditching her usual yoga pants for a crimson wool skirt of Gigi’s and matching sweater set. Red is a great color on my mother. The pearls—also Gigi’s—are the perfect accessory. “Girls!” she says. “I just ran into Eva’s lawyer, and he wants to meet with us after the party.”
“With you and me and Jess?” I ask, puzzled.
“No, silly, with the entire book club.” She glances down at the business card she’s holding. “His office is just down the street. I’ve got to find Shannon and Calliope and Clementine. Have you seen them?” I point across the rink to where they’re standing, talking with the manager. As my mother trots off, Jess and I look at each other and shrug. Neither of us have a clue what that was all about.
By the time the rink clears out, though, we’re all abuzz with curiosity.
“I’m sure you ladies are wondering why I’ve asked you here,” Mrs. Bergson’s lawyer says as we file in and take seats. “Eva was a good friend as well as a client. She told me all about your book club. She thought of you as family, you know.”
He peers over his glasses at us and smiles. “Eva came to me earlier this year and made some changes to her will. Although she left the bulk of her modest estate to the U.S. Figure Skating Association, there are also a few individual bequests. I have a letter here that she gave me to read to you, her Mother-Daughter Book Club friends.”
He unfolds it and clears his throat, but before he can start, Mrs. Delaney interrupts him.
“Wait!” she says. “Does your a computer have a webcam?”
“Uh, yes, I believe so.”
“Two members of our group aren’t here,” Jess’s mother explains. “They’re living in England at the moment.”
His brow furrows. “Yes, I’m aware of that. I was planning to call them tomorrow.”
“My daughter was supposed to videoconference with Emma right about now,” she continues. “Perhaps—”
His brow clears as he catches her drift. “Ah! Excellent idea.”
I scoot around his desk and set things up, and a minute later Emma appears onscreen. I can tell she’s been crying. She looks surprised to see all of us gathered in front of the computer. Mrs. Delaney quickly explains what’s happening, and sends her off to get her mother. When the two of them return, Mrs. Bergson’s lawyer clears his throat again.
“Everybody here now?” he asks, and we give him a big thumbs-up.
He starts to read:
“ ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an elderly woman in possession of no relatives of her own must be in want of some friends. That was certainly my case a year and a half ago, when Emma invited me to join your book club. What a wonderful chapter in my life it has been! Spending time with all of you was truly one of the most enjoyable things I’ve ever done.
Now, I don’t want you to be sad, my dears. I’ve had a full and extraordinary life, doing something I loved every single day. I wish each of you that same gift as you make your own journeys through life. And speaking of gifts, I have a few surprises for you. First, I’ve set up a fund to help care for Pip until it’s decided where his next home will be.’ ”
“He’s safe with us for now,” says Jess’s mother, and Emma blows her a kiss.
“ ‘I’ve also set up a fund to keep Chicks with Sticks going for many years to come.’ ”
Cassidy looks surprised to hear this.
“ ‘Your idea is such a splendid one, Cassidy, and this is a way of giving it the support it deserves after you have moved on to college,
and beyond that to a shining career that I have no doubt will involve a skating rink. It may even involve a coach’s whistle, and for that reason I’m leaving you the sterling silver one that my husband, Nils, gave me when I first began to teach. Wear it with pride; you’ve earned it. Oh, and I’ve made separate arrangements for my trophies and medals—including my Olympic gold medal—to be permanently displayed at the Concord rink, to inspire young skaters. Perhaps you can have your little chicks look at them now and then, and tell them my story, okay?’ ”
Tears are trickling down Cassidy’s face. “Okay,” she whispers.
“ ‘Emma,’ ” the letter goes on, and onscreen I see Emma lean in closer, not wanting to miss a word, “’I’m leaving you my skates—the ones I wore when I won my Olympic medal. They aren’t your size, and they’re shabby and worn, but it’s my hope that you’ll cherish them anyway, and that they’ll serve as an inspiration to you to follow your dreams, wherever they take you. And always remember, by the way, that the pen is mightier than the sword!’ ”
Emma is crying too—we all are, by now—but we have to laugh at this last line.
“ ‘And Gigi, my dear Gigi, what delight your friendship has brought to this late season in my life! I will miss my fellow ‘wise old owl,’ and I’ll miss our little jaunts and our visits over tea. I have been very sad at the thought that Pies & Prejudice is to be no more, and I have a proposition for you. I’d love it if you would sell my condominium, and take the proceeds and start a tea shop. Concord needs a good tea shop, and I think Pies & Prejudice deserves a permanent home. Perhaps you could serve dim sum on the weekend, who knows?’ ”
My grandmother perks up at this. She wipes her tears away, and a little of the sparkle comes back into her dark eyes. I can tell that the wheels are already turning. A new project!
“ ‘And finally, I’m leaving a bequest to the Mother-Daughter Book Club itself. I want you to take this money and do something extravagant and fun—once-in-a-lifetime kind of fun. Nothing sensible or dull, and for heaven’s sake no plaques or statues of me or anything like that. Go somewhere, do something, and have a wonderful experience, with my blessing. I love each of you dearly and wish you lives as long and happy as my own. Farewell, Eva.’ ”
Pies & Prejudice Page 22
