Let Them Eat Fruitcake Read online

  “Yes, I’m going on a Caribbean cruise next week.”

  “Ooh, that sounds wonderful.”

  “How about you?” asked Laura.

  “I’m going down to LA.” Kendall frowned. “But, obviously, I haven’t been tanning. The salesgirl said this color might make me look tanner, but I’m not seeing it.”

  “You can get a spray-on tan,” suggested Laura.

  “Really? Does that work? Or do you end up looking all drippy and orange?”

  “No, it works. I’ve done it before. You know, when something comes up short notice and you want to look good.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Kendall did another turn to examine her backside. “Do you think this cut makes my thighs look fat?” she asked Laura.

  Laura laughed. “Yeah, what are you, like a size two?”

  “Actually, this bikini is a size four.” Kendall frowned.

  “No, you look awesome.” Laura ducked back into the dressing room cubicle.

  “Thanks.” Kendall returned to her cubicle and took off the bikini and decided it really did look good. But as she tugged on her jeans, she got an idea.

  “I wouldn’t dare wear a bikini like that,” Laura called over the divider. “I stick with one-piece suits these days. Much more slimming for my kind of figure.”

  “I thought you were looking really good,” called Kendall.

  “Thanks, you’re sweet.”

  With her bikini in hand, Kendall waited for Laura to emerge from the dressing rooms. “Do you feel like grabbing some lunch?” Kendall asked. “I just realized that I haven’t eaten a thing today and I’m starving.”

  “Sounds great.”

  So they both finished up their purchases, and before long Kendall was sitting across from Laura Stein and confessing the whole thing about Matthew Harmon.

  “Wow,” said Laura. “That’s wild.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” Kendall set her spoon back in her bowl of half-eaten soup.

  “I, uh, I don’t know.”

  “Because there’s more to my story,” said Kendall.

  “What?”

  “Well, the reason I’m going down to LA is to visit Matthew.”

  “Really?” Laura’s brows lifted.

  “I feel certain that his marriage is just about history. And I’m afraid if I wait too long someone else will jump in ahead of me.”

  “What makes you think his marriage is in trouble?”

  So Kendall filled Laura in on all she’d read and heard. “Really,” she said finally, “I think it’s just a matter of time.”

  “And timing …”

  “Exactly.” Kendall leaned forward expectantly. She hoped that Laura would give her some little jewels of advice.

  “I assume that you know about me.” Laura looked evenly at Kendall.

  Kendall kind of shrugged, then nodded.

  “I figured that’s why you told me about you and, uh, Matthew.”

  “I thought you’d understand.” Kendall smiled. “And it just seemed meant to be. I mean, who would’ve thought I’d run into you today? And here we’re both kind of involved in the same thing. Cool, huh?”

  Laura pressed her lips together as if she wasn’t sure whether to speak or not.

  “Go ahead,” Kendall urged her. “You can tell me anything.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this, Kendall. It’s not easy being involved with a married man.”

  Kendall frowned. “Then why do you do it?”

  Laura sort of laughed. “I suppose it’s because I’m in love.”

  “So am I.”

  “And I think … in time … my situation will work out. But it’s not for everyone.”

  “Are you saying I can’t handle it?” Kendall felt defensive.

  “I’m saying you have to be patient.”

  “I can be patient.”

  “I mean really, really patient. Most guys in this situation do not want to be rushed or pushed, you know what I mean?”

  Kendall nodded. “I get that.”

  “And the very worst thing you can do …”

  “What?” demanded Kendall.

  “The way to ruin everything … is to tell the wife.”

  “Tell the wife? Why would anyone do that?”

  “I’m just warning you. It’s like a death sentence. A friend of mine was in a similar situation and time went by and she got fed up, you know, impatient. And she told the wife.”

  “Why?”

  “She thought it would end the marriage and she’d get her man.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the guy got really ticked. He broke off the affair and he and his wife got marriage counseling and they’re doing fine now.”

  “And your friend?”

  “She’s not doing fine.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, be forewarned, Kendall.”

  Kendall held up a thumb. “Gotcha.”

  “And here’s another bit of advice.”

  “Okay?”

  “It’s best to not even think about the wife, and don’t ever talk about her to, uh, your lover. Just pretend like she doesn’t exist.”

  Kendall nodded. “Well, I guess that makes sense. I don’t think I’d want to talk about her anyway.”

  “You think that now, but things change. Most of all you just need to remember to be patient.”

  “And that’s working for you?” asked Kendall eagerly.

  Laura gave her what seemed a halfhearted smile. “Mostly.”

  “But you’re going on this great cruise with him, right?”

  Now Laura brightened. “Right.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, I hope it goes well for you, Kendall. Let’s stay in touch, okay?”

  “For sure.” Then Kendall thanked her and hugged her. “Bon voyage,” she called out cheerfully as she and Laura parted ways.

  Nine

  Megan

  “I need you to do an install over at Mrs. Fowler’s today.” Vera Craig shoved a design notebook toward Megan on Monday morning with an exasperated expression.

  “By myself?” Megan set aside the notebook to hang up her coat. So far neither of her bosses at the design firm had expected Megan to do a complete installation by herself. She had helped them numerous times, and she’d been their gofer dozens of times, but to do a complete installation on her own … “Are you sure?” she asked Vera.

  “Is that a problem?” demanded Vera.

  “No. I mean I don’t think so. But I’ve never done an install by myself. Usually we go—”

  “Look, Megan, it’s time to be a big girl, okay?” Vera was obviously in one of her moods. “Sometimes we do installations together, sometimes we don’t. If it’s a problem for you, we can always look for another line of—”

  “No,” said Megan quickly. “It’s fine. I just wasn’t sure I understood.”

  “Good.” Vera tapped a blood-red nail on the thick design folder. “Here’s the plan. It’s all in there. Most of the accessories are in the van, but there’s a box by the back door that just came yesterday. You’re only doing one room, a parlor of sorts, and the larger pieces of furniture should be arriving at the house around two, I believe. The movers will help you get them into place.”

  Megan nodded. She really wanted to ask why Vera wasn’t coming along, but she also knew that questions would probably get her lambasted. So she kept her mouth shut.

  “I’ll have my cell phone if you need to reach me.” Vera grabbed her coat and bag, then hurried out of the design shop.

  Ellen chuckled from where she was sitting at the receptionist desk. Megan hadn’t even noticed her come in, but she suspected that Ellen had bee
n lying low and listening to Vera’s spiel. “Good luck,” she said.

  “Good luck?” Megan went over to Ellen’s desk.

  “Yeah. Mrs. Fowler is, uh, well, different.”

  “What kind of different?”

  “She’s old for one thing.”

  Megan shrugged. “So?”

  “And I guess you’d call her eccentric.”

  “Is that why Vera isn’t doing this herself?” asked Megan.

  Ellen pressed her lips together, and when the phone rang, she eagerly reached for it. Megan suspected that was all the information she was going to get from the receptionist. She wished that Cynthia were in so she could ask for some advice.

  Well, maybe this would be an adventure. She loaded the large box into the already full van. Even if Mrs. Fowler was old and eccentric, why should that be a problem? If anything, it would probably be interesting.

  Mrs. Fowler’s house, a Queen Anne–style Victorian, was in the historic section of town. When Megan drove through the narrow alley, hoping to park in the back, she discovered that the only available spot was filled with a large black Lincoln. So she went back around and parked in the front. The steps up to the front door were narrow and steep, and Megan knew this would pose a problem for all the things she needed to carry into the house. She rang the doorbell and waited. And waited and waited.

  So she knocked loudly on the door. After a few more minutes went by, she rang the doorbell again, several times.

  “Good grief!” screeched a tiny, wrinkled woman as she jerked open the heavy front door. She wore a blue bathrobe, and her white hair was sticking out in every direction in a slightly frightening way. Glaring at Megan, she asked, “What do you think you’re doing, making enough racket to raise the dead like that?”

  “I’m sorry, but I—”

  “Who in the world are you, and why are you waking me up at this hour of the morning?”

  “I’m terribly sorry to wake you up, Mrs. Fowler. I’m Megan Abernathy and I’m from—”

  “I don’t know any Abernathys.” She was starting to close the door now.

  “Wait,” said Megan, actually putting her foot in the door. “I’m from Sawyer & Craig.”

  “I don’t know any Sawyer Craig and I want you to leave at—”

  “The interior-design firm,” insisted Megan. “Vera Craig is—”

  “Vera, you say?” The woman opened the door just a bit more, looking at Megan curiously.

  “Yes. Vera Craig sent me. I’m an assistant at the design firm and Vera asked me to come here and put your—”

  “Where is Vera?”

  “I, uh, she couldn’t be here and she asked—”

  “But Vera is supposed to finish my parlor for me,” said the old woman with uncertainty. “All the old furnishings are gone now.”

  “Yes,” agreed Megan. “I have all the things that Vera ordered for you, and more furniture will be coming this afternoon. I’m here to put your parlor back together.”

  Mrs. Fowler frowned. “But how will you know what to do?”

  Megan smiled, hoping to exude confidence. “Because I have the design plan. Vera wrote it all out, and by the end of the day, I should have everything in place for you.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Megan nodded. “Yes. But it would be helpful if I could park my van in back of the house so that—”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “But why?”

  “My car is back there.”

  “I could move your car for you.”

  “No.” She firmly shook her head. “No one is allowed to drive that car except me. And I do not drive.”

  “But how am I—”

  “Don’t be bothering me with your foolish nonsense, young lady, you are most certainly not going to drive my car. Of all things!”

  Megan sighed. “Okay. Then I’ll need to bring everything through the front door. Can you leave it unlocked for me?”

  “Unlocked?”

  “Yes. So that I can bring in the boxes and things.”

  Mrs. Fowler’s hand was on her chest as if she was truly shocked. “I cannot leave my front door unlocked. Someone from the street might walk in and murder me.”

  “But—”

  “Most certainly not.”

  “Then do you want me to knock every time I bring a load of things up? Or shall I simply ring the doorbell?” Megan knew impatience was creeping into her voice, but she didn’t really care. No wonder Vera had passed this cantankerous client off onto her!

  “I most certainly do not want you banging on my door or ringing my doorbell.”

  “Then I guess your parlor will have to remain like it is,” said Megan.

  “Do you have any identification?”

  “Identification?”

  “Yes. To prove that you are really who you say you are.”

  Megan held up the folder with Mrs. Fowler’s name on it. “Look, this is Vera’s plan for your parlor, would you like to see it?”

  Mrs. Fowler squinted as Megan flipped through the pages of drawings and photocopies of various furnishings. “I suppose that looks right,” she finally said. “Come inside and I will give you a key.”

  “A key?”

  “So you can let yourself in and out. But you must give it back to me.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Fowler opened the door wider now. “Come in. Wipe your feet first.”

  Megan wiped her feet, which were not dirty, then followed the little woman inside. The house seemed to have all its original woodwork and floors intact. In fact, Megan suspected that little had changed in this house over the years. The worn oriental carpets looked old. The heavy, carved wooden furnishings looked old. In fact, Megan was curious why Mrs. Fowler wanted to change anything.

  “Here is the key,” said Mrs. Fowler. “Don’t lose it.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “The parlor is in there,” said Mrs. Fowler, pointing to a set of French doors off to the right.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not break anything,” warned Mrs. Fowler as she paused to look in a large, smoky mirror that hung above a marble-topped table.

  “I’ll be very careful.”

  Mrs. Fowler frowned at her reflection, attempting to smooth down her wild hair. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my morning routine. And I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I’ll be as quiet as possible,” promised Megan. The truth was, she hoped Mrs. Fowler would not disturb her. The sooner she could finish this installment, the happier they both would be. Still, Megan wanted to throttle Vera!

  After several trips from the van to the house, Megan wished she’d worn more comfortable shoes. High heels and steep steps were a painful combination, to say the least. She had decided to use the hallway outside the parlor as the staging area. But as she was opening a carton, she heard Mrs. Fowler cry out. “What is all this?”

  Megan went out to the hallway to see Mrs. Fowler neatly dressed in a pale pink pantsuit, and her hair was somewhat in place, but her hands covered her mouth as if she’d just walked in on a crime in progress.

  “I need to stage—”

  “Get this garbage out of my hall at once!”

  “It’ll all be gone by the end of the day.”

  “At once!”

  “But I need to—”

  “If it is not removed, I will be forced to call the police,” cried Mrs. Fowler.

  Megan walked over to stand by her. “You don’t understand. I can’t put all these boxes in the parlor and have enough room to work in there.”

  “I understand that you have created a big mess.”

  Megan wanted to scream. Instead, she remembered last year, when she
did her student teaching in a first-grade classroom. Perhaps some of those skills would come in handy now. “Do you ever cook, Mrs. Fowler?”

  “Cook?”

  “Yes. Do you bake cakes or pies or—”

  “I’m an excellent baker.”

  “Okay.” Megan took in a deep breath. “When you’re getting ready to bake a cake, you have to get out all the ingredients, like the flour and sugar and butter and eggs and—”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Well, it sort of makes a mess, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And that’s like what I’m doing now. I need to make a little bit of a mess, but when I’m finished, it’ll all be cleaned up and gone.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She sighed loudly. “Well, then …”

  “Perhaps if you stayed in another part of the house,” suggested Megan.

  “Perhaps.” But something about the old woman’s expression hinted that this was not going to be the case.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said Megan, “I need to get back to work.” Megan went back into the parlor, where she’d been trying to get everything arranged for hanging the green velvet drapes. Fortunately, Vera had opted to use the original hardware, so that all Megan had to do was get them hung and then steamed. Of course, this was easier said than done. Fortunately the van, as usual, was equipped with a stepladder and steamer, as well as other tools of the trade. Still, Megan wished she could’ve had the help of Henry, the handyman often hired for larger jobs. Not that this was a large job. But doing it alone was a challenge.

  It was nearly noon by the time Megan had the heavy drapes in place and steamed, and her arms were aching. She stepped back to admire her work. Not bad.

  “What on earth!”

  Megan turned to see Mrs. Fowler standing in the doorway and frowning up at the drapes.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” asked Megan, although she could tell by the old woman’s expression that this was not her sentiment.

  “They are green!”

  Megan nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “They are not supposed to be green.”