Shadows on a Cape Cod Wedding Read Free Page B

10.5 x 16 inches. Price: $65.
    “Don’t panic about the dress I showed you,” Gussie said after she and Maggie were settled at her old home and the wine was flowing. “It’s being shipped back to Atlanta tomorrow. I told Lily, Jim’s mother: this is my wedding, and Jim’s. I only kept the dresses this long because I wanted to show you the sort of challenge we’ve been facing.”
    “Along with the painters and carpenters and moving your home and store, and basically, changing your entire life,” Maggie added.
    “That’s all!” said Gussie. “Now, let’s relax and enjoy the mussels. They should be eaten while they’re still warm.”
    “No problem here,” Maggie agreed. “There’s no place to get decent food on the road, and the ‘everything’ bagel I bought at the Bridgewater Diner this morning was gone a long time ago.”
    The wine-and-herb-steamed mussels disappeared much too fast, and they dug into their baked lobsters stuffed with crabmeat with gusto.
    “Mmmm. Nothing like this in Jersey. Just promise you won’t tell Will I ate a lobster caught outside Maine waters,” Maggie said, leaning back and taking a sip of her wine. “He won’t even consider Massachusetts lobsters.”
    “Maine lobsters are pretty darn good,” Gussie acknowledged, savoring a particularly sweet piece of the tail, “but I believe in comparison eating. Especially when you can get lobsters locally.”
    “And this restaurant really knows how to prepare seafood,” Maggie agreed. “Fresh, and not overcooked. Too many chefs have a heavy hand with shellfish.”
    “Which is why we’re having our reception at the Winslow Inn,” said Gussie. “No baked lobsters, I’m afraid, but we think they’ll do a great job. We’re taking over a room for about seventy-five, which should be the number of guests.”
    “You don’t know yet?”
    “People are notorious about not returning those RSVP cards. Every­one who warned us was right. We’ve only heard from about half those we invited.”
    “That’s incredibly inconsiderate,” said Maggie.
    “Indeed,” agreed Gussie. “Another day and we’ll have to start telephoning people. We’ve just had too many other things to do.”
    “Well, I’m here to help now. And Jim gets major points for having a scrumptious feast prepared that the two of us could eat in peace this first night.”
    Maggie looked around the living room of what had been Gussie’s home for as long as they’d been friends: the second floor above Aunt Augusta’s Attic, the shop where Gussie sold her antique dolls, toys, and children’s books. Several years ago the progression of Gussie’s Post-Polio Syndrome had convinced her to add a chairlift from the downstairs to her apartment. She still used her old wheelchair, and sometimes a walker, to go a few steps when she was at home, but doctors had told her to stress her muscles as little as possible, and at forty-nine, she knew it was time to listen. Two years ago she’d moved to an electric scooter for when she was at the shop or “out in the world,” as she put it.
    “It looks as though you’ve packed most of your things,” Maggie commented. “Your bookcases are empty, and except for the furniture we’re using, this room is empty.”
    Gussie nodded. “Except for the biggest pieces of furniture, and those in my bedroom, we’ve been moving things to the other house. But the closets are still full. I need your help packing seasonal things, and treasures like the Limoges dinner set my Great-aunt Jane left me that I’ve never used, but never could bear to sell. A lot is stored higher than I can reach.”
    “I hear my marching orders,” Maggie said, nodding between bites. “No problem. Just tell me what you want packed, and what you don’t want to take.”
    “At this point, pack everything. I’ll make decisions at the other end,” said Gussie. “I’ll finish the packing in the shop so I’ll know exactly what’s in each carton. I have to get the