“No,” Abigail said and patted my hand. “We really must get started, Liza. I’m sure Garrett will get here any moment. We can catch him up when he does. Besides, darling, we’re just choosing the dress right now.” She frowned, then reached up and pushed a stray lock of hair off my face.
“But,” I protested, “Garrett—”
“Is so, so sorry for being late! It started snowing again and I couldn’t find a cab from Grand Central.”
And suddenly there he was, bounding past the bowing maître d’ and into the elegant room, wearing his favorite faded blue jeans, an old cable-knit sweater, and a grin. Byron’s eyes flitted up and down Garrett’s frame, as if mentally measuring him for a tuxedo.
After Garrett said hello to Abigail and kissed her on the cheek, Leslie, Camille, and Karin got up from the table and surrounded him, introducing themselves and congratulating him on being fortunate enough to have found such a lovely bride.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Garrett said, walking up behind my chair and placing his hands on my shoulders.
“It took some time to talk her into it, but when she finally said yes…” He bent down and kissed the top of my head. “Well, all I can say is, it was worth the wait. I’m the luckiest man on earth.”
Byron stepped forward to shake Garrett’s hand. “You make a very handsome couple. Garrett, I’m Byron, the head of Best Laid Planners. I’ll be producing your wedding.”
Still smiling, Garrett nodded as if this seemed a completely reasonable thing to say, as if people had weddings that required “producing” every day of the week.
“Nice to meet you, Byron.”
The introductions completed, Byron clasped his hands together and said, “Now that everyone is here, I think we should get to work, yes? Karin, would you run out and find a waiter? Let him know that he can begin serving. There’s no reason we can’t plan and eat at the same time.”
Karin hustled off. Everyone else shuffled around, shifting seats to make room for Garrett, who took the chair next to mine, then leaned over to kiss me on the cheek before whispering in my ear, “Isn’t this great! Now you can concentrate on your papers and your painting and not worry about the wedding. Me too. I got two new clients this week. I’m working sixteen-hour days just trying to keep up. It’s great that Abigail is taking over. All we have to do is show up, get married, eat some cake, drink some champagne, and then sail off on our honeymoon and into our future. What could be better? It’s a dream, don’t you think?”
I nodded. That’s exactly what I thought. This room filled with orchids, the stone-faced waiters who were carrying in plates covered with silver domes, the smiling and oblivious faces surrounding me, the panoply of pictures Byron was pointing to, the succession of brides dressed in yards and yards and yards of silk and satin and lace—it couldn’t be real.
12
Evelyn Dixon
I sat on one side of the booth with Mom and Charlie opposite me. He dipped his spoon into the dark, dense chocolate and urged Mom to take a bite.
“This is my mother’s secret recipe for chocolate mousse. There are chefs who would commit a crime to get this recipe, Virginia. They would! Have a taste and see if I’m not right.”
Mom rolled her eyes, thoroughly charmed. “Oh, you. Isn’t that what you said about the apple crisp yesterday? And the banoffee pie the day before that?”
“Could be,” Charlie said with a wink. “My mother is a woman of many secret recipes, all well worth stealing.”
“Charlie,” she said, “why is it that whenever you talk, the word ‘blarney’ comes to mind?”
“I can’t imagine, Virginia. You’re the first to mention it. Now, go on. Give it a try. You won’t be sorry.”
“I can’t,” she groaned, patting her stomach. “Really, Charlie. I’m stuffed like a Christmas turkey already. Those short ribs were heavenly, but so filling! I don’t have room for dessert.”
“A bite,” he urged. “One.”
Mom sighed, resigned to the inevitable, and took the spoon from Charlie’s hand. One bite and her resistance melted away like a chocolate bar left in a sunny window. Mom’s face was an expression of pure rapture.
“Oh, my. That is either heaven or real close to it. Here, Evelyn,” Mom said, pushing the spoon toward me, “have a bite. You’ve just got to try this.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I already have, on many, many occasions. Charlie’s chocolate mousse is the reason I had to get a gym membership. But,” I said to Charlie, “I wouldn’t mind a nice cappuccino.”
Charlie jumped up from the booth. He’d just bought a new espresso machine for the restaurant and was still having fun fooling with it. “Skim milk, extra foam?”
“Perfect.”
He leaned over to kiss me on the cheek before heading off to play with his new toy, but I called him back to the table.
“Charlie, come here a minute. I want to tell you something.” He leaned down. I grabbed the collar of his sweater, pulled him close, and kissed him on the lips. “I love you.”
“Me too.”
I rested my chin in my hand and watched him walk away, whistling a tune as he did.
Mom swallowed another bite of chocolate mousse and clucked. “Why you don’t marry that man is just beyond me.”
I changed the subject. “I changed my mind. Can I have a bite of your dessert?” She fed me a spoonful of the mousse. “Mmm. That is so good.”
“Too good,” Mom said. “I’ve only been here three weeks and I’ve gained two pounds.”
I nodded in mock sympathy and made a mental note to report this information to Charlie later. He would be so pleased. I certainly was.
So far, Mom’s visit to New Bern had been an unqualified success. She was eating well, gaining weight, and as I had predicted, everyone in the shop was just crazy about her. I’d set her up in her own little quilting corner with a comfortable chair, sewing machine, and floor hoop right near the big bow front window of the shop, the one that faced the cobbled courtyard from which Cobbled Court Quilts had taken its name.
I’d chosen that spot because the light was good and I thought she would enjoy looking out the window to see the comings and goings of people passing through the courtyard. At Mom’s suggestion, I put a bird feeder in the courtyard planter. It didn’t take two days for the New Bern bird population to realize that a new all-you-can-eat buffet had opened up in Cobbled Court. Now, in addition to people watching, Mom could watch the succession of wrens, robins, and scarlet-winged cardinals that stopped by for a quick lunch.
The second the birds arrived, Petunia, who had spent the previous days skulking in dark corners, obviously unhappy in his new surroundings, jumped up onto the wide ledge of the window and made that his permanent hangout. Now everyone was happy, Mom and Petunia. And though that hadn’t been my motivation, having Mom and Petunia sitting in the front window turned out to be good for business.
People passing through the courtyard on their way to other businesses were charmed by this live display: the fluffy tortoise-colored cat eyeing the avian visitors and the older woman working at her quilting hoop. Many of those passersby came into the shop, often for the first time, to pet Petunia, who tolerated their caresses with royal disregard, then stayed to get a closer look at Mom’s work and chat with her about how difficult it must be to make those tiny, perfectly even stitches. Mom always said it was much easier than it looked, often sitting the person down to let them try a few stitches for themselves (which she quietly removed later).
Next thing you knew, Mom was talking them into buying a few yards of fabric, or a kit for a wall hanging, or signing up for a beginner’s class. I’d always known she was a good quilter, but I’d never realized she was also a good saleswoman. She’d brought in five new students the previous week, completely filling the beginner’s class and forcing me to start a waiting list. I knew I should offer a second class, but I just didn’t have time.
“Mom,” I said as I watched her scraping the las
t ribbons of mousse from the sides of the glass dessert dish, “would you consider teaching a class for me? Hand quilting for beginners?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Evelyn. I’ve never really taught before, not in a real quilt shop.”
“Well, you never sold fabric in a real quilt shop before, and look how well you’re doing. Do you realize that your customers added eight hundred dollars to my coffers last week? I should start paying you a commission.”
“Really? My! I didn’t realize it added up to so much. I don’t want a commission, though, but,” she said cautiously, “I was wondering if I could have a little fabric….”
“Well, sure, Mom. You don’t even have to ask. Anything you want.”
Her eyes lit up. “Good! I’m just about done with my wall hanging. I’d like to start something new. But,” she continued doubtfully, “I’m not sure about teaching. I don’t like staying up late.”
It was true. Mom was active during the day, full of energy, rising before the sun was up to make breakfast for both of us. It was nice to wake up to the smell of hot coffee and fresh muffins. But by eight o’clock her head started to nod and she was generally asleep by nine, tonight being an exception. Dining with Charlie meant dining late, after the dinner rush.
“There’s no reason we couldn’t schedule a class during the day. The only reason I teach at night is because I’m too busy to do so during business hours. I bet lots of people would love a daytime class.”
Mom bit her lip, thinking. “I did meet a couple of young mothers who said they wished they could take a class while their children were in school.”
“Well, there you go!”
“There she goes what?” asked Charlie, who was back with my cappuccino.
“I’m trying to talk Mom into teaching a beginner’s class during the day—hand piecing and quilting. I don’t have time to do it. Besides, Mom is better at handwork than I am.”
Mom waved her hand. “Oh, pshaw. I am not. I’ve just had more practice is all.”
“Sounds like a great idea, Virginia. What’s she paying you?” He leaned closer to Mom. “Whatever she’s offering, tell her to double it,” he advised.
“Mom prefers to take her salary out in trade. All the fabric she wants.”
Charlie nodded. “Very sensible, Virginia. It’ll keep you from bumping up into a higher tax bracket. So, what do you say? Are you going to do it?”
Mom blinked a couple of times, mentally tallying up the pros and cons of my proposal.
“Well…let me think about it. I’d need at least four sessions to teach a proper class and I hadn’t planned on staying here for another month, only long enough to meet Liza and welcome her into the family properly. When is she coming out here, anyway? I’ve been here three weeks and still haven’t laid eyes on the girl.”
“Maybe on Friday, but I don’t know for sure,” I said. “She usually makes it out here for a quilt circle meeting every couple of weeks, but Garrett said she’s busy working on a big project for school, so who knows?”
“Project or no, you’d think she’d manage to come see her fiancé more often, wouldn’t you?” Mom frowned.
I agreed but I didn’t want to say so. To most people, Liza can come off as hard-edged, but I know her better than most people. She’s tough on the outside, but inside, she’s tender and easily wounded. She’s also not one for confronting her feelings head-on. And overhearing my doubtful reaction to the engagement had clearly hurt her feelings. I knew she was busy at school. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder if the desire to avoid me was the real problem. But I didn’t say that to Mom.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said casually. “Young people are more career-oriented than they used to be. And Garrett is just as preoccupied as Liza. This whole web design business started as a sideline, just something to do for fun in his spare time, but it’s exploded so much that he doesn’t have any spare time left.”
Mom shook her head. “That’s not right. He and Liza should be spending more time together.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Virginia,” Charlie said. “They’ve got the rest of their lives to spend together. Garrett is just trying to get his business up and running before the wedding.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “He wants to buy a house, so he’s trying to put some more money in the bank. For his age, he’s actually done well, but most of his money is invested in the quilt shop. We’re partners, you know. Wish I could buy him out now so he’d have that money for a down payment, but I can’t afford to just yet. Maybe in a couple of years.”
“Well,” Mom replied, “nothing wrong with a young man wanting to take care of his family, but I still think he and Liza should be spending more time together. They’ve got their whole lives to be weighed down by responsibilities. Right now they should just relax and enjoy their engagement.”
“They are,” I reassured her. “Garrett was in New York all afternoon, remember? I told you all about it. Abigail hired some sort of wedding planner to help—”
The door of the restaurant opened. Garrett came in, his coat collar turned up against the cold. He spotted us and walked over to our booth.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, scooting over to make room for him next to me.
“Hi, everybody.” He laid his coat across the back of the booth before sitting down.
“So? How did it go?” I asked. “Did you get everything decided? Was the wedding planner nice?”
Garrett rubbed his eyes and then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, the way he does when he’s tired. “Wedding planners—plural, as in a whole team of wedding planners, make that a ‘bridal design team’—Byron, Leslie, Camille, and Karin. I swear you could plan the military invasion of a medium-sized country with fewer people than it’ll take to plan this wedding.”
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up and he leaned in. “Byron? Byron Dennehey?”
Garrett nodded.
Charlie let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. “Until he left to form his own wedding planning firm, Byron Dennehey was the editor of Mode magazine and one of the most influential style arbiters in New York.”
I stared at Charlie and shook my head slowly from side to side. “How do you know these things? You’re starting to scare me.”
“I read,” Charlie said, a little defensively. “The worlds of food and fashion are closely related. To stay in business I’ve got to keep up with the trends. I’ve got subscriptions to all the big style magazines.”
I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Charlie was wearing his favorite threadbare blue wool sweater, a pair of baggy black corduroys, faded from many washings, and brown moccasins, very scuffed at the toe. Not quite the wardrobe you’d expect from a man who has subscriptions to all the big style magazines.
“Must have cost Abigail a pretty penny to hire Byron Dennehey,” Charlie continued. “I heard he won’t take on a job unless the client has a budget of at least sixty grand.”
“Well, nobody has mentioned any figures,” Garrett said. “Abigail’s taking care of all that. But if you ask me, sixty seems like the lower end of the ballpark. There was talk of horse-drawn carriages, butterfly releases, magnums of specially imported champagne from France, and the Boston Symphony. Abigail wants to hire them to play at the reception.”
I choked, nearly spitting a mouthful of cappuccino onto the tablecloth. “You’re joking,” I sputtered. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Garrett shook his head. “Nope. She is dead serious. Abigail is determined to give Liza the most spectacular wedding in Connecticut history. The absolute best of everything.”
“What about the catering?” Charlie asked, drawing his brows together. “Who’s going to do the food?”
“Byron suggested the Walden Inn.”
The Walden Inn was a very elegant, very expensive lakeside hotel about ten miles away from New Bern, popular with the type of elegant, style-conscious New Yorkers who like to spend weekends in the country in a place t
hey’ll be seen by other stylish New Yorkers who like to spend weekends in the country. The Inn has a beautiful dining room with excellent service, and an astronomically priced menu that only adds to their reputation for exclusivity. But the management can’t seem to hold on to a chef for more than three or four months at a stretch. Consequently, the food can be very hit-or-miss. Even so, the Walden attracts a lot of attention. It was rare that a major newspaper or magazine did a piece on weekend getaways to New England without declaring that dinner at the Walden is a must. This drives Charlie crazy.
“The Walden! Is he mad? The kitchen at the Walden is a revolving door for culinary school dropouts and has-been celebrity chefs recently released from rehab! The Walden!”
Garrett held up his hands. “Calm down, Charlie. Abigail told Byron that the catering would be done by the best restaurant in the county, the Grill on the Green. Byron or one of his minions will call tomorrow to begin discussing the details.”
Charlie crossed his arms over his chest and gave a quick, self-satisfied nod. “Good for Abigail! She’s smart enough to know that it takes more than a big bill and a big PR department to make a good restaurant. I’ll cater your wedding for half the price the Walden would and the food will be four times as good.” He shook a finger in Garrett’s direction. “You tell Abigail that!”
“I don’t think Abigail is very much concerned about the size of the bill, Charlie. I’m not what you’d call up to speed on the prices of Manhattan’s finer restaurants, but I bet you could buy a pretty good used car for what it cost Abigail to host our lunch meeting today.”
Charlie leaned in, his eyes bright. “Where did you go?”
“‘21.’ The orchid room.”
“The orchid room!” Charlie exclaimed. “That’s their newest private dining space! Gorgeous. Mode did a huge spread on it. What was for lunch? Did you bring a menu?”
Garrett pulled a crumpled-up menu from his pocket and handed it to Charlie. By now we were all well trained in the art of culinary espionage. Garrett and I never eat at a new restaurant without bringing home a menu for Charlie to study.
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