I asked Vicki if I could stop by to visit one of her book club meetings to see if I wanted to join.
“Sure, Ellie, come join us. We’re having a tea party since this month’s book is set in England. We read The Mystery of Mrs. Christie by Marie Benedict.”
Wow. Are their meetings always this fancy? Does each member have to host?
I hadn’t read this book, but I’d seen the movie version and enjoyed it. I thought I’d be able to contribute something to the conversation. And I loved Marie Benedict’s books. I had read The Personal Librarian and Carnegie’s Maid, both historical stories based on true stories. Also, I had loved tea parties every since I lived in England as a child. I eagerly accepted Vicki’s invitation, arriving at her house promptly at 4 p.m.
Three cars were already parked along the pristine curb of the affluent neighborhood. I parked my car across the street. As I sauntered up the paved driveway, I admired Vicki’s front rose garden in full bloom. Red, yellow, white, and even blue roses stretched their petals up toward the warm afternoon sun. Around the edge of the garden, the miniature boxwood hedges were perfectly groomed. A stunning clematis vine with a profusion of purple, pink, and white flowers covered a trellis near the porch. Furry bumble bees danced from flower to flower.
Vicki’s door was a single white paneled portal with a brass acorn knocker. I pushed the doorbell and heard it chime inside. Instantaneously, footsteps approached, and, when the door opened, Vicki smiled, took my hand and pulled me in.
Several women were gathered in the kitchen around bottles of champagne and glasses. Some wore sun dresses and others had on sleeveless blouses with capri-length pants. The chatter was lively. All of these women were members of the Winona Women’s Club, a philanthropic organization, which provided scholarships to college students and conducted a variety of other charitable activities such as coat collections for the homeless and food donation drives for the local food bank.
I had been a member of this group for two years, but I didn’t know anyone except Vicki. I stood at the edge of the circle of women quietly, a pleasant smile pasted on my lips.
Vicki asked if someone knew how to open a champagne bottle. I volunteered. Maybe it was a good way to become involved in the group. I grabbed a dish towel, untwisted the wire over the cork, and covered the cork with the towel. Then I twisted it. Pop! It came loose without any spillage. A few women cheered, and I proceeded to pour the champagne into glasses and pass them around.
After I had poured for everyone and held a glass of champagne in my own hand, I introduced myself to a few women, told them I was visiting the meeting for the day. They were welcoming and encouraged me to join.
Soon, Vicki instructed us to take our drinks into the dining room where her table was decked out in a lace tablecloth, English bone China, and an abundance of roses from her garden. Tiered plates held triangle sandwiches, tiny sausage rolls, petit-fours and chocolates. Small platters displayed warm scones. Two bone China sugar bowls held clotted cream and teeny dishes offered strawberry and orange marmalade jam. Queen Elizabeth would have been delighted.
I noted how similar Vicki’s taste was to my own. Obviously, we were both rosarians, me being an amateur compared to her. I chose a seat in the middle of one side of the long table and sat down in a cushioned chair. The rest of the chatty women eventually all found places. Vicki brought in another chair and place setting for the last woman to sit down, and she took her own seat at the head of the table.
The dining room opened up to a large living room that had a gigantic etagere dark wood bookcase. Photographs of Vicki, her husband, and children on safari; in front of the Taj Mahal; standing on the deck of a yacht; and posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. In-between the photographs were a marble bust of the Virgin Mary; a colorful vase that had to be Murano glass from Venice; and a pair of wooden masks coated with streaks of red and green paint.
But the most unusual part of Vicki’s collection were the heads that she had placed at the very top of the etagere. A Chinese soldier. Buddha. Confucius. A woman who could be the Egyptian Queen Nefertiti. In all, twelve heads stood on their necks, spanning from one side of the furniture to the other.
Vicki had lived. She had traveled far and wide. No wonder I was so enthralled with her. She was undoubtedly full of stories and knowledge.
I twisted my head to watch and listen to Vicki, hopefully my new friend, as she used her silver spoon to get everyone’s attention.
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