Читать книгу Ladies Courting Trouble - Dolores Stewart Riccio - Страница 14

A note on the table informed me that my bridegroom had gone shopping at Home Warehouse again. What worrisome home improvement was he planning now? My little house didn’t offer all that much scope for remodeling. I felt guilty that Joe hadn’t had the Wagoneer for transport, but relieved that I’d missed having to go with him to that big, drafty, barnlike place filled with the scent of raw pine, bins of dull, utilitarian tools, and toilets lined up like theater seats.

Scruffy had seized the opportunity for a nap on my white chenille bedspread. “Off, off, off!” I commanded. He sprang down instantly and trotted into the kitchen for a long drink of water, as dogs do when they’re embarrassed. What’s the fuss? No one else was using the big bed.

After booting the dog outdoors, I booted up my computer and was pleased to see a note from Freddie, my former protégée who now worked for a computer firm in Atlanta—an entry-level job at Iconomics, Inc. that she’d wheedled out of my son, who was a resident whiz at that firm.

From: witch freddie freddie13@hotmail.com

To: witch cass shiptonherbs@earthlink.net

Subject: what’s up?

hi, cass. it’s me, don’t have to email from the library thanx to adam generously donating his old computer when he upgraded.

job’s going great. haven’t screwed up the works yet, so i got another mini-raise and a shot at fem management training (so iconomics gets to keep their government contracts.)

things are not so great, tho, at my apartment building. first it was the frizzling of the laundry room, for which i got blamed (hey, i do my best to keep control, but every time i was a wee bit late getting my stuff out of the dryer, someone dumped my undies all over the floor. third time it happened, i was major p.o.’d and the dryers blew up. quelle surprise! as the french say.) then there’s this thing with all the buzzers ringing every time i come in or go out. well, you get the picture. i am renter non grata, sez her royal majesty queen of the tenants’ org. doesn’t know i got a cat, tho. yes, am trying not to think bad thoughts about her, harm none and all. but you know that zen saying, enlightenment will come when you stop thinking of the white horse…. sure, baby.

i’m guessing married life with the greek dude is groovy, since i haven’t heard from you for awhile. maybe i’ll give it a try myself one of these days if i can dazzle some hot hunk like your boy, ha ha.

what’s this i’ve been reading about some alice b. toklas brownies poisoning you guys in plymouth? like i bet you’re up to your eyebrows in this one, am i right? need advice from yr favorite pixie, i’m available. i could, like, catch a ride up there with adam at thanksgiving.

send full details—inquiring minds need to know!

stay healthy

hugs to all the witches. tummy scratches to Scruffy.

freddie.

P.S. i’m thinking i might, like, take some college courses, maybe catch a degree one of these days. what do you think?

The word “pixie” rather leaped out at me, but I decided I was really being silly now. It seemed that Freddie still had her eye on my son, Adam, who was much too old for her. Apparently he’d resisted her wiles so far, and since he’d been transferred to upper management offices in a different building, it would be more difficult for her to practice her spells on him. Hence her offer to drive up with Adam at Thanksgiving. A long ride, usually a sleepover. Oh well, I could hardly say no. Being with Freddie was like opening a window to a fresh breeze from the west, cleaning the cobwebs right out of my brain. Of course, there was that little problem of her amazing talent for psychokinesis. I’d tried to teach her to master her mind-over-matter ability, but from time to time it jumped out in maverick poltergeist activity. Still, it would be great to see her.

From: Cass shiptonherbs@earthlink.net

To: Freddie freddie13@hotmail.com

Subject: Yes!!!

Love to have you here for Thanksgiving! Didn’t know Adam was planning the trip. A word of warning: do not stop at Atlantic City this time. If you hit that dollar machine big time again, someone may get nosy about you. A low profile is the Wiccan way.

About your apartment—if you don’t want to have to keep moving, behave yourself with the tenants. You know it’s within your control, even the buzzers. Remember the threefold law—those frizzles could boomerang right back to you!

Someone is indeed poisoning people in Plymouth. Seems to be indiscriminate. First a church social, then a TV cooking show (Phil’s), and then the senior center. But we think there may be a method in this madness.

The “Greek dude” (isn’t it time you called him Joe?) and I are still officially on our honeymoon until our first anniversary at Yule.

See you at turkey time. We’ll have a talk about college, great goal! Meanwhile, keep in touch and I’ll keep you posted, too.

Love,

Cass

Once I got started writing e-mails, I kept on, sending a short note to each of my three children, who were much more liable to answer this impersonal form of communication than some tedious message on their answering machines in their mother’s well-remembered nagging tone.

In order of age, the oldest first, I began with my Becky, who worked for a firm that specialized in family law. She’d recently separated from her husband, Ron Lowell. I had to tread carefully around this one—she might make up again with that philandering jerk.

From: Mom shiptonherbs@earthlink.net

To: Becky rlowell@katzandkinder.org

Subject: How are you?

Hi, Honey.

Been thinking about you and wondering how things are going. Still loving your job?

Thanks again for the sweet get-well card and your call. Only one night in the hospital, and no lingering effects. And don’t worry, I’m barely involved—I just happened to be speaking at the church when the incident happened. I don’t have to tell you that the world is full of crazies. You must meet them every day at K & K.

Have you made any plans for Thanksgiving? Would love to have you here, with or without Ron, up to you! Freddie writes me that she and Adam are driving up, so it will be a real family get-together. Well, it’s a tad early—no rush letting me know.

Love,

Mom

Adam’s metamorphosis from computer nerd to confident, upwardly mobile, highly paid professional had been a matter of joyous amazement to me. Our warm and easy relationship never veered into those muddy waters I sometimes found myself in with my daughters, but he did maintain a certain distance, not entirely due to the mileage. So I was somewhat surprised and pleased that he was planning on a Thanksgiving visit, if that wasn’t a figment of Freddie’s fertile imagination. I decided to proceed on faith.

From: Your Ma shiptonherbs@earthlink.net

To: Adam adamshipton@iconomics.org

Subject: Thanksgiving

Hi, Adam.

Delighted to learn from Freddie that you’re planning to spend Thanksgiving with Joe and me, and that she’s going to hitch a ride with you.

Hope the job is going great, and you’re well!

As Joe explained when you called, I’m not really involved in the poison problem in Plymouth. It was only by a bizarre coincidence that I happened to be giving a talk at the church when the first incident occurred. Not to worry!

Do send a note to confirm about Thanksgiving!

Love,

Ma

My youngest, a hopeful actress, lived with her partner, Irene, in California. We’d wallowed in some emotional quicksand while she was in therapy, but I felt we’d pulled out of it finally. Recently, the girls had moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles in pursuit of film work.

From: Mother shiptonherbs@earthlink.net

To: Cathy ireneandcathy@aol.com

Subject: How are things?

Hi, Cathy!

Thinking of you and wondering how things are going in your new place. I’m saying a prayer that you and Irene will each find some great career breaks in L.A. I remember that you planned to change agents, too—hope you found someone who appreciates your talent and works hard for you.

Also wanted to tell you that Adam and maybe Becky will be in Plymouth for Thanksgiving—just in case you and Irene are coming East around that time. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all get together!

I hope you’re keeping healthy and haven’t lost any more weight. I know Irene worries, and so do I. Take care of yourself!

Love,

Mother.

All these plaintive e-mails left me feeling rather melancholy, so I welcomed the sound of Joe crashing through the kitchen door with supplies from Home Warehouse. “Want some help, honey?” I called from my snug little office, which in an earlier time had been the borning room, right beside the kitchen.

“Just open the cellar door for me. I thought I’d rough together a better worktable for you. There’s not enough room on that thing you’ve got in your old storage room, which appears to be on its last gateleg anyway.”

“I know, but it belonged to Grandma. It’s got a certain sentimental value for me.”

“Sure, I get that. My idea is to move Grandma’s table to stand against the unshelved wall, and then to build you a new, bigger one under the light. Speaking of which, I got some track lighting, too. What you’ve got down there now is much too feeble for a workroom.”

“It has a sort of atmosphere,” I ventured. “Spooky and inspiring.”

“I don’t know how you can even see the labels when you’re putting together your herb mixtures. You ought to think of your workroom as a kind of laboratory, not some alchemist’s cave.”

Joe’s face shone with do-it-yourselfer enthusiasm. His eyes hoped for praise. What’s a gal to do?

“You’re wonderful, honey! I’m so excited!” I opened the cellar door and snapped on the light, noticing for the first time that it was a bit gloomy down there. Even the stairs were in shadow. “This is such a thoughtful idea. Will you have time to finish it, do you think, before Greenpeace sends you off to tilt at windmills?”

What’s the big furry-faced guy doing now? I ought to go first down the stairs. It’s a canine tradition, in case there are dangers down there.

But I held Scruffy out of the way while Joe trotted past me with an armful of boards. I heard them hit the cellar floor with a thud. Then he was back upstairs, barely winded. “Got about five more trips,” he said cheerfully, stopping for a quick kiss from his admiring wife.

“I’ll help you.” I had to let Scruffy go, which meant the dog danced around and in front of us with every trip from the overloaded rental car to the cellar.

By the time we got through, my workroom was a sea of boards, tools, and lighting equipment. How in the world would I be able to fill my orders while all this home improvement was going on? Oh well, it could have been worse. He could have got an urge to remodel the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a slab of salmon from its bed of ice.

Instantly, Scruffy was under my elbow, inhaling deeply. Hotdiggity-dog! Is that fish? I love fish. The fishier the better.

“I know you do. I remember all those times you rolled in dead fish on the beach and I had to give you a vanilla bath. But don’t worry. You’ll get your share in your supper dish tonight. Now move out the way so that I can get what I need for the sauce.”

Fish oil is good for my gleaming coat. We French briards don’t need baths. Baths are for retrievers, those saps. Hey, what’s with the green weed, Toots?

“Fresh dill. Now, will you stop nagging?”

“I haven’t said a word.” Joe, who was now washing up in the half-bath with the door open, felt the need to defend himself.

“Not you. Scruffy.”

“You really do talk to him, is that it?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Hey, get used to it, bearded guy! What do you think I am, some kind of dumb animal? My senses are sharp and my paws are stealthy, so watch yourself, fella.

It was just as well that Joe didn’t hear what I heard.