Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Read online

  Praise for Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!

  “A book to warm your heart without making your teeth ache from sweetness.” —Detroit Free Press

  “Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything! is just what Partonville’s Old Doc Streator would prescribe as an antidote to the holiday blahs— it’s even better than his spiked eggnog.” —CozyLibrary.com

  “Baumbich’s writing shows that she knows—and still loves— small-town people.” —Publishers Weekly

  “The story is good. The characters are solid and Baumbich’s inspiration is, as always, inspiring. Read one book or all, it’s never too late to make new friends.” —The Naperville Glancer

  Praise for the Dearest Dorothy Series

  “In a sea of CBA heroines who are unfailingly young and beautiful, readers identify with Dorothy, the plucky 80-something grandma who’s a demon at the wheel. Baby, you can drive our car.”

  —Publishers Weekly (Picks for Funny Faith Series)

  “Every small town needs a resident like Dorothy Jean Wetstra.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “Charming.” —Albuquerque Journal

  “All of the other crazy wonderful characters in these books make the pages come alive. The whole town has a life, an energy to it. From Harry’s Grill to the Happy Hookers meetings, you just know that something exciting is going to be happening. If you enjoyed Jan Karon’s Mitford series, I think you’ll love the Dearest Dorothy series.”

  —Christian Fiction Reviewer

  “Be warned—this series is addictive. You’ll soon be hooked on the small town of Partonville and its cast of assorted characters.”

  —BookReporter.com

  “There’s something for everyone here: love, laughter, inspiration, mystery and hysterical mayhem caused by a hacksaw-wielding madwoman. . . . I recommend taking frequent trips to Partonville.”

  —Everything! Naperville (FL)

  “For readers who enjoy books that celebrate life’s simple pleasures, 87-year-old Dorothy Jean Wetstra and her beloved town of Partonville, Ill., are sure to become instant favorites . . . hilarious and touching.” —Evening Star (Hanover, PA)

  “Baumbich has created a town readers will want to visit and people they’ll want to meet . . . engaging, believable, real, funny, and poignant.” —Church Libraries

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  DEAREST DOROTHY, IF NOT NOW, WHEN?

  Charlene Ann Baumbich is a popular speaker, journalist, and author. Her stories, essays, and columns have appeared in numerous magazines and newspapers, including the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, and Today’s Christian Woman. She is also the author of the first five books in the Partonville series, Dearest Dorothy, Are We There Yet?; Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You’re Wearing Us Out!; Dearest Dorothy, Help! I’ve Lost Myself!; Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?!; Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!; and six books of nonfiction. She lives in Glen Ellyn, Illinois. Learn more about Charlene at www.welcometopartonville.com.

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  Dearest Dorothy, Are We There Yet?

  Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You’re Wearing Us Out!

  Dearest Dorothy, Help! I’ve Lost Myself!

  Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?!

  Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in Penguin Books 2007

  Copyright © Charlene Ann Baumbich, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Baumbich, Charlene Ann, 1945-

  Dearest Dorothy, if not now, when? / by Charlene Ann Baumbich.

  p. cm.—(Dearest Dorothy ; bk. 6)

  eISBN 9781440619342

  1. Older women—Fiction. 2. Illinois—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.A963D426 2007

  813’.54—dc22 2007004023

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Version_2

  Dedicated to

  Colleen Ann Baumbich

  Acknowledgments

  This might seem like a strange way to open a list of acknowledgments, but I am truly grateful to the inhabitants of Partonville for continuing to talk to me. THANK YOU, folks, for helping me keep on circling the square in your lively company. Y’all took me on an AMAZING ride this time. I laughed and cried (with and for you), sent you hugs (when I felt sorry for you or just wanted to help you celebrate) and occasionally wished I could smack you. (Cora, Arthur, Gladys—you KNOW what I’m talking about.) You are all so dear to me. I feel like the luckiest woman alive to be able to hang out with such wonderful friends.

  Thank you, God, for infusing me with Your creativity. The whole “watching the movie run in my head” experience is mind-boggling and awesome.

  Thank you Real Life friends. Thank you for doing breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks and/or beverages with me. Thank you for listening to hysterical phone calls and indulging me when I appeared at your doorstep begging for break time (BLESS YOU Burl & Ginger). Thank you for letting me know you were just thinking about me. Thank you for emotionally supporting me, even when I’m a brat.

  Another big THANK YOU goes out to Nick Deones, who again helped me understand some of the many nuances of real estate. If there are any errors in this storytelling (sometimes I’m a numbskull), it certainly isn’t his fault! Once again, Nick was kind, patient, informative and thorough.

  To everyone who reads the series, and/or comes to see me when I’m book touring, and/or e-mails me notes of good cheer, YOU ROCK-O-RAMA. Each and every confirmation fuels me to keep writing. It seems that a note of encouragement always arrives just when I need one the most.

  PENGUIN PEOPLE, YOU ARE THE BEST! Carolyn Carlson, you again helped me to live a dream while keeping me coherent and focused on the pages. (Readers, you have no IDEA how important her refinement is to your read
ing enjoyment!) Maggie Payette, this cover makes me CHEER! Maureen Donnelly and Ann Day, you two are part of a fabulous team. Sales and marketing, editorial assistants, copy editors, order fulfillers . . . way to go.

  Danielle Egan-Miller, an agent with heart, guts and savvy, I raise my glass to you, again and again and again.

  George, Bret, Brian, Katie, Bonnie, Bridget and Colleen, next to God, you are what makes my life worthwhile. All the “glamorous stuff” (writing, touring, speaking . . .) is wonderful, but nothing matters more than family. Nothing.

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  A Note from the Author

  Introduction

  To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old.

  —Oliver Wendell Holmes

  And now, welcome to Partonville, a circle-the-square town in the northern part of southern Illinois, where oldsters are young, trees have names and the man in the moon laughs out loud.

  1

  Jacob poked the toe of one of his gray dress socks back inside the suitcase and jimmied the zipper around the last corner. “Phew!” In one frustrated motion he grasped the handle to the bulging carry-on bag, spun on his heels, tossed it onto the floor next to his briefcase, completed his 360-degree turn and plopped down on his bed where he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his face in his hands. “Yes, you’re going in circles,” he muttered to himself. Bone tired, he suffered from ongoing jet lag and mental fatigue. These whirlwind—or whirligig, as his mom had taken to calling them—trips between Philadelphia and Partonville were about to do him in. But if everything went as planned, this would be his last round-trip flight before making his final journey, moving him—lock, stock and business practice—back to his roots.

  In the little more than two months since fifty-five-year-old Jacob Henry Wetstra had made the stunning announcement that he was moving to Partonville, the small town he’d left when he headed off to college, he’d sold his half of his Philadelphia law firm to his business partner Brenda Stewart and sold his condo, which he had to vacate in ten days. Even though he still worried about his decision, at this point the final transition couldn’t come fast enough, if for no other reason than to end the weekly travel cycle: Tuesdays and Wednesdays working with bereft Partonville clients who had recently lost Rick Lawson, their dear friend, and, up until the time of his death, the town’s sole attorney; the rest of the week in Philly wrapping up court cases and corporate documents, saying good-bye to longtime friends and clients, and packing a household full of items, much of which would go into storage for now.

  Oddly enough, Jacob’s decision to change the course of his life was prompted by a death. During Jacob’s Christmas visit to his mother’s home, Rick Lawson died in a car crash, leaving behind his invalid mother for whom he cared, and his only sibling, a brother, with no clue as to how to handle Rick’s law practice. Jacob pitched in, lending Helen, Rick’s longtime secretary, a temporary hand at trying to make sense of Rick’s chaotic work piles. While sorting through the muddle and hearing so many touching accounts of Rick’s caring presence in so many lives, Jacob awakened to a couple of truths: even though his life was successful professionally, it felt lacking in personal ways. And at eighty-eight, his mother, whom he adored, wouldn’t be here forever. Perhaps it was time to make some changes. If not now, when? he’d pondered to himself. That simple question led him to where he was today: moving from upscale and big-scale everything to a tiny town of barely 1,400, a town striving to exist under the watchful eye of hungry developers who saw Pardon-Me-Ville, as it was often referred to, as nothing more than their next level-and-rebuild opportunity.

  Jacob rubbed his eyelids with the heels of his hands while rehashing a question he’d asked his mom during his last trip. When could, when should he change the sign on what was now his office-entry door? “You’ll know when it’s time, son,” she’d said. “For now, the words ‘Rick Lawson, Attorney at Law’ still serve as a sort of memorial marker for everyone who circles the square. Just trust God and your gut.” She always made things like that sound so easy. Right. Jacob pictured the worn RICK LAWSON, ATTORNEY AT LAW lettering on the dirty glass window set in the shabby street-level door. The door didn’t even open straight into the offices. Rather, it served as the gateway leading to a rickety stairwell up to his “new” second-floor, two-room professional digs. Quite the comedown from his executive-everything suite of offices he’d soon leave behind. Jacob decided that as soon as Helen, who would stay on as his secretary, could emotionally handle it, he’d replace the entire door with something more sophisticated, like solid oak with brass fixtures and an engraved plaque bearing his name. One more thing to add to his to-do list. Too bad, he thought, a tired chuckle rising in his throat, that he hadn’t put “check your sanity” on that list before making this remarkable—and surprising, even unto himself—decision to uproot his life.

  He shook his head and flopped back on the bed. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he stared at the ceiling light fixture, the one with the rheostat, the one with the hint-of-pink, frosted, decorative globe his interior designer had insisted would help calm and soothe him for a good night’s sleep. He’d dated the slim blonde for four months before determining that apart from Rita’s obvious physical appeal, a talent for making his surroundings more aesthetically appealing and her aggressive pursuit of him—which grew increasingly suffocating and which he always found unattractive—they had absolutely nothing in common. The End. Another hopeful possibility down the drain. After Randy, his best friend, had inquired about Rita, Jacob had heard himself say “Life’s too short to settle for a mediocre relationship.” Well surprise-surprise. Randy married her, finding his relationship with Rita anything but mediocre. After Rita and Randy first paired up, the three of them found their get-togethers a bit awkward; but the past was soon forgotten and the friendship between all of them survived. Thrived even. For Jacob, Rita was more likeable as a friend after she belonged to someone else—a familiar pattern for him. Jacob even went on to become Randy’s best man at their wedding. “Rita and Randy. All’s well that ends well,” he’d quipped to his mom during a phone conversation the day after.

  His mom. She was starting to show her age. She seemed a little frailer each time he visited, and now she was taking that heart medication and popping an occasional nitroglycerin tablet. But some things remained the same about her, and one of them was her faith. “Just trust God and your gut,” he again heard her saying, closing his eyes and letting out a weary laugh. “Good thing you didn’t add women to that list, Mom.”

  Jacob hadn’t grown into one of Philadelphia’s most respected and sought-after trial attorneys (and one of its most eligible bachelors) because he’d trusted anyone other than himself. A relentless researcher, spl
endid orator and fierce competitor, throughout his career he’d learned to choose cases and clients wisely, work long, hard hours and receive handsome pay for his services. God and his gut? Nah. He trusted cold hard facts and was enough of a workaholic to prove them. But because of these very things, Brenda—and nearly everyone else who knew his Type A personality well—had asked, “Won’t you be bored mindless in a small-town practice?” He wondered the same thing, although he never admitted it. Nonetheless, as long as his mother was alive, he was ready to ride it out and make adjustments as need be. Neither his conscience (she was so excited about his return she was nearly airborne, she’d told him) nor his emotions (he needed to pad his occasional lonesome heart with more of his family’s stories before it was too late) would allow him to live apart from her any longer, and he had Rick Lawson, a man he’d barely known, to thank for the opportunity. It would all work out, he kept telling himself.

  First, though, he needed to get to Partonville. One step at a time, Jacob, he thought to himself. One step at a time.

  He glanced at his bedside clock. 11 P.M. He needed to get to sleep. He sat up to set the alarm but rolled right back down, crossed his arms over his chest, then sat up and lay back a dozen times. No matter how tired he was, it never hurt to work the abs. He set his alarm for 4:30 A.M., shucked his clothes and sorted them between the dry-cleaning and laundry bags, which would be picked up the following morning outside his door and be delivered back fresh and ready to wear by the time he returned home. Clean clothes for the permanent journey. Always thinking ahead. From the abstract design on the tie draped over his neatly pressed shirt to his polished cordovan shoes on the floor, everything was in place for tomorrow’s early morning get-up-and-go.