“You sound as if you need a vacation, too,” Judith noted.
Heading east, Renie steered the Joneses’ Toyota Camry—affectionately known to its owners as “Cammy”—above the city’s main freeway. “I probably do. January and February are always hectic with annual reports. But once my concepts are ready to be filled with useless, boring copy, things slow down. Did you choose your spot yet?”
Judith nodded. “Dana Point. Why don’t you two come with us?”
Renie made a face as she headed past the tree-lined streets north of the University. “I may not be a sun-and-sand person, but Bill, as a native Midwesterner, gets glum when the days are still gloomy. I’ll think on it.”
“It’d be fun,” Judith asserted as Renie started down a narrow street on a steep hill. “Dana Point has a whale watch during March. The beaches are wonderful and we could go over to Catalina.”
“It’s still California,” Renie said, and yawned. “I prefer a swanky mountain resort at Bugler in British Columbia.”
“At Dana Point, Joe and Bill could charter a boat,” Judith argued as Renie made a quick turn to park on the verge of the cemetery that was located by the tea shop. “The deep-sea fishing there is excellent.”
Renie parked across from the tea shop on the edge of the Catholic cemetery where both of the cousins’ fathers and several other Grover family members were buried. “We’ll toast them with an Earl Grey,” Renie said. “Let’s eat.”
The tea shop was busy, but Judith and Renie were seated almost immediately. The cozy comfort lifted Judith’s spirits only a trifle. Her dark eyes scanned the surroundings—flowered draperies, framed photos of English royalty, past and present, sketches of famous castles, stuffed animals, and live doves in a cage by the front window. Dana Point seemed a world away.
“Tea,” Renie said. “A brisk cup of tea will do you wonders. Stop acting like you’re on a permanent trip to the cemetery.”
Judith smiled weakly. “Sorry. I’m kind of tired.”
Renie glanced up at the white-aproned waitress. “A pot of Earl Grey with steak and kidney pie,” she said, closing the menu.
“Uh…the same,” Judith said, not having studied the selections.
“Okay,” Renie said, after their server left. “Pay attention, heed my advice. Cheat.”
Judith was aghast. “Coz! Our parents taught us never to cheat!”
The waitress returned with a bone china teapot that had a pattern of purple flowers. “Get your mother in on it,” Renie said, pouring tea through an antique strainer. “Cut a deal.”
“How?”
Renie stirred cream and sugar into her Royal Worcester cup. “It’s March, baseball spring training. Bet Joe he can’t hit a ball over the Rankerses’ hedge.”
Judith was puzzled. “So?”
“Have your mother watch. When he hits the ball—doesn’t matter where—have her cued to say, ‘Good one, Joe.’ For DiMaggio, get it? Aunt Gert can remember that. It’s from her good old days.”
Judith shook her head. “It sounds complicated. Before I can set it up, she’s bound to call him some awful name. If she does, I lose.”
“Then act fast. Right after we finish lunch.” Renie paused to sip her tea. “Have you chosen a place to stay at Dana Point?”
“One of my weekend guests from San Diego suggested the St. Regis Monarch Beach Resort,” Judith replied. “It’s pricey, but worth it.”
Renie gave a nod. “Maybe we could come along. Bill loves to walk the ocean beaches. Now eat, sip, and relax. Victory’s in the bag.”
Judith, however, had her doubts.
An hour and a half later, Renie pulled into the Flynns’ driveway. She insisted on staying until Judith heard from Ingrid Heffelman. “Bring the cordless phone,” Renie said. “Joe’s MG is gone, so he’s not home. Let’s tell your mother about our plan so you can win the bet.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Judith picked up the receiver and headed out the back door. “I tell you, Mother’s not herself lately. Last Friday night, she wouldn’t even play bridge with those retired schoolteachers.”
“Yes,” Renie said. “My mom had to get a sub for her—Nora Plebuck, who can’t drive and lives out north. I got stuck picking up my mom, collecting Nora, and taking them home. I felt like a damned taxi.”
Judith nodded in sympathy. “I figured you’d end up being the patsy. But I couldn’t talk Mother into going.” She tapped once on the door to the converted toolshed, then turned the knob.
Gertrude was in her chair behind the cluttered card table. The TV was turned off. It struck Judith that the old lady had been sitting and staring. Or perhaps catching one of her many catnaps.
“Hi,” Judith said cheerily. “Renie’s here.”
Gertrude’s faded old eyes focused briefly on her niece. “So?”
“So,” Renie said, kissing her aunt’s cheek, “you should be agog.”
Gertrude snorted. “I should be a dog? Louder, Serena. I’m deaf.”
“Never mind,” Renie said. “How do you feel?”
“With my fingers,” Gertrude said. “When I can bend ’em.”
“Is that why you didn’t play cards the other night?” Renie inquired.
Gertrude’s expression was glum. “Maybe.”
Renie and Judith exchanged anxious glances. Gertrude’s lethargy was upsetting. “Want to come for dinner tomorrow night at our house?”
“Why? You can’t cook.”
“I actually can,” Renie said. “Lamb steaks and greenie noodles?”
Gertrude shook her head.
“Pot roast?”
Gertrude again shook her head.
“Fried chicken?”
Gertrude didn’t bother to respond.
“We could play cribbage after dinner,” Renie suggested.
Gertrude’s head jerked up. “Never!”
“Oh, come on, Aunt Gert,” Renie said, putting a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “You know you’ll beat me. I haven’t played crib for so long that I’ll have to relearn the game.”
Gertrude pulled away from her niece’s touch. She was so upset that her head began to shake and she clamped her lips shut.
“Mother,” Judith said with concern, “what’s wrong? Are you sick?”
There was a long pause before Gertrude spoke. “Sick at heart.”
Judith leaned down closer to her mother. “About what?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Okay,” Renie said, moving away from her aunt. “Don’t. But we’ve got something to tell you.”
Gertrude’s face brightened. “You’re both getting a divorce?”
“No, Mother.” Judith sighed. “It has to do with…” She frowned and glanced at Renie. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” Gertrude demanded, looking more like her usual prickly self.
Renie gave her cousin a warning look. “Make a bet. Judith against Joe.”
“I like that part,” Gertrude said.
“Good,” Renie said. “Here’s the deal and what we want you to do.”
The old lady listened attentively, but didn’t comment until Renie had finished relating her plan to have Gertrude refer to Joe DiMaggio’s hitting prowess. When she did speak, she sounded confused. “I don’t get it. I always liked Lou Gehrig better. You know his nickname?”
Renie nodded. “The Iron Horse, because he never missed a game.”
“Oh, that’s so,” Gertrude agreed. “But he had another nickname—Biscuit Pants. I forget why, but I like it.”
“Interesting,” Renie remarked. “I didn’t know that. Remember—all you do is say, ‘Way to go, Joe,’ when he hits the ball.”
“Sounds screwy to me,” Gertrude muttered. “Do I win a prize?”
Renie nodded. “You don’t have to eat dinner at our house.”
“Sounds good to me,” Gertrude said.
The cordless phone rang, making Judith jump. Swiftly, she picked the receiver up from the card table and answered.