Chapter Twenty-nine
“M
om, how much longer are you going to be?” Sara's voice on the other side of the bathroom door was polite, but even through the century-old pine Lucy could discern a note of impatience. She had been in the bathroom for quite a while, she realized. Smoothing the hypoallergenic moisturizer she'd bought at the natural foods store under her eyes hadn't taken more than a minute; the problem was the assortment of antioxidant vitamins she'd bought. They were supposed to fight aging and guard against a host of ills, but Lucy couldn't figure out how many tablets to take. The directions were printed in very tiny type on the label and she couldn't make them out, even when she squinted and took them over to the window where the light was bright. She was definitely going to have to buy some cheaters, but in the meantime she knew what to do. She opened the door.
“It's about time,” fumed Sara. “We're going to be late for the party.”
“Hold on a minute, miss,” demanded Lucy, blocking the doorway. “Can you read these directions for me?”
Sara looked at her oddly. “You can't read?”
“I can read, I just can't see. It happens when you get older. Presbyopia.”
Sara took the bottles. “Two of these, one of this and one of that.”
“Thanks.”
Lucy took the pills and hurried into her bedroom to get dressed. It was May 20, Miss Tilley Day, and she knew Sue was counting on her to be prompt. Despite all the work and planning that had gone into the gala celebration, Lucy had a case of pre-party jitters. Maybe it was because they had all worked so hard, especially Sue, that she so desperately wanted the day to be a success.
Lucy flipped through the clothes in her closet, looking for something to wear. She should have thought of this earlier, she admitted, as she discarded one garment after another. Jeans were too casual, her little black dress was too dressy and her good wool slacks were at the cleaners. The only pair that were left had been too tight the last time she wore them.
She eyed them doubtfully as she slipped them off the hanger, but when she pulled them on they fit easily over her thighs and fastened neatly at the waistband. Astonished, Lucy looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She knew she hadn't lost any weight, but she did look trimmer. Working out with Video Debbie had made a difference. And, she admitted to herself, she felt better, too. Less tired and more energetic. More cheerful, too. Maybe she had found her own positive personal paradigm.
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The parking lot at the community center was full, so Lucy dropped Bill and the girls off at the door. His leg was healing nicely and the cast was off, but he still found walking long distances difficult and was using a cane. Toby's decision to spend a year working with his father couldn't have come at a better time, thought Lucy, as she steered the car down the street using her good arm, looking for a place to park. Her shoulder was still a little stiff, but otherwise she'd suffered no long-term ill effects from the gunshot wound, which the ER doctor had dismissed as a scratch.
From the number of cars parked along the road, it seemed the whole town must have turned out for Miss Tilley Day. She had to park some distance away, and the celebration was in full swing by the time she arrived, pink and breathless from hurrying. Lucy paused in the doorway to catch her breath and to take in the scene.
The utilitarian hall had been transformed, thanks to Sue and Corney Clark, into a festive bower. White and lavender crepe-paper streamers looped from the sides of the room and gathered in the center with an enormous bunch of pastel balloons served to hide the acoustic tile and created a tentlike atmosphere. Bunches of lilacs, Miss Tilley's favorite flower, were everywhere: on the windowsills, on the refreshment tables and in wicker stands set in the corners and along the walls. In the center, under a white arbor covered with ivy and roses, sat Miss Tilley. She was wearing a brand-new dress, and her white hair had been freshly curled, topped with a sparkling rhinestone tiara. It matched her silver shoes, which twinkled whenever she moved.
Lucy made her way through the crowded room, winding around groups of chatting adults and dodging the kamikaze tactics of the kids, fueled with too many sugary cookies and cupcakes snitched from the long tables filled with food. Finally reaching Miss Tilley, she took her hands, gave her a peck on the cheek and wished her a happy ninetieth birthday.
“Did you see the TV show? I'm a star.” Miss T indicated a television set placed in one corner that was playing the tape from the
Norah!
show.
“I've known that all along,” said Lucy. “You've always been a star to me.”
Others were waiting to great Miss Tilley, so Lucy gave her hand a final squeeze and took her leave. “I'd better report to Sue; I'm sure she has something for me to do. Enjoy your day.”
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Lucy made her way to the kitchen, keeping an eye out for Bill and the girls. Zoe was one of the zooming kids, either chasing or being chased by boys. Sara was chatting with a group of girls gathered around Davia Didrickson, and Bill had taken a seat along the wall, joining Bob Goodman and Sid Finch, Sue's husband. Reassured that they were all behaving themselves, she reported to Sue.
“It's about time,” muttered Sue, who was mixing up a huge vat of punch. “What took you so long?”
“Hey, I'm still on the injured list,” joked Lucy.
Sue gave her a once-over. “You're looking pretty good for someone who got shot.” She narrowed her eyes. “Actually, you're just plain looking good. You go, girl. Whatever you're doing, keep it up. It's working.”
Lucy was temporarily flummoxed. “Uh, thanks,” she said. “How can I help?”
“Refresh the sandwich and cookie platters, okay? Keep 'em looking full.”
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For the next hour or so, Lucy was kept busy running between the kitchen and the buffet tables, which were covered with Corney's pale pink linen cloths and loaded with platters of fabulous food. Everyone in town had brought something: plates of finger sandwiches, bowls of shrimp bristling with toothpicks, assorted cheeses, fruit salads, vegetable crudites and dip, bite-sized quiches and savories, enormous bowls of chips, homemade cookies and cupcakes. Lucy had never seen so much food, or such appetites. No sooner would she put down a fresh platter than she'd notice something else needed to be refilled. She couldn't keep the food coming fast enough.
She was only distantly aware of the program taking place on the stage, where a steady stream of townsfolk were coming up to the microphone and sharing their stories about Miss Tilley. She had been the town librarian for so long that everyone knew her, and she knew them. Lucy didn't catch the details, but there was plenty of laughter.
“Here, take a break,” said Sue, handing her a cup of punch.
Lucy took it and drank gratefully; she hadn't realized how thirsty she was.
“We're going to have the cake soon, so I think we'll hold the rest of the food while people eat that.” Sue was nervously scanning the room, making sure everyone was having a good time, when her eyebrows shot up. “Who's the tall, dark and handsome stranger in the Armani suit?”
“I don't recognize him,” said Lucy. “He can't be from around here. Maybe he's aâ”
“Shh!” admonished Sue. “He's going up to the microphone.”
“You may not remember me,” said the stranger, “but I grew up right here in Tinker's Cove. My name is Richard Mason.”
“I remember you!” declared Miss Tilley, raising a gnarled finger. “You still owe an overdue fine at the library!”
Everyone laughed, including Mason.
“That's why I'm here,” he said, reaching inside his beautifully tailored jacket and pulling out a white envelope. “That fine has been on my mind for a long time. It really bothered me because the library was a very special place to me. I spent a lot of time there when I was a boy. I wasn't welcome in a lot of homes in town because I came from the wrong side of the tracks and my father was the town drunk.”
Lucy couldn't resist looking for Donna Didrickson. She finally found her, standing next to the field hockey coach and wearing a thoughtful expression.
“I was always welcome at the library,” continued Mason. “Miss Tilley not only provided me with an escape from my unhappy childhood, but she gave me a glimpse of the world beyond Tinker's Cove. She always believed in me, and I couldn't let her down. I put myself through college, went to work for a paper company and now I'm proud to say Mason Industries is the largest producer of quality paper in the world.”
There was a buzz in the room, as people compared their recollections of Richard Mason and his father.
“Well, Richard, are you going to pay the fine or not?” snapped Miss Tilley, holding out her hand.
“I think this will cover it.”
Mason placed the envelope in her hand, and everyone was silent as she opened it with trembling fingers.
“But, Richard, you only owed fifteen cents. This check is for a million dollars.”
Everyone gasped.
“Consider it interest,” said Mason, smiling. “It's for a scholarship fund, to be named after you, for Tinker's Cove kids who wouldn't otherwise be able to get the education they need to succeed in life.”
“Yes, Richard,” said Miss Tilley, blinking furiously to stem her tears. “That's what we'll do. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” said Mason, bending down to hug her.
The room exploded in applause and Sue dimmed the lights, giving the signal for the cake to be brought in. It was carried aloft, ablaze with candles, by four uniformed members of the Civil War reenactment group, and set in front of Miss Tilley. Her face was radiant in the candlelight, her eyes bright with joy. She took a deep breath and, assisted by the cake bearers, blew out all ninety candles.
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“That was some party,” Bill said to Lucy, as they drove home. “And you were the prettiest one there. I couldn't keep my eyes off you.”
Lucy felt her cheeks grow warm.
“Daddy says Mommy was the prettiest one,” said Zoe, giggling in the backseat.
“She
was
the prettiest one,” said Bill, firmly. “She looks just like she did when she was in college. Hasn't changed a bit.”
“So, Mom, does that mean you're going to give up your creams and vitamins?” asked Sara.
Lucy reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet, withdrawing her new driver's license and studying her photograph. It was very small, of course, too small to capture the wrinkles around her eyes and the fine lines on her upper lip. Still, the clerks at the Division of Motor Vehicles weren't known for taking flattering photographs and she had been pleasantly surprised when she saw the new picture. She looked pretty good.
“No way,” she said. “I've just begun to fight.”