Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?!

by Charlene Baumbich

  “I think we’ll need another pot of coffee to dig into the details, May Belle,” Gladys said, trying to gain authority. May Belle’s eyes darted to Dorothy, who shrugged.

  “One thing I don’t think we’d lack,” May Belle said as she slowly (and painfully) stood to gather the empty plates, “is volunteers to help cook and serve. Oh, and clean up of course.” Just then Earl passed by the table. “Earl would love to be on the setup and cleanup committees, wouldn’t you, Earl? You did such a wonderful job with the festival duties.” If his mother thought it was a good idea, then so did he. He nodded his head and kept walking.

  “Earl,” Dorothy said to his back, “I’m so glad we can always count on you.” He turned his head just enough to receive her warm smile.

  “I’m not as confident as you are about finding enough volunteers, May Belle.” Gladys was frowning as she spoke. “You know the folks who don’t need to come for a handout will be engaged with their own families.”

  “Gladys, providing a handout is hardly the spirit of this endeavor,” Dorothy said.

  “What else can you call offering free food?” Gladys wanted to know. “Or are we planning on at least charging a nominal fee?”

  “That’s the beauty of a supporting role and a cooperative effort, Gladys. We do not have to figure all of this out! But for the record,” Dorothy said aloud and silently prayed, Lord, help me find my nice, “an offering of thanksgiving is what we’d be giving and you don’t receive payback when you are the one giving, Gladys. Dear. It would be the churches’ way of thanking God on Thanksgiving in a physical and practical way.”

  “How on earth does that thank God? Seems to me it just helps breed dependency.”

  Dorothy squeezed her hands together until her fingertips turned white. Lord, in the spirit of thanksgiving, help me be thankful for Gladys. In God’s perfect timing, May Belle had finished clearing the dishes and returned from the kitchen with a filled decanter of coffee. She put one hand on Dorothy’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze as she leaned—with a slight wince—over her other shoulder to pour Dorothy a refill and said, “Like the good book says, Gladys, if we extend generosity to anyone, it’s the same as if we’ve extended it to Jesus.”

  “Right and amen,” Dorothy said. She sighed with relief at her friend’s ability to say what was important rather than combative.

  Gladys sipped on her coffee. As much as she wanted to argue about this whole idea she knew that to do so now would make her sound heartless and unspiritual, which she certainly was not. Although in general she had no trouble arguing with anyone about anything, she found it frustratingly impossible to argue against God. At least out loud.

  “You know how much I hate to admit this,” Gladys said reluctantly, “but it is true. I am still tired from our recent big doings.” She seemed to forget her mayoral status long enough for her shoulders to slump. “Day before yesterday when Caleb’s wife phoned to invite me to their house for Thanksgiving dinner this year I was so happy! I know she expected an argument from me, but the truth is, I’m glad for somebody else to have all of that trouble, especially since Jake’s been gone. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to have anything to do with cooking for this event if we have it, especially since I don’t have to even do it for my own family this year.” Although all three ladies were widows, Gladys’s loss was the freshest, Jake having been killed in a truck accident less than five years ago. Caleb was Gladys’s only child and he lived in Partonville, as did her brother and his family, who had also been invited to Caleb’s home for the Thanksgiving holiday. Their family was all taken care of, thank you very much.

  Dorothy nearly fainted dead away. What an opening! Was it possible Gladys was relinquishing control of something? She jumped right in. “I thought maybe Lester might want to chip in with a big pan of dressing,” Dorothy said. “Turkeys cook faster when they’re not stuffed and he’s got those big pans and that large oven at the grill. And . . . OH, MY! Do you think Lester ends up spending holidays alone after cooking for everybody else all year? He might be thrilled to pieces to come to a big gathering! I sure hope this all works out!”

  “I can tell you if I cooked every day of my life, the last thing I’d want to do on a day when I didn’t have to cook would be to cook.” Gladys grabbed hold of the fold in her blazer that had ridden up under her ample bosom and gave it a yank.

  “You know, Gladys,” May Belle said quietly, “I appreciate what you’re saying and that’s very kind of you to be so considerate of Lester.” And she meant it. “But the truth for me is that I could bake every day of my life and never tire of it. It makes me feel useful. Content. Maybe Lester is the same way with his cooking.”

  Dorothy smacked her palms on the table, causing Sheba to jump up, appear out from under her legs, take a quick look toward Dorothy then run to the front door, the sound somehow signaling her it was time to go. “So, Gladys, (Hustle, Dorothy, keep hustling along!) I’m glad you agree we should join forces and serve the community in the same fine way you are used to doing as mayor!”

  “Well I . . .”

  “When I get home,” Dorothy barreled on, “I’ll phone Jessica, although she might be out running errands since she couldn’t come to our meeting. May Belle, you get a hold of Nellie Ruth. (GOODNESS! There’s another one without family in the area!) Gladys, you can look forward to spending Thanksgiving with your family as well as knowing you have contributed to a fine event! Splendid! And I really appreciate your forward thinking (one of Gladys’s favorite phrases) about us taking good care of ourselves! You are absolutely right, dear, in that we need to rest when we have the chance. I’ll let you know what Father O’Sullivan says as soon as I talk to him—or whoever he turns me over to. Earl, honey, would you get our coats, please? I’ll also stop at the grill on the way home and run this idea by Lester. See how he might react to making the dressing. St. Auggie’s will have to make their decision by tomorrow, though, because if it’s a go, we have to give Harold a chance to get a notice in this Sunday’s Partonville Press, and the Wednesday edition, since those would be his only chances. Of course, I’ll remind both churches they’ll want to get it in their Sunday bulletins this week and make announcements from the pulpit.”

  “May I remind you, Dorothy,” Gladys said, using her best mayoral voice, “that these are not our responsibilities if we are in a supporting role!”

  Point well taken, Dorothy thought. She made herself zip her lips so Gladys got in the last word—aside from the Amen and THANK YO U, Jesus! she said under her breath.

  8

  Clothes were flung all over Katie’s bedroom. A neat-nick, she hardly ever had more than one item of clothing off a hanger at a time, but she was running late (a definite no-no in her business book) and trying to maneuver in her small bedroom, so a pile had accumulated. She’d narrowed her choices down to six outfits, holding each up in front of her as she stood before the full-length mirror bolted to the outside of her closet door. Back in her brownstone in Chicago, she’d not only had two walk-in closets, but a freestanding mirror mounted in a beautiful swinging frame that she could move and tilt this way and that. No room for such luxuries in this teensy mouse house. She moved like a windup doll as she rifled through the choices. Black suit: too severe for lunch. Blue tailored dress: V-neck too low for Colton, who wouldn’t hide the fact he was noticing.

  After tossing a few more ensembles aside before even holding them up again, she finally came to the emerald green semi-casual suit, the last thing on her bed. She decided it was the perfect blend of Development Diva and flattering. Mr. Craig definitely liked the ladies; a smart business woman played all her cards. She’d often been told that the emerald color made her Paul Newman-blue eyes stand out. The memory of those comments gave her a momentary flashback to the instant she’d first noticed her eyes were a mirrored-match with those of her newly discovered half brother, Pastor Delbert. A brief bout of “illegitimate child” careened through her but she immediately buttoned up the tempta
tion to fall prey to her “back story,” as they say in books and movies. She couldn’t imagine how Colton could know about it anyway, but the truth always proved that what matters most is how you feel about yourself. She’d read that in one of her get-a-grip-type books after her divorce from a husband who’d left her for a younger woman. She squared herself up and tossed any personal insecurities aside. Even though Colton was definitely not her type, he was a player and she knew it. This would not be the time to go in with her guard even partially down. Men deliver such a mixed bag of trouble.

  Katie hadn’t once been in a serious relationship since her divorce from Josh’s dad, Bruce Kinney, over a decade earlier. In fact, she hadn’t dated anyone even semi-seriously. Okay, truth be told, to call any of her social engagements an honest-to-gosh date was even a stretch. She had instead put all of her emotional energies—whirlwinds of anger, avalanches of grief and a brief bout of paralyzing insecurity about what caused her husband to choose a younger woman—into her work. Into beating every man at the deal-closing table. She’d so occupied herself with business that she’d left no room for a personal life and while she wasn’t looking, she’d lost her way with her son. It wasn’t until they’d come to Partonville to deal with her aunt’s estate, the house Dorothy now lived in, that Dorothy had helped shine a light on what she was missing. Although they still had a ways to go, even in the midst of normal teen-parent traumas and dramas they were thankfully making headway.

  After buttoning herself up and checking the mirror several times, first moving up close, then backing away as far as possible for the long view—which wasn’t that long since the room was so small, so she had to get up on the bed, and when she stood on the bed she couldn’t see her face in the mirror (“I swear, this place is shrinking by the minute!”)—she opted for the higher heels and smaller earrings.

  Katie drove down the lane in her large, cashmere beige SUV, a Lexus LX470. She was glad to once again be heading out of Partonville in it, although to be behind the wheel of the newest model Blue Vapor Metallic 470 she’d test-driven on her last venture to Hethrow would have been even better. She’d come within a breath of trading up for it, right on the spot. Then she’d pictured the heads at Harry’s turning and the mouths wagging when she circled the square. She’d already heard enough whispers about her “fancy vehicle.” Not that she needed a new SUV, but she’d been used to trading every two years and it was time. When she drove away from the dealership with only a business card in her hand, she couldn’t decide which bugged her more: the fact that she wasn’t driving the new SUV or that she’d let the opinions of a grill full of Pardon-Me-Villers affect her. For the second time in the last hour, she bucked herself up and straightened her spine. This time she grit her teeth as well. The entire town was suddenly on her nerves.

  Although Colton had suggested they meet at his office, in order to level the playing field, Katie’d said, “How about we meet at Fedora’s on the corner of Central and Third.” She’d said it like she’d been there a million times in order to demonstrate familiarity with Hethrow. During her previous explorations she’d discovered the trendy place on the opposite side of town from his offices, which she’d also driven by. (He had quite the empire; even the exterior of his office building reeked of his success.) She’d popped into the restaurant and checked the menu: plenty of salads and sparkling waters. Perfect.

  She’d recommended they meet there at one thirty, after the lunch crowd had departed, and said she’d make the reservation. She didn’t want to be stuck with him any longer than she had to so fast service was a must. She had not planned on being ten minutes late—definitely not her M-O—when she entered under the striped awning.

  “I have a reservation for one thirty. Durbin. I’m assuming my guest has already arrived and been seated.”

  The hostess ran her finger down her reservation sheet. It stopped at her name. “No. It doesn’t look like it. Would you like to go ahead and be seated?”

  “Yes. That would be fine.”

  “What is your guest’s name?” the hostess asked as they walked toward the back of the restaurant. “I’ll send her to your table when she arrives.”

  I don’t look that out of practice! It frosted Katie that the woman just assumed she was waiting for a girlfriend. “Him. His name is Colton Craig.”

  “Oh! Mr. Craig!” she said as she pulled out Katie’s chair, seating her on the side of the table that looked toward the middle of the room. With suddenly rosy cheeks the hostess gushed, “I’d be happy to show him to your table when he arrives!” Even though Katie hadn’t seen Colton Craig for a long while, it was now clear he had not lost his charm.

  When the hostess turned around she ran smack into him, full force. He grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her. “I am so sorry,” he said, his low voice winding around her as his hands drew her just a hair closer. (The man is shameless, Katie thought.) “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Craig. I’m the one who was moving too quickly.”

  Colton dropped his hands from her arms, said that no, he owned the full responsibility for disrupting such a beautiful lady. “And speaking of beautiful ladies . . .” He looked around her to Katie, moving toward her with his hand extended, perfect pearly whites gleaming through his tan, deep green eyes flashing streams of sparkles right at her.

  Since Dorothy had worn her pink wool sweater over her blouse and under what she referred to as her boring beige windbreaker, she felt plenty warm during the short walk from May Belle’s to Harry’s—with a short stop at her home to drop off Sheba. Although Lester liked Sheba, both Dorothy and Lester believed dogs didn’t belong in diners. The breakfast crowd was gone, including the Landers clan, and the lunch crowd was in full swing. Lester scurried from here to there, clearing dishes, flipping burgers and pages in his order tablet, and serving up refills. Dorothy sat at the U in the last stool near the wall, right alongside the grill, which the U wrapped around. When Lester removed the lid from the pot of beef stew—she could tell by the glorious smell of his lavish use of bay leaves—to give it a stir, she seized the moment to toss the Thanksgiving idea at him before he poured her a cup of coffee, which she was going to decline since after May Belle’s she was once again caffeinated and sugared up enough for the whole week.

  “Lester, I’ve just been meeting with the Social Concerns Committee and we’ve been discussing the possibility of having a Thanksgiving dinner at the church for anyone who would like to come.”

  “And?” He did not look her way while he stirred.

  “I wondered if you might like to participate.”

  “By?”

  It suddenly occurred to her that maybe Gladys rather than May Belle was right: maybe Lester would be grateful not to cook when he didn’t have to and maybe she should just let the idea of him bringing anything slide. “By, well, joining us.”

  “Think I got nothing better to do?” he said flatly. Just because I’m a bachelor. His response caught the attention of Doc Streator who was sitting right next to Dorothy, who wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “I think, Lester,” Doc said in his kindly voice, “Dorothy just thought you might like to join in the festivities along with other folks.” He swiveled on his stool to face Dorothy. “Right?”

  “Right,” Dorothy said somewhat sheepishly, since it hadn’t been officially determined there was going to be a festivity. But if there was, Doc’s wife had been gone for years and perhaps he, too, spent Thanksgiving alone, although she thought his daughter and her children invited him to their house about an hour away. Then again, she wasn’t sure.

  “This is the first time I’ve heard about a dinner at the church, Dorothy. I haven’t seen anything about it in the Sunday bulletin.” Doc turned back to his plate and took a bite of his BLT.

  “To be honest with you . . .”

  “Probably something they’ve cooked up for the lonely hearts’ society.” Lester slammed the lid back on the stew, emptied a batch of fries onto the plate with a ha
mburger, tossed two slices of sandwich pickles on top and strode off to serve it up.

  “You know, Doc,” Dorothy said, sliding off her stool, “I’ve got another stop to make so I think I’ll just head on. I believe Lester’s got his hands full right now. It was inconsiderate of me to bother him at the height of the lunch hour.” She patted Doc on the shoulder and left without another word. As she walked by the front window she saw Lester back at the grill and Doc leaning forward to talk to him. Lord, I don’t have a clue what that was all about, but I’m sure You do. I think something—or somebody—needs fixing. If it’s me, let me know before I get in more trouble, okay?

  Walking felt good. Although she did walk to Your Store, May Belle’s and around the square every once in a while, it wasn’t with the same vigor as when she used to head down to the creek each morning, or ascend the ramp up into the barn, or climb the stairs to her office and bedroom. Yes, she had to admit she was grateful for the conveniences of town and the lack of stairs for her arthritic joints; she was especially thankful when she had to occasionally pop a nitroglycerin tablet for her heart and didn’t have to run either up or down the stairs to get one if she didn’t have one on her. But it seemed more obvious lately (the Big Guy often got her attention through repetition) that she wasn’t getting near the exercise she used to and that simply was not good. She decided before heading home she’d just keep walking the few extra blocks right on over to the Lamp Post and see what was up with Jessica Joy. Give that sunny daughter of hers a sloppy kiss, if they were home.

  As Dorothy strolled along she recalled how her grandmother would sometimes remove her upper and lower plate and chew on Dorothy’s neck. She’d scream and protest but in truth, she’d loved every minute of her feisty granny’s attention. She smiled now, recalling the warm feeling of gums on her skin. By the time the memory began to fade she was entering the Lamp Post’s office and ringing the bell on the counter. After waiting a few moments, she rang the bell again, only louder this time. She figured if Jessica weren’t home she would have locked the office doors. If she was cleaning rooms, she usually left a plaque out saying so and instructing guests to “Please come and look for me!” She’d hand-painted the little instructive sign, trimmed it with a border of flowers and had Paul mount a special decorative hook on the door for just this purpose. But no such sign was there today.