Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) (13 page)

Chapter 17

I don’t want to brag, but I can still fit into

the same pair of earrings I wore on my wedding day.

The Whaling Museum is located in the heart of Nantucket town. Yes, in addition to being an island, Nantucket is also a town.

Some atlases describe Nantucket island as crescent-shaped. To really get the picture, take your right hand and fold in all your fingers but the thumb and index finger. Then rotate your hand to the left, palm down, and voila – your own Nantucket island.

Madaket is where your thumb is, a tiny community with its own harbor, gorgeous houses and beautiful beaches. Follow your thumb to the right – that’s Madaket Road, which eventually leads you into the town of Nantucket, approximately where your thumb opens as it heads toward the index finger. Picture that opening as the town, and Straight Wharf, where the ferries to and from the mainland dock. That’s where we began our search for wedding venues.

Once again, I was left behind as Tiffani and Jim took off at what I considered breakneck speed – we were not running a marathon, after all – in the direction of Broad Street. In an effort to keep up with Tiffani, Jim had slipped into New York City commuter speed walking mode – something he hadn’t done since he retired from his public relations job in the city a year ago.

I hoped he didn’t injure himself.

We never made it into the museum. When we rounded the corner, Jenny and Mark were outside the building, deep in conversation. A rather loud conversation.

The three of us stopped. And backed away. So the kids wouldn’t think we were eavesdropping.

Which, of course, we were.

“I am not being stubborn about this, Mark,” Jenny said. I could tell by the shakiness in her voice that she was about to cry. A feeling I know all too well.

“You and I agreed we wanted to be married on Stroll weekend,” she insisted. “I had my heart set on the Whaling Museum. It’s our very special place. After all, you proposed to me here. But the museum’s reserved for the entire day because of the Festival of Trees’ opening reception. And I don’t want to change our wedding date. So it can’t work.” And she dissolved into tears.

“Jenny,” Mark said, “waiting till the following weekend is no big deal. The Festival of Trees will still be going on, and the Museum will still be decorated for Christmas. Besides, it’ll be much easier to get hotel accommodations the weekend after Stroll. You’re not being reasonable about this.”

Oh, dear. Those are fighting words. If there’s one thing we Andrews women can’t stand, it’s having someone say we’re not being reasonable. I made a mental note to explain that to Mark as soon as I could, before Jenny let him have it right between the eyes. Or threw her engagement ring in his face.

But to my complete surprise, the sensible side of my daughter (that would be the genes from Jim) took over the situation, wresting control from Jenny’s emotional side (the part she gets from me). She stopped crying, sighed and took the tissue Mark handed her. Then she threw her arms around Mark and gave him a big hug.

“You’re right, of course. I’m not being reasonable. You know me so well. These details don’t really matter. What matters is that we’re getting married. At last.”

“That’s my girl,” said the groom-to-be. And he leaned over and whispered something in her ear. I don’t know what he said, but Jenny dissolved into a fit of laughter.

This seemed like a good time to make our presence known.

Tiffani was the first to reach the couple, and made an effort to repair the damage. “This is all my fault. I checked with the museum events planner, and he assured me that doing two events on the same day would not be a problem. As long as the wedding was in the morning, and the staff had time to reset the space for the Festival of Trees reception, that is.

”Apparently
someone
decided there wouldn’t be enough time, and neglected to let me know.” She set her mouth in a thin line, and I knew
someone
at the museum would get an earful from her very soon.

I had to put in my two cents. “What about changing the date, Jenny? Mark is right. The next weekend could work just as well.”

“Why don’t you wait to make that decision until we check out a few more venues that I know are available for Stroll weekend?” Tiffani suggested.

“Oh, Skip, here you are at last. Thank goodness,” she said, addressing a curly haired Adonis who had suddenly materialized by her side. Linking her arm through his, Tiffani performed the introductions.

“And Skip has personally confirmed the other places we’re going to look at today,” she continued, looking at him adoringly. “He’s my main man here on the island. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“And I don’t know what I’d do without you,” said Skip, locking her in a gaze of such intimacy that I felt like a voyeur.

Hmm. Now this was an interesting turn of events. I suddenly understood why Tiffani was so anxious to get rid of Bob Green. Apparently, our Tiffani was a very busy girl indeed.

The ensuing afternoon was equal parts thrill of victory – checking out several wedding venues I’d been looking forward to seeing – and the agony of de-feet. Those Nantucket cobblestone streets are murder, pardon the expression, on the tootsies. Even if someone was smart enough to wear comfortable walking shoes, like I did.

By the time we got back to the Grey Gull Inn and I had a chance to soak my feet in a basin of wonderful, warm water – thoughtfully provided by JoAnn – there was barely enough time to change and head for the dining room. I was delighted to see that our party had its own private corner. That way, we could go over all the venues we’d seen today and try to reach consensus. Or, rather, the kids would go over the venues with Tiffani, and Jim and I would contribute our opinion only when asked for it.

I wondered if Tiffani’s “main man on Nantucket,” the handsome

Skip, would be joining us for dinner as well.

I paused to appreciate the ambiance of the inn’s beautiful dining room, the walls done in a traditional Williamsburg blue, the furniture an eclectic mix of antiques, mostly from the eighteenth century. If some of the chairs were reproductions, it didn’t matter. The whole effect melded together seamlessly, just like the old and newly built portions of the inn itself.

If this was all Skip’s design, I had to hand it to him. He really knew what he was doing.

Jenny, Mark and Tiffani were already on their first (I assumed) glass of wine by the time Jim and I arrived. I was surprised to see that there was a laptop computer on the dining table in front of my daughter.

Skip made a grand entrance into the dining room, shook a few hands at other tables, and then, when he reached us, announced that he would take care of us personally. He handed Jim a wine list, and announced that the first bottle was compliments of the inn.

Jim handed the list off to me. “Carol is really the wine expert in the family,” he said to Skip.

Huh? Since when?

Then, I looked at the list. None of the wines were familiar ones. My poor husband had no idea what to order, so he’d passed the buck to me.

I smiled sweetly at Skip and said, “Skip, why don’t you choose our wine? You’re much more knowledgeable than any of us.”

Tiffani jumped right into the conversation. “That’s a wonderful idea. As a matter of fact, Skip, why don’t you choose the entire meal for us? Nobody does it better than you.” She colored slightly. “Choose a menu, I mean.”

Yeah, right. That’s exactly what she was talking about – food. The look that passed between those two was enough to scorch the tablecloth.

Skip beamed at the rest of us. “Leave everything to me. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.” And with a parting look at Tiffani, he headed toward the kitchen.

Well, well, well. If I heard anything go bump in the night, I was pretty sure I could identify the source.

JoAnn materialized by Jim’s chair with a chilled bottle of white wine. “This is our private label,” she explained. “We only serve it to very special guests.” And she poured a small sample into Jim’s glass.

He took a sip and said, “This is the best wine I’ve ever tasted.” Since

Jim is more of a red wine kind of guy, I was impressed.

JoAnn smiled and poured a generous portion into his glass, then filled the other glasses to the top. No half glasses for us. (By the way, that’s one of my pet peeves. If I order a glass of wine in a restaurant, I expect to get a full glass. Not a third of a glass, the way some restaurants do.)

“A toast,” said Tiffani, raising her glass to Jenny and Mark. “To the happy couple. Here’s to a wonderful wedding and long married life.”

My eyes filled up a little. This was such a wonderful family occasion, and I was sad that Mike and Marlee weren’t here to share it.

Jenny, correctly, sensed my mood, and said, “Not to worry, Mom. Mike and Marlee are here with us via the magic of Skype.” Then she turned her laptop screen toward me, and I could see my son lifting a glass of wine in the gesture of a toast.

My eyes spilled over. Even Jim looked emotional at this sudden cyberspace appearance by our son.

“Sorry we can’t be there in person,” he said. “Where’s Marlee?” I asked.

“She’s coming, Mom. And she has a surprise for you.”

For a brief moment, I fantasized that she was pregnant. I’m one of those women who can’t wait to be a grandmother.

But, instead, when Marlee appeared on the screen, I hardly recognized her. Gone were her beautiful long brunette tresses, replaced by a short bob. It completely changed her appearance. As a matter of fact, her haircut was very similar to mine. And she was wearing black- framed eye glasses.

Granted, I’d only seen my daughter-in-law once in my life, when she and Mike surprised us a few months ago. But still…. She didn’t look like the same person.

Which, of course, I had to blurt out in exactly the wrong way.

“My God, Marlee, what did you do to your hair? Why did you cut it? It was so beautiful. And why are you wearing glasses?”

She patted what was left of her hair a little self-consciously. “Don’t you like it, Mrs. Andrews?”

“Carol,” I corrected automatically. “Please, call me Carol.”

“When Mike and I visited you in Connecticut,” Marlee said by way of explanation, “I just loved the way you wore your hair. It’s so hot here in Florida, so I decided to have mine cut like yours. I thought you’d like it this way.

“And my eyes started to burn from wearing contacts in all this humidity. So I’ve switched to my regular glasses.”

“I love it,” Mike said, putting his arm around Marlee’s shoulder. “I think she looks great.”

“I do, too,” said Jim and Jenny at the same time.

I realized I’d hurt Marlee’s feelings. She’d cut her hair to please me – to look like me, for Pete’s sake – and I wasn’t reacting the way she’d hoped.

Oops, Carol. Once again, your mouth is faster than your brain.

“
I
love it.” Tiffani said, “even though I’ve never seen you in person. I think your hairstyle is perfect for the shape of your face.”

“I think you look great, too” I said, finally recovering myself and extricating my foot from my mouth. “I was just surprised. I’m flattered that you decided to style your hair like mine.”

“Now that we settled that,” Tiffani said, “let’s talk about venues for the wedding and see if we can reach consensus. We don’t have any time to spare.”

“I already e-mailed Mike photos of the places we checked out today, Tiffani,” Jenny informed us. “And Mark and I” with an adoring glance at her fiancé, who had wisely kept his mouth shut during the Marlee hair discussion, “added our opinions about each one. So, what do you think?” One by one, we all talked about – and rejected – the venues. Too far away from town (Jenny); too expensive (that was from Jim – no surprise there); limited menu (Tiffani); dark dining room (Mark); bad wine choices (Mike, with Marlee agreeing).

I just listened. For once. And pretty soon, every place we’d looked at had been ruled out by somebody.

“There is one more option,” Tiffani said. “We can do the wedding here, at the Grey Gull Inn.”