“And a fine morning it is,” I said, smiling at her as I crossed the street. “But aren’t you going to be late for the Friends of the Library meeting?” For decades, Friends meetings had been held once a month on Saturday mornings.
Pam scowled. “Funny, Minnie, really funny.”
I blinked at her. “It was? I wasn’t trying to be.”
She blinked back. “Oh. Sorry. You must not have heard.”
No, I hadn’t, and whatever it was, I was getting a bad feeling about it.
“It was at the last Friends meeting,” Pam said, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d stepped outside to talk to me, and the cascading purple cardigan she wore over black pants and ankle-high shiny black boots wasn’t keeping out the cold.
“I guess you were out on the bookmobile that day,” she said. “By the time you got back it was all over.”
Yep, I was getting a very bad feeling. “What happened?”
“Denise Slade happened,” Pam practically spat. “I know I should feel sorry for her, with Roger being killed and her crash and everything, but that woman is impossible! Why Roger stayed married to her is a huge mystery.”
“What happened at the meeting?” I asked.
Pam rubbed her upper arms. “Typical Denise, really, but something about that day just sent me up the wall. Just because she’s the president doesn’t mean she has executive privilege to make decisions. She told us—told us!—that from now on the Friends were going to open the used bookstore on Wednesdays and Saturdays and not have it open any other time.” Pam’s face was a fierce scowl. “No vote, no nothing—just Denise changing the way we’ve done things for years because she thinks she knows the best way to do things.”
That sounded like Denise, all right.
She clutched at her arms, her fingernails digging deep into her sleeves. “No one else said a thing. Denise has them beat down to nothing. I said something like we should have a vote, or at least a general consensus. Denise gave a smirk—you know the one, right?”
I did, and my expression must have shown how much it annoyed me.
Pam nodded. “Yeah, well she gave that smirk and said there already was consensus, and if I didn’t like it, that I knew where the door was.” She stopped. Smiled a little. “So you know what I did?”
An uneasy feeling crinkled around in my stomach. “Do I really need to know?”
She grinned. “I lit into her the way I’ve been wanting to do for months. And you know what? It felt great.”
“Minnie? Minnie!” A woman was waving from the passenger’s window of a dark sedan.
“Surprised to see us?” she asked, laughing. “We’re headed to the gallery, if you have a few minutes.”
I stared at the mid-fiftyish couple in the car, who were both smiling broadly.
They weren’t supposed to be here. They should have been long gone. Why were they still in Michigan?
“Please say you can stop by,” the woman said. “We have a lot to tell you.”
I bet, I thought grimly. And I have a thing or two to tell you.
I turned back to Pam. “Sorry, but I have to go.”
“That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “All I was going to do was complain about Denise, and I’m sure you get enough of that without me.”
“Even the most tolerant of people have their breaking points,” I said. “And though I understand how you feel about Denise, I hope you’ll consider rejoining the Friends someday.”
Pam laughed. “Not as long as she’s there, but you’re a sweetie for trying. Anytime you want morning coffee, just let me know and I’ll bring an extra mug onto the porch.”
She ducked back inside to the warmth of her store, and I hurried the three blocks to my new destination.
By the time I burst in the front door of the Lakeview Art Gallery, I’d built up a nice head of steaming outrage. I shut the door firmly behind me and faced my good friends Barb and Russell McCade with my hands on my hips and my chin up. Behind them was a middle-aged woman I assumed was the new gallery manager, but introductions would have to wait.
“Why are you still here?” I asked, glaring at the smiling McCades. They were standing next to a large canvas, the back of which was to me. Though I was excited to see the painting, I didn’t move. There were things that needed to be said.
I kept glaring. “You promised you’d be gone before the first snowfall. You took solemn vows that you’d be in Arizona before there was any danger of driving on snowy roads. You promised me—”
Russell McCade, known to most as Cade, an internationally famous artist, grinned and turned the painting around. His left hand lost its grip, but Barb caught the painting before it hit the floor. “What do you think?” Cade asked. “Not bad for an old man still recovering from a stroke, yes?”
Oh, yes. I drank in the glorious colors, the uneven brushstrokes, the shapes and images and impressions taking me straight back to the end of summer, to dark blue evenings on the lake, to cool air and the knowledge that winter was coming. It was powerful and beautiful and haunting, and I didn’t want to look away.
“Sentimental schlock,” Cade said, quoting one of his few critics.
“But well-done sentimental schlock,” Barb added, quoting one of his thousands of supporters.
“I couldn’t finish this painting in Arizona,” Cade said. “I had to work on it here, and I couldn’t leave until it was done.”
He had a point, and a good one at that. It wouldn’t have been easy for him to visualize the greens and blues of summer in northern lower Michigan in the middle of the reds and browns of southern Arizona. Still, there had been a promise made, and I wasn’t letting them off the hook that easily.
“You promised,” I said, trying not to sound like an eight-year-old. “You said—both of you said—that you’d leave before snow, and if you didn’t, you’d call me instead of driving yourselves anywhere. It snowed ten inches barely a week ago, and did I get a phone call? No.”
I crossed my arms and waited for their answer. It wasn’t long in coming, and it was about what I’d expected.
Cade laughed, and Barb made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
“My dear Minnie,” Cade said. “I know you’ve taken a proprietary interest in my health since you and your bookmobile rushed me to the hospital, and there is no question that your rapid response is what helped me recover from the stroke so quickly, but Barb and I aren’t exactly elderly. Neither one of us is even sixty.”
Barb took her husband’s hand. “Besides, we didn’t drive anywhere while there was snow on the roads. We just stayed home. I read some of those wonderful books you’ve recommended, and Cade finished his painting.” She nodded at the canvas.
“Plus,” Cade said, “our bags are packed and we’re headed for the airport the moment we leave here.”
I gave a mock sigh. “So you’re on the way out of town?”
“Decidedly,” Cade said, smiling a little.
I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. Last summer the McCades and I had become acquainted over Cade’s hospital bed, and it had solidified into a permanent friendship over the use of words that started with the letter D. To have him pull one out now was a top-notch use.
“You’re incorrigible,” I said.
“Are we doing I words?” Barb asked. “Because I’ve always wanted to use the word ‘irrefragable’ in a sentence.”
“You just did,” Cade said. He smartly stepped out of the way of her elbow and smiled at me. “How is that fuzzy feline of yours?” Cade and Eddie had become good friends over the past few months, but I finally had to forbid Cade from bringing him any more treats or cat toys until next spring. Even Eddie could only eat and play so much.
“Fuzzier than ever,” I assured him.
“You can expect the portrait by Valentine’s Day,” Cade said. “I’ll have it crated and freighted direct to you.”