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Authors: JoAnna Carl
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Aunt Nettie and Hogan came home. We lingered in the kitchen, so they could have the living room, and Joe went home before eleven.
I stay over with Joe sometimes, but he rarely stays with me. The house Aunt Nettie and I share simply doesn’t have any privacy. The walls are so thin that a conversation anyplace upstairs is plainly audible downstairs. And there’s not a lot of space. Aunt Nettie had talked about putting in a second bathroom, upstairs, but since I was planning to move out, she dropped the idea.
I’d just gotten into my pajamas when the phone rang. I answered the upstairs extension.
“Lee?” It was Joe. “When I drove by Mom’s house she was still up, so I stopped and asked her about Martin Schrader. She told me something interesting.”
“ Is Martin a notorious skirt chaser?”
“Not really. She knew of only one person he’d dated locally. Carolyn Rose.”
I nearly dropped the phone. Carolyn Rose? The florist member of the Seventh Major Food Group.
“Ye gods!” I said. “At the funeral this afternoon, he didn’t speak to her at all. They acted like complete strangers.”
“All Mom knew is that when Carolyn first opened her shop—that’s more than five years ago—she came to Mom for insurance. And she told Mom she was moving to Warner Pier because it was close to her ‘boyfriend.’ Mom said she almost bragged about who he was—Martin Schrader.”
“I guess he didn’t turn out to be the marrying kind.”
“Not if that’s what she wanted . . .”
Joe and I said good night, and I climbed into my bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about Carolyn Rose. It was more fun than thinking about the issues Joe had raised about my personality.
Carolyn had an interesting personality, too. Outwardly, she was a tough businesswoman. Maybe her name should be “Thorne,” rather than “Rose.” I wondered if she had really cared about Martin Schrader, or if she was attracted by his financial attributes.
Martin would be considered quite a catch, of course, if you were looking for a successful man from a prominent family. And he was certainly attractive. But he had to be at least in his fifties and apparently he’d never married; he was definitely in the confirmed bachelor category. And the way his mother sat on him would give any girlfriend pause for thought.
One thing was for certain, I concluded before I picked up my bedtime book. I would never mention Martin Schrader to Carolyn Rose.
I was barely out of bed the next morning when the phone rang again. It was Joe. He’d forgotten he had to make a quick trip to Lansing on city business that day. Could I order the flowers for his mother’s birthday?
“Tell Carolyn to send me the bill,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. And as I said it, I’ll swear, the thing that popped into my mind was, “That’ll be a good excuse to talk to Carolyn Rose about Martin Schrader.” When I realized what I’d been thinking, I shuddered. I definitely did not want to talk to Carolyn Rose about Martin Schrader. Or that’s what I told myself.
I went by House of Roses on my way to work. Of course, I could have taken care of the whole thing on the phone, but somehow—despite my resolution of the night before—I decided it would be friendlier if I went by personally. I took the precaution of rehearsing what I wanted to say beforehand. I didn’t want my tangled tongue tripping me up, producing “Martin,” as in Schrader, when I’d meant to say “marguerite,” as in daisy.
House of Roses is located in a late-Victorian cottage on the state highway that skirts Warner Pier. Carolyn had battled the planning commission until she got permission to give it a trendy, “painted lady” look, with the siding a brilliant yellow and the trim orange, green, and pink. I knew that Carolyn kept very few flowers in stock during the winter months; she wasn’t going to get much drop-in business in a town of just 2,500.
I was almost surprised to see an SUV that
I stay over with Joe sometimes, but he rarely stays with me. The house Aunt Nettie and I share simply doesn’t have any privacy. The walls are so thin that a conversation anyplace upstairs is plainly audible downstairs. And there’s not a lot of space. Aunt Nettie had talked about putting in a second bathroom, upstairs, but since I was planning to move out, she dropped the idea.
I’d just gotten into my pajamas when the phone rang. I answered the upstairs extension.
“Lee?” It was Joe. “When I drove by Mom’s house she was still up, so I stopped and asked her about Martin Schrader. She told me something interesting.”
“ Is Martin a notorious skirt chaser?”
“Not really. She knew of only one person he’d dated locally. Carolyn Rose.”
I nearly dropped the phone. Carolyn Rose? The florist member of the Seventh Major Food Group.
“Ye gods!” I said. “At the funeral this afternoon, he didn’t speak to her at all. They acted like complete strangers.”
“All Mom knew is that when Carolyn first opened her shop—that’s more than five years ago—she came to Mom for insurance. And she told Mom she was moving to Warner Pier because it was close to her ‘boyfriend.’ Mom said she almost bragged about who he was—Martin Schrader.”
“I guess he didn’t turn out to be the marrying kind.”
“Not if that’s what she wanted . . .”
Joe and I said good night, and I climbed into my bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about Carolyn Rose. It was more fun than thinking about the issues Joe had raised about my personality.
Carolyn had an interesting personality, too. Outwardly, she was a tough businesswoman. Maybe her name should be “Thorne,” rather than “Rose.” I wondered if she had really cared about Martin Schrader, or if she was attracted by his financial attributes.
Martin would be considered quite a catch, of course, if you were looking for a successful man from a prominent family. And he was certainly attractive. But he had to be at least in his fifties and apparently he’d never married; he was definitely in the confirmed bachelor category. And the way his mother sat on him would give any girlfriend pause for thought.
One thing was for certain, I concluded before I picked up my bedtime book. I would never mention Martin Schrader to Carolyn Rose.
I was barely out of bed the next morning when the phone rang again. It was Joe. He’d forgotten he had to make a quick trip to Lansing on city business that day. Could I order the flowers for his mother’s birthday?
“Tell Carolyn to send me the bill,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. And as I said it, I’ll swear, the thing that popped into my mind was, “That’ll be a good excuse to talk to Carolyn Rose about Martin Schrader.” When I realized what I’d been thinking, I shuddered. I definitely did not want to talk to Carolyn Rose about Martin Schrader. Or that’s what I told myself.
I went by House of Roses on my way to work. Of course, I could have taken care of the whole thing on the phone, but somehow—despite my resolution of the night before—I decided it would be friendlier if I went by personally. I took the precaution of rehearsing what I wanted to say beforehand. I didn’t want my tangled tongue tripping me up, producing “Martin,” as in Schrader, when I’d meant to say “marguerite,” as in daisy.
House of Roses is located in a late-Victorian cottage on the state highway that skirts Warner Pier. Carolyn had battled the planning commission until she got permission to give it a trendy, “painted lady” look, with the siding a brilliant yellow and the trim orange, green, and pink. I knew that Carolyn kept very few flowers in stock during the winter months; she wasn’t going to get much drop-in business in a town of just 2,500.
I was almost surprised to see an SUV that
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