Part 12 (2/2)
Margo opened her eyes, and I raised a questioning eyebrow.
”For one thing, n.o.body in my house currently has the flu, and for another, I'm not nine and a half months pregnant like I was at this time last year.”
We agreed that those were excellent reasons for celebration.
”Besides, it's Margo's turn to welcome a new addition to the family,” she added.
My jaw dropped, but Margo remained composed. ”Yup,” she agreed cheerfully. ”Rhett here is goin' to be a daddy, so to speak.” The dog panted happily at the sound of his adored mistress's voice. ”I couldn't bring myself to go with John to the rescue center. I'd want to bring every one of those darlin' puppies home. So John picked out our baby girl. At least, that's what he says, but it's my personal feelin' she picked him out. She's a mixed breed with enough big dog in her gene pool to make her a good size when she's fully grown.”
”I hope they turn out to be better friends than Jasmine and Gracie,” I said, thinking of recent hostilities between my two felines. We had wanted to give Jasmine a new interest in life, but so far, her main interest in Gracie seemed to be hissing and spitting at the newcomer. ”Well, at least Jasmine isn't sleeping twenty-four hours a day, and her appet.i.te has certainly improved.”
Olivia lurched her way to the end of the bench nearest to me and held out one hand. Bits of leaves and twigs were clutched in her pudgy fingers.
”Ngah?” she inquired, staring at me intently.
”Very nice,” I agreed. ”Go show them to Auntie Margo.” I helped her negotiate the turn, and she tottered laboriously in Margo's direction as Strutter chuckled.
I contemplated Old Main Street over the rim of my paper cup. The effects of the past year's disastrous economy were all too evident. Comstock Ferre, the gardening center that had anch.o.r.ed the little business district for as many years as I could remember, had closed its doors, as had Mainly Tea, our beloved tea shop. A s.p.a.ce to Let sign flapped forlornly in front of the Law Barn, the former home of MACK Realty.
Still, signs of hope were popping up all over town. A new pasta shop had opened on the Silas Deane Highway and seemed to be doing very well. The new owners of the Henstock sisters' crumbling Victorian on the Broad Street Green had turned it into a breathtaking bed-and-breakfast that was enjoying good word of mouth. Abby Dalton, who owned the Village Diner, had taken on a new waitress to accommodate an uptick in business, and even now, painters were busy spiffing up the exterior of the drugstore down the block from us.
Of even more interest to the three of us, the real estate market, which had all but dried up in the past year, was finally showing signs of returning life.
”Wonder who has that listin'?” Margo peered at a For Sale sign in front of a genteel bungalow on Church Street across the way from us. ”I can't quite see it from here.”
”Bet you could see it if you wore your gla.s.ses for once in your life,” Strutter told her. She wriggled around to have a look. ”Prudential. Huh.” Her tone said it all. Wish we had the listing, was our common thought and was, in fact, the reason for our gathering this morning.
”So, do you think it's time to reopen MACK Realty?” I asked the question for all of us.
”Since we still represent Vista Views, we never really closed, technically speaking,” Strutter reminded me.
”You know what I mean.” I nodded in the direction of the Law Barn.
”It's too soon to risk the expense of rentin' a big place like that, especially since Emma and Isabel have set up shop in that cute little place in Glas...o...b..ry,” Margo stated. ”I think the two of you should look for a place like that. You know, small and manageable.”
Strutter and I exchanged a look. ”The two of us?” I asked carefully.
Margo caught my tone and reached over to pat my knee. ”Don't go getting' your knickers in a twist, Sugar. I'm not abandonin' s.h.i.+p. I'll still do Vista Views and take an occasional house listin', but more than that would interfere with my campaign.”
Now she really had our attention. ”Campaign?” we chorused, thunderstruck.
Margo smiled gently at us and smoothed her already perfect hair. ”John and I have been talkin' about it for a while now. At first, I thought it was a crazy idea, but John has convinced me that I'd make an absolutely wonderful addition to the Town Council.”
It took several seconds for Strutter to locate her voice. ”I'm sure you would. You know I believe you can do anything you put your mind to, but the Town Council? That would require, um, getting elected.”
Margo nodded. ”Thus, the campaign.”
”But you're a blonde bombsh.e.l.l from Atlanta, Georgia,” I pointed out unnecessarily. ”New Englanders elect candidates with strong ties to New England.”
”Oh, don't you worry about that, Sugar. My husband's family tree has roots all the way back to the Mayflower,” she smiled. ”It also doesn't hurt a bit that he's a big, good lookin' homicide detective who just solved a major crime.” She winked at me. ”Of course, he had a little help from a friend.”
I did my best to look modest, probably unsuccessfully.
”Speaking of major crime, how did things turn out with the O'Hallorans?” Strutter wanted to know.
”James was clearly distraught,” Margo reported, ”and Joseph's death was ruled accidental. It was the attempted cover up and the running away part that threw a monkey wrench into the proceedings, and for that, James got a one-year sentence for obstruction of justice, suspended. He's receiving court-appointed therapy, which is the best part.”
”Was he allowed to return to work?” Strutter asked. I knew the answer to that one.
”He was, I'm happy to say. As Sister Marguerite put it, they would be poor excuses for Christians if they didn't stand by one of their own, and James has devoted his professional life to the UCC. He can't actually function as the Chief Financial Officer and sign doc.u.ments and financial reports and so on. His former a.s.sistant has been promoted to that role, but there's plenty of work for James to do. Mary says he's more than willing to accept a diminished role. In fact, he seems to be relieved at having less responsibility. I think he's going to be fine.”
”What about Mary's feelin's in all of this?” asked Margo.
I turned the question back to her. ”If this had happened to John, what would your feelings be?”
She smiled slowly. ”Gotcha. What about the little boy?”
”Patrick? That's probably the best part of all. Now that the secret of Patrick is out in the open, James is free to be a part of his life, and Mary couldn't be happier about it. They're going out to California together in a couple of weeks to visit Patrick. If things work out as they all hope, Mary may finally have a little boy to mother from time to time in the coming years.”
Olivia let go of the bench and held up her arms to her mother, wavering precariously. Strutter scooped her into her lap, where the little girl snuggled contentedly and stuck her thumb into her mouth.
”Time to get this one home for a nap,” she announced. Reluctantly, we all got to our feet. I collected the cups for the trash basket, and we strolled to our cars, which were parked at the curb. ”By the way, after you and Armando stole their thunder, whatever happened with Jeff and Donna?”
”Got over the flu and eloped to Mexico,” I said with satisfaction. ”Had a fabulous time at one of those all-inclusive couples places.”
”As long as we're tyin' up loose ends, how's Emma doin' after the bad break-up?” Margo asked. Again, I was glad to give my friends good news.
”It took her about ten minutes to get over the big jerk and maybe another ten to decide to go to a New Year's party thrown by an old friend from high school. A fellow in her cla.s.s that she had always liked but never quite connected with back then also showed up at the party, and the rest, as they say, is history. I don't think they've been apart since.”
”Promisin',” Margo agreed.
Strutter nodded as she straightened up from fastening Olivia securely into her car seat. ”I guess it wasn't such a terrible Christmas after all,” was her comment.
Margo and I laughed raucously, and Strutter looked sheepish, then giggled. ”Okay, it was terrible,” she admitted, ”but you have to admit that things have been uphill from there.”
”Okay, Pollyanna,” I chided her affectionately, ”you get the last word.”
Meet Judith K. Ivie.
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