“A more pertinent question is why does she have it in for you? One more query. Then we must return to our labors.”
“Is there really such a thing as a citizen’s arrest?”
“Just make sure you catch him committing a felony.”
I held the phone away from my head, stared at it, then put it back to my ear. “Do I want to know why you know that?”
She sighed dramatically. “Beth, you sooo do not watch enough television.”
Whatever. “Have you picked up anything from your WisconSINs blog?”
“Nothing about Sam, but wait until I tell you about Viv Reilly. You remember we saw her with Dave Patterson? Well, he isn’t the only one she’s seeing. Would you believe—”
I sat back to listen. Marina’s blog was important to her, and I knew if I dangled that shiny subject in front of her she’d veer away from my “oh” of surprise.
Marina was my best friend, my confidante, and the bosomest buddy of all time, but she didn’t need to know everything.
“Where’s Marina?” Debra O’Conner turned around in the booth and looked down the length of the restaurant. “It’s not like her to be late.”
I’d chosen the back booth of the Green Tractor to give us a modicum of privacy, but Debra wasn’t with the program. She was waving and chatting with most of the patrons and all of the staff. I should have known better. As a vice president of Rynwood’s biggest bank, Debra probably knew more people in town than anyone except my hairstylist.
This wasn’t the quiet, heads-together lunch I’d tried to arrange without seeming to arrange it. Clearly, subtle subterfuge wasn’t my strong suit.
Of course, lots of things weren’t my strong suit. Baking with yeast, accounting practices that involved anything more than adding and subtracting, and the ability to touch my toes without bending my knees. Or calligraphy. I loved the curves and swirling arcs of inked letters, but every time I tried—
“Beth?” Debra had turned around. Her hair, once cut on monthly trips to Chicago, flowed carelessly to her shoulders. “Are you in there?”
Back in the dark ages, say about a year ago, I’d been overawed by Debra O’Conner. Bouncy blond hair straight out of a television commercial. Kind to animals and strangers. Picked up litter on the street. Rewarding and lucrative career, loving husband, well-behaved children, etc., etc. But a chance remark I’d made had set her on a different path.
The new path closely paralleled the old one: same career, same husband, same house and car, but the power suits and glossy hair were gone. She now dressed like an average middle-aged Midwesterner, had quit taking golf lessons, and publicly declared she didn’t care if she ever tried zip-lining.
Happiness shone out of her skin, which was now absent of makeup. She said she owed her newfound contentment to me. The thought made me squirm a little, so I tried not to think about it.
“Is Marina coming?” Debra asked.
“Not today,” I said.
“Oh?” Debra’s eyebrows went up. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Don’t you have lunch with her today?”
How had I ended up such a creature of habit? Had it been motherhood, or being married to Richard? Or had the seeds of rutness abided in my psyche all my life and only recently come to full flower? I frowned, trying to remember. In high school I’d made lists of the clothes I wore, but that was to keep from wearing the same thing twice in a week. Rut-avoiding behavior, not rut-creating.
“Um, I didn’t mean anything by that, Beth, okay?” Debra was biting her lower lip. “It’s just you and Marina are such good friends that I don’t want to horn in on anything. Some people can get possessive about their friends.”
I made a very unladylike snorting noise. “Are we talking about the same Marina?”
“Maybe not.” Debra put her index finger to her chin in a completely fake thoughtful pose. “The one I’m thinking about has red hair, a big laugh, big smile, and a big heart. Yours?”
Her kind words about Marina, a woman who at times could test the patience of a newly ordained minister, made me feel warm and fuzzy. But then I caught a glimpse of the coffee can Ruthie had placed by the cash register and remembered why we were there. Or at least why I was there; Debra didn’t yet know I had an ulterior motive. “I did ask someone else to join us for lunch. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Sure.” Debra put her purse on the wall side of the booth and started to slide over a little. “Any friend of yours is a friend of—”
“Beth!” a male voice called down the length of the restaurant. “Is that you way the heck back there? Ruthie, get me some provisions so I can make it without dying of hunger.” His rich laughter boomed off the black-and- white-checked linoleum floor, off the ceiling, and off the mirror above the far wall.
I waved at him and Debra froze in midslide. “Is that—”
“Hey, sweetheart.” Glenn Kettunen, husband to Christine, father of four, insurance agent for most of Rynwood, and owner of the baldest head in the county, slid in the seat across from me, almost squashing Debra against the wall.
“Hello, Glenn,” she said.
This time I was the one who froze. It was the old Debra voice, the one that intimidated me to near speechlessness, the one that had toddlers do her bidding at a single command, the one that made cats stop shredding furniture.
“Ah, don’t go all Debra on me.” Glenn slung an arm around her shoulders. “Where’s the Deb I know and love so much more?”
My wide-eyed gaze flicked from Glenn to Debra and back. What on earth had I done? This lunch, which had seemed like a brilliant idea last night, was suddenly in the running for Beth’s Worst Idea Ever.
Debra tossed her head, flinging the ends of her hair into Glenn’s eyes. “She disappeared the minute you told my husband that my life wasn’t worth insuring since I stopped wearing Armani. ‘Now that she wears plain old clothes,’ you said, and I’m quoting here, ‘there’s no reason to make any big deal out of her.’ ”
Glenn chuckled, leaned over, and gave her a big smacking kiss on the cheek.
It was only then I noticed the grin lurking in the corner of Debra’s mouth. She made a show of wiping her face. “Kissed by an insurance agent,” she said. “Will I ever live this down?”
“Nope,” Glenn said cheerfully. “Ah, Dorrie.” He greeted our waitress and snapped his fingers. “Menu, young lady.”
Dorrie, who’d stopped counting gray hairs years ago and had, instead, started making regular coloring appointments, gave Debra a glass of ice water, me a mug of hot water, and Glenn a mug of coffee. “You haven’t used a menu in this place since 1991.”
She pulled a tea bag from her apron pocket, put it next to my mug, gave us napkin-rolled silverware, then took out her order pad and started writing. “Rueben for you, soup of the day and house salad with Italian dressing for Debra, and a fish sandwich with coleslaw for Beth.” She shoved the pad back in her pocket. “Twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Glenn asked.
“Mr. I’ve-Been-to-Cooking-School is being all persnickety about the fry batter.” Dorrie rolled her eyes. “Like it’s any different today than it’s been any other day. Let me know if you need anything.”
“When did Ian go to cooking school?” Debra asked. “I thought Ruthie hired him out of high school.”
Glenn reached across her and picked five packets of sugar out of the wire rack against the wall. “The kid’s been taking culinary classes.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a nearly normal decibel level. “Says he wants to open his own restaurant someday.”
Debra, wife, mother, and bank loan officer, looked thoughtful. “What kind, do you know?”
“One of those bistro-type places.” Glenn unwrapped his silverware and stirred the sugar into his coffee. “Brick walls, uncomfortable chairs, a menu that changes every day, and a lot of talk about presentation.”
“Could work.”
Glenn took one sip of his coffee and grimaced. “In Rynwood?” He set down his mug and reached for three more sugar packets. “The kid would lose his shirt. Who’s going to eat at a place like that? Auntie May?” He laughed,
