Trouble's Brewing

by Linda Evans Shepherd; Eva Marie Everson

  Aunt Ellen

  I looked up, beaming. “Great advice, as usual, if I must say so—and I simply must.”

  “Mom, ‘Broken Up’ is me! You wrote a letter about me and published it in the community’s newspaper. How could you?”

  “No, no. That letter’s not about you.”

  “Mother, is this what you did to your friends at the Potluck? Did you write thinly disguised letters about their personal lives so you could give them advice?”

  “I wouldn’t use the terminology ‘thinly disguised,’ but I suppose my comments were meant to help one or two of them.”

  “Could this be why Fred Westbrook slammed the door in your face?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “And Mom, I heard what you said to Evie about Donna. You were gossiping.”

  “Well, I—”

  She stood up and put her hands on her hips, or at the place where, before her pregnancy, her hips used to be. “Shame on you.”

  I looked up at her. “What I said was harmless, both about Donna and in print to ‘Broken Up.’”

  “Your words were not harmless. You hurt Donna by what you said to Evie, and you hurt me by putting my problems into print. Don’t you think people will know you were writing a letter to me? Of course they will.”

  “But my advice, it was good, don’t you think?”

  “That’s not the issue; you exposed me with words you can’t take back. As Grandma says, ‘You can’t unring a bell.’” She crossed her arms, allowing them to rest on her swollen belly. “Mom, you’ve got to break your bad habit of gossip. It’s hurt you your entire life.”

  This time I stood up, ready to protect myself from Mandy, who was turning into a drama queen. I waved my arms for emphasis. “I don’t gossip. I check out the facts, go to the sources. I only repeat what I learn when it’s newsworthy. It’s what the TV networks do.”

  “Well, here’s some news. You’re flat wrong. The trouble with you and gossip, Mother, is that you enjoy telling people about other’s faults and troubles. When you find pleasure in talking about the pain of others, something is wrong. It’s time for you to learn how to hold your tongue.”

  Before I could protest, Mandy pushed her chair back and waddled out of the room. I think she was actually crying.

  I picked up the article and looked at it again. I had really hurt her. The thought stunned me. I had hurt my own daughter.

  I sat back down at the table. Had I hurt others this same way?

  I felt my face grow hot. Oh no.

  It was as if I could hear a bell ringing, but this time it was ringing for me, reminding me of all the words I had spoken, words that I couldn’t take back.

  Lisa Leann, I admonished silently, you have some fences to mend, girl.

  39

  Good old-Fashioned Snail Mail

  Clay decided not to drive to the newsroom but rather to walk. After all, he was now up to a couple of miles every morning and at least one in the evening. According to the odometer in his jeep, the large and modern building housing Gold Rush News was just a little over a mile away. He could walk there and back and have his two miles in.

  Of course, he couldn’t walk to work and stay. He’d need his jeep for runs. He could, however, do the little things like check his mail—the old-fashioned kind that comes in envelopes and bears stamps of dead famous people or pretty flowers or holiday cheer. According to a call he’d received on his cell phone from the office secretary, there was quite a stack piling up.

  “You haven’t graced us with your presence in a couple of days, Clay. I think you’ll be surprised at all the snail mail you’ve got on your desk.”

  “Snail mail? What’s that about?”

  “You know, the kind that comes via the U.S. Post Office? Not email but snail mail.”

  Clay sighed. “I know what snail mail is, Edie. What I’m asking is why I suddenly have so much of it.”

  “Oh. Well. It’s not you, per se. It’s actually addressed to Aunt Ellen.”

  “Then why is it sitting on my desk?”

  “Because the boss said this is your little project, you can deal with the backwash.”

  Clay nodded. “Oh, yeah. All right. I’ll be down there in about twenty minutes.”

  Clay could hear the rumbling of a nosy woman leaning in for the kill on the other end of the line. “Say, Clay … tell me something. Just who is this Aunt Ellen anyway? Anyone I know?”

  Clay chuckled. “Good try, Edie. But, you see, it’s like this: if I tell you, I have to kill you. Then I’d get arrested, and they’d take me down to the county jail and, well, to be honest with you, I just don’t look that good in orange jumpsuits.”

  With that, Clay ended the call, and with a “see ya later” to Bernstein and Woodward, he pulled on his jacket, walked out the door, bounded down the steps, and began his sprint toward the office.

  To do so, he had to walk past “Aunt Ellen’s” bridal boutique. It was dark. Unoccupied, but at the same time, open and inviting.

  Much like its owner.

  40

  Spilling the Beans

  I hung up the kitchen wall phone after the call from Lisa Leann, completely stunned. How could Bob have told everyone about the proposal … the kiss?

  Okay, he hadn’t told everyone. But he’d told Lisa Leann, and that was just as good as telling everyone to my way of thinking. I vacillated between calling him or driving to his office. One way or the other, we were going to talk about this; I just wasn’t sure about when.

  I went into the living room and sat in my favorite chair, picked up the Bible I’d left sitting on its arm, and began to read again. Word of God or not, I couldn’t seem to focus on the text. All I could see was Bob standing in the middle of Lisa Leann’s shop, talking about our most private moments.

  How could he?

  I put the Bible down and went back into the kitchen to call Vonnie. She answered on the second ring, a new joy in her voice.

  “Von? That you? You sound awfully chipper for a Thursday morning.”

  Vonnie giggled. “Let’s just say things are good between me and Fred again.”

  I pinked an old maid’s blush. “I wouldn’t know about such things,” I said.

  “But you will soon enough,” Vonnie reminded me. Vonnie was the only person I’d told about the engagement—so far. Obviously, I couldn’t account for how many people Bob had told.

  I sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I will.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I walked over to the kitchen table, pulling the telephone cord with me, then sat in one of the hard chairs. “I just got a call from Lisa Leann.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, leaning my elbows on the table. With my free hand I curled my hair around my index finger.

  “She came over the other night.”

  “To your house?”

  “Mmm. Wanted to say some hurtful things about our Donna.”

  “She said some things to me too.”

  “About Donna? What things?”

  “About her and Clay Whitefield.” I stood, walked over to the shelf where I keep Mama’s old cookbooks, and pulled one from its place. I needed to think about supper tonight, though I didn’t feel like eating. I’d hardly been hungry since the afternoon I proposed to Bob Burnett. If this kept up, by our first anniversary, I’d be little more than a skeleton.

  “Same here. Of course, you know if we keep talking about Lisa Leann we’re just as guilty of gossip as she is.”

  I looked up and glanced out the window to the skies that had turned ashen gray, ripe and ready for another snowfall. “I suppose so,” I admitted.

  “Well, then, Evie. Why’d you call this morning?”

  “Lisa Leann is having a baby shower for her daughter on Saturday.”

  “I know. I don’t know if I can make it. I’m still a little prickly on the subject of Lisa Leann Lambert.”

  “Vonnie,” I said, crossing back over to the table a
nd carrying the recipe book, “yes, you can. We really must. Lisa Leann wants to evangeline discuss the Christmas Tea, and I’m thinking that we need to have some PLC prayer time as well. We owe this to our group … we owe this to Jan, if nothing else.”

  Vonnie didn’t answer right away but finally said, “I agree.”

  “Good. Then will you help me? Will you call a few of the others? Encourage them to go? We should show the love of Jesus to Lisa Leann—whether she deserves it or not.”

  Vonnie said she would, taking two of the names: Donna, whom I still couldn’t face, and Goldie, who had been busy moving into a condo and who put a buzz in motion when she sat with Jack in church on Sunday. “I’ll call Lizzie,” I said. “She called earlier and left a message for me while I was taking my bath.”

  With a “sounds good,” Vonnie and I ended our call, and I placed another, this time to Lizzie’s workplace. While I waited for her to come to the phone, I opened the recipe book and pointed. Whatever my finger settled on would be dinner.

  “This is Lizzie Prattle,” I heard her say as I peered at the recipe at my fingertip. Gingerbread. Oh well. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to challenge my fate these days. Gingerbread, perhaps with a tall glass of ice-cold milk, would have to do. At least the milk had some nutritional value.

  “Lizzie? You called?”

  “Evangeline, what’s this about you and Bob Burnett?”

  My shoulders sagged. “Who told you? Bob? Did Bob tell you too?”

  “No. Lisa Leann called about—”

  “Lisa Leann,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “That woman …”

  “I know. Let’s not go there right now. The point is, are you really engaged to Bob Burnett?”

  I tried to smile. “I am.”

  “Evie—”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Lizzie. I’m not even sure how I feel about the whole thing.”

  “What about Vernon?”

  “Vernon. Vernon Vesey is a snake,” I said, then remembered what Bob had said the afternoon of our first date. “I’d say the snake hasjust crawled in, and Eve’s got a decision to make. You gonna eat fromthe tree or not, milady?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I sighed, something I seemed to be doing a lot of lately. “I’m going to tell you this, Lizzie, but I’d appreciate it if you keep it to yourself. I haven’t even told Vonnie.”

  “Vonnie doesn’t know about the engagement?”

  “Oh, she knows about that, yes. But she doesn’t know about Doreen Vesey coming back to town and Vernon practically fawning all over her.” I took a breath. “Again.”

  “Doreen Vesey? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I saw them together at the tavern.”

  “You were at the tavern?”

  I began to pace about the kitchen. “It’s a long story, but I’m sure God led me there. The point is, Lizzie, I saw them. Saw them together. At a table, in the darkest, most private part of the room.”

  “Did you talk to her? To Doreen?”

  “Oh, yeah. And she is just as snide as ever, I’ll have you know. She looks like a dried-up old prune, but she hasn’t lost her sass.”

  Lizzie was quiet for a moment. “Well, my word. Does Donna know that her mother is back in Summit View?”

  I paused. “I don’t have any idea.”

  Lizzie was quiet again. “Evie, tell me everything you saw.”

  “In the tavern? I walked in—Lizzie, have you ever been in that place? It’s a den of iniquity, I’ll tell you that much. If Sodom and Gomorrah were even half as bad—”

  “Evie, get to the point.”

  I stopped my pacing. “They were sitting in the back, at a table.”

  “What were they doing? Holding hands? Talking?”

  “No, they weren’t holding hands. Doreen was smoking like an old chimney. I wonder when she picked up that nasty habit. And, if you ask me, she’s doing more than smoking cigarettes. I’ll bet she’s an alcoholic from the looks of things.”

  “Evie!”

  “Sorry. That woman just riles me up.”

  “Well, get off the rabbit trails, my friend. Were they talking or just—I don’t know—sharing a drink?”

  I had to think, to take myself back to that moment when life as I knew it had ended. “They were … they were … arguing.”

  “Arguing?”

  I found my chair and sat in it. “Oh, dear. Oh, Lizzie. They were arguing. Why didn’t I realize that sooner?”

  “Evie, have you spoken to Vernon since then?”

  “No. He and I were supposed to get together later that afternoon, but then … And he hasn’t bothered to call me or come by. For a while there, he was driving by several times a day. Oh, Lizzie. I’ve blown it. I’ve blown it big time.”

  Lizzie suggested that we pray and that I make a phone call to Vernon, asking if we could talk. “Then,” she said, “you’ll either have closure or a decision to make.”

  “You mean, between Bob and Vernon?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh, Lizzie. When did life get so complicated?”

  Lizzie laughed a little laugh and then said, “Let’s pray, Evie. Let’s pray right now before you go off and do anything else we’ll need to pray to get you out of.”

  Vernon agreed to come by, though I practically had to beg him to. “Just say what you have to say,” he kept repeating to me on the phone. He sounded like a rejected puppy.

  “Vernon, please. Please, I’m begging you.”

  He finally relented and said he’d see me in a half hour.

  I dressed in the new outfit I’d bought at Lindy’s but had yet to wear. When he arrived—looking handsome in his uniform but laden with a look of hurt and confusion—I ushered him into the living room and asked him to have a seat on the sofa. He held his uniform cap in his hands and slid his fingers around the brim as he did so. I chose to sit next to him, a decision that, I could tell, made him uncomfortable.

  I folded my hands in my lap, leaned over a bit, resting my elbows on my thighs. “When did she come back?” I asked, getting right to the point.

  He shrugged and looked me in the eye. “I’m not sure. A few weeks ago—two days before you saw me with her picture—I got a call out to the tavern. She managed to dart into the ladies room as soon as she saw me so I wouldn’t get a good look at her, I suppose.” He shook his head. “She looks awful, doesn’t she?”

  I wanted to rant and rave that she deserved to look awful, considering what she’d done to me over the years, not to mention what she’d done to him and his daughter. But instead I said, “She does. She’s obviously been through some rough times.”

  “I went home that afternoon, trying to figure out why the barmaid had made such a hasty retreat when I entered. There was something about the eyes …”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have recognized her.”

  He pursed his lips. “Donna’s seen her, but she doesn’t recognize her. Apparently, no one else does either. But …” He took a deep breath.

  “But?”

  “I was married to the woman. I know her—knew her intimately.”

  I prickled.

  “I’m sorry. We’re both adults here, Evie. Doreen’s the mother of my daughter. We’ve been intimate.”

  “It’s just not a mental picture I need right now.”

  “Sorry.” He looked down at the cap in his hands and began to curl it into something resembling a taco. I watched him intently, wishing I could reach out to him in a more physical way; that I could take him in my arms and hold him until all the ugly in life melted away.

  But I couldn’t. At that moment, I was an engaged woman, and I needed to stay focused on my purpose for our meeting. Closure, Lizzie called it.

  “So, Donna doesn’t know?”

  “No. After that day, when you saw me with the photo, I began to do some investigating before I just headed
out there and made accusations.” His blue eyes shot up to mine and held them for a evangeline moment before going on. I could read them clearly. “As you accused me,” they seemed to say. I deserved that look, so I let it slide by saying nothing in return. “She’s been married six times, Evie. Six times.”

  “My Lord have mercy.”

  “She had three more children, all of whom were taken away from her either by the state or by their fathers. She wasn’t even married to the father of two of them.”

  “Reminds me of the woman at the well.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. I wanted to hear the rest of Doreen’s story. “Keep going.”

  “She’s worked as a barmaid across the country. Got arrested more than once for prostitution.”

  I gasped. “Oh, Vernon.” In spite of my resolution to the contrary, I reached for his hand. He took mine in his and squeezed. “How horrible for you. For Donna.”

  “That’s why we were arguing when you came into the tavern. I finally walked in when she wouldn’t expect it. She wants Donna to see her as more than just Dee Dee McGurk. But I said no. This isn’t the kind of thing we can just spring on Donna. Especially now.”

  My brow furrowed. “Why now?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t go into that right now. Donna’s having a difficult time and I’d … I’d appreciate your prayers, quite frankly.”

  I smiled, scooting a tad closer to him. “Prayers? Why, Vernon Vesey, I didn’t think you were a praying man.”

  He squeezed my hand again, then winked at me. “You might be surprised.” He inched closer too. “Forgive me?”

  My heart began to race, and my head went fuzzy. “Of course, I do,” I answered, looking down.

  He ducked his head as though he were going to kiss me. “Evie,” he whispered. “My Evie-girl.”

  “Vernon,” I whispered back. “I … I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” He drew back. “Can’t what? Kiss the man you love? The man you’re going to marry?”

  “Marry?”

  “You are, you know. I’m not wasting any more time. Not taking any more chances. I’d already bought you a ring.”