Chapter 39
Aya
Aya had made so many calls to the museum’s plumber of choice, Nathan, that they should have been good friends. But he had a tendency to answer in monosyllables, so that seemed to thwart even her most polite attempts at conversation.
“So, do you think you can fix it?” she asked, trying not to reveal the level of nervousness she was feeling.
“Eventually.”
She bit her lip. “How late is eventually? Because we have a bunch of people coming in.”
“A month, maybe two.”
He had already told her the work would take time and a lot of parts would need to be replaced. But she had been hoping there was some way to fast-track that.
“Okay. Do you know if any of the bathroom rental places could get us something last minute, then?”
That time, he didn’t say anything, only shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
“Festival.”
Of course. They had probably rented all the facilities within a hundred-mile radius. There she was, basically solely responsible for providing bathrooms to dozens of senior citizens, and she had absolutely nothing.
“Thanks, Nathan.”
“Welcome.”
He cleared out, and Aya was left standing at the front desk of the museum.
Her computer was open, the draft of her thesis outline blinking up at her.
It had been hilarious to think she could come in to work late, still exhausted even after all that coffee and tea, and think she could work on it.
Not to mention the impossibility of returning to Chicago.
Then the museum would be truly abandoned.
Into all that chaos barged Mrs. Irving, though Aya was thankful it was in the form of a phone call.
Aya sent it to voice mail. She should have learned over the years.
Everyone who worked for Mrs. Irving either quit or bowed down completely to her tyranny.
Aya didn’t think of herself as working “for” anyone, but it turned out that when Mrs. Irving was on the board, everyone was at her beck and call.
Her mother always said they should be thankful, that if someone had to take the place of both Katos on the board, it needed to be someone who was well known in Love Hollow.
She didn’t say “well liked,” as that would have been a bit of a fib. Mrs. Irving was well known. Perhaps, in the words of some people, she was infamous.
And she was knocking on the front door.
“We’re closed today,” said Aya, unlocking it and opening it just a crack. It turned out there was a reason that was not recommended. She should have written a message and slipped it under the locked door, the way she was always told to do in little booklets about preserving her civil rights.
Because an unlocked door, to Mrs. Irving, was an open invitation.
In spite of the warm afternoon, she was dressed in sensible pumps, tights, and a gray wool suit with a well-ironed blouse underneath.
Small studs were in her ears, her hair in her trademark braided bun.
Aya never pictured Mrs. Irving any other way.
She wore the same outfit for a shift selling nachos at the football game as she did when she gave a eulogy at a funeral.
And she gave plenty of those. Mrs. Irving was always willing to help and always eager to talk, so when there was no other obvious speaker, the role often fell to her.
“I’ve come about the flowers,” she said. “I saw that you forgot to order them for the festival.”
Her voice had more than a bit of an English accent left in it, though she’d lived in the United States for most of her life. Aya always suspected her of putting it on a bit. After all, it made her sound even more imperious and somehow smarter than her listeners.
“You have a copy of the budget, Mrs. Irving,” she said. “There wasn’t any money left for flowers this year.”
“Yes, I have a copy of the budget,” she said. “Did you ask any of the local florists for donations?”
“Hmm? Donated flowers?”
“We’ve lined their coffers every other year before this. They may as well do something for us. A wreath, really. It’s the least they could do. If you’d like, I can make the call. Hanson’s on State Street. You’re not related, are you?”
Aya had often gotten that question growing up but never in the process of begging for flowers.
“I think we share a great-grandfather or something,” she said. “My aunt Jessie would know. I’m not big on genealogy.”
Mrs. Irving peered at her. “Pity. Well, I’ll tell them it’s for their cousin. That ought to shame them into giving us something.”
“Mrs. Irving, please. I don’t think the museum is really in the position to be asking for favors.”
“Nonsense,” said the tall, willowy woman, leaning so she could read Aya’s computer screen. Aya snapped it shut.
“If that’s all,” she said, but of course it wasn’t.
“The festival,” said Mrs. Irving sharply. “Rumors are flying. I would have talked to Noah Kato myself, of course, only he wasn’t home when I went in yesterday. And his parents weren’t giving away his whereabouts, which is not like them.”
Aya tried not to smile. At least she was in on one conspiracy.
“Probably back in California, going out with more of those actress-model types,” Mrs. Irving said primly.
“It’s very disappointing. I know his parents worried for him!
His mother practically raised him on feminist theory, yet there he was, in the tabloids every other week with another lady.
Doing nothing but making those albums, and what did he do with the rest of his time, I would like to know. ”
Aya made an effort to appear cheerful. “I guess he was busy.”
Mrs. Irving was certainly the type of woman who would make albums in her spare hours while holding down at least one and half difficult, meaningful jobs, and she sniffed. “Well, he certainly seemed too busy to visit. And with all his sister went through. It’s a disgrace.”
Aya blinked. She thought that she remembered Twyla starting to say something about Nami then changing the subject after a look from their mother.
They were not allowed to gossip. It was a household rule, the like of which she never seemed to encounter in anyone else’s house.
They could share others’ good news, but that was it.
Mrs. Irving was not at all bothered by Aya’s lack of response. “I found his office. Girl named Grace, more efficient than I would have expected. She was vague about details, though. I presented her with a list of our demands.”
“Mrs. Irving,” Aya finally managed, “I’m not sure we’re in a position to be making demands. The festival is bringing in ten thousand people. We only have three hundred.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Irving. “And what is their festival all about? They don’t even have a proper theme.”
“Okay,” said Aya. “Tell me what you would like the festival to do.”
Mrs. Irving reached into her handbag and brought out a list that was several pages long, much more detailed and unreasonable than any of Aya’s requests.
“No music at all on the second day, at least not until after eight in the evening? Donations of all unsold food at the end of each day, plus complimentary T-shirts for everyone? There’s no way they’ll agree to this.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Irving, “between you, me, and the fence post, they do seem rather strapped for funds. But with ten thousand attendees, that will be their own fault. I would have managed things much better.”
It was an incredibly arrogant statement, but it was also probably true.
“I need to run home for a bit,” said Aya. It was clearly going to be the only way to get Mrs. Irving to leave. “But I’ll give these to Noah Kato myself.”
“Is he back in town?” she asked.
Aya flinched. “I’m not sure. But I can get in touch with him if needed.”
Mrs. Irving harrumphed as they walked out together. “Technology,” she said. “You young people. You may never learn that the most effective way to do business is face-to-face.”
Mrs. Irving, thought Aya, if nothing else, I’ve certainly learned that from you.