10 Never Mess with Mistletoe Page 3

  The disconnect was not lost on Olympia, who jumped into the awkward silence with enthusiasm. “Oh, Frances has always loved the era! Most of the pieces are her own. She’s simply taken excellent care of them over the years, so she’s been able to recreate the original effect with only a few adjustments. Others may pluck their decor from here or there, changing everything willy-nilly” — Olympia’s gestures here were especially emphatic — “but when it comes to color and consistency of style, Frances has always been a purist. Haven’t you, Frances?”

  Frances’s lips made the slightest of movements.

  “Of course she has!” Olympia answered for her. “Now, you may see some pieces sitting out today that don’t quite fit our needs for the tour, but of course this isn’t the finished product. The Floribundas are prepared to make this home a quintessential museum of middle-American family life at a nineteen seventies’ Christmas!”

  The Regional Coordinator’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, my,” she said in a whisper, moving toward the entrance to the dining room. Everyone followed as she stepped to the table, her eyes fixed on the display of fake fruit at its center. “Glass grapes!” she exclaimed, crossing her hands over her heart. “I’d nearly forgotten these existed! My grandmother used to make them. She had a kit!”

  “And wax fruit!” the committee chair exclaimed, rushing up with a clap of her hands. “In a cranberry-glass bowl! Oh, doesn’t that take you back!”

  Leigh stole a glance at her mother and saw a healthy rose color returning to her cheeks. “Why, thank you,” Frances said meekly, even as her chest puffed up with pride. “I do love my fruit. Like I always say, ‘Quality will last, as long as one takes proper care.’”

  Olympia laughed loudly. “Oh, Frances, dear, you are such a hoot!” She shot an arm around Frances’s shoulders, which remained stiff. “One of the funniest women I know! Would you like to see the kitchen, ladies? It’s practically famous. It’s been in a magazine!”

  The muscles in Frances’s jaw tightened briefly. “Yes, please,” she managed with grace. “Come see the kitchen. We had it completely remodeled after we bought the house. We had to, actually, because there had been a small fire previously. A malfunctioning toaster, we were told. Of course, the timing was perfect for us, because we were able to purchase the house at a very reasonable price…”

  The group shuffled into the next room, and Leigh fought an internal debate. Her mother was going to be fine; Leigh could slip out now. But she gave in to her own curiosity. She was dying to know what fictional magazine had done a spread on the Koslow kitchen.

  “You’ve probably never heard of it,” Olympia trilled on, hands flying. “It was called Living Retro. Or was it Retro Living? Something like that. Anyway, they ran some sort of contest and Frances sent in a picture, and she won! They sent a photographer out, and he did a lovely article. Of course, that was before she redid the floor. This tile is beautiful, of course, but such a shame to have to cover that gorgeous vinyl! For two bits, I’d pull all this up just for the tour!”

  Leigh blinked with amazement. Olympia’s series of off-the-cuff fabrications had included one accidental truth. There was indeed a vintage vinyl floor underneath the ceramic tile on which they stood. The old floor had been covered only a few years ago, when Leigh’s Aunt Bess had been redoing her own kitchen and had mistakenly ordered enough tile for Frances’s kitchen also. It was an “accident” that Leigh was certain had more to do with Bess’s hatred of the old vinyl than any error of math. The flooring Leigh grew up with had a daisy-yellow background and repeating globules of green, brown, and orange that were big enough to play hopscotch on.

  Leigh winced slightly at the memory. Seventies nostalgia was all well and good. But some things were better off covered by a quarter inch of earth tones.

  “Oh, but the rest of the room is just darling!” the chair of the tour committee exclaimed. “If these appliances were only green instead of white, it would look just like the kitchen on The Brady Bunch!”

  Leigh grinned. She and Cara had been saying the same thing ever since they watched the reruns themselves as kids. The Koslows’ countertops were a vivid orange. The cabinets were all smooth-faced, covered with a fake-wood veneer and lacking any hardware pulls. The sink was — and always had been — stainless steel. The curtains, dishtowels, and toaster cozy were all dull green. Every potholder was emblazoned with a mushroom.

  “I can definitely see potential,” the Regional Coordinator announced.

  “Well, you will have absolutely no worries whatsoever about the physical condition of this house,” Olympia bloviated. “As you can see yourself, it’s been kept immaculately, both inside and out. Frances’s husband is a registered electrician and plumber, and we can assure you there will be no problems whatsoever with public safety!”

  Leigh fought to keep from laughing aloud. The image of her workaholic veterinarian father being certified in two other professions was too amusing. She wondered if Olympia even knew what Randall did for a living.

  “Well, let’s see the upstairs, shall we?” Olympia continued. “You’re just going to love what she’s done with the master bedroom! Frances, dear, shall you tell them how you acquired that absolutely gorgeous metal fish sculpture on the wall in the bathroom, or shall I? Ooh, never mind! I will. I simply must! Well, ladies, Frances and her husband happened to be tooling around the Three Rivers Arts Festival one summer back in the day, and they came across one particular artist who simply amazed them…”

  Leigh hung back, listening from below, as Olympia led the other women up the staircase. Frances trailed behind, rubbing her hands nervously, no doubt hoping that none of the women would look too closely at the fish sculpture, which — although it had indeed hung in its current location since the seventies — had probably been purchased from JC Penny and made in Taiwan.

  Within a few minutes the women trooped back down again, the impeccably preserved rooms and outrageous commentary having left broad smiles on every face except Frances’s. Frances was still on tenterhooks.

  “Well, I think we’ve seen all we need to see,” the Regional Coordinator said, exchanging a nod with the committee chair. “We shall make the substitution! Ladies, can your chapter have this house decorated for Christmas in — she looked at her watch with a grim set to her lips — twenty-three and a half hours?”

  “Absolutely!” Frances and Olympia said simultaneously, Frances’s face now beaming.

  “Well, we’d best be on our way, then. We’ll have to see about making some fliers to redirect people. We’ll have to make adjustments with the parking zone and look into the insurance situation…”

  “Oh, of course, of course!” Olympia agreed, handing the women their coats. “Let me walk you out. Frances, we simply must inform the rest of the Floribundas right—”

  “We’ll convene an emergency meeting immediately,” Frances interrupted. “There are a million things to be done!”

  The women exchanged their final pleasantries in brisk fashion, then Frances shut the door behind the three of them and whirled around, her dark eyes twinkling. “Oh, Leigh! Do you believe it?”

  Leigh couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so happy. Certainly not in the last few, tension-filled months that she’d been feuding with her twin. “Congratulations, Mom,” she praised. She grabbed her own coat again.

  “A substitution the day before the event is unthinkable!” Frances said breathlessly. “I never believed that Olympia could talk them into it. I still can’t believe it!”

  Leigh smirked. “I can’t believe that Dad is a registered plumber.”

  Frances waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, poo. That woman lies like a rug.”

  “So I noticed,” Leigh agreed. “And yet you elected her president?”

  Frances’s eyes rolled. She headed off toward the kitchen in a flurry. “Well, for heaven’s sake, who else is going to do it? There isn’t a member among us who hasn’t taken on that miserable job at least twice now
. Complaints, always complaints, always a better way to do something, nobody’s ever happy! Women calling you up at all hours telling you who said what and what went wrong and how somebody else used to do it better and how they would do it differently if they were in charge but of course they don’t want to be in charge because they have more important things to do with their own time!” She picked up her ancient landline phone. “I’ve served four terms already and I’ll be dee-diddly-darned if they’re ever talking me into it again!”

  Leigh’s mouth dropped open. If serving as president of the Floribundas was considered more of a burden than a privilege, this was the first she’d heard of it. Frances had always given the impression that such work was, at the very least, a sacred duty.

  “Hello, Anna Marie?” Frances barked into the phone. “Frances, here. Activate the phone chain! Olympia did it! We’re on the tour!”

  Leigh took a step back as a noise erupted from the handset that sounded like the squawking of a very large parrot. I’ll be going now, she mouthed with a wave. She moved quickly to the back door, not wanting to bump into a returning Olympia.

  Frances returned her wave absently. “I know! Isn’t it marvelous!” she gushed into the phone.

  Leigh opened the back door and stepped out. Getting the house completely decorated and ready for hundreds of people to tour in less than twenty-four hours would be a huge undertaking for eight women of the Floribundas’ age. It would be a pain in the butt for eight people of any age. Leigh had no doubt that she would get roped into the process, the only question was how long she could avoid the summons. The Harmon family would all be busy with her son Ethan’s party tonight; whatever else Leigh had to get done before Sunday she realized she had better do now.

  “You most certainly are responsible for the phone chain, Anna Marie!” Frances insisted, her voice rising with frustration. “No, that was last year! I will not ask her! It’s your—”

  Leigh quietly clicked the door shut behind her.

  Chapter 3

  The street outside buzzed with activity as the two garden club officials drove away, Olympia started back toward the house, and Lydie’s car pulled up next door. Leigh waited for her aunt and soon-to-be-uncle to park, then walked over.

  “Hello there!” she said cheerfully, noting how happy the couple looked. They were carrying multiple red and green shopping bags and their cheeks were flushed with cold… or something.

  “Hello, Leigh,” Lydie replied warmly, but with a twinge of concern. “What brings you here at this hour? Is everything all right?” She stole a glance toward Frances’s house. “What’s all the commotion?”

  Leigh began to answer, then was struck by the odd impression that Lydie looked an awful lot like Frances. Leigh blinked and did a double take. The thought was a strange one. Granted, the sisters were identical twins. But in Leigh’s lifetime they had always looked far too different to be confused. Not only had Frances always been plump, but she dressed formally and carried herself with the utmost in self-confidence. Lydie was nobody’s doormat, for sure, but she always seemed too busy to be proud of herself. She was in constant motion, dressed for practicality, and had always been thin — sometimes painfully so, especially in the face and shoulders.

  Leigh cocked an eyebrow. Her aunt had most definitely put on weight. Her natural pear shape was more pronounced and her cheeks were full and rosy. She wore a colorful new outfit that Leigh had never seen before and there was something different about her hair, as well. “Believe it or not,” Leigh explained, “the Koslow home is going to be an official stop on the Holiday House Tour. Tomorrow.”

  Lydie used a word Leigh had never heard her speak before. Leigh laughed out loud as Mason Dublin walked around the car and took the packages from his fiance’s hands.

  “I don’t know what a Holiday House Tour is,” he said jovially. “But if it’s got you swearing in the middle of a Friday afternoon, I’m guessing you’d better go on over there.”

  Lydie swallowed. She looked from Mason to Leigh to Frances’s house, and then back to Mason again. “I don’t have to.”

  Leigh watched as a silent exchange ensued between the couple. Their history with each other and with Frances was a long and complicated one. Lydie and Mason had met when they were young, and after a whirlwind courtship they had gotten married and Leigh’s cousin Cara had been born. But Mason had been a bit of a scamp, to say the least, and Frances had never approved of him. The marriage ended quickly and disastrously, just as Frances had predicted, and the couple went on to lead separate lives. But recently, their more mature counterparts had reconnected, and slowly but surely they’d discovered what turned out to be an amazingly long-burning flame.

  Lydie and Mason were very happy together, and everyone in the family was happy for them. Everyone except Frances.

  “Go on, love,” Mason insisted, giving Lydie a quick peck on the cheek. “You know you want to.”

  Lydie’s face tightened with concern. “Her blood pressure has been on the high side lately.”

  “Go,” Mason repeated.

  Lydie kissed him back. On the lips. Then she said goodbye to Leigh and went.

  “Can I help you carry something in?” Leigh asked, looking at the bags Mason was juggling.

  The blue-green eyes which looked so much like Cara’s twinkled at her mischievously. “You may not,” he replied. “It’s Christmas. There are things in these bags no one may see until Santa comes.”

  Leigh smiled back at him. She had always liked Mason, despite his earlier challenges in law abidance. “Can I at least open the door for you?”

  He squirmed around and produced his keys. “You may.”

  Leigh took the keys and let them both into her aunt’s house, which was nearly identical to the Koslow home except for lacking a half bath downstairs. Much like the twin sisters themselves, the resemblance was in structure only. Lydie’s house was brightly colored and cozy, filled with low-budget and second-hand furniture that was clearly selected for comfort over style. The house was always reasonably clean, but just cluttered and messy enough to feel like home. When Leigh was a child, coming over to Cara’s house had felt like taking off your church dress and slipping into a cotton romper.

  “So tell me,” Mason asked as he set the packages down and waved Leigh toward a chair. “What’s all this about a house tour?”

  Leigh offered a brief summary. Mason sank back in his own chair and whistled. “Francie will be in high clover, for sure. And her diastolic will be getting up there too, I’ll bet.”

  Leigh nodded in agreement. Her mother’s diagnosis of high blood pressure the month before had been troubling to all concerned. The family had long since learned how to take even the most full-blown Frances freak-out in stride, but now, with the risk of stroke added into the equation, they’d all been walking on eggshells.

  “Maybe I should take off for the weekend,” he said thoughtfully, scratching a jaw covered with several days’ worth of stubble. Whether he knew the look was sexy or whether he’d simply been too lazy to shave, Leigh didn’t know. They had all been pretending not to notice, for the children’s sake, how much time Mason spent at her aunt’s house these days, as opposed to his own apartment in Bellevue. The man might be nearing seventy, but with his full head of hair and devil-may-care smile, Mason Dublin could still catch women’s eyes. It was easy to see how Lydie had fallen so completely for his younger incarnation, reckless troublemaker though he may have been.

  “Why would you need to leave?” Leigh asked.

  Mason threw her a look, then sighed. “You know why, kid,” he said ruefully. “Things haven’t been the same between the sisters for months, and it’s all because of me.”

  Leigh felt a heavy weight in her middle. She couldn’t deny the truth of that. “But it’s not your fault, Mason.”

  He shook his head. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. Facts are facts. And I hate what it’s doing to Lydie.”

  “I know,” Leigh agreed. “But I do
think my mother is trying. She’s… not openly hostile, at least. Right?”

  Mason chuckled. “She smiles and looks right through me. I can deal with that. The problem is that she won’t set foot in this house if she knows I’m here. She won’t even call. She’ll only talk to her sister — really talk — when they’re alone. Which means the more time I spend with the woman I love, the less time the two of them spend together. And they’re so used to being close… it’s getting to both of them, I think.”

  “My mother doesn’t want to be difficult,” Leigh tried to explain. “The problem is that she genuinely believes Lydie is making a mistake. She can’t make peace with the situation as long as she believes that, even if she does manage to control what comes out of her mouth. We all know she’s wrong… maybe we need to try harder to convince her.”

  Mason smiled sardonically. “It’s been forty-three years, kid. How much more time are we talking about? Lydie and I are pretty well preserved, but we’re not immortal.”

  Leigh had no response to that. Mason rose again. “I think I’ll head out to Jennerstown for the weekend. I have a few more things to tie up before the sales are final on the farm and the store.”

  “You can’t be gone all weekend!” Leigh protested, rising with him. “Ethan and Allison’s birthday is Sunday.”

  “Oh, right!” he exclaimed with a start. “Can’t miss that! Don’t worry. I’ll be back by Sunday afternoon. But if this house tour thing is as big a deal as you say, it’s best I make myself scarce. Lydie’s been firm about not giving in to her sister’s tantrums — she insists if she wants to spend time with me, that’s what she’s going to do. But if I’m not around, she won’t feel conflicted.”

  Leigh frowned with frustration. “This is the Mason my mother never sees,” she mumbled. She gave him a quick hug and headed for the door.

  “You keep your mother out of trouble, now,” he called after her. “This will be quite a milestone for Francie. I didn’t think she’d ever get over the trauma of that sweet sixteen party. She used to say she’d rather march straight to hell than throw another big to-do in her own backyard ever again! But I guess time heals all wounds.”