A Piggly Wiggly Christmas (12 page)

“Then double it will have to be, Mr. Jahnke,” Meta replied without batting an eyelash. “We intend to make our home on the second floor, so we won’t accomplish anything by not having that properly wired, too. Might as well do it all at once.” She gave Petey a hurried glance. “Right, honey?”

“Makes sense to me.”

“I understand what you’re both sayin’,” Rusty added. “But no matter where we put ’em, we gotta cut lotsa holes in the walls to snake the wires and then you’ll want us to patch ’em up, I’m guessin’, and—”

Meta interrupted with a patient smile. “Mr. Jahnke, we’re convinced you know what you’re doing. Just tell us how long the work will take.”

“Oh . . . uh, a week or so. Maybe a little less if everything goes right. Are you wantin’ it all done by Christmas for sure?”

“If at all possible. I realize the building has a bare-bones look and feel to it now, but we artists don’t mind working with that. Sometimes, people expect a funkier, more offbeat ambience when they walk into an art gallery. You know—the rustic, exposed beams, the walls with the worn plaster, that sort of thing. But we absolutely have to have those lights for effect.”

Rusty managed a friendly chuckle. “And some heat’d help, too, I imagine. Saw where we’re predicted to keep havin’ this cold weather all the rest a’ this month. I got someone to recommend to ya for your HVAC work, if you want. Ronnie Lutrelle’s the best in town, and he could prob’ly get a system installed for ya real quick. I can work with him pretty close on that. Meantime, I’ll make a note to bring me a coupla space heaters so my crew don’t freeze to death once they get to work. Guess I don’t have to tell ya, it’s like an icebox in here.”

Petey had been making mental notes and gave Meta a reaffirming glance. “I think we’re ready to take all your recommendations and get started then. Full speed ahead!”

Rusty Jahnke had no sooner driven off with mission accomplished than Petey and Meta were approached by Novie Mims’s son, Marc, and his partner, Michael Peeler, of How’s Plants?—the clever botanical boutique located on the other side of The Square. Most Second Creekers found them fascinating to observe from the “opposites attract” angle: Marc was small and delicate with a tangle of dark, curly hair, while Michael was a big sturdy, freckle-faced redhead.

“My mother told us you were in town getting ready to start work on this art gallery,” Marc said after the usual round of greetings. “It’s very exciting to hear that we’ll have some more new blood here on The Square. Especially the kind that will contribute to Second Creek’s cultural life. Michael and I have made it our mission not to let that languish, and we both wanted you to know we’re behind you one hundred percent. Oh, and congratulations on your engagement.” He paused briefly, looking slightly embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean to make that sound like an afterthought. It seems to be the talk of the town. We pretty much figured out you two were going to become a permanent item by the way you hit it off during that extravaganza at the Victorian Tea Room over the summer.” Then he quickly turned toward Michael. “ ‘Betcha anything they’re a match!’ I said to you, didn’t I?”

“You did, and they were. Just like the two of us.”

Meta seemed particularly charmed by their banter. “There’s no doubt about that. And as for your support of my gallery, I would expect nothing less from a son of a Nitwitt.”

Everyone laughed as Marc continued. “All roads do seem to lead back to that dear group of ladies, don’t they? I even get the feeling that everyone in Second Creek is somehow related to one of the Nitwitts.”

“That would include me now, as a matter of fact,” Petey added. “My mother’s a full-fledged member, too.”

“Ah, yes!” Michael chimed in, his broad face beaming. “The very glamorous and energetic Mayor’s wife. We have nothing but good things to say about the new administration and all of their original ideas. We also can’t wait for Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve.”

“Absolutely!” Meta exclaimed. “We’re hoping to get the gallery up and running in time for that, though it could be a tight squeeze.”

Michael managed an exaggerated little shiver and said: “That would be fantastic if you can swing it. Meanwhile, may I suggest that we not continue this conversation any further without benefit of a little warmth. It’s a bit raw today. Besides, we’ve had our ‘out to lunch—back soon’ sign in the window long enough. We don’t want our customers beating down the door for our bushes and ferns. So, why don’t we head across to our place and take the chill off with a cup of coffee or two?”

A few minutes later, they were all contentedly sipping away around a long table flanked by huge potted ficus plants with special sale price tags hanging from them. Sufficiently warmed now, Meta resumed her earlier train of thought in earnest. “My mother tells me she’s been working on the publicity campaign with Miz Myrtis, Miz Denver Lee, and Mr. Powell Hampton, and they’ve already got three church buses from Greenwood signed up to come over on Christmas Eve. All the Nitwitts are saying that this will overtake the Miss Delta Floozie Contest in popularity as an annual event in The Square.”

Marc was stirring his coffee, looking slightly distant. “I fervently hope so. It’s not that The Square is on its last leg or anything like that, although you can see for yourselves that we’ve got a few vacancies, so to speak. They say the MegaMart and all those other stores out on the Bypass keep taking their toll. Those of us who are sticking it out downtown have generally been rewarded by the locals, though. In the short time since Michael and I moved from San Francisco, we’ve discovered that Second Creekers are fiercely loyal to their own. That’s where the Nitwitt connection comes in. But it would still be nice to get a fresh infusion of out-oftowners to pad our coffers.”

“So how’s things at How’s Plants?, if you’ll excuse the grammar?” Meta said.

This time, it was Michael who stepped in with a tinge of resignation in his voice. “Oh, we made a big enough splash over the summer, thanks to Marc’s mother and her friends. It got to where the first thing out of a customer’s mouth was, ‘I want you to know that a Nitwitt sent me to you today!’ Then they’d pick out an azalea or dwarf gardenia or two and politely skedaddle. I wish we’d kept records, there were so many visits like that. And then your mother’s wedding out at Evening Shadows was quite a boon to us, too, Petey. But we really haven’t had a lot of repeat business. I wouldn’t say we have our financial hopes pinned on the effects of Caroling in The Square, but it certainly couldn’t hurt over the long haul.”

Petey gave Meta a gentle nudge as he checked his watch. “I think the time’s getting away from us. We’re staying out at Evening Shadows this trip down, and Miz Myrtis will be worried about us. It’s nearly lunchtime.”

Marc’s curiosity was clearly visible on his face. “You can’t beat Evening Shadows for hospitality, no doubt about that. But I’m surprised you two aren’t staying here in town.”

“Long, messy story,” Meta began, rolling her eyes. “My mother, bless her meddling little heart, has been next to impossible about our living arrangements for this trip. We haven’t even begun to fix up the second floor of our store, where we’re going to live. Anyhow, she wanted me to stay with her and for Petey to stay with his mother and Mr. Choppy. But we saw no reason to be kept apart at this time in our lives. We’re no moony-eyed teenyboppers, you know.” Meta’s facial expression became even more exaggerated.

“And even though Gaylie Girl did offer to put us up together, we decided that Mother might interpret that as taking sides early in the in-law game. Oh yes, that’s a train that’s hurtling down the tracks without an engineer. We just can’t see the headlights at the other end of the tunnel yet. Petey came up with the solution, though. He and his sister, Amanda, had such a spectacular time out at Evening Shadows earlier this year that he just gave Miz Myrtis a call and arranged everything. She’s not related to either one of us, so that makes her the Switzerland of the Nitwitts in this case.”

Marc was laughing out loud. “That makes perfect sense if you know the entire group. Michael can’t believe how complicated they can make their lives sometimes.”

“At any rate, we need to get going,” Petey added. “The food they serve out there is to die for, and we’re not about to miss a bite. Not to mention that I’m angling for Miz Myrtis to pitch a wedding tent for us this spring like she did for Mother and Mr. Choppy this past Labor Day.”

“Now that was a wedding!” Marc exclaimed. “Michael and I garnished it to perfection with our greenery, if you will. We supplied everything except those fireflies that showed up there at the end!”

It was supposed to be your everyday, superbly prepared, gourmet meal at Evening Shadows. Though it was only midday, Myrtis had chosen another of her stunning saris to play hostess, and Sarah had once again outdone herself with place settings fit for a state dinner at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Petey and Meta had arrived on time from their session on The Square, and at first it appeared that there would be nothing more taxing to contend with than keeping up with all the witty conversation that generally arose beneath the chandelier gracing Myrtis’s dining table.

Then Euterpe, who had become a permanent fixture at the bed-and-breakfast after nearly six months as a paying customer, appeared at the top of the stairs with Pan at her shoulder and struck a dramatic pose. Next, she began a strange, staggered descent. Norma Desmond had been less mannered for her final deranged take in
Sunset Boulevard
.

Once she had reached the others below, she took a very histrionic deep breath. “I’m usually a very resourceful person, as you all know,” she explained to the trio of bewildered faces standing before her. “But I may have met my match at last!”

Myrtis moved quickly to her side and put a reassuring arm on her shoulder. “Why, Euterpe, I’ve never seen you like this before. What on earth has happened?”

Myrtis briefly gestured to the others. “Everyone, please take a seat, won’t you?”

When they were all settled in and Pan had been lowered to the floor to curl up quietly beneath the table, Myrtis resumed her tone of concern. “Please share, dear. Perhaps we can help.”

Never one to mince words, Euterpe uttered a succinct but mysterious phrase: “Bring a torch! Or, as the French put it:
un flambeau
!”

“I’m not following,” Myrtis said with a forced smile.

“Everything got out of hand so quickly,” Euterpe continued. “This, after everyone was getting along so well. That was my biggest concern, you know. That the egos of all those choirmasters would get in the way of a successful caroling event. I’ve always detested having my greatest fears come to pass. Fortunately, that hasn’t happened often in my life.”

Myrtis waited for Sarah to finish filling the last of the water glasses before replying. “But I thought you said everything was going smoothly. Why, just last week you said you’d made the rounds and that all the rehearsals were a joy to attend. Everyone was in perfect voice and all that. We can’t afford to be having any trouble less than two weeks out. We’ve got church buses booked and lots of interest from people all over the Delta. Our ads and radio spots seem to be doing the trick. We’re even working hard on getting up a shuttle from Delta Sunset Village to get our dear Wittsie over here. Keep your fingers crossed on that one.” Myrtis took a sip of her water and frowned severely. “What’s all this business about torches? Are we going to storm a castle and flush out a monster somewhere? Stop being so evasive.”

“Oh, it was that French Christmas carol—‘Un flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle’—that started it all. That loosely translates into ‘bring a torch, Jeannette and Isabella,’ in case your French is a little rusty.”

Myrtis was nodding now. “It’s not exactly polished, but I remember that song quite well. We sang it in high school French class eons ago. A little ditty from Provence and quite charming, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know how it occurred to him, but somehow that Lawton Bead at St. Luke’s got it into his head that his choir needed to have an international carol to sing for their segment. Strictly domestic just wouldn’t do any longer. You’d think he was talking about champagne the way he carried on. Oh, that man’s priorities! Anyway, he told me he wanted to substitute ‘Un flambeau’ for ‘O Holy Night.’ I didn’t see the harm at the time and agreed to it, but word got around to the other choirmasters that ‘O Holy Night’ was now available.”