Matecumbe (15 page)

“I don’t care for either,” he answered. “Since I’m involved in so many mysteries in my police work, reading a mystery novel would be like taking a busman’s holiday. I prefer instead,” he lied, “to write poetry—on those rare occasions when I feel a need to escape from the workaday world.”

Joe had failed to mention that the last poem he had written was when he was in his early twenties. But though poetry was an interest of his that he had ignored for so many years, that long-lost attraction to the writing of verse still served a purpose—as cocktail party chatter that could successfully uplift his cultural profile.

Later, when Joe cornered Melissa alone at the far end of the snack table, he asked her about Jane.

“I’ve never read any of those murder novels in my entire life,” he admitted. “And Jane is the third person here that I’ve heard discussing the works of mystery writers.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t introduced you to that tall redhead sitting at the bottom of the staircase,” Melissa pointed, using her wine glass instead of a finger. “That’s Kim Powell, who’d probably ask you your opinion of the sentence structure in Marcel Proust novels.”

“It’s your fault, you know,” Joe added, kidding his fiancée. “You introduced me as a detective and not a policeman. Obviously, they think I’m a combination of Mike Hammer and Sergeant Joe Friday.”

“More like Hercule Poirot, I should hope,” Melissa giggled.

“Who?”

“You’re my mystery man,” Melissa cooed, biting Joe’s ear, “you’re my very own mystery man.”

Christmas Eve morning in Philadelphia presented a beautiful sight. From the window in Melissa’s living room, she and Joe could see soft flakes of snow floating gently in the cold air and then melting imperceptibly as they hit the sidewalk and the street outside.

The Christmas tree that Melissa had decorated, prior to Joe’s arrival, blinked its miniature, multicolored lights in as soothing a visual rhythm as the falling snow.

“For as far back as I can remember, the rule in our house always was that no presents get opened until Christmas Day,” Melissa instructed. “And you’re not allowed to shake the boxes either.”

Melissa spent the pre-noon hours on Christmas Eve making obligatory but joyful phone calls—first to her mother and her stepfather at their retirement village, which was a few miles outside of San Diego, and then to each of her three sisters.

The phone calls were longer than usual because of Melissa’s big, big news—her engagement. Dutifully, Joe stood alongside her during each call, waiting for his turn to say hello and to “look forward to meeting you soon.” Melissa made it easier for him to relate to the voices he heard by propping up on a table large photographs of Mom, Paul, Denise, Annie, and Susan.

“This will give every one of them something to talk about from now until way after New Year’s Day,” Melissa told Joe, in a mischievous manner, after hanging up on the last of the calls. “They’ll be burning up the phone wires talking to each other and cursing the busy signals that they themselves will be causing.”

The balance of Melissa and Joe’s Christmas Eve was to be spent visiting Uncle Steve, Joe’s favorite uncle. Steve’s house was about a forty-five minute drive from Melissa’s—in southern New Jersey.

“He’ll be someone that you’ll never forget, Mel,” Joe predicted. “If you want a rough idea of what Joe Carlton will be like thirty years from now, Uncle Steve is it. When I’m his age, I’ll probably look like him and think like him.

“He’s the only family I’ve had in a long time, Mel, until you came along.”

From the small county highway where they parked the car, Melissa and Joe had an up-close view of Uncle Steve’s tiny, ranch-style home. The late afternoon scene came complete with a snow-covered picket fence and a billowing chimney. The house, bathed in white, looked like a painting that Ma and Pa Kettle would have hung over their sofa, the kind of artwork Melissa’s trendy friends would probably have called “American Primitive.”

The snow was about an inch deep now. It covered the lawn, the bushes bordering the property line, the stone-inlaid walkway, and the magnificent blue spruce that stood guard near the doorway—its sloping branches like the outstretched palm of a hand, offering welcome.

Greeting them at the front door, before they could even knock, was a round-faced, round-bellied man who looked like a Santa Claus without the suit and beard.

“Ha, ha, ha,” he bellowed, loudly, forgetting that it was he who was tending toward deafness and not his visitors. “You’re just like Joey said you’d be, pretty as a picture.”

Uncle Steve, who had spent over fifty of his seventy-some years as a trainer of racehorses, called Melissa the “first winner that Joey has picked since Seattle Slew.”

“This nephew of mine has finally learned that selecting a woman is like trading for a horse,” Uncle Steve winked.

“Conformation is the most important factor,” he added, staring at Melissa’s hemline, “especially the shape of the legs.”

After Uncle Steve had started up the fireplace and poured drinks for everyone, he and Joe traded blood-oath promises. They agreed to get together again the following spring, when nearby Garden State racetrack would be open for thoroughbred racing.

Next came an exchange about what each of them had been up to lately.

“Did a little hunting last week,” Uncle Steve noted, “but I came back empty. The jackrabbits in these parts are just getting too fast for these old eyes of mine.”

Melissa found herself staring into Uncle Steve’s eyes as he talked. She marveled at their clear blue color and how much they seemed to match Joe’s.

“The last fishing I did in Florida was back in November,” Joe admitted. “I caught some yellowtail that were good eating, and I almost boated a fair-sized marlin. But at least I didn’t let the big one get away,” he added, nodding his head toward Melissa while gently squeezing her hand.

“I don’t know much about librarians,” Uncle Steve acknowledged, also gazing in Melissa’s direction, “but I can see now that what I thought I knew was all wrong.

“One look at you tells me that there must be a lot more librarians in this world who don’t wear horn-rimmed glasses or have their hair pinned up in a bun.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Uncle Steve,” Melissa interjected. “And if your nephew here keeps his promises, I’ll be one more librarian who won’t wind up as an unmarried old woman.”

Uncle Steve, who prided himself on his cooking skills, prepared an outstanding sauerbraten entrée—complete with the red cabbage and spaetzles that Joe had told him were Melissa’s favorites.

“Had to force myself to learn how to cook after my wife died twenty years ago,” Uncle Steve remembered, his eyes now just a trifle wet. “From the time we were married until the time Sally died, she cooked every meal for us.

“I kind of wish she could come back, for just a little while, so she could see what a great cook I’ve become. She’d be proud of me, she would.”

Melissa noticed that although Uncle Steve seemed to be looking in her direction constantly, throughout the evening, it was a compassionate, fatherly look, far from the lecherous stares she’d seen in other men. It was more like the gaze of a man who was trying to place the circumstances under which they may have met some fifty years prior.

“She has Aunt Sally’s smile, doesn’t she?” Joe offered.

“In spades, my boy,” Uncle Steve replied, gulping down one final jigger of brandy, “in spades.”

“You were right about him,” Melissa announced, as they drove home slowly through the slightly deepening snowstorm. “Uncle Steve is just what I hope you’ll turn into, Joe Carlton, when you become a senior citizen. He seems like the kind of man whose loving words could make an older woman feel just as sexy as a homecoming queen.”

“Oh,” Joe interrupted, “in case you haven’t noticed, Merry Christmas, Mel.”

“It is midnight, isn’t it?” she replied.

“All of a sudden I’m realizing,” she continued, somberly, “that on the day after Christmas, you’ll be gone again.”

“Only for three weeks. Besides, you have a lot of planning to do for the wedding. The date, primarily,” Joe laughed. “And maybe by the time we meet again next month for our weekend tour of Atlanta, I’ll have some answers to those resumes I’ll have sent out.”

“Thank you, Joe, for a wonderful Christmas,” Melissa told him.

“It’s only the first,” Joe responded. “From here on in, I’m told, they get better.”

Mary Ann never considered turning down Paul’s proposal. She was convinced now that she was going to spend the rest of her life with the kindest, most loving, and most considerate man she had ever known. She believed that she was truly in love for the first time in her life. She just couldn’t believe the circumstances that brought them together. Finding that wallet was certainly her lucky day, even if she didn’t get an immediate cash reward. Meeting Paul was more reward than she could ever imagine.

The one-carat diamond engagement ring that Mary Ann wore 24 hours of every day seemed to shine brightest on winter mornings—its simple solitaire setting unsullied by city slush or dusty, frozen winds.

“I like to look at my ring,” Mary Ann told the girls, who had gathered at her feet to hear the story of Paul’s proposal and how their life as a family would change in the near future. “When I stare at my ring and see how it sparkles, I smile. And when I smile, I’m in a happy, healthy mood.”

In counseling the girls, Mary Ann told them to look upon Paul as their new father. “What he says goes, and what I say goes. Once we get married, we’ll be equal. And we should also be equal while we’re helping you girls to grow up into young ladies.”

One thing the girls noticed about their mother was that she no longer spent her quiet moments alone reading merchandise catalogs. Since Paul had purchased so many new clothes for her, Mary Ann decided to leaf through a few women’s magazines, looking for advice on how to dress more fashionably.

She bought copies of
Woman’s Day
,
Good Housekeeping
, and
Family Circle
—searching for tips on clothing accessories and hairstyles. One of the articles that intrigued her was titled “Ultimatum Time.” In it, the author tells her female audience that when a man enthusiastically courts a woman, he will probably propose marriage within six months of their first date. However, if the six-month point passes without a proposal, the author contends, then the woman who’s involved in the relationship should give her guy a “marry me or else” ultimatum.

Mary Ann knew that she never could have given Paul such an ultimatum. In the event he hadn’t proposed, she would have continued the relationship—without any complaints. “I can’t imagine life without him,” Mary Ann admitted. “If he were to leave me now, I’d be devastated. If something like that should happen, I’d probably look for distractions, right away—simple pleasures, like feeding chunks of bread to the ducks on Museum Lake or taking long walks in the rain—anything to help me forget.

“And the loss of Paul’s financial support would hurt, too. The bills would be harder to pay, and instead of going to gourmet restaurants to taste alligator tail, shark steak, and escargot, I’d be back to cooking frozen fish cakes for the girls and myself.