A Note from Roz: You Know It’s Hot When . . .

. . . your electric-service provider contacts you to advise that your bill is too high. Huh? Are they making too much money? And, then, when you ignore them (sorry, I refuse to set my air conditioner any higher), they send you a follow-up e-mail, just in case you had passed out from the heat and didn’t get the first dispatch.

So, what should I expect from Houston in the summer? Has it always been this hot? Did I somehow miss the temperature readings last year? This week my phone told me it was 99 degrees at 8:00 p.m. (totally my own fault for being out so late).

The good news on the horizon (is there even a horizon, or does the sun just refuse to go down?) is that I will be spending much of August in England. I just checked the long-range temperature for London and surrounding areas for the next thirty days. Temperatures are expected to hover in the 70s, and it’s sounding positively brrrrr (i.e., chilly). But I’m skeptical; is the UK playing a joke on me, lulling me into a false sense of weather-related security?

Either way, the trip is a must. Not just to see my beloved family, but also to assume the role of as many Disney characters as I can while playing with my six-year-old grand-niece. I am usually relegated to being a servant, nanny, or generally unscrupulous person, while Emily transforms into a variety of delightful princesses. She definitely gets the better wardrobe. (I’m Val to her Kit in the as-yet-untitled No. 6 of The Val & Kit Mystery Series, to be published later this year.)

          

While in the UK, I plan to brush up on the Queen’s English in preparation for that next mystery, which is set in jolly old England. And in terms of weather, it’s gonna be perfect. But just in case anything untoward should happen, I will remember to keep calm and stay out of the heat.

EMMA (Two Hundred Years Later)

The 200^th anniversary of the publication of Jane Austen’s novel Emma got us to thinking. As Austen heroines go, Emma is a slight departure. She is not sitting by the window waiting for a prospective husband to ride up and change her family fortunes with a healthy yearly stipend. Instead, she has appointed herself as a sort of regency matchmaker, willing to forgo the undeniable pleasure and stability of marriage that most 19^th-century young ladies aspire to.

While Emma is not quite our favorite Austen heroine (we slightly prefer Miss Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice for no other reason than her levelheadedness), we admire Emma’s tenacity at what might be considered her modern-day approach to playing Cupid with her friends and acquaintances. She does still, however, carry the Austen gene of not recognizing her own true love even though he is right under her nose.

Patty's granddaughter Emma with Jane Austen's Emma.

Emma’s story was brilliantly retold in the movie Clueless (1995), but even that could do with a little up-to-date tweaking. So, as modern women go, how much easier would Emma’s task have been if she had some 21^st-century tools to help her? Tinder comes to mind for the millennials, while Match.com is perhaps more suitable for the baby boomers.

Emma could pack up her parasol, don her white gloves, and sashay off in her empire-waist gown (via Uber, of course) to the nearest Starbucks. She might remove her bonnet, trimmed with flowers, and take out her tiny notebook with its pencil attached by a ribbon, as she flicks through candidates for love on her smartphone. After a suitable length of time devoted to her project, and a delightful caffè mocha or two, she could return home and catch an episode of The Bachelor.

Listen Up: Patty Has a Word with Roz

This was Roz’s idea, for us to interview each other. So now that she’s in the hot seat, we’ll see if she still thinks it’s fun. Of course I’ve yet to do anything with Rozzie that hasn’t been fun (and just to set the record straight, our long-ago fun included far more Dairy Queen sundaes than rum slushes, contrary to what she reported in last month’s blog).

So now for some more fun! Let’s see what my BFF has to say for herself:

How hard was it to leave your homeland and move to America?

It was very hard to leave my family behind, but I was always fascinated by America and all things American (still am). I do, however, miss a good steak and kidney pie.

Who was your first celebrity crush?

Steve McQueen. I had a poster of him in my bedroom riding that darn motorcycle of his. Geesh! He was so cool.

How do you feel about birthdays?

Extremely grateful. I celebrated my last one at lunch with dear friends, including this little guy, Mr. Duke Brooks.

What frightens you the most?

Some of my fellow mankind. I’m also not crazy about flying, especially over the ocean.

Which do you prefer writing, blog posts or books—and why?

Definitely writing books.  For one thing, I have a partner, and she’s pretty awesome. Finding relevant blog subjects can be pretty daunting.

Which of the Val & Kit books is your favorite—and why?

A hard question, since I really love all our books. But if that gun wielded at you last month was turned on me, then I would answer the same way: Death in Door County. It was the first book where we went “on location,” and it was such a blast to write about places we actually visited. A case in point is Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant & Butik: good food, amazing company, and goats grazing on the roof.

Since it is June, the month we celebrate fathers, what do you most cherish about yours?

Everything. I have a picture of him on my desk taken when he was in his twenties, long before I was born. It reminds me how witty and handsome he was. I cherish how much laughter he brought to my life.

Roz's father, John Burgess

Listen In: Roz Has a Word with Patty

I have known Patty for over forty years. During that time we've discussed everything, even though in the early years some of it was fueled by her famous rum slushes. But time goes by, and stuff needs to be updated. So, when looking for a candidate to interview, I could think of no better person (plus my landscaper doesn't speak English, and the cat won't sit still . . . )

Here come six burning questions:

What advice would you give today to the 20-year-old Patty?

Was she ever really that young? Well, as a matter of fact, she was married already and only a year away from becoming a mother. And since she proceeded to see all her dreams come true, I probably wouldn’t bother trying to advise her. But if you put a gun to my head (which in our genre is not that unlikely), I’d tell her to own who she is and not worry what others think of her. Well—very well—into her 60s, she seems to have finally learned that.

If you had to get out of your house permanently and in a hurry, what one item would you take with you?

My computer, because it holds most of my pictures and writings. And although I back it up regularly, most of the backup is in my office with my computer! (Really must explore that Cloud one day . . . )

If you could interview one living person, who would it be and why?

Well, after YOU—which is next month’s blog post—I would say my 94-year-old mother, a veritable fount of wisdom and family history. But I already interviewed her and need only transcribe the tapes from our decade-ago drive from Palm Desert to San Francisco. SO, I guess I would choose to interview Herman Wouk, my favorite living author. I know he has a thing or two he could teach me.

Betty Phelps Obermeier also taught her daughter, Patty, to crochet.

If you could live anywhere, and take your loved ones with you, where would it be?

Hmmm . . . that’s a tough one because there are so many places I love, none more so than where I live right now. So I might as well make it easy on myself and have all of them move to Door County, Wisconsin! (That means you’d have to start packing, too, Rozzie!)

We both know what the joy of writing is, but what's the most frustrating thing about it?

Definitely finding mistakes after multiple proofreadings. This explains why I love our beta readers and proofreaders so much. It takes many, many eyes. I mean, have you seen the challenges on Facebook where you’re asked to read something with more than half the letters missing? How our eyes see what they are supposed to see? Still, that’s not how we want to present our books to our readers!

What's your favorite book in The Val & Kit Mystery Series, and why?

Ah, the toughest question yet. Truly, it’s whichever book I’m reading at the moment. (And yes, unlike all the actors who say they never watch themselves on the screen, I do read and reread our books. Still looking for missing letters! And still enjoying our girls and their antics J! ) But if you wielded that gun again, I’d probably say Death in Door County. Always, it’s the humor I like best, but also there’s an extra dose of intrigue, and it spans generations of family and friends. What could be better? Oh, and I love the setting J

Roz Meets Her New Neighbors

My neighbors moved out about two months ago, and their house remains empty. In the two years they had lived next door to me, I spoke to them only twice: once on the day they moved in and again on the day they moved out. That wasn’t planned. I just happened to catch them coming, and literally going. But they seemed nice—a mother, father, two rambunctious young boys, and a dog with a deep, gravelly bark. The rambunctiousness of the boys I had witnessed many times, and heard from my side of the fence that separated our small yards. To be fair, their dog barked only when I was dog-sitting, and the pooch under my charge, and on my side of the fence, was generally the instigator. It was a typical canine a canine to determine which dog could bark the loudest, and brought to a conclusion by me waving a box of Milk-Bones in the air.

I don’t spend much time sitting in my yard, but several days ago, when the Houston weather was at its most perfect (a brief period when it doesn’t feel like you are on the surface of the actual sun), I was enjoying my deck. And that’s when I noticed my new neighbors moving in, but so quietly, I was lucky to have even spotted them.

On the corner of the roof there is a missing triangular piece of wood trim. A perfect spot to build a new house—or in this case, a nest. There was a dove visible at the front entrance of the hidey-hole. Behind him or her I could see what looked like bird furniture (i.e., small branches and sticks). The dove seemed to be ignoring me, and I gave him or her the same courtesy. But come on, we both had one eye on each other.

Not long later Dove #2 appeared, carefully walking along the top of the fence that was the route to the nest. In its mouth was a piece of lumber for the new construction. As soon as it reached its new address, it moved inside and out of view, and then Dove #1 took off. Pretty soon, Dove #2 took up the surveillance at what could possibly be the proposed bay window. #2 remained there until its partner returned with another piece of building material. I watched them for over an hour, so impressed with their efficiency and work ethic.

I’ve now taken to having my morning coffee out on the deck. My new neighbors are still building. As neighbors go, they are quite perfect. We still don’t make eye contact, but I believe they are okay with me.

It occurs to me that I’ve spent more time with my new neighbors (admittedly from afar) than I ever did with the old human ones. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. But whereas I’ve never been a bird watcher and really know nothing about birds, I’m so enjoying this new couple. In fact, I’m their biggest fan!

Spring Break Plans, 1979

First step: getting it past Mom.

“I don’t know why you have to go all the way to Mexico for spring break.”

“Mom, Padre Island is part of Texas; it’s nowhere near Mexico.” I wasn’t totally sure if that was true, but I’d consult a map later and find out.

“No, Valerie, I think you will find that most people there speak Spanish.”

“Well, so does Lupita Collazo who works at the dry cleaner, and she was born in Des Moines. And by the way, where is Daddy?” I had counted on my father being home for this conversation since I was sure he’d let me go.

“I sent your father to get the car washed. And furthermore, Door County is very nice. Why not go there?”

“Door County? You mean the place we go nearly every other weekend? Plus, it’s like five min—” I stopped myself from continuing since the five-minutes-away argument would not further my cause. “And besides,” I hurried on, “Kit’s grandparents don’t have a condo in Door County, and they want—no, they need—us there.”

“Valerie, I don’t even know what a condo is.”

“Of course you do; it’s an apartment in a building, and all the owners share—”

“Oh, don’t go trying to blind me with real estate nonsense. Next thing you know, you’ll be calling yourself a Realtor.”

“Well, that’s the last thing I want.” I stormed out of the kitchen and went to my bedroom, where I began pulling pink curlers the size of Coke cans out of my hair.

But Jean Caldwell was not done. “The Ozarks are nice; Mrs. Bramwell told me her daughter is going there,” she continued, following me even though I had slammed my door hard.

“Really?” I pulled a curler loose and flung it onto my bed. “Cynthia Bramwell is going with her church group, The Pioneers for Christian something or other—”

“All of whom speak English, by the way.” She was sitting behind me on my bed and had picked up a copy of People magazine that displayed Rod Stewart on the cover. I snatched it away and threw it over the bed. Much as I loved Rod, he had nothing to add to this conversation.

“When’s daddy getting back, anyway?” I turned to face my dressing-table mirror. “How long does it take to get the car washed?”

“Oh, it takes a long time.” In the mirror, I could see her face had taken on the jubilant look of a kidnapper who was confident the police would never discover her lair, and the victim she was holding hostage was days from discovery. “I told him to get the deluxe package; he’ll be hours.”

“Ok, Mom. How about this? Why don’t you call Kit’s mom?”

“I did already. Surprisingly, she didn’t know anything about this little jaunt you and your pal have dreamed up.”

“But she doesn’t care, right?”

“Well, she’d have no problem with her daughter joining the Black Panthers. Doesn’t mean I have to allow it.”

That was probably true, so I went in a different direction. “How about calling Kit’s grandparents? After all, they’re the ones we’d be staying—”

“I did. I spoke to a young woman who unfortunately only converses in Spanish, so as you can imagine, we didn’t get very far—”

“Okay.” I vigorously nodded. “That makes sense. It must be their maid, or the housekeeper. See, Mom? They have a housekeeper—”

“That doesn’t impress me, Valerie.”

“Okay, how about this? Her grandparents are old. In their sixties, probably. Do you really think they’re going to let anything bad happen to their granddaughter?”

“Well, if they are old, as you so charmingly put it, Kit could probably outsmart them—”

“And do what? Mom, this is 1979. What terrible thing do you think is going to happen?”

She gave a wicked smile, and I knew her mind was whirling with any number of dastardly deeds Kit and I were surely going to fall prey to. But then, like a sign from God Himself—who, let’s face it, must have invented spring break for a reason—we heard the front door open. And seconds later, my father stood at the bedroom door.

“Daddy!” I yelled, as if he’d just come home from the wars and I hadn’t seen him for a decade.

“What’s this?”

“You’re home early,” my mother said, not hiding her disappointment.

“Yes. The line was too long. I’ll go back tomorrow. And the car, by the way, does not need cleaning.”

“Well, your daughter wants to go to Mexico for spring break with that Kit friend of hers. I told her no, but she—”

“Sounds fun,” my darling, dearest, smartest, winner of The Father of the Decade award said. And there was more. “Jean, didn’t you go to Mexico once? Without your parents? When you weren’t much older than Valerie?”

Yesssssssss!!!!!!

The Missed Leap

“Mommy, did Daddy propose to you when you got married?” ten-year-old Emily asked me. We were driving home from her swim meet that her father had missed, yet again.

“Of course he did; why do you ask?”

“Because did you know that in a leap year a lady can ask a man to marry her?”

“A lady could ask a man any time she wants; she doesn’t have to wait for leap year.”

“No, it’s the law. Grandma told me. But did you ever ask another man to marry you?”

In 1984 I was twenty-two and sporting my recently acquired engagement ring given to me unceremoniously by David Pankowski. The diamond was a lot smaller than Kit thought it should be, and my mother claimed there was a large flaw in the stone (apparently visible only to her eagle eyes). But I loved it, and even though David had made no such request, I promised him I would never take it off.

Six months later, I broke my promise. I was in an elevator on the way out of my dentist’s office, when the car stopped on the fifth floor and Tom Haskins stepped in.

“Valerie!” he said, with great delight. “Are you tailing me?”

“Well, if I am, I’m not very good at it. Aren’t people supposed to stay out of sight if they’re tailing someone?”

He stepped in and stood close to me, shoulder to shoulder. Both of us faced the elevator doors. His reflection in the metal showed him to be smiling, and that was when I slipped my left hand into my coat pocket. With great dexterity, I slid my engagement ring off my finger.

“So, didn’t I just see you a few weeks ago?” he asked.

“Actually it was five and a half months ago.” Dammit, why go into half months?

“You’re kidding.”

“No. You were on your way to sign a lease to open a travel agency.”

His smile grew wider as he nodded. “Riiiight. And you were . . . let’s see . . . shopping for . . . ice skates?”

“Actually, I was looking for bridesmaid dresses. But close enough.”

“You had some big event planned, as I recall.”

 “Bridesmaid dresses mean anything? I was planning my wedding.”

“Oh.” Tom Haskins, who would later become my boss and one of my best friends, turned toward me. I turned, too, and even though there was plenty of space in the elevator, our faces were so close that if we had been actors in a French film, we might have kissed. “How’d it go?” Luckily, the elevator stopped, and as the doors slid open, Tom gestured gallantly with his right arm for me to exit.

“It hasn’t happened yet. Six weeks to go.”

“Ah.” He looked around the spacious lobby. “Got time for coffee? That place over there is pretty good.” He indicated a tiny coffee shop, and ten minutes later we were sitting at a table with mugs in front of us. “So where’s the ring?” He shrugged off his camel-hair coat, revealing an elegant dark suit jacket underneath.

“It’s being cleaned,” I lied, and if this didn’t make any sense, he didn’t question it.

I first met him when my older brother, Buddy, started bringing the teenage Tom to our house on a regular basis. Smart and funny, he teased me with no mercy, and I lapped it up. Later, we cemented our friendship, mainly during the summer before my senior year of high school when I was a part-time waitress and he was my best customer.

“So, this Pankowski guy. What’s he like?” Tom asked.

“He’s wonderful.” This from the woman who was hiding her fiancé’s ring in her pocket. “And your wife . . .  Sorry, I’ve forgotten her name. She’s good?” I did know perfectly well that his wife’s name was Claire, that she was five foot three, born in Wyoming, and had a degree in music theory. Plus, she was gorgeous. Still, she was a complete stranger to me.

“We’re separated right now.” He took a sip of coffee and sighed, like he’d just discovered his lottery ticket had no winning numbers.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Tom, I didn’t . . . Buddy never mentioned—”

“No big deal.” Tom smiled, like he’d just buy another ticket. “She‘s going her way, I’m going mine. I never should have said yes in the first place.”

“You mean to the separation?” I put my ring-free hand on his arm, ready to dispense something wise and comforting. “Sometimes, it’s probably best to just let—”

“I mean the proposal. She asked me, caught me at a weak moment.”

“Wow. She asked you?” I pondered that for a moment, marveling at the chutzpah of the gorgeous Wyomingite.

“And by the way, Caldwell, you do realize this is a leap year, right?”

“Yes; so?”

“So, if you don’t do it now, you’ll have to wait another four years.” He had a naughty grin on his face, reminding me of the teenager I had found so irresistible. But I took my time answering, not willing to be led into a giant leap. “Okay, I’m assuming you’re running for election. Talk to me again in four years.”

He threw back his head and laughed his hearty laugh, taking a cigar out of a holder from his inside pocket. “You’re a piece of work, Caldwell. I hope Pankowski realizes how damn lucky he is.”

“So, Mommy,” Emily begged. “Did you?”

“Propose?” I mused. “Almost. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have.”

“Mommmm! Aren’t you listening? I asked if you remembered to buy corn chips.”