Martha was a fabulous baker. She said it was her way of relaxing—to spend hours in her kitchen whipping up artistic treats—and she was a fearsome competitor at the local Bake-Offs. But because she didn’t need those tempting creations sitting around at home, she brought them in every day for my customers.
“That maniac Tony Z popped out with a sprig of mistletoe when we walked by,” Eleanor said. “He kissed me before I could stop him. On the mouth. Do you believe that?”
The Millbury barber had had a crush on Eleanor for years, but she’d never taken his pursuit seriously. Tony Zappata, or Tony Z as we called him, was certainly an ardent suitor. He’d gone so far as to get himself arrested by singing arias outside her bedroom window at night.
I smiled and poured coffee into three mugs. I added cream and three heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar to the first one and handed it to Martha.
“He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.” Martha nodded her thanks as she shivered and sipped her warm beverage.
“So is poison ivy, but that doesn’t mean you want it to stick around,” Eleanor snapped. She hadn’t bothered to wear a coat on her short trip across the street, and she swiped at the snowflakes dotting the sleeves of what looked suspiciously like an extra small men’s tailored black shirt.
Eleanor owned a store across from mine on Main Street called A Stitch Back in Time, where she restored and restyled vintage wedding gowns. She only worked when she felt like it, which wasn’t very often, but in some mysterious manner she always seemed to maintain an exceedingly comfortable lifestyle.
Enough to put gas in her red Vespa and chilled Beefeater in her martini glass, anyway.
“You two are rather late this morning,” I said. They were usually here on the dot of ten, when I unlocked the door to Sometimes a Great Notion.
“We were trying on the dress again.” Eleanor made quote marks in the air with her fingers.
Martha and Cyril were planning to attend the Give a Buck Charity Ball in December, which raised money for wildlife rescue in Bucks County and the surrounding areas. I’d been hearing about this ball gown for months. Eleanor had agreed to alter it, and as far as I could calculate, this must be the sixth fitting.
“Those seams are at their absolute limit, and I’m not going to take them out one more time,” Eleanor declared. “It’s getting ridiculous.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
I slid a mug of black, unsweetened coffee down the counter toward Eleanor, and she sucked down half of the contents in one gulp.
“I can’t help it,” Martha finally said with a sigh. “You know how I eat when I’m under inordinate stress. I wish I was one of those people who waste away because of their troubles, but anxiety has the opposite effect on me. It just makes me feel like consuming everything in sight.”
As loyal a friend as I wanted to be, even I had to secretly admit that Martha’s normally voluptuous figure had ballooned a bit over the past months.
I quickly took the plate of treats out of her hands. “Well, what the heck are you so stressed about?”
She blew out another sigh that was so full of exasperation, angst, and high tension that she could have taught a master drama class at the Sheepville Players. “It’s Cyril. My dear Cyril. I keep hoping the man will propose, but he never does.”
“Marriage is a fine institution, but who wants to live in an institution?” Eleanor said. “Sorry. Old joke.”
Martha ignored her and spoke directly to me. “Each time I think the perfect opportunity arises, I hold my breath, but nothing ever happens. I’m beginning to think he never will.”