Ice on the Chickotee, ice in my glass ….
Wasn’t that a song? Well, it should be.
The icy chunks line the banks of our lifeblood, of the vein of our existence, and yet I still feel like skipping. Any other day, such a sight would get me down, but not today.
It’s Book Club Day, at long last!
Taking care to avoid slipping, I make the shivering walk down River Road to the Riverside, thinking all the way about Cassie, food, friends – and the fact that I don’t care if these women sit there and slug down wine the whole time, which is what more than one of them said they were likely to do if I pick another book like the one for today.
Seven Years of Total Misery, by Martin J. Pilfer, weighing in at 840 pages. “Little more than a doorstop,” according to two of the ladies. A “scourge on my social life,” said another in an email.
Of course, I hear nothing from Shirley. God willing, she’s there today. She knows things, of this I’m certain – about Carson, in particular. Buying a house is a little like surgery – you open yourself up to people you don’t know and hope they do what’s necessary to get you to health, or get you into a new home, but you reveal all you have when you do it.
I simply cannot allow Lindy to get involved with Carson, not as long as Lindy is married to my daughter (and surely that isn’t changing any time soon).
It’s just the way Carson has slowly edged into all things Middle Valley – first, giving money to Elyse’s organization, then falling for, then dating her. Very suspicious, very … programmed.
Now, it’s the magazine with Lindy … he’s building an existence here in the same way he built his company. Methodically, one step at a time, at a calculated pace that now has come around and is ready to impact my family.
Shirley and I are natural partners here – if not uncomfortable ones. I think she’s more prone to new money like Carson’s, but that’s how she makes her money. I, on the other hand, am not at all sure that we need these people who, near as I can tell, are just on a quest to “find their retirement selves” or something like that.
But that’s where we stand, I figure, opening the door to the Riverside.
The warmth coming from the hearth was most welcome, as was Cassie’s smile. “Miss Bitsy, grab you a wine?”
I nod. “Yes!”
Club members are already milling next to the bar, chatting, as Cassie motioned toward me and smiled. “840 pages? Seriously, are you trying to kill them?”
I laugh. “Ah, they’ve mentioned … well, I don’t know … I just …”
The door opens and in walks Shirley, tome in hand.
“Bitsy, good to see you,” she says, removing her jacket. “This, on the other hand,” she says, placing the book on the bar, “is bunk. You really need an editor for this book club.”
Jenny Page