Connecting with the congregation of a local church to prepare home-cooked food for her business as a fundraiser had been her mother’s idea. Miranda was skeptical but the price was right—less than she would spend on ingredients.
She picked up the blond fluffy terrier mix puppy and had to rear back her head to dodge his puppy-breath kisses. “Sandikins! You need to get back to your safe place right now.” She tucked his wriggling little body under her arm.
Looking around the property with the critical eyes of a stranger, Miranda’s heart sank as she took in the general shabbiness of the old farmhouse. She frowned at the overall seediness of the scraggly lawn, the missing boards in the outbuildings, and the badly needed load of gravel for the driveway. The soft yellow house paint was serviceable but all the trim colors desperately needed a freshening up.
The outbuildings had never been painted, but some of them needed to be knocked down. She still needed to use the back shed for storing wood and coal until she could afford to install central heat and air next spring.
The sturdy shed near the barn was in the middle of construction to turn it into a safe chicken coop with room for a dozen traditional laying hens. When she had a little more cash, she would order her first chicks. She would also need to get expert local advice. Her uncle had kept about a dozen free-range hens. She wished she had paid more attention to the practical side of running the farm. The only thing she knew about chickens was that she wanted them.
The same neighbor who had helped her uncle with chores had driven up to the farmhouse and offered his services as a handyman. Jerry Rose was an absolute wonder and had been a lifesaver in updating the kitchen. He reminded her of the character George Utley, the handyman from her mother’s favorite sitcom, Newhart. Miranda could walk into her mother’s house on any afternoon and she would be watching an episode.
Then there were the stacked cinder blocks that had served as porch steps for the last twenty years. Miranda was embarrassed. This kind of thing was common here in the back country and a reluctance to replace rigged-up items that worked perfectly was engrained in her sense of economy, too. The phrase “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” came to mind.
However, she could be in real trouble for bringing tourists to a business that had no accommodation for clients with mobility issues. A simple wooden handrail worked fine for family and friends, but not for a business. That added to the pile of reasons to worry about the growing list of improvements vital to installing a distillery in the barn.
Last month, when she had been notified by her Uncle Gene’s executor about the farmhouse bequest, she had been dumbfounded. For the first time, her dream of running a distillery appeared possible. Her desire to create a fine moonshine was only exceeded by her deep love of painting.
Equipment financing would be tricky since she was nearly flat broke. Her first financial hurdle to secure her ownership of the farm was to pay the taxes. Her Paint & Shine business idea certainly seemed like the quickest way to bring in revenue and spread the word about her plans.
She watched the newlyweds clasp hands and head off behind the house towards the weathered barn. Miranda raised her voice. “Be careful in there. That’s the site of my new distillery and there’s a few survey holes that were dug to check the foundations.” They waved an okay and continued up the dirt double track.
Joe stood in the front yard and stared across the deep valley that ran parallel to the road in front of the property. He was looking down at a two-story Queen Anne nestled in a small overgrown clearing. The abandoned house was large with a wide covered porch on three sides. The white paint had flaked off decades ago and the house stood bare naked in weathered gray pine boards.
Joe turned to Miranda. “How long has that house been empty?”
“The Adams’s mansion?” Miranda turned her head to look across the valley. “My goodness. It’s been like that as long as I can remember. I think my uncle said that it was built in the late 1800s. The Adams matriarch lived there until she died in about 1970. She was the last one of that particular family line.”
“It was probably a unique sight in its day with all that gingerbread trim. Do you know who owns it now?”
“I think it belongs to the Kash family now. They’re my closest neighbors. We passed their house on our way here. They use the old thing for storing lumber for building projects. They’re all distantly related to Shefton’s family. Is it part of your research?”
“No, it’s nothing. I was just curious.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Research is my passion but also an obsession. I’m not always able to resist asking questions.”
“Mrs. Childers might know something about the mansion. She’s our head cook today. Her family has been here since this county was first settled. She knows everything. In fact, that reminds me, I’d better put Sandy back in his crate, and see if Mrs. Childers needs anything.” Miranda opened the screen door and went into the house.
Sandy seized that moment of distraction to plant a quick lick right on Miranda’s open mouth. Miranda sputtered and held Sandy out of licking range.
The front room was small but cozy, with a freestanding cast-iron stove on the right side as you entered from the porch. A long couch was on the other wall facing the fire and two comfy rocking chairs sat on both sides of a little table just inside the front door. An assortment of straight-backed chairs squeezed in wherever there was a bit of room.
A colorful rag rug took up the entire center of the room. Vintage family photographs and several of Miranda’s original oil paintings of the Red River Gorge hung on the walls. Not the Ritz, she thought, but not a pigsty either.
“Such a cozy room,” said Linda. She pointed to the floor. “That rug is handmade, isn’t it?”
Miranda felt the warmth of pride spread in her chest. It had taken weeks of begging to convince her mother to let her have the rug. “Yes, my grandma made it donkey’s years ago. It’s created out of strips of wool cloth she ripped up from the family’s worn-out winter clothes. Back then recycling wasn’t a fad; it was a way to conserve fabric and make use of every scrap.”
“It’s fabulous. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to find in the country stores out here. It’s perfect for our new apartment. What are you asking for it?”
Miranda covered her shock at such a rude question by adjusting the blooms in a fresh-cut wildflower arrangement. She had picked them at first light and arranged them in a white ceramic vase. They looked perfect on the small wooden table framed by the large front window.
She recovered. “I’m so sorry. The furnishings here are family heirlooms—very sentimental. Nothing is for sale in here except for this small selection of my paintings.” Miranda waved a hand at the landscapes depicting scenes in the nearby forests. “I still have most of them boxed up from my move from New York. They’re stacked up in the barn. If you’re interested, the prices are written on stickers attached to the frames.”
“Are the frames included in the price?”
Miranda sighed. She should have anticipated that one based on her experience in submitting work to art galleries. “No, but if you add fifty dollars, that will cover it.”
She opened a heavy wooden door to the right of the front door, which led to her bedroom. More to the point, it held Sandy’s crate. She tucked the little wiggle worm into his blanket and started the Snuggle Puppy windup toy that she had bought. Apparently, the soft ticking reminded Sandy of his mom’s heartbeat so that he would feel calm and settle. At least that’s what the fancy pet shop owner in Lexington had told her. Sandy wriggled his way deep into the blanket and quieted down with his chin on the toy. That should keep him quiet until everyone’s gone—maybe.
She went back out through the front room and into the dining room. It was dominated by a large round mahogany dining table with a matching buffet. She was proud of her mother’s hand-embroidered tablecloth stitched in seasonal colors combining laurel leaves and Scottish thistle. The low centerpiece picked up the co
lors with bright autumn leaves and more wildflowers.
Well-worn ladderback chairs were positioned in front of eight place settings. A napkin that contained the silverware was placed on white china plates with a laurel leaf pattern on the border. The water goblets were from her grandmother’s large collection of cranberry Depression glass. The room looked just like she remembered from the holiday celebrations she attended here as a child.
Linda had followed her. “Wow, I love the look of the table.”
“I love it, too. I have learned to appreciate the time and skill required to produce a large inventory of embroidered linens. That buffet is stuffed full.” She didn’t add that some of them were still musty and needed hours of work to be washed, starched, and ironed. “I must say, it adds the perfect country cottage touch to our meal.”
Miranda went on into the kitchen, the last room at the end of the shotgun-style farmhouse. She had been surprised to discover that her uncle had begun to upgrade his kitchen. It was completely out of character for this man who loved to keep things exactly as they had always been. She suspected that he had been preparing for her eventual ownership, but he ran out of time.
He had purchased a stainless-steel refrigerator and installed a matching dishwasher, but the original primitive cupboards were still hanging along the back wall. The original porcelain farmhouse sink had been upgraded with a fancy new faucet and a garbage disposal. The sink looked out onto the barn by a large double-hung window along the back outside wall.
Her only major purchase had been the six-burner professional gas stove. It replaced a four-burner apartment-sized version that had replaced the original cast-iron wood-burning cook stove. If getting wood every day hadn’t become too much effort, Miranda was positive that the wood stove would still be standing.
“Goodness, Mrs. Childers. The table setting looks wonderful and the smell of your cooking is driving me mad. Is everything about ready?”
“Hi, sweetie.” Mrs. Childers tucked a stray wisp of wiry gray hair back into a small bun at the nape of her neck. She automatically wiped her hands on a gold floral apron trimmed in red rickrack. Her plump shape disguised strong muscles built as a result of handling huge pots when she served as head cook in the now-closed Wolfe County High School cafeteria. She folded Miranda into a smothering hug and heaved a deep sigh. “I think everything is as good as it’s going to get.”
Miranda surfaced from the second smothering hug in as many hours. I know this is normal here, but will I ever get used to this? Maybe not.
Mrs. Childers kept up her running patter. “This is some chance you’re taking inviting all these strangers into your uncle’s home like this. I’ve told you before that I don’t hold with all this hard liquor business. These young folks might get rowdy. There’s no tellin’ what kind of bad trouble can come from this.”
Miranda escaped from Mrs. Childers’s clasp. “Yes, ma’am. We’ve had this discussion many times, now. A little bit of chaos and excitement is perfectly normal for a tourist adventure. That’s what they expect.”
Miranda tried to identify the contents bubbling in the aluminum pots and steaming away in the cast-iron skillets. The food on the stove didn’t look right.
“You’ve prepared the whole menu just like we discussed. Right?”
“Well, sweetie—not exactly. We’re starting with a light salad of locally picked greens topped with fresh fried green tomatoes. Then I’ve got a hearty venison stew where I added potatoes, carrots, and onions straight from my kitchen garden.”
“But—” said Miranda.
“Now just you wait,” continued Mrs. Childers. “For sides, I’ve got steamed green beans with bacon. I grilled corn on the cob on this fancy new stove. Plus, even though I had already decided to serve up spicy corn bread, I’m famous for my biscuits, so I had to make both. They turned out perfect in the new oven.”
“But—” Miranda tried again.
“I really have to say that I am delighted that you took care of dessert. I’ve got your Dutch apple cobbler warming in the oven to be served with some of my hand-churned vanilla ice cream that I had put by in my freezer.”
Miranda rubbed at the rising pain originating at a point between her shoulder blades and ending at the base of her skull. “That’s not what we discussed. You said you were going to have chicken with dumplings. Chicken doesn’t compare well to venison. They have two completely different taste profiles.”
Mrs. Childers looked at Miranda as if she were speaking in foreign tongues. Miranda rubbed the back of her neck harder. “Dan is going to be furious. I hope he packed up a wide selection of moonshine. It’s too late to tell him. In fact, he should be here by now.”
“Who is this Dan?”
“Dan Keystone. I’ve told you about him, again, more than once. He’s the owner of Keystone Distillery just outside Lexington. It’s part of the event. It’s the moonshine pairing that he’s creating for each course that these folks are paying good money to enjoy.”
Mrs. Childers flapped her hands like she was shooing flies. “I don’t want to know anything at all about that.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes. Mrs. Childers was being especially prickly, but why? “Oh, I almost forgot, I invited Austin to our dinner, so he’ll bring the total number of diners up to nine.” She could come up with last-minute changes as well.
“There’s always room at the table for a neighbor.” Mrs. Childers planted one hand on her hip and shook a finger at Miranda. “I’m not at all happy with this moonshine nonsense. Lord a mercy, it will bring you nothing but grief.”
Miranda felt her shoulders droop. “But you knew that was part of the package. I explained it very carefully when we agreed that you and Mrs. Hobb would cook. How else would you be able to donate so much money to your church’s roof fund drive?”
“I know that.” Mrs. Childers spoke like she was talking to a little child. “But you know I don’t approve of drink. I naturally thought that you would respect your elders’ wishes and cancel that part of the tour.”
“Unfortunately for you, the tourists today seem extremely interested in authentic Kentucky moonshine. I’ve had quite a few phone calls to ask if a distillery tour was included in our package.”
“That’s as it may be, but I’m going to do everything in my power to convince the town council to deny your permit to start a distillery in the barn. I have powerful friends who will listen to me.” She stooped to open the oven door and transfer the sheet pan of fresh biscuits to the worktable. The aroma made the whole kitchen smell like a buttery heaven.
Mrs. Childers inhaled a deep sniff. “Oh, I do love this wonderful kitchen.”
This is my kitchen. Not the cook’s kitchen. My kitchen.
Miranda swallowed, then relaxed her stiff shoulders. She unclenched her jaw. “I know you don’t like it, but this is the way it’s going to be. It’s my business!” Miranda realized she had yelled. She lowered her voice immediately and quickly patted Mrs. Childers on the shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m under a great deal of pressure right now and it has shortened my temper. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
Mrs. Childers shut the oven door with a bang and threw Miranda a fierce look. “You mark my words. You will regret this.”
She’s the best cook in the county, but she’s going to drive me mad. I need her support in order to be successful in this part of the county. I need that permit as well and Mrs. Childers is the quickest way to round up support in getting the permit approved.
Miranda looked around the room, through the kitchen door, and out the back porch. “Where’s Mrs. Hobb?”
“She’ll be right back. I sent her up the road to borrow some home-churned butter from Elsie. Store-bought butter just isn’t good enough for my prized biscuits.”
“But I—never mind.” Miranda’s swirling thoughts were interrupted by a sharp yipping from her bedroom. She scurried to the front to discover Sandy fiercely barking towards the window that faced
out onto the side yard. Miranda opened the crate, restarted Sandy’s heartbeat toy, and the dog circled and settled down to nap. She backed out of the room and quietly shut the door. She returned to the kitchen.
“Have you seen Dan?” Mrs. Childers shook her head no. “He should be here by now. I want to get everyone seated so he can introduce the first pairing.”
Mrs. Childers looked at her but said nothing.
Miranda noted the cold shoulder treatment. “Fine. If you would, please wait five more minutes before you fry up the green tomatoes, and put the appetizer plates at each setting. I need to tell Dan about the menu changes before he gets into the house.”
She left through the back door and walked around to the side yard. Miranda stood by the well near the back of the house to see if she could see him coming down the dirt road. She put her hands on her hips and began figuring out how she would play this if he didn’t show up.
She could refund some of the money. Ugh, bad idea. She couldn’t really afford to do that on her very first tour. She could bring up some real moonshine from her secret stash down in the root cellar under the kitchen. Her pairing might not work as well as Dan’s, but she would at least deliver the promised experience.
She decided that she needed to check her stash just in case it was needed. She went back into the kitchen and opened up the cellar door. It was a small handmade opening tucked underneath the stair well that went up to the attic. Her grandfather had used every trick up his sleeve to conserve building materials. She carefully lowered herself down the rough stepladder to a hard-packed dirt cellar and brought up one of the mason jars of moonshine that her uncle had left.
She popped back up into the kitchen and quickly shoved it into the refrigerator.
Mrs. Childers gave her a scathing look but still wasn’t speaking to her. She was placing the fried green tomatoes on top of the salad plates that were arranged on a large tray. She said, “These are ready to serve as the first course.”
Still Knife Painting Page 4
