The Second Sister (26 page)

Chapter 35

“M
rs. Lieshout!”

I stood next to an archway of ice, artfully carved with a design of white-blue roses and vines, like a summertime arbor that had been magically frozen in full bloom, and waved my arm over my head to get the librarian's attention. She turned around, eyes searching the crowd to see who had called her name, her face lighting up when she saw it was me.

“Lucy!” She walked toward me quickly, weaving through the clusters of people on the sidewalk and a clump of giggling preteen girls as she passed the elegant, life-sized sculpture of St. Lucia, the Swedish saint whose name day coincides with the start of the holiday season, complete with a crown of boughs and lit candles, and another, more abstract sculpture, an enormous six-foot-high pyramid composed of hundreds of perfectly formed snowballs.

“Isn't this fun? Only the third year of the festival and look at this crowd!”

She opened her arms as if to give me a hug, but then, remembering the big paper cup full of hot chocolate she was carrying in her hand, laughed and pulled back.

“Oops! I'd better be careful or I'll end up spilling cocoa all over that pretty white sweater. Where did you get it?”

Anxious as I was to steer Mrs. Lieshout to my desired topic of conversation, I knew it would be best to bide my time and make a little small talk. Nobody likes being pushed. And anyway, I was kind of pleased with my bargain.

“The consignment shop. Fourteen dollars. Cashmere.”

“Fourteen dollars!” Mrs. Lieshout's eyes went wide. “Oh, I have been shopping at the wrong stores!”

“I've got an in. Juliet keeps an eye out for things she knows I might like and then calls me.” I laughed. “I think I've bought more clothes in the last month than I did in the last five years. I'm hoping Santa brings me some bigger suitcases for Christmas.”

The light of Mrs. Lieshout's smile dimmed a little. “That's right. You'll be leaving soon, won't you? Say, how is your quilting coming along? I forgot to ask when I saw you at the fish boil. And how is Peter?”

She craned her neck, as though expecting him to pop out from behind the nearest bush, as though wherever Lucy Toomey went, Peter Swenson was sure to follow.

“I guess he's fine. I haven't heard anything to the contrary,” I said, moving past the question, ignoring the little flash of speculation I saw in Mrs. Lieshout's eyes. “And my quilt is all finished. I've even started another! It's red and white. I was inspired by some of the pictures in that book you suggested I check out. I don't think I'll be able to finish it before I go, but the FOA kind of gave me a nudge. The theory is that if I finish the top while I'm here, I can quilt it after I get to DC. We'll see.”

“Sounds like a good idea, a nice way to relax at the end of a long day. I know it's selfish of me because you're going to be doing such important work, but I do hate to see you leave Nilson's Bay.” She sighed and then swallowed hard. For a moment, I thought she might actually tear up.

“Oh,” she said, waving her hand and forcing a smile, “I'm getting sentimental in my old age. Or maybe stuck in my ways. I just hate to see things change.”

There it was—my opening. I nodded understandingly.

“I know what you mean. Did you hear about the Save-A-Bunch?”

“What about it?”

“An investment company from out of state is buying it and planning to tear it down—the Herzog building, too—to make room for a bigger store, a supermarket. Of course, that store will have all kinds of amenities that we don't have now. Takeout meals, an espresso bar. That sort of thing.” I gave a disinterested shrug. “I guess some people might like that, the tourists and such, but—”

“An espresso bar? What do we need that for? People have been getting their coffee at Dinah's for years and nobody has complained yet. What will happen to her business if she has to start competing with the market?”

“Nothing good is my guess. I'm concerned that this expansion could hurt several of our small businesses and cost people their jobs. I heard they're going to let go of at least half the clerks and replace them with those computerized checkout counters.”

“No,” said Mrs. Lieshout, her voice low and her tone scandalized. “That's terrible. Have you ever used one of those things? They're so confusing! If you want to buy produce or anything without a bar code, then you have to look up the codes yourself. It takes forever! And then that irritating computer voice keeps barking orders at you. ‘Remove items from the belt! The bagging area is full! Enter your rewards card! Take your change! ' ” She shuddered.

“So dehumanizing. No conversation. No ‘How are you today, Mrs. Lieshout?' Or ‘How are things down at the library?' No civility. No pleasant exchanges about the weather or suggestions for how to cook that pork roast you just bought on special.”

“You're right,” I said in a commiserating tone. “They have them in all the big cities now. Makes me feel like a cog in a wheel instead of a valued customer. The companies that put those machines in always say that they're faster and more convenient for customers, but everybody knows it's about eliminating jobs and adding to profits. I heard that the new company plans to get rid of all the box boys.”

“So you'll have to bag your own groceries? And carry them out to the car?”

I nodded and Mrs. Lieshout clucked her tongue.

“What are the older people in town supposed to do, the ones who have a hard time walking, let alone lifting heavy bags? And what about the young people who've always saved for college by bagging groceries? And Mr. Lindstrom? He's been working as a box boy ever since he retired. He counts on that extra money to supplement his social security. Surely they won't eliminate his job?”

“From what I heard, all the box boy jobs will disappear.”

“Well, that is just awful.”

“And, of course, on top of all that, there's the issue of the demolition. Knocking down those buildings will change the entire landscape downtown.”

Mrs. Lieshout's expression went from concerned to alarmed.

“Think of the precedent that would set! It's bad enough that so many of the old cottages have been bulldozed to make way for those McMonstrosities. If they can knock down the market and Herzog building, then what's next? The church? The town hall? Even the library?”

There it was. The connection I'd been waiting for her to make.

The thing that Joe Feeney and his deep-pocket developer didn't understand is that a truly effective grassroots campaign isn't a commodity you can buy. You can nurture and nudge it into being, but, as the name implies, a real grassroots movement grows organically, as a response to a genuine need within or threat to the community. And, as I had explained to Rinda, Daphne, and Celia that night at our quilt-in, the person or persons who head it up have to be insiders, energetic leaders whose lifetime of service to and residency in the community command respect, with a purity of purpose that made them above reproach.

Mrs. Lieshout fit the bill perfectly. She was one of the most energetic and well-respected women in Nilson's Bay and also, once she was truly motivated, one of the most pushy. And, for Mrs. Lieshout, no motivation could be stronger or more urgent than thwarting a perceived threat to the beloved, historic library to which she had devoted her life.

“Well, we simply cannot stand for this!” she declared, her eyes glittering with determination, her chin jutting like a knife point. “This is not only a threat to the livelihood of many of our citizens, but to our entire way of life. We've got to let people know about this. We've got to organize and agitate and stop this cancer before it spreads!”

“I couldn't agree more,” I said and reached into my pocket to pull out one of the flyers that Celia and I had designed and printed out earlier in the day. “A few of us have already started working on it.”

I handed her the flyer and she perused it quickly, nodding as she skimmed the bullet points outlining the negative effects that the proposed new market could have on the economy and character of the town.

“This is good,” she mused as she read. “Though I do see that you've used ‘devastate' twice in the same document. You might consider another, more descriptive word . . . perhaps ‘decimate'?”

“Good suggestion.”

“Oh, and Lucy . . . you really must be a little more judicious in your use of exclamation points—only one per sentence. Give people a little credit for common sense. Just lay out the facts rationally. You don't need to resort to ebullience or overdramatics.”

“You're right,” I agreed. “We'll change that for the next printing, once I finish handing these out.”

“The sooner the better! Here,” she said, and took half the stack of flyers, “let me help you. You couldn't pick a better time or place than here at Winter Fest—half the town is here!”

“I've already got people handing out flyers at all the entrances.”

“You do?”

She looked at me curiously and I grinned. Knowing that the hook was now planted firmly in her mouth, I could reveal my hand.

“Uh-huh. And if you'll turn over the flyer, you'll see that we've already scheduled an organizational meeting next week.” I grinned. “We're holding it at the library. And you're facilitating the discussion.”

Mrs. Lieshout flipped over the paper and started to read. And then to frown.

“Seven o'clock on Monday? In the Lundstrom Room? You shouldn't have done that, Lucy. Not without consulting me first.”

She looked up at me with a serious expression. I felt my heart sink. Apparently that hook wasn't planted quite as firmly as I'd thought.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Lieshout. I just thought that—”

“You
can't
have a meeting in the Lundstrom Room. The Mystery Mavens book group has it that night. And, anyway, Lundstrom can only hold twenty people.” She thought for a moment. “Let's use the Carnegie Room instead.”

“Okay, sure. Good idea.”

“Right. Well, I'd better get going. My hot chocolate is getting cold. Oh, Lucy, can you drop some more flyers off at the library? I want to post some on the bulletin boards. See you Monday?”

“Yes, ma'am. Absolutely.”

 

Since Mrs. Lieshout had taken half of them off my hands, it didn't take long to chat people up and distribute the rest of my flyers, which meant that I had time to walk around and check out the ice sculptures before meeting up with the FOA for the tree lighting in front of town hall.

Winter Fest, with its accompanying ice sculpture contest and tree lighting, was the brainchild of some of the local merchants who were looking for a way to lure tourists up to the peninsula for just one more weekend before winter set in. It was a good idea.

I'd stopped by The Library earlier that day—the bar, not the building—to eat a basket of wings and ask Clint if I could put our flyers up on the stalls in his bathroom. He told me they were booked solid for dinner that night.

“Couldn't fit one more person in here unless we greased 'em up wid Crisco,” he said, the gap in his front teeth showing when he grinned. “But Roberta had a good idea. We're gonna grill a buncha brats, put 'em on sticks, and sell 'em from a stand on da sidewalk,” he told me.

He'd also surprised me by asking if Peter would be joining me for lunch. When I said no, why would he, he'd frowned and looked flustered.

“Oh, nothin' . . . I just thought that you and Peter . . . Well, you know. You'd been coming in together pretty regular for a while, and I just thought . . . Never mind,” he said, and started vigorously scrubbing the already clean table with a rag. “Sometimes people just decide to take a break. None of my business.”

“We're not taking a break,” I said. Clint flashed a smile and I jumped in to clarify my statement. “You can't take a break unless you've got something to take a break
from
. Peter and I aren't a couple. Never were.”

“Okay. Sure.” Clint looked down and started wiping the table again. “Like I said. None of my business.”

People gossip like crazy in Nilson's Bay. I guess it's the same in most little towns. Especially in winter—what else is there to do? But the fact of gossip being a common occurrence doesn't make it less annoying. Though I felt guilty every time I saw Peter's number on my phone and ignored it—three times during the last week—keeping my distance was the smart thing to do. In the end, it would be easier on both of us.

I walked past The Library and, sure enough, the two little Spaids, Kayla and Ricky, were standing behind a card table, wearing white aprons over their jackets, selling bratwurst on sticks. Their parents were inside tending to the sit-down diners, but the kids seemed to be handling everything well, even though the line to purchase their wares was ten people deep. It was the same story outside of Dinah's Pie Shop, where Dinah was selling hot, individual apple or cherry pies with the crust folded to make them easy to carry, as well as coffee, hot chocolate, and hot cider. Dinah saw me walking by and raised her arm over her head.

“Lucy! I saw Daphne Olsen a little while ago. She brought me one of those flyers. You can sure count on me being there for the meeting! I'll bring a couple of pies for the refreshment table.” She paused to take fifteen dollars from a man wearing a down jacket and one of those knitted jester hats with bells on the tassels and hand him five pies in exchange. “If I haven't sold them all!” She laughed.

I waved and walked on.

It was nice to see so many free-spending travelers thronging the freshly shoveled sidewalks, but it was even nicer to see so many familiar faces, people who had known me and whom I had known from childhood. In the eighteen years since I had left this town behind, hoping never to return, I had traveled to every major metropolitan area in America and had met with some of the most influential leaders in the country, and during my fifteen minutes of fame after the Iowa caucuses, my face appeared on millions of television sets all over the country. But in spite of all that, there was no one city, town, or hamlet in the country, except this one, where scores of people recognized me, called me by name, and looked happy to see me.