Scones and Sensibility (26 page)

I
t had been but days since I had last seen my bosom friend, yet it felt like years had come and gone between us.

And though my heart was relieved at Clementine’s acceptance of my apology, I knew not what the next hours would bring, and that was a sobering thought indeed.

I strolled down the sidewalk, silently beseeching love to bring me courage and guidance in this time of trial to my soul. So intent upon my own thoughts was I that I did not notice the house of Miss Wiskerton until that genteel woman called out to me.

“Polly! Where are you headed?”

I turned to the woman and walked down her pathway lined with flowers. “Only seeking to make
amends, my dear Miss Wiskerton. And to you, I must apologize as well.”

Her hand went to her heart. “What in the world have you done, Polly Madassa? The neighborhood isn’t on fire, is it?” she asked.

But I did not get a chance to reply, for at that moment Mr. Nightquist emerged from Miss Wiskerton’s home with a plate of cookies, Charles following behind, and Jack the Nipper barking vengefully at their heels. “Oh, she hasn’t done anything, Eugenia. At least not to us.” And he winked at me upon setting the tray on a small glass table.

“Well, let’s hope not,” Miss Wiskerton declared, and picked up a cookie from the plate. “Now, Charlie, will you run in and get my sun hat?”

Charles, who had not seemed to have mended all of his ways, yelled out a rather loud and obstinate, “No!” and stuffed his mouth with at least three cookies.

Miss Wiskerton wagged a sausage finger at him. “You’ll do as I say, Charlie, or you’ll find yourself without supper tonight.”

I watched the scene, quite astounded when Charles obeyed.

Mr. Nightquist and I exchanged knowing glances, and I suspected that dear Miss Wiskerton was a
woman who could hold her own against the terror of a boy. And even more surprised was I when Charles came back with the bonnet and then hugged her.

Indeed, she was just what he and Mr. Nightquist needed.

“You wanna cookie, Polly?” Miss Wiskerton offered.

I sighed. “I will have to decline. My soul is tremulous at what I must do now, and I am afraid if I partake of food, I will indeed become quite sick.”

“Well, maybe you could stop by tomorrow and we could talk about
Pride and Prejudice
?”

I allowed a smile to grace my face. “Indeed, I would be most delighted.”

And after offering good-byes, I departed for Fran’s home.

A knock upon the door made me want to swoon, but I forced myself to remain vertical. I needed to be strong.

The door opened, and Mr. Fisk stood before me.

“Oh dear,” I declared, not sure what I would say to the man whom I had most likely ruined.

“Hi, Polly,” he said. “Come in.”

Though I don’t know how my feet moved forward,
they entered, and I found myself inside with Ruthie Carmichael sitting on the couch. Her wrists were free of the shackles of iron I had placed upon her. “Oh, dear,” I declared once more.

Neither spoke, and I became even more disheartened. “I’ve come—” I faltered. “I’ve come to say sorry.”

Mr. Fisk took a seat beside Miss Ruthie and grasped her hand in his. “We’re listening, Polly.” And the smile he offered encouraged me to proceed.

I coughed into my hand, willing the words to make their way from the depths of my heart to my mouth. “My dearest friends,” I said, assuming a prostrate kneeling position with my head bowed low. “I am so very sorry,” I said, recalling the events of that dreaded night. The weeping that overtook me could not be stopped. I pled for their forgiveness. “I am dreadfully sorry for the pain that I have caused you. Miss Carmichael, I beseech you to forgive me for calling the police and having you arrested. I hope this will not reflect badly on the Fisks, who have loved me since I was young. I was not in the right.”

Ruthie smiled and placed her hand on my head, which I felt to be a very elegant gesture indeed. “It’s
all right. And actually, it’s nice to know that George and Fran have such a concerned and caring friend, though I wish I didn’t have to be arrested to find that out.”

I grasped her hand in mine at her act of forgiveness. “And dear Mr. Fisk, you who have loved me like one of your own; you who forgave me when I almost got you killed at the hands of Miss Penny’s suitor. Please forgive me. I haven’t been very considerate of you or Fran and I’ve tried to control things as if you were in a book. I’ll never do anything like that again, I assure you.”

Mr. Fisk smiled very gently, which brought fresh tears to my eyes. “Well, Polly. Things did get quite out of hand. Thanks for apologizing. I know you’ve learned your lesson. Just leave the romance stuff to me. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve, even if I do work on computers.”

“Indeed, I resign myself to this fate. No, even more so. I am convinced of this fate,” I said.

Silence fell between us at the question that lingered on my tongue, but I could not utter it in fear I would cry once more.

Mr. Fisk seemed to sense this and shook his head. “She’s not here, Polly. Sorry.”

My heart was wrenched in two.

She did not wish to see me, and I could not blame her.

With a dejected heart I arose from my knees and bade them good-bye. “Thank you for bringing relief to a troubled mind and a burdened soul.”

“Polly?” Mr. Fisk called out after me. “If you want to come back around dinner, she should be here.”

“Thank you with all of my heart, dear Mr. Fisk. Though I do not expect my apology to be accepted, I know that I, indeed, must give it if I am to find any more rest in this life or the next.”

And at that, I left the home of my once dearest and closest of friends and sought refuge in the Haven of Heaven. Perhaps the breeze flitting through the leaves and sounds of birds chirruping their delight in summer’s warmth would soothe my tormented heart.

It was true, I had been forgiven by my sister and pardoned by Mr. Fisk and Miss Carmichael, but knowing that my bosom friend was perhaps lost to me forever was a thought that brought tears to my eyes and a bleeding wound to my heart.

I reached the Haven of Heaven, which was in beautiful bloom. The bright green of the leaves and the blossoming flowers that scented the air were indeed
nourishing, though they could not fully take away my inward turmoil.

And that is when I saw her.

Fran! My bosom friend!

She sat beneath the shade of the Old One, twisting and pulling the embroidery thread on the start of a new bracelet. I stopped, wondering what to do.

Though words and thoughts had never been hard for me to find, in this instance I was speechless.

I did not want to scare her away, but I needed to speak with her. And so I willed my legs to move me forward.

“Hi,” I said in a whisper not much louder than the leaves brushing together in the wind.

She looked up, her face blank of all emotion, and then stood. “Hi.”

“Please don’t run away yet,” I pleaded, for it looked like she was about to dart off.

She sighed. “Do you know what you almost did? I mean, Polly Madassa, you almost ruined my entire life. And even besides the whole ‘get my best friend’s father’s girlfriend in jail’ thing, you’ve been just a plain old lousy friend! You never listen to a thing I say and you have no idea what it feels like to have not had a mom. And … ugh.”

I began to cry at that point, remembering how I’d acted toward her and how I’d treated her and her father. Knowing that being without a mother had been so agonizing for her crushed me deeply … knowing I had not listened well to her as a bosom friend was pain my heart could not bear. “I know,” I sobbed. “I was kinda treating you and your dad like … like the characters in the books I love so much.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Kind of, Polly?”

“Okay.” I sniffed. “I was treating you that way. And I’m sorry about not listening and for thinking I understood and could fix things when I don’t understand and I just can’t fix things to how I want them.” I covered my face with my hands, sat, and leaned back against the Old One. “I’m a wretched, horrid friend. I’m so very sorry for what I have done and the pain I have caused you.” She sat beside me, picking at the green grass around us. “So, whether or not you can continue to be my friend, please say that perhaps in the future there might be a chance that I will be forgiven by you.”

We sat in silence, each moment making that forgiveness seem more and more impossible.

She turned to me. “All right, Polly. I’ll forgive you—”

“Really?! Oh, Fran—”

She held up her hand to silence me, and I quickly closed my mouth. “But, there are a few conditions.”

“Anything, dearest friend. Name it and I shall perform it. Remaining bosom friends is all that I—”

“One,” she stated, cutting off my sentence. “You have to promise that you’ll try really hard to listen and not just talk all the time.”

“Consider it done, my dearest friend.”

“Two. No more matchmaking.”

“But Fran, I’m not quite sure,” I began. “Perhaps this is not the course I could devote my life to, but indeed I—” I stopped at once, noticing her eyes narrowing at me with a very menacing look. “I will matchmake no longer.”

“And three. You’ve got to swear, promise, vow … whatever, that you will not get in the way of my dad and Ruthie.”

“I promise,” I declared, grabbing a lock of my hair. “Do you wish me to seal my vow with one of my silky tresses?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Polly. I don’t. And the word is
hair
, not
tresses
.”

“Oh, but Fran,
tresses
is so much more romantic. Don’t you think?”

“Not really,” Fran said, once again resuming her bracelet-making.

I nodded. “Yes, Fran. I can see that we are strangers living side by side,” I said, repeating one of my favorite lines from
Anne of Green Gables
. “But not in a bad way, right?”

Fran wrapped her arm around my shoulders and hugged me to her. “No, not in a bad way at all.”

I took up a bundle of embroidery thread so that I might make a bracelet alongside her. “Beloved friends forever?” I asked, feeling the weight of my iniquities lifting off my burdened shoulders.

“Yep, best friends forever.”

As dusk settled upon my bedroom and enveloped me in a romantic glow from my open window, I picked up the piece of stationery that had led me on this journey of love and discovery. “Love in the Making,” I read aloud, and sighed.

Indeed, love was not a book and I had seen it manifest in ways I had not dreamt, but still it had mysteriously come just the same. And with that I was greatly pleased.

Besides, it had gotten me into quite a lot of trouble and had hurt those whom I loved most.

It was not worth it in the least.

And so I took up the paper, folded it neatly in half, and placed it in a small wooden box I kept hidden under a loose wooden plank on the floor.

Having it too near would only serve as a temptation, I feared, but I did not wish to burn it, for it also reminded me to never, ever go down that path again.

Once I placed the floorboard back into place, I sat upon my bed and breathed deeply the salty breeze that lifted my curtains with its delicate hands.

And then, leaning against my bed, I took up
Jane Eyre
, and got lost at once in the noble woman’s life and in the stormy eyes of her lover, Mr. Rochester.

F
ran clanked her spoon against the side of her crystal glass, and I did the same, gazing upon Mr. Nightquist and his bride as they kissed each other lightly upon the lips.

Charles’s manners had not improved much. He was now using the reception area as a racetrack and poor Melissa Anne was on her fifth or sixth lap around.

I tore my eyes away from them, trying to bring my mind to a more pleasant place. “I hope that my husband has lips the color of a pink grapefruit,” I said, imagining my own dear Bradley, who was at that moment filling up a goblet with punch for my refreshment. Indeed, he was quite a gentleman. We had spoken quite often since that night when he and Mr. Nightquist pulled me from the sea. He had
even escorted me to dinner one night, and under candlelight we shared a most delicious cheese pizza. “Indeed, I would absolutely adore a man whose lips were the color of a grapefruit. Wouldn’t you?”

Fran knocked me in the shoulder. “Maybe, but not if he tasted like a grapefruit, right?”

“Of course not, Fran. That would be absurd.” She laughed and I gazed about the room, drinking in the sights and sounds around me.

My mother and father swayed back and forth next to Mr. Fisk and Ruthie Carmichael on the dance floor. Clementine was wrapped in the arms of her newest beau and … what was this?

I noticed a dashing young gentleman standing next to Bradley by the refreshment table and eyeing Fran in her lavender dress. Though she had forbidden me to work my romantic magic on another person, and I too had renounced “love in the making,” I had been overcome the past week after finding the perfect date for Mrs. Miller, the lonely piano teacher. He was a well-bred real estate agent who frequented the bakery and in whose arms she was now locked in embrace.