by Leslie Meier
“It’s me,” said her best friend, Sue Finch. “Have you got time for coffee today?”
Lucy glanced at the clock. Ted would be in any minute. No point in rushing things, she decided. She’d have plenty of time to write the correction and explain to him later.
“Sure. Meet you at Jake’s in five.”
Sue was already at the coffee shop when Lucy arrived. Before leaving the office she’d taken a few minutes to write up her idea for the lobster story and had slipped it in Ted’s mailbox. Hopefully, he’d be so pleased with her initiative that he’d overlook her correction.
As she approached the table, Sue jumped up. She was so excited, she could hardly sit in her chair.
“Guess what? Sidra’s set the date!”
Lucy gave her a quick hug and they both sat down.
“A wedding! When is it?”
“August first.”
“But that’s only five weeks away. . . .”
“I know. I have so much to do,” Sue said smugly, tucking her glossy black hair behind one ear. “I hardly know where to begin.”
Lucy smiled at her friend. This was the sort of thing she loved. Something to organize. Ever since she’d quit her job at the town’s day care center Sue had been at loose ends, with nothing to do except polish her nails, do her hair, and buy new clothes. She looked great, admitted Lucy, noting her black linen shorts and crisp white shirt topped with a straw hat, but the truth was she had too much time on her hands. No wonder she was excited about organizing the wedding, but Lucy wondered if Sidra might have ideas of her own. After all, she was a sophisticated young woman who’d made a life for herself in New York as a producer on the Norah Hemmings daytime TV talk show.
“What about Sidra? What does she want her wedding to be like?”
“She asked me to plan it for her,” said Sue, preening. “She can’t leave her job, you know, she doesn’t want to let Norah down after she’s been so nice to her and all.”
Lucy nodded. Norah Hemmings had a summer home in Tinker’s Cove and took an interest in the town’s youngsters, providing scholarships and advice and, in Sidra’s case, a job.
“Why the rush?”
“It’s her fiancé, Ron. It’s something to do with his business.”
“What does he do?”
Sue put her hands together and took a deep breath. She was so excited, she was practically bouncing on her seat. “He’s a millionaire.”
“Really?”
“Yes! You’ve heard of Secure.net?”
“Uh, no.”
“You haven’t? It’s just the hottest new Internet company since Amazon!”
“And he works for them?”
“No, no. He is them. He’s the CEO and founder.”
“Wow,” said Lucy, honestly impressed. “Sidra made quite a catch.” She paused. “How old is he?”
“Young. Her age, I think. Maybe a year or two older.” Sue raised her arm and waggled her fingers to catch the waitress’s attention. “Of course the money is nice, but the really important thing is that Sidra is happy.” She looked up at the college girl who was waiting tables. “I’ll just have black coffee, please.”
“Orange juice for me,” said Lucy, who rather thought she’d drunk too much coffee already today.
“What happened with Geoff Rumford?” asked Lucy.
“I think he didn’t want to commit, like all these young fellows today. They call it commitment phobia. I think she just got tired of waiting for him to get serious, and when Ron came along, well, it was like a fairy tale. All the best restaurants, opening nights, gala parties. He swept her off her feet!”
“Like Prince Charming,” said Lucy as the waitress set down her juice.
“Exactly,” said Sue, lifting up her cup. “That’s why I want this wedding to be perfect. They’re the perfect couple and I want them to have the perfect wedding.”
“To a perfect wedding,” said Lucy, raising her glass in a mock toast.
They touched their cups.
“It’s only going to be a small, simple affair, fifty people tops. But it’s going to be beautiful. A sweet, country-style wedding with beautiful flowers, wonderful food. Everything will be exquisite—and you know what?” Sue leaned forward, across the table. “Wouldn’t your gazebo be just the perfect place for it?”
Lucy could just picture it. Bill’s beautiful gazebo festooned with garlands of flowers, a white carpet laid across the emerald green grass, a cluster of tastefully dressed, attractive guests surrounding a radiant Sidra and her tall, handsome millionaire groom.
“Thanks for asking,” gushed Lucy. “It’ll be a privilege. My gazebo is your gazebo.”
Chapter Three
Lucy was floating along in a pink-tinted fog when she left the coffee shop, dreaming of old lace and roses. Passing the bake shop, she stopped to look at the mock wedding cake, five layers tall and topped with figures of a bride and groom, that had stood there collecting dust ever since she could remember.
She shook her head. Sue would never allow a monstrosity like that at Sidra’s wedding. Instead she would have something truly beautiful, perhaps covered with real flowers. And the cake inside wouldn’t be that dry, crumbly stuff that tasted of chemicals; it would be buttery and rich and filled with jam. Lucy could picture it—she could almost taste it—when she suddenly remembered Bill.
What had she been thinking? She should never have agreed to let Sue have the wedding in the gazebo without checking with him first. She could just imagine his reaction. He was already upset with her for working full-time; he would no doubt want to know where she was going to find the time. And he was right. Now that she thought about it, really thought about it, she realized she simply didn’t have time to plan a wedding.
Ah, but she didn’t have to, she reminded herself. She wasn’t planning the wedding. Sue was doing all the work. She was simply letting Sue use the gazebo. What was the problem with that? Come to think of it, Bill ought to be flattered that Sue had asked. Lucy was smiling as she pushed open the door to the Pennysaver office.
“Well, don’t you look like the cat who ate the canary,” said Phyllis by way of greeting. Behind her, the fax machine was humming and spewing out sheets of paper. “Have you got a scoop?”
“I wish,” said Lucy, tilting her head at Ted’s vacant desk. “Has Ted come in yet?”
“Nope.”
Lucy headed for her desk, where she looked up Bill Cranshaw’s phone number. She reached for the phone, then stopped. It would be better, she decided, if she wrote the correction before she called. Then she could read it to him and assure him she had taken appropriate action and was setting the record straight. She opened a file and typed a few words, then deleted them. She was just starting over when Phyllis dropped several sheets of paper on her desk.
“Fax for you.”
Lucy glanced at it. To her surprise, it was from Sue. Since when had Sue had a fax machine? she wondered as she scanned the neat, round handwriting.
“Re: Wedding,” Sue had written in businesslike fashion. “Could you check on these for me?” Below this brief introduction was a list of things to do for the wedding.
“Order porta potties” was at the top of the list.
Trust Sue to think of everything, she thought. Of course, it was a good idea. She suspected their septic system was strained to the limit by the kids’ lengthy showers and the endless loads of wash she was always doing. Goodness knows it wouldn’t do to have it fail in the middle of an elegant social event like a wedding.
“Grade drive and fill potholes” was next.
Another good idea, she thought. There were an awful lot of potholes, and they certainly weren’t doing the car and truck any good. Bill could probably get one of his contractor friends to do it for free.
“Canopy for rain?” was the third item. Lucy chewed her lip. What if it did rain? Not on Sidra’s wedding! That would be a tragedy. But if it did, would a canopy be large enough? Maybe they needed a tent. Would that spoi
l the effect of the outdoor wedding? Maybe they could move the whole thing onto the porch or into the house. She really needed to talk to Sue about this, so she circled the item.
Next, Sue had written “Rent chairs.” Good idea, thought Lucy, picturing a few neat rows of white folding chairs. How many would they need, she wondered, putting down a question mark.
“Reserve space at kennel for dog.” No argument there, thought Lucy. Eating half a pie was one thing; demolishing an expensive wedding cake was something else entirely. She didn’t want to risk it.
“Garden flowers,” the next item on Sue’s list, gave her pause. What did she mean? Lucy thought ahead to August, when her flower beds were filled with brightly colored zinnias and marigolds and some early chrysanthemums. They were dependable, sturdy plants, but they would hardly do as a backdrop for a wedding.
Lucy shook her head. They’d have to check with a nursery to see what would be available then—and affordable.
“What have you got there?” asked Phyllis, intruding on her thoughts. “You’re studying it like it’s the Ten Commandments or something.”
Lucy chuckled. “It is the Ten Commandments according to Sue. Sidra’s getting married this August and they want to use my new gazebo.”
“Won’t that be lovely,” cooed Phyllis. A single woman herself, she was unabashedly romantic where others were concerned. “I can just picture it, all covered with flowers. And Sidra. Won’t she be a beautiful bride! All in white, surrounded by bridesmaids. Have they chosen the colors yet?”
“I don’t think so. I guess that’s why Sue wants to know what will be in bloom in my garden. Gosh, I wish I hadn’t planted those mixed zinnia seeds. They always give you so much red and orange and hardly any lavender or white.”
“They could use peach,” said Phyllis, “or a pale yellow.”
Lucy considered. “You know what I think would work? Kind of a sagey green, leaf-colored, you know, not mint green.”
“Good idea,” agreed Phyllis, looking over her shoulder at the list and pointing at the next entry.
“If you spray for bugs, do it the day before so you don’t have that chemical smell.”
“I never thought of that.” Lucy paused, staring at the single word “lawn.” Truth be told, they didn’t really have a lawn. They had sparse patches of grass, separated by areas of pebbly, hardscrabble soil. By August, Lucy knew the little bit of green they had would be dried and brown.
“Well, this wedding will be a good excuse for sprucing up our yard. It has gotten kind of shabby, especially the lawn. I’ll ask Bill to give it some fertilizer and water. That ought to green it up.”
“You can fill in with sod at the last minute if you have to,” said Phyllis.
“Won’t that be expensive?”
Phyllis shrugged. “It is a wedding, after all.”
Of course, thought Lucy. It was a wedding. The grass would have to be green.
“Don’t forget parking,” advised Phyllis. “You’ll have to rent a cop.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” said Lucy, adding it to the list. “We don’t want to block Red Top Road.”
“No, you don’t. My sister had a party last month and people parked in the road and the cops came and made everybody move their cars. You don’t want that.”
Just then the door flew open and Ted marched in, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. Phyllis scurried back to her desk and Lucy guiltily stuffed the list in her purse. He glanced at her curiously through his hornrims.
“Is something going on that I should know about?”
“No,” she said, reaching for the phone and dialing Bill Cranshaw’s number. He answered after the second ring.
“It’s a little late for an apology,” he complained, after she’d explained her error. “The ones you really ought to apologize to are Bud Abbott’s family. Frankly, I don’t know how anybody could have made such a stupid mistake.”
Lucy swallowed hard. “Well, I don’t ordinarily cover the cemetery commission meetings. I was filling in for Ted—he was away for a few days, or he would have caught my mistake when he edited the story. Like most mistakes, it was a combination of factors.”
“Seems to me if your byline is on the story you ought to be sure of your facts.”
“You’re absolutely right,” agreed Lucy, thinking it was about time to wind up this conversation. “In the future I will be sure to do that.”
“And I don’t know what good a correction will do,” continued Cranshaw.
“Well, it will set the record straight,” said Lucy, tapping her fingers on the desk.
“Seems to me it will just reopen the whole issue. Might be better to just let sleeping dogs lie.”
Lucy took a deep breath. “It’s our policy to run corrections when we’ve made a mistake. It’s important for our credibility.”
“The best way to improve your credibility would be not to make mistakes in the first place.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Lucy, repeating herself. “But since we’re mortal we do make mistakes. That’s why we have the correction policy.”
She glanced over at Ted and noticed he was chuckling.
“Where exactly will this correction be printed? On the front page?”
“No-o-o,” said Lucy, wondering if Cranshaw had ever read the Pennysaver. “On page two, where we always put them.”
“I guess that’ll be all right, then,” he admitted in a grudging tone. “Nobody looks there anyway.”
“The correction will run next Thursday,” said Lucy. “Good-bye.”
At his desk, Ted’s shoulders were heaving with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she asked testily. “That guy was impossible. After making all that fuss, he decided he didn’t want a correction after all.”
“You’re a bit touchy today, aren’t you? Not everything is about you, you know. I was laughing at this letter complaining about the new harbormaster,” he replied. “It describes him as ‘grimacing and hopping around like a jumping jack.’ ”
“That’s Wiggins for you,” said Lucy, remembering her encounter with him that morning. “He’s a weird guy. He’s got disgusting habits. That mustache of his is . . .”
“An alien life form,” said Phyllis, finishing the sentence for her.
“That’s small-town nepotism for you,” said Ted. “There’s only one reason why he got the job. His uncle and two cousins are on the waterways commission.”
“Speaking of the waterfront,” began Lucy, sensing an improvement in Ted’s attitude toward her, “how about letting me do a story on that lobster research project?”
Ted groaned. “Lucy, you can’t even tell the living from the dead! Why do you think you can handle a science story with all that technical jargon?”
“I think I can handle it. Especially since Toby is working on the project.”
“So he could explain all the really big words to you?” Ted’s mouth was twitching at the corners. This time she was sure he was laughing at her.
“Considering the high cost of a college education today, I sincerely hope so.”
Lucy knew she could count on some sympathy from Ted on this point. His own son, Adam, was the same age as Toby and had just completed his freshman year.
“Okay,” said Ted. “And while you’re down there, it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on Wiggins.” He paused. “So how are those obits going?”
“Not going,” admitted Lucy, scrabbling around on her desk for the file folder. “Coming. Right now.”
“Good. You know what I always say.”
Lucy knew. “More people read the obituaries than any other part of the paper.”
Chapter Four
“Memorial donations may be sent to the Tinker’s Cove Fire and Rescue Department,” typed Lucy, adding the final period with a flourish. It was a nasty job, but somebody had to do it. Now, thank goodness, she was done—for this week, anyway.
A disquieting thought occurred to her. If she’d typed Henr
y “Bud” Abbott’s obituary, why hadn’t she remembered it when she wrote the story about the golf commission? A brain freeze? A senior moment?
“Phyllis, tell me the truth,” she said. “Am I losing my mind?”
Phyllis looked at her curiously. “You want the truth?”
Lucy thought for a minute. “Yes,” she finally said. “It seems to me that I’m awfully forgetful lately. Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s or something.”
“I know the feeling,” said Phyllis, taking off her reading glasses and wiping them with a tissue. “The way I see it, there’s only so much space in our brains. As we get older, the space fills up. Since there’s only a limited amount of room left, we can only remember the really important stuff.”
“Like whether or not we need to pick up milk?”
“Right.” Phyllis nodded. “Or in my case, where I left my reading glasses.”
Lucy chuckled. “Thanks. You’ve made me feel a lot better.” She checked the clock and saw it was almost noon. Lunchtime. And today, she definitely wanted to get out of the office.
“It’s such a nice day, I’m going to eat outside,” she told Phyllis. “I’ll be back by one.”
“Enjoy—and don’t forget your lunch!”
“Ha, ha,” said Lucy, swinging the insulated bag.
Pushing open the door with the little tinkly bell, she blinked at the sudden brightness outside. The sun was so strong that everything seemed to be sparkling; rays of light bounced off the cars parked along Main Street, heat waves rose from the asphalt roadway, and even the concrete sidewalk seemed glaringly white. Window boxes and planters, filled with geraniums by the chamber of commerce, added shimmering dabs of green and red, and the light poles were decorated with red, white, and blue bunting in anticipation of the Fourth of July parade just a week away. The sidewalk was filled with family groups of tourists, pausing here and there in little clusters to examine the goods displayed in shop windows, or studying restaurant menus.
Bill’s parents, who had moved to Florida, often complained about the heat there, but to Lucy this unaccustomed blast of heat was welcome. Even in summer, temperatures above eighty degrees were rare in this part of Maine, where ocean breezes had a constant cooling effect. As she walked along, Lucy raised her face to the sun and sniffed the clean, fresh air. With bare arms and sandals on her feet, she felt light and free. Almost like a kid again.
