a keeper?”
Mr. Choppy leaned toward her as they gave each other a peck on the lips. “From the first time I laid eyes on you in the Piggly Wiggly fifty-something years ago.”
Four
Blame It on the Bossa Nova
D espite Renza’s ongoing protestations, the next official meeting of the Nitwitts was definitely going to take place on a late October Saturday afternoon at the house that Eustice McQueen had built long decades ago for his ever-faithful wife. All the others were simply too curious to ignore Denver Lee’s insistent promise of a first-rate surprise to boost the success of their Caroling in The Square event on Christmas Eve. In fact, everyone except Renza had been wagering among themselves behind the scenes as to what that surprise might turn out to be. The Nitwitt that came closest to the truth, however distant that guess might be, would walk away with the kitty.
Gaylie Girl had offered the notion that it might somehow be connected to one of Euss McQueen’s inventions, hidden away in some closet all these years and now to be revealed in all its glory or probable lack thereof; Laurie had put her money on Denver Lee’s never-realized ambition to be a trained singer dating all the way back to her college days at Ole Miss; always the party planner, Myrtis leaned toward some sort of special reception that Denver Lee might spearhead either before or after the caroling; Novie fell back on her obsession with travel and suggested that Denver Lee would propose a nice trip for the choir that did the best job—upon which the Nitwitts would vote, of course; while Euterpe’s entry wafted in straight out of left field. She claimed to have dreamed what Denver Lee was actually up to when images of people engaged in some sort of exotic dance step came to her in her sleep.
“It was my interpretation that Denver Lee was conducting an orchestra. I could see the baton swinging from side to side, but all these people couldn’t seem to stop this fevered dancing,” Euterpe had elaborated with each of the other bettors in turn over the phone. “So I’ll just take a wild stab and say she’s going to go with a marathon Christmas dance in The Square after the caroling is over. I’ve been right to trust my dreams so many times in the past.”
It had fallen to secretary Novie to record and date each of the guesses and note the amount of each bet to keep the competition on the straight and narrow. So it was she who took the liberty of revealing all the club shenanigans to Denver Lee in a polite phone call the evening before their meeting.
“We Nitwitts are a creative bunch, I have to admit,” Denver Lee responded, utterly delighted by the news of the contest. “But you’ll get no hint from me as to who might be on the right track. That is, if anyone is at all.” Then, a sour note: “Is Renza coming? She’s made me well aware of her opinion in the matter.”
“She didn’t much like being overruled by the rest of us,” Novie admitted. “But she’s likely as not to appear anyway. She’s still entitled to preside over all of our meetings no matter where they’re held. I rather think she’ll get over herself and show.”
“Well, I’d hate to see her miss a treat, Novie. This may be remembered as my finest hour.”
Gaylie Girl was surprised to find that she was the last to enter the foyer of Denver Lee’s house right at two o’clock Saturday afternoon. It was totally out of character for every Nitwitt to be on time for one of their meetings. Usually, someone would develop car trouble and have to be picked up at the last minute, or thought they could get away with running to the grocery store for a few staples and then invariably bump into an old friend they hadn’t seen “for ages.” For this meeting, however, every Nitwitt—including a reluctant President Renza—was already enjoying her customary libation or nibbling at something decorative and savory on a cracker as Gaylie Girl greeted and joined them with
Mr. Choppy leaned toward her as they gave each other a peck on the lips. “From the first time I laid eyes on you in the Piggly Wiggly fifty-something years ago.”
Four
Blame It on the Bossa Nova
D espite Renza’s ongoing protestations, the next official meeting of the Nitwitts was definitely going to take place on a late October Saturday afternoon at the house that Eustice McQueen had built long decades ago for his ever-faithful wife. All the others were simply too curious to ignore Denver Lee’s insistent promise of a first-rate surprise to boost the success of their Caroling in The Square event on Christmas Eve. In fact, everyone except Renza had been wagering among themselves behind the scenes as to what that surprise might turn out to be. The Nitwitt that came closest to the truth, however distant that guess might be, would walk away with the kitty.
Gaylie Girl had offered the notion that it might somehow be connected to one of Euss McQueen’s inventions, hidden away in some closet all these years and now to be revealed in all its glory or probable lack thereof; Laurie had put her money on Denver Lee’s never-realized ambition to be a trained singer dating all the way back to her college days at Ole Miss; always the party planner, Myrtis leaned toward some sort of special reception that Denver Lee might spearhead either before or after the caroling; Novie fell back on her obsession with travel and suggested that Denver Lee would propose a nice trip for the choir that did the best job—upon which the Nitwitts would vote, of course; while Euterpe’s entry wafted in straight out of left field. She claimed to have dreamed what Denver Lee was actually up to when images of people engaged in some sort of exotic dance step came to her in her sleep.
“It was my interpretation that Denver Lee was conducting an orchestra. I could see the baton swinging from side to side, but all these people couldn’t seem to stop this fevered dancing,” Euterpe had elaborated with each of the other bettors in turn over the phone. “So I’ll just take a wild stab and say she’s going to go with a marathon Christmas dance in The Square after the caroling is over. I’ve been right to trust my dreams so many times in the past.”
It had fallen to secretary Novie to record and date each of the guesses and note the amount of each bet to keep the competition on the straight and narrow. So it was she who took the liberty of revealing all the club shenanigans to Denver Lee in a polite phone call the evening before their meeting.
“We Nitwitts are a creative bunch, I have to admit,” Denver Lee responded, utterly delighted by the news of the contest. “But you’ll get no hint from me as to who might be on the right track. That is, if anyone is at all.” Then, a sour note: “Is Renza coming? She’s made me well aware of her opinion in the matter.”
“She didn’t much like being overruled by the rest of us,” Novie admitted. “But she’s likely as not to appear anyway. She’s still entitled to preside over all of our meetings no matter where they’re held. I rather think she’ll get over herself and show.”
“Well, I’d hate to see her miss a treat, Novie. This may be remembered as my finest hour.”
Gaylie Girl was surprised to find that she was the last to enter the foyer of Denver Lee’s house right at two o’clock Saturday afternoon. It was totally out of character for every Nitwitt to be on time for one of their meetings. Usually, someone would develop car trouble and have to be picked up at the last minute, or thought they could get away with running to the grocery store for a few staples and then invariably bump into an old friend they hadn’t seen “for ages.” For this meeting, however, every Nitwitt—including a reluctant President Renza—was already enjoying her customary libation or nibbling at something decorative and savory on a cracker as Gaylie Girl greeted and joined them with
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