1. COFFEE AND CATASTROPHE
Rose Nylund whispered into the lemon-yellow telephone receiver, twisting the cord tightly between her fingers, her words obscured by the gurgling of the coffee percolator. The aroma of toast and melting butter filled the kitchen as the early Florida sunlight filtered through the ruffled curtains above the sink.
“Who’s that you’re talking to, Rose?” Blanche called in her languid Southern drawl as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “A new beau?”
Rose hung up the handset with a clatter and smoothed her floral robe. “Oh, it was just one of those prank calls.”
“For twenty minutes?” Sophia piped up from the breakfast table, her small face framed by the scalloped collar of her nightgown. “I’ve had dates that ended quicker than that.”
Blanche stifled a giggle as she carried her mug over to the table, seating herself with a swirl of chiffon on a white bamboo chair.
“When was that, back in the 1800s?” Dorothy said as she swept into the kitchen, already dressed for the day in a flowing cream blazer, beige slacks, and chunky gold earrings.
“Exactly. Right after you were born,” Sophia said, her sharp tone softened by the twinkle behind her large bifocal lenses.
Dorothy reached for a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, ignoring her mother’s barb. She leaned against the oak cabinets, noticing Rose’s worried expression.
“What’s the problem, Rose?” she said kindly.
“Well, I’d rather not say,” Rose said, dipping her head.
“Don’t worry honey, we won’t pry,” Blanche said. She leaned forward and peered over the rim of her coffee cup, as if she very much wanted to pry.
“Well . . . if you’re going to drag it out of me . . .” Rose said, settling herself at the table between Sophia and Blanche. “I can’t keep it all cooped up inside for much longer.”
“That’s never a good idea,” Sophia said sagely. “Just ask my gastroenterologist.”
“It’s clear something is bothering you,” Blanche purred, tilting her head to one side. “I always feel better after I unburden myself.”
Dorothy opened her mouth, ready to make a wisecrack. She thought better of it and poured herself some coffee before joining the others at the table.
“You know how I was going to fly to St. Olaf for a wedding next week? Well, something terrible has happened there,” Rose said. She fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth, wrinkling the abstract leaf pattern between her fingers.
“On no! Is everything all right with your niece, sweet pea? Nettie, was it?” Blanche asked, her voice full of concern. She passed a plate of buttered toast to Rose, who usually felt better once she had a snack, especially one involving dairy products.
“No, everything is not okay,” Rose said. “And technically, Nettie is my cousin. Since I’m closer to her mother’s age, she’s always called me Aunt Rose. Her mother is my auntGreta, and I have a few choice words to say about her, believe me!” She released the edge of the tablecloth, leaving it in crumpled pleats.
Blanche and Sophia exchanged a knowing glance. In their experience, Rose hardly ever spoke ill of anyone—and when she did, the words were lengthy, guttural, and vaguely Norwegian. Dorothy took a fortifying sip of coffee as Rose cleared her throat.
“So Nettie’s mother is your aunt, but her daughter thinks you’re her aunt,” Sophia said. “Got it.”
“It’s more of a term of respect,” Rose said. “Especially because I helped raise her after her parents ran off to follow their dreams of starting a poodle circus in Pittsburgh. Ever since I’ve lived in Miami, I’ve been more like a long-distance surrogate mother to Nettie.”
“Poor girl,” Dorothy said. “She’s lucky to have you in her life.”
“She hasn’t had it easy,” Rose said, shaking her head. “When my aunt Greta was pregnant with her, there were terrible rumors that she was actually carrying the Sturgeon General’s baby. But when The Amazing Shapiro delivered her, it was clear that Nettie was a Lindstrom through and through.” Saying that last bit in a voice full of pride, she paused to make sure her friends understood.
“Dare I ask?” Dorothy said as she joined the others at the table.
“Which part did you find confusing?” Sophia said, lifting her hands in the air. “The Sturgeon General or The Amazing Shapiro?”
“They’re two
completely different people!” Rose said, exasperated. “The point is, Nettie just told me there’s a problem with holding the wedding in St. Olaf and they’re going to elope instead!”
“That’s young love for you,” Blanche said, raising her eyebrows. “Elopements are so romantic. Sneaking out of your window, running away with a handsome man, and pledging your love in a secret gazebo overgrown with wisteria with only moonlight as your witness . . .”
Rose took a sip of coffee, then placed her mug on the table with a clank, jolting Blanche out of her reverie. “Well, that’s not what I had in mind for Nettie. It’s been years since we’ve had such a joyous occasion in the family, and since Nettie is a direct descendant of Heinrich von Anderdonnen, we have a lot of serious St. Olaf traditions to uphold. We must have a real wedding, and there can’t be a herring out of place!”
“But, Rose,” Dorothy said, reaching across the table to pat her on the arm. “Certainly you can convince her.”
“That’s not the whole story,” Rose said sadly. “Just this week I read something dreadful in the Courier-Dispatch.” She hid her head in her hands for a long moment. The three other women exchanged worried glances over Rose’s pale cloud of platinum curls.
“I knew something was wrong when she forgot to put mayonnaise in her tuna fish salad yesterday,” Sophia muttered under her breath.
“I did?” Rose gasped, putting a hand to her chest. Traditionally, mayonnaise was the first ingredient in every dish she made.
“I thought maybe it was a butter incident!” Sophia quipped, and Dorothy shot her a silencing look.
Rose slowly lifted her head. “Not every injustice in St. Olaf is butter related, Sophia,” she said, her voice quivering. “Apparently, the Storslagen Hotel hosted a particularly aggressive Grand S’mores Challenge this year. . . .”
“And?” Sophia said. “C’mon, I don’t have much time!”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Ma,” Dorothy said, shaking her head. Her mother seemed to bring up her own mortality more and more these days. “You know I hate it when you talk that way.”
“What?! I mean I have a busy schedule today. I have the podiatrist, the optometrist . . .”
“I’ll just take a regular old tryst,” Blanche joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“As I was saying,” Rose continued. “The Storslagen burned down! It’s the only hotel in St. Olaf and it’ll be impossible to hold a big family wedding without a venue or place for everyone to stay.”
“So that’s why you’ve been so worried lately,” Dorothy said, remembering that her dear friend had been acting a bit odd recently—not finishing her cheesecake the other night, muttering to herself when she thought no one was listening, and bringing up wild St. Olaf stories. However, that last part was pretty normal for Rose, Dorothy had to admit.
“Now Nettie feels her only choice is to elope,” Rose said. “And she told me she’s never been enamored with St. Olaf’s vaunted traditions.” She bit her lip, staring morosely down at her untouched toast. The women fell silent, and Dorothy stirred her coffee pensively.
“That is a predicament,” Blanche said. “Is there a motel in town?”
“Ah! Your favorite subject.” Sophia peered over her glasses at Blanche. “But aren’t you the expert? I assume you’re intimately acquainted with every motel from here to Tuscaloosa.”
“Very funny,” Blanche said, lifting her chin and adjusting the shoulder pads in her chiff on robe.
“What about the town next door, can’t you find a hotel there?” Dorothy asked, ever practical.
“In the rival hamlet of St. Gustav?” Rose said, voice rising in disbelief. “I may be desperate, but I’m not foolhardy.” She shook her head and looked down at her hands again.
Dorothy paused to stifle a smile. Now wasn’t the time to bring up Rose’s many foolhardy ideas. She was her friend, and Rose was clearly upset. “I’m sure there’s a solution,” she said. “Together, we can figure it out.”
Rose lifted her head, her eyes wide with gratitude. “You’ll really help me?”
Sophia held out her hands, palms up. “What are friends for?”
She then got up from the table and headed slowly for the door. “Unfortunately, I’m not that kind of friend—see you all later!”
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