Scones and Sensibility (21 page)

“Polly? Is that you?”

I turned to him, the picture of surprise upon my face. “Why Edward, it is so very good to see you this beautiful morning. I hope that all goes well with the toy industry?”

He slapped the bike. “Well, I think as long as people keep having kids, the toy industry will do just fine. So, is there anything I can do for you today?”

“Actually, I wanted to stop by and say thank you for your kind words to my dear sister. They soothed her beyond words, and for that I offer you this croissant made by her own hands.”

He took the croissant and smiled. “Sure. It seemed she was just fine, though, so I’m not sure how much I helped.”

“Oh, you did, I assure you.” I looked down, fixing a look of despair upon my face. “It is just that she cannot show it.”

“Why not?” he said, taking a large bite from the croissant.

“The brute I mentioned to you before. He seems to have a hold on her that is most distressing. And even tonight he has forced her to go out with him. I fear for her safety and for her spirit.”

“She should just tell him she doesn’t want to go.”

“I wish that she could, but it seems that she is too beaten down and filled with despair. If only someone would stand up to Clint and rescue Clementine.” I gazed up at his face, but he was concentrating too much on the croissant. I sighed. “I’m sure a gentleman like you would come to her rescue.”

He shrugged. “Course. If she really needed it.”

I grasped his hand. “Oh, but she does. I have been informed that he plans to poison both her dinner and her beverage with a horrible potion. Please, please, Edward. Help my sister!” And I managed to spring fresh tears to my eyes.

He stopped eating. “This must be serious. I’ll help her. Just tell me what time and where and I’ll get rid of that guy.”

I informed him of the time and the place.

“So you’re certain that the pizza and the drink are dangerous?”

I shook my head yes with great solemnity. “Indeed, I am quite certain. He may not mean to kill her, but to cause her sickness I am quite sure.”
Heartsickness being the worst of all such poisons
, I inwardly pondered. “Yes, he is a foul beast and not to be trusted.” Then I offered thanks on behalf of my entire family. “We are indebted to you as the Bennets were to Mr. Darcy when he acted on their behalf concerning the foul beast Wickham. Thank you, Edward, and Godspeed.”

And we parted ways.

From there, I found respite in the Haven of Heaven and proceeded to reread my favorite chapters of
Pride and Prejudice
. I needed to be assured that love doth prevail.

And having read the scene where at last Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are united in love, I could not help but lean back upon the grass and whisper, “Elizabeth and
Mr. Darcy together at last,” into the late-afternoon breeze.

I closed the book, shut my eyes to the world around me, and hugged the book to my breast before pulling my dainty golden clock from the pocket of my dress. I had been reading for hours, and the time was near for Mrs. Miller to arrive at Fran’s home.

Yet I was not tired. Rather I was invigorated by the prospects before me.

And as I road to Fran’s home, I couldn’t help but enjoy the breeze tousling my hair, the sun sparkling above, and the sight of my pale yellow dress billowing out around me like a cloud at sunset.

I
arrived at Fran’s home with but moments to spare before Mrs. Miller was to arrive. It seemed that though I had experienced setbacks in my “love in the making,” nothing could go amiss this day.

I had, indeed, found my calling in this life.

Fran met me at the door, her face, I could tell, filled with eagerness and excitement. “Is she going to be here soon?”

“Indeed she will, my dearest Fran. And do not fear for the evening. I have the utmost confidence that Mrs. Miller and your dear father will find love kindled between them upon the moment their eyes meet.”

“And if not,” Fran said, wagging a finger that appeared to have a bit of cordon bleu on it, “he’ll probably fall more deeply in love with Ruthie.”

“Maybe,” I said, and searched the room. “And how is your father, Fran? I do not see him about.”

“Oh, he’s fine. I told him she’s coming to talk about lessons for me. He said that was fine, but he hasn’t come out of his office all afternoon.”

I was alarmed. “Dear me. We have to get him out of there. Who knows what state he is in? Come, Fran! We do not want Mrs. Miller to be scared at the sight of him.”

Mr. Fisk was indeed in a state of disarray. He wore a tropical button-up shirt—buttoned incorrectly so that one side of the shirt hung considerably lower than the other side. His hair was a wild mass on top of his head, and his toes poked out of the plaid slippers adorning his feet.

“But this is what I’m comfortable in. Why do I need to change?”

“Indeed, it does look comfortable, if that is how you describe it,” I said. “But the Hawaiian button-up shirt that you are currently wearing is meant for an afternoon at the beach, not for an evening meeting with Fran’s piano teacher. Fran and I will find something proper for you to wear.”

We left him downstairs while we chose an appropriate shirt and then we brought with us a comb and
deodorant, and a bottle of cologne that did not appear to have been opened since its purchase.

He dressed and combed his hair while I gave him a healthy dose of cologne. “You two aren’t planning anything I should know about, right? Remember, I said no matchmaking.”

“Indeed not, Mr. Fisk. There, you look like quite a handsome gentleman now!”

He smiled. “All right. But really I don’t see why I couldn’t have just called her on the phone.”

“These things are better done in person, Mr. Fisk,” I assured him, and then clutched Fran’s hand in my own while we awaited Mrs. Miller’s arrival.

A full forty-five minutes later, we still sat.

At first I was appalled by her lack of punctuality—it is not ladylike to keep one’s hosts waiting.

But after one hour it was clear that something must have gone amiss, and that dear Mrs. Miller had been detained by a horrible accident.

“Oh well, I guess she’s not coming,” Mr. Fisk said, rising to his feet.

“Please, Mr. Fisk,” I said in earnest desperation. “Give the good woman a few moments longer, I beg you.”

Just then the doorbell rang out clear and strong, and both Fran and I jumped to our feet.

She had arrived!

I nodded at Mr. Fisk. “Why don’t you get the door?” I suggested, helping him through these first minutes. After they beheld each other’s eyes, I was sure that no more help would be needed. Love would direct their path.

Fran and I followed but a few steps behind him, eager to behold the moment when they made eye contact with one another.

Mr. Fisk opened the door, blocking dear Mrs. Miller from my view.

“Well, hello, Mrs. Miller. Um, it’s good to see you again.”

I clutched my bosom friend’s hand in my own and smiled at her. Though I could not see them gazing into each other’s eyes, I imagined it, and the scene was quite beautiful to behold.

“Come on in.”

And in she came.

And yet, this … this could not be! Who was this woman? This was not Mrs. Miller! It could not be. Mrs. Miller wore elegant shirts and nicely tailored pants. She always wore her hair in a neat bun and let the natural beauty of her face shine through.

This woman was quite the opposite … yet … yet there was something familiar about her.

“What happened to her?” Fran whispered earnestly into my ear. “You didn’t tell me she looked different.”

“Oh, gosh! She didn’t yesterday, I promise!” I attempted to compose my own surprise and reassure my dearest friend. “It was but yesterday afternoon when last I saw her and now she looks quite … quite changed.”

And indeed she did.

This woman that stood in Fran’s home looked nothing like the Mrs. Miller who taught Fran how to play the piano. This woman’s hair was roughly the height of a grown calla lily and thick streaks of the whitest blonde stood out like beacons in her dark tower of hair. Her face yesterday had been a delicate shade of honey brown. This evening, it was a shade of orange I had seen only on the face of a chrysanthemum. Thick black eyelashes hung so far over her eyes I could not tell what color her eyes actually were. And there was something about her eyebrows that gave her a look of continual surprise. I had a feeling this was the result of too much plucking and waxing on her part.

She turned toward Fran and I. “Well, hi, Polly! You
like my makeover? It’ll make my ex-husband so jealous, don’t you think? And Fran, I just can’t wait to start teaching you lessons again, though I won’t be able to start up until the fall. I’ve got a few surgeries ahead of me before I can devote time to them again.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were divorced. I’m sorry. Are you doing okay?” Mr. Fisk asked with genuine concern.

Mrs. Miller knocked him on the shoulder in a manner unbefitting a woman of good breeding. “Course I am, sweetie. I just want to get a few things fixed up, you know? A little here and a little there and a little … well, you know where. You’ll want to take a picture of my ex-husband’s face when he sees me in court in a few months!”

I was appalled. This was a mistake of vast proportion and I had failed my dearest friend and her father, both of whom I loved most desperately.

“I hope you had a good time off of work,” Mr. Fisk said, handing Mrs. Miller a glass of cool lemonade.

“I did. It was a blast! And wouldn’t you know my ex-husband paid for all of it.” She knocked Fran with her pointed elbow, sending Fran’s drink splattering on her clothing. “He’ll find out when he gets his credit card bill.”

I attempted to salvage any bit of honor that Mrs. Miller still held on to by steering the conversation into more pleasant territory. “And how is your piano playing going, Mrs. Miller? Do you have any upcoming concerts or venues where you will be performing?”

“Speaking of piano, you should’ve seen the look on my ex-husband’s face when he came home from work and the piano was gone. It was priceless! See, I hid a camera behind a picture on the mantel and filmed the whole thing—”

“So,” Mr. Fisk said, trying to salvage the conversation as well, “I should maybe call you in about a month to schedule the lessons?”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Miller said, touching a hot-pink claw to her lips. “That should be fine. I have a hearing in a few weeks and, like I said, a few surgeries. But yep, call me in a month.” She stood up.

Mr. Fisk stood as well, but I was too stunned in spirit and mind to bear any movement. “It seems like you’re doing really well after your divorce,” Mr. Fisk said, pulling a card from his wallet. “I had a rough time myself. Glad I had Cheryl Reiner—she’s a counselor, you know—to help me through it.”

Mrs. Miller stood, her face suddenly appearing sad and forlorn. “Really? Well, I’ll think about it if I have
a bad day or something.” She extended her hand. “I actually can’t stay long. My ex-husband works late tonight and I really want the toaster and a few other things. We’ll do dessert another time.” She started for the door, and though I mourned the loss of this opportunity to unite Mr. Fisk with his true love, I wished even more that dear Mrs. Miller would heal from her recent divorce—something her heart was obviously still crushed and broken by.

When the door was closed, Mr. Fisk turned and started for his office. “Well, that was easy. We’ll call her in a month, though I think it might be a little longer. Healing takes time.”

The door clicked closed, and I sunk into the couch in a mire of broken hopes and failed dreams. “That did not go well, I fear,” I said. “But I am sure there is another woman—”

“Oh, no you don’t, Polly Madassa! You said you’d stop,” Fran said, plopping down next to me. “Remember how you promised? Besides, I think Ruthie is just the right girl for my dad, I just know it. And I know you’ll like her once you meet her. Finally I’ll have a mother around like you do!” She clapped her hands together and giggled. “In fact, she’ll be here tomorrow! I can’t wait.”

Fran was indeed correct. I had vowed to stop matchmaking. Though I wished I had not, I was not a lady who would go back on her word. So I took my dearest friend’s hand in mine. “Yes, I did. And I, Polly Madassa, will keep my solemn vow.”

But as I rode home that summer’s eve, the stars twinkling like bits of diamonds in the heavens, I realized that hope still remained.

Yes, I had promised to stop the search for Mr. Fisk’s love, but I had made no promise that I would not attempt to protect Mr. Fisk and Fran from the unknown Miss Ruthie Carmichael.

I would be near to them when she arrived just one day hence, for I was still uncertain and skeptical of her character.

And in that way, I might still aid in saving my dearest friend and her father in the end.

Upon entering my home I remembered that Clementine’s date of disaster with Clint was this very evening and was immediately agitated by the absence of her presence in the house. Her shoes were still missing and after making a careful and thorough search of her bedroom, I found she had not returned home for the evening.