“Hey, old man,” Old Bertha said. “Your daddy left me a note asking me to watch over you while he’s away.
She pulled Pappy’s letter from her pocket. She opened it and started reading to the mule.
“My dear Bertha,” she said, imitating Pappy’s gravel-tinged voice, “I need to get out of town. I leave you in the care of Jerry Lee, and Jerry Lee in your care. Sorry I didn’t have time to explain. Love, Pappy.”
Old Bertha put the letter back in her pocket.
“Don’t that beat all?” she asked the mule. “I mean, how are you supposed to take care of me?
Jerry Lee ducked his head and drank some water from his trough.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she continued. “Your daddy had a hell of a nerve just walking away like that and assuming I’d take care of you. I mean, what if I said no?”
Jerry Lee looked up. Old Bertha backed down.
“Of course, that would never happen,” she said. “You can count on me.”
Jerry Lee bumped her with his muzzle. She leaned her face on the side of his broad, warm head.
“And I know you’ll take care of me too. But you have to promise you won’t walk out on me, too,” she said softly. “You come on with me, now.”
Jerry Lee followed her the rest of the way down the creek past Polly’s milliner shop. Polly had an old trunk on a back stoop where she kept all her scraps of fabrics and ribbons. She told Old Bertha that she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of any of these treasures. It was this overflowing trunk that gave Polly the idea that she should add quilting to her skill set, as she could use all her scraps as embellishments. Old Bertha didn’t really understand the idea of taking a large piece of cloth, cutting it into little pieces and then sewing it back into a big piece again. But to each her own.
Old Bertha’s own grocery store was next. Her back porch was spotless. She was diligent in her campaign against ants. Leaving out old jars and cans was just an invitation for trouble.
The last building on the boardwalk was Powderkeg’s carpentry and leather shop. Powderkeg had an old barrel full of leather strips sitting against the lopsided wall. Old Bertha shook her head in disgust. There were huge pieces of different colored leathers and canvas scraps in the barrel. Powderkeg obviously wasn’t as thrifty as Polly. Jerry Lee stuck his nose in the barrel and pulled out a long, thin strip of leather. He slurped it up like a linguini strand.
“Jerry Lee,” Old Bertha said. “Stop that!”
Powderkeg stuck his head out the back door.
“I thought I heard something going on back here,” he said. “How are you holding up, Bertha?”
“Pappy left me this damn mule to take care of,” Old Bertha said. “Like taking care of my own little Patsy and all those new tourists from Los Angeles isn’t enough.”
“I’ll take care of Jerry Lee, if he’s too much for you,” Powderkeg said.
“Did I say he was too much for me?” Old Bertha snapped. “Pappy wants me to look after him, and that’s what I’ll do. I’ve already got one miniature mule. One more regular-sized one won’t make any difference.”
Powderkeg put his hands up in surrender. Maggie squeezed by him and dumped more leather strips into the barrel.
“Hi, Bertha,” Maggie said, squeezing Powderkeg’s bicep. “I won’t be coming back to the inn for dinner. Powderkeg is going to show me how to use the new machine. Tonight will be my first sewing lesson.”
“Oh, please,” Old Bertha said, giving Jerry Lee’s rump a little swat to move him along. “Is that what they’re calling it now? ‘Sewing lessons’?”
Old Bertha walked toward the front of the buildings. The paved trail, to her right, let off waves of heat. Unpaved Main Street stretched out in front of her, dust devils playing tag up and down the road. She started toward the Creakside Inn at the far end of town, but she stopped in her tracks. She could hear clanging and banging coming from the forge.
“Jerry Lee,” Old Bertha said, “you know where I live. You go over to the inn and see Patsy.”
Jerry Lee turned and headed down the street, trotting toward the inn.
“I’ll be damned,” Old Bertha said as she watched him go.
She stood outside the forge. She felt a tinge of embarrassment at her hard-heartedness about Fancy. Now that she was dealing with her own huge loss, she felt she and Titan were kindred spirits, doing their best to make it through the day.
Old Bertha debated whether she should go in or not. She had never really cultivated a friendship with Titan. She found him a bit sensitive for her tastes. She had little patience with dreamers like Titan and Dymphna. Give her no-nonsense people like Pappy and Powderkeg.
And look where that got me.
She went in.
It took a minute to get used to the darkness and the heat. As soon as she could see, Old Bertha looked around nervously, forgetting for a moment that Fancy was gone. The noise was coming from out back. She knew that Rocket might be out there, but the giant bull never made her as uneasy as Fancy.
A shadow passed over the light filtering through the back door. When she turned to look, she could only make out the backlit outline of Titan filling the doorway. She’d known Titan for three years now, but the sheer size of him always startled her.
“Bertha?” he asked. “You all right?”
She found she couldn’t trust her voice, but managed a tiny nod. She realized instantly that there was no way that Titan could see her nod in the smoky darkness of the forge. She tried again to speak, but again, no sound came out. Filling her lungs with whatever air there was to be had in the forge, she tried again. Titan crossed the forge in four long steps. He wrapped his arms around her.
“I know exactly how you’re feeling,” he said, his chin resting on top of her head. “It really helps to cry.”
Old Bertha’s shoulders shook. A little squeak escaped her. It sounded like a rusty faucet being used for the first time in years. But just like a rusty faucet, once primed, there was no stopping the water. The tears flowed.
Titan just waited. Old Bertha finally cried herself out and pulled away from him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”
“Come with me,” Titan said, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the back door. “I want to show you something.”
When they got outside, Old Bertha let out a gasp. She had heard that Titan was making a full-sized metal rendition of Cinderella’s coach, but she hadn’t seen it yet. It was made of different colored metals, but appeared to have been spun from some otherworldly gossamer material. The coach was circular, with a crown on top. Vines with leaves and flowers climbed up the sides. The spokes on the oversized wheels looked impossibly thin, as if spun by a spider. A delicate stepladder perched against the center of the coach, leading into the interior.
“It’s beautiful,” Old Bertha said.
She thought about Titan’s evolution as an artist. When they’d first come to Fat Chance and he’d been told he’d been left a forge, Titan didn’t even know what that was. Within six months, he was not only making horseshoes, but turning out his first jewelry. Her heart squeezed when she thought about her first gift from Pappy. Pappy had first disappeared for five months, and when he returned he grabbed a pair of earrings from Titan on the way to the inn. Old Bertha had pretended not to be impressed, either by Titan’s workmanship or Pappy’s gesture. But she loved them both.
Will Pappy come back again?
“It’s for Fancy,” Titan said, breaking into her thoughts.
“Pardon?” Old Bertha said, sure she must have missed something.
“I’m making this for Fancy,” he said. “I figure I can sit around worrying or I can put that energy into something . . . something as perfect as I can build. When she comes back, all the pain will have been worth it, because something beautiful came out of it.”
Old Bertha was about to ask what happened if Fancy didn’t come back, but she didn’t.
After saying
goodbye to Titan, Old Bertha continued her walk down Main Street. Wesley was helping Erinn carry camera equipment down the boardwalk. Fat Chance was already full of oddballs, but the two of them certainly upped the ante.
In the front yard of the inn, she could see Jerry Lee contentedly chomping grass alongside Patsy. Old Bertha smiled. She loved her miniature mule. When Pappy had first showed up with Patsy, he was brimming with pride. He thought a miniature mule was the greatest present ever. In her typical fashion, Old Bertha had pretended she found the mule annoying. She wondered where she’d picked up her inclination to never give Pappy an inch. She shook her head. She would take Titan’s advice; she was not going to give in to worry.
Walking up to the gate of the inn, she saw Cleo sitting on the porch, reading. Cleo looked up when the steps creaked, announcing Old Bertha’s arrival.
“You have any skills?” Old Bertha said, panting after climbing the steps.
“Pardon me?” Cleo asked.
“Any artistic skills?”
“No,” Cleo said.
“Nothing? You didn’t take pottery or stained glass at any of your fancy summer camps?”
“I know how to cook.”
“Not what I’m looking for,” Old Bertha said.
“I’m actually baking zucchini bread right now,” Cleo said, defending her position. “You had too many zucchinis. They were getting too ripe.”
“Is that what I smell?” Old Bertha sniffed the air. “Well, it’s not much, but it’s something.”
Old Bertha made her way across the porch, but stopped before going over the threshold. She turned back to Cleo.
“I remember your zucchini bread from your café days,” Old Bertha said to a surprised Cleo. “It was really good. It’s still not what I’m looking for, but you should be proud you can cook the way you do.”
“Thank you,” Cleo said. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure,” Old Bertha said. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”
Old Bertha heaved herself through the front door, panting from the exertion of her day in town. She stood looking at the hall-tree, which was ablaze with Polly’s hats. Each was a creation worthy of a Dadaist master after too much caffeine.
“Hey, Bertha,” Polly called out from the sitting room.
Old Bertha went in and sat across from her. Polly was curled up on the settee, working a needle and thread quickly through a blue and white quilt. It was Polly’s latest passion. Old Bertha envied Polly her artistry. Polly could go from hats, to jewelry, to quilts, without missing a beat.
“What are you doing down here?” Old Bertha asked, knowing Polly thought the light in the sitting room was less than optimal for crafting of any kind.
“Waiting on the zucchini bread,” Polly said. “Fernando is a great cook and all, but nobody can make bread like Cleo.”
Old Bertha peered through the window, hoping Cleo hadn’t heard. Cleo Johnson-Primb didn’t need any compliments going to her head. Old Bertha had to admit, though, Cleo could turn out a mean pumpkin or banana bread, along with her little zucchini number.
“What do you think of this?” Polly asked, holding up an unfinished blue and white quilt for Old Bertha’s inspection. “It’s called a nine patch.”
Old Bertha studied the geometric shapes in front of her. Five dark blue squares attached to four light squares, resulting in a checkerboard. Her accountant’s brain was perfectly at ease with the concept of the pattern.
“It’s very pretty,” Old Bertha said.
“Thanks,” Polly said. “Do you think it’s manly enough? I want to give it to Poet, so he can take it back to the wagon train with him.”
“As quilts go,” Old Bertha said, “I’d say it’s manly enough. I mean, it’s blue. But I’m not sure the white part is gonna hold up. I’m no wagon train expert, but I bet a quilt is gonna get mighty dirty.”
“I never thought about that,” Polly said, looking at the half-finished quilt.
“But I’m sure he’ll love it,” Old Bertha said. “Who cares if it gets a few grass stains? It’s the love behind it that matters.”
“Do you really mean that?” Polly asked suspiciously. “’Cause, well, that doesn’t really sound like you.”
Old Bertha thought back to her visit with Titan. She visualized the beautiful carriage being spun from love. Who cares if it wasn’t practical?
“I’ve had a change of heart,” she said. “You think you could teach me how to make one of those?”
Chapter 16
Dymphna walked down the hill, carrying several knitted shawls and gloves she’d made during her brief absence from Fat Chance. Everything was knitted from the Angora goat hair she’d been harvesting from her farm animals, but she was already dreaming about the creations she’d be turning out with rabbit mohair in a few short months. The rabbits seemed content in their new habitat and their presence on the farm created nary a blip on the other animals’ radar—if goats and chickens had radar.
Dymphna passed by the Creakside Inn on the way to Polly’s shop. From the trail leading from her farm, she could see Cleo on the porch, but by the time she’d gotten to Main Street, Cleo had gone inside. The porch door of the inn creaked open and Dymphna looked again, always happy to exchange a greeting with any member of the community.
Make that almost always.
Her sister, Maggie, was walking—make that bouncing—down the front steps. The two sisters froze in their tracks. Maggie was the first to thaw enough to start moving. She walked past Dymphna.
“I’m working at Powderkeg’s,” she said without turning toward her sister. “Don’t know if your boyfriend told you that or not.”
He had not, but if there was any time to put a spin on a situation, it was now.
“We were too busy getting reacquainted to talk about you,” Dymphna said.
“Gross, Dymphna,” Maggie said. “TMI!”
“You asked, Mary Magdalene,” Dymphna said, proud she had gotten under her sister’s skin.
“Maggie!”
“Sorry, Mary Magdalene,” Dymphna said. “I mean Maggie.”
Erinn was just leaving the Boozehound, but stayed in the doorway, a witness to the sisters bickering.
It’s a shame I’m not still working in reality TV. I have a feeling those two have a great story, she thought.
Erinn watched Dymphna turn into Polly’s shop and Maggie stalk past her on the boardwalk, heading to the other end of town.
“Let me help you with that tripod,” Wesley said from behind her as Erinn finally stumbled out of the Boozehound.
“Where is Jeffries? I thought he was going to be my production assistant,” Erinn asked as she looked up and down Main Street. “I can’t afford you.”
“You probably can’t afford Jeffries,” Wesley said, reaching for the tripod. Erinn snatched it away. “I gave him a shopping list and sent him to Spoonerville for a few incidentals. I told him I’d cover for him.”
“All right, fine,” Erinn said, relinquishing the tripod. “If you’re going to help, you might as well learn the lingo. These are called ‘sticks,’ not a tripod.”
“Got it,” he said. “What else?”
“My guess is you are unaccustomed to taking orders,” Erinn said. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all,” Wesley said. “And you have me all wrong. I’m just an attorney. I’m always at the mercy of my clients. I make suggestions, but nobody has to do what I say. I’m always the one taking orders.”
“And do any of your clients believe that?”
“Where are we going with these sticks?” Wesley asked, shouldering the tripod and ignoring her question.
Erinn turned on her heels and led the way past the café. Fernando suddenly yanked the front door open.
“Erinn,” Fernando said. “We have to talk!”
“Does it have to be now? I really have to get a few of these interviews done.”
“Yes! Now!” Fernando said. “It can’t wait.”
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” Erinn said to Wesley.
“He can come, too,” Fernando said, beckoning them both inside. “In case I need to sue somebody.”
The three of them sat at the long center table. Fernando set out three tiny glasses and a mason jar full of a mahogany-colored liquid. He poured each of them a thimbleful.
“This is my cherry brandy,” Fernando said. “I’m making fruit brandies until the grapes come in and we can start making real wine. Have a sip.”
“It’s a little early for brandy,” Wesley said as he stared at the liqueur.
“This isn’t ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere,’” Fernando said. “This is business. Drink.”
Erinn and Wesley picked up their glasses and drank.
Wesley’s eyes widened. “This is good,” he said in amazement. “I can’t believe it.”
“Why can’t you believe it?” Fernando asked. “Has Professor Johnson already turned you against me?”
“Why would Professor Johnson try to turn me against you?” Wesley asked.
“Because he wants to convince everybody that I don’t know what I’m doing,” Fernando said. “He wants us to concentrate on making a serviceable wine that we can get out to market as soon as we have enough product to bottle.”
“What has that got to do with cherry brandy?” Wesley asked.
“I want to make small-batch, award-winning wine that will bring people to Fat Chance, just like they come to Napa Valley now,” Fernando said, wagging the brandy bottle. “If I can do this with cherries, just imagine what I can do with grapes.”
“But aren’t you at least two years away from making wine?” Wesley asked.
Erinn tried to figure out how she might turn on her camera, but couldn’t think of anything.
“Yes,” Fernando said.
“But I thought you said we had to discuss this now,” Erinn added.
Fernando stared at Erinn as if he had unmasked a traitor.
“We do have to discuss it now,” Fernando said. “This all has to be decided before the first grape harvest. You grew up in Napa Valley just like I did, Erinn. I would think you would understand. We don’t want a commodity. We want perfection.”
Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas Page 11
