Stan, on the other hand, looked pretty pleased with his life. He was grinning at the little girl in his arms, the toddler with golden curls who had her hands pressed against his sunburned cheeks. In fact, everybody but her mother looked perfectly content.
Every other photo in the room was up-to-date. Why had Tootie held on to this old one, displaying it in such a central location? Given Margot’s age, this may have been the last family photo taken before Linda ran off. Was Tootie passive-aggressively trying to remind Stan of the family he’d given up?
“Hey, sweetie, whatcha doin’ in there?” Tootie called from the kitchen. She was dressed in a purple velour tracksuit, but she was wearing a green poker visor on her head and shuffling a deck of cards between her hands like a street magician . . . which was different.
Margot cleared her throat. “Hi, Tootie, I brought the Tupperware back. Thanks again for the casseroles.”
“Well, we have to keep ya fed, don’t we?” Tootie motioned her closer with both hands. “Come on in and meet the girls.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose,” she said, shaking her head.
“Come on.” Tootie dashed forward and looped her arm through Margot’s, practically dragging her past the enormous dining room and into the kitchen. The woman was awfully spry for a senior citizen.
Instead of the dozen women Margot expected, there were only three ladies sitting around the kitchen table, cackling and chatting. Aunt Leslie sat at the breakfast bar of Tootie’s rooster-themed kitchen, slicing cornbread in a blackened cast-iron pan.
At the sound of Tootie’s shuffling steps, the ladies’ heads snapped up in unison, like blue-haired velociraptors. Tootie gestured to the bar stool next to Leslie and Margot climbed on. Arlo sat at her feet, gently pawing at her stool and looking up with hopeful eyes. She shook her head and scratched behind his ears. She was just happy to see him somewhere besides her porch.
“Girls, this is Stan’s girl, Margot,” Tootie cooed, giving Margot’s hand a squeeze. “Margot, this is Lucille Bodine, Betsy Grandy, and Delilah Dawkins.”
Margot smiled. She didn’t curtsy, but it was a near thing. She watched as the three women, each sporting football-helmet-shaped coiffures and floral print dresses, scanned her from head to toe. Lucille, who had a little dashboard statue of Jesus standing guard in front of her chair, eyeballed Margot with a wary expression. There was audible sniffing. That didn’t bode well.
“It’s very nice to meet you all,” Margot said.
Betsy’s red-painted mouth popped open. “Well, don’t you sound fancy! Do you work on the TV?”
“No,” scolded Delilah, a reed-thin woman with cow-print reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Remember, Stan brought her in to work for the family business.”
“Oh, actually, Tootie brought me in to work for the family business,” Margot said, while Tootie waved a pig-in-a-blanket in recognition. “She’s quite the online recruiter.”
Margot didn’t mention that the position was only temporary. Somehow, she thought it would embarrass Tootie, and she didn’t want to do that in front of her card friends.
“Leslie, you didn’t put sugar in the cornbread, did you?” Tootie asked.
“One little teaspoon doesn’t hurt anything, Tootie,” Leslie said.
“You put sugar in it—it’s cake, not cornbread!” Tootie said.
“Well, when you make the cornbread you can use your recipe! Otherwise, feel free not to burden yourself by eatin’ my ‘cake,’ ” Leslie shot back.
“What are you playing?” Margot asked in an attempt at a subject change. “Bridge? Canasta?”
“Texas Hold’em, jokers wild, minimum bet twenty dollars,” Tootie said, spreading the cards in a broad fan across the table before sliding them back into her hand and shuffling them with speed unexpected in her arthritic hands. Delilah hauled a casino-style rack of poker chips out of her enormous shoulder bag and plopped it in the middle of the table. Lucille took a roll of bills out of her own handbag and counted out more than a hundred dollars in twenties.
“I did not see that coming,” Margot said as Arlo shoved his head insistently against her palm.
“You wanna play a hand, honey?” Tootie offered, to almost immediate objections from the other players.
“It’s bad luck to switch players!” Lucille protested.
Betsy cried, “You have to give us a chance to win our money back!”
“Is this some sort of hustle situation?” Delilah asked.
“I don’t think I’m at your level of play,” Margot said, raising her hands. “I’ll just sit over here, where it’s safe.”
“Down, Arlo,” Tootie called as he pawed at Margot’s legs, his little doggy expression still hopeful as he sniffed the air. Margot took a tiny piece of cornbread and held it out for him. Arlo snarfed it up, licking at her hand. She wasn’t sure whether it was a gesture of canine gratitude or he was searching for crumbs.
Leslie slid a plateful of sliced fruit and a bottle of water toward her.
“Thank you.” Margot sighed, spearing an apple slice with a fork, and gagged the moment she put it to her tongue.
“Did you roll the fruit in sugar?” Margot asked.
“Well, yeah, what sort of flavor would you have without sugar?” Leslie scoffed.
“Fruit?” Margot guessed.
“Speaking of the Food Carnival,” Tootie said, none too subtly, “Lucille here says she heard you were talking to Kyle Archer in the beauty section the other day.”
Margot narrowly avoided doing a spit take with the water she was using to rinse her teeth of the fruit sugar. She dabbed delicately at her lips with a poker-themed party napkin. “Where did you hear that? Why would you hear that?”
“The whole town has been keeping an eye on poor Kyle ever since his wife passed.” Lucille sniffed. Again with the sniffing.
Wait.
“Passed? As in ‘passed away’?” Margot said, an unpleasant cold feeling fluttering through her belly. She’d assumed Kyle was divorced, that his girls struggled because their mother had left them behind when she blew out of this backwater. It had never occurred to Margot that she’d had no choice in the matter. An uncomfortable pressure bloomed around her heart, making her chest ache.
Tootie nodded as she dealt the hands. “About five years ago, the sweet little thing was just et up with cancer. She was carryin’ their youngest at the time. Little Juniper? Maggie’s mama, Rosie, she said Maggie and Kyle had been trying for another baby for months with no luck, but all of a sudden she was tired all the time and sick. They thought it was just the usual morning sickness, but the doctor did all the blood work that you do on pregnant women, and they found something off with her cell counts. Breast cancer, can you believe that? She was twenty-eight years old, havin’ a baby, and dyin’ of breast cancer. It had already spread up in her lymph nodes by the time they caught it. And she had the choice between chemo or keeping the baby safe, and she chose the baby. They started her on the treatments as soon as they could after the delivery, but it was too late. She passed when Juniper was a few months old, bless her heart, leaving Kyle behind with those poor babies. It was one of the saddest services E.J.J. has ever presided over. And after all these years, his heart is pretty hard to touch.”
“He’s not over her,” Delilah said. “He was still wearing his wedding ring when I saw him at the church picnic last month.”
Margot pursed her lips. Well, that explained the misery. Was that how Kyle spent his time away from his children? Wandering around town, mourning his lost wife? But if he was still in so much turmoil over her, what was he doing kissing Margot until her insides went to jelly?
“I’ve never cared for him,” Betsy said, peering over her reading glasses at her cards.
Delilah shushed her.
“What? He’s lived in town a few years, but he’s hired on as the principal? Jimmy Greenway’s barely out of the door and all of the sudden he’s makin’ all sorts of changes at the school???
?
“Kyle Archer was overqualified to teach in the first place and we were lucky to get him. Jimmy hasn’t quite managed to get out the door, if you’ll recall,” Tootie said. “And some of those changes he had to make because the state was going to slap some sort of sanction on the school. Kyle has every right to run the school as he sees fit. He’s got all those degrees for a reason.”
“Fancy degrees from some highfalutin school telling him every kid has to be wrapped in cotton wool and tricked into learnin’,” Betsy said with a snort. “Whatever happened to readin’, writin’ and ’rithmetic?”
Leslie leaned close enough to whisper, “Betsy is Jimmy Greenway’s cousin by marriage. She’s loyal to a fault.” When she was sure Betsy wasn’t listening, she added, “That fault is willful blindness to the fact that Jimmy is a jackass.”
Margot bit her lip to contain the laugh that bubbled up.
“He’s a good man. We want to make sure that if he starts seeing someone, it’s the right someone. Not a stranger who hasn’t bothered showing up to a church service since she rolled into town. Not some big-city girl who’s gonna up and leave without a word,” Lucille sniped.
Tootie shot her the nice Southern old lady version of side eye, and then announced that she’d just beaten Lucille’s flush and taken a lot of her money. Feeling somewhat vindicated by Tootie’s strategic support, Margot offered Lucille a frosty smile. “I’m not seeing him. I had a conversation with him in a grocery store. Is there some city ordinance stating that I’m only allowed to speak to an unmarried man if I have a chaperone?”
Strong words from someone who had done a lot more than have a conversation with Kyle. In public.
Also, how many church services could she have missed so far? She’d only been there a week.
“I’m just saying that there’s a couple of real nice girls around here who have set their caps for him. And if he’s gonna end up with anybody, it’s probably gonna be one of them.”
Margot tilted her head. “Are you telling me that there’s a dibs system?”
Lucille opened her mouth to answer, but Betsy demanded, “Are y’all gonna flap your lips or are we gonna play cards? Mamaw needs a new pair of shoes.”
“Fine, fine,” Lucille huffed, muttering under her breath, “Just like her mama.”
Margot was prepared to ignore this statement entirely, but Tootie shuffled her cards around in her hands. “Now, Lucille, how is that son of yours? Is he gettin’ along okay with his new parole officer?”
Margot watched Lucille’s righteous indignation deflate just a little bit. “He likes her just fine.”
“And your grandson?” Tootie asked casually. “Has he paid back Wally Simpson the money he owes for peeing in the drinks cooler at the Gas’N’Go?”
“Just about,” Lucille mumbled.
Margot watched this interaction with horrified fascination. She’d seen this sort of viciously passive reestablishing of pack order in high-society circles, but she expected better from members of the church floral guild. Somehow, she thought they’d have a carefully cross-stitched sampler reminding them to behave better. She felt a little bad for Lucille, for being embarrassed in front of her friends, but Lucille had basically told her that she wasn’t good enough for Kyle and besmirched her dead mother, so . . .
“Don’t take it personal,” Leslie told her. “Lucille’s had her eye on young Kyle for her granddaughter, Darlene.”
“Does Darlene feel that way about Kyle?”
“No, Lucille just wants Darlene to move out of what was supposed to be her guest room,” she said. “If you’re sparkin’ on Kyle and he’s sparkin’ on you, I think y’all would do well together.”
“Sparkin’?”
“You know, when you look at somebody and you just spark with ’em. Every time ya see ’em, you get flustered. Every conversation leaves ya all breathless and stupid. Your skin feels too tight and your chest aches.”
“I think that what you’re describing is a heart attack,” Margot told her.
“And there’s the Stan in you, remorseless smartasses the both of you. In particular, when you’re uncomfortable and tryin’ to change the subject.” Leslie snickered. “You’ll know sparkin’ when ya feel it. I had it with my Bob, Lord knows. The man could take me from giddy to spittin’ tacks and back again in a few seconds. But I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.”
“I don’t think I have to worry about sparking anybody. I’m not going to be here long enough to . . . spark. And if I did, I think I would try for something a little less complicated than a widower with two small children.”
“Complicated can be good, too,” Leslie said absently, and then suddenly grinned when Tootie won another big pot. Leslie pulled out a little notebook and scribbled Tootie’s winnings amid several carefully organized columns of numbers.
“What’s that?” Margot asked.
“Tootie’s bet book,” Leslie whispered. “I keep track of her winnings and debts, so she doesn’t lose sight of how much she’s gambling.”
“The pots are a bit richer than I expected,” Margot murmured. “I thought nice little church ladies played for matches or pennies.”
“Oh, no, Tootie hasn’t played small since the kids moved out and her pin money got more plentiful,” Leslie said. “She’s been saving up to take E.J.J. on a fancy cruise to Aruba for nigh on ten years now. Of course, step one would be getting him to retire, which will take an act of God and Congress.”
“I thought E.J.J. made a pretty good living at the funeral home,” Margot said. “It’s a recession-proof business.”
“Of course he does,” Leslie said. “But Tootie wants to pay for the cruise with her own money. And that means her poker winnings. Don’t let her fool ya. She’s a card shark.”
“How close is she?”
“Close enough that she might kick us out for talkin’ and splittin’ her attention in a couple of minutes,” Leslie said. “She’s got enough saved for a concierge room for a weeklong cruise. Now she just wants to make enough to cover the spa treatments. She’s hopin’ that once she finally gets E.J.J. on that cruise ship, he’ll finally retire. I keep trying to tell her that McCready men don’t retire, they just keep workin’ so long that they eventually fall into the newest grave they dug, but she’s holdin’ out hope.”
“That is very dark, Aunt Leslie,” Margot said, picking at her plate.
“Can’t shine up the truth.”
Margot blanched, tossing aside a carrot stick, which had been rolled in butter substitute. “I think I’m done.”
MONDAY MORNING BEGAN with Bob and Margot pulling into the McCready’s parking lot and finding Frankie loading embalming equipment into the funeral home van. Margot cast a sidelong glance at Bob, who didn’t seem at all alarmed that his daughter was absconding with thousands of dollars’ worth of sterilized stainless steel. Of course, Bob seemed to be ignoring the fact that their “upselling” argument had ever happened, so Bob was clearly pretty open to denial.
Margot hopped out of the truck, shuddering as her suit jacket seemed to vacuum seal around her body with the force of the humidity. It was a rare cloudy day on the lake, the water gunmetal gray and flat as a dime. Leslie called out from the Snack Shack, and Bob raised both hands to wave to her.
Shaking her head, Margot picked her way across the parking lot on her needle-thin heels. She was proud that she managed the gravel much more easily than she had when she’d first arrived.
“What are you doing, Frankie?” she called over the noise of several bass boat engines purring at the dock.
Just then, Frankie bobbled a heavy electrical appliance and Margot caught it before it hit the ground. Frankie turned and grinned at her. “Quick hands, cousin.”
Bob bussed Frankie’s temple. “Taking your show on the road, honey?”
“I’m going to the elementary school for Career Day. These are my visual aids.”
Margot glanced down at the appliance in her hand, which she now saw
was a wicked-looking saw. The blade was covered by a heavy protective plastic sleeve. Between that and Frankie’s outfit, a black tiered square dance skirt and a black T-shirt covered in neon roller skates, Margot could only produce “What?”
“Mortuary sciences is a viable career option!” Frankie said. “I plan on luring the next generation into the fold with stories both horrific and whimsical.”
“Doodlebug, I know you’re gonna do a great job, but maybe you should leave the skull saw here. I’m sure the school has a ‘no weapons’ policy,” Bob said. “Also, maybe you shouldn’t use the word ‘lure’ when you’re describin’ a presentation for children. While you’re drivin’ a van.”
“You use this on people’s skulls?” Margot whispered. Frankie smiled and nodded. Margot tossed it back to her cousin and waved her hands in the air. “Gah!”
“Oh, take it easy, I’ve washed it since,” Frankie said.
Margot shuddered. “Still.”
“Doodlebug, the saw may be a little bit much for the third graders,” Bob persisted.
“Fine,” Frankie grumbled, dropping the saw into Uncle Bob’s waiting hands. She carefully slid a big, colorfully illustrated foam-board poster labeled HOW A CREMATORY WORKS into the back of the van and closed the door. “Tie my hands.”
“You’ll thank me later! The parents will definitely thank me!” Bob called as Frankie rounded the van to climb into the driver’s seat.
Bob chewed his lip as he watched his daughter fire up the engine.
“I should go with her,” Margot said, her brow creased.
Bob nodded and patted Margot’s shoulder. “Yeah, that would be a good idea.”
THE SCHOOL WAS not quite the colorful riot of noise and germs that she remembered from Back to School Night, though there was a new screen-printed WELCOME TO CAREER DAY! banner hanging across the entrance to the school. Margot wondered how much time and money was devoted to specialty banners in this school district.
The children were moving in mostly organized lines down the hallway to their next classes. They were mostly quiet and well behaved, though they still wriggled and yapped like little puppies. And the surfaces were mostly clean, but Margot suspected that the janitor mopping the area in front of the little boys’ room stayed in almost constant motion throughout the day trying to maintain even that underwhelming state.