Mother (23 page)

“Tracey Weathers,” she squeaked.

“Where do you live?”

“884 Hollyhock Lane.”

Mother rounded on her, hands on hips. “Well, little Miss Hollyhock Lane, you have rudely crashed Morning Glory Circle’s bi-annual
charity
yard and bake sale. Were you born in a barn?”

Jason stood up. “She’s just a little girl, Prissy. And she’s allowed to sell cookies.”

“Not today, she isn’t,” Mother intoned. “Not on
my
street!” She glared at the child. “Get out of here! Go home! How dare you interfere with our charity event! I will speak with your parents later.”

Tracey threw Claire a terrified glance, then ran down the center of the street, braids flying behind her. Halfway, she tripped, skinned her knees, but brushed them off and kept going, like a trooper.

“Mother enjoys terrifying children,” Claire said. “Don’t you, Mother?” She glanced around and saw the Lowells pretending not to watch, along with Candy Sachs, Phyllis, and the Portendorfers. “Uh-oh. All your friends are watching, too.” She turned on her heel.

“Carlene!” Mother called, barely below a yell. Then she took a deep breath - Claire could hear it. “You come back here and apologize this minute!”

“Let her be, Prissy,” Claire heard Jason say. “She’s pregnant and I don’t want her upset.”

Claire turned and looked daggers at her husband, then took the cookies and went upstairs. “Fuck you, Jason,” she muttered as she slammed the door. The man was so busy making peace that he put his own wife down to shut up a woman who had just bullied a Girl Scout. She touched her abdomen. “You will never have to deal with Priscilla Martin. I promise!”

“Would you mind staying on a bit, Jason?” Prissy asked as he stood up.
 

Jason felt bad about his choice of words and wanted to apologize to his wife. “I-”

“I know,” Prissy said, taking his hand and patting it. “I know. But it’s best if you let her cool off; she’s always had a hot temper, you know.”

Even though it was a cool day, the strong sunlight was making his headache worse. Jason knew Claire had a temper, but he’d rarely seen it before the pregnancy. And honestly, she had every reason to be mad at him right now: he did owe her that apology for sounding condescending. “I think I should go talk to her.”
 

“Jason, sweetie, Mother knows best.” She squeezed his hand when he started to pull away. “It will be better for both of you if you just give her a few minutes to cool off. I really need you here to help me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

He glanced back at the apartment. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes, it is. You’ll thank me later.”

He doubted it. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need to run in and powder my nose-”

“Excuse me.” It was Crystal Lowell, her hair the color of a fire engine, her little nose stud reflecting the sun.
 

Prissy Martin, shorter than Crystal by several inches, still managed to stare down at her. “Mrs. Lowell. Do you need something?”

Crys Lowell smiled, unintimidated. “Well, when you had your garage door open the other day, I saw a blue Tiffany lampshade and wondered if you might be interested in selling it. I collect Art Nouveau pieces and-”

“No.” Prissy’s voice was flat. “And how could you have possibly seen in my garage unless you picked the lock?”
 

“It was when you were moving things out of the upstairs apartment.” Crys’ smile appeared oblivious. “I was pulling into my driveway and saw it. It looked like a real Tiffany, but even if it isn’t, I’m willing to pay you well for it.”

“You were pulling into
your
driveway and you could see it was a genuine Tiffany? You must have the eyes of a hawk, Mrs. Lowell. Or binoculars. It
is
a real Tiffany-”

“And you just stack it in your garage with all that other junk?” Crystal looked horrified. “It deserves better than that.”

Jason cringed as Prissy’s face turned as red as Crystal’s hair. But at that moment, Candy Sachs strolled up. She was well over six feet tall in her shiny black stilettos, her stunning figure sheathed in form-hugging pink capris, a matching sweater with marabou feathers framing her jaw-dropping cleavage, and a wide shiny black belt around her tiny waist. She held a glittery gift bag. Crystal stared, Jason stared, Hank and his boys stared from next door; no one, male or female, could take their eyes off the statuesque blonde. She belonged on the cover of
Cosmopolitan
. She belonged in an art museum. She was sublime. She was unreal.

But Prissy had no trouble ignoring her; her eyes remained on Crys Lowell.

“A real Tiffany lampshade?” asked Candy. She sounded like Kathleen Turner in her smoky-voiced prime. “You have one?” Her big green eyes flicked to Crystal. “Are you buying it? If you’re not, I’d love to see it. If you are, congratulations!”
 

Her eyes were warm and friendly as they fell on Jason. His heart skipped a beat - it couldn’t help it. This woman looked like a Hollywood confection.
Marilyn would be jealous.

“No one is buying my lampshade,” Prissy announced. She eyed Candy, unimpressed. “It’s not for sale.” Clearing her throat, she demanded, “What do you want, Candy Sachs?”

“I brought you some cupcakes.” She proffered the gift bag but Prissy only nodded at the card table.
 

Jason, embarrassed, reached out and took it. “Thank you, Candy. My wife brought me one earlier - they’re fantastic!”

“Hello everybody!” Babs Vandercooth approached the table, carrying several bags.

“Barbara,” said Prissy. “I thought you were going back to your table to put ribbons on your packages.”

“Oh, Prissy, be nice,” Babs said. “Carl’s there and I’m still buying goodies from our neighbors’ tables.” She held up a brown bag. “Phyllis’ gingerbread isn’t half bad this year. You should buy some.” She dug in the bag. “I even took one of her sister’s books. She insisted.” She held up a small blue tome titled
Crystal Consciousness
then smiled at Jason and thrust it at him. “This might help you pass the time.”

“You don’t want it?”

“No. It’s all yours.”

“Thanks.”
 

“Barbara?” Prissy said. “What’s that you’ve got there?” She pointed at a pink baker’s box tied with brown string.
 

“Oh, it’s one of Crystal’s pumpkin mousse pies. She’s giving away samples. Have you been over there yet? I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful in my life. You should be a chef, Crys.”

“Why thank you,” Crystal said. “That’s very kind of you. Hank and I’ve been making them for days. Even the boys helped.”

“Well, they’re just superb,” Babs cooed. “If you have leftovers, I’d like to buy another one. This one I’m going to serve Monday night when Carl and I play bridge with the Portendorfers.”

“I’ll save you one back,” Crys said, smiling.

“Thank you! Do you and Hank play bridge?”

Prissy huffed. “If none of you are going to buy my cannoli, then I must ask you to back away from the table so others can.” She glared at Babs. She looked rabid.

“I’ll buy some,” Candy said in her breathy voice.

“How many?”

“How about a dozen? They look so yummy!”

Without even bothering to smile, Prissy motioned to Jason to hand over the cannoli, then took her money before turning back to Babs. “You should go back to your table, Barbara.”

“And you should stop marking up Giuseppe Bartoli’s cannoli to three times what he charges and passing them off as homemade.” Little red spots glowing on her cheeks, Babs looked to Candy. “You’ve just been royally screwed, dear.”

“Oh, well …” Candy said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s for a good cause.”

“It is,” Crystal said gamely. “And not everyone can bake, so we shouldn’t judge. I’ll take a half dozen myself. It’s for a worthy cause.” She handed a twenty to Jason who reluctantly took it and passed a box to her.
 

Prissy opened her mouth, but Babs was already accompanying Candy back to her cupcake table, talking animatedly with the beautiful woman, whose low sultry laughter made Jason’s toes curl. “She’s a force of nature,” he said softly.
 

“No kidding,” Crys Lowell said, taking her leave.
 

Prissy eyed Jason. “Candy Sachs is a
farce
of nature.”
 

He could see Prissy’s envy as she glared after the woman. “I should get upstairs …”

“No, not yet, I haven’t powdered my nose- oh, wait, look there’s dear Father Andrew coming our way! You go on upstairs, Jason. But be firm.”

Firm? About what?
Realizing he really didn’t care, Jason made for the apartment.
 

Just a Little Chill

“Father Andrew!” Priscilla called. “How good of you to come to our little charity event!”

Andy Pike, clutching a small bag of the Vandercooths’ lemon bars and a box of brownies, reluctantly passed a table of magnificent cupcakes to greet Priscilla Martin, who stood alone at a half-full table of cannoli. A stunning woman several inches taller than he, dressed in pink, smiled as she passed and he realized the sight of her had made him square his shoulders like a man on the prowl.
I’m a priest, but I’m not dead!
He smiled to himself.

“Hello, Priscilla,” he said. “It’s wonderful that your entire street participates in your charity event.”

“Oh, well, I have to threaten them sometimes, but it’s worth it.” Priscilla smiled.

He knew she wasn’t kidding. “And what is the charity you’re doing all this fine work for this afternoon?”

“It’s for Morning Glory Circle’s Christmas decorations, Father. Our neighbors are all out trying to sell enough baked goods to be the next to get the honor of having an animatronic Santa grace their yard.”

Charity begins at home,
he reminded himself. “Charming.”

“So, Father Andrew, how many of my homemade cannoli would you like to buy?”

“They’re a little too pricey for my pocketbook, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense. I’ll give you half price on anything you buy.”

“That’s very generous of you, Priscilla, but I’m afraid I’ve already over-spent.”

She cocked her head and clucked her tongue. “I see. Then you’d better come on inside and have a free cup of tea.” She glanced around, picked up two cannoli, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s just sneak these inside.”

“Very well.”

Following the woman up the walk, Father Andy remembered his nightmare about Priscilla taking over his house. Jung called the house a metaphor for the self and Andy
believed that. Obviously, he was worried about her interfering in his life - even taking it over. His dream, he thought as she stepped back and waited for him to open the door for her, was a warning.
 

“Thank you, Father,” Priscilla said, brushing by him in her cloud of noxious perfume. “You’re a gentleman.” Once inside, she turned. “Now come in and make yourself at home while
 

I powder my nose and start the tea. Would you like some music?” Before he could say no, she was at her relic of a record player and an instant later, the Andrews Sisters began singing
Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,
their voices full of the scratches and pops of old vinyl.

“Isn’t it a lovely tune?” Priscilla called over her shoulder as she headed out of the room. “I never get tired of it. Never.”
 

Cringing, Andy sat down on the edge of a pale yellow chair. Its flat square cushions, like those of the low-armed sofa, looked like they belonged in a woman’s magazine, circa 1970. It astounded him there were no plastic covers. Everything looked the same as it had on his last visit nearly a year ago. Perfect and pastel, the walls were covered with framed snapdragon prints and needlepoint; the smell of fresh paint was nearly palpable.
She must have this place painted every year.
He wondered what the upstairs of this large house was like, if all the rooms were as pastel and oddly pristine as this one.
 

Perched on the chair, Andy wondered what he was doing here. It had seemed like a nice idea, coming by for this event, since Priscilla, along with several other of his flock - the Vandercooths, the Stines, and Geneva-Marie Collins - had all worked so hard on the Winter Wonderland event. He’d only paid his respects to Carl and Priscilla so far. It was nearing four o’clock; he needed to get out there and see the others before the sale ended.
 

Father Dave Flannigan had told him to let Priscilla Martin have her way, but he really couldn’t this time. Just as he made to stand up, he saw a young woman tiptoeing down the stairs. He stared. She was a beautiful girl in jeans and a Slipknot T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail. She reached the bottom of the stairs, stopped cold when she saw him, then put her finger to her lips. He nodded and she turned toward the back of the house.

“Carlene!” came Priscilla Martin’s voice. “I was just about to call you to come meet Father Pike from Holy Sacramental. What are you doing here?”

The daughter’s eyes flashed to her mother, back to Andy, and toward the back door. Then she said, “Looking for Mr. Anton.”

“Mr. Anton?”

“My old teddy bear, Mother. Remember?” She approached and shook Andy’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Father. My name is Claire.” Her eyes, full of reproach, slid briefly toward her mother. “I had it legally changed many years ago. Mother seems to have a problem remembering that.”

Andy kept his most serene smile in place, but the tension between the women was suffocating. “Andy Pike. Glad to meet you, too.” He decided to avoid saying Claire, not wanting to rile Priscilla.

“Carlene,” Priscilla began. “Or rather,
Claire,
would you be a good girl and go watch Mother’s cannoli table for a few minutes? I’ll help you find your teddy bear later, after Father Andrew leaves.”

“I really should be going now-” Andy began.

“Nonsense. Sit down. We have things to discuss over tea.” She turned her gaze on Claire. “Please dear, go watch Mother’s table. I promise we won’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Less than that,” Andy said. “I have more calls to make.”