by Tamar Myers
My mouth opened wide enough to catch a golf ball. I willed it into speaking position.
“You’re not going to cancel? But you only have three judges, and one of them is in the hospital, maybe dying, and—”
“Jim will be fine.” He patted a cell phone in his suit pocket. “I talked to his doctor just before you drove up. A nice Dr. Gilderstein, I believe.”
“That’s Dr. Rosenkrantz,” I snapped.
“Anyway, you were right. It is a case of food poisoning. But a fairly mild one at that. Jim passed out because he was dehydrated. He’d been throwing up all night.”
That explained all the flushing I’d heard. I had all the plumbing updated when I turned the family home into an inn, but there’s just so much you can do with two-hundred-year-old walls.
“It’s a good thing I have my own well,” I said. “Those motels in Bedford would charge you extra for all that water.”
He chuckled. “The good news is that the paramedics hooked him up to an IV right away, and by the time I called, Jim was coming around.”
“So he’s going to judge, after all?”
He chuckled again. “Not hardly. I don’t think he’ll be able to look at solid food for a day or two, and our schedule has us judging the first entry tomorrow.”
“Two judges is an interesting concept,” I said kindly.
“Oh, there will be three of us, if my hunch is right.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, who’s the third?”
He laughed outright. “You are, Miss Yoder.”
Chapter Eight
“Yes.”
His blue eyes danced the tarantella. “That is, if you’ll agree. And I’m pretty sure you will.”
“And just what makes you so sure?”
He slapped his knee, an unseemly thing for the top executive of a large company to do. “You’re a pistol,” he said, between laughs.
I felt my eyebrows arch involuntarily. “I beg your pardon?”
“A real live wire. You’ve got sass. I like that in a person.”
“I do not have sass,” I said hotly. “I’m just a mild- mannered woman with an attitude.”
“You see what I mean? Anyway, you’d make a great judge. You’ve got exactly what it takes.”
I stood up. “Mr. Mitchell, I don’t have time to sit here and play games. Not if you want me schlepping your guests into town on a field trip.”
“Schlepping?”
“Babs says that—she’s a frequent guest here. It means—”
“I know what it means. Now give me one good reason why you couldn’t be a judge.”
“Because one of your contestants is my cook. She also happens to be my cousin. Not to mention my closest friend.”
He put his well-manicured hands together, fingertip to fingertip, forming a tent. “And you don’t think you’re capable of making an impartial decision?”
I stared at him. What a silly question. I am the fairest person I know. At the risk of sounding vain, King Solomon and I are soul siblings. Unfortunately, impartiality does not seem to be valued highly in today’s world. I’ve played hostess to a few presidents since the inn opened, and the fact that none of them has offered me an appointment to the Supreme Court baffles me. “Well, could you?” he asked.
“Does a cow have four teats?”
The fingertips did a nervous dance. He was obviously a city boy.
I made it easy. “Do politicians lie?”
“Excellent! Welcome aboard, Miss Yoder. One more thing—would you be so kind as to not tell anyone about this, until I make an official announcement?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. And you may call me Magdalena, if you wish.” I know, that was very generous on my part, but after all, we were now colleagues of a sort.
“Then you may call me George.” He winked. “And if you’re really good—Georgie Boy.”
I recoiled in horror, and justifiably so. Aaron Daniel Miller, my pseudo-ex-husband, used to refer to a significant portion of himself as Danny Boy. There was no way on God’s good earth that I was ever going to get that well acquainted with George Mitchell.
“That was a joke,” he said quickly.
Perhaps I’d misunderstood. “My sister calls me Mags,” I said charitably.
“If you don’t mind, I prefer Magdalena. Mag-da-len-a. What a beautiful name. It just seems to roll off the tongue.”
I could feel myself blush. It’s possible I even twittered.
“It suits you well,” he said.
I twittered some more, and might not have come to my senses in time, had it not been for Freni.
“Ach, there you are!” she said, bustling into the room. “Where—” She stopped, eying our mugs with the telltale rings of cocoa. “So it was you who made a mess of my kitchen!”
“Mr. Mitchell and I were cold, Freni. Besides. You weren’t anywhere around.”
“I was out gathering eggs, Magdalena. They don’t gather themselves, you know.”
I gave her a placating smile. “Pull up a chair and join us, dear.”
“Ach!” She threw up her hands. Freni won’t sit still until well after she’s dead. Work is what the Good Lord expects of us, and my cousin is not about to let Him down.
“Say, Freni, what’s this I hear about two pans of bread pudding? When we asked for seconds last night, you said there wasn’t any left.”
Freni turned the color of pickled egg. “I do not lie, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder!”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you did.” I winked at Mr. Mitchell. “Maybe you just forgot that you made that extra pan.”
“That pan was for Mose, if you must know. Bread pudding is his favorite, and I don’t have time to make it anymore, thanks to all the work you have me do around here.”
I ignored her implication that I am a slave driver. “But Susannah said she found it in the fridge in the middle of the night.”
Freni’s color deepened. “Ach, so I forgot to take it home! Is that a sin?”
“Absolutely not, and you have my deepest apologies.” I tried to sound sincere.
Freni stood rooted to the ground, like a stout, black stump. While I was wracking my brain for something more soothing, but that I would be willing to say, it occurred to me that I might be on the wrong track.
“Is there something specific you wanted to talk to me about dear?”
“Yah. You were supposed to take this bunch of English shopping in Bedford, yah?”
So that was it! “Yes, but—”
“They were going to eat lunch there too, yah?”
“That was the plan, but—”
“Look at your watch, Magdalena.”
I glanced at my five-dollar WalMart special. “Ach!” I squawked. “It’s almost noon.”
Freni nodded with satisfaction. “And I have nothing in the house except Mexican pancakes. I was going to go shopping myself, remember?”
“Mexican pancakes?” George asked. “Sounds interesting.”
“She means flour tortillas,” I said. “Willie Nelson was here last week and had a hankering for some Tex-Mex.” Mama would be amazed at how savvy I have become since she died, despite my skirts.
“You have chicken?”
“Ach, you don’t gather eggs from cows,” Freni said, clearly annoyed. The English haven’t a clue, as far as she’s concerned.
“I mean, chicken meat. Like in the freezer.”
“Plenty,” I said, wondering where this was headed. “How about cheddar cheese and sour cream?”
“Two cows, with four teats each,” I reminded him. “Salsa?”
“Yes—homemade—but we call it tomato relish.”
“Black beans?”
“Ach!” Freni clapped her hands. “Terrible things. But Willy liked them so much, I bought two extra cans.”
George jumped to his feet. “Then it’s settled. My wife Marilyn created a terrific dish with not much more than that. With your permission Mrs. Hostetler—Miss Yode
r—I’d like to make lunch.”
Freni frowned.
“I promise not to make a mess, and of course I’ll wash the dishes.”
“Ach, a man after my own heart,” Freni said, and practically dragged George off to the kitchen.
I may have a negative quality or two, but laziness is not among them. First Grandma Yoder, and then Mama, saw to it that my hands were always busy. I will be the first to admit that I have no special talents, but I can clean house with the best of them, sew, garden, and even kill and pluck a chicken. Why is it then that I feel guilty every time I sit down—unless it’s to eat, or go to the bathroom? Even then I can never totally relax. I generally gulp down my food, and I refuse to keep a Reader’s Digest on the john. A quick entry, and a quick exit, has been the story of my life. And confidentially, my pseudo-marriage to Aaron didn’t change a thing.
Is it a sin to put one’s feet up on a hassock, close one’s eyes, and daydream just a little? I would like to think not, but I nearly jumped out of my skin when Marge Benedict walked into the parlor and interrupted my reverie.
“I was praying,” I said. Then I really did pray, asking forgiveness for my lie.
“Pardon me,” she said, and patiently waited until I was quite through.
I opened my eyes wide, as an all-clear sign.
“Do you have a fax machine, Miss Yoder?” It was more of a statement than a question.
The first time I was asked that question I recoiled in horror. “The only safe fax is no fax,” I blurted, much to the confusion of my guest. Thank heavens I am more sophisticated now.
“Actually, I don’t,” I said, and barely blushed.
I know that astounds people, almost as much as the fact that I do not own a computer. These are not religious restrictions, mind you, just manifestations of my technologically challenged condition.
“You’re kidding—I mean, where can I go to find a fax machine?”
“There are a couple of places in Bedford, I think. This afternoon when we go into town, I’ll help you find one.”
She sucked on her bottom lip. “That’ll have to do, I guess.”
I motioned to the chair vacated by George. As long as we both sat and made conversation, I didn’t need to feel guilty.
“Thanks.”
“So, you’re a magazine editor,” I said.
“Food critic,” she corrected me. “Do you read American Appetite magazine?”
“Ah, the one with the meaty articles,”’ I said. Lies by implication are off-white at worst. This one was ecru.
“Yes, that’s the one. I travel constantly, trying to keep up with the food trends.” She sighed. “People think it’s a cushy job, but it definitely has its downside.”
“Like what?” I wondered aloud.
“You have a very nice place here,” she said, waving a hand as thin as a talon, “and, confidentially, Mrs. Hostetler is a passable cook, but this is more the exception than the rule. I’ve eaten in dives that the roaches gave up on.”
“But you must find something satisfying about your work—don’t you?”
It was a question that was beginning to nag at me. While I enjoyed presiding as proprietress over a prosperous pension, there is a lot of stress in my line of work. Quite frankly, there are times when there simply is not enough room under this roof for my ego and those of the rich and famous. As Robin Leach once said to me—never mind, that was confidential. At any rate, in recent months, especially since the unraveling of my mock marriage, I have entertained the idea of becoming a missionary. There is an eccentric lady at church whose parents were missionaries in the Belgian Congo, now just the Congo, and she has been encouraging me to go there and work in the refugee camps. She thinks I’d be a natural, due to my organizational skills and take-charge attitude. Of course such a drastic step is unthinkable until Susannah finally flies the nest for good. But by then, I’ll probably be organizing wheelchair races at the Bedford County Mennonite Home for the Aged.
Marge Benedict leaned forward. Her chair was near the parlor window, and although the November sun was hitting her back, I couldn’t see a shadow.
“I used to love my job—before he took over.”
I leaned forward. “Who’s he?”
She glanced at the parlor doors. The one on her left opens into the lobby. From where I was sitting, I could see that the lobby—really just a small vestibule—was empty. The other door, over my right shoulder, was problematic. It opened onto the back hall that, I hate to admit, is fairly dark and narrow. Susannah claims it is a perfect place for lurkers.
“Mr. Mitchell,” she whispered.
“George Mitchell?”
She held a finger to her lips. No fairy-tale witch would ever eat her.
“I was on the road for six years before I worked myself up to management. Three years as assistant editor, and two years as editor. I was supposed to be presiding editor when Agnes Harkgrew retired, but he had other ideas.”
“What does he have to do with it?” I whispered. In all fairness, my whispers have been likened to a drill sergeant on a bullhorn.
Her large brown eyes seemed to be searching the darkness behind me. “He owns American Appetite magazine, that’s what. East Coast Delicacies bought us out last year. Agnes Harkgrew retired early and I—well, I didn’t get her job. In fact, I got demoted.”
“Back to square one,” I said sympathetically.
“Well, not exactly square one. I used to do straight reporting—run-of-the-mill reviews, that sort of thing. Now I get to judge contests, and write inspiring articles on food trends. Of course this is all really just publicity for East Coast Delicacies.”
Both Freni and Susannah think I’m bitter, but you could sweeten Marge Benedict by sprinkling her with lemon juice.
“Why don’t you just quit?”
“Food review is a specialized niche, you know. It’s not like I run a motel.”
“Well!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I meant a B and B.”
“This isn’t a B and B,” I may have snapped. “This is an inn with atmosphere.”
And as far as I was concerned—due to the atmosphere—our conversation was over.
There is no rest for the wicked, Mama always said. If that maxim applies only to the wicked, then I make Saddam Hussein look like a Goody Two-shoes. No sooner had I closed my eyes again than the doorbell rang. One of these days I’m going to drive into Pittsburgh and select a doorbell with a pleasant chime— perhaps the opening bar from “The Sound of Music.” My current bell squeals like a terrified pig. Ned Beatty once said it gave him goose bumps.
When I saw that it was Lodema Schrock standing there, her pocketbook clutched in front of her in both gloved hands, I almost didn’t open the door. But I am ever the optimist, and the woman did owe me five dollars she’d borrowed from me at a church bazaar the year before.
“Yes?’ I said guardedly.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I thought about it. Lodema is a pillar of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. She is president of Mennonite Ladies’ Sewing Circle, leader of the Wednesday Women’s Bible Study, church organist, Sunday school teacher to the senior high class, adviser to the Mennonite Youth Group, plus she’s married to the pastor.
None of this has stopped Lodema from being the town’s biggest gossip. To make matters worse, she has a razor-sharp tongue, which she wields like a scythe in a wheat field, and unfortunately I was experiencing a bumper crop that year.
“Invite you in?” I echoed, stalling for time. “Well, you see, we’re just about to eat lunch.”
“I haven’t eaten my lunch yet.”
“You haven’t? Oh, well, then I won’t be keeping you.” I started to close the door.
Lodema has disgustingly small feet, and she’s remarkably quick with them. She also wears sensible shoes that can hold up to a good slamming.
“Magdalena, I need to talk to you, and I need to talk to you now.”
I
wracked my brain for sins past, present, and future. In all honesty, all I could come up with was the fact that I had skipped church the day before and pawned my Sunday school class—the junior high—off on Annie Blough. Although Annie is a sweet person, she has the intelligence of a hitching post, and half the personality. Whenever she substitutes for me, the kids tend to get out of hand. The last time I was absent the girls locked themselves in the bathroom and smoked a cigarette, and the boys stuffed X-rated pictures in the tract box.
“Annie promised she’d stay on top of things!” I wailed.
“Your Sunday school class is only part of it, Magdalena.”
I prayed for wisdom and patience. There’s nothing quite as frightening as a pacifist pastor’s wife on the warpath.
“Make it quick, dear. Like I said, it’s almost lunch.”
I made no move to let her in, and if I was letting enough warm air out of my house to turn the front yard into a tropical jungle, so be it. Lodema has made no secret of the fact that she thinks the PennDutch should be renamed The Den of Iniquity. Of course that doesn’t stop her from gawking at my celebrity guests whenever she gets the chance.
“If I catch my death of cold out here, at least I’m going to heaven,” she said.
“Bon voyage, dear.”
“What? Magdalena, I suppose you think that’s one of your funny worldly jokes?”
I tugged harder on the door. Even the best shoes have their limits.
“Well, it wasn’t funny, you know that? In fact, that’s why I’m here.”
“My salvation is assured,” I said. I know that’s not a popular position with some folks, but I firmly believe that.
She fumbled with her purse, extracted a clump of tissues, and dabbed at her reddening nose. “I’m not talking about your salvation per se. That’s between you and the Lord. I’m talking about how you flaunt your worldly ways in front of the rest of us. The stumbling blocks you set in our paths, so to speak.”
“That’s not a stumbling block at the front of the driveway,” I snapped. “That’s a concrete urn, and if you’ve hit that again—”
“Your adultery!” she barked. “That’s what I’m talking about! Your sin of lying with a married man, and then not having the decency and humility to confess it publicly.”
