“How does that old saying go, Nancy? Something about the pot calling the kettle black when the pot is black, too? Do I have that right?” I shot back, eager to be off the hot seat.
“You know,” I said, looking around what used to be the formal entrance to our old high school, “being back here again makes me feel like I’m still fifteen years old, and about to be called to the office because I was late for class. Or my pleated skirt was too short.”
“Or your saddle shoes weren’t shined,” added Mary Alice. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m feeling the same way myself.”
“Maybe that’s why I reacted the way I did when I heard that Sister Rose was joining our group today. I guess, because we’re back at school, it’s like she’s still the English teacher who used to strike fear into my heart every time I went into her classroom,” I said. “But she can’t scare me anymore.”
I heard someone cough. Right behind me.
“She’s here, isn’t she?” I whispered to Claire, who nodded, then bypassed me to envelope our former teacher in a hug. Immediately followed by Nancy and Mary Alice.
I hung back, mindful of the fact that I had been AWOL from my regular volunteer stint (and, yes, shopping opportunity) at the thrift shop since way before Christmas. And nervous about being reprimanded by The Good Sister, just like in The Bad Old Days.
Old habits die hard. Pun intended.
Chapter 7
Bruce Springsteen was born to run. I was born to ride
in a chauffeur-driven limousine.
In case any of you were wondering, Sister Rose looked as terrific as ever. Her face bore no age lines, which I assumed was nature being kind to her. (As far as I know, nuns can’t have Botox treatments.) Her salt and pepper hair was short, cut in a no-nonsense style which was very becoming. And her two-piece gray pantsuit flattered a still slim figure.
“That’s a great outfit, Sister,” Claire said. “I bet I know where you got it.”
Sister Rose laughed. “I shop in the most unique boutique in Fairport,” she said, then flashed me a bright smile and – gasp – a wink. Which I chose to mean that I was forgiven for being absent from the shop, but I better show up soon to work.
Very soon.
I matched Sister Rose’s smile with one of my own. (I did refuse to wink back, though. I am not a total suck-up.)
“Hello, Sister,” I said. “It’s nice to see you again. And I know I haven’t been in to help at Sally’s Closet for a long time. Life has been pretty hectic for me the last few months.”
I shot Nancy a look, telegraphing, Help me out here. Before I say something stupid.
Best friend that she is, Nancy picked up on my message and immediately switched subjects. “How does it feel for you to be back at Mount Saint Francis after all these years?” she asked Sister Rose. “But I suppose you’ve been here many times, since the sisters still own the property.”
“For all of us, though,” Claire added, “it’s like being back in high school, waiting for the bell to ring for our next class.”
Sister Rose laughed. “I know what you mean, Claire. Every time I come back here, I get that same peculiar feeling. But I’m sure that, as the renovation work continues, the building will look less like Mount Saint Francis and more like a senior living community. It’s really going to be gorgeous when it’s completed.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone around,” Mary Alice said. “We’re getting a tour of the facility, aren’t we?”
“J.T. promised to be finished with another appointment by two-thirty,” Sister Rose said, checking her wristwatch. “I said I was on a very tight schedule today.” She looked at us apologetically. “I have a meeting with a potential donor to Sally’s Place at three-thirty. I can’t risk keeping her waiting. Did any of you walk around the first floor to see if J.T. was here?”
I resisted telling Sister Rose that none of us knew who J.T. was, or even if the person was male or female. But it was hard. Smart-alecky remarks are all too often my sentences of choice.
“Who’s J.T.?” asked Mary Alice. “Forgive me if I’m supposed to know the answer, Sister.”
“This isn’t a pop quiz, so relax, Mary Alice,” Sister Rose said. “J.T. is the marketing director for the new facility. It’s her job to show the units to prospective residents. And one of the ways she’s supposed to do that is by being available to take people on tours and point out how wonderful this place is going to be when it’s completed.”
Sister Rose’s pursed her lips together in a tight line, and I was glad I wasn’t in J.T.’s shoes.
“I think I hear voices from the lower level,” Claire said.
“Let’s go see,” said Nancy. “I remember the old cafeteria was downstairs.”
We had just started toward the stairs when the voices got louder. And louder. Two voices, a strident male one and a screeching female one.
Arguing.
Since I automatically shrink from confrontation of any kind, even if it doesn’t involve me, I backed away from the stairs. Not Sister Rose, though.
“J.T., is that you?” she called out. “What is going on downstairs? Kindly remember that you are supposed to be giving a tour to four alumnae of Mount Saint Francis Academy. And myself. And that these are the same four alumnae who will be planning a reunion event to officially open this facility. You’re certainly not making a very good impression.”
A woman in her late thirties appeared at the top of the stairs. Her face was as bright red as her hair. Yelling can do that to a person – turn their face, red, I mean. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.
“I’m terribly sorry to keep all of you waiting,” she said. “And for having you overhear that…discussion with our new food service manager. Who is very displeased with the size of the kitchen. I told him this was the standard size for all of our facilities, and he’d better get used to it if he wanted to work here. Period.”
J.T.’s posture gave no doubt as to which person has come out on top in that “discussion.” Clearly, this was someone who was used to calling the shots.
She took a deep breath to calm herself, then addressed herself to Sister Rose. “I’m the only member of the management team here today, so I’m the construction foreman, too, I guess. But don’t worry, Sister. Everything will be ironed out. There are always a few bumpy spots when Dockside Living is opening a new facility.”
Sister Rose gave the woman a quick nod. Which was about as far as she was prepared to go, under the circumstances. All was not forgiven. If there was one thing Sister couldn’t stand, it was to be kept waiting. For anything.
Like homework assignments, for instance.
Don’t ask me how I know this, either. Let’s just say that my long-term memory is a lot better than my short-term one.
“I’m J.T. Murray,” said the woman, shaking hands with each of our foursome in turn. “I’m so glad to meet all of you.”
“Forgive my being nosy, but what does J.T. stand for?” Claire asked.
J.T. laughed. “My parents wanted a son,” she said. “Instead, they got me. So, to compensate, they nick-named me J.T. That’s what everyone calls me these days.”
I had the distinct impression that Sister Rose was becoming more and more annoyed at the delay in our tour of the facility because of what she viewed as idle chitchat. My impression was solidified by the loud tap tap tap of her shoe on the marble floor.
J.T., however, seemed oblivious to Sister Rose’s impatience. Turning to Mary Alice, she said, “It’s so lovely to meet people who graduated from Mount Saint Francis. I want you to know that our company is committed to keeping as much of the building in its original state as possible.”
“J.T., if you please,” said Sister Rose in an icy tone. “I distinctly remember telling you that I have an important appointment this af
ternoon that I cannot be late for. We need to start the tour right now.”
J.T. turned to Sister and gave her a brilliant smile. “Of course, Sister Rose. You’re the boss.”
And in that single second, for reasons I’ll never be able to explain to anyone, I realized that I was witnessing a power struggle between two very strong personalities – J.T. and Sister Rose. And perhaps, for the first time in her life, Sister Rose was on the losing end.
Chapter 8
Just like marriage and motherhood,
nothing really prepares you for getting old.
“This is going to be a state-of-the-art facility when it’s completed,” J.T. said as she led us down the marble staircase toward what used to be our old cafeteria. “Whoops,” she said, “please be careful where you’re walking. There are obstacles left by the workmen all over the place. Sorry about that.”
This last was directed at me. In my own, typically clumsy fashion, I had managed to trip over a paint can that had suddenly appeared in my path. Fortunately, the can was closed tight, so I didn’t spill anything on the blue tweed carpeting.
That’s what happens when you don’t look where you’re going. I
mean, when I don’t look where I’m going. But I felt like I’d been transported to a strange new world – like a tourist visiting New York City for the first time. Instead of gawking at all the tall buildings, though, I was gawking at the freshly painted walls. And the magnificent crystal chandelier that hung in the center of what used to be a dingy, dark hallway.
“This whole area looks bigger than I remember,” Claire said. “Didn’t there used to be a series of small rooms along this corridor? I think one of them had a piano in it.”
“You’re right, Claire,” said Sister Rose, speaking quickly before J.T. could get a word in. “There were several small rooms on one side, and the other side had two bathrooms. The architect suggested it would be a much more effective, and efficient, use of space to redesign the bottom floor into one large dining room.”
“There will be two apartments down here as well,” said J.T., not wanting Sister Rose to upstage her as tour-guide-in-chief. She pointed down a left-hand corridor that none of us had noticed. “Down that hallway. They’ll be two-bedroom units, with two full baths.”
“Wow, sounds luxurious,” Nancy said. I could just imagine her designing a brochure to market the place to prospective customers. She linked her arm through J.T.’s. “I don’t know if Sister Rose has told you this, but in addition to be a proud alumna of Mount Saint Francis, I’m also a local Realtor.”
“A very successful one,” I added. “She was very helpful to Jim and me when we put our house on the market last year. We couldn’t have done it without her. The house sold so quickly. We were just amazed.”
Nancy flashed me a warning, which I interpreted to mean, Don’t tell J.T. that you ended up moving back into your house. Or about finding the dead body in your living room the night before the closing.
I narrowed my eyes at Nancy and shook my head a little.
Sheesh. Give me a little credit.
“Oh, look, that’s the corner of the cafeteria where we had lunch every day,” squealed Mary Alice. “Remember, Claire? Our mothers used to make our sandwiches and wrap them in Saran Wrap so they’d stay fresh. And there was always a piece of fruit in my bag. Never chips.” She sighed at the memory.
“I remember you used to trade what was in your brown paper lunch bag with Ginny Holloway,” Claire said. “She always had chips in her bag.”
“Yeah, but she also had very bad skin,” Nancy put in. “And you convinced her that eating potato chips would make her skin break out more, so she’d trade with you. I wonder what ever happened to her. Maybe she’ll be at the reunion.”
“Just to be clear,” J.T. said, “there will be very few units for sale here.” She flashed an apologetic look at Nancy. “Our company puts the emphasis on rentals. We have a three-month minimum, for a very cost-effective fee.”
She mentioned a dollar figure that would have given Jim cardiac arrest. And that was more than our monthly mortgage payment in pricey Fairport, including the exorbitant taxes. Thank goodness he wasn’t here.
I staggered back, holding my chest. Sister Rose gave me a disapproving look, which I ignored.
“J.T., I can’t imagine who you think would sign on for a rental here. There’s no way Jim and I – he’s my husband, by the way – could ever afford this.”
“The rent is quite reasonable, considering it also includes three gourmet meals a day,” J.T. said. “Plus maid service. I bet that’s something you’ve dreamed about having. But, sadly,” she sighed theatrically, but not convincingly, “you’re all too young. Our target market is seventy-five to eighty.”
Well, it was comforting to know that we were still too young for something!
Chapter 9
All men are created equal. To the chagrin of all women.
“I thought visiting our old high school was a terrific idea,” Mary Alice said over a cup of coffee at The Paperback Café, one of our favorite local hang-outs. It was after 3:00, so the restaurant’s usual mob of customers had trickled to just a few. “I’m so glad we went today. Now I’m really excited about planning our fortieth reunion.”
“Sssh,” Nancy said. “There’s no need to broadcast how old we all are to the whole world. And remember, we’re calling it the Ruby Reunion.”
“When did we decide that?” Claire asked. “And why?”
Nancy added a touch of blush to her already flawless makeup, then snapped her compact shut. “Because the ruby is the jewel for a fortieth anniversary,” she said. “Everybody knows that. And we thought it would be perfect to use the ruby as the symbol for our class reunion.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Funny, I don’t remember that conversation at all.”
“Well, we agreed,” said Nancy, not willing to concede her point. “Now, how about it, Carol? You’ve been very quiet since our trip to school.”
“You’re going to help organize the reunion, aren’t you?” Mary Alice asked. “It wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.”
I signaled the server for just a splash more of coffee, stalling for time. So far, I hadn’t said a word. I bet all of you find this hard to believe, knowing me as well as you do. But, to tell the truth, the visit to our old high school had affected me more than I was willing to admit. Even to my three closest friends.
Especially seeing what used to be the school chapel. Which, according to the architectural plans J.T. shared with us, was being transformed into a combination conference room and activity space.
Gone were the beautiful marble altar and the (very uncomfortable) wooden pews. To be replaced by a dozen individual square tables which, when fit together, would form a large conference table.
Though how and why this would be utilized in a senior living community was not at all clear to me. Maybe for the longest ongoing bingo game in the world?
The architectural rendering J.T. shared did show that the beautiful stained glass windows were to be preserved, as well as the elevated balcony that ringed the chapel. The nuns used to sit there to keep a watchful eye on the students, to be sure we were behaving ourselves during Mass.
So many meaningful events happened in that chapel, in addition to regular religious services. The one that stands out in my mind was the ring ceremony, where our class received our Mount Saint Francis Academy rings at the beginning of our senior year.
I remember how proud I was of that ring, which had the school logo and motto engraved on it. It meant almost as much to me to receive that class ring as it did when Jim asked me to marry him and slipped a diamond ring on the third finger of my left hand.
Stop it, Carol. Pull yourself together.
Then, to my utter embarrassment, two huge tears escaped from my
eyes and landed in my coffee.
Plop. Plop.
Followed immediately by a watery deluge that I couldn’t hold back.
“Oh, gosh, I didn’t want to do that,” I sobbed, grabbing a fistful of napkins and mopping my eyes.
“Carol, sweetie, I had no idea that you’d get so emotional about going back to Mount Saint Francis,” Nancy said. “If I’d even suspected how upset the trip would make you, I never would have suggested it. I’m so sorry.”
She gave my hand a squeeze of affection, then handed me her compact so I could see how terrible I looked. I took the compact, but didn’t open it. I am not a complete masochist, and I already knew my eyes were red and swollen from weeping.
Claire looked shocked at my public display of emotion. I don’t want to criticize one of my very best friends, but sometimes I wonder if Claire ever allows her emotions to show. Under any circumstances – public or private. If you get my drift.
Mary Alice rummaged in her handbag and came up with some linty tissues that looked like they’d been hiding in the bottom of the purse since our graduation. “Sorry, Carol. This is the best I can do.” She held up a tissue and offered it to me. “I think this is clean,” she said. “You can use it to wipe the mascara from around your eyes. You sort of look like a raccoon.”
“Rats, I thought you had drugs in there, Mary Alice,” I said, trying to laugh and taking the tissue. The laugh became a hiccup, unfortunately. Which led to another hiccup. And another. And before I knew it, I was in full-blown hiccup mode. Which I absolutely hate.
“Well, at least you’re not crying anymore,” Nancy said, giving me a glass of water. “Here, chug this whole glassful down without taking a breath. That always works for me. And then tell us what the heck is going on with you.”
Class Reunions Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story; A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery Page 4
