Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
“But, Eileen! They won’t be strangers! They’ll be your friends—people that you invited to the wedding!”
Eileen looked at her steadily. “Will they?”
For a minute they devoted their full attention to the salads. Elizabeth dabbed her fork at stray bits of tomato and considered the implications of Eileen’s reply. “Will they?” Of course they would not be her friends. Aunt Amanda had sent out all the invitations. Who even knew if Eileen had any friends? But, if she did, they certainly ought to be asked.
“Eileen, listen!” she began quickly. “I’ve been addressing invitations for your mother, and I know where the extra ones are—in that desk in the library. If there’s anybody you want to invite, just tell me, and I’ll send them an invitation sneaked in with the others. It’ll be no problem at all!”
“There’s only one person I want to come to my wedding,” said Eileen softly.
“Who is that?”
“Michael.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Eileen! You’re not going to elope, are you? Because if you go off to South Carolina
after all this work and planning, Aunt Amanda is going to have a French fit!”
“Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Everything will be all right. If I have to wear that battleship of a white dress and shake hands with every old lady in the county, I’ll do it. It will be worth it. Giving Mother her own way is always worth it.”
Having had some experience with Aunt Amanda’s temper, Elizabeth silently agreed with Eileen’s assessment. Amanda Chandler could be a terror when not given her own way. Her family had learned not to argue with her, if only for the sake of peace and quiet. Robert Chandler had obviously been taking the path of least resistance for years, with the result that he scarcely had any opinions left. Willfulness was an interesting trait, Elizabeth thought. Usually when people insist on a thing, and no one else cares much either way, the person who insists carries the day. Elizabeth had noticed, though, that some people nearly always cared a great deal about everything—such as what to have for dinner and when—so that indifferent people were seldom able to choose. A phrase she had once seen on a tee shirt summed up Amanda Chandler perfectly: What’s your opinion against millions of mine?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Eileen!” she blurted out. “It’s your wedding, not your mother’s! Just put your foot down.”
The cathedral chimes of the front door echoed down the hall.
Eileen stood, casting a nervous glance toward the door. “Elizabeth did you ever try to tell my mother something she didn’t want to hear?”
“Uh … no.”
She smiled bitterly. “Well, I did. Six years ago.”
“Six years—you mean, when you …”
“That was the door bell. I think we had better let Mr. Simmons in.” Eileen left the kitchen with as much dignity as she had ever mustered. After a few seconds’ paralysis, Elizabeth followed.
* * *
If she had to paint him, she would depict him as a medieval friar. That pudgy body would look like a wine cask under a brown cassock, and the blond ringlets curling around his bald spot made a natural tonsure. The wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose gave him a look of foolish benevolence. Did they have glasses back then?
“I’m sorry,” Eileen murmured. “What were you saying?”
“I just need you to sign here,” he repeated, holding out another typed page. “Would you like me to run through that explanation again? I’d be happy to.”
“No, that’s all right,” Eileen assured him. She scrawled her name hurriedly on the line he had marked.
“Do you have any questions about all this?” Simmons persisted. “About the money?”
“How will I get it?”
Tommy Simmons coughed nervously. He had just finished explaining that. “Er—well, Miss Chandler, in a manner of speaking you already have it. It’s in the bank, of course. Would you like to discuss possible investments or savings programs?”
“No. Not today, please.”
Simmons began sliding papers into his briefcase. “Well, then, I guess that’s all …”
“Mr. Simmons?”
“Yes? Is there anything else?”
“I’d like to make a will.”
He blinked at her. Whatever put that idea into her head?
“Could I?” she asked. “With the wedding coming up, I thought I ought to.”
Simmons peered into his briefcase. “Well … I suppose we could draft it now, and I could get it typed up for you to sign after—”
“It’s just a simple one,” said Eileen. “I’ve already written it. I just need you to put it in legal terms, or whatever it is you do to make it official. Excuse me, I’ll go and get it.” She hurried out of the room.
Tommy Simmons leaned back on the sofa with a weary sigh. He wondered if the family knew about this.
It shouldn’t matter, of course; it was her money, and she was of age, but it made him uneasy to do anything without the family’s approval. A simple will, she’d said. That probably meant that the fiancé was going to get it. He’d better postpone the formal drafting until after the wedding, just to be on the safe side.
He came to himself with a start, remembering that he was not alone in the room. The cousin, or whatever she was, sitting on the sofa, had put down her magazine and was watching him thoughtfully. Simmons produced a weak smile.
“Are you here for the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Nice girl, Eileen. Should make a lovely bride.” Because, Simmons finished silently, if you threw enough satin and white lace on a scarecrow, it would look presentable. He wondered about the groom, though. The brief announcement in the local paper had been very restrained on that point. He looked again at the cousin, wondering if he ought to include a gallant remark about how nice she’d look as a bridesmaid, but before he could frame this pleasantry into complimentary but unflirtatious terms, she embarked on a topic of her own.
“How do you like practicing law?”
“Uh … fine, just fine. Sure beats studying it. The hours are better.”
“It doesn’t require much math, does it?”
“I’m sorry. Math?”
“Calculus or trig or anything like that.”
“I—no.” Idly, he began to wonder if he had been mistaken about her being a cousin. Visions of Cherry Hill began to flip through his mind.
“And what did you major in as an undergrad?”
“History.”
“Oh. So did my brother. He’s in law school, too. I majored in sociology.”
“Ah.” Simmons kept trying to pick up the thread of the discussion.
“Know any lawyers who majored in sociology?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Mostly they major in history or
political science. Still, it seems like an interesting sort of career. Do you get many good cases practicing in a small town?”
“Mostly we do deeds and wills, things like that.”
“I think criminal law would be more interesting. You know, cases where you could really make a difference—like murder cases!”
Simmons smiled. He heard that speech at every social function he attended. People were always pushing cups of warm punch at him and telling him how much more interesting they thought it would be to practice criminal law in Atlanta. He usually just stood there smiling and nodding, because it took too much effort to explain that rich murder defendants hired famous and experienced attorneys—he was neither—and poor ones got court-appointed lawyers who needed the work and got paid peanuts for their efforts. Deeds and wills weren’t exactly pulse-quickening, but it was a comfortable life, with plenty of time for tennis, and an occasional out-of-the-ordinary case for the social anecdote.
“Are you interested in law?” he asked politely.
Elizabeth frowned. “I don’t know. I majored in sociology, but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. I took a course in criminology in my junior year, but it wasn’t what I expected. Mostly statistics.”
Eileen reappeared just then, with Mildred in tow. “This will only take a few minutes, I promise. Then you can put the groceries away. I just need you to sign something.”
“Sign?” echoed Simmons, struggling to his feet. He had the uneasy feeling that the interview was getting away from him.
“Here it is,” said Eileen, handing him a piece of stationery covered with round, childishly precise handwriting. “I’ve asked Mildred to witness it so that it will be legal until you can get the other one drawn up. And Elizabeth, you can be the other witness.”
Simmons frowned. “Well, really, Miss Chandler, I don’t thnk it would be proper—”
“They don’t have to read what I’ve written, do they?”
The procedural question sidetracked him. “What?
No. They are only attesting to the fact that your signature on the document is genuine, but—”
“Okay then. Watch, everybody!” Eileen held her pen aloft as a magician might wave his wand before performing the next trick. When they dutifully turned to look at her, she bent and signed her name at the bottom of the pink page, carefully dotting the
i
in Eileen with a small circle.
Oh, God, thought Simmons, an
i
circler. I haven’t seen that since ninth grade. I’ll bet this will is a real beauty; she probably included her stamp collection! He consoled his professional sensitivity by reminding himself that he would be getting twenty-five dollars an hour for drafting the document.
“Okay,” he said. “Now that you’ve signed it, they need to sign it. You can cover up the text with a piece of paper if you like. Some people do that.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “That’s right, cover up everything except where you want them to sign at the bottom. But I really do recommend that you wait for an official draft. Really!”
Eileen shook her head. “No. I want to do this as—as sort of a gesture that I’m really getting married. Like a preliminary ceremony.” That ought to satisfy him, she thought. And it ought to make Michael realize about the money. How real it is; how close it is to being ours. He couldn’t change his mind after that. Not that he’d want to, of course, because he really loved her. He said so over and over.
“Oh, please don’t worry, Mr. Simmons,” she said. “It’s only for a few days—until the other one is ready. It will be all right. I mean, nothing’s going to happen to me.”
Simmons looked shocked. “Certainly not!” he said hastily. “That goes without saying. But you must understand that it is a bit irregular. The litigation possibilities in the event—”
But Eileen was carefully aligning the blank cover sheet over her piece of stationery. She motioned for Elizabeth and Mildred to witness it. After a moment’s hesitation, they bent down and scribbled their names
on the bottom of the page. Eileen then handed the paper to the lawyer.
“Thank you very much for your time,” she said, walking with him toward the door.
“Just let me wish you much happiness. You just think about that lovely wedding coming up, and put all thoughts about wills and legal matters right out of your mind.”
Eileen nodded solemnly and showed him out. When the door had finally closed behind him, she leaned against it with a sigh of relief. “Now I can go and paint.”
Elizabeth had the house to herself for most of the afternoon. Amanda and Louisa had not returned from their shopping expedition; Dr. Chandler called to say that he wouldn’t be home until dinnertime; and there was still no sign of Captain Grandfather and Michael. She wondered what they found to talk about on the drive to the county library. Geoffrey had stopped in about two o’clock to announce that he was going to a rehearsal for his play, and she had politely declined his invitation to go along. Charles and Eileen were still somewhere between the house and the lake, she supposed.
She finished reading the book she had brought with her, and was in the library trying to do a sketch of Alban’s castle for Bill.
She wondered where Alban was. He had driven off an hour or so before without a tennis racket. She held up her drawing and inspected it. The lines were a little crooked and the proportions weren’t quite right, but Bill would get the general idea. Alban ought to provide postcards, she thought, smiling to herself. After all their laughter at Alban’s expense, it seemed strange to think of him as an ordinary, likable person. The castle looked less bizarre to her than it had at first—probably in the light of his explanation. She decided to leave off the dragon she had originally planned to put in the foreground. But she was still going to put the little flag on the top of the tower, with her version of a suitable motto: “A man’s home is his castle.” Elizabeth walked
over to the window to count the tower windows again—maybe his car would be back in the driveway.
It wasn’t, but another car was pulling up in the Chandlers’ drive: a little green Volkswagen she hadn’t seen before. She watched as the driver stopped the car and headed for the front door. He was a stocky, dark-haired man of about thirty, wearing a yellow tee shirt that read “Jung At Heart.” He looked up at the house, then over at Alban’s and shook his head. When Elizabeth saw that he was indeed coming to the Chandlers’ front porch, she hurried to the front door and waited for the bell to ring.
I wonder who this is, she thought. Not the minister, surely! Maybe he’s somebody from Cherry Hill who has come for the wedding. Aunt Amanda would love that. He must be new around here if he hasn’t gotten used to Albania. Who else is supposed to come?
A few seconds later, when he introduced himself, she remembered.
“Come in, Dr. Shepherd. I’m Elizabeth MacPherson, Eileen’s cousin.”
“Thank you very much. I wasn’t sure I had the right house.” He glanced uncertainly over his shoulder. “What is that facility across the road?”
“Oh, that’s my Cousin Alban’s castle,” said Elizabeth sweetly. “Would you like to come into the library? I can get us some coffee. I’m afraid I’m the only one here right now, but the family should be back soon.”
He followed her into the library, pausing only to register a glance of recognition at the gray and black painting in the hall.
“Aunt Amanda just sent you a wedding invitation,” said Elizabeth, settling down in the wing chair. “Yesterday! You couldn’t have received it yet!”
“No, that’s right, I haven’t. Eileen presented me with a handwritten invitation and a map before she left school. Actually, I know I’m a few days early, but—circumstances changed.” He shifted uncomfortably.