7
The Perfect Man
Renette Posey was knocking insistently on Maura Beth’s office door. “Gregory Peck has just arrived!” she announced with great enthusiasm, sticking her head in with a girlish smile. It was the good news they had both been anxiously awaiting.
Maura Beth shot up from her chair and clapped half a dozen times in rapid succession. “Well, where is he? I want to get my hot little hands on him right this instant!”
“You and me both!” Renette twisted her head around, looking back briefly. “Here comes the UPS guy in his cute brown shorts with the tubes. Wow! Just under the wire, huh?”
Indeed, it definitely fell into the category of close calls. Here it was the morning of the Mockingbird meeting, and the movie poster blow-ups of Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch were just now showing up. This, despite a guarantee from the online company that they would be shipped to The Cherico Library in two to three business days. But more than a week had passed, and there were no posters in sight. Maura Beth hated fooling with tracking numbers, but her sterling organizational skills and note-taking had paid off handsomely for her this time around. The tubes, it turned out, had been mistakenly bundled off to a library in Jericho, Missouri, thus creating the nerve-wracking delay. Murphy’s Law, Maura Beth figured.
“Let’s pull them out right away and see what we’ve actually got,” Maura Beth instructed, after the UPS man had apologized profusely for the mistake and left quickly. “There were supposed to be three different poses.”
Renette began tugging at the tape on one of the tubes, while Maura Beth sat behind her desk and took a pair of scissors to another. A few minutes later, all three black-and-white posters had been retrieved and unfurled. Though the order had gone astray, it was otherwise accurate: There was one pose of Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch in a dramatic courtroom scene; another of him as Atticus with Jem and Scout in her overalls standing in front of the little cottage they all called home; and a third of Peck as himself receiving the Oscar for his performance in To Kill a Mockingbird. Maura Beth was certain that these stills would create an ambience similar to the one the Gone with the Wind posters had.
“We’ll back these with cardboard like we did for the other ones, and no one will be the wiser that they practically traveled all over the country before getting here,” Maura Beth added with a sigh of relief. “I want everything to go smoothly this evening. With the two extra men showing up, Councilman Sparks will see that we’re building up the club, and we can’t be ignored.”
“If you have enough food, I’ll be happy to show up myself,” Renette offered. “I had to read To Kill a Mockingbird my senior year in high school, and I still remember it pretty well. Even got an ‘A’ on my book report. I especially liked the part about the giant ham with the hole in it that saved the little girl’s life.”
Maura Beth looked especially pleased at the suggestion. “Well, we won’t have ham on the menu, but please come, Renette. I know we’ll have more than enough to eat.”
Then Maura Beth reviewed the menu sitting on her desk. For this second meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club, Becca would be bringing her healthful version of chicken gumbo with tomatoes and okra; inspired by one of her latest shows, Connie would be throwing together a fresh golden bantam corn and red pepper salad; Miss Voncille was going to bake her delicious biscuits and offer her green-pepper jelly on the side; by popular demand, Maura Beth herself would repeat her chocolate, cherry cola sheet cake; and finally, honorary member Periwinkle had generously agreed to supply another gratis item from The Twinkle—specifically, her knockout tomato aspics with the cream-cheese centers.
“I know a lot of people think men will eat anything you put in front of them, but I’ve found that they can sometimes be hard to please,” Maura Beth explained. “I think we’ll have a good variety on hand tonight, though, and I bet Stout Fella will lead the way.”
Renette seemed about to say something several times and finally got it out. “Should I bring a little dish, too? I could . . . thaw something?”
“Just bring yourself, sweetie. I expect a lively and unforgettable debate this evening.”
Inside their opulent mansion out in the country, Becca and her Stout Fella were having heated words in their powder blue master bedroom suite around six-thirty that evening. She was applying the finishing touches to her face at her vanity, while he was pacing around the shag carpet in his bare feet, still half-dressed and mumbling things under his breath.
“This is a very important business meeting, Becca,” he was saying, refusing to look her straight in the eye as he fumbled with his shirt buttons. “I can’t help it if it came up at the last second. I’ve been trying to pin down Winston Barkeley for the last coupla months, and he wants to get together at The Twinkle tonight while he’s in town. Maybe I can even close the deal. This is a premium piece of land for my next plat out at the lake, and it’s going to be really high-end.”
“As if there are a bunch of paupers out there now,” she replied, briefly eyeing the touch of rouge she had just applied to her right cheekbone. “Sometimes I think all this conspicuous success is the worst possible thing that could have happened to you—Justin Rawlings Brachle. What more do you have to prove to the world?”
He snickered while pulling on his wide-load pants in front of their full-length mirror. “Hey, whatever I need to and with no apologies. There’s more to life than winning a football scholarship, you know. Besides, you married me for richer or poorer, and I don’t see you turning your back on the richer part.”
“Oh, I’ve done my share as Becca Broccoli. You know as well as I do that I could go it alone if I had to. Not that I want to, of course.” She caught her agitated husband’s reflection in the vanity mirror as she carefully applied lip gloss, and his steady transformation into Stout Fella came sharply into focus.
She had called him on the weight gain and his eating habits early on. “We’re going to have to buy you new clothes the way you’re going—at the big, tall, and spiffy store, if it exists,” she had said, trying her best to make light of it.
“That’s not a bad thing,” he had pointed out. “A well-fed husband is good advertising for your cooking show. Your listeners would lose faith in you if I were the gaunt, skinny runt of Cherico.” And he had kept right on standing and making more “islands” of his ice cream, while taking second and third helpings of her scrumptious cooking at the dining room table.
“You need to slow down,” she had warned on another occasion. “You act like food and time are in limited supply. You’re always on that cell phone. I wish the damned thing had never been invented!”
“I sees ’em, and I calls ’em—just like I used to in the huddle,” he had answered, making a joke of it.
But he was serious about cornering the real-estate market in Cherico before he was thirty-five, and he had done so with a succession of high-profile lake development projects. After that, his bank balance and his waistline had expanded simultaneously. Yet there were still vestiges in his fleshy face of the rugged, but handsome athlete who had swept bubbly Becca Heflin off her feet and down the aisle to the altar over a decade ago.
“The least you can do is accompany me to the library and have a bite to eat. You don’t have to stay and open your big mouth after that. But everyone is expecting you to show up. They’ve been just dying to meet you,” Becca reminded him. “You could end up being the star of the evening.”
“And you set all of that up without my permission!” he fired back. “One night, I come home from work, and you tell me that we’re going to one of your fussy ‘ladies’ night out’ affairs at the library. You expect me to jump up and down?”
“I expect us to do something together once in a while, Justin. What’s the harm in that?”
He didn’t answer her, plopping down on the edge of the huge four-poster bed to pull his socks on. “For cripes’ sake, these don’t match!” he cried out suddenly, dangling the pair in front of his face. “One’s navy blue and the other’s black. You spend much more time on the radio than you do with our laundry. I told you to hire someone to help you around the house. Why do you object to our having servants? We can easily afford it!”
“I’m well aware of that, but let’s argue one thing at a time,” she continued as he headed toward his closet. “All I’m asking right now is that you go and at least meet my new friends. Won’t you do that much?”
Momentarily, he emerged with a matching pair and then surprisingly gave in, nodding his head grudgingly. “Okay, okay. I’ll put in an appearance to keep the peace around here. But after that, I’m off to The Twinkle to meet up with Winston. You can stay and yak about To Kill a Mockingbird ’til the cows come home and the early bird gets the worm.”
“Now that’s original commentary if I ever heard it,” Becca remarked, rising from her vanity with a pert little smile firmly in place.
Connie was standing at one of her great room windows admiring the way the early evening sun played off the slack water of Lake Cherico in the distance. The horizon was tinged with orange and gold, except for wild brush strokes of coral that were doing their best to blot out what remained of the day’s blue allotment. It was now quarter to seven, and she had spent the better part of the last hour luring Douglas out of his precious bass boat—which he had named The Verdict—and into shaving and showering mode.
“You smell like bait,” she had told him, once she had him on the terra firma of the pier’s faded planks and he had stowed his stringer of fish in the cooler. “Not that that’s anything new. But I don’t want everyone at the library to smell you coming. So, please, give yourself a thorough scrubbing.”
Once inside, he had good-naturedly fallen to, even to the extent of singing in the shower. She could hear him trying to work his way through “Singin’ in the Rain,” although he was far from a Gene Kelly in the vocal department. Fishing most of the day had that effect on him, though. In short, he was in paradise. Connie, however, felt she had not yet punched her ticket, and she hoped that this Mockingbird evening would be the beginning of a shared retirement experience for them.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing ole Justin Brachle again, now that I think about it,” Douglas said out of nowhere, emerging from getting dressed at last and heading toward his wife with a snap to his step. He had chosen a silver guayabera shirt and dark slacks for the occasion, complementing the first waves of gray that had invaded his slightly receding hairline. “He did sell us this land seven years ago when we were first thinking of building the lodge.”
Connie turned away from the window and the ongoing prelude to the sunset. “I told his wife, Becca, that I thought I remembered him as being quite a catch.” Then she took in her own husband’s still-trim physique, ending with the devilish smile that never failed to melt her in the bedroom. “Speaking of looking good, I don’t think you’ve been this presentable since we left Nashville. And you smell divine! To Kill a Mockingbird be damned! I may have to attack you. What have you got on?”
He inched his sunburned but carefully shaven face closer to hers and lightly kissed her cheek. “Just a splash of Old Spice. I found a bottle in the bedroom closet. It was in one of those boxes we still haven’t opened.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. “Weren’t you wearing that when we first started dating thirty-something years ago? That bottle belongs in the Smithsonian.”
He pulled away and enjoyed a good laugh. “Not this one. I think Lindy gave it to me for Father’s Day not too long ago. Maybe just before we moved down. She knows her old man’s history, that’s for sure.”
“Not as well as I do,” Connie added. “And I’ve begun to think you’ve given me up for the fishes. Maybe I should grow scales.”
He narrowed his eyes and played at taking offense. “Okay, I haven’t been that bad, have I? I even managed to reread five whole chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird so I’d be up to snuff and wouldn’t embarrass you at the thing tonight. It’s been more than a few decades since high school, you know.”
“Let’s just see how it goes at the library. Then we’ll talk,” she said, managing a smile as she checked her watch. “We need to get there while the food’s still hot. Or before Stout Fella eats it all.”
Douglas looked puzzled. “Who?”
“Your Realtor friend, Justin. Oh, I explained everything last week. I’ll remind you on the way there.”
Miss Voncille got to her feet and smoothed out the wrinkles in her emerald green bedspread. She had been sitting beside her pillow, riveted to her beloved picture of Frank Gibbons on the nightstand for the past five minutes. “I’m going to hide you temporarily in the potpourri,” she said out loud to the photo as she cupped it in her hands as if it were an injured baby bird. “The deal is, I may have company tonight, and I don’t need you making me nervous standing guard the way you always do. But don’t worry, I won’t leave you with my scented hankies forever.”
For a split second she imagined that her sturdy sentinel might just spring to life and answer her, giving her permission to change things up. But she knew only too well that she could not seek permission from anyone but herself. So she headed toward her chest of drawers, giving the picture a little peck before tucking it away among her many fancy sachets. “There!” she exclaimed, nodding proudly. “That’s done. Onward and upward!”
As if staged perfectly by a theater prop crew, the doorbell rang, and Miss Voncille knew that her potential suitor was right on time. She drew in a hopeful, romantic breath and struck a graceful pose. An imaginary photographer would be capturing her at her best and bravest in that moment. After that, the sequence would be a simple one: She and Locke would have something to eat and drink while chatting amiably with the others; then seriously discuss the merits of Harper Lee’s work; and finally Locke would escort her to her cozy cottage as usual. Only this time, she would not shrink like a wallflower from her intentions—
Locke Linwood’s voice crashed in on her reverie from the other side of the front door. “Miss Voncille?!” He pushed the doorbell again. “Miss Voncille?!”
“Coming!” she called out, shutting the bottom drawer and rushing out of her bedroom like a teenager on her first date. “I’ll be right there!”
From the moment she opened the door, she knew something about Locke had changed, and it wasn’t just the single red rose he presented to her right off the bat. “For you, my dear lady,” he told her, handing it over with the suggestion of a bow.
“My goodness, Locke!” she exclaimed, taking it and holding it briefly beneath her nose. “You’ve never brought me flowers before!”
“I still haven’t,” he said. “This is only one flower. But there could be more where that came from. I think you’re getting sweeter every day.”
Miss Voncille found herself blushing, and for a few moments she just stood there with her mind a perfect blank. Then she recovered nicely. “Well, I’m honestly trying not to be such a diva anymore. But where are my manners? Come on in, and I’ll put this little beauty in a vase. And you can carry the biscuits out to your car for me. Let’s head to the kitchen, shall we?”
After she had put the rose in water and pointed out the foil-covered baking sheet full of biscuits that she had prepared, Miss Voncille retrieved an unopened jar of her green pepper jelly and dropped it into her shimmering, emerald green clutch. “Good. It just fits, and the color is a perfect match. I guess that’s everything.”
“Not quite,” Locke said, momentarily putting the biscuits down on the breakfast table and nervously clearing his throat. “I’ve come to an important decision, and I wanted you to know about it before we headed off to the library.”
“I’m intrigued. First a rose, now an important decision.”
“Yes, well, I just wanted to say that I think I’ve finally come to my senses. I haven’t let any woman inside my residence on Perry Street since Pamela’s wake two years ago. But I know she didn’t want the house kept like a museum. So this demeanor of mine has had nothing to do with you. It’s all been due to my ridiculous defenses. As if keeping the whole world out could bring Pamela back to me. I have faith that she’s gone on to better things.” He paused for a big chest full of air. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to invite you back to my house after this to-do at the library is over, and we can have a nip of sherry . . . or something.”
Miss Voncille could not suppress her laughter, a captivating mixture of delight and surprise. “Forgive me,” she managed as she eventually regained control. “You’re probably getting the wrong impression. I couldn’t be more flattered by what you’ve just said to me. I’ve always been a big believer in great minds thinking alike.”
Locke looked reassured. “Well, as long as you weren’t laughing at me . . .”
“Not even close, believe me. All sorts of images were swirling around my head when you extended your generous invitation to me. Sachets, potpourri, scented handkerchiefs. Don’t ask me to explain, just understand that I’ll be thrilled to extend our evening together. Meanwhile, we need to get these biscuits and jelly to the library and put this party on the front burner.”
Maura Beth was feeling on top of the world as she surveyed her busy lobby. As with the first meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club a month earlier, the food was going over well, and everyone seemed to be getting along. It also appeared that Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood had chosen to keep largely to themselves, looking as if they were plotting something in a far corner of the room. While the others were either sitting or standing to savor what was on their plates, Stout Fella was living up to his billing and gobbling up his generous servings at what seemed to be a record pace.
“Who woudda thought corn and peppers would go this good together?” he was saying in between hurried bites of Connie’s salad.
Becca gave him a skeptical frown. “For heaven’s sake, Justin, I’ve been serving you Niblets for years. Same thing basically.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right. But it’s got something else in it.”
Connie stepped up quickly. “It’s the herbs. I put dill and rosemary in it. Gives it a little extra zing.”
Stout Fella kept right on chowing down as if he were in a competitive eating contest. “Whatever it is, it’s mighty good. I’ll have another helping, I do believe.”
For her part, Maura Beth kept right on circulating to engage her guests. Even Councilman Sparks seemed to be in a fairly sociable mood as she caught up with him near the Academy Award poster of Gregory Peck.
“Very warm, fuzzy shindig, Miz Mayhew. Maybe even award-winning,” he told her while pointing to the blow-up. “Your numbers are growing slightly, I see. Emphasis on the slightly. By the way, who’s the young lady over by the punch bowl?”
“Oh, that’s one of my front desk clerks, Renette Posey. She’s also my girl Friday when I need her to be. I didn’t ask her to, but she seems to have taken over the ladling duties. She’s probably a little nervous, being the youngster here tonight.”
“Very sweet girl,” he added, looking her over from a distance. “I see you’ve also gotten the wives to collar their husbands this time out. I never thought Justin Brachle would have the time to darken the doors of this library. He’s the all-time wheeler-dealer of Cherico, and we’re thankful he works his realty magic so well.”
Maura Beth cocked her head. “As in lots more taxes to collect from wealthy homeowners?”
“Precisely.”
“But not enough to keep the library open?”
Councilman Sparks gave her one of his most conspiratorial winks. “Don’t worry, Miz Mayhew. I fully intend not to underestimate you. That’s why I’m here tonight. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you: What shade do you officially call that red hair of yours? It’s very unusual—even stunning, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh! Well, I guess auburn would be the most traditional way of describing it,” she answered, completely caught off guard. “An ex-boyfriend of mine at LSU once told me that I had a head full of good bourbon whiskey, but that always made me sound like the ultimate party girl, which I wasn’t.”
He wagged his eyebrows and smiled. “I’ve been noticing the way your hair changes in different kinds of light.”
“Yes, it does do that.”
“It looks one way in the sun and another way under the fluorescents.”
Maura Beth decided to say nothing and nod her head.
“My wife’s hair is brunette. It always looks the same everywhere.”
They had reached an awkward pause, and Maura Beth decided she’d had enough. “Maybe you should get a job out at Cherico Tresses, Councilman. I think your comments would be much more appropriate there. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to continue to make the rounds.”
She walked away without looking back, approaching the McShays and the Brachles. They were in the midst of friendly banter, and it was Connie who was holding forth at the moment. “. . . and I just love the way the light plays off the lake at certain times of the day, particularly around sunset. I could hardly pull myself away this evening.” She gave Becca one of her nudges. “We must have you and Justin out for dinner soon around that time so you can see for yourself. I’ll try and persuade Douglas to go out in The Verdict and catch some fish for us.”
“Oh, we’d love to, wouldn’t we, Stout Fella?” Becca replied.
He quickly swallowed the last of the corn and pepper salad he was chewing and nodded his head obediently, while Douglas flashed a sarcastic smile at his wife.
Maura Beth glanced at the front desk clock and decided to make an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ll begin our discussion in about fifteen more minutes. Meanwhile, please continue to enjoy this wonderful spread and each other’s company.”
“I intend to try a piece of your sheet cake next, Miz Mayhew,” Stout Fella explained, stepping up and wiping the edges of his mouth with a napkin. “It looks mighty tempting from here, and Becca raved about it last time she came. Of course, everybody’s dish was worth the price of admission. But after my cake, I’m afraid I’ll have to make my manners to all you good folks and leave. I have some pressing business to attend to over at The Twinkle. But don’t worry, Becca’s staying for all this book bid’ness, and I’ll be back to pick her up later. And don’t let me forget to say again that all a’ y’all are fantastic cooks. This was just delicious.”
Maura Beth and the others offered up their group thanks and then watched him practically inhale his cake a few moments later. Finally, after guzzling a cup of punch and giving Becca’s cheek a perfunctory peck, he headed toward the front door, dialing his cell phone all along the way.
“Isn’t he incorrigible?!” Becca exclaimed to Maura Beth and Connie after he’d left. “Never even allows himself time to digest his food. He’s the most driven person I’ve ever known in my life!”
“Connie told me about you nicknaming him Stout Fella,” Douglas put in, “but I didn’t really get it until he came over and shook hands with me when we first walked in. I did recognize him, of course, but I’m afraid it was a shock all the same. No offense, Becca.”
“Oh, none taken. It is what it is. I just don’t know what to do about it. He’s completely turned up his nose at my new recipes. ‘Fix it like you always do,’ he complains. ‘Stop taking things out. Make it taste like it used to.’ I’m afraid he hasn’t downsized an ounce.”
On that note, Maura Beth decided to put an end to her kibitzing and get the literary portion of The Cherry Cola Book Club under way. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we put away our plates, freshen up if we need to, and then delve into some Pulitzer Prize–winning prose?”
Maura Beth stood behind the podium ready to tackle the major theme of the evening: namely, “Was To Kill a Mockingbird one of the catalysts for the 1964 Civil Rights Act?” She did not, however, intend to open with such a ponderous question. She would lead up to it gradually, soliciting opinions from the members about the consequences of racism described in the novel. She expected the discussion would be far more substantial than the lightweight diversion that was Scarlett versus Melanie of a month ago. Her unspoken motto was: “Start simple, then step it up.”
Instead, Councilman Sparks stole the floor right out from under her again. “If I might, Miz Mayhew,” he began, “I’d like to pose a question here at the outset to all you good people—but particularly the men.” He did not wait for her to acknowledge his request, pressing on like the polished politician he was. “I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought. Don’t you feel that Atticus Finch is unrealistic as a character and a father? For instance, he’s raising Jem and Scout by himself and always gives them the right advice and never seems to make any mistakes. He has the moral high ground on everything. I don’t know any men like that, do you? Where are the typical male foibles? In fact, he has none.”
It took every ounce of Maura Beth’s restraint to keep from saying out loud: “I can see why Atticus Finch would be alien to a man like yourself.” Instead, she gathered herself and asked for reactions from the others.
Becca was the first to respond. “I wish my Stout Fella was much more like Atticus Finch, even if the character is unrealistic. Justin knows his business and gets things done, but he doesn’t leave much time for anything else. For instance, he hasn’t made time to slow down and think about us having a family, and we’ve been married ten years now. If we have children eventually—and I do want to—do I think Justin will be an Atticus Finch? No way. I don’t think men are like that in real life. So I suppose Councilman Sparks has a valid point.”
Douglas, who had been fidgeting in his chair a bit, entered the discussion with a slight scowl. “Now, wait just a minute here. I’ll admit we men aren’t perfect. Neither are our women. But I always took care of my family. I love my wife and daughter and granddaughter. You don’t have to be an Atticus Finch to do what you’re supposed to do—or the right thing, as the case may be. Have you thought that maybe Atticus Finch is written that way to make us strive to be better men—and lawyers, for that matter?”
“Speaking of which,” Councilman Sparks said, “don’t you think the law profession has taken a turn for the worse since they allowed billboard and television advertising? Hasn’t it cheapened everything?”
Douglas bristled, speaking up quickly. “I don’t advertise, Mr. Sparks. Never will.”
“But you do admit the existence of high-profile ambulance chasers?”
“Is that what we’re here to discuss?” Douglas pointed out, struggling for control.
And then Locke Linwood spoke up while holding Miss Voncille’s hand. “I’m not qualified to answer questions about lawyers, but getting back to the subject of the perfection of men, I can tell you for a fact that my Pamela had no complaints about me as a husband. Yes, we both made plenty of mistakes, but we hung in there and raised a family together. I don’t know how much more you could ask of any man.”
“Seems to me that what all of you are saying confirms my observation,” Councilman Sparks added, his face a study in smugness. “Atticus Finch is the perfect man and lawyer, and the rest of us could never measure up. We all have our profound weaknesses, and I guess we have to try to overcome them. In short, Atticus is unrealistic, and we are real. But we shouldn’t be made to feel bad if we can’t achieve a fictional ideal for the ages.”
Maura Beth realized she must step in soon to rescue the tone of the discussion, but Connie preempted her with an emotional plea. “I think we need to step back a bit. I didn’t come here to gang up on the men, and I don’t think I would appreciate it if they ganged up on me.”
“I agree,” Becca added. “Stout Fella drives me crazy, and I don’t know how my life with him will turn out in the end, but God knows, I don’t expect him to be perfect.”
Maura Beth’s cell phone vibrated behind the podium, causing her to start noticeably. Her body continued to tense up as she answered the call and listened to the very agitated voice on the other end, while the shocked expression on her face gave no doubt as to the serious nature of the message she was hearing. Then she snapped the phone shut abruptly, as if trying to punish the messenger, and said as calmly as possible: “Becca, I need to speak with you in private, please. If the rest of you will excuse us for a minute.”
Becca rose from her seat quickly with a fearful tone in her voice. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
The two of them moved away from the podium and closer to the circulation desk where Maura Beth turned her back to the others for privacy, discreetly lowering her voice and blocking Becca from view. “There’s no easy way to say this, but that was Periwinkle Lattimore at The Twinkle. It appears that Justin may be having a heart attack as we speak, and they’re rushing him to Cherico Memorial right now—”
Becca lost control before Maura Beth could finish, her face overcome with panic and her voice going shrill. “Oh, my God! Somebody needs to drive me there. Who’ll drive me? Who’ll take me? He just can’t be having a heart attack. That big gorilla is only thirty-nine years old!”
All the others reacted by jumping up and approaching the front desk, with Connie and Douglas being the first to surround Becca. “Stout Fella’s having a heart attack!” she cried out, tugging at Connie’s sleeve like a frantic child. “Will you drive me there? I don’t have the car!”
“Of course we will. Don’t worry,” Douglas said, taking her gently by the arm. “And we’ll stay right by your side.”
Everyone in the room offered to do something helpful simultaneously, as the second meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club dissolved in the face of the crisis. In the end, they all agreed that they would meet up at Cherico Memorial to provide whatever support they could for as long as they were needed. It might end up being a very long night.