The Widows of Eden (27 page)

Just before dinner, Loretta and I managed to cut Marion off from the herd and corral her on the edge of the library. The
widow said, “Wilma, dear, your fiancé is such an engaging man, and he has such an air of confidence about him. One would never imagine that he was ill.”

“You should've been here a week ago,” I replied. “Clem hurt so bad that he couldn't raise his voice, but Mr. Moore came along and he got better overnight.”

“So you believe that Vernon is responsible for the improvement?”

“Take a look, Marion. He's taking the same pills that made him sicker than a dog last week, but now he's his ornery old self. Only one thing has changed. That would be the arrival of your Mr. Moore, and he has a track record.”

We both looked at Loretta, who struck a pose and said, “Ta da-a-a!”

Marion shifted her weight from one foot to the other and asked, “Is something on your mind, Loretta? I get the sense that there is.”

“You would, wouldn't you? My mind has been chock full of somethings ever since you and Birdie left my home. Are you absolutely certain that Laverne can read minds?”

“Oh yes, dear. Aren't you?”

“I'm doing my best to get used to the idea, but won't it give her an unfair advantage at school? Won't she able to read the teacher's mind and get all As?”

“Yes and no. If Laverne is taking a test, for example, she will have the ability to tune in to her teacher's mind, but it won't be much of an advantage unless the teacher happens to be thinking about the answers at the time. If she's thinking about something else …”

“Like s-e-x? What if her schoolteacher is thinking about that?”

Marion smiled. “I take it that the question is more personal, but you needn't worry. What Laverne sees in your mind will be under your control.”

Loretta exhaled and replied, “Thank God.” Then she asked, “But why?”

“Think of your brain as a library. Unless Laverne is truly extraordinary, she won't be able to browse through your bookshelves. She'll only be able to look over your shoulder at whatever you happen to be reading at the moment.”

“Okay, but suppose I happen to be reading a book about s-e-x. What then?”

“You would be wise to avoid it while she's in your presence, dear. If she decides to tune in …”

“So distance helps?”

“It does, but distraction is best, especially sensory interference like TV or music. But neither will help you with the problem that's really on your mind. There's no defense for that.”

That confused the heck out of me. “What does that mean?” I asked.

Marion answered, “We should rejoin the group, don't you think? I believe we're about to be summoned to dinner.”

Lo began to follow Marion across the carpet, but I grabbed her by the elbow and held her back. When Marion was further down range, I asked, “What was she talking about, Lo?”

“It's nothing, Wilma.”

“Don't you fib to me. I may not have the gift, but I can read you like a book. Something is eating at you. I can't worry about it properly unless you tell me what it is.”

“Ask me again on Saturday.”

“Saturday? Why is that … ?” Then it hit me. “Mr. Moore will be gone, won't he?”

“Yes.”

I nearly dropped my half-full flute. “Oh my God, Lo! You still love him, don't you?”

She touched me on the cheek, and then she walked over to Calvin and took his arm, bless her soul. After a moment of reflection, I said a little prayer for my best friend, and then I pulled up my hostess socks and went to check on the dining room. A magnificent bouquet had been placed in the center of the table, full of lavender-colored foxglove, sunflowers, purple dahlias, yellow wildflowers, and angel hair — but the table had been set for ten. That struck me as odd, so I counted the guests on my fingers. Clem, Clara, Mr. Moore, Calvin, and Loretta made up one hand, which left the three widows and me. I was a diner short and pretty darned sure that Road Rage wouldn't be eating with the adults, so I stuck my head in the kitchen.

Marie was zipping from one pot to another like a water bug, while Pearline and Consuela were putting croutons and Parmesan on the Caesar salads in assembly-line fashion. No one noticed poor little me until I said, “Hi, everybody! How's dinner coming along?”

Marie stopped moving long enough to put her hands on her hips. “One of these days, I'm going to figure out how to prepare a formal dinner two days in advance and have it taste like it was made at the last minute. Until then, I'll be in a froth till the last minute. By the way, the pies look wonderful; thank you.”

“You're more than welcome. When do we eat?”

“Consuela will be placing the salads in a few minutes. Pearline will call you shortly after.”

“I noticed that the table is set for ten. Will you be joining us for dinner?”

“Take a look at this kitchen, Wilma! How could I possibly do that? I'd be running back and forth all the time.”

“But I counted ten places. There are only nine guests.”

“Speak to your Fiancé in Perpetuity. I was just following orders.”

“Clem didn't tell you who it was?”

“He said to set the table for ten, Wilma. What else was I supposed to do?”

I hate it when people follow orders — except for mine. Don't you?

Chapter 32

 

T
HE
M
YSTERY
G
UEST

C
LEM
AND
I
WERE
SEATED
at the ends of the table, which meant I couldn't enjoy the glare from his shiny new head because Connie's bouquet was in the way. Calvin, Birdie, an empty space, and Loretta were to Clem's right, meaning that Lo was sitting to my left. Mr. Moore was to my immediate right, then Clara, Marion, and Eloise. I wouldn't go to all this trouble, but you need a mind's eye view of the seating chart in order to get an idea of who was talking to whom.

We started off with the Caesar salad, which is Clem's favorite, probably because it requires the minimum number of vegetables (one) to be called a salad. The main course was USDA prime porterhouse steak — Clem won't eat choice and he can tell the difference in a second — plus asparagus with Béarnaise sauce, fries, and the inevitable green bean casserole.

According to Lo, Clem skipped the asparagus but put Béarnaise sauce on his fries, which reminded me of a birthday dinner I shared with my father long ago. He drank bourbon on the rocks and ashed a cigarette in his salad before inhaling a sixteen-ounce prime rib, plus all of his fries and half of mine. The night before he died, he told my mom, “I can't go the doctor; I'm too sick.” I kid you not. He was a man's man.

My paternal reminiscences aside, the moratorium on conversational pith remained in place until Pearline and Consuela served dessert, when none other than our very own Pastor Sven Hooper materialized out of thin air.

Clem jumped up from the table and said, “Welcome, Reverend!” Considering my fiancé's views on religion, that was a tad more enthusiasm than a certain person would have expected. “Have you met everyone?” he asked.

“Except for Mr. Moore, who I know by reputation.” He and my lodger shook hands, and then he continued, “I'm sorry for being late. My adult Bible class held a debate on evolution this evening. A few of the men very nearly came to blows.”

“So Christianity hasn't changed in my absence. I can't say I'm surprised. Can I offer you dinner, Reverend?”

“Thank you, Mr. Tucker, but we had mac and cheese at church.”

“Then how about a slice of Wilma's homemade blueberry pie?”

“Pie? Dear me! I should decline in the name of moderation, but it looks so delicious!”

“A la mode or straight up?” Pearline asked flatly, like a bored waitress.

“A la mode, please. I don't suppose you have any chocolate sauce.”

Pearl glanced at me and I nodded. “If that's what you want,” she said.

“Bless you, my child. And bless you for having the courage to testify at service this morning. I hope my regular parishioners were taking notes.”

Pearline muttered something under her breath and disappeared, only to reappear two minutes later with a soup bowl heaped full of blueberry pie, ice cream, and chocolate sauce.
“My heavens!” he exclaimed. “The Lord is bountiful tonight. Would you care to join me in prayer?”

From the other side of the bouquet, I heard Clem say, “You go ahead on your own, Reverend. The rest of us will talk amongst ourselves. I'll save the news until you're done.”

There it was; another stratagem was in the offing. Loretta had the same dumbfounded look on her face I had, but her husband didn't. Calvin was in on it, and we weren't.

A
FTER
THE
DISHES
had been taken away and coffee had been served, Clem tapped his spoon on the side of his water glass. The time I was dreading — the moment of the big announcement — had arrived. He stood up and said, “Thirty-six hours from this very minute, I'll be undergoing an operation that will determine whether I live or die. The odds are not in my favor, but there is an advantage to the prospect of unsudden death. It is the ability to prepare for the eventuality. With that in mind, I beg your indulgence while I make a few announcements.

“First off, I'd like to thank Vernon, Eloise, and their friends for visiting us this week. It has been the best medicine an unwell man could get.”

Marion and Birdie nodded while Eloise replied, “You're more than welcome. It was our pleasure.” Loretta took my hand and squeezed it.

“Next, I'd like to thank Calvin Millet, who has been the finest friend an arrogant old codger could have for the last four years. I may not have another opportunity, so I'd like to present you with a small gift as an expression of my gratitude.”

Clem pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Calvin, who accepted it with a simple, “Thank you.” I wasn't expecting that. Judging from the look on Loretta's face, she wasn't either. We were dumbfounded again.

Clem turned his attention to his sister. “We haven't had much of a chance to visit because of my health, Clara, but you should know that Calvin has agreed to stay on as the custodian of the Tucker Trust for as long as you wish. He's also agreed to help you put together a new board. I apologize for giving you such short notice, but you two will need to get started on that next week.”

There it was; that was the big surprise. “But why, honeypot?” I protested. “You're going to be just fine.”

“I hope you're right, Wilma, and more than you know. As of midnight tomorrow, I will resign my positions as chairman of the Tucker Trust and the National Bank of the Plains. If I survive, I intend to spend my autumn years golfing, hunting, and doting over my new wife.”

The room froze at the utterance of “new wife.” Loretta squeezed my hand so hard that my fingers turned white.

Clem walked around the table to my end. “Forgive me for not getting down on one knee, but neither one can take the weight alone. Before I go under the knife, I'd like to propose marriage one last time.”

Dumbfounded does not begin to describe my reaction. I attempted to unlock my jaw, but I couldn't find the key. All that came out was a solitary, “Uh …”

“Don't get your tail in a knot about the prenup. I've amended the bylaws of the trust and changed my will. It doesn't matter whether you say yes or no, you'll be taken care of for the rest of your life.”

“But, but, but this is so sudden …”

“A friend of ours says that uncertainty is the spice of life, Wilma. What could be more uncertain than an impromptu wedding on the eve of major surgery? Pastor Hooper is ready to say the words. Calvin has the bands and will be my best man. Tell
me if I'm wrong, but you may be able to recruit a maid of honor at the table here. Let's do it right now.”

The first thought that entered my mind was my previous experience with the institution of matrimony. The second was, “I can't get married; I have guests!” The third, which actually came out of my mouth, was, “What about a marriage license?”

“Good try, but Calvin took care of it on Tuesday.”

I was the victim of a conspiracy! Holding back the tears, I announced, “This is too much of a surprise, honeypot. I need a minute to myself.”

Loretta knew what I meant by “myself” and beat me to the powder room. You might assume that we didn't have much space to maneuver, but it was Clem's powder room, in the River House. It had a shower stall, two sinks, a toilet, and a bidet — yes, a bidet, in Nebraska — and there was enough space left over for a bar-sized pool table.

“Holy shit, Wilma!” my best friend shrieked. “Did you know this was coming?”

“Of course I did; that's why I dressed in black — for my own wedding! I bet the widows saw it, though. At least one of them might have had the good grace to warn me before I chose my attire for the evening.”

“Well, they didn't, and you can't hide in here till Sunday, either. What are you going to do?”

“Go get Mr. Moore.”

“That's it? That's your answer? You're so overwhelmed by Clem's proposal that you're forming a committee.”

“After I pee. Get Mr. Moore.”

Loretta is such a trooper. That woman would take on a pack of wolves with a nail file and a hairbrush if I asked her to. She knocked on the door a few minutes later, just as I was washing
my hands. After she and Mr. Moore filed in, I closed the door and locked it.

“How is Clem?” I inquired. “Is he okay?”

“He's at the bar,” Loretta answered, “playing gin rummy with Calvin.”

“So he's not too disappointed?”

“I wouldn't say that, darlin', but you can probably rule out suicidal.”