The Good Luck Girls of Shipwreck Lane

by Kelly Harms

  That’s for sure, I think. “In the end, I was selfish. She was always there for me, always took my calls and came over whenever I needed the slightest bit of company. It took a long time for me to realize that I was the only person she talked to anymore, and by then it almost seemed normal.” Aunt Midge pauses for a long time. “But now, I think, she’ll talk to you.”

  I find this statement so shocking I very nearly pull over, but it would be pointless because the turn for the driveway is on my left in seconds. “Are you kidding? She’s not going to talk to me about anything besides baking bread and how to tell when a chicken is cooked.” I pull into the drive and shut off the car.

  “Then you’ll talk about bread and chicken,” Aunt Midge says, her voice suddenly stern. She unbuckles the seat belt but makes no move to get out. Instead she turns to me and gives me a terrifying stare, sets her jaw like a tiger about to strike. “Listen up, young lady.”

  The look scares me enough, but it’s the cold low tone she’s using that makes me freeze, hands still on the wheel, stomach clenched. This is not the normal jokey Aunt Midge voice. This is something serious. I’m in trouble.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “I know how to use Google as well as anyone else, and I know there were no homicides in Cedar Falls, Iowa, in the last two months.”

  I suck in.

  “Oh calm yourself,” she says. “I’m glad you didn’t kill anybody, and I’m sure as hell not going to kick you out. At least not yet. But there’s a condition: You better be a good friend to my grandniece, you hear me? For years she’s needed someone like you to open up to, and now that you’re here, you better not blow it. Capiche?”

  Gulp. The eighty-eight-year-old woman in the seat next to me is scarier than the scariest mob movie she could have learned that word from. “Capiche,” I say, wondering how on earth she got the crazy idea that I would be good for anybody, but too freaked out to tell her otherwise.

  “I’m glad we cleared that up,” she says, and opens her car door and gets out. “You’ll deliver the flowers, won’t you?” she asks, suddenly all sweetness and light, but before I answer, she’s slammed the door in my face, leaving me sitting in the car, shocked, awed, and utterly stupefied.

  JANEY

  “Mussels are sometimes called the ‘oysters of the poor,’ which only goes to show that there are various definitions of poverty.”

  —IRMA S. ROMBAUER, Joy of Cooking

  One day while I am working on dinner, Nean comes in from her daily shelter trip looking like she’s seen a ghost. Well, that’s not it exactly. She looks like her dog got run over, and then came to her as a ghost, and then bit her on the leg. She’s holding a huge bouquet of flowers wrapped up in newspaper, which is what I would be mainly interested in, except that Aunt Midge is nowhere to be found.

  “Where’s Aunt Midge?” I ask her.

  She stammers something unintelligible.

  “Huh?”

  “Um…” she tries again. “I think she went for a walk or something.”

  This is odd. Every day for the last week at least, the two of them have come into the kitchen after their drive to graze and gossip. I’ve even gotten in the habit of putting snacks out like a mom waiting for the kindergarten bus. “Are you all right?” I ask. She’s not making a move toward the warm maple and chipotle popcorn sitting in a big bowl in the middle of the kitchen table.

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine,” she says, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I think I’m just going to hang out with you this afternoon, if that’s okay.”

  I find this weird for two reasons—one, she wants to hang out with me, and two, she’s asking. But I’m not about to discourage her behavior, because what I’m working on is boring. “Sure. I’m doing mussels à la Belge, and later I’ll be frying up some potatoes for frites. Wanna help debeard?”

  She looks at a mesh bag of mussels I’ve held up as illustration and shudders a little. Yeah, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. “Maybe I could bake something … for dessert?” she asks. She heads toward the cookbooks, pulling down Baking from My Home to Yours and flopping down at the island bar.

  I’m surprised by her offer. “That would be great. Make something nice, because J.J. is coming over for dinner tonight.”

  Nean looks up at me. “Seriously? Tonight?” She does not look happy about this.

  “Yes, seriously.” Her reaction isn’t exactly what I was expecting. I wonder what’s up with her—but I’m not going to pry. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be as nosy as she is, no matter how curious her behavior. “He told me he’s never eaten a mussel before. All these years living in Maine, can you believe it? So I’m cooking this especially for him.”

  “Whoa,” she says. Then, “I’ve never had a mussel either. They look kind of disgusting.”

  “You’ll love them,” I say. She shrugs doubtfully.

  I ignore her, knowing full well she’ll eat anything that holds still long enough. “I’m making a double batch, so we have plenty for all four of us tonight, plus enough leftover to make a dinner for the shelter tomorrow. Mussels in their shells don’t keep so well, but I’m thinking we can toss out the shells of the extras—actually, I bet they’ll compost well—and dump them in a pot with a bunch of cream and potatoes and bacon, and get a nice chowder-y stew thing going on.”

  She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about and shrugs again. “You’re spending too much time with J.J., with all that shrugging,” I say. She blushes ever so slightly, and then shrugs again with comic flair.

  I laugh. “Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you make something for dessert that we can fry now. Then when it’s time for the frites, the oil will be old and yummy.”

  “What are frites? And why do we need old oil?”

  “Frites are … well, when you eat French fries with mussels, they’re called frites. And trust me on the oil. Potatoes love old oil. But not too old.”

  “If you want French fries, wouldn’t it be easier to just go to McDonald’s?”

  I sneer at her. “Oh, wow. I’d never thought of going to McDonald’s. What a genius idea! You’re going to save me so much work.”

  This gets a little smile out of her and I’m glad to see some sign of perk. “You can thank me later,” she says. “In the meantime…” She pushes the bouquet, which I have been careful to pretend to ignore all this time, across the island to me and says, “Guess who these are from.”

  “You bought me flowers? You shouldn’t have.” I look down at the bouquet and see a beautiful riot of foxgloves, honeysuckle, and three big delphiniums right in the middle. My heart gives a big squeeze. “These are beautiful. I can’t believe he sent them.” Even as I say that, I know I’m giving Nean an opening to ask me about Noah again, but to my surprise, she doesn’t take it. Now I’m starting to wonder if Aunt Midge drugged her or something.

  “They are nice,” she says, admiringly. “Do you want me to put them in a vase?”

  Something really isn’t right here. Nean is being polite, and helpful. I am wary. “Um … are you feeling all right?” I ask her.

  She squints her eyes at me, looking shifty. “I’m fine! Just trying to help out,” she says anxiously.

  “Well, okay. That would be good. There’s a vase that came with the house that would be perfect—it’s out on the sun porch in the back.”

  She goes to fetch it and I dump the third pound of mussels into the big colander in the sink and think. What’s going on with her? She is not being herself, and as pleasant as this new personality is, I prefer the old one. Too-nice Nean is making me nervous. I know it can’t last.

  She returns with the vase just as I am deciding that’s it something to do with J.J., and I should just ignore it. She probably just wants to stay busy and think about something besides a man for a little while. I can relate.

  “Check it,” she says, and when I turn around she’s holding the vase full of flowers, which she’s arranged beautifully. “Let’s eat on the sun po
rch tonight and use this as the centerpiece.”

  “Sure thing, Martha,” I tell her, her new interest in domesticity confirming my J.J. theory. “How’d you learn to do that?”

  “Geisha school,” she tells me, with a little smile.

  “I see. Well, Lotus Blossom, when you’re done over there, shuffle over here and learn how to tell if a mussel is alive,” I tell her.

  She folds her hands into prayer position and scoots on over. “These things are actually alive?”

  “Yep. If you give them a good tap or poke them gently, they should close up on you. See?” I pester a poor mussel with the dull side of a butter knife, and he slowly tightens up his shell.

  “Cool. Gimmie,” she says, and takes the knife from me and proceeds to harass several mussels. Interesting how poking things with a knife seems to bring her back to life.

  “Okay, okay, I think you’ve got the drift. Stop before someone calls PETA. Unless you want to help me get all this gunk off their shells?”

  “I’m good,” she says, dropping the knife and the mussel into the sink with distaste. “Thanks though.” I turn the cold tap back on and get back to rubbing the little guys together to knock them clean.

  “What kinds of desserts do you fry?” she asks as she watches me work.

  “All kinds,” I say over the running water. “You can fry just about anything, if you believe the Food Network. Apple fritters, doughnuts, anything in puff pastry. Candy bars and cheesecake, even.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay, here’s a thought,” I say, still rubbing the mussels. “What if you made little cherry pocket pies and then fried them? How good does that sound?”

  “Oh my God. Yes.”

  “Right?” I say. “And we’ve got tons of cherries in the fridge.” I shut off the water and wipe my hands down on the towel I’ve tucked into my jeans. “Okay, first step is pastry dough. Hang on. The best recipe is in that Joy of Cooking over there.” I point to the big white spine, unmissable on any cookbook shelf. “Grab that down and look for ‘Pâté Brisée.’”

  I hear her go over to the shelf and grab the book. “Where did you get all these cookbooks?” she asks. “You have, like, a thousand.”

  “They were gifts,” I tell her, feeling no need to elaborate.

  “From who?” she asks, incredulous. “You don’t actually have any friends, as far as I can tell.”

  Ah. There’s the Nean I’ve come to know and be annoyed by. “More friends than you have. Before you do anything else, cube up the butter and get it into the freezer so it’s nice and hard.”

  She grumbles but takes a pound of butter out of the fridge. “Noah told me you make the best food he’s ever tasted.”

  “He should try it warm,” I say, a little proud of myself.

  “He should! He’d die and go to heaven.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I say, preening my feathers.

  “You know, he always looks kind of sad when I show up at the shelter to get Aunt Midge. I think he’s hoping it’ll be you one of these days.”

  I keep scrubbing, but I feel my insides flip over. “Tread carefully,” I warn her. “I’ve got five pounds of living breathing shellfish over here.”

  “All I’m saying is, it might be nice to give the guy a chance. He seems really nice, and you like his produce.”

  “I’m not really looking for love right now,” I say.

  “I hear that.” Quick study that she is, she’s already chopped the butter into little squares and is moving them to the freezer and starting in on the rest of the dough. “But Noah might make a good friend. And he’s probably lonely, hanging around the garden all day. A visit would be a nice way to say thank you. Remember when he sent all those peas?”

  I do remember. They tasted so green and sugary-smooth. My mouth waters, thinking of them. And then there was the day when he sent the very last of the asparagus, and I wrapped it up with prosciutto and placed a fried egg on top, then dusted it all with Parmesan.

  “Remember the asparagus?” Nean asks, reading my mind. “My pee smelled funny for two days.”

  “Yes, you were pretty excited about that. Sorry we wouldn’t come smell it.”

  “That’s okay,” she says, reflective. “After a while I realized you probably had your own funny-smelling pee.” She turns back to the cookbook, tracing her finger thoughtfully down the recipe, moving her lips as she goes.

  I turn back to the sink and watch the mussels coming clean, thinking of how good they’re going to taste once they’ve been steamed with olive oil and white wine and the bright white and green scallions Noah gave Nean yesterday. I think of serving big bowls of them to my growing makeshift family, with newspaper-lined juice glasses full of frites on the side and a big bowl of discarded shells in the middle, getting fuller along with our bellies.

  No matter what happens with Noah, I know these people will still come back and eat dinner at my table again. Especially after they taste the frites.

  “All right,” I say, resolute. “I’ll take Aunt Midge in. Tomorrow.”

  “You will?” Nean sounds absolutely incredulous.

  “Yes. To thank him in person. Just this once.”

  “That’s awesome,” she says. “He’ll be stoked.” She returns to the fridge and takes out another pound of butter. “I better make a double recipe of pie.”

  * * *

  Dinner is a grand success. By the time we sit down at the kitchen table, Nean is fully back to her usual snarky self, and J.J. eats it up, along with four pocket pies. We drain two bottles of wine and everyone comes into the kitchen to help me make the stew for tomorrow, tipsy but willing. Despite Nean’s insistence that she and J.J. dice the onions together, no one loses a finger. The next morning I taste the creamy sweet-salty dish before packing it up and find it surprisingly delicious, considering it was made by four drunks.

  Then, when the food is all packed up and the pastry box full of leftover pocket pies has been tied up with string especially for Noah, I get nervous. What if Nean was lying when she said he wanted to see me? It would not be the first time she’s pulled a fast one on me. Maybe I’ll get up there and he’ll take one look at me and turn around. Or maybe I’ll go to say thank you and lose my lunch again, right there in the shelter parking lot. This was a terrible idea.

  But there’s no getting out now. Aunt Midge comes down the stairs in her slow methodical way, and I know she’s not getting in that car with anyone other than me. When she gets to the kitchen she takes a long hard look at me, taking in the plain blue sundress I’m wearing and the white cotton sweater that’s tied around my waist, which I’m bringing as hive-coverage if necessary, and says, “Lose the sweater when we get into town, okay? Otherwise, you’re a knockout. You look just like I did when I was your age. Except less slutty.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Are you ready to go?”

  “You bet I am. Are you?” she asks meaningfully.

  I don’t answer, because whatever I say, the outcome will be the same.

  In the car we talk about easy things, the people she’s met at the shelter and how the food preparation rules require her to wear a hairnet and it’s not good for her permanent, which is what she calls the tight curls she sets every other night with Aqua Net and plastic rollers. I concentrate on breathing deeply and keeping an eye on my skin, which is as of yet hive-free. I run conversations through my head, imagining what I might say to Noah. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

  “Hello there, Noah. I came here today to say thank you for giving me all of the produce and flowers. Okay, bye.”

  He’s going to be dazzled by my witty repartee. But when we pull into the parking lot, it’s empty. No sign of Noah’s Honda.

  “We’re early,” says Aunt Midge. “Help me get all of this into the building.”

  I sherpa in the heavy casserole dish and today’s fresh bread, but there’s no sign of Noah anywhere. Aunt Midge doesn’t seem to notice his absence and scoots me away. “Nean usually
just toodles around doing errands or eating lunch,” she tells me, herding me out of the building. “Come back at one, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, wandering away feeling both relieved and dejected at the same time. What a bunch of hullabaloo over nothing. I go back to the car, roll all the windows down, and get out a book I’ve read and reread so many times I had to duck tape the binding: Laurie Colwin’s Home Cooking. I always read her essays in order, and I am on the chapter about creamed spinach, lost in her little New York City kitchen in a matter of words. I’m on to red peppers when I see a shadow fall over my book. My heart starts pounding before I even look up, because I know who it is.

  “Janey!” Noah says, and there’s an excitement in his voice that knocks me totally off kilter. “How nice to see you.”

  I look up and see that he’s leaning on my passenger side window like he’s taking my order at the A&W. “Hi, Noah,” I say, moving my eyes back and forth, from the sight of his floppy brown hair falling over his eyes to my arms to make sure I don’t need my sweater. They are goose bumpy, but rash-less. I smile. “Hi Noah,” I say again.

  His smile cracks me wide open. “You look pretty today. Want to take me to lunch?” he asks. My head starts spinning and I feel dizzy.

  “I came here today,” I blurt out, “to say thank you for the vegetables and the beautiful flowers.”

  He opens the car door. “And what better way to say thank you than having lunch with me.” While I reel, he slides into the car and buckles his seat belt. “I know just the place.”

  He slams the door closed, but I don’t make a move, just stare at him sitting there. He’s so … delicious-looking. He makes me think of ravioli stuffed with artichoke hearts and ricotta cheese, and fresh summer peaches, and wine—big, lip-smacking red wine that tastes of cherries and chocolate. And I feel like I’ve had about three glasses of that wine.

  He looks back at me a little puzzled, and I know I should turn on the ignition and pull out of the lot and have lunch with this man, but I seem to have forgotten how to go about that exactly. My mouth feels dry.