Midnight at the Blackbird Cafe

by Heather Webber

  Ollie happily dumped the blocks out of her dump truck, then set the tractor in the truck’s bed. She pushed both around the rug, running over the blocks in her path.

  My chest swelled with emotion. This was why I’d moved back, I reminded myself. This was what made the aggravation and fights with my mother worth it. For Ollie to have these little connections to my family. If I had stayed in Montgomery, that beloved tractor would have remained a dusty relic on AJ’s bedroom shelf. Because Ollie and I had come here, a piece of my daddy and my brother would now have a place in Ollie’s heart. In mine as well.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “She already loves it, as you can see.”

  He rocked on his heels. A sure sign something was on his mind. I waited him out and he finally said, “Heard you did some waitressing today.”

  “I’d say a lot of waitressing. The café was packed.” I fussed with the stacks of fabric samples I’d laid out on the countertop. I planned to work on Faylene’s headband order after Ollie went to bed. “So Mama knows too, then?”

  “She received six calls, three emails, and a bouquet of flowers from concerned friends, all before eleven o’clock.”

  Sometimes I despised small towns. “Yet Mama didn’t mention a single word about it when she brought Ollie home earlier.”

  “Did you want her to?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “What are you doing, Natalie? Why are you working at the café, knowing how your mother would likely feel?”

  My skin heated. “I went there to buy a piece of pie, but there wasn’t any today. I stayed because I need a job much more than Mama needs her pride.”

  Lord knew there was a time I would’ve set out to make my mother miserable on purpose, but I was past that. I wanted peace—and was willing to give up a lot to make that happen.

  Just not this.

  “If you need money…”

  “I need to earn my own money.”

  “I see,” he said after a moment. “And Ollie?”

  “I’ve made arrangements with Faylene Wiggins.” She had been more than generous to take on watching Ollie a few days a week. We’d argued for a good five minutes about me paying her—she’d been set on doing it for free—but finally she agreed to take my money. It wasn’t anywhere near the going rate for babysitting or daycare, but it was enough to make me feel like I wasn’t freeloading. “Faylene keeps her granddaughter a couple of days a week, so Ollie will have a friend to play with.”

  “You do know you could have asked your mother.”

  I crossed my arms stubbornly. I could’ve asked my mother. I probably should have. But I hadn’t wanted to. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that. Instead of debating my decision with my father, I said, “It’s utter foolishness that someone sent Mama flowers. Flowers! Good Lord.”

  He cracked a smile. “The flowers came with a sympathy card.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Sadly, no.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. It was either that or lose my mind. “Honestly, I didn’t set out to disappoint Mama yet again, but I don’t see anything wrong with working at the café. Or getting to know Anna Kate. She’s family. This feud with the Callows has gone on long enough.”

  Ollie rolled the tractor over our feet, then up the side of the coffee table. She was babbling in her own language as she did so, completely oblivious to the strife around her.

  I longed for that kind of peace of mind.

  It was he who dodged the debate this time by saying, “You went to the café for a piece of pie? Blackbird pie?”

  “That’s right,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my own voice. “No need to make a big deal about it.”

  “Who’s making a big deal?” he asked casually.

  Obviously, he’d picked up on the defensiveness, too.

  Ollie drove the tractor over the back of the couch, and I tried my mightiest to focus on the good in my life.

  Daddy started rocking on his heels again. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he said, “I happened to speak to a colleague in Fort Payne this afternoon. She has an appointment available next Thursday if you want it.”

  Instantly suspicious, I said, “What kind of colleague?”

  “A counselor.”

  “What kind of counselor?”

  “A grief counselor.”

  I clasped my hands together and prayed to the good Lord above for patience. “I’ve had therapy.”

  “It might be time for more,” he said calmly. “You said yourself you’re still having nightmares. And I heard you had some sort of panic attack in town this morning.”

  “You’ve been hearing lots today, haven’t you? Who told you?” So help me if he’d received flowers, too.

  “Does it matter? Were you clinging to a lamppost, white as a sheet, or not?”

  Embarrassment set my cheeks on fire. “‘Clinging’ seems a little overexaggerated. I was merely holding on to the lamppost. Tightly.”

  “When did your panic attacks come back?”

  I didn’t want to admit that they’d never entirely left, so I shrugged in answer.

  He gave me a pointed look. “Also, let’s not forget that fight with your mother yesterday…”

  “Which was about her controlling nature, not anything to do with grief.”

  “Is that so?”

  “The decision about swimming lessons should have been mine to make. No one else’s.”

  “I agree,” he said.

  “Then why didn’t you side with me last night, when you heard Mama and me arguing?”

  “Because it is in Ollie’s best interest to learn how to swim.”

  Confused, I stared at him. “Whose side are you on? Because I’m getting mixed signals.”

  “I’m not taking sides. I’m trying to help.”

  “Well, you’re not.” I kept my voice low, tame, as to not alert Ollie that there was tension in the air. She seemed oblivious, however, as she stacked blocks only to plow them over with her new toy.

  “Don’t you see, Natalie? You allowed fear to make the decision. You weren’t thinking about what you knew, as Ollie’s mama, was best for your little girl, because you do know that Ollie learning to swim is a good thing. You let fear take away your voice.”

  His words, and knowing he was right, cut like a jagged, rusty knife. I turned away from him, unable to look at him a moment longer without bursting into tears. I’d sworn off crying long ago. Tears did nothing at all except make me feel like I was drowning too.

  “The blame,” he said, “for that argument last night isn’t on your mother, and it’s not on you. It’s on the accident that killed someone you loved deeply. It might be a good thing to talk to someone about that, a bit more in depth.”

  He reached around me, a business card in his hand.

  I stared at it through blurry eyes before taking it.

  “Grief can change a person to the point where they become someone they don’t know, or even like very much. I don’t want that to happen to you. Or to Ollie.”

  I had the feeling his message was more than advice—it was an explanation. My mother had changed completely after AJ died, but she had never sought help to deal with her grief. Would life have been different for me if she had? Or was there no turning back after experiencing the pain of losing a child?

  He gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not going to find healing in a piece of pie, Natalie. The healing’s got to come from within you. Make the appointment, please?”

  Unable to talk, I nodded. I’d call.

  “We’ll be leaving in five minutes,” he said. “Are you walking over to the courthouse with us?”

  If I was going to back out of going to the movie, now was the time to do so. As much as I wanted to stay home, my father’s wisdom had hit its mark. What was best for Ollie? My gaze drifted to my daughter, in her Tinkerbell outfit, with that scarred toy tractor clutched in her hand as if it were the most priceless object in the world.

 
; Maybe it was.

  I closed my hand around the business card and found my voice. “I need to pack a few things, so it might take a minute. You don’t have to wait for us if you need to get going.”

  “We’ll wait for you, Natalie,” he said quietly as he walked to the door. “Always have. Always will.”

  Anna Kate

  Saturday at almost midnight, I sipped my hot tea and tried not to stress.

  Today, I’d sold four kinds of blackbird pies, twelve in total. I’d increased the pie output because of a tip from Mr. Boyd late yesterday afternoon. He’d mentioned how word of the blackbirds had spread throughout southern birding groups and many were headed here this weekend for a glimpse of the rare birds. They’d arrived in full force this morning, and not a crumb of pie remained by noon.

  All those pies had held a secret—a teaspoonful of mulberry syrup, which on its own was pretty terrible, but it was practically undetectable in pie filling to those who weren’t looking for it.

  The flavor of the mulberry came across boldly to me, as if my taste buds had been searching for it all along, and I hoped the syrup would be enough to get the blackbirds to sing. I had the feeling the proper secret ingredient was a fully ripened mulberry, but I still didn’t know how Zee had managed to use them in pies year-round. For now, the syrup would have to do.

  Whether the syrup had worked its magic, I’d know tonight.

  Looking out the window, I saw that the birders gathered seemed just as anxious as I was—fidgety and oddly quiet.

  Unable to stand still, I itched to cook something, anything, but I didn’t want to mess up the clean kitchen. I’d already made another twelve pies for tomorrow: apple, peach, blackberry, and rhubarb. They sat in the pie case, their flaky crusts the perfect shade of golden brown.

  Instead, I washed my teacup and busied myself by neatening rags in the laundry room, triple-checking inventory, and making sure the restroom was spotless.

  Finally—finally—the clock turned over to twelve.

  I shut off all the lights inside but kept on the outdoor lights that dimly illuminated the backyard. I stood at the screen door. Crickets, katydids, and frogs vied for volume, and fireflies were like sparks of magic in the garden.

  The thick, humid air stilled as the blackbirds emerged from the leafy tunnel, and it seemed to me that they took extra time tonight in the sky, soaring and circling in rhythm like some sort of dance only they knew. An aerial ballet.

  The night silenced as the blackbirds landed, the fireflies dimmed, and the blackbirds … began to sing.

  Tender notes, sweetly melodious. Even with no lyrics, the songs told stories of love, of life, of laughter, of sadness, of hope. Harmonies rose, then fell as if in conversation, the emotional tones eliciting in me memories of my mom and me standing side by side at the sink, doing dishes together as we talked of weekend plans. It reminded me of Zee and me, holding hands as we walked along dense wooded pathways, the air heavy with the scent of the earth.

  It seemed as though time stood still as I listened to the ethereal symphony, my chest aching, my throat tightening as my soul found peace for the first time in a long while.

  When the blackbirds finished their glorious songs, the birders erupted in applause. I closed and locked the door, and climbed the stairs with tears in my eyes. I waited up for a while longer, hoping for another visit from the two rogue blackbirds, but they never came.

  Still wrapped in that feeling of peace, I fell into bed and closed my eyes, and tried not to worry about how hard it was going to be to leave the magic of Wicklow behind.

  12

  Anna Kate

  The following morning, I crouched in the garden, a basket at my feet as I filled it with the day’s bounty. “I see you’ve forgiven me,” I said to the zucchini plant closest to the deck steps. I tugged a small zucchini from its stem, its beautiful green skin seemingly more vibrant in the hazy morning light than it would be in full sunshine. “Aren’t you pretty? What shall we make with you? Frittatas? Fries?” Anything but zucchini loaves was just fine with me.

  I’d decided to nurture the zucchini instead of curse it. The two plants were coming along nicely. In only a few days, they’d lost their sickly appearance and had perked up. They were still on the small side, but I had faith they’d be full and healthy in no time. There were plenty of orange-colored blossoms peeking through the leaves.

  As I worked collecting more zucchini, cucumbers, squash, beans, and rhubarb, I tuned out the drone of birders camped in the side yard. Many had come to me yesterday for permission to set up tents, which I allowed, or pop-up campers, which I had not. The yard already looked enough like a campground without any trailers parked there. However, Pebbles Lutz had offered up her back field to recreational vehicles for the cost of only twenty dollars a night. The acreage was already on its way to being full.

  I halfheartedly pulled crabgrass as I walked around the garden, noting that I needed to spend some time doing it right. Zee, I decided, must have spent hours out here every day just on the upkeep. I checked on the progress of the tomatoes and two lonesome corn stalks and stopped in front of the yarrow.

  Doc Linden had stopped by the café again this morning to reissue his invitation to supper this afternoon. I’d declined, and he said he’d be back in a few days to ask me to next week’s meal. He could ask until he was blue in the face. It wasn’t going to happen.

  I finally made my way over to the mulberry trees and smiled at the leaves, seeing that they were flat, not curled. Some brown tips remained, but hopefully after a few more songs, the trees would flourish once again. I picked a cluster of mulberries—the pinkest ones I could find—to make another batch of syrup. As I headed back to the café, I saw Summer Pavegeau coming up the path from the side gate, a basket on her arm.

  “Good morning, ma’—Anna Kate.”

  “Hi, Summer,” I said. “You’re up early.”

  Today she wore a pale blue dress that highlighted her tanned skin and those big blue eyes. Her long hair shone in the morning light, sunbeams glancing off natural highlights. On her feet were a pair of leather sandals, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to kick them off and go barefoot as she shifted foot to foot.

  “I usually come by early on Sundays, before church.”

  “Makes sense. Thanks for the eggs you’ve been leaving on the deck these past couple of days. Come on inside, and I’ll get your payment. Would you like a piece of pie, too?”

  Hope bloomed in her eyes. “Is it fixed?”

  She followed me up the steps and into the kitchen. “I think so?” I wouldn’t know for sure until Mr. Lazenby arrived. He was my test subject. “The blackbirds are singing again.”

  I set my basket on the counter and checked the crock-pot. I was making a salve to give to Natalie for her blisters, and using the crock-pot to speed along the process.

  A faint sheen of moisture glazed her eyes. “Then yes, ma’am, I’d like a piece, if you have enough to spare.”

  I let the “ma’am” slide as I glanced over my shoulder at the twelve pies in the case. “I guess that depends on how many pieces you’d like.”

  She laughed, then looked around. “Why does it smell like marigolds in here?”

  “Calendula-infused oil.” I motioned to the crock-pot. Calendula officinalis was best known as the common marigold. “Marigold petals have great healing properties for skin ailments and injuries.” Among many other things. In tea, it helped with digestive issues.

  She smiled. “Cool.”

  I thought so too.

  Then her gaze narrowed as she looked in my basket. “You do know that those pink mulberries are going to be sour.”

  “Oh, I know they are. I’m making syrup with them, using lots of sugar to sweeten them up.”

  “Syrup would taste better if the berries were ripe,” she said slowly, as if wanting to correct my decision without coming off as critical.

  “I still have a good week or so before the mulberries will be
ripe, and I need them now.” I unpacked the rest of the basket, hoping she didn’t ask me why. I wasn’t sure I was allowed to share the secret ingredient to someone who wasn’t a family member.

  “Oh, for the pies?”

  I almost dropped a zucchini. “How’d you know?”

  She smiled, a slow, sly smile. “For one, I can taste them. Also, for the last few years, Zee hired me on to help her gather the berries, remove their stems, and process them.” She frowned. “The stems are a nightmare.”

  “Wait, process them?”

  “Sure. Zee has years’ worth stashed away in small jars. They’re adorable, the jars, but time-consuming to assemble and steam. I’m surprised you haven’t been using those for your syrup,” she said, as though I were making cow pies, not something edible.

  “There’s no processed mulberries. I’ve looked. Bow and Jena haven’t seen any either.”

  “Oh my word. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think—Zee claimed those mulberries were the most valuable thing in the café, and didn’t like people knowing about them. She hid them. I should’ve thought to tell you, seeing as how you’re making the pies now. I’ll show you where they are.”

  I immediately thought it odd that Zee hadn’t told Bow and Jena of the mulberry cache but trusted Summer with the information. She’d told the couple about me, as she had with Summer, so why not share the mulberries with them too?

  I followed her into the pantry, and she closed the door behind us. “Just in case.”

  Baffled, I went along, not entirely sure why she was taking me into the pantry when I’d already told her there were no mulberries to be found.

  “Here, scoot out of the way, Anna Kate.”

  I ducked in behind her. “I’ve searched this pantry, top to—”

  My words died in my throat as she grabbed the molding on the shelving unit closest to the door and pulled. The floor-to-ceiling wooden shelf swung outward, revealing a secret room.

  My jaw dropped. “A hidden door?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She went into the darkened space and flipped on a light. “I call this the Harry Potter room for obvious reasons.”