Today's Reading
"Are you coming to bridge next week? I'm going to host it here after hours. We can bring wine. I got special permission."
"It's in my appointment book," said Mimi, waving goodbye and heading for the exit. Pam was a good egg and a stalwart friend. Their relationship was straightforward and honest. She wasn't concerned with petty town gossip or tiresome obsessions with social status and beauty. They could talk about books and sip coffee together in easy silence. Plus, she was a damn good bridge player.
As Mimi headed home, she checked her Fitbit: 10,008 steps. Good, but she could do better tomorrow. She took a left turn onto her cul-de-sac, and her lakefront cottage, a postcard-perfect Victorian, came into view. The sun was now an orange disc slipping below the distant tree line of mainland Michigan, casting warm sparkles on the water's surface.
"Evening, Joan," she said to her lavender snowmobile, Joan Rivers. The vehicle was parked inside the portico attached to the side of the house. Mimi went in through the side entrance to the mudroom and wiped her wet shoes on the mat. Joan would need a good washing and waxing before her first ride of the winter season.
She went into the living room and pressed play on her portable speaker. Miles Davis's velvety trumpet floated into the air as she walked over to the Art Deco bar cart by the fireplace. A Gibson at dusk was a ritual that she and Peter had begun in the early years of their marriage. More than five decades later, this savory-sweet cousin of the martini was still her drink of choice.
"One, two, three," she said to her favorite onions, the tipsy kind that came bathed in French vermouth, as she impaled them onto a metal cocktail stick.
After a gentle stir of the ingredients in a small crystal pitcher, she strained its contents into a chilled martini glass and took a sip. The gin's icy botanicals rolled pleasurably over her palate. Any concerns always seemed to melt away at this time of day.
Sure, occasional intrusive thoughts crept in. Like that salesclerk at the makeup counter last weekend. The one who had offered her unsolicited advice on teeth whitening while she was trying on lipsticks. She ran her tongue over her teeth at the memory of it. They had looked kind of yellow in that ridiculous magnifying mirror with LED lights. Perhaps she did drink too much coffee, like the woman said. But when did arctic-white Chiclet teeth become such a thing?
"What do you think, Big Phyllis? Should I whiten my teeth?" asked Mimi, turning to the large Kentia palm behind her.
Big Phyllis looked a little droopy. Mimi set her glass down and walked over to check her soil.
"You're a bit dry. Have a drink with me."
Reaching into the broom closet for the watering can and plant mister, she gave Big Phyllis a heavy pour and spritz.
She took another sip of her Gibson and felt the gin tingle her synapses as she headed into the kitchen. With a quick sawing motion of the bread knife, she severed the heel from the sourdough loaf, and its tangy essence wafted out. She tucked some Gruyère in between two slices and gently lowered them into a skillet bubbling with melted butter. As the grilled cheese sizzled to a golden brown, she heated some tomato soup in a pot and poured it into a small bowl. Pleased with the results, she sat down at the table and set to work on the newspaper's daily crossword:
A maneuver in a game or conversation
P-L-O-Y
She heard a rattling sound.
It was coming from the screened-in porch. She got up to investigate and found the outer door leading to the backyard had swung open. Odd, but not out of the ordinary, given the occasional gusts of wind coming in off Lake Huron. The door clanged against the frame and swayed open again in the breeze.
Walking over to close it, she could see something lying on the mat. A bright blue envelope. Strange that they hadn't simply used her mailbox. She picked it up and took it into the kitchen. It was addressed to Rosemary Louise MacLaine, her full legal name, which appeared to have been typed on an old- fashioned typewriter. Using her silver-handled letter opener to fillet the envelope, she removed the contents. On top was an invitation printed on thick nine-by-nine cardstock with embossed lettering:
Your presence is requested at the home of Jane Ireland for an auction benefiting
The National Arts Foundation
COCKTAILS AND CANAPÉS JAZZ AGE ATTIRE
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5TH 7:00 P.M.
LILAC HOUSE 1 LILAC LANE
MACKINAC ISLAND, MICHIGAN
Please read the two enclosed documents and follow the instructions precisely.
Mimi frowned. Jane Ireland? Her wealthy socialite neighbor? Who was rumored to be dating her own son-in-law, thirty years her junior?
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