“Shredded wheat,” I repeated. “The more you chew on it, the bigger it seems to get.”
Roma laughed and reached for her coffee. “Rebecca, I promise we’ll find you a dress that has nothing to do with breakfast cereal or giant yellow birds.”
Rebecca smiled across the table at us. “I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you.” She smoothed a hand over her silver-gray hair. She’d cut it herself—Rebecca had been a hairdresser for more than forty years—into a little gamin pixie that showed off her beautiful cheekbones and her blue eyes.
Rebecca Nixon wasn’t just my backyard neighbor, she was also the first friend I’d made when I’d come to Mayville Heights to supervise the renovation of the town’s library. In a couple of weeks she was going to marry her childhood sweetheart, Everett Henderson. And she still didn’t have a wedding dress.
I handed the phone back across the table to her. She looked at the photo again and gave a soft sigh. “Ami means well,” she said. “It’s just that she seems to have caught wedding fever from Everett.”
Ami was Everett Henderson’s only grandchild. She’d been close to Rebecca, whom she lovingly called Rebbie, for most of her life and she was overjoyed about the wedding. Rebecca and Everett had waited close to fifty years to be married, and Everett was determined to give her an elaborate celebration—whether or not she wanted it. And she didn’t.
I reached over and laid my hand on Rebecca’s arm. “My offer still stands,” I said, raising one eyebrow at her. Several months ago when Everett had been talking about having the wedding in The Basilica of St. Mary in downtown Minneapolis—which technically wasn’t possible since neither he nor Rebecca was Catholic—I’d jokingly told Rebecca I’d be happy to help her “kidnap” Everett and elope. “I have a full tank of gas in the truck and I’m betting Roma has a roll of duct tape in her bag.”
“I do,” Roma said. “But if you’re planning on making a wedding dress, you should know there’s only about half the roll left.”
“You know, I bet Maggie could make you a wedding dress out of duct tape,” I said, reaching for my coffee.
Maggie Adams was my closest friend in Mayville Heights, along with Roma. She was a mixed-media collage artist and potter; plus she taught tai chi. Mayville Heights had a thriving artists’ community. Maggie was the current president of the artists’ co-op and the most creative person I’d ever met. She’d made an incredibly realistic, life-size replica of Minnesota Wild hockey player Eddie Sweeney as part of a display for last year’s Winterfest celebration, and it had indirectly led to Roma’s current relationship with the real Eddie Sweeney. I had no doubt that Maggie could make Rebecca a wedding dress out of duct tape, or recycled newspaper, for that matter.
“If I don’t find a dress soon, I may have to get her to do that,” Rebecca said. She glanced down at the image of the funky chicken ball gown one more time and then tucked her phone in her purse. “Although I don’t think it would go with Everett’s plans.”
“If the wedding is still too elaborate, tell him,” I said.
Roma nodded in agreement. “Everett would marry you on an iceberg in the middle of the Bering Sea. He loves you. He just wants you to be happy.”
Rebecca had told me once that while she’d dreamed of being married to Everett, she’d never thought about the actual wedding. She didn’t care about flowers or food. Everett, on the other hand, wanted a celebration. He wanted the whole world to know how he felt about his bride, although you only had to spend a minute or two with both of them to see it. They made me believe in happily ever after.
“I know he would,” Rebecca said, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with one finger. “But all this . . . hoopla is important to him. He already agreed to scale his original plans back for me. I know he wants me to be happy, but I want him to be happy, too.”
“I know what you mean,” Roma said softly. She got the starry-eyed, slightly goofy look on her face that told me she was thinking about Eddie.
Over at the counter, waiter Nic Sutton looked our way and gestured at the coffeepot. I nodded. He reached for the glass carafe and headed in our direction.
“Thanks, Nic,” I said after he’d refilled our mugs.
“Could I get you anything else?” he asked. We’d made short work of three of Eric’s pecan sticky buns. I was tempted to have another, but in a couple of hours I was going to have to squeeze into a very formfitting dress, so I shook my head.
The library was hosting an evening fundraiser at the Stratton Theatre for our Reading Buddies program, which paired kindergartners with fourth and fifth graders to help foster a love of reading and improve their actual reading skills. The stage had been dressed to resemble a French bistro, with several local businesses providing elegant desserts. In a wonderful twist of coincidence, Eddie Sweeney’s college roommate was the leader and saxophone player in a jazz quartet, Jazzology. They were providing the “atmosphere.” Eddie was very generously—and quietly—covering their expenses.
“Roma, do you have plans for tomorrow night?” I asked as I added cream and sugar to my cup. I’d taken Friday night off to relax after the fundraising gala, but I was happy to give that up to help Rebecca find a dress.
“Paperwork and pizza,” she said, tucking her sleek dark brown hair behind one ear. “But I’m open to a better idea. Or any other idea.”
I smiled at Rebecca. “Let Roma and me take you shopping tomorrow night. Here in town or maybe over in Red Wing.”
“Please,” Roma added. “I don’t want to do paperwork all night.”
A smile stretched across Rebecca’s face. “Thank you. Yes. I don’t think I can do this without help.”
“I’ll drive,” Roma offered. She looked at Rebecca. “I’ll pick you up about quarter to seven.” She glanced at me. “And then we’ll come get you.”
I nodded. Roma’s SUV was a better choice than the three of us squashed onto the front seat of my old truck.
The front door of Eric’s Place swung open then and Lita Clarke stepped inside, pushing back the hood of her jacket. The red wool reminded me of the autumn leaves on the maple tree in Rebecca’s backyard. I felt a little twinge of sadness. I was going to miss Rebecca when she moved into Everett’s downtown apartment.
Lita smiled when she caught sight of us, stamped her feet on the mat by the door to shake the snow off her boots and then headed over.
“Kathleen, I’m glad I caught you,” she said. She pulled off her black woolen gloves, took an envelope from her purse and handed it to me. My name was written on the front in her tight, angular script. “Everett wanted you to have this.”
I lifted the flap of the envelope. There was a check inside made out to me. I looked uncertainly at Lita. “What’s this for?” I asked.
“For tomorrow,” she said. “Everett said he knows you’ll take Vincent Starr out to lunch after his presentation and he didn’t want you to use your own money.”
Everett knew me well. I was planning on taking the rare-book dealer to lunch after his presentation at the library Friday morning.
Vincent Starr was an expert on American literature and children’s books. We’d met when Abigail Pierce, one of my staff at the library, found a rare and valuable early edition of Alice in Wonderland in a box of books donated for the library’s fundraising yard sale my first summer in town.
Vincent and Abigail had stayed in touch. For the past month he’d been working at the Walker Art Center, in Minneapolis, curating a collection of late-nineteenth-century children’s literature that was going on display at the art museum. He’d agreed to come and give a talk about rare books. Abigail, who had been to one of Vincent’s lectures, promised he was an entertaining speaker. He was also a big supporter of projects for children’s literacy and he’d offered to come to the Reading Buddies fundraiser to mingle and talk about books.