Queen of the Cookbooks

by Ashton Lee

  Nonetheless, he looked somewhat embarrassed and averted her gaze. “Well, when you put it that way, I’m all in. So, which side of the house do you want me to take this time?”

  * * *

  Periwinkle and Mr. Parker Place were busy doing a quick inventory in her office down at The Twinkle. At the moment they had come to the conclusion that they could spare a dozen of the cushioned chairs that were used regularly for customer dining. She had rightly pointed out that the evening before the Fourth of July, now nearly upon them, was never one of their busiest times. People were too busy at home preparing their own holiday picnic food such as potato salad, peach ice cream, and apple pie to even consider eating out.

  “We’ll just get Barry to take the chairs on out to the library in the delivery van,” Periwinkle continued.

  “He’s out on a delivery right now, but as soon as he gets back, I think I’ll ride with him to help. I mean, there’s a difference between delivering tomato aspic and a load of furniture,” Mr. Place said. “Barry’s a hard worker, but he’s a bit on the short side. Might as well do this up right, Peri.”

  “I agree. You know, at first, my girl Maura Beth sounded nearly panicked when she called. Knowing her like I do, I can tell you it bothers her that she’ll have such a patchwork quilt of furniture out there tomorrow for the opening. I told her she just needed to relax and trust her Cherry Cola Book Club people to get the job done. I think she put her head on straight after that.” Then came a soft intake of air. “You know what, Parker? I just thought of something that’ll fancy up her library opening a little more. Remember those two silver star mobiles we replaced and took down last month? They’re still in the storage closet.”

  He looked slightly baffled and pointed at the mobile directly above them. “Yeah, I ought to know where they are, Peri. I put ’em there not all that long ago. But if you don’t mind, please satisfy my curiosity—how are they gonna improve the library’s seating arrangements?”

  She elbowed him playfully. “No, silly. You’ve got it all wrong. People won’t sit on ’em. They’ll see ’em first thing when they walk into the lobby—all glittery just hanging from the ceiling right over the circulation desk. Why, Maura Beth may like ’em well enough to let ’em stay there permanently. That way, The Twinkle will always be a part of the library’s ambience.”

  “And you want me to hang ’em for you?”

  “I think you and Barry could get the job done just fine. He can steady the ladder for you.”

  His laughter was forceful, ending in a couple of coughs and finally a clearing of his throat that sounded like gears being stripped. “Did you take out an insurance policy on me that I don’t know about? If you did, I predict the last thing I’ll see will be stars before I fall to my death on the library floor.”

  “Trust me, Parker. You won’t fall, and the patrons’ll be reminded of how many delicious meals they’ve had at The Twinkle over the years when they spot those mobiles. And we won’t even tell Maura Beth we’re gonna do it. We’ll just let it be a nice little surprise.”

  He was clearly lost in thought for a while. “I sure hope everything goes the way Maura Beth expects tomorrow—no glitches or anything unexpected. She’s been waiting for years to show Cherico what a real library looks like. This is her big moment in the sun.”

  5

  Great Day in the Morning

  As the sun came up on the Fourth of July Grand Opening, Maura Beth opened her blue eyes, knowing that her long journey out of darkness was nearly over. Waiting for her on the willow-lined shores of Lake Cherico was the library of her dreams—shiny, spacious, and eager to please her long-suffering patrons. Skylights above the long central corridor would forever be illuminating the way for those who walked in looking for a casual read, or a job lead on one of the computer terminals, or résumé help, or keeping up with national and world affairs browsing newspapers and magazines in the periodicals section. Or even just having a place to spend the day if they were homeless—a sad reality but one that definitely existed. At last, Maura Beth’s days of being practically imprisoned in the claustrophobic, windowless room that she had called her office for nearly seven years were thankfully coming to an end; and she couldn’t help cheering the moment her brain cleared.

  “Wow, great day in the morning, and hallelujah!” she shouted as she sat up, stretched, and lifted her arms heavenward.

  Jeremy sprang to life like a jack-in-the-box on his side of the bed, his eyes blinking in disbelief. “What?! What’s the matter, Maurie?!”

  She leaned over, gave him a kiss on his scruffy cheek, and then drew back, studying his handsome but startled features. “Now don’t be so dense. It’s finally here, that’s what’s the matter. The Charles Durden Sparks, Crumpton, and Duddney Public Library opens its doors to the world out there on this wonderful day of our country’s independence. So, let there be light!”

  Despite her stirring patriotic tribute, he feigned displeasure while wiping the sleep out of his eyes. “Geez. I thought we might be in the middle of a home invasion or something.”

  She reached over and pushed against him playfully, knocking him down like a pesky spare pin at the bowling alley. “You’re smarter than that. You do not offer up praise for criminal activity of that sort.”

  “That may be,” he told her, recovering from her feisty display and bracing himself against his pillows. “But I was having a remarkable dream, and you pulled me up out of it rudely. At long last, I was taking one of my English classes on a field trip to Rowan Oak over in Oxford, and William Faulkner himself greeted us at the door, saying that we had taken way too much time getting there on the bus. ‘I’ve been waiting patiently for you,’ were his exact words, as I recall. I was so flattered. Can you imagine being able to pick his brain on the subject of writing? It would give me such an edge for my Great American Novel. In fact, I had gotten to the point in the dream where I pulled out my manuscript and asked him to read it, and he said he would.”

  Maura Beth giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, yeah? Well, how is he doing these days? Working on any new manuscripts? Something about the accommodations, I suppose—The Long, Hot, Heavenly Summer?”

  “Very funny and totally disrespectful. Anyway, I was about to have an honest-to-goodness audience with him when you woke me up.”

  “An audience? That’s a new one—you adding religious overtones to your everyday banter.”

  “Literature is my religion, you know that.”

  “It’s just as well I woke you up, though. We’ve got a long day ahead of us out at the lake, and I need you to be my right-hand man.”

  He considered for a moment and then squinted. “I thought Renette was your right-hand man—err, woman.”

  Maura Beth pulled back the sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wedging her feet into her fuzzy purple bedroom slippers, the very last holdover from her college days. “Not so much right now. That ongoing infatuation of hers with Waddell Mack I told you about has continued to fester. That’s all she talks about on the job. Marydell says it’s driving her crazy, and she’s just not one to complain about much. At any rate, I’m hoping this concert tonight will let Renette get it all out of her system. It’s the prospect of seeing him again in person that’s got her going. Well, not up close and in person. I told her that wasn’t going to be possible. His schedule is just too hectic, and he’s got all those people surrounding him. But maybe seeing him from afar and hearing his music will do the trick.”

  “Or she could become even more obsessed and go off the deep end. Have you thought about that?”

  Maura Beth froze. “Now, why did you say that? I’ll just be even more worried about her.”

  “Because it’s possible. You just can’t predict the behavior of someone who’s truly obsessed.”

  There was a long sigh of resignation. “Well, I’ll just have to hope for the best. I’ll just put that completely out of my mind. Meanwhile . . .”

  After an extended period of silence,
Jeremy said, “Meanwhile, what? Please finish your sentences, Maurie. It’s become a bad habit of yours. I’ve decided to call it hesi-talking.”

  She briefly indulged him. “So, the English teacher is now making up his own words, is that it? Never mind. What I was going to say was that it’s all that mismatched furniture in the new library. Please don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful the book club came through—bless their hearts, each and every one of them. There’s at least something for people to sit on and get off their feet. But after we all got through lugging it in and moving it around . . . it looked like . . . well, it looked like we had bought all our furniture at a yard sale or a flea market. I guess I really didn’t think things through the way I should have.”

  His eyes widened. “Come on now. What did you expect? A designer showroom?”

  “I know, I know. And, of course, you never heard me say that. My Cherry Cola Book Clubbers are the best friends I’ve ever had, and that includes some mighty good ones when I went to LSU.”

  “That’s more like it. Hey, it’s just temporary, Maurie. You really need to get over being the ultimate perfectionist. It’s always going to leave you disappointed in people and things.”

  She padded across the room with determination, shrugging him off. “Part of my mission, I guess. No librarian worth her fines wants even one book out of place on the shelves. Our universe is always perfectly ordered according to the gods of library science. End of lecture.”

  “Hey, I’m just glad you’re not like that in bed,” he called out after her as she disappeared into the bathroom. “You’re as different as night and day when we make a mess of the sheets and that fiery red hair of yours is all out of place and wild on the pillows—just like you are.”

  There was a wicked grin on her face when she suddenly popped back into view for another round. “I’m afraid I do resemble that, you devil, you. Last night really was fantastic, sweetheart. Kudos. You melted me like butter in a hot skillet. My stress levels needed it.”

  “Anytime,” he told her, getting out of bed at last in all his splendid nakedness. “I just want you to remember that making love should be dreamy and never by the book, Miz Librarian.”

  “Speaking of dreams,” she said almost as an afterthought as he approached, “I had that strange one again about wandering around forever in the mist, feeling all lost and abandoned, until this ray of light appeared ahead of me. Each time I have this same dream, I keep thinking if I can just walk faster and get to the clearing where the light is, I’ll find out what’s going on. But I always wake up before I get there, and I just have no earthly idea what it could possibly mean. Maybe I should check out one of the books we have on the shelves about dream interpretation.”

  He embraced her tenderly in the doorframe of the bathroom. “I don’t know about that, but I’ve had a recurring dream myself for years that I’ve never told you about. Didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I was always being pursued by a tornado in it, and I’d always wake up just before it got to me and sucked me up like Dorothy inside that farmhouse in Kansas. But for some reason I haven’t had it in years. It seems to have disappeared as fast as a tornado does. Go figure.”

  “Maybe it’s just as simple as I’ve been a calming influence in your life.”

  He kissed her softly. “That’s a thought, and I guess what we’re doing right now is the proof.”

  But Maura Beth wasn’t inclined to dismiss her dream the way Jeremy had. Something kept telling her that a message of some kind was being conveyed to her and that eventually she would discover what it was. In any case she clearly had something on the brain that was struggling to surface.

  * * *

  The entire town of Cherico had been hoping and praying for good weather on the Fourth and that the Grand Opening of their new library would not be marred by thunderstorms to keep people away. When they all awoke that morning, there was not a cloud in the July sky—only the torrid heat of midsummer awaiting them. So far, so good. Even if that meant a lot of sweat went into pitching the patriotic-looking food tents in the green space between the library and the temporary bleachers that had been set up for Waddell Mack’s concert that evening. These impressive and colorful canvas structures—some red, some white, some blue as befitted the Fourth—were the type used primarily for tailgating at football games, and gradually the makeshift venue took shape, complete with tables and folding chairs for alfresco dining both in and out of the heat. Of course, there were American flags everywhere—on lapels, on sticks in jars, pinned to the sides of the tents, on the awnings, and in the hands of many an interested onlooker. Best of all, there were any number of eclectic and mouthwatering choices for sampling. To be sure, a few local fast-food places serving pizza and hamburgers were up and running to make a quick buck, knowing full well that they would likely not win any prizes. But it was some of the individual chefs who made the lineup truly interesting and worth the price of admission.

  Bit Sessions had chosen to concentrate on two items only—her ham and butterbean soup, along with her famous fried chicken—and her signage proudly proclaimed: CORINTH’s BEST HERE IN CHERICO. At first she had been reluctant to reference Corinth when she was smack dab in the middle of Cherico, but she thought better of it after she had phoned all of her most sycophantic friends and told them they must put in an appearance on the grounds of the new library and vote for her as Queen of the Cookbooks. Calling in every favor she could recall, her conversations had always ended with a very emphatic, “Remember, you owe me big-time. I darn well better get your vote.”

  On the other hand, Gwen Beetles had disdained any reference to Corinth and instead had opted for a banner that read: GWEN’S FOURTH OF JULY PICNIC. To back that up, she had settled upon foot-long hot dogs made with andouille sausage—a tribute to her Cajun heritage as a Leblanc before marrying a Mississippi boy, the late Hyram Beetles. There was nothing more American than hot dogs on the Fourth of July, but she saw no downside to selling her version of them with a little kick.

  Then she, too, had called up her troops to duty with an appearance at her church’s Wednesday night potluck where she had pleaded with the regulars to support her in Cherico. “I promise I’ll tithe to the church if I win anything,” she had told them all. Both Bit and Gwen were pleased to discover that their tents were widely separated from each other, making it difficult for them to indulge their rivalry and baser instincts by getting into each other’s business.

  Dressed in a bright yellow frock that contrasted beautifully with her shiny black hair, Ana Estrella had set up shop midway between Bit and Gwen as a dessert specialist with her HOLA, AMIGOS! sign and five pigeon peas cakes ready to slice up. Perhaps she might increase her chances of winning the top prize if she offered only one thing and did it very well, she had reasoned. Plus, she was counting on the novelty of people taking a chance on a recipe with such unusual ingredients and coming away pleasantly surprised, if not raving. Why, everyone and his brother had tasted the brownies or peach cobbler with homemade ice cream or Dutch apple pie that some of the others were offering—but pigeon peas cake? Since moving to Cherico, she had come to the conclusion that she might very well be the only Hispanic citizen in the Mississippi mix, and that, she decided, was not a bad thing at all on a day like today.

  She soon became slightly concerned, however, when the plump, elderly woman wearing a big straw hat and a fanciful dress dotted with red, white, and blue stars put up a hand-lettered sign in the tent next to hers: GET YOUR NO-SUGAR-ADDED DESSERT HERE.

  Ana reflected briefly. Anyone with a passing knowledge of the Deep South was well aware of the epidemic that diabetes had become in recent years. Everyone could recite the litany: the overeating, the sugar and carbs consumption, the resulting obesity—all of them linked together as the culprits behind the disease. Thus, it was barely possible that the neighboring tent might just steal Ana’s thunder by focusing on such an important health issue while she offered something tempting and exotic. What bad luck to be positioned
right next to her!

  So Ana decided to be proactive, introducing herself quickly with the friendliest smile she could muster. Being the public relations professional she was, perhaps she could earn her salary and figure out a way for the two of them to coexist.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Maribelle Pleasance. My family was originally from Jonesboro, Arkansas, but we moved here near ’bout fifty years ago. Guess that makes us practically natives. Now, who’s to say different? Are you from Cherico? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around town, and I may not look it, but I do get out quite a bit.”

  Ana explained who she was and why she had come to Cherico but then lost no time in pursuing the strategy she had just concocted on the spur of the moment. “Tell me about this no-sugar-added dessert of yours. You don’t often see that sort of thing on the Fourth of July. It’s one of those holidays where everybody splurges and has to let out their belts a notch or two. I’m completely fascinated.”

  Maribelle’s fleshy face lit up as her lips drew back in the broadest of smiles. “I’m flattered you would ask, and I hope everyone will be as inner-rested as you are. You see, I developed type two diabetes a while back. Now, I know it was my fault, and I could have avoided it if I’d had me any sort of willpower. I’m not sure I believe it, but Mississippi just got the title of the most obese state in the union. Like the minute you cross the border, everybody starts stuffin’ their faces and can’t stop. But, anyway, I just got so tired of not bein’ able to eat sweets anymore when my doctor laid down the law. At least not any sweets that would really taste good. I mean, great day in the mornin’, the aftertaste some a’ those sugar substitutes have would drive you to drink. Not that I would ever imbibe, mind you. I’m a devout Southern Bab-dist, and we never touch the stuff.”

  “I love your accent,” Ana told her. “It’s charming. Some people turn up their noses at Southern accents, but I just love hearing them.”