Tiger Lillie (11 page)

I holler, running back outside.

“You’re not going to believe this, honey” I throw the insert onto his lap.

Cristoff examines it, mouth dropping open wider with each passing second.

“Do you realize what this could mean?” His eyes round. “If we can get this wedding, it’ll be
Rolling Stone
, VH1, everybody! It could be the national exposure we need to really get Extremely Odd up and going big time!”

“Big time.”

“Did you get his phone number?”

“Of course not. I do have my pride.”

“Well, there’s only one thing we can do then, girlfriend.”

“What’s that?”

“Pray, baby doll. We’ve got to pray.”

“So tell me something I don’t know.”

I think about that pastor, Joe, and I’m sure his sermon was actually good. As Daddy’s first choice to practice his sermon on, I know more about homiletics than most women. Joe isn’t Dad. And I’m sure Joe’s right about God’s best and all. It’s just a bummer to realize you’re
not
God’s best for every male that populates the planet. That not only are you
not
the perfect woman, but you are so imperfect as to be inadequate for a lollipop like Leslie Ferris. I tell Cristoff this.

“What makes you think it’s really not the other way around?”

“Huh?”

“Maybe Les isn’t God’s best for
you
, sweetie.”

H’m. Maybe. But I’m sure that wasn’t what Mr. Earth-to-Lillie was thinking. And that rankles me.

Someday he’ll look back and say, “I could have had her for myself, and I blew it.”

Yeah, right.

I can’t blame Joe and his sermon. Joe’s a great preacher, actually. Modern, you know? Wears golf shirts and easygoing loafers to impart the Word of God to his flock each Sunday. I’d peg him around fifty years old, and his wife and kids are involved as much as anybody but not more. The pair protect each other, which I really like. Maybe that’s what I want, someone to protect Tiger Lillie.

Gag me.

No, I don’t.

Joe preaches all sorts of practical sermons, and usually there’s at least one takeaway each time. He cares about his people. Not like Tacy’s pastor. Oh man, what a creep! Of course, Rawlins the Jailkeeper thinks the man hung the moon.

Probably literally, even.

Tacy

I loved life. All the smells and tastes, sensations, and the richness of the color orange. And red, oh yes, I did love red. Behind my closed eyes I often saw a Georgia O’Keefe poppy, as though she got the inspiration for the masterpiece not from the flower, but from the configuration of veins behind her eyelids. I see it now.

I loved life. I really did. I loved the taste of the wind and the salt air when Rawlins sailed me across the Bay to his cabin on the far shore. And I loved his touch upon my back, so fine, and he would sigh as though I were, a work of art.

“He loved me as muck as he could have. Especially once Alban Cole got hold of him. What will happen to that church when we’re gone?

7

Lillie

Too bad I didn’t see Stan Remington, a.k.a. SNAP, himself that night. I would have recognized him right away. Something about him always touched me. Honestly, I didn’t dwell too heavily on the lyrics other than in discussions with Daddy, but I sensed in them an anger at something much larger than the man who wrote them, a festering discontent that resonated inside me. Maybe not at the same things—like God and established society and big, typical beefs. My gripes had to do with my skin, the sharp eyes of the church people, and having everything I owned labeled with a Sharpie. I’m not that deep a thinker.

Cristoff is right. We can only pray. I find myself talking to God all the time about the Remington wedding, especially while driving. When possible, I allot an hour in the evening just for driving around in my car. So lately my conversations with God seem to be focusing on two things—a phone call from Stan Remington’s fiancée and a healthy baby for Tacy. Unfortunately I think the scales are tipped, time-wise, more heavily on the Remington matter. Well, after all, Rawlins the Pious is probably praying more than the rest of us put together. I make deals and promises, only to take them back right away because Cristoff always says, “It’s better not to vow at all than to make a vow and not fulfill it.” He’s always telling me I need to read the Bible more, and he’s right. Daddy says the same thing but in a softer tone.

A few days ago I found Gordon’s phone number in general listing 411, just in case. In the general listing. A surprise. Proof I was right about him not being too full of himself.

It’s been over a week since the seizure. The Paxton wedding, another sky-diving extravaganza, went off without any hitch other than the maid of honor chickening out at the last minute, forcing me to do the honors. As I say, whatever it takes. I loved it.

But now it’s Tuesday, and so begins another work week. Shivering this morning, I slip on a light jacket on my way out the door. Sometime, behind my back, autumn coaxed the leaves of the dogwood tree in the small earthen square near my front door to a resonating crimson. I’m glad nature doesn’t rely on me. I’m glad it’s self-starting. My September jack-o’-lantern appears in need of dentures, so I pitch it in the city trash can on the way to the car.

And the air! Oh my. This is my favorite moment of the year. None other compares. I breathe in the coolness, revel in the lack of humidity, see the sunrays jabbing down in shards against the flawless sky. I shiver again and close my eyes, trying to savor the moment, smiling into the change of temperature. Oh, it’s one thing for an evening to be cool. It’s expected. But for it to linger this long into the waking hours is a treat.

The weekly staff meeting usually consumes our Tuesday mornings. Peach arrives early and prepares breakfast and we sit around, eat dishes like Eggs Oscar or, this morning, Quail Eggs with Toasted Sesame Salt. From a guy like Peach. I can’t begin to count the perks in this business. And yet, as the “business matters” partner, I see dollar signs on everything. Kind of ruins things at times and the others keep telling me this kind of hands-on creativity is expensive but pays off in the end. Only blind faith assures me this is true.

“First round of business,” I say after we’ve eaten, pushed aside our plates and slipped out our various organizational supplies. “Hot-air balloons.”

Pleasance ruffles through the pages of a ragged legal pad, muttering, “Pickerson, Pickerson.”

Cristoff opens a neatly organized three-ring binder containing color-coded sections, pockets, and hand-drawn pull-out charts. I’ve tried to teach him Excel. Hopeless.

“Nice ballerina dress, girlfriend,” Cristoff says to Pleasance, who’s fancied-up in an aqua tulle skirt and a close-fitting ivory tank top. A definite contrast to my jeans and orange T-shirt. I guess she didn’t realize it turned cold today.

She tugs Cristoff’s ponytail. I had chopped about four inches off it the day before. “Nice hair, girlfriend.”

Peach just sits back with an airy burp and pulls a ragged prayer book from his shirt pocket. He’s a devout Catholic, attends seven a.m. mass every morning but Tuesdays when he’s cooking our breakfast. If Pleasance is right, his ministrations in the kitchen are every bit as holy.

“Okay, guys. I’ve pretty much found out we can’t do authentic balloon rides even for Victorian times.”

Peach looks up from his book. “Do I really need to be here for this?”

“Actually, not yet. I can save the catering issues for later. We signed on three weddings this week.” They’re smaller. But better than nothing.

“Good news.” He picks his teeth and stands to his feet. “I’ll clear and clean up and then come back. My, that was good.”

The rest of us throw out a compliment or two as he clears the dishes. Peach is quiet and very hairy and large, a yeti sort of fellow, but the only time he ever really gets angry at us is when we work late and raid his ingredients. He never writes anything down at our meetings, yet I’ve never once had to remind him about anything.

“Anyway,” I say, once Peach leaves, “they used to burn straw to fuel the balloons back then. Regency, Victorian, whenever.”

Cristoff flips to the Pickerson section of his binder. “Are you really sure authenticity is that important to Jaime? Or is it
your
thing, Lillie?”

“Either she’ll say she wants the inauthentic balloon rides, or she doesn’t, and I’m sorry to say, the answer won’t affect her decision to go Regency one way or the other.”

Pleasance shakes her head. “She’s going to go Regency, I can tell you that. You should have heard her gushing over my new drawings. I have to say, it’s a much more elegant time period than all those huge hoopskirts and ribbons and bows. Can you truly picture the host of ‘Let’s Kick Butt’ in a gown that looks like a parade float?”

Ha! “I pictured her more like the Liberty Bell with frosting.”

“Has she decided on a color for the attendants?” Cristoff asks.

“Peacock blue!” Pleasance raises a hand almost as if she’s praisin’ the Lord. “My favorite color.”

Cristoff taps his binder with a pen. “Perfect! This will be beautiful. And can you imagine the pictures?”

And here I thought I was doling out bad news. You never know with this bunch.

“You should see the fabric I found, and with those high waistlines and gauzy overskirts. M’m. This will be the most stunning one yet!”

“It’s going to be a little awkward in a Victorian setting,” I say, experiencing some perverse pleasure at throwing cold water.

But they aren’t even listening to me. They bandy about flowers and fabric in great detail.
Ooooo
this and
ohhhhhh
that.

I try again. “And she said she wants me to try to find another place.”

More flowers. More fabric. More ideas about party favors.

Right.

Why am I here? Tell me that. Surely we could hire a secretary and I could go back to work for Deutschebank or get a dream job with one of the investment houses down at the Inner Harbor.

They continue to ignore me as well they should, and I doodle an entire page worth of drawings, mostly of flowers and targets and my name over and over. Lillie Bauer, Lillie Bauer.

Finally, I scrape up my planner and head downstairs to Peach’s workroom. We only rent the back half of the first floor. It houses the catering department.

Although Cristoff is my best friend, and Pleasance is the only other woman involved in Extremely Odd, Peach and I roost in the same non-eccentric coop. Creative cooking is the part of him that doesn’t add up. He’s an ex-navy guy without a hint of artistry otherwise.

I pull up a chrome stool to the large, stainless steel worktable. “How’s it going, Peach?”

“Finally had enough of those two crazies, huh?” He keeps his back turned as he scrubs our dishes with a sponge on a wand, and his chuckle harmonizes with the water falling out of the spigot.

“I’m way out of their league.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to keep their head around here. And you do a good job.”

“Thanks.” I sit down on one of three stools by the worktable. “How’s your Gertie these days?” I love Peach’s wife. She’s even more of a peach than he is.

Peach places the final fork in the draining board cup. Then he pours himself a mug of coffee, pulls me a Coke from the big restaurant fridge, and hoists himself up on the stool opposite me.

“You can keep a secret, can’t you, Lillie?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I think The Women’s Exchange is going to let some of their waitresses go.”

“Really?”

He jerks his head in the general direction of the little place across Mulberry, just a few doors down from our building. It’s been there forever. You can buy anything crocheted or decoupaged in the front room and enjoy the best shrimp-salad sandwich you’ve ever eaten in the dining room in the back. They serve chilled tomato aspic on an iceberg lettuce leaf too, but, well, blech.

When your heels strike the aged floors and you hear the clink of ice as it flows with water into glasses, see the blur of waitresses hurrying in their crisp uniforms, complete with caps, from table to table, you feel a part of something larger, and older and wiser, and with more self-control and honor. You feel like one of the grandmas who raised her brothers and sisters after their mother died during the Depression, or like a librarian from over at Enoch Pratt who faithfully took the streetcar from Catonsville every day for forty years because that was her job and she loved it. You feel like jitterbugging, like wearing an orchid corsage, like sneaking out for a stolen kiss, because when those floors were laid, a kiss was worth stealing. You feel a hollow sadness line the chambers of your heart, a sorrow to be alive in such an age when nothing is special anymore.

“Yeah. Gert’s decided she’s one of them.”

“But she’s been there for years!”

“I know. So much for loyalty and all.”

“Why are they closing down?”

“They’re not. Just a big remodel in the kitchens. May take up to a year.”

I gaze around at the spotless kitchen. The business isn’t growing as rapidly as I hoped, but still… “Maybe you could use an assistant with you down here on a regular basis? I know Pleasance and Cristoff can always use help with errands and stuff, too.”

“What about you though? Could you use some help along those lines? Gert’s real smart, Lillie. She may have been a waitress all of her life and all, but she’s real smart.”

On each forearm, Peach sports tattoos so faded I can’t tell what they are. It’s hard for him to ask about this job for his wife. And to be honest, he knows as well as anyone that another employee isn’t inked into the business plan. But Cristoff taped a three-by-five card, one of many, to his refrigerator that says, “To him that knows to do good and doesn’t. Well, that’s sin.” From the book of James. Not a direct quote from a reputable translation, he assures me, but I doubt James himself would mind. He’d probably be glad his words were being put to good use, lo, these two thousand years later. Now
my
favorite book is Galatians. I have a feeling it would be James’s favorite too. I think he’d be a little miffed to know that some people mistook his letter as a license to judge others.

“Oh, she is smart, Peach. You can see that a mile away.”

“She’s never been fired in her life. I can’t imagine how she’ll feel to get that pink slip.” He shakes his head, old sagging jowls swaying along with the movement. Peach, you big old basset hound, you.

“Well, she won’t have to find out. She’s hired, Peach. When can she start?”

“As soon as she puts in her notice across the street.”

He smiles. When he bares his dentures and lights go on in the gray eyes recessed beneath brows that remind me of my mother’s old powder puff, only not pale blue, well, I experience the same warm feeling as I do watching
Match Game
, or walking into The Women’s Exchange supplies.

And so I provided God’s answer to the Hagertys’ prayers. It comforts me that if God uses me as an answer to other people’s prayers, He’s working on someone else to answer mine.

Tacy

Rawlins showed me around the new cottage. That’s what he called it, “The New Cottage,” a three-bedroom home he built for my parents on his property. He paid big money to have it built so quickly.

“I’m going to allow your mother pick out the details: carpet, cabinets, fixtures, you know, that sort of thing.”

“She’d like that.” Mother never got to do anything like that, Ever.

“I thought so.”

Rawlins could be so thoughtful.

Lillie helped me put on a bridesmaids’ luncheon at the church. They all thought I was so lucky, except for Lillie, of course, to be marrying a guy like Rawlins McGovern.