The Pickle Queen: A Crossroads Café Novella

by Deborah Smith

  Ahead of us, in the beam of two battery-powered spotlights, was a sleepy lane that skirted the fields along the river. The spotlights were perched on poles atop Joe’s Christmas sleigh—a pair of mules and a wagon full of Christmas presents from Anna to the people in town.

  Stoned and singing, “Deck the halls with boughs of jolly,” Joe bounced the reins along the fat haunches of the mules, who wore Santa hats. His sleigh was the re-purposed bed of a 1955 Ford truck, sans the rest of the truck, painted bright red and mounted on a welded remnant of the original axle, featuring four fat tires with fancy spinner hubs. He sat up front on a wooden bench with part of the truck’s original floor bed to rest his feet on. He’d added strings of Christmas lights, mounds of loose hay as cushions. A lamp swung on a pole at the back of the wagon, serving as a taillight.

  “Did you ever visit your mother?” Gabs asked suddenly.

  “What brings that to mind?”

  “Christmas. Families.”

  “Once.”

  “And?”

  “My idea of family is different from yours. Families are just names on a chart. Communities are what matter. Don’t tell anyone I believe in the greater good. It’s our secret.”

  “I take it you didn’t have a cheerful visit with her.”

  “That’s correct.”

  My mother moved to Europe and married a Spanish businessman when I was five years old. She couldn’t take being married to Dad, a Type 1 diabetic who was going downhill fast by the time he reached his early thirties. He’d already lost two toes to nerve damage, and his vision was bad.

  My memories of her are not pictures, but emotions: shame, doubt, fear. Mine, not hers. I couldn’t say I had forgiven her over the years, but I had made peace with what she’d done.

  I saw her in Madrid during a business trip a few years ago, and she hugged me and showed me photographs of her Spanish children and grandchildren. I sat there nodding politely and watching her and wondering who the hell she was. This stranger who had abandoned me, and didn’t think it hurt.

  Over. Done. Walk it off, Jay, compartmentalize. A human talent I had on a grand scale. Wars and families end. The wounded die or build a shield of scar tissue. Life moves on.

  “You do have a family,” Gabs said. “You’ll always have one, whether you admit it or not.”

  “I’ll take care of my cousins, yes, and . . .”

  “Gus. Tal. And me.”

  When I said nothing else, my throat tight, she turned her face away, giving me some privacy.

  I want to hold you, I thought at her. Desperately. I want to look into your eyes and see me making you feel wonderful. I want to see my soul in your eyes. I want to be part of you and become the man you want me to be. Except that I can’t, yet. Not until I make certain E.W. can’t harm you again, or anyone else you and I love.

  Tearmann awaits

  “TOWN HO! HO, Town. Tell the ho’s I’m here!” Santa bellowed. We were freezing. It was near midnight. The mules had traveled as fast as mud trickles uphill. One equals ten, in mule mileage.

  If I were a superstitious man, I’d have stayed far away from the cluster of rehabilitated ruins that was once the town of Tearmann. The town must be crawling with Wakefield ghosts who wanted me to join them.

  But I wasn’t superstitious, so when we climbed a shallow rise and the soft lights of doorways and Christmas-decked lanes glimmered across the river and the snow, I said to Gabs, “Let’s just get this out of the way up front: your ancestors built this town. Mine dynamited it. Or they were on hand when yours blew it up. Can we agree that one or the other happened, and that you should keep an open mind?”

  “Of course. I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Santa yelled back to us, “We’re here!” He pulled a cell phone from his coat and yelled into it, “Santa Joe is coming to town, kids!” After stuffing the mystery call back in a pocket, he yelled “Haw!” to the mules and they turned left down a path toward a long, low barn and corral. A dozen horses watched us curiously from the open top halves of their doors. Before each stall, saddle trees held their gear. Joe grinned at Gabs over his shoulder. “This is the free public parking deck!”

  The rumbling sound of water falling over high rocks carried through the night and added the brisk scent of moisture to the snow smell. It was the song of Tearmann—the reason the town had been built just around the next ridge, in the cusp of a gentle gorge, stacked on difficult hills and gathered like a beehive overlooking a narrow joint in the Little Finn River.

  The Mill Falls.

  I swung my horse closer to Gabs and Stoned Pony, wanting a better look at her face in the wobbling light of Joe’s lantern. Melted snow dripped from the hems of her tailored slacks. Her feet, in the pumps, must be blocks of ice by now. She had a death grip on the saddle horn with one hand. But her dignity was intact. She gazed straight ahead, tilting her head so that a strand of her wild red hair hid her expression. When a breeze came up from the river and pushed the red curl aside, her face was rapt.

  She’s listening to the falls. She’s hooked.

  The deep music of the Little Finn was calling a MacBride home.

  Gabby

  The magic of the mills

  THE ONLY THING missing was a herd of unicorns. As a little girl I’d had gauzy, unforgettable dreams of a fairytale place in the woods where a waterfall tumbled down beautiful rocks into a deep pool where mermaids lived. There had been enormous trees and soft meadows and fairy houses that seemed to hang on the sides of the hills like lanterns draped in the tree limbs.

  Tearmann was the real-life version of that dream.

  Jay and I stood in the center of a stone bridge across the river, alone in the light of tall stone posts with large lamps on each one. Solar panels powered each one. Their glow was soft. Ahead were two paved roads, diverging from each end of the bridge. They paralleled the river banks to the mills, then up each side of the hills to the houses, and the town. Santa had disappeared in a truck with all his Santa loot, smoke billowing from a fat roll-your-own, like a weed genie. “Wait here, the Welcome Wagon lady will come to get you,” he’d said. “Her name’s Pug. Short for Puggy.”

  I looked up the hill at the Mill Falls, a dramatic waterfall at least thirty feet from top to bottom, lit by handsome lampposts, not a sheer drop; instead, a welcoming tumble that wove through large boulders and rocks before rushing along a narrow channel. A finger of the fast water poured into a flume that fed a large water wheel on a large, two-story stone-and-wood building that perched so close to the falls it must catch the spray from them as they splashed down. The namesake mill.

  On the hills beyond were small houses and lanes, winding and climbing; the lanes looked so narrow in places they were barely more than walking paths, others were wide enough for the trucks and motorcycles parked outside picket fences and small yards. Eaves winked with Christmas lights. Lamps glowed in windows. Smoke rose from the chimneys of log cabins and stone houses. The different levels were connected by stone or wood stairs, and the areas between the lanes showed where garden plots would be planted in the spring or where flower beds would bloom. Several goats lazed here and there, and a few wild deer. I assumed they were wild. But maybe, pets.

  At the top stood a grove of enormous oaks. Through the lace of their snowy branches I saw more lights. The snow clouds cleared a bit, and a half-moon shone through. Moonlight glimmered on a beautiful spire that rose above the treetops.

  “That’s the heart of the town?” I asked. “Up there?”

  “Yes. The heart of the old town.”

  “The old town?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I shoved my hair back and turned my face toward Jay. His expression, in the shadows, looked hard and tired. “How could anyone have been cruel enough to destroy this
magical place?”

  “Wakefields, you mean. How could Wakefields have been so cruel. Anna has made it clear we are to blame for most every setback the valley has had, yes?”

  I stiffened. “No, she mostly just told me not to judge a yarn too quickly. Maybe you should take that to heart, too.”

  “Okay. If we’re going to leave the baggage at the stone, I want you to understand something.” His deep voice purred inside me. “The rules here are . . . different.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Suddenly a large truck rumbled out of the woods—not down the hill from town—and rushed toward us at high speed, spewing wet snow behind its tires. Jay stepped in front of me. The truck slushed to a stop at the bridge’s handsome stone pilings, sliding sideways to reveal, on the open wooden platform of its bed, an enormous wild hog with long tusks. The boar’s lifeless head hung off the end of the frayed planks, dark blood clotting around the wide gash in its throat. Another clump of dried blood marked the spot where a bullet had hit its forehead.

  “Nice Welcome Wagon,” I said. “Where’s our complimentary sack of entrails?”

  “That is not Pug. That’s Denoto. My cousin. I’ll explain, later.”

  “Challenge!” Denoto yelled as she leapt out of her truck. “I challenge you, Jay!”

  The dark-haired Valkyrie was my height, but leaner than me—that was obvious even in a padded camo jumpsuit, unfortunately. She stomped toward us on bloody hiking boots, carrying her anger with a bodybuilder’s swagger. Obviously, she was cycling manic today. Her mop of brunette hair was pulled back with some kind of fur headband.

  Probably made from a human scalp.

  “How dare you come here, to our home and try to snatch my son away from me.”

  “If I don’t intercede, E.W. will call it a kidnapping, and this valley will be swarming with men in riot gear. It doesn’t help that the sheriff’s got four flat tires already.”

  “So you’re going to hand Dustin back to that old bastard? Along with Donny and Arwen?”

  “You don’t beat E.W. by breaking the rules. You beat him by using the rules in ways he doesn’t expect. Let’s take this one step at a time. Spend Christmas with Dustin. Let Donny and Arwen calm down. Then I’ll take them with me—somewhere. Not to E.W. But they can’t stay here.”

  “You’ll use them as bargaining chips. Just like you used me and Quincy.”

  “You’re blaming me for tactics E.W. used. I was just another pawn in his system.”

  She swung towards me. “So you’re the fabled MacBride,” she said sarcastically. “The little charity case Jay adopted as a pet, all grown up and still looking for hand-outs. You know that property near the Crossroads Cove belongs to your family, don’t you? Or should. Or did. But he’s never going to give it to you. Not unless you make it worth his while.”

  The Free Wheeler discussion was . . . complicated and one I’d shied away from, figuring we should cross one bridge at a time. The kids were a good neutral ground. Much safer than a conversation about the old bike factory Tal was head over heels in love with despite the strange old story about Mr. Sam being our grandfather and Jay wanting us to work there, as he developed the place into some sort of mountain resort. Nothing was ever as simple as it seemed with Jay’s offers. And nothing this woman said about him struck me as trustworthy. Her scent rose in my mind. Onions. And then . . . liver. The double whammy of trouble. No, I would not be discussing Free Wheeler with her.

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Shut up.” She raised a fist at Jay. “I challenge you. Tomorrow. Noon. At The Rock Ring. You choose the game.”

  “I’m not getting in the ring with you.”

  “Coward.”

  “That’s right. You’d hurt me. I’m at a disadvantage.” He held up his hands—one with swollen knuckles, the other wrapped in a bandage. “Have mercy,” he said drily.

  “You’re a gutless wonder. A parasitic entity that sucks money out of the system and puts nothing back but pollution and disease and poverty.”

  “I take exception to parasitic. I prefer ‘avaricious.’”

  “You’re not fit to clean Will’s bathroom.”

  “I thought he uses an eco-toilet that cleans itself.”

  “I challenge you, and you have to accept!” She lunged towards him, shaking her fist. “If you won’t pick a game, I’ll pick it for you!”

  “Fine. Go ahead. I won’t be there.”

  “Excuse me,” I began. “I’ll be his proxy.”

  “No.” Jay’s face went dark. “No.”

  Denoto spat on the stones. “Yes, you would step in to protect her. She’s so delicate. Like an overfed sow.” She leapt forward, shoving my shoulders with her palms. I swayed but didn’t stumble. “Challenge!” she taunted.

  Jay thrust an arm between us. “Touch her again and I’ll stop treating you like a girl.”

  “Come on, Jay. Protect your piece of redheaded MacBride pie! At least she looks like she likes pie.”

  Oh, that was it. I’d had enough. I ducked under Jay’s arm as she lunged forward to shove me again.

  Right hand: block.

  Left hand: punch.

  Her teeth clicked together when I clipped her jaw. If she’d expected my counterattack she’d have kept her balance. But instead she flailed backwards and fell on her butt. She sat there staring up at me in astonishment. Then she was on her feet and in a fighting stance. “Bring it, Pie,” she shouted. “Bring it on!”

  “Okay,” I said. “It’s brung.”

  I headed for her but Jay swallowed me in a bear hug from behind and lifted me off my feet. Instinctively, I elbowed him in the stomach. He gave a pained grunt but kept on holding me. My elbow came up again. I’d break his rib this time.

  What the hell are you doing? He’s not the enemy. And you aren’t a chubby young girl having to fight every battle alone.

  I slowly relaxed. “I’m fine, I’m fine, just set me down.”

  “Get back in your truck, Denoto,” he ordered. “Now.”

  “Let her go!” Denoto yelled. “She owes me a fight.”

  “Tomorrow at noon,” I yelled over Jay’s constricting arm. “See you there.”

  An air horn shrieked. Along the river road came a golf cart at high speed. Or what had once been a regulation golf cart. Now it was a re-tooled mountain-mobile, with oversized tires and a tin awning where the cart roof used to be. Since it was traveling faster than any golf cart I’d ever seen, its re-do must have included a larger electric motor. The driver, illuminated by an overhead light tucked inside a large tin can, was a wide little woman in a pink quilted coat and a yarn cap with ear flaps. She raised the air horn again, shook it at Denoto like a threat, and hit the button.

  Pug had arrived.

  Denoto stalked back to her truck and her slashed hog and her dogs and her World of Warcraft fantasies, and drove down a lane that disappeared in the woods.

  Pug followed her, blowing the air horn angrily. It was like watching a Pomeranian chase a Doberman.

  Suddenly I was aware only of my heavy breathing, and Jay’s, and the fact that my back and hips were firmly pressed to his front. He loosened his arm and let my feet settle on the stones, but kept a hold around me, just beneath my breasts. I succumbed, at least briefly. He bent his head next to my ear. “I know a lot about your life in California . . .”

  “No doubt you spied on me because that’s what you Wakefields do.”

  “Because I care about you, and I wasn’t going to fail you again. I kept track of you, so I’d always know if you needed help. And you did. With that idiot business partner of yours.”

  “If I haven’t said it, then, thank you. I’ll pay you back—”

  “I knew you needed help, but I didn’t know you’d studied karate. When?”


  “When I was with Nick Sieger, the mixed martial arts trainer.” My only significant boyfriend. An off-and-on relationship. I’d earned a third-degree black belt in karate. “It was after . . . us. I met him about six months after our weekend.”

  “You wanted to hit men?”

  “Very much. Nick was happy to encourage me.”

  I turned inside the band of Jay’s arm. Now facing him, and still tightly pressed to his chest, I saw grim acceptance of that fact.

  “Want to challenge me?” he asked gruffly. “I’ll meet you at the Rock Ring. Let you hit me.”

  “I don’t want to hit you.”

  “Yes, you do. We could get my punishment over with. Call a truce? Start clean?”

  My heart sank. “If you’re really trying to earn my respect, why don’t you just drop the Free Wheeler scheme? Prove you have noble intentions. If Augustus Wakefield really did cheat my grandfather Sam out of that property, all you have to do is give Free Wheeler back to my family. We’d restore it; Tal loves it already, and so does Doug Firth. It would mean a lot to us. Maybe we could even get Gus to retire from the army before his luck runs out. He could open the beer brewery he’s always talking about. You could be our partner.”

  He bent his face close to mine, whispering. “I’d give you Free Wheeler in a heartbeat, no strings attached, if I could. But I can’t sell it or give it away because that forfeits the restrictions of my great-grandfather’s will. My dad died to protect that property, and I’m the only one powerful enough to keep E.W. from destroying it.”

  “And just like in the past, it’s worth more to you than I am.”

  “No, it’s worth a fortune in mining rights to E.W. And if he ever gets his hands on it, he’ll dig it up.”

  Gabby

  Welcome to the dead town

  E.W. WANTS FREE Wheeler destroyed.

  I needed more information before I reported to Tal and Doug. As for Gus, we were keeping him out of the loop. Holidays away from home were hard enough for him. Tomorrow both Tal and I would try to get a call through to his base in Afghanistan. If we couldn’t reach him then, we’d try again on Christmas Day.