LITMIR.BIZ

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Lucy saw that Sara was almost finished wiping the counters.

      “Thanks, sweetheart,” she said. “You did a really good job.”

      “No problem, Mom. Oh, Elizabeth said to tell you that the upstairs toilet is clogged up again.”

      “Oh, no. That’s all I need tonight.”

      “Want me to tell Dad to fix it?”

      “No. Not now.” Lucy knew that Bill’s plumbing projects tended to get very messy indeed. “He’ll have to take it apart, and that means turning off the water. Listen, just do me a favor and ask everybody to use the downstairs toilet, okay?”

      “Do we have to? I hate having to be polite and talking to your friends. Mrs. Orenstein always wants to know what books I’ve been reading and Ms. Small pinches my cheeks.”

      “Use the back stairs. You won’t have to talk to them then.”

      “Okay, Mom.”

      The doorbell rang just as Sara disappeared up the stairs and Lucy looked at her watch. Only six-fifty. It was probably Sue, keeping her promise to come early to help out. But when Lucy opened the door she recognized Stephanie Scott, one of the young mothers from the day-care center Sue had suggested inviting.

      “Hi, Steffie. You’re the first. Come on in.”

      “I hope you don’t mind that I came a little early,” said Steffie, carefully maneuvering her tray of cookies through the door. “Tom—that’s my husband—he asked me to bring some MADD pamphlets. But I wanted to make sure it was OK with you, so I thought I’d better get here before everybody else.”

      “Mad pamphlets?” asked a puzzled Lucy, taking the cookies and leading the way to the dining room. She lifted the foil and peeked, nodding with satisfaction at what looked like old-fashioned mincemeat cookies.

      “Right,” said Steffie, with a nod that made her perky short blond hair bounce. “Mothers Against Drunk Driving. They have a campaign this time every year to cut down on holiday accidents.”

      “These look yummy,” said Lucy, setting the cookies down on the table.

      “Just an old family recipe, they’re quick and easy,” said Steffie, slipping out of her coat and handing it to Lucy. She began digging in her enormous leather shoulder bag. “Now, about the pamphlets—I thought we could just put them out next to the cookies.”

      Lucy regarded the handful of brochures doubtfully. “I don’t think…”

      “Oh, but nobody could object, could they?” asked Steffie earnestly. “After all, we’re all mothers, and this is from Mothers Against Drunk Driving. And Tom, that’s my husband, tells me they are doing an absolutely fabulous job. He’s a police lieutenant, and he has the utmost respect for MADD. He says they’re one organization that is really making a difference.”

      Steffie’s blue eyes were blazing and she was speaking with all the zeal of a true convert. Lucy felt a little prickle of resentment. This was her party, after all. Steffie had no business promoting her agenda in Lucy’s house.

      “It’s certainly a worthy cause…” began Lucy, intending to firmly reject Steffie’s offer, but realizing in mid-sentence that there was no way she could decently refuse. She could hardly argue in favor of drunk driving. What was she going to say that wouldn’t sound irresponsible? She realized she was trapped, and began to think she really didn’t like Steffie all that much.

      The phone rang just then, and Lucy seized on the opportunity to avoid the issue. “Fine,” she said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, reaching for the receiver.

      “Lucy, this is Marge.”

      Oh, no, thought Lucy, watching as Steffie began arranging her pamphlets on the table. She can’t come.

      “Hi. How are you doing?”

      “Not so good—that’s why I’m calling.” Marge spoke slowly, as if even talking on the phone was an effort. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t make it tonight.”

      Lucy had known this might happen, but she was still disappointed.

      “That’s too bad…” she began, passing the coat back to Steffie and pointing her to the coat closet.

      “I know. I was really hoping I could come. I got the candy-cane cookies all made, and Sue’s going to pick ’em up and bring ’em. But I guess making the cookies used up all my energy. I’m beat now.”

      Lucy hoped it was the effects of the chemotherapy that was making Marge feel bad, and not the cancer, but she didn’t know how to ask.

      “I heard you’re having a rough time with the chemo.”

      “You can say that again. If I can just survive the treatment, I’ll have this thing licked,” she said, with a weak chuckle. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”

      “You hang in there,” said Lucy. She thought of Marge’s husband, Police Officer Barney Culpepper, and her son, Eddie, who was Toby’s age. “Barney and Eddie need you.”

      “I know they do,” replied Marge, with a little catch in her voice. “They’ve been terrific, you know. Hardly let me do a thing in the house. They keep saying I’ve got to save my energy to fight the cancer.”

      “They’re right. You concentrate on getting well. I’ll make sure you get your cookies. I’ll bring them over one day this week.”

      “That’ll be great. Thanks, Lucy.”

      What rotten luck, thought Lucy, slowly replacing the receiver. Marge was barely forty and the rumors around town were that her prognosis wasn’t good, but she was fighting with every ounce of strength she had.

      That’s all you can do, thought Lucy, who feared every month when she examined her breasts that she’d find a lump.

      “That was Marge Culpepper,” Lucy told Steffie by way of explanation. “Her husband is on the police force, too.”

      “I think I’ve heard Tom mention his name.”

      “Well, Marge can’t come tonight. She’s been having chemotherapy and doesn’t feel very well.”

      “Cancer?”

      Lucy nodded. “I have a few things to do in the kitchen, so why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll be right back.”

      She hurried into the kitchen, where she set up the coffeepot and filled the kettle with water for tea. Then she filled the sugar bowl and creamer and carried them out to the dining room, setting them on the sideboard along with the cake. Turning toward the living room, where Steffie was perched on the couch and leafing through a coffee-table book, Lucy thought it was about time for Sue to show up. After all, Steffie was her friend.

      As if by magic, the doorbell rang just then.

      “Come on in,” cried Lucy, welcoming reinforcements in the form of Juanita Orenstein and Rachel Goodman. Juanita’s little girl, Sadie, was Zoe’s best friend.

      “Before I forget—congratulations, Rachel. Toby told me all about Richie.”

      “Thanks, Lucy,” said Rachel, glowing with maternal pride. “I can still hardly believe it myself, and I was the one who encouraged him to give Harvard a try.”

      “You never know unless you try,” added Juanita, sagely.

      “What? What’s happened?” asked Steffie, joining the group in the hallway.

      “Oh, where are my manners?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Let me introduce Steffie Scott. This is Rachel Goodman—her son was just accepted at Harvard—and…”

      “Harvard!” shrieked Steffie, sounding like one of the hysterical winners in a Publishers Clearinghouse commercial. “That’s fantastic!”

      Lucy and Juanita’s

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