I step outside the Riverside, and the pending winter greets me. The sun is down and the wind is gusting off the river.
These walks do me good.
I love these days when the seasons are changing, and the air is getting crisp. The leaves are coming down. The skies are shaded a bit greyer.
I get tired of the sunny, thoughtless days of summer – days passing without care. No, I prefer the colder weather, when I can hunker down, sit by the fire, sip mulled wine. And think.
It’s when I have my best ideas.
I can’t say the offer to Cassie was premeditated – it really had just come to me as we were talking, but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s right. I’ve been through the hospitality wars – or at least I watched Father fight them – so I know what she’s up against, and I think I can help.
I hope.
This starts with that Cecil person – not a bad cook, really. I just think he needs to be challenged. At the Golden Pillar, we always aim for the stars with our food. That’s the reason we’re so beloved. If this is a go, then that’s where we’ll start.
I do need a new project, of course, since my son-in-law has made no effort to bring me into his precious magazine despite my numerous, very large, often repeated hints that I wanted in. I wonder how that whole thing is going – the partnership most of all. Carson is a very mercurial sort, always stressed and intense.
Note to self: Check in with Mercury on that one.
And then there’s my Mercury, out solving the Crime of the Century (or whatever Miss Comportment is calling it this week). Sure, I’m proud of her, that she’s back to her full self after so many years off with the Prince doing God knows what. (Well, marrying him for one thing, but I digress.)
Mercury has so much talent – it’s just by happenstance that she’s able to help Silas with the investigation and solve this thing once and for all here on our very doorstep. Then what, I wonder? A mother always wonders, I know. Wonders and worries.
A small gaggle of tourists crosses the street in front of me, all wearing Mick Righteous t-shirts and hats, walking toward the statue. Clearly, they are here to pay homage. One is carrying a small bottle of liquor.
Such a scourge, that statue is. Those people are not like us. We need to give this town back to its people – get it back to its roots.
The tallest of the group removes his hat and places it over his heart, then takes a long swig from the bottle. He pours the rest at the foot of the structure.
“Forever Righteous, Dude! FOREVER!” he yells.
I can feel my blood pressure rising, the heat coming up into my cheeks despite the chill in the air.
This just will not do.
I pull my phone from my pocket with frozen fingers and scroll to the end of the contact list, down to the only person I know who’s as put off by this as I am.
“Wanda, darling … so good to speak … it’s Bitsy, dear. Bitsy McMurtry. … Yes, it’s been a while … well, we need to talk … it’s about the Mick statue. I just am not sure … OH, then you agree! Well, maybe it’s time you and I had lunch. How’s tomorrow at Noon? Riverside? … Perfect. I’ll be sure Cassie gives us the best table in the house. … Charming, just charming. … Well, I look forward to it. Bye now!”
Uggh. The woman makes me cringe – she is too much, but for this … for this, she could be absolutely perfect.
Gunnar Olafsson