The Potluck Club—Takes the Cake (2 page)
After Clay pulled his camera from his Jeep and took a few photographs of the reunited pair, I insisted he help himself to a plate of food.
That spark of appreciation in his eyes quickly faded as he watched David Harris make a beeline for Donna, who though dressed in black sweats, still looked adorable, especially now that her buzzed hair was growing out in blonde curls.
When I turned back to Clay, his crestfallen countenance told me it was just as I suspected: he was sweet on the girl deputy. Why, I’d seen those two not that long ago locked in what appeared to be an intimate embrace right on the sidewalk outside of the Higher Grounds Café. Thank goodness my wedding shop is just across the street so I can watch the locals for signs of romance.
It’s not that I’m nosey, but as a wedding consultant, romance is my business, so knowing about any public displays of affection would only improve my bottom line, if you know what I mean.
While the girls were helping themselves to dessert, I managed to sit down next to Clay. The poor boy could hardly keep his eyes off David and Donna. I kept my voice low. “Clay, you look absolutely lovesick.”
His eyes turned to me. “What? No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, and darlin’, don’t be embarrassed. I’ve known your secret for a long time now.”
His freckles seemed to stand on end. “My secret?”
“Clay, I’m a trained professional, so some things are more obvious to me than to others.”
He folded his arms over his denim shirt and cocked his head. He seemed both nervous and amused. “What sort of things?”
“Why, Clay Whitefield, you’re absolutely smitten with Donna.”
Clay blanched. “Uh, well. We grew up together, you know. Of course I care about her.”
“Honey, you’re head over heels.”
A burst of laughter from Donna caused Clay’s head to snap in her direction.
I tapped his shoulder and leaned in. “Dear, you’ve got it bad.”
Clay looked a bit sheepish. “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say David Harris and I are after the same thing. From where I sit, I’d say Harris is winning.”
I gave him my sweetest smile. “What you need is a romance coach.”
Clay looked tempted to go for his notepad. “Say that again?”
“A romance coach.”
Clay grinned and leaned forward. “And I suppose you know one?”
“Yes, darlin’, I’m one of the best. My methods not only helped me snag my husband Henry, but they’ve helped to launch a thousand marriages.”
Clay turned his full attention to me. “I’ve never heard that term, but it’s an interesting concept. Maybe I could write an article explaining that you’re offering this service at your shop.”
“That sounds great, and while I’m at it, I’ll give you some suggestions
to try yourself. Deal?”
“Me?” Clay shrugged. “I’m open to hear what you have to say. As a reporter, of course.”
Donna laughed again, and Clay’s head spun back to the couple on my pink velvet loveseat.
I smiled. “I’ll explain everything, and if you follow my advice, you’ll be as good as engaged.”
Clay looked skeptical, but I could tell he was more than interested. Else why would he agree to interview me?
While I was conferring with Clay, I’d failed to notice some of my guests were ready to dash off into the afternoon. When I glanced out the window, which was swagged with lace and pink ruffles, sure enough, the angle of the bright sun was just starting to cast a few shadows. Hard to believe it would be dark in only a few hours.
Vonnie and Fred waved from the front door. “Thanks for everything, Lisa Leann, we had a wonderful time,” Vonnie said.
I jumped up, almost spilling my cooling cup of coffee. “You’re leaving already?” I said, rushing to the door.
I set my cup on the hallway table and stopped to help Lizzie Prattle slip into her coat. She gestured to her daughter-in-law. “That goes for me and Samantha too. We simply must get home.”
Before I could say good-bye, Donna then Goldie Dippel hurried down the stairs behind the Prattles. Goldie looked so good after that makeover I’d given her, it was hard to guess she was a woman in marital crisis. How her two-timing husband could have looked outside his own bedroom door for company was beyond me. I could hardly believe she was going to go away with him for the weekend. I shuddered. She’d probably catch some VD if she let him have his
way with her.
“Thanks for coming,” I called after them as they waved a goodbye.
When I turned around, I found Evie with her hand on her hip, giving me a glare so hard it made me jump. She said, “Well, so much for working on the Christmas tea this afternoon. But never mind. I was Jan’s right hand on this event for years, so it would be best if I just took over the project myself.”
“Evie, dear,” I said in a voice I hoped would soothe her ruffled feathers. “My helping you on this task is no bother at all. It really
is
my cup of tea, if you’ll pardon the pun. And since the pastor made us co-leaders, why don’t you and I confer for a few minutes and work out the details.”
“Honestly, Lisa Leann, I’ve decided to cancel the event. Traditionally, we’ve held our tea the week before Christmas, and here it is, already Saturday of the week before the week before. So, there’s
just no time.”
“Nonsense,” I said, knowing Evie had no intention of dropping the event. This “sudden cancellation” was a power grab if I ever saw one. I played along. “But I’m perfectly happy to accept your resignation. After all, you’ve had quite a week, what with being engaged to two different men. You need a break, for sure.” I patted her arm. “So, the tea will probably go better if I run it myself anyway. I’m thinking I’ll host the event the Wednesday between Christmas and New Years. That should work great since there will be no service that night. It’ll give our ladies a lovely break during the holidays. And
the best part is we’ll be able to announce it both Sundays.”
By now, David and the Westbrooks had headed out the door. Clay walked to my side. “Thanks for letting me stay. The meal was scrumptious, especially the pineapple fruitcake. I don’t always care for fruitcakes, but when I heard you made it, I knew it would be delicious.”
“Glad you liked it. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.” I studiously avoided looking at Evangeline as I said, “In fact, I’m thinking of serving it at the annual Christmas tea the Wednesday just before
New Years.”
“So, this annual Grace Church event hasn’t been canceled after all,” Clay said with a grin. “Hey, I’ll email you to get the details later tonight. If I get right on it, there’ll be time enough to print the announcement in the paper. And the night of—I’ll show up with my camera, if that’s okay. This could be a great story about how a church is healing from the loss of their beloved pastor’s wife. I bet I could get some excellent quotes from your ladies.”
I ignored the fiery darts I was receiving from Evie and said, “Great
idea. The tea starts at seven.”
Before I turned back to Evie I could almost see the steam curling from her ears. As Clay slid into his parka and bounded down the front steps, Evie turned to me and said, “You had no right to go to the press before this was settled.”
“Oh, I thought we’d just decided it. Besides, the press came to me.”
I was just beginning to understand how the power of the press
could become one of my greatest assets.
Evie stared back. “I have
not
tendered my resignation, and I’m still co-chair of this event. We may have to change the date and time as you suggested, but it will be held in the tradition it has always been held, though a tea held at seven instead of four might as well be called a dessert.”
I could feel my eyebrows climb up my forehead, but I kept my voice honey sweet. “And what tradition is that, may I ask?”
Evie looked me up and down, making me feel as if my red fringed silk and velvet evening jacket, which I had slipped over a slinky black cocktail dress, was well beyond her admiration or comprehension.
She clenched her jaw. “Being a newcomer to our long-standing Grace Church Christmas tea, I guess you wouldn’t know, would
you?”
With that, Evie tossed her salt-and-pepper hair as she flounced to grab her worn-out wool coat, in beige, no less, a horrid color for her complexion. The hem of her new fuchsia print skirt peeked out from beneath the buttoned-down wool. As for the skirt, I’d say her clothing tastes were changing for the better, an accomplishment I took personal credit for, as I had made it my goal to spruce up
the group.
I followed close on Evie’s black flats. “Well, partner, since you’re stuck with me, you’d better tell me your plans. It’s the only way I’ll reveal mine.”
That stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to look at me. “Well, then, I’ll call you tonight and we’ll get started. Agreed?”
“
Agreed?
What could I say to such rudeness? Of course I agreed,” I later told Mandy as she watched me pick up after the party.
“I wish you’d let me help you clean up,” she said.
“Nothing doing, young lady. If the doctor won’t let you fly home to Houston to be with your husband, I surely won’t let you clean up my kitchen. I’ll not have you flopping around on the floor again in need of another run to the ER. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do,” Mandy said as she sagged her strawberry curls onto the headrest of the rocking chair. She smoothed her lime green maternity sweater over her protruding belly. “It’s just this wait is so boring, I can hardly stand it.”
Poor baby.
“It’ll be over soon,” I said. “Now might be a good time to catch a nap.”
Mandy complied, and I turned up the stereo, which was playing Bing Crosby’s rendition of “White Christmas,” but not so loud as to disturb her. Then I busied myself in the kitchen, making a special plate of leftovers for my husband, Henry, who would be back from an afternoon of skiing over at Breckinridge soon, as the ski runs closed at three. Too bad he missed the potluck. If I’d known some of the guys were going to be there I’d have invited him as well. But I’m sure Henry had a lovely time skiing. Now that we were Coloradoans braving our first winter in the mountains, we would be doing a lot of dashing down those slopes in the coming weeks. I could hardly wait to pull out my white, fur-trimmed snowsuit. I’d be styling down the advanced trails (or “the blacks,” as the locals called them) in no time at all.
Later that evening, Evie’s phone call caught me as I was carrying an unopened box to the kitchen table, a box I’d garnered from the upper shelves of my garage. Nestled inside was part of my teapot collection. I’d given away so many of my treasures in our move from our rambling house in the Woodlands, an exclusive suburb near Houston, that I’d only managed to keep my very favorite tea sets. They would come in handy now, I dared say.
I pulled the tape from the top of the box and peeked inside, just before I picked up the phone call on its third ring.
“Merry Christmas,” I said.
The crabby voice on the other end of the line no doubt belonged to Evie. “Lisa Leann, let’s just get this over with.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, and yes, I’m looking forward to working with you.”
There was silence on the phone. “Okay,” she said at last. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be. Several pre-selected women of the church will be responsible for decorating their own tables.”
“That will never do,” I injected. “I’ve got the whole decoration theme mapped out. I’ve already made one run to Wal-Mart and picked up supplies.”
“Return them. I’ve already made the calls, and the committee is already at work. So, there’s really nothing for you to do.”
“Hold on there a minute, Evie. What about food, a program, greeters? That sort of thing?”
“We always serve desserts and finger foods like cucumber sandwiches and the like. The same committee that has always taken care of the food has already volunteered.”
“Evangeline Benson, why do I get the feeling that you are dismissing me from my co-leadership obligation to the pastor?”
“Well, sorry if it seems that way,” Evie said, “but this event is tradition. There’s really not much left for you to do, unless you want to decorate a table?”
“I certainly do, and what else?”
“I don’t have a program together yet, so maybe you could ask the choir director to say a few words and conduct our annual singalong. See that he does at least one Christmas solo.”
“I’ll handle that. Fine,” I said.
“And about the auction?”
“The auction?”
“Yes, we always raise money for Toys for Tots, but again, you wouldn’t know about that.”
I ignored the dig. “Who’s the auctioneer?”
I heard Evie sigh. “That’s the main glitch. That job always belonged to Jan. It will take a special person to fill her shoes.”
“I should say so. But, no worries. I served as auctioneer at several charities for my service sorority. So I’m your girl.”
I could have sworn Evie said, “I was afraid of that.”
“Pardon?”
She cleared her throat. “I said ‘That will take care of that.’”
“Then it’s set?”
“Yes. Let the tradition continue.”
I hung up the phone, more than a bit miffed. What was wrong with that woman? Did she hate everyone or just me? You’d think after she finally convinced the sheriff to buy her an engagement ring her overall attitude would’ve improved. But then, some people are never satisfied. Not only did she want to run Sheriff Vesey’s life, she wanted to run mine as well.
I shook my head as if to clear out the thorny vibes Evie had just presented me like a bouquet of thistles.
So, it will be “tradition,” will it? Fine, I can play tradition, but some
of the notes will be played from my tradition. If she thinks she can blow
me off, well, she’s got another think coming.
Besides, as usual, I already had a plan.
Clay looked down at the pink sheet of paper in his hand, recently torn from one of Lisa Leann’s notebooks and with her handwriting scrawled across it. It was his list of things to do—and do today—in order to begin the process of winning Donna’s heart.