Scones and Sensibility (7 page)

But my dearest Fran was not following me. “Elizabeth who? I don’t know any Annes either.”

I sighed in exasperation. “I’m speaking figuratively, Fran. What I am trying to say is that your father is
ready to love again. And I think it is time for me to find your father a wife and you a mother.” I held up my hand to stop her so that I might explain more fully. “And dearest Fran, I know this new woman will never replace the lady who you have called mother from birth and who has cradled you in her arms. This woman will be a confidante, a friend, a loving supporter of all that you are.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she said, almost laughing. “I wish, Polly, but really, I don’t think he’s ever going to love someone again. I want him to find someone, I think, but … I mean, my mom was … she was everything to him.” She coughed into her hand and took a quick—and quite loud—sip of her lemonade.

The idea clearly made her nervous. That was understandable.

“Trust me, Fran. I know you might not be able to see it because you are too close to the situation. I, on the other hand, can see the signs clearly. He is desperate to find his true love.” My insides melted at the thought.

Though I had never experienced romance for myself, unless you could count the time that Brad Baker kissed me underneath the large oak tree by the kindergarten room several years ago, I’d seen it
unfold. And one day I, Polly Madassa, would find my own Gilbert Blythe or Mr. Darcy. But he would not come from around here, I was sure. The only boys in my class civilized enough to carry on a conversation without referring to their buttocks or the sounds that come from those parts were obsessed with a game where they spent ungodly amounts of time in front of the computer naming dragons and attempting to find out where the government has hidden Mount Doom in the land of Mordor or some such nonsense.

I had long since resigned myself to the fact that I would have to rely on the traveling tourists visiting our town or my own destiny to lead me someplace else in order to find a suitable match for myself.

“Polly?”

I jerked my head up. “Sorry, I was just contemplating. Go on.”

“Even if he is, which I don’t really think so, shouldn’t these things just happen like they did in those books?”

I nodded. I had thought of this as well. “Yes, you make a good point. But think: if we did leave the decision up to your father, it would seem that you would have a computer for a mother, because that is the only … thing besides you and me that he spends any
time with. Really, Fran. Your father doesn’t go out anymore ever, and how is he supposed to meet a lady of quality if she doesn’t see him and he doesn’t see her?”

She wiped her mouth with the napkin and shrugged. “I guess you’re right about that. But how are we supposed to find someone for him? It’s not like you and I meet a lot of older unmarried women either.”

“Another good point. But,” I said, with the same flourish I could imagine a great stage actress making, “it just so happens that my mother has given me the task of delivering for the bakery this summer. Every morning till noon I will be bicycling around town, and while I’m out I will be on the lookout for any potential mates.” I brushed back a loose auburn curl that fell delicately upon my cheek.

“He won’t like it that we’re fixing him up, though,” Fran said, pouring a pile of ice into her open mouth and crunching down.

“Oh, but we cannot tell him. He musn’t know. This all will be done in secret. Then when they are wed in holy matrimony we will reveal that it was you and I who brought about their union.” I sighed and placed my hands on hers (though avoiding the blob of cheese sitting on her index finger). “I, Polly Madassa, do solemnly swear that I will find you the perfect mother
and your father the perfect wife. If I do not, I will perish in my shame.”

Fran looked at me with eyes that practically begged for my help. She nodded and sighed, betraying the hidden angst I knew brewed below the surface. “All right, Polly. You’re the one who’s read all those romantic books. But don’t get upset if he doesn’t fall for the girl. And,” she said, pointing her index finger at me, “you need to promise that you’ll stop if it doesn’t work out.”

I smiled. “Of course, though I am sure not to fail you.”

That night, alone in my room, I sat at my desk with a sheet of stationery in front of me. The cream-colored paper was bordered with tiny blue flowers and twisted green vines, and I held my favorite calligraphy pen in my hand.

I dipped the pointy silver tip into the small well of black ink and let my pen scratch across the surface. That was my favorite part about the calligraphy pen—the
scritch
sound it made with every letter. I had received the calligraphy set for my birthday and had used it almost every day since. There weren’t many things more romantic than a beautiful piece of
stationery decorated with the swooping loops and proud marks of words written in calligraphy. Even the word
calligraphy
was romantic. Calligraphy, calligraphy, calligraphy.

I set the sheet down. My dearest friend’s happiness, as well as that of Mr. Nightquist, Miss Wiskerton, and Clementine, was of great importance, and I felt hard-pressed to begin at once.

So, at the top of the piece of stationary I wrote:

Project 1
.

But that didn’t sound quite elegant enough. I put a curvy line through the word and folded the paper neatly in half to be recycled.

After another piece was in front of me, I tapped my chin and found the perfect name for each of the matches I would make that summer:

Love in the Making

I giggled to myself.
L
was probably the most sophisticated-looking letter when written in calligraphy, and on this page, my
L
looked better than the one in the instruction book.

“Mr. Fisk,” I said, and wrote his name under the heading. “In need of a wife: able to cook delicious culinary dishes. Clean and neat with a cheery disposition.”

Of course, there was no one I knew of who had these qualities and none to whom I would ever hand over my darling Fran to take care of. But my range of knowledge ended with the teachers and various other custodial or refreshment workers at my school. There was Mrs. Miller, Fran’s piano teacher, but unfortunately since her recent divorce she was gone for the summer and not likely to return until school commenced. I was convinced there were others, though I could not think of names at the moment.

But I did not let this bring me angst, for I was sure I’d soon find the perfect match for my friend and her father while delivering pastries.

Next, I wrote, “Mr. Nightquist: in need of a wife. Someone able to cook healthy food, with accounting abilities to help with work. Needs to love kites and be able to handle a grandchild who is quite a challenge.” Indeed, I hoped Charlie—I mean Charles—would not hinder a match for dear Mr. Nightquist. It would be necessary to conveniently forget to mention Charles to the soon-to-be Mrs. Nightquist until she had given her heart to Mr. Nightquist in its entirety.

Names fluttered in my brain like a butterfly’s wings, the main one being Miss Wiskerton. Indeed, she was large and spent most of the summer the color of a
pomegranate, but she was kind for the most part, was an excellent cook, and did have a most pleasant smile. Her dog, Jack the Nipper, was the only drawback. Though I knew Mr. Nightquist adored the canine race, Jack the Nipper was an entirely different species unto himself.

Miss Peterson, who taught music at the elementary school, was another likely candidate for Mr. Nightquist. She was pretty and kind, with a sweet, angelic voice. And though I didn’t know if she could cook, she had a good taste in pastries, for she often came into the bakery to order the delectable Butter Danish or my favorite: the chocolate éclairs.

I tapped my calligraphy pen against my cheek. This would be harder than I thought. Apart from the kite shop, I rarely saw dear Mr. Nightquist. I was sure, however, that Melissa Anne, Bruiser, and Charles took it upon themselves to visit him most evenings as Mr. Nightquist had said. This would make an attachment to the lovely Miss Wiskerton perhaps a tad complicated. Indeed, Miss Wiskerton rarely left her yard.

But then again, Miss Peterson, the other woman under careful and delicate consideration, lived even farther away—across the harbor—and commuted into our fair town for her employment during the school year.

Yes indeed, the only suitable choice was Miss Wiskerton. She was to be the lucky woman. The image of she and Mr. Nightquist together formed in my mind and I was swept away by the splendid match.

And perhaps I would find a suitable man for Miss Peterson come the start of school.

I circled Miss Wiskerton’s name very delicately and added small ivy leaves around the border. Yes, Mr. Nightquist would court Miss Wiskerton.

It was true, there would not be many opportunities for their acquaintance to blossom.

Yet I would not be hindered easily.

I wrote my dear sister’s name upon the sheet, but, unable to think of one worthy of her in my acquaintance, I left the space blank.

I blew on the paper and retrieved the special powder that set the ink. But then a noise alerted me to someone in distress outside my door.

It wasn’t a loud sound like I often heard when Clementine fixed her hair, and it wasn’t the sound of music or the television.

The noise was soft and mournful and seemed to be coming from the bathroom across the hall.

I slipped into my bathrobe, the one with the ruffles around the bottom hem and my initials embroidered
on the white satin cloth, and opened my door. I stopped the door at the red tape mark I’d made on the floor last summer when I finally realized that past this point the hinges creaked and I was found out.

Once the door was in place I slipped out into the dark hallway and pressed my ear to the door.

Crying.

Sobbing even, though it was muffled by something—probably a towel.

But from whom?

The toilet flushed, and I dashed back into my room and pulled the door nearly closed with not so much as a moan from the hardwood floor.

My heart thumped in my chest as I watched Clementine retreat to her bedroom. Surely this most recent lament was the result of Clint. Surely there was a suitable gentleman out in the great wide world who would treat her as she deserved? And someone who would not hinder our sisterly friendship.

I stepped into the hallway and toward her door. “Do not fear, Clementine,” I whispered. “I will unite you with your one true love.”

Indeed, I will bear the task with pride.

Hearing her mourning made me even more assured
that I needed to rid my sister of boring Clint and introduce her to her soul’s one true mate.

“Polly, what are you doing?”

As if from a dream, I awoke and found myself gazing toward the ceiling, my delicate hand upon my heart, and Clementine staring at me from her room with a face that I remembered her giving me when I presented her with an embroidered handkerchief for her birthday present.

“Nothing. I was …” I composed myself and felt that honest words would be the best thing to say. “I had heard the noise of intense pain and sorrow that can come only from a heart that is not satisfied … a heart that is longing for more, a heart that is—”

She rolled her eyes in a manner quite unbecoming. “Polly, what are you talking about? Clint and I just got in a little fight—you wouldn’t understand anyway. And I’m fine … we’re fine, and that’s all that matters.” At that the door was slammed shut, and I heard her dialing a telephone number from within.

And where was the sister whom I had confided in when I first learned of Mrs. Fisk’s attachment to the Internet mother-stealer? I remembered how she took me in her arms and rocked me like a babe. Then she
had taken both Fran and me out onto the boardwalk, where we each bought a balloon and partook of vanilla custard. Fran’s balloon was now deflated and hung on her wall as a reminder, I am sure, of that whimsical day. I myself had released my balloon into the wild wind, committing Mrs. Fisk forever to a memory.

“And get away from the door, Polly!” Clementine yelled quite loudly, startling me from my memory and bringing me into the painful present of her situation.

And I departed hence to my room, where I thought upon her situation and her obvious misery. She was in desperate need of my assistance in this hour of need.

Love in the making.

Yes, having decided on my course, I would begin my matchmaking on the morrow with earnest.

“Y
ou have become a hopeless romantic, just like your father,” Mama told me recently when I convinced her to replace my computer with an antique typewriter. “Though I don’t think even he would take it this far.”

“Computers are a part of life now, Polly,” Mr. Lanyard, the computer teacher, had stated at the end of the school year. “You better get used to it.” He said this in response to my protestations of being forced to use one. And though I delivered a very well-thought-out monologue on the reasons why I mourned the loss of handwritten letters of communication, and much preferred an elegant library to the wiles of the Internet, leaving him quite speechless, he eventually regained his composure.