The Potluck Club—Takes the Cake (27 page)
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Here I was, taking a risk, seeking you out like that. I put it all on the line, honey. All. Velvet told me not to, she told me I’d just end up embarrassing myself. And she was right. But I’ve been watching you, Donna. I never dreamed you’d be the kind of woman who’d let her mother down, to embarrass her by walking out on her in front of the whole town.”
“Isn’t that what you did to me and Daddy?” I charged. “Walk out on us, in front of the whole town?”
Suddenly I realized my voice was as loud as hers.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Dee Dee said. “I was alone in a loveless marriage. When I got a chance for love with Harvey, well, I took it.”
I stared at her hard. “You weren’t alone. Daddy loved you. It almost broke his heart when you left. I know I was only four, but I heard him crying, so many nights. You almost destroyed that man. Not to mention the child you left behind.”
“But don’t you see, I was no good for you the way I was. Depressed, bored in my marriage. You were better off without me.”
“If that’s what you think, why didn’t you do me the favor of staying away?”
“Why, you little brat!”
Evie joined the fray. “How dare you call her that? Donna is a fine young woman that you threw away. As for you, I’ve seen your record, I know all about you, and soon Vernon will show Donna your arrest record for prostitution and the like.”
“How dare you talk about my private business in front of my daughters!” Doreen shouted, shoving Evie hard.
Evie stumbled backward, then walked forward and shoved Dee Dee back. “Keep your hands to yourself, you dried-up old prune.”
The voice of dispatch suddenly screeched out of my radio, which I had fastened to my belt.
“Donna, be advised of a 10-100. You’re needed in the Grace Church parking lot. We’ve had a call of some sort of altercation in progress.”
“Ten-four,” I said. “I’m already on it.”
That’s when I noticed the crowd of Christmas tea partygoers that was gathering around us. Some of the ladies had cell phones in their hands. Just then, the pastor stepped out of his office located across the parking lot. Wade tagged at his heels.
“Deputy, what’s going on out here?” the pastor asked.
“I’ve got it under control,” I said. I turned to Evie. “You get in your car and drive to Dad’s.” I turned to my mother and sister. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, but here and now’s not the time. Understand?”
The women nodded.
“Go home,” I said. “We’ll talk later.”
As the cars in the parking lot began to empty into the street, I pulled out my flashlight as if to direct traffic.
“Donna, what are you doing?” a familiar voice asked. “What happened here tonight?”
I turned around, surprised to see Wade was standing beside me. He was dressed in jeans and a fleece-lined denim jacket over one of his favorite black tees. “That woman”—my voice began to tremble—“ that woman arguing with Evie? That was my mother.”
“What?” Suddenly Wade was helping me into my truck. “I need to get you out of here, Donna.”
I nodded. “How about to Jupiter? That might be far enough away.”
Wade walked around to the passenger’s seat, then swung the door open and climbed inside. “I’m done with my meeting with the pastor, so that means I’m available for you.”
I stared at him. “I’m on duty.”
Wade snapped on his seat belt and gave me a grin. “Good thing, because I’m your ride-along. Would that be alright? We can go by
the station, and I’ll sign the necessary paperwork. Okay?”
I nodded then started my Bronco. Wade let the silence thicken as I prepared to follow the flow of traffic out of the parking lot. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” he finally said.
I nodded again, then turned briefly to study his eyes. When he wasn’t drinking, they were the clearest blue, like they were right now. I fought back a tear that threatened to slip from my lashes and tried to smile. Wade smiled back as I merged with traffic. My mind formed a new and startling thought. Maybe, just maybe, I had a friend after all. And with all I was going through, I needed all the friends I could get, even if that friend was an old flame who happened to be a recovering alcoholic.
A week to the day had passed since the tea.
And what a week it had been.
Clay had gotten busy working on the book proposal he hoped to somehow get into the hands of a man he now knew was named Mr. Thomas Jean, whose father had been a French winemaker and whose name was therefore pronounced “John,” with a little “ja” in the “john.”
Clay had spent a great deal of time practicing saying, “My editor, Mr. Thomas Jean...” as he pecked away at his laptop keyboard while Woodward and Bernstein watched from their cage. “Be good, boys,” he said to them, “and when Daddy sells this book idea and gets a six-figure advance he’ll buy you a nice new cage. A big one. Big, big, big.”
The only downside in the whole week had been Donna. He couldn’t seem to keep up with her... or her boyfriends. At times, he’d spot her with David Harris. At other times with Wade Gage. Clay wasn’t concerned she’d had some kind of moral breakdown; he knew that there wasn’t anything immoral going on. But he was concerned about her nonetheless.
Clay had done some other writing too, besides that which he hoped would be the story of his life. The Great American Novel, as some said. He’d begun writing editorial pieces about Donna, hoping to help some with her legal case. He’d written about the good she’d done over the years, both as a friend and as a deputy. About cases she’d solved and even how she’d saved Coach and Goldie Dippel in the snowslide a few weeks back.
The thought of Coach and Goldie caused a frown to form on his lips and a crease to wrinkle his brow. He’d seen them in the parking lot at the tea. Coach was helping her into his car. She seemed... tense. Jerked the car handle away from his grip and shut the door
herself. Something in that scenario wasn’t right. But what?
“Clay, my boy,” he said aloud, “it’s your business to find out.” He looked at the gerbils. “Sorry, guys. I’ve gotta go do what they call investigating.”
Lizzie
By Thursday, Summit County public schools had been back in session from Christmas break for two days, and I had already asked for a day off.
I’ll admit, this did not endear me any to our school principal, but I didn’t care. When he asked me why, after two weeks paid vacation, I needed another day off, I simply told him the truth and let the chips fall where they may, as they say.
And I hate clichés. But there you have it. My life has disintegrated to the point where I am using clichés.
So, I called my principal, Mr. Tobin, on Wednesday night after church services and said, “Mr. Tobin, here’s the deal. My husband, as you know, is home with an injured back. What you don’t know is that the man has become a slave to court TV. You name it, he’s watching it. Judge Judy, Judge Alex, Judge Mathis, some judge from Texas, and—I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain—Judge Roy Bean.”
“Isn’t he dead?” Mr. Tobin asked, his voice as expressionless as a corpse.
“That’s the thing,” I answered. “He’s back. He’s back from the dead, and I’m listening to him hand down sentences left and right all day long.” I took a deep breath and sighed. “By the way, did you happen to see the segment on
The People’s Court
where
—
”
“Which judge is that?” Mr. Tobin interrupted.
“The pretty one. Judge Milliron or Milrod. Wait a minute...” I paused long enough to hear the voice of the announcer. “Judge Marilyn Milian!” I exclaimed as happily as a kid who just discovered that Santa brought the one thing on her list that she really, really, really wanted.
“Lizzie, are you alright?”
I rolled my eyes. Did the man not listen? “No, I’m not alright. I’m going slap crazy. My husband watches too much television, my son and his wife and their kids are living here, my daughter and her boyfriend are, seemingly, always here, and my mother is now in an assisted-living facility nearby. I have not one second of private time anymore, I haven’t read my Bible other than at church in I don’t know how long, and the laundry is piled so high I’m thinking about building on an extra room for it.”
Another long pause. I tapped my foot to its rhythm.
“So, you need a day to do laundry?” he asked.
I pressed a fingertip against one temple. “No. I need a day to just
be.
”
“But your husband will still be home, right?”
“Yes.”
“And your daughter-in-law? Why isn’t she helping?”
“Because she now has a job to help pay the bills of a mortgage in Baton Rouge while they’re looking for a house here, which doesn’t really seem to be happening, or at the very least does not seem to be happening quickly enough.”
“You sound like you’re having a nervous breakdown.”
I jerked a bit. What was the name of that singer from way back when? The one who jerked? Joe Cocker, wasn’t it? That’s who I looked like for all of ten seconds before I said, “Look, Mr. Tobin. I don’t ask for anything really. I’m easygoing, and I never take personal time off. Well, I’m taking personal time off. It’s mine to take, and I’m taking it.”
“That’s fine,” he muttered.
“It is?”
“Sure. You don’t owe me any detailed explanations.”
I threw my head back and stared at the cobwebs forming on the ceiling. “Then why did you ask why I need a day off?”
“Well, Lizzie, I was curious, seeing as you just had two weeks, but I wasn’t really expecting such a long justification. What I mean to say is, that’s a lot of personal information I simply didn’t need.”
I did the Joe Cocker thing again and then said, “I’ll see you Friday, Mr. Tobin. Unless I take another day off. Then I’ll see you Monday.”
I think he snickered, but I’m not sure. “Why don’t we just say Monday? I think you need more than just one day, Lizzie.”
I straightened. “Monday it is, then.”
“Take care,” he said, then snickered—or something close to it—again and hung up.
Thursday morning I helped Samuel get settled in his recliner, gave him his medication, fluffed his pillows, positioned the TV remote, and then helped Samantha get the children ready for school. I waved as they climbed on the school bus, shoved a cup of coffee-to-go into the hands of both of my children, and ran them out to the car, where they climbed in, looking somewhat perplexed, and drove toward Breckenridge. I stood guard as Samantha got ready for her job, and I walked her to her car as well (which a friend of theirs had brought up from Louisiana during Christmas vacation for the small price of five-hundred dollars). She winked at me as she slid behind the driver’s wheel and then drove away.
I was alone.
Sort of. By this time one of the judge shows was up and going— Milian, I think—but I paid it no mind. I called out to Samuel, asking if he needed anything. He said he’d like a cup of coffee, so I poured him a fresh cup, took it to him, then literally ran up the stairs to our bedroom, where I shut the door and climbed onto our bed, pushing the pillows toward the headboard at the same time. I pulled my Bible from the bedside table and opened it to anything, then read for the next thirty minutes.
After that I took a nap for about fifteen minutes. A more glorious fifteen minutes has never been spent, though I dreamed the entire time about baking... stuff. I was standing in a large kitchen—a baker’s kitchen, they call it—and I was putting food dishes together like the pros one sees on the Food Channel when one’s husband was not watching judges with stage makeup wield their power. I was wearing a pretty dress and an even prettier chef ’s apron with this nice design on it, though I couldn’t tell what it was. But it was pink. Lisa Leann pink, to be honest with you. And I was baking and baking and baking. At the end of the dream I pulled what appeared to be tiramisu out of a stainless steel refrigerator.
Then I woke up, sat up, and called the facility where my mother was staying so I could check up on her.
“You might want to come see her today,” the charge nurse said.
“She’s a little feisty.”
“My mother is always feisty, but I’ll come,” I told her. “I’ll be
there around lunch so we can eat together.”
“I’ll let her know,” the nurse said.
I took a shower. A long, hot shower, and then I took my time slathering my body with lotion and body spray, and I played around with my makeup and thought that Lisa Leann would be so proud of me. I fluffed my hair a bit more than usual, and I put on a pair of black jeans and a pretty blue sweater and some funky earrings Michelle had given me for Christmas that are so not me, but who cared.
Then I went downstairs to check on Samuel, whose meds had kicked in. He snored and drooled—a blessing considering he was in constant pain when awake—while Judge Mathis sat with his chin propped in the palm of his hand listening to the defendant explain why it was not her fault. I smiled, turned the volume down just a bit, then went into the laundry room and started a load. After that I cleaned the kitchen, and after that I went back into the family room to tell Samuel—who was now awake and trying to find a comfortable position—that I was going to see my mother.
