Season of Sisters (11 page)

Alan was a woodcarver. He worked primarily in large pieces—his rockers were extraordinary—but every year he brought a selection of truly beautiful boxes made of glowing woods with intricate grains. Though Maggie wasn't a collector by nature, she wouldn't trade her boxes for the world. Not just because they were lovely, but because they represented a special time for her and Mike. After buying the box, they always returned to their room for afternoon lovemaking. It was a mini-honeymoon for them, an annual reaffirmation of their love and of their marriage.

Maggie kept her MacCraken boxes on display in the family room at home, where a glance invariably brought back memories of laughter and love—laughter and love that had been missing in their house of late.

"It's not all my fault, either," she grumbled, no matter what the men of her family said. "I should have had girls."

It was one of her greatest regrets, not having a daughter. Oh, she loved her boys. They were her life, which made their alliance with their father all the more hurtful. Nevertheless, she'd always wished for a little girl. She'd yearned to buy ruffles and lace, bobby socks and Mary Janes. She'd wanted long hair to French braid. She'd wanted to buy gold hoop earrings for her daughter, not a pair to split between her sons.

After Scott was born, Maggie had wanted to try one more time for a pink hospital nursery cap. Mike wouldn't hear of it. Four was enough, he'd declared. Despite the fact that four had been plenty, Maggie had always nursed a bit of resentment at him for that.

The flow of foot traffic in front of her bottlenecked, and someone bumped into Maggie, jostling her thoughts back to the present. She checked her watch. Still an hour and a half before she was due to meet Grace and Holly at the Ashford. The thought of the upcoming meeting with her new friends and the manager of the luxurious new boutique hotel put a smile back on her face. Dabbling in this newfound friendship with Holly and Grace was just what she needed to drag her out of her funk. It gave her something to do, and Maggie needed that. Desperately. Thank God for a multitude of tasks.

Maggie had taken over planning Grace's anniversary party.

It had all started the day of their shopping expedition. Following her disclosure of her illness, Grace had thanked Maggie and Holly for helping her to look for a dress, ordered another refill of iced tea, then said, "One of the worst things about this disease is that I have been forced to learn to ask for help. I have always been a strong, energetic, capable person. I have taken care of myself—and others—for decades. It is very uncomfortable to be in a position of not being able to do for myself. I am not accustomed to asking for help. I am not good at it."

She paused and reached into her purse, withdrawing a small bottle of lotion. "This time it's a little easier because I think that helping me might help you, too, Maggie. You and Holly both. I think you could use a distraction in your lives right now."

Holly watched Grace rub lotion into her hands. The pleasing scent of roses teased her nose. "What do you need help with, Grace?"

"The reception. Pink Sisterhood is willing to make all the arrangements, but they're based in Virginia, and long distance party planning is difficult and expensive. They don't know Dallas/Fort Worth vendors, and since I haven't planned a party since my daughter's wedding reception ten years ago, I don't know who to approach, either."

Finished with her lotion, she silently offered it to Holly and Maggie before adding, "For instance, I would be surprised if the florist we used was still in business. Half of our order was wrong. Liza was in tears when she saw daisies rather than roses at the altar."

"I'm good at party planning." Maggie creamed her hands, smiled at the scent, then reached into her purse. She drew out a small notebook, and flipped through the pages. "In Junior League circles, this little puppy is as valuable as the Dallas Cowboys' play book. Love the lotion, Grace. Where do you get it?"

"My sweet granddaughter makes it for me. All different fragrances. It's a hobby of hers. I could get you a bottle if you'd like."

"That would be lovely," Maggie declared.

Holly finally pulled herself out of the shock of Grace's news enough to say, "I can't plan a party. I only plan tailgate parties. And hardly any of those."

"But you are young and energetic. Some days my energy level lags, and you could be my boost. Plus, having your assistance would provide Ben some peace of mind, which would make life easier for me in that arena."

Holly agreed to help whenever her schedule allowed, though she warned the last half of the spring semester was a busy one for teachers as they prepared their classes for statewide standardized testing. They'd ended their lunch with a debate on musical selections the party guests would prefer.

When Maggie got home that afternoon, the first thing she did was to check her answering machine to see if she'd missed a call from Mike or the boys. The second was to call Pink Sisterhood and speak to their wish director, Heather Stallings, to make arrangements to personally fund Grace's wish—including a formal renewal of vows. Maggie had insisted on anonymity for the directed wish, of course. Grace would pitch a fit if she knew Maggie had involved herself in the financial end of things.

It was bad enough just trying to make the reception arrangements. The woman was so prickly about spending other people's money. Had it not been for Maggie's Junior League bargaining-with-the-vendors experience, she doubted Grace would have listened to a single suggestion about reception sites or caterers, never mind the fact she'd asked for Maggie's help in the first place.

The trick now was to pull off what would amount to a surprise wedding. Maggie had full confidence she could manage such a trick, however. She had always been a good schemer.

* * *

"Hi, Dad."

Holly stood at the kitchen window, gazing out into her backyard, portable phone against her ear.

"Sweetheart," her father said, delight in his voice. "I didn't expect to hear from you today. I thought you had plans to go downtown."

"I do. I just wanted to check in with you first." She hesitated, then said, "I dreamed about Mom last night."

He waited a beat. "Oh, really? A good dream?"

"Yeah. About that summer we planted tomatoes."

Jim Weeks laughed. "You mean the summer you planted
twenty-five
tomato plants? The summer your mom canned tomatoes, stewed tomatoes, made tomato sauce, tomato puree, tomato ice cream—"

"Ice cream? Oh, c'mon, Dad."

"Well, she made everything but that."

Holly giggled. "I remember giving away tomatoes to every house in the subdivision. Mr. Watson over on Augusta Street called me Tomato Toes because I dropped one on his driveway, then stepped on it. I was barefoot."

"You were always barefoot."

"Still am."

"Your mom was like that, too," he said, warm remembrance in his tone. "She kicked off her shoes the minute she walked into the house and only put them on when she had no other choice."

Holly's reflection in the window glass showed a wistful smile. She didn't remember that about her mom. "Why in the world did she let me plant twenty-five of them? She even helped me."

"Ah, I recall it as if it were yesterday." His voice brimmed with amusement. "When you and your mother came home from the nursery with her trunk loaded with tomato plants, I asked that exact question. I wasn't very pleased about it, to be honest. That little garden of yours totally messed up my mowing grid."

"Da-ad."

He chuckled. "Your mom smiled that mischievous smile of hers and told me you were a hardheaded little wench who argued your way into trouble. She said letting you have your way was a good way to teach you the price of excess. I believe you learned that lesson, too. Tomato Toes."

"Mama was good at teaching me life lessons, wasn't she?"

"She was the best."

Holly's teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she thought about Justin. What would her mom have to say about that situation? Of course, if her mom were here that situation wouldn't exist. Holly could marry Justin with a clear conscience.

"How are you doing, baby?" her father asked, jerking her back to the conversation.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"Have you talked to Justin?"

"No."

Not because he hadn't called. Her machine had half a dozen hang-ups on it, and Holly knew Justin had been the one who called. At least, that's what she liked to tell herself. "I'd better go, Dad, or I'll be late."

"Don't want that to happen. Tell your friends I said hello. I'd like to meet them sometime."

"Sure, Dad. You have a good afternoon."

"I plan to. Pretty spring day like this, I'm gonna take the Gray Swan out for a spin."

She'd opened her mouth to say good-bye when he added, "And Holly? This is a lovely memory you've given me this morning. I thank you for it."

A single tear rolled down Holly's cheek as she hung up the phone. Memories. To Holly, they felt more like tragedies than treasures. Memories of her mom. Memories of Justin.

Would memories be enough to sustain her? Somehow, she doubted it.

* * *

Grace was standing in line for a corn dog when she spied Maggie browsing in a booth half a block down the street. It was still an hour before they'd agreed to meet.

The younger woman must have had the same idea as Grace, to arrive early and enjoy the festival for a bit before their meeting with the hotel representative.

"Are you sure you want to eat that?" Ben asked as she handed over her tickets for the treat. "Lots of fat in a fried corn dog."

Grace wanted to snarl at him. Instead she smiled and said, "Yes, Ben, I truly do wish to eat one. I haven't had a corn dog in years."

He didn't say any more, but she could tell he wasn't happy about it. Of course, he hadn't been happy all morning, not since he realized she intended to do more than walk straight to the Ashford for the meeting.

Well, that's his problem,
Grace thought with uncharacteristic ill will. He didn't need to be here to watch her, anyway. She'd wanted to drive herself into town but oh, no. Ben wouldn't hear of that. "Don't worry. I won't horn in on your time with the girls," he'd assured her.

No, but he'll horn in on my time with the ultimate fair food
, she thought waspishly.

Then Grace looked at him, spied the concern in his eyes. Guilt melted through her like candle wax. She took one bite of the corn dog, then tossed the rest into a nearby garbage can and gave her husband's sleeve a tug and said, "Over there, Ben. It's Maggie."

She waved a hand and called her friend's name. A smile beamed across Maggie's face as she caught sight of Grace and returned her wave. Moments later, following an exchange of greetings, they continued their perusal of the artists' offerings.

Grace enjoyed the stroll. Her energy level was good today, and she enjoyed being among a crowd. It had been years since she and Ben had made it downtown for a festival. She had forgotten that events like this could be fun. When they stopped at a stained-glass booth and Ben found an angel for her collection that wasn't beyond their budget, the remnants of her resentment over the corn dog incident melted away.

The first rumble of trouble came when Ben tried to stop at the booth assigned to an artist named Alan MacCraken.

"Not on a bet," Maggie muttered, keeping her eyes front and center as she grabbed Ben's arm and tugged him right on by. When she continued to ramble on, Grace grew attentive to her words. "It doesn't matter. I don't want a wooden box this year. If anyone tried to give me one, I wouldn't accept it. Not that anyone would try to give me one. Anyone is too busy buffing up his boat."

Ah hah.
Grace should have known. This had something to do with Mike.

"I think I'll look for a painting to buy. Maybe a shipwreck scene."

"Maggie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Everything is wonderful. It's a perfectly gorgeous day." With that, she burst into tears.

"Oh, no." Grace glanced worriedly toward Ben. "Here she goes again."

To Grace's surprise and Ben's relief, Maggie recovered fairly quickly. The chocolate-covered banana Ben rushed to buy helped. "I'm a sucker for sugar," she said, drying her eyes and accepting his offering. "I'm sorry. I just need something else to think about. Like your party. Listen, I've had a couple thoughts."

She rattled off some long, involved, and undoubtedly expensive notion about orchestras and tiered cakes, memory books and rose bouquets. She went on and on and on for a good five minutes until Grace's head started to spin.

Ben apparently reacted in a similar manner because he cut Maggie off in the middle of a sentence. "No. Absolutely not. That would be too much for Grace."

That's all it took to dissolve Grace's mellowed mood. She suspected that were she to glance at the plate glass window beside her, she'd see steam coming from her ears. "I'm not as fragile as a glass angel, Ben. I love your ideas, Maggie. I want to do them all."

"Gracie," her husband warned.

Maggie's eyes had gone round as funnel cakes. Everything inside of Grace tensed. She didn't want to cause a scene on a public street. She didn't want to cause a scene anywhere, especially so soon after Maggie's scene. But my oh my, she was getting tired of being treated like an invalid. She wasn't an invalid. Well, maybe by definition she was since she did have a disease, but she wasn't bedridden.

Ben continued to dig his hole deeper. "I agreed to this anniversary party only because you assured me you wouldn't overdo. If you're going to ignore my wishes, then—"

"It's
my
wish," she snapped. "My Pink Sisterhood wish. I'm the one who's dying."

He reared back as though she had slapped him.

Maggie winced, her gaze shifting between the two of them. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. Look, you just tell me what you want and I'll take care of all the details."

"No, Maggie." Grace shot her husband a fulminating look. "I want to help. I want to be part of planning my party."