Читать книгу A Catered Valentine's Day - Isis Crawford - Страница 9

Libby closed her eyes for a moment. She was so sorry she was right. She wanted so badly to be wrong. But she wasn’t. How had this happened? She couldn’t believe she and Bernie had done this. No, actually she could. It seemed as if these days anything that could go wrong did. She felt like Lot. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but not by much. Witness the batch of dough she’d made this morning. She’d forgotten to put in the yeast. She never did that. Ever. At least she hadn’t since high school when the rolls she was making for Thanksgiving hadn’t risen. They’d been like little rocks.

And then there were her new black pants, the ones Bernie called her old lady pants, just because they had an elastic waist. Was it so wrong to want to be comfortable? Was that such a crime? But the elastic in the waistband had ripped as she and Bernie were driving here, and on top of that the heels on her good black shoes were so run-down they looked as if they’d been chewed on by her neighbor’s Jack Russell terrier. Her mother would not have approved. And Libby didn’t even want to think about what her grandmother would have said.

And then Amber and Googie had both been late arriving at the shop—both claimed they’d been sick, which Libby didn’t quite believe—but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the special lunch salad A Little Taste of Heaven was featuring—roasted sweet potatoes and fennel on a bed of arugula with a sprinkling of roasted walnuts—still needed to be prepped.

But possibly the worst thing that had happened this morning was that her oven—her one remaining oven—was turning unreliable so that the first batch of scones she’d baked had been raw in the center, a fact she hadn’t noticed until Mrs. Schneider had called it to her attention by spitting out a piece of scone in front of the ten other customers. This was not what you called good business.

Libby glanced at her watch. The repairman was supposed to be at the shop in an hour and a half to recalibrate the oven, and she and Bernie had to be back by then. She’d told Amber what to tell the repairman, but the truth was she didn’t quite trust Amber to relay the information correctly. She tended to get things mixed up, or as Bernie would say, “ditz out,” especially now that she was in love. All she ever talked about these days was what her boyfriend Dickie said. It was “Dickie said this” and “Dickie did that.” Libby hoped she wasn’t that bad with Marvin.

And then on top of everything else they were late to the funeral. If it had been up to Libby they never would have come, but then Bree had called her up and suggested she and Bernie put in an appearance.

“Dear Catherine will appreciate it,” were Bree’s exact words. Libby didn’t feel as if she could say no. Of course, she never said no to Bree, as Bernie was the first one to point out. But how could you say no to the social arbiter of Longely? Half of Libby’s business would be gone. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ears. The names Voiton and Vongel were so similar. What were the odds?

And she’d wondered why no one looked familiar here when she’d come in. Why hadn’t she acted on that feeling? Why had she told herself she was crazy? Why hadn’t she taken a moment to read the sign more closely instead of rushing in like some crazy woman?

If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with the ovens at A Little Taste of Heaven she would have. She wanted to kick herself. Instead she reached into her bag to get a square of 70 percent pure Venezuelan chocolate before she remembered she’d eaten the last piece when they’d walked into the funeral home. And just when she’d needed it the most too.

Okay, Libby, she told herself. Relax. This isn’t the end of the world. The question was what to do about it. Of course, they could just sit through the funeral. But then they’d miss Mrs. Vongel’s mother’s funeral. And that would be bad.

Libby thought about what her mom would have done in this situation, but it wasn’t much help because her mom would never have gotten herself into this situation in the first place. She wouldn’t have been late and she would have stopped to read the card on the easel by the door. Libby bit at her cuticle with her front teeth. No. They’d just have to leave. Leave now. Libby turned toward Bernie and jerked her head in the direction of the door.

“Let’s go,” she mouthed.

Bernie raised an eyebrow.

Libby shook her head.

“Are you sure?” Bernie whispered.

“Absolutely,” Libby whispered back.

The man in front of her turned his head and said, “Have the decency to behave yourself.”

Libby could feel herself turning red. She wanted to shrink into the floor. She hated calling attention to herself. She was the person who waited to pee in the movies until it was over because she didn’t want to disturb other people, and now she was going to do something that would make everyone look at her. She could feel her heart start to race. Don’t be such a chicken, she told herself. Just do it. Now. She took a deep breath and stood up.

“Excuse me,” she murmured as she stepped on people’s feet. “So sorry.”

In the background she heard Bernie say, “She gets these really bad migraines. Can’t stop throwing up. That’s why we have to go. Now.”

Leave it to Bernie to make me into a public spectacle, Libby thought bitterly as she reached the end of the aisle.

“Migraine?” she said when they got outside. “I throw up? That’s attractive.”

Bernie shrugged. “It was effective. People let us through really quickly.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“I thought it was. Anyway, what else was I supposed to say? That we wandered into the wrong funeral by mistake?”

“You could have made up something else.”

“I did.”

“Something else.”

“This was the first thing that occurred to me.”

“Fine.”

“And by the way, your blouse is open.”

Libby looked down. The third button on her blouse had come undone. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” she wailed.

“If I had seen it I would have. It must have opened when you stood up. Remember, I followed you out.”

Wonderful, Libby thought. Now she was an exhibitionist as well as a funeral disturber.

“I’m coming apart at the seams,” she moaned.

“If you bought better quality clothes you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Marshall’s,” Libby heard herself snap. “Not everyone can shop at The Most.” Let alone fit into their clothes.

Bernie made a rude noise.

Libby wanted to say that she didn’t see the sense in spending hundreds of dollars on a skirt, especially these days, what with the condition the oven was in, but she decided now was not the time to start a fight with her sister.

“Can we leave my clothes alone and concentrate on getting to the correct funeral?” Libby said instead.

“By all means. So where do you think the Vongel funeral is anyway?” Bernie replied. “This place is huge.”

Libby looked around. On this they could both agree. It was true. The Hanson Funeral Home was now extremely large. Libby remembered when the place could only accommodate two funerals, but in the past year Marvin’s father had gone on a building spree. He’d kept on adding room after room. Now the place could fit ten to twelve “bereavements,” as Clayton liked to call them.

“This is like one of those bridal palaces out on the Island,” Bernie remarked. “It just goes on and on forever. I’m surprised they don’t have the gold funeral room for the rich, the purple one for those with royal persuasions, and the green one for the ecologically minded among us. You know, themed burials like they do out in Hollywood. You could have the Viking funeral, the Roman funeral, the French Revolution funeral—that of course would come with optional knitting.”

Libby massaged her temples. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“No. The air freshener in here is giving you a headache.”

“Bernie,” Libby pleaded. “For once be quiet.”

“Fine.”

Libby watched her sister’s eyes rest on the huge bird-of-paradise flower arrangement in front of them. “And don’t say anything about that either,” she instructed.

“I wasn’t,” Bernie said, sniffing, even though Libby knew that she had been thinking it. “Except to point out that they’re bad feng shu. They’re blocking the energy flow.” And Bernie pointed in the direction of the entrance hallway. “I bet there’s some sort of directory in there.”

“Good thinking,” Libby said. She started trotting off in that direction.

She’d taken two steps when she could feel her pants begin to slide. As she yanked them up, she saw Marvin come down the hall. Oh no, she thought. Why do I always see him when I look like such a mess? She knew that he didn’t care, but she did.

“Thank heavens I found you,” Marvin said as he came toward them.

He was panting slightly and his tie was askew. That made Libby feel better. Bernie always called her and Marvin the two schleps, and she hated to say it but her sister was right.

“Why? What’s the matter?” Libby asked him. He looks tired, she thought. He’s been working too hard. Which, if you’re a funeral director, Bernie would point out, isn’t such a good thing for the rest of the community.

Marvin looked around. When he was sure no one was watching he hugged her. “I thought you’d be at the Vongel funeral.”

“We made a mistake,” Bernie said. “We ended up at the Voiton affair.”

Marvin shook his head as if to say that was something he would have done, and as he stepped back Libby remembered yet again why she loved him.

“We’d better go. My dad is waiting to speak to you and Bernie,” Marvin told her.

“Why?” Libby asked again.

“He’ll tell you,” Marvin replied as he motioned for her and Bernie to follow him down the hall.

“Why can’t you?”

“I’d rather he did,” Marvin said, and he looked so unhappy Libby decided not to insist.

Three steps later he tripped over the leg of a chair that had been placed out in the hallway and stumbled into a table with one of the bird-of-paradise flower arrangements on it. Bernie caught the vase just as it was about to tumble over. That was the other thing she liked about Marvin, Libby thought. He was clumsier than she was.

As Marvin thanked Bernie for saving the flowers Libby wondered what on earth his father wanted to talk to them about. Clayton wasn’t particularly fond of her, her sister, or her father. He thought they were a bad influence on his son, distracting him from the family business and giving him, in Marvin’s father’s own words, “fantasies about being a detective when he should be concentrating on other more important things.” Notably the family business.

It was a business, it must be said, that Marvin wasn’t particularly fond of. Libby didn’t blame him. She still hadn’t reconciled herself to what he did. It gave her the creeps if she thought about it, so she tried not to. How could anyone want to be a funeral director? No matter how much she tried she just couldn’t see it.

But then, Marvin didn’t really have a choice. At least not when you had a dad like Clayton. She and Bernie were lucky they had their father. Very lucky. Libby bit her lower lip as she tried to remember what Bernie called Clayton. A martini? A martin? No. A martinet. She was trying to remember what the word meant when she realized that Marvin had said something to her.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the matter with your pants?” he asked.

Libby looked down. They were beginning to slide down her waist again.

“Nothing,” she said. As she hoisted them up she could hear Bernie snickering in the background. “Nothing at all.”

It was at that moment that Marvin’s dad materialized from a door in one of the rooms. When she’d first seen him, Bernie had said he looked as if he’d been dipped in shellac. And it was true. Everything about him gleamed, from his hair down to his shoes.

He nodded curtly at Marvin. “That took long enough,” he told him.

Marvin looked down at the floor.

“You know how important this is.”

“Hey,” Libby said. “It wasn’t…”

But before she could finish, Clayton dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand. “Don’t bother with excuses. We have to go,” he said, turning to the door where Libby knew the hearses were parked. “We have to go now.”

“We can’t,” Libby heard her sister say.

Libby watched Clayton stiffen. He was about to reply when a woman started walking down the hall. He plastered a simpering smile on his face, nodded at her, and asked her if everything was all right. “Mrs. Frost, if there’s anything, anything at all I can do in your time of need…”

“No. You’ve been wonderful,” she told him.

Libby watched Marvin’s dad produce another of his smiles.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” And he patted her hand. When she was gone he rounded on them. “You have to come with me,” he growled at them.

“Please,” Marvin added.

Libby looked at her sister and gave a little nod.

“Are you sure?” Bernie asked.

Libby nodded her head more vigorously. What else could she say? She didn’t want to have anything to do with whatever this was, but given the circumstances—mainly the fact that her boyfriend’s father was doing the asking—she felt she didn’t have a choice.