The Calendar of New Beginnings (20 page)

“I should have guessed you’d volunteer,” Lucy said, cocking her brow.
 

Jill was going to be worse than Ester, and she proved it by sticking her tongue out at Lucy.

“As I told my cousin recently, I’m a genius. So, Lucy, I’ve been racking my brain for the best pose, and I think I want to go all Latin.”

Chef T spewed out his bourbon and started coughing like it had gone down the wrong pipe. Poor guy. Her mother had regaled Lucy with the hilarious stories of Jill teaching Chef T Latin dance moves so he could win a date with his now-fiancée, Elizabeth.

Jill looked over her shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t want to pose with me, Chef T?”

More hooting erupted as the chef narrowed his eyes. “Not a chance in hell,” Chef T ground out.

“Your loss,” her cousin said, executing a flawless salsa move.

“I see you have hidden skills,” Lucy said, crossing her arms.
 

“They aren’t so hidden anymore,” Jill informed her. “You’ll have to come to our Latin dance class, Luce. It’s so much fun and a great workout. Now back to my pose. I was thinking feathers too—the kind women dancers wore in old movies—but if Mrs. Feathers wants to use them, I could use a hat covered in fruit to cover these beauties.” She extended her hand to her boobs like Vanna White introducing the next letter on
Wheel of Fortune.

Chef T groaned and covered his eyes. Like that would do any good. The image was already seared into Lucy’s brain. “Very Carmen Miranda of you. Thanks for sharing.”

“I have more ideas!” she declared.

Lucy turned her around and pushed her toward the bar. “I think that’s enough for the moment. Next.” She was starting to feel more in charge as each new subject emerged, and it felt good. This was going to be her photo shoot, and her mother needed to understand that.

She blinked rapidly when Old Man Jenkins shuffled forward in a plaid shirt tucked into brown pants. Lucy didn’t know when everyone had started calling him Old Man Jenkins, but she’d never heard him called anything else. He used to be one of the biggest volunteers in Dare Valley, always leading one church or town improvement committee after another.
 

“Mr. November,” he said in a gruff voice through a lopsided grin. “I’m the oldest of this motley crew. I’m ninety-one.”

He was adorable. Lucy gave him a soft smile. “We’re lucky to have you.”

His scoff made everyone chuckle. “I might not have a young body anymore, but I’ve fought in two wars and devoted a lot of my time and energy to this town. I run Bingo night now when I’m not spending time with my friends at the senior citizens’ home. I’m representing all the old folks who’ve lost someone to cancer. While some people suggested I incorporate a Bingo theme—which I nixed because the balls are too small—I was hoping you could drape a flag over me since I’m dedicating my month to my brother. He died in Korea fighting beside me.”

Any laughter generated by his Bingo ball comment faded. Everyone seemed moved by his earnestness, and in that moment, Lucy knew she was going to treasure hearing his stories while she photographed him—her way—capturing the hard angles of his cheeks and mouth, chiseled from age and experience.

“Thank you so much for sharing, Mr. Jenkins,” she said. He nodded crisply and shuffled over to the bar to shake hands with Rhett, who led him over to the table and poured him a bourbon.
 

It did Lucy’s heart proud to see a younger man giving proper respect and care to the older man. So many of the cultures Lucy had experienced around the world respected the elderly in a way she wished people in the West would.

Lucy turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway, waiting for her full attention.
“Mother.
Somehow I am not surprised to see you’re rounding out the year as Miss December.”

Her mother gave an impish grin and sauntered forward. “I thought it fitting since I’ve won the Best Decorated House for Christmas award in Dare Valley five times—a town record.”

Lucy refrained from pointing out that her dad was the one who climbed his ever-faithful ladder in the snow each year to hang her mother’s extensive assortment of decorations and lights. Growing up, Lucy had hated decorating for Christmas. All the work had turned into a chore, so whenever she couldn’t come home for Christmas, she comforted herself with the thought that at least she wouldn’t have to help create the O’Brien Winter Wonderland.

“And your idea?” she asked because she would give her mother the respect she’d given everyone else. “Still thinking of mangoes?”

A few of the women snickered while Jill hooted out loud. “Mangoes,” Jill cried. “You can do better than mangoes, honey.”

“You’re the one who wants to cover your boobies with a hat made of fruit,” her mother shot back.

“Ladies!” Lucy cried, noting how the men had clustered together in solidarity, not that she blamed them.

“Mom, please share your idea with us,” she said, giving Jill a hard look.

“I, too, have been thinking about what I’d like to convey to our readership,” her mom said in a dramatic voice. “I was wondering if dressing up like Cleopatra might be intriguing enough. There are tales of how she hid in a rolled-up rug, wearing nothing but a headdress, to get to Julius Caesar.”

“Very Katy Perry of you,” Jill said, tapping her mouth. “I love it!”

Lucy didn’t. It was exactly the kind of cheap theatrics she rebelled against. “Thank you for sharing, Mom,” she said kindly, facing the twelve volunteers before her. “And thanks to all of you again for being a part of this. I’m really happy to be involved as well since it’s for such a great cause, and it honors the people we loved who died of cancer.”

She made sure to pause, hoping to shift the mood in her favor by reminding them all why they were here.

“I have to confess that this calendar isn’t the kind of photo shoot I normally do.” Her hands broke out in a sweat at the thought of taking photos of any kind, but they couldn’t know that. “I’m willing to keep an open mind about the kinds of poses you’d like to do. This might make some of you feel vulnerable. For others, it will be a walk in the park.”

She gave a pointed glance to Jill and Ester, who both started laughing.

“As you probably know, I’ve taken photographs for some of the biggest global organizations’ calendars out there, raising money for anything from human rights to women’s empowerment. I know what works, and while I really like this idea of taking fun, risqué photos, I wanted to suggest another approach for you to consider.”

Her mother jammed her hands across her chest and stared at Lucy with fire in her eyes.
 

“Since you’re all making a dedication to someone you lost in the calendar,” she continued, “why not pose with the person’s photo or a special memento. Like the flag Old Man Jenkins mentioned. It personalizes the story in a beautiful way. Or we can even shoot you in the person’s favorite place—like the convertible Ester mentioned, or somewhere special you used to spend time together.”

A few people were nodding now, and she smiled at them in solidarity.

“I got laid plenty in that car, God bless my Howard,” Ester said, finally eating her candy cigarette.

Her mother walked toward her. “Lucy, we discussed this. I don’t want this to be one of your sad calendars.”

The bubble of solidarity she’d been creating burst, and her mother’s insinuation gripped its claws around her. “I’m not saying you have to make it sad, Mother. Only meaningful. Authentic. If you’re telling the story of your loss, why not have a photo that captures it?”

Everyone looked at her mother, sensing a showdown.

“Lucy, this calendar shows that life moves on,” her mother said in a hard tone. “That people still laugh and have fun. That’s why it’s called The Calendar of New Beginnings.”

“There’s no reason the photos I’m suggesting wouldn’t fit that theme,” she said diplomatically. “Surely you understand that considering Chef T’s participation, not to mention a few of the others in your group, this calendar could be sold nationally, perhaps even internationally. I just want a product that is going to be equal to that level of exposure.” Even if she wasn’t sure how she was going to pull off her part of the bargain.

“You mean
your
level,” her mother said sternly.

“Ellen,” April said, laying a hand on her mom’s shoulder. “Lucy makes a good point. Maybe we should discuss this more with her once everyone leaves.”

“We
did
discuss it with her,” her mother said, making the others look away in discomfort. “If you didn’t want to do it, you should have just told us. I could have asked Farley Higgins. He has a pretty good photography studio here in town. But I was hoping you might be willing to use your God-given talents to help us out since you’re back in town. Clearly, this isn’t your thing.”

Her mother could throw guilt around like ninja stars. “Mom, I’m not saying I don’t want to be involved. I was only sharing a concept that came to me as I was thinking about this calendar. I hoped you would listen to my idea since I was respectful enough to listen to yours. It’s not like we couldn’t take more than one photo.” She considered the possibility. “We could have one that’s about the loss and another funny one about the joys of moving on.”

A few people were scratching their chins. Even Lucy wasn’t sure how that would work.

“Sounds like you two have some personal problems to work through,” Old Man Jenkins said, calling a spade a spade. “I’m old, and I’m tired. I’m going to head on home. When you two figure things out, give me a call.”

A few people nodded, and Ester shrugged. “I gave Old Man Jenkins a ride here, so I have to go. But he’s right. Work it out. Ellie, I’ll see you tomorrow at Latin dancing.”

Pretty much everyone else followed them out the door, fleeing like a herd of water buffalos that scented lions. Too bad she and her mother were the lions. Lucy didn’t want to battle it out, but she knew it was inevitable.
 

Jill gave her an encouraging hug before she left. April whispered something in her mother’s ear as they hugged goodbye.

When they were alone, her mother turned to her, fire and brimstone flashing in her eyes. “We need to get something straight.”

Cue the showdown.

Chapter 13
      

Ellen O’Brien had been a lot of fun growing up, but she could be as tough as a rebel leader. Lucy was about to receive one of her mother’s firm butt-kickings. Since she’d been through them before, she went to the bar and ladled out a hefty cosmopolitan.

“Lucy Marigold O’Brien,” her mother began, making Lucy’s mouth turn sour despite the sweet cocktail she’d just sipped.

She’d always hated her middle name, not only because it made her sound like some misplaced flower child, but because marigolds smelled like ass, if you asked her. Taking another fortifying drink of her cosmo, she turned around. Her mother was breathing hard enough to make her mangoes heave.

“I’m sorry you didn’t like my idea, Mom,” she said, striving for peace. “I was only trying to add something to the calendar from my experience.”

Her mother charged over to her. “The calendar was fine without your idea! This stunt you pulled was an embarrassment to me and yourself. These people signed up for The Calendar of New Beginnings, not The Calendar of Death.”

So much for peace. “Mom, I’m not suggesting—”

“Yes, you are,” her mother interrupted, slicing her hand through the air. “If you think you’re too good for us and this calendar, I can ask Farley to take the photos. I meant what I said, Lucy. We don’t need you to lower your standards for our sake. We might not be as well traveled as you are, but we’re good people, and the calendar is fine just as we planned it.”

Her mom’s voice, just below a shout, was making her head hurt. “You’re not listen—”

“Why didn’t you come to me with this idea beforehand? You blindsided me in front of all our volunteers.”

Since her mother wasn’t calming down any, Lucy set her cosmo aside. “I thought I’d see what the whole group thought of the idea, Mom. It came to me after I talked to you and April.”

“Bull! Let’s lay it all out, shall we? You didn’t think I’d consider your idea, and you were right. Lucy, sometimes I just don’t understand you.”

There it was again. The unsolvable issue between them. They
didn’t
understand each other. It was like trying to talk to someone speaking a different language. Why couldn’t her mother accept her for who she was?
 

“I’m going to head out,” she said, unable to continue the dead-end conversation. “We can both think about what’s best for us and talk tomorrow. I love you, Mom.” The words were hard to utter.

Her mom was stiff as she kissed her cheek. Lucy hustled out of the room, stopping to pick up her purse in the entryway. When she exited the house, she pressed her hand to her aching head. Her vision suddenly seemed worse. Hadn’t her mother’s mums in the terracotta pot looked crisper and clearer earlier? Hadn’t they looked red? Now they were almost rust-colored.

Lucy took a moment to scan her surroundings, blinking her right eye slowly, hoping to correct her vision. But it didn’t change. Everything looked worse than it had before.

She felt the claws of a panic attack sink into her skin.
No, no, no,
she told herself.
We’re not going to freak out.