I put up my hands. “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” I had heard snippets of the fight between Mark and Emerson, and I didn’t have the stamina to have all that fire directed toward me if I meddled. I was too old for it. Plus, I knew Emerson. She’d do whatever she wanted no matter what I said.
Everyone quieted as Mayor Bob called the meeting to order. First on the docket was Paula Jones and mail carrier Roger Smith’s spat. Roger would win this one. He was our beloved mail carrier, the man who brought us ourTown & Countrymagazines and packages even in the rain. Who could possibly turn against him?
Paula Jones, on the other hand, yelled at children for walking on the edge of her grass on the way to the park. The woman didn’t stand a chance. Unless she had stacked the audience with members of First Methodist’s parish—where she was the largest tither—she didn’t have a prayer, pun intended.
Paula took the stage, wearing a pale-blue short-sleeved skirt suit with a pillbox hat that would have been more appropriate for a British wedding than the Peachtree Bluff equivalent of a deposition. She had a tiny, upturned nose, and beady eyes. Her usual bright red lipstick had been replaced by pink. I’d hand it to the woman. She looked very innocent.
“I took the mailbox off the front porch for one day to have the porch painted.One day,” Paula began, as though she was on the verge of tears, “and nowRogersays he will only deliver mail if I put a mailbox on my fence, that he won’t come up to the porch anymore.”
As she continued with her diatribe of how this had horribly impacted her life, taking full advantage of her three minutes, Caroline whispered to Emerson and me, “Mom, I’m texting you a pic of your mother-of-the-bride dress.”
“What?” I whispered back. “I thought maybeIwould pick that out.”
Caroline shook her head. “No. My friend Ramon is a huge up-and-coming designer in Manhattan, and he had this vision for your dress. It’s flawless.” Then she whispered to Emerson, “He’s making the bridesmaids’ dresses, too.”
Emerson rolled her eyes at me. Both our phones vibrated. I gasped when I saw the picture. The gown was the palest blue floor-length lace with straps about three fingers wide that came slightly off the shoulder. It was fitted at the waist and flared out the tiniest bit, my favorite style, except that I usually wore something with a sleeve. I thought it was more appropriate at my age.
“Car, this looks like a wedding gown,” I said.
“Oh, Mom,” Emerson said, “you have to wear this. It’s perfection. You will look gorgeous.”
Caroline looked at the picture and then back at me. “Yeah,” she whispered. She looked me up and down disdainfully. “But, Mom, you really need to lose some weight in your shoulders.”
I rolled my eyes.
Jack, who was back now and passing out rosé, said, “How does one lose weight in her shoulders?”
Roger was having his moment now. I thought it was a smart move for him to wear his uniform. It made him seem professional and knowledgeable right off the bat. Probably, though, he hadn’t put the thought into his outfit that Paula had. He had simply come straight from work. “It clearly states in the Peachtree Bluff Mailbox Statute of 1962 that existing front-porch mailboxes have a right to stay, but if that front-porch box is moved at any time for any reason, it must be replaced by a street-accessible box,” he was saying.
“But I moved it forone day,” Paula protested.
Mayor Bob interrupted. “Paula, you’ve had your time.”
I waved at Kimmy as she passed around photocopies of the Mailbox Statute. Word around town was that she and Roger had something going on. Kimmy denied it, but when you’re passing around a man’s flyers at the town meeting, you’re sleeping with him. No two ways about it.
As Roger continued, giving his full three minutes its due, my phone beeped with another text from Caroline that said,Bridesmaids. The bridesmaids’ dresses were the same shade of pale blue as my mother-of-the-bride dress, but instead of lace, they were made of a thick raw silk. They were strapless and floor-length, with huge white grosgrain ribbons tied around the waist. They were simple, elegant, a little bit Southern, and perfect for a beach wedding.
I returned my attention to the matter at hand. “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Bob began. “You have heard both sides of the case. It’s time to make a decision. All in favor of Ms. Paula Jones, raise your hand.” Yup. She’d done it. She’d stacked the audience. This was going to be a close one. “All in favor of Mr. Roger Smith?” My hand shot up, because, as I said, Roger delivered the world to my front porch.
The mayor started counting, and my arm started losing feeling as I waited for him to finish. “All right, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiled. “It was close, but Roger Smith wins by three votes.”
Cheers rang out from my section of the pub, while Paula shouted, “I demand a recount!”
But Hippie Hal was already shooing her off the stage. It was his moment in the spotlight. I had butterflies at the thought of what he was going to present. But this was even better than my wildest dreams.
“As most of you know,” Hal began, “I recently returned from a three-week stay in India. While my eyes were opened to many things there, I had a wonderful idea that I think could be of benefit to the town.”
“And what is that?” Mayor Bob asked.
“Goats,” Hal replied simply.
Caroline and Emerson grinned at me so widely I thought their faces were going to fall off. And they had complained the whole way here.
“Please explain,” Mayor Bob said.
“We all have our lawns cut each week, creating a noise problem and polluting our environment. Of course, I’m not suggesting that every person put a goat in his or her yard. That would put my friend Billy Washington out of a job. But I think some of us could replace our traditional mowing with goats, and then that could become another tourist attraction in town.”
There was a wave of muffled laughter through the audience.
