Life Is What Happens To You While You're Busy Making Other Plans
Summary: Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. Thank you, John Lennon. That's it in a nutshell. The further adventures (romantic and otherwise) of Dr. Donald Mallard and Cassandra Talmadge. People from the distant past, people from the recent past, secrets, shootings and Mrs. Mallard making everyone crazy. Just another average day.
Note: Mildly AU.
Betas and cheerleaders: Thank you Kes Cross for your research assistance! As always, I owe Tallis224 for many nights of "help!" and "this isn't working!" even to the point of starting over from scratch. The brownies are in the mail.
Genre: Drama/Minor casefic
Pairing: Ducky/OFC
Rating/Warnings: T (mostly for language and references to adult situations; you've seen worse on prime time TV and heard worse on HBO, trust me)
Spoilers: none
Time frame: Summer 2007
Disclaimer: All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.
CHAPTER ONE
Life
"Oh! Strawberries! And on sale!"
"They have seeds. You said they hurt your—teeth." Victoria hates the word "dentures"—let alone the gentler (and barely accurate) "partial." Her mouth turned down in a sad frown that was almost comic. I sighed, caving; boy, could she play me. "Oh… all right, I'll get them. But you check with Donald before you eat them."
Quicksilver moods. She smiled and waved dismissively. "Oh, I'm his mother. He's not in charge of me!"
I rolled my eyes as I followed her through the produce department. Sounds like she's been watching MTV or something. Great. Corrupting a major? (Minor was way off.) "How about bananas? Full of vitamins, potassium—"
She clasped her hands together. "Could we have banana splits for dessert? I just love banana splits!"
"You betcha."
She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow and kept pace with the cart. "When I was younger," she said in a loud whisper, "some young ladies would do naughty things with bananas."
Please, god. Strike me dead. Any god. I'm not picky.
She continued to chatter as we collected dinner ingredients, oddball items on the list and things for dessert. It looked like she was laying in for a siege—or planning to live on ice cream sundaes for a month.
"Wheatena, Wheatena…"
Victoria made a rude noise. "Nasty stuff."
"Donald put it on the list, so I'm buying it," I said firmly. If I can find it.
"I won't eat it," she said mulishly. "You can't make me."
I gave her a long look, biting my tongue. Literally. "Take it up with Donald," I finally said and focused on the display of boxes. It's gotta be here. Somewhere.
As we wandered the aisles, my peripheral vision had caught items being added to the cart. If they were too absurd (last week she added a jar of pickled beets; none of us like them, but the color was "so striking" she had to grab them) I'd slip them to the checkout clerk. But for now—
Ha. There it was, stuck between Cream of Wheat and the house brand of strawberries-n-cream oatmeal.
"Okay, I've got the—" I put the box in the cart. "Cereal?" I was talking to empty air. "Victoria?" (Sound of crickets chirping.) "Victoria?" I said a little more loudly. I kept the panic from my voice—barely. I've lost his mom. Great. This is going to put a crimp in our relationship. "Victoria?" I called over and over, hustling down the cereal aisle and rounding the corner to coffee/tea/cocoa/canned milk. Still no Victoria. She moves fast when you least expect it.
This was cementing my thoughts to not be a mother, for darn sure.
"Vic—" I let out a deep breath, managing not to snap, 'Oh, there you are!' like she was an errant toddler. (Okay, not so far off.)
"Oh, Cassandra! This nice young lady was showing me her garden!"
The refrigerated display of I-forgot-a-birthday/whaddya-mean-it's-February-14-again/wife-or-mother-in-law-or-girlfriend-is-pissed-off-in-general flowers. Well, they had been a garden at some point. "That's nice." I gave her companion a 'thank you' eyebrow waggle.
The young woman shifted her basket from one arm to the other and looked up from under her sun hat. "Don't forget your lemon curd." She handed over the squat jar and combed a loose hank of hair behind her ear.
"Lemon curd?" Not that I didn't like the stuff, but it wasn't on the list.
"For our banana splits." I must have looked as appalled as I felt because Victoria explained in great, great detail. "Strawberry ice cream, pistachio ice cream, chocolate ice cream, hot fudge sauce, pineapple, lemon curd, caramel syrup, mint chocolate chips, nuts and whipped cream. And bananas, of course." Of course.
"No cherries on top?" I managed. Ye gods, maybe she was pregnant. It had never occurred to me that she was planning to put all the crap she'd added to the cart onto one sundae.
"Oh! I forgot the cherries!" She began to toddle off. Quickly.
"'scuse me. Thank you!" I said to the young woman (who looked as horrified by the recipe as I had felt). I caught up with Victoria two lanes away. "Don't do that!" I begged her.
"Do what? Don't you like cherries?"
"I love—no, no, don't wander off like that, you scared me."
She actually looked penitent. "I'm sorry, Cassandra. I didn't mean to frighten you."
"That's okay—"
"May we go to the nursery? I need to pick up flowers for the garden."
I shook my head and tried not to laugh. "Yeah. Sure. Let's get the ice cream and stuff home first, though, okay?" I repeated my mantra as we finished our shopping. I love you, Ducky. I love you, Ducky. I love you, Ducky.
Okay, it's not like I 'baby-sit' that often. Sometimes if Ducky is called in on a Saturday or Sunday and can't get someone at the last minute (he's taken his mother to work a couple of times; it hasn't worked out very well) I'll keep her under my wing at the store or if we're meeting up at his place, I'll take Victoria out while I do an errand or two. And maybe I'll pop over during the week, take her out for lunch or a movie or—hmm; I guess I am starting to hang out with her more and more often. But most of the time, it's not too bad. And, hey, not to be morbid, but the lady's about to hit the big 100 next year. I can put forth a little effort for a while. I would really hate to live with "gosh, I wish I'd spent more time with her" in a couple of years.
"I think this is yours?" I looked behind me. The young woman who had rescued Victoria was behind us in the checkout line and was setting down a can of sardines with our order.
"No…" I said hesitantly. Ugh. Sardines.
She tucked a hank of her dark hair behind an ear. "Well, they're not mine. I figured…" She glanced at Victoria and another chunk of hair got settled behind the other ear. (She probably just got a new haircut. I do that myself until I get used to the new length.)
Oh, please, not a missing ingredient for the banana splits. "Victoria, is this yours?"
"Oh! Yes! They're just wonderful—" Swear to god, if she says they're for the sundaes, I'm going to eat out. "—on buttered toast."
That I can live with. "I'll fix that with your tea."
"Thank you, Cassandra, dear," she beamed. She surprised me by suddenly kissing my cheek. "You're such a good girl. Donald is very lucky."
I actually blushed. "Thanks. So am I." I swiped my card and punched in my PIN.
"I wish I could go dancing," she said wistfully as the clerk loaded the bags into the cart. Another conversational left turn. Par for the course. "I loved to dance. Donald is a very good dancer."
"Tell me," I muttered as I fought to make the cart roll straight. Our first date had been to a Halloween party where he had proven himself to be one hell of a dancer.
She gave me a sly smile. "Why don't you call Matthew and we'll all go out dancing this evening?"
Groan. She has the biggest crush on 'Matthew'—Agent Gibbs—and it just won't shake off. "We'll see."
Like most toddlers, she took "we'll see" as a "yes." "I shall iron my good dancing dress."
And burn down the house in the process. "We'll look at that after tea, hmm?"
Apparently the idea of going dancing chased all thoughts of shopping for garden supplies out of her head. She kept up a discussion about dances from her past (with great detail on the dresses through the decades) while I loaded groceries in the van. Our stand-in babysitter was just driving past in a sharp-looking silver sedan and gave us a tentative little wave. "What a nice little girl. She's here on a vacation."
Why the hell would someone camp out in Reston? I answered my own question. Because the hotel rates in DC are as bad as New York. Duh. But it explained the glittering decal on the back window from Pegasus Rentals ("Horsepower with wings!"). "Let's get this stuff home." I helped Victoria into the passenger seat, fastened her belt and got us on our way.
There was a message from Ducky saying he'd be home around dinnertime; his voice had the tone of someone who had had a long, hard day so I was doubly glad that I had taken Friday off on impulse. He deserved a little spoiling. The new (relatively new) day nurse, Miss Keithley, had taken advantage of our field trip to get caught up on some aspects of Victoria's personal care that were impossible to do with her 'helping.'
A day or two into starting this assignment she had even taken over the chore of doing the family laundry. I'm not territorial about Ducky's shirts; more power to her. I hope she won't quit—but I'm not taking bets. She's the fifth day nurse I've met since Ducky and I started dating.
While Victoria ate lunch (she often shared with the dogs; I learned early on to overfill her plate) I started putzing around the kitchen.
"What are you making for lunch?"
"You're eating lunch. I'm starting dinner."
"Oh." She looked at her plate of half-finished food. "Oh! Yes. Chicken salad."
"Yep."
"And you put cut up grapes in it for me. You're such a good girl."
Good girl. LOL, laugh out loud. Oh, well, it beats the mother of one ex. After a month or two of psychological and emotional sabotage and warfare, she got down and dirty and spiked my drink with ipecac syrup. I raced to the ER… and sonny-boy defended her. (Last I heard, wannabe Mrs. Bates and her son were very happy in a retirement villa in Florida.) I gave Victoria a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm happy to fix special things for you."
"I wonder if he'll call today…" She nibbled at dessert, bits of pear in black cherry Jell-O.
"He? He who?"
"Charles."
"Charles?" I cocked my head and wracked my brain. Gibbs is Matthew, Jimmy Palmer is Leonard…
"My husband," she said patiently. Her face grew pensive. "I haven't heard from him in so long…"
Uh… he's been dead over thirty years. And they were divorced a good twenty before. Good reason for the long silence. "Um… maybe there's no phone where he is," I suggested in mild panic.
"You may be right." She pushed away from the table and fumbled for her cane. "They haven't telephones in heaven," she said, making her way cautiously toward the doorway. Awww… I felt all warm and smushy inside. "So I'm sure he hasn't one in hell." Head high, she sailed from the room. I stared after her, too stunned to say anything, and stood there until I smelled the butter and oil in the skillet start to overheat.
After settling her charge for a nap before afternoon tea, Miss Keithley slipped into the kitchen for her lunch. After crossing paths with her over the past few weeks, there is one phrase that fits Neoma Keithley to a T: creature of habit.
Monday through Friday: arrive at 0700, leave at 1800. (She will stay late if asked, but you can tell she's reprogramming her brain when she agrees.)
If Ducky hasn't left something for Victoria for lunch (or if I'm not there) and it falls on the shoulders of the predictable Miss Keithley, it's a small green salad, fruit cocktail, cottage cheese and half a sandwich (turkey or chicken). Always. Without fail.
Nap (for Victoria) from 1230 to 1430. Whether she wants one or not.
Tea (tea and cookies, nothing more fun or fanciful) at 1500. Precisely. (Store bought cookies, no less. Not even the bakery goodies I leave lying around. If I'm at the house during teatime, I fix tea. I like fancies, too.)
A walk at 0930; a walk at 1630. Half hour exactly. No dogs allowed.
And her lunch? If It's Tuesday, It Must Be Belgium. (Close.) Monday and Wednesday: PBJ (only smooth peanut butter, only strawberry jam) on white bread. Tuesday and Thursday: ham and cheese on wheat (two slices of honey roasted ham, one slice of cheddar cheese—only ham (only honey roasted), only cheddar). Friday—woohoo, variation on the theme, tuna salad on sourdough. Livin' wild. MWF, six baby carrots; TTH, six chunks of celery. Every day, twelve pretzel sticks. Three chocolate chip cookies (only Chips Ahoy). Her big indulgence: Coke in a glass with three (never fewer, never more) ice cubes. (I was there the day she discovered the ice cube trays hadn't been refilled. Two cubes remained. She actually trembled a little and opted for plain water.) Creature of habit? Hell, she puts the flourishes on anal-retentive OCD.
She sat quietly eating her lunch (phew; the ice cube trays were full) slowly, methodically, from 1230 to 1250. Ten more minutes of silence. I nibbled as I cooked, eating over the sink (why dirty more dishes?). (It probably drives her nuts.)
"How long have you known the Mallards?
I almost choked on my turkey sandwich. Holy crap. Independent conversation. Words being used not in response to a direct query or specifically in regard to her patient. It threw me for a loop. "Almost a year." Technically we met about 15 years ago, but the important stuff is just this last year.
"She's very sweet."
"Yes, she is." Most of the time. To me, anyway. I've heard stories, though…
"Dr. Mallard is a very good son."
He's her only son. Kind of makes the nomination list pretty short. But, yeah, he is. "He's a good guy, period."
"How did you meet?"
"My bookstore is right down the road from the Navy Yard." I smiled benignly. No need to share the fugly part.
"You're getting married soon?"
I actually laughed. "No, we're happy as we are. Where did you—" A sudden, furious blush flared on her cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the table. Oh, Lordy. "Let me guess. Someone told you there's a baby in the offing?" Her blush intensified. "That's one of Victoria's favorite fantasies. Pay her no mind."
She looked faintly relieved. I don't know if she was concerned for her job security (no fears on that score) or had designs on Ducky (fat chance, sweetheart; you've read too many old Harlequins).
My turn. "So. How did you end up in the nursing profession?"
She frowned. "Family tradition. Of sorts. Excuse me. I need to check on the laundry." She put her lunchbox (an honest-to-god kid's plastic lunchbox—with pictures of the second Star Wars movie, The Empire Strikes Back—on the lid) at the far end of the counter and hurried toward the basement. She still had five minutes of her lunch break to go; I'd never seen her duck out before 1300.
I turned back to the meat I was browning. You can dish it out but you can't take it. Okay… maybe I suspected her of harboring a tendre for Ducky. I smiled… just a hair maliciously. Just a hair.
/ / /
Afternoon tea now a memory (in addition to chocolate crisps, a custard-filled éclair and a couple of cream cheese and cucumber sandwich triangles, Victoria ate every sardine and a ton of buttered toast; shudder), I was concentrating on the home stretch of dinner prep. Every burner was in use and the kitchen was, well, a mess. But it smelled good. I was carrying a pot of boiling water to the sink so it took me a couple of rings to catch the phone. "Mallard residence," I chirped, hoping it was the master of the manor.
I'm still not sure, but I thought I heard in infinitesimal gasp and then the clattering click of a receiver being hung up. Enh; I was probably reading more drama into it than necessary.
"Was that Donald?" Back from their 1630 stroll, Victoria walked slowly into the kitchen, lightly swatting away Miss Keithley's hand as she tried to guide her in. (She is not going gently into the night.)
"I don't think so." I stirred at the two pots of lasagna sauce. (Yes, two. Ducky loves mushrooms; his mother loathes them. I'm a dutiful un-daughter-in-law and will happily make separate things for her. Or him.) "Even if he were interrupted, he'd've said, 'I'll call right back.' He wouldn't have just hung up."
"They hung up on you?" She looked shocked.
"Mm-hmm."
"They hang up on me, too."
Probably give up when you say, 'What? What?' over and over. "Maybe they only want to talk to Donald. No women allowed."
She snorted faintly. "How rude."
How rude. Indeed.
/ / /
"Long day?"
"Very," Ducky said firmly. We were cuddled together on the couch, ignoring the end of the movie flickering on the TV across the way. "Murder-suicide."
"'If I can't have you, nobody will?'" I interpreted.
"Exactly. He left a long, rambling note that went on for pages, the kind of psychotic, disjointed discourse along the lines of the Unibomber—or Charles Manson."
"Nice, stable relationship."
The end credits from the Friday night movie (Star Trek: Nemesis, possibly the most forgettable of the franchise) finished scrolling and we got a screen full of pretty, perky newscasters. Even with the sound down low, you could tell what was going on. President Bush, giving a speech somewhere, his facial expression showing he was either concerned or constipated. Evacuation in Texas due to potential flooding (a seasonal favorite). Riot in—hmm, somewhere with an Arabic language. No—Arabic market in England. Cameron Carson leaving rehab for the at least the fifteenth time (since 2000) (he makes Robert Downey, Jr. look like Carrie Nation). "God got me through this, to a good place… I'll never falter again. I have a new—a new need, a new resolve—" He did look more put-together than he had the other bazillion times he'd left rehab. "I want to thank my fans for standing by me, my wonderful family—especially my incredible wife, Alyce—" The clip moved to a shot of a baseball game just as he planted a kiss on the frozen cheek of the platinum blonde beside him. "What was I saying? Nice, stable relationship? What a jerk."
"Michelle Hartman?" The screen was back to the 9 o'clock news team.
"No, not her. Carson. He should have a wing named for him at Betty Ford. He's been arrested more times than there were Friday the 13th sequels—and each time he gets off scot-free or with a slap on the wrist or community service or rehab. You pull that routine, or I or—anyone else—we'd be locked up for years. But CC? Because his films rake in bucks like Schwarzenegger and Harrison Ford combined, he gets a pass. Good actor, and I hear he's a nice guy—but I think he's kind of a jerk," I repeated.
"No argument from my quarter." His words were barely audible. He stared at me for a long moment until I was almost unnerved. "Have I told you how much I love you?" His voice was so very gentle.
"Yeah, when you saw what was for dinner," I cracked. (I can't help it. Every so often the fact that we've been together for so long and it seems so normal, so stable, just overwhelms me. Color me neurotic.) "But you can tell me again."
"I love you." He kissed me on the forehead and snuggled me closer. "And that was a marvelous dinner."
"Even dessert?" I teased.
He shuddered. "Even dessert. She adds something new every year."
"Be glad it wasn't sardines."
He made a face. "Don't even joke. So. How was she today?" He steeled himself, brow furrowed.
"Pretty good. I lost her at the market, but she didn't get far. We didn't make it to the nursery—she mentioned wanting plants and such."
"We'll go this Sunday. At least it's not the other kind of nursery. Has she stopped badgering you about grandchildren?"
"Has she stopped buggin' you?"
"No."
"So why should I get off? Don't—say—a—word," I said, catching the wicked grin and twinkle in his eye.
"I? I didn't say a thing."
"You were thinkin' it. Loudly."
"Good. Then I don't have to spell out my plans—" He began nibbling my neck.
"Dear god, I'm in love with a vampire," I giggled. (Hey. It tickled.)
He chuckled evilly—which tickled even more. "Of course, the mere idea that we might present her with a grandchild makes her turn a blind eye to us spending the night at each other's abode."
"Yeah, instead of getting tongue-clicking and finger-wagging we get understanding smiles and, 'Oh, I'll just go read in bed a while.'" I decided not to tell him about our conversation in the produce department—or the fact that she was telling Nurse Keithley (and god knows who else) that I'm pregnant.
"Amusing to have one's parent lead one to a life of debauchery."
"Debauchery…?" I gave him my best depraved chuckle. "I like that."
He leaned over to kiss me—only to be interrupted by the telephone. He sighed in frustration. "It might be work," he said apologetically.
I gave a martyred sigh as he reached past me to grab the phone… and then tickled him has he came in firing range.
Consequently his, "Mallard residence" had a bit of a chuckle in it. "Hello?" He gave me a bemused look. "Is anyone—huh!"
"What's up?" I asked, curious. He replaced the receiver.
"How odd. I couldn't hear anyone on the line, then I said, 'is anyone there'—and I head someone cry out, 'Oh!' and hang up."
"Weird. I had something like that when I was fixing dinner. And your mother said she's had hang ups, too."
"She probably couldn't hear them and they hung up in frustration."
Whoops. I forgot that he reads minds. "Maybe it's kids playing phony phone call. Badly." We hadn't even been treated to, 'Is your refrigerator running? Go catch it!'
"It would be nice if they at least said, 'sorry, wrong number,'" he grumbled.
"Uh-uh. I saw that movie."
"I promise—" He reached over and clicked off the end table lamp. "You won't end up like Barbara Stanwyck." He stood up and tugged my hand.
I knew he was heading for an early bedtime—but not sleeping. "Good." We strolled out of the parlor, arm around the waist of each other. "That better not be some other girlfriend, making sure the coast is clear."
"Never."
Oh, he is so nice to snuggle up to…
/ / /
"Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you?" I juggled the phone on my shoulder, counted out change for a customer, gave a thumbs-up to the UPSy-daisy driver when she pointed toward the back storeroom and chugged a swig of iced cappuccino. Multi-tasking at its best.
"Sandy?"
The voice was familiar, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure. "Yes…?" I started hesitantly—then gasped. "Ev?"
"Yeah…?" There was hesitation in her voice, too.
I waved to Valerie and pointed toward the register. "Hang on a sec." I put the call on hold and scurried toward the break room, scrawling my name on the UPS delivery screen in mid-flight. "Evvie, Evvie, Evvie! How are you, how are you, oh my god, how are you?" I laugh-gasped out while I grabbed the receiver.
She laughed, such a familiar sound. "Not bad. I—saw you at the Expo."
"You did?" I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice. "Why didn't you—"
"Well… I saw you were with Dr. Mallard—and, well, I was… with… someone… too."
"Oh." Light slowly dawned. "Oh. You were with someone with someone."
"Yeah," she laughed lightly. "I didn't want to interrupt you and, well—"
"You didn't want us interrupting you, either."
"Kinda."
"So you've managed to get with someone who's in the business?"
"Not exactly," she hedged. "You never met Lily, did you?"
I wracked my brain. "Not that I remember."
"I was pretty sure we broke up before I started at the store. We went together most of the time I was at Waverly, split up, went our separate ways… She moved out of state, she's been in Utah most of this time—"
"Utah?" Not what you'd call the most gay-friendly state.
"She was studying, advanced degree. She's a genealogist."
"Well, that's the place to learn it," I was forced to admit.
"So my forte was always history and biography, so—um—" I could picture her shifting from foot to foot, chewing her bottom lip and hugging herself, masses of wavy hair bouncing like lazy Slinkies. "—would you hate me forever if I became your competition?" she got out in a rush. She sounded like she was a ten-year-old asking permission for a sleepover.
"You're opening a bookstore?"
"We, uh, already did. Sort of."
I burst out laughing. "I won't hate you forever! You know darn well bookstores thrive on friendly competition."
"Except for You've Got Mail."
"Yeah, well, I don't see Tom Hanks hanging around here. You know we don't do a lot of trade in bio, I will happily point people your way. Where are you?"
"Wisconsin NW, right near Hippy Gypsy Tearoom."
I made a face. "Near that art supply store with the fishwife owner?" Great products; lousy staff.
"Not near it, in it. They couldn't find a buyer for the business, so they sold off the stock and put the empty up for sale. A lot of lookers, no takers; they said they got a bad vibe from the place when they walked in."
"What'd she do, die there?"
"Nah, she and her hubby retired to Arizona."
"Lucky Arizona," I muttered. The woman had been a witch in the unkind sense of the word.
"But you did get a creepy feeling walking through the door. So Lily called a couple of her Wiccan friends—"
A gay, Wiccan genealogist who had studied in the heart of Mormon-land. Pat Robertson would have had a field day.
"—they did a cleansing and the place is totally different, now."
There was a single, sharp knock at the door. I looked up just as it swung open; Marcy, our newest (and, at 17, youngest) member of the staff gave me a telling look. I didn't need to ask. "Ev, can I put you on hold for a sec? I'm, uh, kind of sitting—"
"You?" Evvie giggled. "You, babysitting?"
"Not exactly." I scurried from the room, wireless receiver in hand. "Sometimes Ducky gets called in on a Saturday morning and can't find—"
"Ohhhh," she drew out. "Ducky has a… kid? Grandkid?"
"No! It's his—mother."
"You're babysitting his mother?"
"Sort of. Hang on." I hit the hold button and slipped the receiver in the pocket of my apron.
"—gone, I can't find it!" Mrs. Mallard had cornered a customer and looked quite distressed. (So did the customer.)
"Victoria, what's wrong?" I slipped her hand through my elbow and gently pulled her away, mouthing 'sorry' toward the young man who nodded understandingly in response. "What can't you find?"
"Cassandra?" She looked at me in confusion.
"Yes. What have you lost? Can I help you find it?"
"I wanted to eat lunch but I can't find the kitchen. Where is my kitchen?" She looked ready to cry.
"It's at home. You came to the store with me this morning. Du—Donald had to go to work, remember?"
"Where is Donald?" She switched to a look of irritation in a nanosecond. "That silly boy is never around when I need him!"
"He's at work," I repeated patiently. She has good days and bad. This was kind of a 50-50 up and down day. Hey, at her age—I should do so well. "He called just a little while ago, he's going to take us to lunch and then I was going to drive you home. Mrs. Devon is coming over from the agency, she'll be there about two-thirty."
"Nurse Devon?"
"That's right."
Her eye narrowed. "I don't like her. She steals my chocolates."
"I promise. On the way home, we'll take care of that. I'll figure out something so she can't steal your chocolates any more."
She gave me a smile that would melt the heart of the coldest person. "You're such a good girl, Cassandra." She patted my cheek. "I just do wish you and Donald would hurry up and give me a grandchild."
I've given up fighting that one battle. "Maybe one of these days soon," I fibbed.
"Good." She frowned, concentrating. "We're going to lunch," she said carefully.
"Yep."
"I need to… I need to…" Her face suddenly cleared. "I need to sort the gardening books!"
I laughed in response. "That would be very helpful." I led her back to that section. "And, look. Geoff just arrived. I'm sure he can help you—you can sort, and he'll shelve them for you." When I had insisted that yes, it would be okay to leave Victoria with us a few times when Ducky had difficulty getting someone to stay with her on short notice, I was pleasantly surprised to discover Geoff helping Mrs. Mallard at every turn. It turns out his grandmother lives with them and suffers severely from Alzheimer's. (She makes Victoria look like a pretender to the throne.) Geoff is the one who has the most patience with his grandmother, the one she responds best to—even though she thinks he's her husband's shipmate and we're in the middle of WW II. He had stepped into the same role with Victoria without a bat of an eyelash.
"Mrs. Mallard!" He gave her an easy grin and a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Oh, you rogue!" she giggled.
"I'm just so glad to see you here today. It's always more fun sorting books with you."
They walked off, arm in arm, Victoria talking a mile a minute about the wrestling match she had watched the other night. Geoff looked utterly fascinated. I'm buying him a solid chocolate Oscar.
Calm restored, I pulled the receiver from my pocket and took a turn around the store. "Sorry about that."
"Wha' happened?"
"Well, Mrs. Mallard… gets confused sometimes. Just had to sort things out." I collected go-backs as I cruised—books customers had picked up, carried with them, changed their minds about purchasing and dropped on a convenient shelf, rather like they did at the market, I'm sure. At least books aren't perishable. "So—tell me more. You open, yet?"
"Soon. We've been doing internet sales, but I really missed the customer interaction. Maybe we could all… get together for lunch?" she suggested hesitantly.
"That would be great." I didn't have to fake my enthusiasm.
"Maybe… today? Gypsy has a really nice lunch menu…"
I hedged. "We were going out to lunch—Ducky, his mom and I, I mean."
"They'd certainly be welcome."
"Well… I'll suggest it, but Victoria…" I lowered my voice, even though she was nowhere near and doesn't exactly have ears like a bat. "Victoria can sometimes be a handful."
"Oh…" I could hear the disappointment.
"Monday?"
"Let me check with Lily. I was hoping you'd get to meet Charlie, but she'll be in summer school all week."
"Charlie?"
"Charlie. Charlotte. Lily's sister. Half-sister. And adopted daughter. Lily came back home to take care of her dad last year; he got everything taken care of before he died. He didn't want his late wife's family fighting for custody. They're, um, well… Lily had a good reason for moving out when she did, put it that way."
"Gotcha. So Charlotte's mother—?"
"Died. Tell you later."
Something ugly, apparently. "Hmm. Well, why don't we do lunch twice? Just us grownups and then add Charlotte and Victoria into the mix. Maybe… a picnic next Sunday?"
She went 'hmmmm' for a moment. "That sounds good. Call you tomorrow to set it up?"
"Haven't changed my numbers."
"Fabbo."
It took another couple of days to get together with Ev and Lily. Monday Ducky was in court all day. Tuesday I was at an all-day estate sale in Pennsylvania. Wednesday Lily was teaching Who Am I? How to Research Your Family Tree at the local community center. (Lots of bored retirees take day classes.) Thursday Ev and I were both at a library sale in Fairfax County. It was almost like old times. She found some books for me, I found some for her, and we made firm plans for all four of us to meet that Friday.
Friday was sunny and hot and more humid than the prior four days rolled together. Blech. By noon I was drenched in sweat, my clothes were plastered to my body and my hair looked like a fright wig. Obviously the a/c unit needed a tune-up—or I was hitting menopause (finally).
"And it's not even the dog days of summer," Ducky commented, holding my chair.
"You look darn good."
"I've been in Autopsy all day. Of necessity, it's quite cool there."
"Need an assistant?"
His eyes had a wicked gleam. "Gladly."
We were early. Way early. We took a table at the far edge of the outside patio, where Ev and Lily couldn't miss us when they arrived. Our table was a small redwood picnic table, nice and sturdy and perfect for four people. (If you've never been to Hippy Gypsy, you should go. Soon. They're big on the whole 'reuse, renew, recycle' concept. Every table, every chair, every plate and utensil was purchased used. So our table was an old picnic table, my chair was powder blue metal with a sort of Art Deco flair, Ducky's was curved wrought iron (very Southwestern style), one of the remaining chairs a Duncan Phyfe dining chair and the fourth an old-fashioned straight-back country kitchen chair. The china was an even crazier mix.)
We nibbled on raw veggies as we waited, giving each other a rundown of the week. (While they push healthy food and vegetarian items, Gypsy is not above junk food and sweets. But they're better for you than most and sooooo good. I heartily recommend their carrot cake.) We usually did a better job of getting together; some weeks were just ugly in terms of quality together time. This had been one of them, so a lot of catch-up was needed between us.
I yelped as someone threw arms around my neck in a hug, and narrowly avoided choking to death on a carrot stick.
"I'm so sorry we're late!" Evelyn had snuck up behind me and was the guilty party. "A pox on plumbers!"
"Don't say that," her companion scolded. "I, for one, want a working restroom."
"Too bad ours is turn of the century. And it finally turned on us."
"You remember Ducky, of course—"
"Evelyn." Ever the gentleman, Ducky had immediately arisen and held out a hand.
Ev took it in both of hers and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Of course. You look great."
"The true sign of old age," he said mock-mournfully. "When your first greeting isn't, 'great to see you' or 'how have you been' but, 'you look great'—you're old."
"Well, you do," Ev argued. "Sandy's taking good care of you."
"It's mutual," I said, smiling at him. He gave me a tiny wink.
"Well, I knew you'd be good together, even back—last year," she stumbled, probably remembering the more personal parts of what brought us all together.
"And you were right." Almost a year. Wow. Shiver.
"Oh, Sandy, Ducky—this is Lily."
"My pleasure." "Hi." "Finally, we meet!"
"I know, this has been a crazy week, hasn't it?" she said to me. Ducky played host, holding the chair for her and then for Evelyn. Chivalry is not dead so long as he has anything to say about it.
"Par for the course. Wait until she starts doing back to back estate sales and book sales."
Lily made an expressive frown. "Bad enough already."
"We can keep each other company," Ducky laughed, patting her hand.
"Sold."
We had barely ordered before Lily finally asked the inevitable. "How did you get the nickname Ducky?"
Ev clapped a hand to her forehead. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize I'd been so causal in my introductions. Lily McAllister, Cassandra Talmadge, Dr. Donald Mallard."
"Mallard, duck, Donald Duck—Ducky," he tracked.
"Your name is familiar…" She peered at him more intently, frowning slightly.
"I'm sure I've mentioned him," Evelyn said.
"Plus, if you've been following the Packard murder case, he's been testifying lately—" I added.
"That must be it. I'm a Court TV junkie."
Oh, well. Proved she isn't too perfect.
We spent lunch chattering amiably back and forth. Lily is a serious young woman but with a sly wit, and seemed to be a good match for Evvie. (I got a secret chuckle out of the fact that both she and Evelyn are two of the prettiest, most girly-girl feminine women I've ever met; I wanted to march them in front of the cretins who think that every lesbian is a flannel shirt-Birkenstock sandals-overalls-wearing dyke with uber-short hair and an allergy to pastels. Lily has long, long dark hair, huge brown eyes and if she needs a second job she could put half the Victoria's Secret models out of work. Good thing she's nice, or I could hate her guts.) She and Ducky really hit it off; he has a love of history and an interest in genealogy, so they were thick as thieves over their plates. Ev and I quickly ended up talking trade; I gladly hauled out my day runner and gave her the numbers for wholesalers I regularly dealt with, putting asterisks by the ones who specialized in nonfiction. We passed industry chit-chat back and forth: a new s-f store in Connecticut named after Heinlein's Tomorrow, the Stars had opened; Ev dismissed them as pretentious preppies. The rumor that Bookman's, a chain of used bookstores we had discovered on a trip out West, was going to expand to California and New Mexico was just that—a rumor. The Bookie Joint, one of the oldest used bookstores in the tri-state area, was closing down—and I had a personal invite to buy the stock before anyone else called dibs. Ev didn't ask; her eyes said it all. I knew Pippa would have no problem with me bringing Ev along for the ride.
"You're as bad as my mother!"
At Ducky's laugh, I surfaced from my tête-à-tête with Evelyn. "Hunh?"
"I was just asking if he had any children," Lily explained, faintly puzzled.
I laughed as well. "Yeah, Victoria is still nagging him about grandchildren. You be quiet," I admonished Evelyn, who pressed her lips together, eyebrows raised and eyes glittering with badly suppressed laughter.
"Did I say anything? Anything?"
"No, but I could hear you anyway."
After well-deserved dessert (muggy in D.C. deserves some sort of gold star), we headed back to inspect the new shop. The bay window on the left read T. Evelyn Campbell, Vintage Books; the right, Lily McAllister, Genealogical Research, all in delicate gold and black script. Very pretty. The plumber was still hard at work (Ev hadn't been far off; that bathroom was appointed at least 70 years ago) and occasional unintelligible mutters floated forth.
If you're a bookseller and don't get even a tiny rush when you walk into someone else's bookstore—baby, you're in the wrong business. Go work for the government, talk to pissed off customers in a call center or herd toddlers in daycare. You don't belong in the book business. Me? I walked through the front door and fell in love.
I could see Ev's handiwork in the shelves. Beautiful, dark stained wood, nice and heavy, the shelves spanned the walls and cut 90-degree angles to create nooks and cubbies. Over half of the room was full of books and ephemera on history, broken down first by reading level (adult and teen; grade school and below in their own section) and then by era or topic. Another third or more was biography. She had a respectable children's' area, both history and biography ("The grade school teachers were already my best customers online, they've been nagging me for a storefront for ages!") and she had a section of 'miscellaneous fiction' and 'miscellaneous non-fiction' for both adults and children ("Amazing the stuff that ends up in your box at a sale."). Lily had the large back office to herself, someplace discreet for her genealogy clients.
I leaned close to one shelf and inhaled, that wonderful smell of old paper, leather and ink filling my nose. What a feeling of euphoria. Bliss.
Ducky was happily perusing a scruffy, battered book; I caught sight of the title: From Teleharmonium to Waterphone: Unique and Unusual Musical Instruments. My sweetie is nothing if not eclectic.
"You are open for business, yes?" he asked worriedly.
"Of a fashion," Ev said. "But for you—no charge."
"Nonsense," he said briskly. "You're a business, not a charity."
Ev looked like she was going to argue, but the set of his jaw stopped her. She checked the first page. "Fifty-three-oh-two including tax. Skip the oh-two." (She's done that since her first day at Papyrus. Calculate tax in her head, I mean. Kinda scary. But impressive.)
"A steal." He happily whipped out his wallet and plunked down the requisite bills.
Ev dug around in a desk drawer—her checkout desk is an old, old teacher's desk, fully of nooks, crannies and drawers; very fitting—and pulled out a pen. "Autograph, please?" She pushed one of the singles back toward Ducky.
"Surely I'm not your first customer?"
"In the storefront? Yep. And don't call me Shirley."
"I picked a bad week to quit smoking," I shot back. Ducky looked between us, baffled. Apparently not an Airplane! fan. "Ask Tony."
"Oooh, a calligraphy pen." He made a couple of practice scrawls on a piece of paper, then neatly wrote Donald Mallard on the right side of Washington's portrait and To your continued success! on the left.
"I even have a frame," Ev said smugly. "Okay, hold it like that—" She arranged the book in his hands and posed him near her vintage cash register.
"What—oh, no, no, no," he protested when he saw she was going to take his picture.
"Oh, yes, yes, yes," she overrode. "Smile," she ordered.
He sighed and obliged. He has such a sweet smile. I peered at the digital screen. "I want a print."
"Sure." She plugged the camera into the computer—an interesting counterpoint to her register, which is the size of a third grader and twice as heavy—and quickly printed out two copies of D. Mallard, M.D., M.E.
She wasn't lying. She pulled a frame from one of the drawers—a lovely old picture frame from god knows when ("It was in a box I got at a blind bid auction last January.") and pried open the back. A dab of glue stick on the dollar bill and the picture, press to the piece of faded black backboard and— "Voila."
"Nice," I admired.
"The frame is as old as I am."
"Oh, hush."
"I should look so good—" Ev and Lily started together. They burst into laughter.
"Already talking in chorus," Ducky teased. "Sure sign—"
"Of a good match," I finished.
"So what does finishing each other's sentences mean?" Ev asked with an overly-innocent look.
"Beyond hope," I said.
"Doomed to be together forever," Ducky said sadly.
"Doomed?" three female voices chorused. Lily even crossed her arms and cocked her head.
"That didn't come out quite right," he admitted with a frown.
I slipped an arm about his waist. "More like, 'who else would have us, darling?'" I said, trying for a Noel Coward feel.
"If I say yes, does that save my neck?"
"Probably."
"Yes," he said fervently.
"Safe." I gave him a peck on the cheek. "Let's get you back to work before you end up your own customer."
"Sunday, eleven o'clock, Marilyn Walsh Park—right?" Ev confirmed as we walked to the door.
"Barring any murder and mayhem," Ducky said, disgruntled. He'd lost a number of weekend days of late.
"You can always join us later," I suggested. Small consolation. "But your mom is looking forward to this too much for me to cry off."
"Besides—you're bringing lunch," Lily laughed.
"You're bringing dessert," I shot back. "Can she cook?" I stage-whispered to Ev.
"Better than I can," she 'whispered' back.
"That ain't sayin' much."
At the door, Lily gave Ev a glare. "Listen, miss I-can't-be-bothered-to-do-dishes—"
"I was a neat freak until I started hanging out with Charlie—"
"That's it, blame a nine year old kid—"
We all exchanged farewell hugs, Ev and Lily still "squabbling" as we left. "Well, they seem a good match," Ducky pronounced. I nodded. "Feel better?"
I gave him a sharp look. "Pardon?"
He steered me around the light pole I was about to plow into. "Sandy, I know you pretty well." He laughed quietly. "Very well. Even though you had nothing to do with Evelyn falling in love with you and what happened last year—"
"Please, I was the cause of what happened last year."
"We'll debate that later. As I was saying—even though you had nothing to do with Evelyn falling in love with you, you still felt guilty about the situation."
"Yeah…" I kicked a small rock out of our path and into the street.
"You were worried about her."
"Yeah…" A plastic bottle cap joined the rock.
"You wanted to make sure she'd be happy—"
"Yeah…" Mashed flower from one of the sidewalk trees. Airborne. Hat trick.
"—especially since you were."
I stopped and looked up at him, arms wrapped around myself despite the sticky humidity. "Finally. Finally happy." I shook my head. "Where were you thirty years ago?"
"California," he said promptly.
"Nuts. No wonder we didn't meet."
"But we eventually did. That's what's important."
"Doomed to be together forever."
He winced faintly. "I truly meant—"
I laughed. "You're gonna get that on a t-shirt for your birthday."
"I don't wear t-shirts," he said quickly.
"Not even for me?" I gave him a soulful look and batted my eyelashes.
"Well… maybe in private."
"You're on."
-1-