Gone with the Wool (4 page)

“I don't know what you mean about not having town spirit. I brought muffins for the chili dinner the night before. But from your comment, I'm guessing that the game didn't go well,” I said.

“It was a crushing loss for the team. The two star players came down with something the morning of the game and couldn't play. Maybe it was from the muffins you brought,” he said.

I wasn't going to waste time defending my muffins when I knew there was no way they would have made anyone sick, but I was still a little baffled by why he thought I should offer my sympathy to Liz. “I didn't know that Liz was such a fan.”

Kevin made a tsk-ing sound of disbelief. “You really are out of the loop. Her husband is the coach of the team.”

I had always heard of him referred to as only Coach Gary and had never wondered about his last name. “Now it makes sense why she seemed upset.” I glanced toward the window that looked out on the wood deck. Liz had already picked up a box that seemed to have decorations and was heading down
the stairs. I considered going after her to offer my condolences about the game, but it felt fake to me. The whole importance of the football game escaped me. In fact, the importance of
sports
escaped me.

“I suppose you have an opinion about Rosalie Hardcastle?” I said. It was only since the chili dinner that she had been on my radar.

I heard Kevin choke on a laugh, as if I'd just said the most ridiculous thing. “You won't get any gossip from me. Except I bet she thinks it was your muffins, too.”

I was relieved when he finally walked away and went out the door. I saw his golf cart drive off and figured he was probably doing surveillance of the grounds. My fingers were crossed that he would not find Julius wandering around. The cat was not a welcome visitor to the resort. I opened the envelope Liz had given me. As she had said, there was an information sheet for each of the women. I noticed that they were Danish and seemed to like yarn. The check was in another envelope. I looked at the amount and let out a sigh. Both travel agents had taken a commission, and what was left was just enough to cover the women's rooms and the retreat materials. There was nothing left for my profit. I'd have to figure something out if Liz continued to feed me retreaters. I went up to the desk to talk to the young woman behind it. I was over at Vista Del Mar all the time and knew all the clerks. I wasn't great with names though, so I usually knew them by an identifying feature. This woman always wore her hair in elaborate braids.

“This check is made out to me, but it's for two of my retreaters,” I told her. “Could I sign it over to Vista Del Mar and have you deduct the cost of their rooms and give me in the difference in cash?”

“We don't usually do things like that, but I'm sure it would be okay this once.” She took the check and handed me some cash.

“It looks like some of your people are here,” she said, gesturing toward the window that faced the driveway. The airport shuttle was just pulling in.

I'd barely reached the door when it flew open and my three early birds burst into the Lodge. Scott Lipton, Bree Meyers and Olivia Golden had come to my very first retreat and the ones after. Not only had we become friends, but they were helpers besides. Bree rushed to give me a hug. She still looked very much the busy mom. She had a fluff of blond hair that didn't seem to require much attention. Her soft blue jeans and hoodie sweatshirt seemed like they were probably her daily uniform. The adjustment of going unplugged had been hardest on her. She was accustomed to texting, talking, e-mailing and updating her Facebook status constantly. But she had adjusted and eventually even seen the benefit, and she helped when other retreaters went through electronic withdrawal. Scott looked every bit the clean-cut business type, and if he hadn't had some yarn and needles sticking out of his soft-sided briefcase, I doubt anyone would have guessed he was a knitter. He'd told me that the retreats had been the first time he'd felt free to knit in public, and now he helped anyone who showed an interest in the craft. And I was so happy to see Olivia, whose almond-shaped face had a glow of happiness. She'd come a long way from the angry person who'd attended the first retreat.

She was bubbling over, wanting to tell me about the new chapter she'd started in her life. I only heard enough to gather that she had met someone new.

The four of us went back to the massive registration desk. I was glad that Kevin St. John was still making his rounds. The clerk with the braids had no problem letting them check into their rooms early.

Once they had their keys, they left their bags in the corner of the Lodge and we headed toward the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café. It had been opened recently and was a great addition to the place. It mirrored the gift shop on the other end of the Lodge, and its walls were mostly windows looking out onto the grounds.

It was early in the day, and they were still putting out stock.

“Hey, Casey,” a young man's voice said. All I saw was some curly black hair above the top of a box. A moment later, he looked around the side, and I saw that it was Kory Smith, Crystal's son.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. He set the box down on the counter and began to take out small bags of potato chips and attach them to a metal thing with clips.

“I'm working here now.” He glanced toward the wall of windows and out to the grounds. “I love this place.”

Crystal was the kind of mother who was friends with her kids, and as a result neither Kory nor his sister Marcy seemed to have that teen idea that adults were the enemy.

I'd made my mistake about the game with Liz, and I wasn't going to repeat it with Kory. “You're on the football team, aren't you?” I said, getting ready to tell him how sorry I was about the loss.

“Yes, I'm a proud Monarch, even if yesterday was a disaster.” He finished with the potato chips and began to flatten the box.

“I'm so sorry about the loss,” I said. I might have overdone
the somber tone, because he gave me a strange look. I thought about what Kevin had said. “I heard a couple of the players got sick.”

He nodded. “They spent the whole day locked in the bathroom.”

“You don't happen to know why?” I asked.

He shrugged it off. “Somebody said maybe it was something they ate. I don't know about that—I was sitting right next to them, and the coach brought chili to all of us.” The man behind the counter gave Kory a look, and the teen snapped to attention. “I'd love to chat, but there are apples and bananas to be put in a basket.”

He sounded so genuinely happy to be working at Vista Del Mar, it made me smile. Considering what I had figured out—that Edmund Delacorte was his real great grandfather—it made sense. I so wished I could tell him. But if I decided to ignore Frank's advice, I had to tell Kory's grandmother, Gwen Selwyn, first, since it all really started with her.

“What's going on?” Bree said, looking around the Sea Foam dining hall as the three early birds and I walked in. They had spent the afternoon enjoying the surroundings, and we'd agreed to meet for dinner. The large space was usually filled with sizable round tables available to all the guests, but this time a portion of it near the massive stone fireplace had been set aside. A banner announcing Butterfly Week hung across the fireplace, and a podium was set up in front of it. All the tables had centerpieces of big bobbing orange and black monarchs.

I looked around, hoping to find a table far away from the proceedings, but the other side of the room had been closed off, since Sunday night was the slowest night for guests at Vista Del Mar. The weekend people had checked out, and those coming for the week generally arrived on Monday.

I finally steered our group toward a table near the windows,
but I quickly realized there was no way not to be part of what was going on. Kevin St. John was at the microphone, tapping it to see if it was working, while others were filing in and taking their seats at the round tables in the special section.

I suggested to the group that it might be a good time to get our food, before the line was flooded with the special guests. I let the three of them go first and then followed them to the back of the room. The food was served cafeteria-style through an open space from the kitchen. It wasn't haute cuisine but was always tasty and filling. There were some trays of appetizers sitting on the counter. The woman from the kitchen saw me checking them out. “Those are for the special event,” she said, rolling her eyes. I moved down and looked over the counter to the trays of hot food. The early birds had gotten their plates and were already heading back to our table. There was no line yet, so I took my time choosing between the options. Did I want stuffed chicken breast, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables, or did I want the slices of beef with roasted potatoes and mixed vegetables? Really what I would have liked was some of Dane's spaghetti. I was thinking about the garlicky sauce and wondered if there was any chance he would have left a plate of it at my door.

“I found something that explains what happened,” a woman's voice said behind me. I snapped out of my daydream, realizing I wasn't alone in the line anymore and that I'd better get moving.

“What do you want?” a man asked. She must have been having the same dilemma I was, because she said she'd have to think about it. I quickly told the server that I'd take the chicken. When I looked back, I saw Rosalie Hardcastle in
line with a man with light hair. I had heard nothing but bad stuff about her lately, so I took my food and left the area quickly.

When I got back to the table, Kevin St. John was speaking. It hadn't occurred to me until then, but he was obviously on the Butterfly Week committee. I mostly tuned out what he said. It seemed to be about how the yearly celebration always started with a dinner at Vista Del Mar, and then he suggested that everyone get their food before the program began.

“I'm glad we beat the rush,” I said to Bree, Olivia and Scott. A moment later Lucinda Thornkill came up to the table and pulled out a chair.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she said. “Even with the Blue Door closed tonight there was just so much to do.” She poured herself a glass of iced tea. “Tag dropped me off.” She gestured toward the back of the room as Tag walked away from the kitchen area. It was hard to miss his thick brown hair—it didn't quite go with a man of his age. “I don't know what's bothering him. I've asked him if he's worried about something, and he keeps saying no.”

Tag was Lucinda's husband, and together they owned the Blue Door restaurant. I suppose you could say they were my bosses, since I baked the restaurant's desserts. Even though they were both in their fifties, they were almost newlyweds. The back of the Blue Door's menu chronicled the romantic story of their relationship: how they'd been high school sweethearts who'd gone separate ways, and then years later, when he was a widower and she was divorced, had reconnected and gotten their chance at happily ever after and fulfilling their dream of moving to a small town and owning
a restaurant. The only fly in the ointment was that Tag had changed a bit since high school. He'd gotten a lot fussier about details.

But Lucinda took it all in her stride, at least most of the time. She was grateful to get away for a few days with the yarn retreats, even if it was only by a few miles.

Maybe because we were both considered outsiders by the locals, we'd become friends. Our ages and style differences were no problem. She was always perfectly put together—I was sure she put on lipstick before she got the mail. Her clothes were strictly designer, with classic lines that never went out of style, like her Ralph Lauren coat that reminded me of a Native American blanket, which she had hung on the back of her chair.

Lucinda looked at the long line for food and said she'd wait.

I'd brought a tote bag with a small round and a small long loom, the tools that went with them and some yarn. I set them on the table for the early birds and Lucinda to look at. I was wishing I was better able to explain how to use them.

“Look, there's Crystal,” Lucinda said. “And Wanda, too.” I saw the two women carrying plates of food and waved them over.

After all the hellos, my two teachers noticed the looms on the table. Crystal set down her plate and picked up the small round loom. The three early birds and Lucinda seemed a little dubious. “What happened to good old-fashioned knitting?” Olivia said.

“You'll love it once you get the hang of it,” Crystal said, beginning to wind yarn around the pegs. “This is the basic way you cast on. I love the specialty looms for socks.” She
stopped and lifted her pants legs, showing off her handmade socks, which of course didn't match.

Not one to be left out, Wanda picked up the long loom and demonstrated a different kind of casting on. “The looms will be useful for the non-knitters.”

“Are you two here for the festivities?” Lucinda asked.

“I came because the yarn store is part of the celebration. We're hosting butterfly crocheting,” Crystal said. “And my daughter, Marcy, is in the Princess Court.”

I mentioned seeing her son, Kory, and how much he seemed to like his job at Vista Del Mar. I was still trying to get used to the fact that she was the mother of such old children when she looked so young herself.

“My sister, Angelina, is one of the Butterfly Princesses, and I came to see her get her crown,” Wanda said. Wanda's sister was much younger than she was, and though they had similar features, they had somehow come out differently on Angelina. Wanda on her best day was handsome, but her sister was a beauty all the time.

“Who picks the princesses?” Bree asked.

“They pick themselves. That's why there are so many of them,” Wanda said, pointing at the large table where the princesses were sitting. “All they need to do is get a sponsor.”

“Cadbury Yarn is sponsoring Marcy.” Crystal smiled. As if there would have been any doubt.

“I got the resort where I work to sponsor Angelina,” Wanda said. “All they had to do was give her a piece of paper saying they were her sponsor and make a contribution.”

A tapping on the microphone got my attention. Kevin St. John was back at his spot, talking again. He droned on, introducing the assorted committees. I mostly tuned him out until
he got to the Butterfly Queen committee. He introduced Cora and Madeleine Delacorte as the heads of the committee, and they waved at the crowd, but Rosalie Hardcastle popped out of her seat and took a bow.

She was on her way to the podium with a box she'd grabbed off her table before Kevin could even point to where the princesses were sitting. I noticed that she wore a crown that had jeweled butterflies along the top. She did have a regal way of carrying herself. Or maybe that was the only way she could keep the crown from falling off.

“Kevin, I'll take over now,” Rosalie said. “We really need to get on with things.” I'm not sure he would have relinquished the microphone if she hadn't simply taken it and moved it closer to her. He stood there for a moment as if he didn't know what to do, then he finally returned to his seat. I had never seen him bested before, and it was pretty clear he didn't like it.

“Before I introduce the court and give them their princess crowns, I want to talk about the kind of person the committee wants as queen. As a three-time former queen myself, I know the importance of the job. One of you will be the guardian of the butterflies.” Rosalie began to tell stories about her time as Butterfly Queen and how she had made appearances at the history museum for a whole year, teaching school children about the butterfly's life cycle.

She segued from there into talking about her family. “Hank and I are finally stepping into the prominent place in town where we belong,” she said with a haughty expression.

“What's that about?” Wanda said.

Crystal shrugged. “I heard they made a donation to the natural history museum. She's always envied the Delacortes' position in town, so maybe she supposes having a Hardcastle Pavilion at the museum will make her just as important.”

“Pavilion?” I asked, thinking of the small museum.

“She calls it a Pavilion; the rest of us call it an exhibit.”

At the podium, Rosalie was finally wrapping things up. “I'm sorry to have gotten off the subject, but you all must know how much I care for Cadbury by the Sea. Now, to give the princesses their crowns.” She held a tiara up.

“Your chili lost us the game,” someone shouted out. Rosalie's head shot up, and she seemed annoyed.

A man from the table in front rushed up and took over the microphone. “That's just wrong. As coach of the Monarchs, I'm as upset as the next guy that we lost the game, maybe more upset, but there is no point looking for a scapegoat. I'm sure Rosalie's chili was just fine. The boys probably just caught a stomach bug.”

I leaned over to Crystal. “Is that Coach Gary?” I whispered, and she nodded. I'd heard the name before but never had a face to connect it to. With his angular face, strong jaw and powerful build, he looked just like what I'd expect a football coach to look like. He was very good-looking, with sparkling blue eyes and strawberry blond hair cut in a traditional neatly trimmed style.

“In my first official duty as Lord of the Butterflies,” Coach Gary said, “I'm urging you all to let go of the loss and focus on the upcoming week.”

He pushed the microphone back in Rosalie's direction. “I agree with Coach Gary about moving on, and I am sure, without a doubt, that it was not my chili. Of course, I can't be that sure about the corn muffins that were brought in,” she said.

There was a rumble of conversation, and I saw a number of people looking my way. Once I got over my shock at what she'd said, I wanted to get up and defend myself, but Lucinda was faster. She rushed up to the podium, flashed her eyes at
the former Butterfly Queen and pulled the microphone over. “That's ridiculous. Casey Feldstein makes all our desserts at the Blue Door, and they are just fine.”

Another familiar face came out of the crowd and joined Lucinda at the microphone. “In case any of you don't know, I'm Maggie, owner of the Coffee Shop. We sell Casey's muffins, and they're always delicious.” She looked over at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

“We'll see about that,” Rosalie said, returning to her position at center stage. “Now if we can get back to the business at hand, I'd like to distribute the crowns.”

Lucinda had returned to our table, and I leaned in close and thanked her for defending me. I noticed that her brow was furrowed.

“I might have acted too quickly. I hope I didn't make it worse.” The introductions had begun. Rosalie had put on a pair of glasses and was reading from a list. “We have Marcy Smith, sponsored of course by Cadbury Yarn.” Crystal's daughter went up to the podium, and Rosalie placed a tiara on her dark hair. She had not gone the way of her mother and was dressed in a demure pink dress. There was a round of applause for her, and I saw that her grandmother, Gwen, was clapping loudly near the door. But when I looked again, she'd gone.

Wanda's sister, Angelina, wore a similar-style dress in lavender linen and smiled when she got the tiara. Something about the whole princess thing seemed like a throwback in time. Rosalie kept announcing names and placing crowns on heads, and then finally she said, “Chloe Mangano?” She looked around the room.

At the sound of her name, Chloe stood and started to walk
to the podium. A gasp went through the crowd. I think it was the electric blue hair. Personally, I thought it was better than the cherry red shade it used to be. There was no demure sheath dress for Chloe. I'm sure her brother, Dane, would be cringing if he was here. She wore a micro miniskirt made out of leather and a midriff-baring top. Her lips were done in a dark wine red, and she'd gone heavy on the eye makeup. The most ridiculous part of the outfit was the leather gloves.