Dying to Decorate Read online

  I want to join! Cyndy’s tale of the camaraderie and companionship among the six members of the Friday Afternoon Club makes me want a real club, but this one will do in a great way. Her characters join me in my day and share themselves—blemishes and all. Cyndy creates a place where I want to belong.

  —KARON PHILLIPS GOODMAN

  Author of Another Fine Mess, Lord! and the Woman’s Guide series

  Dying to Decorate is a great debut! Cyndy Salzmann weaves poignant historical lessons into a thoroughly modern and totally charming tale. And the tempting recipes are a fun bonus.

  —DEBORAH RANEY

  Author of Over the Waters and A Nest of Sparrows

  Hilarious! Cyndy Salzmann’s mom lit will have you laughing out loud and dying to get domestic with her recipes. Pull up an easy chair (move the wayward socks first), make yourself some tea, and tune out the kids for a wildly fun escape.

  —KRISTIN BILLERBECK

  Author of What a Girl Wants and She’s Out of Control

  Cyndy Salzmann’s debut novel has something for everyone—humor, memorable characters, and a heart-tugging story that captures the poignancy of sacrificial love. All that and great recipes too!

  —CAROL UMBERGER

  Author of the Scottish Crown series and winner of the HOLT Medallion for Best First Book.

  Not only does Cyndy Salzmann’s Dying to Decorate provide a delightful, fun story, but it renewed my confidence in being a mom and a home manager—and it has great recipes to boot.

  —SHARON DUNN

  Author of the Ruby Taylor Mysteries, including Cow Crimes and the Mustang Menace

  Thank you for purchasing this Howard Books eBook.

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  To Mary, Liz, Shirley, P.J., Mirm, Jean, Danette, Lorna, Deb, and Denise

  acknowledgments

  I am indebted to many people who helped make this book a reality.

  Philis Boultinghouse and Chrys Howard of Howard Publishing Company, for taking a chance on a new novelist. Without their encouragement and persistence, this book would still be an idea—and I would still be behind on laundry.

  Ramona Cramer Tucker, for her excellent editing and sweet encouragement. What a privilege it has been to partner with you on this project!

  Susan Sleeman, my critique partner, for her help in focusing the story during a very busy time.

  The research staff of the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer in Grand Island, Nebraska, for providing invaluable historical data from their archives, as well as the opportunity to see history come to life through their many exhibits.

  Historian Wanda Ewalt of Tabor, Iowa, who graciously gave me a private tour of the Todd House, the home of a Congregationalist minister, used as a station on the Underground Railroad.

  Staff and resources of the Omaha Public Library for research assistance—again and again.

  My coffee-shop pals, Ricci and Liz, who kept my cup filled at my “satellite” office.

  My supportive in-laws, Don and Lois Salzmann, who gave me use of their delightful carriage house while I finished the manuscript. A writer’s dream . . .

  Amanda Warden, Forensic Scientist, for sharing her expertise in the area of serology.

  My mother and stepfather, Betty and Clarence Contestabile, for sharing fabulous recipes and colorful Italian heritage.

  My sweet and patient children, Freddy, Liz, and Anna, who pitched in on household chores to help me meet my deadline.

  My dear, dear husband, John, for his support and encouragement—and help with the laundry. I love you, sweetheart!

  And, of course, my own Friday Afternoon Club—Mary, Liz, Shirley, P.J., Mirm, Jean, Danette, Lorna, Deb, and Denise—for your treasured friendship. You will always be close to my heart!

  Finally, but most importantly, Almighty God, for allowing me to serve Him with my writing.

  Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;

  And confirm for us the work of our hands.

  PSALM 90:17

  I’M-SO-SORRY SNICKERDOODLES

  1 cup butter, room temperature

  1 1/2 cups sugar

  2 eggs

  2 3/4 cups flour

  3 teaspoons baking powder

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/2 cup sugar

  1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

  Instructions

  1. In a bowl, cream together butter, sugar, and eggs.

  2. In a separate bowl, mix together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add gradually to creamed mixture.

  3. Chill dough for one hour. Shape into balls the size of walnuts.

  4. Roll balls into mixture of 1/2 cup sugar and 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon. Place on cookie sheet.

  5. Bake at 400 degrees until slightly brown—about eight minutes.

  6. Remove from pan to cool on rack. Makes about 4 dozen cookies.

  DOUBLE MOCHA FRAPPUCCINO

  1 cup double-strength coffee, cold

  1/2 cup milk

  1/4 cup half-and-half

  1/4 cup chocolate sauce

  2 large scoops vanilla ice cream

  3 tablespoons sugar

  1 cup ice

  Instructions

  1. Mix all ingredients in blender for 10 seconds on low, then 20 seconds on high.

  2. Serve with whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top, if desired.

  Yes!” I slam the phone back in its cradle, sending the dog skittering across the kitchen floor. “Don’t worry, Daisy. You’re not in trouble—this time! But don’t think I don’t know about your midnight raids in the kitchen trash. What do you think gives you the kind of gas that clears a room? I’m onto you, puppy dog, and it’s only a matter of time before I catch you in the act!”

  Great. Here I am, a grown woman, talking to a dog about gas. Next I’ll be expecting Daisy to pull a pack of Tums from her collar. I am so ready for FAC!

  Before you get the wrong idea about my sanity—or lack of it—let me introduce myself. My name is Elizabeth Harris. Liz, to most. In addition to Daisy, our precocious Westie, I share our home in Omaha, Nebraska, with a very patient husband, two teenagers, and a “tween.” Once a week I write a lifestyle column for our local newspaper—even though these days my life seems to lack a significant amount of style. Let’s face it. How stylish can a woman actually feel climbing out of a minivan?

  It’s so interesting to look back at the glamorous dreams of youth. In high school my goal was to get my hair to look like Farrah Fawcett’s—a glamorous crime-fighter on the TV show Charlie’s Angels. But instead of gently waving tresses, all I could produce after a frustrating session with my curling iron were two tight curls that resembled skinny saus
ages framing my face. In college I decided to cut my long hair and pursue a career as a newswoman like Mary Tyler Moore.

  After graduating from journalism school, I landed a job as a cub reporter at the local TV station. The glamour of this profession began to wear off shortly after our first child arrived. Returning to work after maternity leave, I was determined to “have it all”—great career, fabulous marriage, wonderful family. Not even willing to give up nursing, I dutifully pumped my milk in the ladies’ rest room at the station twice a day. After a long night of reporting election returns, I discovered that trying to “have it all” carries a price I wasn’t sure I wanted to pay . . .

  “Liz, they want to go live in two minutes,” said my photographer, Andy. “Are you ready for your stand-up?”

  “Sure,” I replied, adjusting my earpiece. “Does Eric have my lead-in?”

  “I’ll check.”

  I composed my thoughts while Andy communicated with the station. Smoothing my hair and straightening my blouse, I suddenly felt that familiar tingling known only to nursing mothers.

  No, not now. Please not now.

  “OK, Liz,” said Andy, holding up his fingers, “in three, two . . .” He pointed his finger at me as the little red light of the camera went on, indicating we were on the air.

  I pasted a smile on my face and attempted to listen to the anchor’s question. But all I could think about was that my milk had begun to let down. On television. Live.

  I knew what I needed to do to stop the inevitable flow. Put firm pressure on my breasts. Unfortunately, my training from the La Leche League didn’t cover how to gracefully do this when in front of a live television audience.

  The anchor’s voice interrupted my panic. “It looks like there’s a lot of celebrating down there, Liz. I assume they are pretty happy with the returns.”

  Instinct kicked in as I finished my report, including an uncomfortable interview with the campaign manager, who seemed intent on staring over my shoulder. When the red light on the camera finally clicked off, Andy sheepishly pointed out the reason for the man’s unusual behavior: two wet ovals decorated my blouse. I did the next report in my overcoat and turned in my resignation the next morning . . .

  But back to the question of maintaining sanity as a stay-at-home mom. Believe it or not, I am able to make it through most days without trying to coax a verbal response from the family dog. However, to be brutally honest, a regular dose of what I’ve fondly come to call FAC is crucial to helping me walk the narrow path of pleasant wife and mother without falling into the abyss and emerging as “the hateful hag.”

  Although the hateful hag cleverly hides from the outside world, all mothers know how she strains to break her carefully woven leash. For some of us, the hag may rear her loathsome head while trying to arbitrate a battle between siblings over a toy, computer time, or—in the case of teenagers—the car keys. As outlined in our parenting classes, we have taken several cleansing breaths in an effort to keep our composure. But before we know it, the leash snaps! We find ourselves with hands clamped tightly over our ears, shrieking, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

  Not a pretty picture . . . and certainly one not covered in the Positive Parenting curriculum.

  For other moms, the hateful hag may show up in response to what her family considers a simple question, such as, “What’s for dinner?” Unfortunately, family members have asked the mother in this situation this same question every night for the last fourteen years. Without even realizing hag has slipped out, this characteristically pleasant mother whirls around with a wild look in her eyes and responds with something like, “Why are you asking ME what’s for dinner? Do I look like I know what’s for dinner? Am I a walking menu? Do I have pots hanging from my belt? A roast around my neck?” Stunned family members slink from the room, whispering among themselves that it might be a good night to pick up pizza.

  Although we hate to admit it—often denying the fact to our graves—every mother struggles to keep her hag in check. But when that wicked witch does break free, even for a few moments, we quickly regret our tirades and assuage our guilt by spending hours baking “make-up” cookies or doing chores previously assigned to the kids. FAC is my secret weapon against the hateful hag.

  Have I piqued your interest yet? Are you wondering what in the world those magic letters FAC represent? Could it be a secret elixir? Some new form of therapy? Perhaps a relaxing spa treatment? Better yet, a box of decadent dark chocolates with macadamia nuts?

  Not quite. FAC—short for Friday Afternoon Club—is a group of women (Lucy, Jessie, Marina, Mary Alice, Kelly, and me) who get together on Friday afternoons for that vital shot of “girl time” that all women need but too often sacrifice. There’s no agenda. No projects. No menu. Just a couple of hours to relax, recharge, and reconnect at the end of a long week.

  At one time we tried to come up with a clever name for the group. But because the demands of our small children left us little energy for creativity, we stuck with FAC. As the years have gone by, we’ve noticed the name has a definite advantage. Think about it. We never have to ask when our little group is getting together. The meeting time is contained in the name. My mother tells me I won’t truly appreciate this stroke of genius until menopause.

  FAC began about ten years ago as a way to help moms in our neighborhood remember that there are people who are interested in what we have to say—aside from what’s for dinner, the location of a sippy cup, if a soccer uniform is clean, and most importantly, why our tomatoes can’t talk like the one on the VeggieTales DVD. Not that these aren’t pressing questions. It’s just nice to have a little variety.

  Today our group is much more than a source for adult conversation. We “get” each other the way only other women can. In spite of the arguments of radical feminism, the female species is very different from the male. We are extremely relational and nurture this need through communication . . . lots of communication. In fact, we can easily wear our spouses out with the desire to—as John, my sweet but always tactful husband, puts it—“discuss anything and everything.”

  Women also have the need to interact without the judgment and petty competition inherent in some women’s groups. At FAC I can show up on a bad-hair day with chipped nail polish and unshaven legs and know I won’t be the talk of the PTA. And, even though I’m known by fans of my column as a cross between the industrious “Fly Lady” and the unsinkable “Martha,” my FAC friends promise to carry the secret of my peeling wallpaper and disorganized drawers to their graves.

  Secret keeping aside, investing in friendship with a supportive group of women has produced returns I never could have imagined. As our kids grew up, so did FAC. Now, in the midst of jokes about Botox and drooping derrieres, we stretch and encourage one another. We’ve also discovered an important truth. It’s much easier to wade through difficult times locking arms with those who love you even without lipstick or a great cheesecake recipe.

  So, when I picked up the message that FAC was at Jessie’s house this afternoon, I knew I’d be there—early. The leash on my hag had begun to unravel even before I’d stepped out of bed that morning . . .

  I woke up to the hot, moist breath of the family dog on my cheek. Over the past five years, Daisy has learned that panting in my face is an extremely effective way to get me out of bed. If I don’t move quickly, she starts to lick my ear. Just the thought of that scavenging dog’s tongue lapping at my ear makes me cringe. Who knows what she’s been licking five minutes earlier? Ugh! I still don’t understand why Daisy adopted me as her morning pal. I never wanted a dog in the first place. It was John who felt the responsibility of caring for a pet would be good for the kids. I suggested a goldfish. He suggested a hamster. That did it. The threat of a rodent moving into our home made me agree to a dog. I could just imagine the unpleasant dreams that would haunt me with a rodent spinning a wheel in the next room. After all, I had seen the movie Willard.

  Today I knew there was trouble,
because I smelled cinnamon. Not the good kind of cinnamon from baking bread or rolls but a cloyingly sweet smell, like those little red-hot candies. Daisy’s breath may smell like many things—most of which are too disgusting even to mention—but cinnamon has not yet popped up on the list. I opened my eyes to discover that the source of the smell was not only emanating from her mouth but from red goo smeared in various places throughout her white fur. In my postdreamlike state, she resembled some fantasy creature from The Wizard of Oz.

  I emerged from under my comforter (now spotted with the mystery substance), gingerly picked up the slimy dog, and followed the path of pink paw prints to the hall bathroom. There I found red toothpaste smeared all over the floor and spied the chewed-up plastic tube behind the toilet.

  “Katie! Josh! Hannah!” I shouted. “Upstairs! Now!”

  I was definitely using what we refer to in our home as an “outdoor voice.” I learned this term as a naive, young mother by listening to Katie’s preschool teacher reprimand a student for shouting in class. The scene is somehow set permanently in my memory . . .

  “Billy, is that your ‘indoor’ voice?” Mrs. Stevens asked sweetly that day.

  “I don’t know,” he responded, clearly only interested in continuing his raucous romp through the cardboard bricks of the Building My World discovery center.

  “Remember our rules,” she persisted. “We save loud voices for outdoors and use quiet voices indoors. You don’t want me to write your name in The Book for breaking the rules, do you?”

  Just the mention of The Book stopped this wild child in his tracks. “No, Mrs. Stevens,” he replied in an apparently repentant fashion.

  Wow! I recall the ear-shattering level of noise in my own home. Why have I never heard about this indoor-outdoor voice rule? Maybe getting my own copy of The Book will lower the decibels.

  Ever hopeful, I stopped at the stationery store on the way home.