Last Licks

“What am I supposed to do, put a bib on?” Mike demanded, his blue eyes heating up to what Sunny privately called the Laser Glare of Death. “I figured I’d get ready before we sat down. We don’t want to be late, and Lord knows how long you’ll be up there.”

He stuck his face into the refrigerator to get the seltzer, muttering something about interference from the clothing police now. Guess Dad is feeling stressed about this hoedown, and you were a bit late on the pickup, the critical voice in the back of Sunny’s head commented. At the last memorial service they’d attended, Mike had been all over the place, chatting with various political cronies. She put the glasses on the table, and then took her father by the hand. “What’s the matter, Dad?”

“Sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have been mouthing off,” Mike apologized. “It’s just that it’s going to be society people, that whole Piney Brook crowd there.” Mike’s face screwed up as if he’d tasted something bad. “They look at me and see a truck driver. It’s kind of funny—Helena was this way and that about going. She didn’t want to go there alone. Well, neither did I—with her along, I figure I’ve got a touch of class.”

Sunny smiled and patted his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Dad. You’ve got more class than most of the snobs who’ll turn up tonight.”

*

Sunny took her shower and got dressed as quickly as she could. Don’t give Dad a chance to complain, she thought as she pulled on the jacket from her lightweight black suit over a pewter-colored blouse. She threatened her curls with a hairbrush and put on a minimum of makeup, added a pair of black flats, and headed downstairs.

Mrs. Martinson had just arrived, and as usual Sunny felt barely adequate when she compared her outfit to the one the older woman was wearing, a classic skirted suit in a deep French gray, the skirt just hitting the right length on a pair of legs that would be the envy of women twenty years younger—or in Sunny’s case, thirty-something years younger. A simple white blouse with a brooch at the collar and tiny gold earrings completed the look.

Mike looked proudly at both of them. “Those snooty Piney Brook types may have the big houses, but I’ll be walking in with a pair of women looking like a million dollars—apiece!”

Helena smiled. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Mike.”

He wore the summer-weight version of his blue funeral suit, an off-white shirt, and his latest Father’s Day tie.

Sunny grinned. “You look like you’re running for office, Dad.”

Mike put a hand to his chest. “Heaven forbid!”

“Well, I think we’re ready to go. I take it that Will intends to join us there?”

Sunny nodded.

“Then there’s just one thing.” Mrs. Martinson reached into her handbag and came out with a set of car keys, which she gave to Sunny. “Would you mind driving the Buick tonight? It will be dark by the time we’re coming home, and I’d feel more comfortable.”

You might feel downright cozy, sitting in the backseat with Dad, that irrepressible voice in the back of Sunny’s head suggested.

“We should have thought of that.” Mike looked annoyed with himself. “Your car is the obvious choice.”

Sunny nodded. Not only did Helena’s sedan have more comfortable seating than Dad’s truck or Sunny’s SUV, the sedan would fit in better for a Piney Brook funeral.

*

The Brookside district was the most exclusive section of an already exclusive area. As Sunny drove along, she passed estates which kept to themselves behind iron gates or heavy shrubbery, and houses whose architecture screamed, “We’ve arrived!”

Some of the houses had probably started as summer places. Sunny was particularly taken by one with a cupola. What would it be like to have a round bedroom up there? She didn’t much like the place that had turned itself into a McMansion by adding a cream-colored concrete tower to the middle of a classic white-painted spruce building. And the rambling stone buildings, especially the ones that used two-tone fieldstone, seemed a little much to her. Some reminded her of Bridgewater Hall.

When they got to the Scatterwell place, she found a three-story brick structure built along vaguely Georgian lines, although some Scatterwell ancestor had added a shaded wooden porch to the side of one wing. The brick had mellowed into its surroundings, but Maine winters had not been kind to the porch. Although it gleamed with a coat of white paint, it seemed to be sagging with age.

Mike peered out the window as Sunny parked the car along a curving drive. “Y’know, I never thought about it before,” he said, “but this place looks like a funeral parlor.”

“A rather large, successful one,” Helena Martinson added drily.