A Taste of Fame (7 page)

Before we served the cake, the kids from the drama class performed a skit. One of the boys, dressed like Chico Marx, sat down at the baby grand piano we’d rented. Our Chico wore an elfin-pointed hat over a black curly wig. His velveteen jacket was open over a striped button-down shirt and tie. Honestly, the kid, who was one of Mrs. Hempshaw’s best piano students, played pretty well, though he seemed to have a little trouble ending his piece.

Nelson, still in his Groucho persona, strode to the piano. Chico looked up and said, “I can’t think of the finish!”

Nelson replied, “That’s funny, I can’t think of anything else.”

Just then, David, on his way to the kitchen, tried to brisk by Nelson. Nelson, wagging his eyebrows and cigar, reached for David’s arm and spun him around. Nelson said, as if in deepest confidence, “I’m sick of these conventional marriages, aren’t you? One woman and one man was good enough for your grandmother, but who wants to marry your grandmother? Nobody, not even your grandfather.”

I was just serving Brant his piece of our banana cream birthday cake with fluffy cream cheese filling when he snorted his first laugh of the evening at the classic Groucho line.

My mother pounced on him. “Surely you’re not laughing at me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Brant coolly replied. “You’re one of the funniest hicks this town has to offer.”

Mother pushed her chair back and stood. “Well, I never,” she said.

My dad leaned toward her. “Calm down, Inga,” he said. “Let’s not do anything rash.”

“Yes,” Brant said, balancing a big bite of cake on his fork. “Dearie, be a good little woman and mind your husband.”

Two cameras zoomed in as Brant leaned in to take his first bite of heaven. Before he could taste the creamy delight, Mother whacked him in the back of his head with her black clutch, smashing the cake on his fork into his nose.

“Serves you right,” Mother said. With that, she sat down again, looking a bit proud of herself. The partygoers froze with their forks in midair, unsure how to react.

Brant took his linen napkin and wiped the cake off the end of his nose. He turned to my mother. “I guess this is the kind of thing I can expect so far from civilization,” he said.

Mother put her hands on her hips. “If you don’t behave, young man, I’ll treat you to a second helping of what you just got.”

While Brant sulked, Mother began to actually enjoy herself. But the climax came when Brant stood up to give a toast, not knowing the “champagne” was actually sparkling apple juice we’d used to be in compliance with the church activity center rules. He said, “Here’s to the worst meal and company I’ve had in eons” and tipped his glass back to inhale its contents.

He spewed the juice as soon as his senses alerted him to the fact he hadn’t actually imbibed. When he grabbed his napkin and tried to wipe down his tux, he streaked it with icing.

Mother absolutely cackled and she stood and patted his arm. “What’s the matter, dearie? Are clean air and clean living a bit much for you?”

Brant took another sip of his juice and smacked his lips as he lifted his glass high. “Here’s to getting out of Dodge,” he said.

Nelson swept in and in classic Groucho told Brant, “Don’t look now, but there’s one too many in this room, and I think it’s you,” as our guests tittered in laughter.

Brant shot back in perfect Groucho, “There’s one thing I always wanted to do before I quit … retire! Good night, everyone.” He sat his unfinished drink on the table, and while the room applauded his celebrity, he made his exit.

Later, when cleanup began, Mother held court in the foyer with a few of the well-wishers who remained while I grabbed a broom. Evie stopped to give my shoulders a squeeze. “When are you going to learn how to rein in that mother of yours?” she teased.

I blew a puff of air that made my bangs dance above my forehead, then with a Groucho flair, I picked up a carrot stick from a nearby tray of unused hors d’oeuvres and wiggled it like a cigar. “I had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.”

Evie laughed. “That Brant Richards is a card, isn’t he?” As I nodded, to my delight, Evie reached for her own carrot and said, “He may look like an idiot and talk like an idiot, but don’t let that fool you. He really is an idiot.”

Laughing, we realized too late that our little scene had been filmed by Mike, who was also the acting onsite producer. We both glared at him until he shrugged. “Sorry, ladies, just doing my job.”

As soon as Mike turned away, Evie giggled. “Good news, Vonnie. It looks like we won’t be going to New York after all.”

“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” I said. “Million dollars or not.”

Goldie

7
Warming Worry

Since the filming of the show the previous Thursday evening, my job as legal secretary and receptionist for Chris Lowe had been more about answering my own phone calls than his. So far, he’d been kind about it. Including, I might add, that when the whole crazy thing started, I’d brought him a copy of the contract I’d signed with Nelson and he’d graciously gone over every jot and tittle.

“Yep,” he’d said, eyes twinkling behind reading glasses. “You’re locked in like a kid under curfew.”

I’d frowned for effect. “Chris … as long as we’re here in Summit View, there should be no problem, but I don’t know what I’d do about this office if we go to New York and—”

Chris raised his hand to stop me. “Think nothing of it. Jenna is home from college right now. I’m sure she’ll be happy to relieve you for a few days.”

Jenna, Chris’s daughter, taught me everything she knew about this job before leaving for college just a few semesters previous. Since then—and since the death of my father in the spring of this year—I’d taken a few online courses, broadening my mind and my skills, wanting to be the best for Chris. He’d offered me a job back when I had no skills to speak of. He repeatedly told me he hadn’t regretted it, and I felt confident in those words. Still, I wasn’t sure I was ready to give up the comfort zone of my office for the glamour of New York City.

Lately the office had been about anything
but
the law practice. Family from out of town—mostly my Georgia relatives—called during work hours because “Six o’clock is suppertime, and anything after that and we’re in bed.” They didn’t want to disturb me, they said, during “family time.” Funny, they didn’t mind disturbing me at work.

Add to them the reporters who called. Even
People
magazine’s editors called—but mostly …

My office phone rang, startling me. “Good morning,” I said, glancing at the digital clock nearby for clarity as to the hour. Yes, it was still morning: 11:30 to be exact. “Chris Lowe’s office,” I finished.

“Mom?”

“Olivia?”

“What are you doing?”

I sat straight in my chair. “Why, is something wrong? Something with the baby?” My daughter had given birth two months previous to an adorable baby girl, rounding out her little family to four. “Big Brother Brook,” as her oldest had come to be known, had taken the disappointment at not having another boy to play with in stride and had come to practically worship the cherub Olivia and her husband Tony named Ena, an old Celtic name I’d found in a book of unusual baby names. It still floored me that my typically stubborn, do-it-myself-thank-you-very-much daughter took my suggestion and ran with it.

“Ena is fine. Brook is fine too, before you ask. Listen, Tony took the day off from work today and—”

“Why? Is Tony sick?”

“Mom! What is this, twenty questions? Actually, we’re getting TiVo installed today, so Tony’s hanging around until the technician comes and, while he’s waiting, keeping busy doing some jobs on my honey-do list.”

I smiled. Tony was a fine husband. The finest. I was so proud my daughter had found such a man and married him. “So why are you calling, then?”

“Actually, Tony suggested you and I go out to lunch today. You don’t have plans, do you?”

I rolled my eyes. If I knew Olivia—and I do—she was up to something. My daughter, as much as I love her, works hard to make sure I’m on the straight and narrow at all times. Last year, when her father and I separated for a few months, she’d kindly opened her home to me. But when I’d gotten a job and then my own apartment, she frowned in disapproval. When a man—a friend of Chris’s—showed interest in me, she’d nearly gone into cardiac arrest.

My daughter is more the morality police with me than I ever was with her. Ever.

Not that I ever had to be. Nor did she; not really.

“No, I don’t have plans. I take my lunch at noon.” I glanced at the clock again.

“Okay. Want to meet at Higher Grounds Café?”

I nodded. “I’ll see you at five after.”

“Good. See ya then.”

I started to hang up, then brought the phone back to my mouth. “And Olivia?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re buying.”

Before I left for lunch I received a phone call from Lisa Leann— the winner of Most Calls to Goldie. This was our second of the day. “Goldie, what time will you be at the church? I’m asking because I think the girls should arrive early. Way early. Much earlier than everyone else.”

“Whoa, Lisa Leann,” I said, laughing. “Take a breath.”

“I’m here now,” she said.

“You’re where now?”

“At the church. Keep up, girlfriend.”

“Why are you at the church?”

“Because the big screen TV has been delivered, and I want to make certain the chairs are set up the way I envision them.”

The big screen TV. Hmmm. This whole thing was beyond anything I’d ever seen or heard of. With the whole town behind us, hoping for a win after tonight’s show, the board of deacons at Grace Church had voted to rent the biggest big screen TV and bring cable into the social hall, thereby allowing all of Summit View to watch the show together. The very same room where we’d served up Mrs. Rittenhouse’s party would be the setting for watching Team Potluck, along with three other catering companies from across the country, vie for the million dollar prize, as the other four teams still in the competition would compete the following week.

A familiar fluttering returned to the pit of my stomach. I’d felt it the first time immediately after Lisa Leann told us about the show, the evening we were at Vonnie’s house. It had hardly left me since.
Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord,
I prayed.
I’ve never been to New York. I’m not cut out for New York. Tall buildings … subways … pickpockets. Please don’t make me go. Pleeeaaasssseeeee don’t make me go.

I sounded like Jonah sailing away from Nineveh.

“Goldie, are you listening to me?” Lisa Leann’s voice brought me back to reality.

“I’m listening.” I looked at the desk clock. It was noon. “Lisa Leann, I have to meet Olivia at Higher Grounds in five minutes so I have to go. But … what time do you want me there?”

“The show starts at 8:00. People will start coming in at 7:00 to eat. Oh, and again, don’t worry about the fact that you’ve not been at the shop helping cook this morning. Donna couldn’t make it either. But the rest of us were there and we’ll have plenty for the town to eat.”

“That’s nice of you. Lisa Leann, I have to—”

“Go. I know. Arrive by 6:30. Did I say that already? That will give us time to make sure everything is set and ready to go. Food wise, anyway.” She coughed out a laugh. “I’m as nervous as a cat! You?”

I stood, pulled open the bottom left-hand drawer where I kept my purse, and yanked it out. “Like nobody’s business. And I’m late. See you tonight.”

Donna was coming out of Higher Grounds as I was stepping up to the front door. “Hey, Goldie,” she said. She flashed her cell phone, still clutched in her right hand, as though she were showing her badge. “I just got off the phone with Lisa Leann. She said you were headed this way.”

I smiled at the pixie deputy I’d grown to love like my own over the years. She and Olivia had been school chums. They’d gone from Brownies to Juniors and finally Cadets in Girl Scouts. They’d been in youth group at church together. I fleetingly thought of Olivia, already seated in a booth beyond the glass front windows of the café, and her settled life versus Donna’s with her dangerous job, late-night hours, and the men who wondered which of them might finally win her heart. Why didn’t she just pick someone and get married?

“Hey, Donna. I’m meeting Olivia.”

Donna shut the door as she stepped onto the sidewalk, thereby blocking my entry. “Yeah. I just spoke with her. So, Goldie, what time’ll you be at the church?”

“Lisa Leann said 6:30.”

“Yeah, that’s what she told me too. Anyway … thing is, Goldie …” Donna shifted her weight until she stood with her feet about twelve inches apart. “What I’m wondering is … what chance do you think we have here? Of winning, I mean.”

I glanced toward the window, then back at Donna. “I don’t know, Donna. I don’t know much about the other contestants. Do you?”

“I did some research on the Internet. There’s some pretty good teams out there, and they’ve been geared up to win for quite a while. Lisa Leann sort of sprung this on us, you know?”

“I’m sure they’ll all beat us, then. All we need is for three of the other teams to get more votes than us tonight, and if that happens, we’ll never have to board that plane to JFK.” I pointed to the door. “I really have to get inside,” I said.

Donna looked behind her, then back to me. “Oh! Yeah, Olivia is waiting for you. Sorry. I guess I’m just a little stressed about all this.” She smiled broadly. “And you know me, Goldie. I don’t stress easily.”

That much was true. If Donna was stressed, the rest of us were doomed. I gave her shoulder a quick pat, then said, “You’ll be fine. We all will. This time tomorrow all this will be a memory, and then life will go back to normal in Summit View.” I sighed in anticipation at the thought. “Now, I’ve really got to get inside.”

We said our good-byes, and I hurried through the door and to the table where Olivia waited none too patiently. A moment later we gave the waitress two orders for captain’s stew with a side order of cornbread, which we’d split. The waitress said, “Be right back with your drinks,” and left, leaving the two of us alone in a roomful of people. I smiled at my beautiful child as I unfolded my napkin and placed it in my lap. “Lunch without the babies,” I said. “What will we do?”