set,” he said after a minute. He turned around, twiddling the screwdriver between his fingers. “See you around then, I guess.” He smiled then and when he did, his eyes shimmered, as if backlit from behind. It threw me off guard, and I didn’t speak. “Right,” he said and let himself out.
Conversation is the enemy of good wine and food.
–Alfred Hitchcock
Bubbles showed up at the dining room by herself, claiming that George was sleeping off a “nasty something.” She assured me she’d given him a hefty dose of Echinacea and ordered the poor boy to bed.
A different table was set tonight, this one closer to the kitchen and farther from the fireplace. “I hope you don’t mind, dear,” Bubbles said as we sat down. “That fire makes me sweat.” She was wearing a hot pink sweater over black stretch pants that hugged her a little too tightly. In place of her faux fur slippers she wore mules, and every time she turned her head, her feather earrings swayed. I see this outfit a lot on the Revere boardwalk—the New England trash look.
It was nice to have a dinner companion, though I didn’t know how to begin a conversation with Bubbles. There was no menu to discuss. There’d been no change in the weather, good or bad. I wanted to know why she’d missed last night’s dinner but didn’t want to ask outright. And of course I was dying to know what George’s deal was, but no, I couldn’t ask that either. So I decided to wait for her to speak. And did she ever! That woman could talk. During the first course—these amazing spicy meatballs that Vincent called vitoulets—Bubbles described her short-lived stint as a professional party planner. Over the palate cleanser—ice water for me, a whiskey sour for her—she rhapsodized over some band called The Big Stuck. This segued into a monologue about the entertainment industry, which took us straight through the salad course—braised endive with black currants and Cajun crabmeat.
While Bubbles nursed her second mixed drink, I decided to take the plunge. “So Bubbles, how long have you known my mom?”
“Gosh, must be about, what, almost thirty years now.”
“Did you meet in school?”
“No,” she said, playing with her paper umbrella. “We never lived in the same state. We worked summers together at a kids’ camp. She…didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
She shifted in her seat. “I see.”
“That’s just not her style, Bubbles, that’s all.”
“I guess.”
“I bet she didn’t tell you much about me either, right?”
She smiled a small smile. “Then it’s up to us to fill each other in. Good thing we’ve got a couple of weeks.”
“I won’t need nearly that long to tell you about me. I’m not that interesting.”
“Nonsense,” she said emphatically. “I have all sorts of questions for you.”
Before she got any questions out though, Vincent appeared with the main course, which he needed both arms to deliver. I’d never seen anything like it. Picture a tray with concentric circles of increasingly intense color and texture, starting with mussels and including caramelized shallots, fat shrimp, tangy mushrooms, scallops, cherries, fennel sausages, pomegranate pulp and tons of grilled root vegetables. It was bliss on a plate. Bubbles and I hardly talked while we demolished it, which I was thankful for since I really didn’t want to be interrogated.
During our after-dinner tea—well, I had tea, Bubbles had cognac—her sleeve fell back just enough to reveal a bracelet. It was thick and wide and colorful and intricate. “What a great bracelet,” I said, glad to find some part of her outfit that I could compliment honestly. “Did you get it around here?”
“This? I made it.” She held her wrist up to give me a closer look, then beamed, “I’m so tickled you noticed it.”
“It’s a knockout. Hey, what’s this?” I asked, reaching over the table to touch a sparkly red charm.
“Glass, from an old earring I had. I have a little business making jewelry out of recycled glass and old machine parts. See this?” She pointed to a bumpy metal square. “That’s a chip from George’s first computer.”
“Charm-ing,” I said, feeling a little dumb at the bad pun, but happy to make her laugh after the awkward business about Mom. I considered asking if she’d made the crescent moon necklace George was wearing this morning, but something told me not to. That necklace had girlfriend written all over it. Instead I asked, “Do you sell your things in stores?”
“Well, I have a few things at the counter at the Grindle Point Shop down the road. I’m trying to get my favorite jewelry store in Bangor to take some things on consignment. But mostly I go to church bazaars or give them as gifts. You really like it?” she said, holding the bracelet up so the candlelight caught the glass.
“Really. So, what do you call yourself? I mean, your business?”
Bubbles leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge some highly confidential corporate secret. “I’m toying with calling myself One Man’s Trash is Another Man’s Treasure.”
I nodded and tried to look impressed, although I thought this name was completely off target. What was she thinking, calling her artwork trash and referring to it as a man’s treasure? And how did she ever expect to fit all those words onto a jewelry-sized gift box or a business card? Still, she seemed attached to it, and I didn’t want to burst Bubbles’ bubble.
She scooted her chair closer to mine. “I’m so happy you’re here, Penny. Thank heavens your mother thought to call on me. Finally, to talk again after all that old…business.”
“Y-yes.”
“So, that much you do know about me—the unpleasant parts.”
This was going nowhere good fast. “It’s not like that, Bubbles. It’s just—”
“No, no need to explain, dear.” She took another gulp of her cognac. “I’m just so glad to be back in touch. You know, I tried to salvage the friendship—after things calmed down a bit, of course—I really did. But your mother was off in other directions, and I finally gave up. What else could I do? And then, lo and behold, I pick up the phone last week and it’s her. It’s Vivian, sounding just like she did all those years ago.”
“That’s Mom for you.”
She smiled, and then the smile morphed into a large yawn. “And now I really must trundle myself off to bed. Thank you, dear, for a delightful evening.” She pushed back her chair and took the last swig of her drink. Standing up, she had to brace herself against the table for balance. “My, I didn’t realize quite how…sleepy…I am. Pleasant dreams, now.” Before I could say another word, she was staggering toward the door.
“I could walk you to your room,” I called, but Vincent arrived all at once, taking her arm and ushering her out of the room. Actually, I was glad to avoid escort duty. I had an important rendezvous with Rita to get to. I was going to get her to tell me all about Mom and Bubbles.
