by Peg Cochran
The cranberry vines, which had lain shriveled and dormant under a protective coating of ice and sand over the winter, had finally bloomed, creating a sea of delicate pink flowers trembling in the breeze that blew over the bog.
Jeff was standing on the far side of the bog, leaning on a shovel and taking a swig from a bottle of water. Monica felt a rush of affection at the sight of his tall, thin frame and the shock of curly auburn hair that matched her own.
Jeff turned when he heard her coming.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He motioned toward the flowers that carpeted the cranberry bog.
“It certainly is,” Monica said. They stood quietly for a moment, admiring the scene.
Mittens ran through the grass, batting her paw at a butterfly that had the good sense to stay just beyond the kitten’s reach.
“By the way,” Monica said turning toward Jeff, “do you know who’s living in that cottage down at the bottom of the hill that runs into town? The one that’s been abandoned?”
Jeff cocked his head. “No. What makes you think someone is living there? Like you said, everyone has always assumed it’s been abandoned.”
“I saw smoke coming from the chimney and a Jeep parked in the driveway.”
Jeff shrugged. “That’s curious. There’ve been no signs of life around the place for years as far as I know. According to what I’ve heard, the man that used to own it died and no one ever came to claim it.” He took another pull on his water bottle. “I’m sure someone in town already knows all about it—Bart or the VanVelsen sisters or someone at the Cranberry Cove Diner. If there’s one thing the residents of Cranberry Cove are good at, it’s keeping their ear to the ground.”
“I’ve already asked the VanVelsens and they don’t know a thing, and neither does Bart.”
“Now that surprises me,” Jeff said, chuckling. “Someone is obviously very good at keeping a secret if those three don’t know anything about it.”
Monica laughed. “You can say that again.” She touched Jeff’s arm. “Don’t forget about dinner tonight.”
Jeff rubbed his stomach with one hand. “I won’t. I’m really looking forward to a good meal.” His expression became serious. “I do appreciate how you take care of me, sis.”
Monica strongly doubted that Jeff was taking good care of himself. She suspected that he subsisted on takeout from the Cranberry Cove Diner, microwaveable meals and the occasional dinner at the Cranberry Cove Inn with Gina. It would be good when he was married, assuming his intended bride could cook. Right now his current girlfriend, Lauren, was off in Chicago doing an internship at a marketing firm.
Jeff was worried that Lauren would choose big city life over him and a farm in Cranberry Cove. Monica wasn’t so sure, and she certainly hoped not. Lauren had been instrumental in pulling Jeff out of the depression he’d been in after returning from his tour in Afghanistan, and Monica was afraid that all of that would be undone if he and Lauren broke up.
They heard a rumble in the distance and turned to see a truck bumping its way down the primitive path that led to the bog. The open flatbed of the truck was stacked with pallets loaded with unusual looking wood boxes. The boxes were light colored with recessed handles. They were banded together and tied to the pallets to keep them from falling over or sliding off the truck.
Monica looked at Jeff. “What strange looking boxes. What are they?”
“Those are beehives,” Jeff said, watching as the truck made its slow and laborious way down the path, jouncing over the ruts and furrows.
“Beehives?” Monica said. “What on earth are you going to do with them? Are you taking up beekeeping?”
“Hardly.” Jeff laughed. “I’m only renting them.”
“Renting them?” Monica wondered for a brief moment if something had happened to interfere with Jeff’s faculties. He’d injured his arm while stationed in Afghanistan—could something have happened to his brain as well? “Why would you rent bees?”
Jeff seemed to be enjoying Monica’s confusion because a dimple formed at the corner of his mouth, which was drawn into a teasing half smile.
“Cranberry flowers aren’t capable of self-fertilization. We need the bees to move the pollen from one flower to another. Without the bees, we would be lucky to get fifteen berries per square foot—with the help of the bees those same vines will produce around one hundred and fifty berries.”
Monica waved a hand in the air. “Don’t we already have bees here on the farm? I swear I heard one buzzing around me yesterday when I was sweeping my front steps.”
Jeff pointed toward the bog. “Each flower needs to be visited several times. We don’t have enough native bees for such a big job. Plus the nectar in cranberry flowers doesn’t appeal as much to bees, so native bees tend to swarm elsewhere.”
Monica was amazed by how much she had learned—and continued to learn—since arriving at Sassamanash Farm. Cranberry farming was far more complicated than she’d ever imagined.
The wheels of the truck left a path of flattened grass as it made its way over the field beside the bog. It came to a stop and a man jumped out of the driver’s side. He approached Jeff and Monica. He was long and lanky, wearing overalls and a T-shirt, and had thick dark hair that he kept brushing off his forehead as he walked toward them. Monica thought him nice looking—boyish and with an unassuming manner.
He held his hand out to Monica. “Rick Taylor.” He jerked his head in the direction of the farm store. “Nora’s husband.”
Nora worked part-time in the farm store, where they sold the cranberry goods Monica baked along with cranberry-themed kitchen and dining items. Nora talked about her husband occasionally, but had never mentioned what he did—most of her conversation centered around their children.
There was the sound of a motor knocking and a car came into view, headed across the field. It pulled up behind the truck. It was rusted, covered in dust, and it made Monica’s ancient Ford Focus look like a late-model luxury car. The driver’s side door opened and a woman stepped out.
“Lori,” Rick called to her. “Come meet Jeff and . . . ?” He looked at Monica questioningly.
“Monica.”
“Monica,” he finished.
Lori was in jeans and a T-shirt and had a sturdy, athletic-looking body. She wasn’t pretty but was attractive in an outdoorsy sort of way.
“Lori Wenk, my assistant,” Rick said when Lori reached them.
The girl did not look well, Monica thought when she got closer. Beads of sweat clustered on her forehead and her skin had an unhealthy pasty color.
The girl smiled at Monica, pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and dabbed her forehead and the back of her neck. Her hand trembled and Monica thought her breath was coming rather fast—as if she’d run rather than walked across the field.
“Awfully hot today, isn’t it?”
Monica hadn’t found it particularly hot—certainly warm but with a breeze that was developing a cool edge as the clouds continued to blow in.
Rick looked at Lori. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m just a little queasy, that’s all. I’m sure it will pass. I think it was that Chinese takeout we had last night.” She rubbed her forehead.
“Can I get you some water or—” Monica started.
“No, that’s fine.” Lori shook her head then winced. She turned to Rick. “What do you think? Should we release the bees?” She put her hand on Rick’s arm.
Rick looked up at the sky and scratched his head. “It’s quite overcast and there’s rain in the air.” He looked at Monica and smiled. “Honeybees don’t like dark days, and while I’ve never minded a few drops of rain myself, bees definitely don’t like getting wet. It riles them up, and they don’t want to work.” He turned to Lori. “I think we’d better wait and see if the weather is any better tomorrow before letting them out.”
“Whatever you say.” Lori slipped her arm through Rick’s. “Rick knows everything there is to know about bees.” She glanced up at him, a look of admiration on her face.
Rick cleared his throat and gently removed his arm from Lori’s. “I don’t know about that.” He laughed.
Lori swayed and leaned against Rick.
He gently steadied her then moved away, looking more and more uncomfortable.
Monica watched them. It looked as if Lori had an old-fashioned crush on her boss.
“It was nice meeting you,” Monica nodded to Rick and Lori. “I’m afraid I’ve got to get to work.”
“See you later,” Jeff called out as Monica began to walk away.
“Nice to meet you,” Rick and Lori called in unison.
Monica glanced back and saw Lori sway toward Rick again. She turned and headed toward the dirt path that wound around a smaller bog and then toward the building that housed the farm store, the processing room and now, their new commercial kitchen.
The kitchen was small as far as commercial kitchens went, but it enabled Monica to fulfill orders for her cranberry salsa. She’d started selling to Fresh Gourmet, a national chain that had a store on the highway just outside of Cranberry Cove. At first, product had only been going to the local store, but when Fresh Gourmet decided to expand their orders, Monica had had to expand as well. The tiny kitchen in her cottage didn’t give her enough room to produce the quantity of salsa she needed. Plus she had to be sure that she met all the health and safety regulations that working on such a large scale required. The state’s aptly named cottage food law allowed for the sale of small quantities of homemade products—like what was sold in the farm store—but not for production of the quantities Monica would eventually be making.
Jeff had agreed on the expansion, and they’d gone to the bank for a loan to build a commercial kitchen. Monica had had butterflies in her stomach signing the papers—what if something went wrong or the grocery store cancelled its order? It had been a leap of faith—faith in herself, Jeff and Sassamanash Farm—to borrow the money.
They’d built the kitchen off of the processing room, where berries were sorted and readied for shipment. The addition had white shingles like the rest of the building, and its own entrance. Monica had painted the door a cheery cranberry red.
She was approaching the kitchen when she saw Nora Taylor standing outside the back door of the farm store. Her head was turned toward where Rick, Jeff and Lori were standing, and her hands were balled into fists at her sides.
She pivoted and waved when she noticed Monica walking toward her.
“You don’t look too happy,” Monica said as she neared Nora.
Nora slid her round tortoiseshell glasses up her nose with her finger. “I’m not.” She gave an unconvincing laugh. “I know it shouldn’t bother me, but. . . .” She looked at Monica. “I hate how Lori flirts with Rick the way she does—touching him, taking his arm or leaning on him. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Oh, I noticed,” Monica said. “But frankly, Rick seemed more embarrassed by it than pleased.”
Nora sighed and began pleating the fabric of her cranberry-patterned apron with her fingers. “I know Rick would never cheat on me. Still, it gets my goat watching that . . . that hussy come on to him the way she does. And you can’t tell me he doesn’t enjoy it at least the tiniest bit.” She looked at Monica. “What man wouldn’t be flattered by the attention of a younger woman?”
Monica found it hard to reconcile the term hussy with Lori who, while not unattractive, was dressed in a worn T-shirt, faded jeans, socks and heavy work boots coated with mud. Not exactly the attire of a femme fatale or temptress.
“I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Nora looked doubtful.
“I know I am.” Monica squeezed Nora’s arm.
Nora sighed. “I’d better get back inside. I think I heard a car pull into the parking lot.” She turned to Monica again. “We’re almost out of muffins—”
“I’m on it. That’s the first thing on my list this morning.”
“Great. I hate disappointing our customers,” Nora said.
“I’ll bring them over as soon as they’re out of the oven.”
“Thanks.” Nora smiled and opened the door to the farm store.
• • •
Monica walked toward the new building, which formed an L, with the farm store being the short part of the L and the processing room and new commercial kitchen making up the longer stroke of the letter.
She pulled the keys from her pocket as she approached the door to the kitchen, but realized the lights were already on and the door was unlocked.
“Arline?” she called out as she stepped across the threshold.
Monica had recently hired Arline Loomis, a local girl, to help her in the kitchen. It was another expense that Monica hoped would prove to be worthwhile. Not that she could afford to pay all that much. This was only one of Arline’s part-time jobs that she juggled while taking classes at the County Community College.
Arline stuck her head around the door to the supply closet. “In here,” she announced.
“Have you started on the batter for the muffins yet?” Monica asked, taking a chef’s apron from a hook by the door and tying it around her waist. “Nora says they’re almost out.”
“I was about to.” Arline closed the door to the closet. She was holding her phone in her hand.
Monica looked at her curiously.
Arline held up her cell. “Believe it or not, reception is better in the closet.”
“Seriously?”
Arline nodded. “I had a call from my neighbor. She said she was walking past the house with her dog—the most annoying beast you could imagine, barks all the time—when she noticed the front door was ajar. I’m quite certain I closed it. . . .” Arline bit her lip.
“You’d better go then and check on it. I can manage on my own.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m just a boarder,” Arline explained. “But the owner of the house is an older woman—she spends most of her time in a recliner in the den watching television—and she might not notice the door is open until it’s too late.”
Arline pulled off her apron, leaving her dark hair in its pixie cut standing out around her head as if electrified. She smoothed it down with one hand while she shoved her phone into the pocket of her shorts with the other.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Arline said as she headed toward the door. “Probably just the wind. . . .”
“Maybe you should call the police?”
Arline shook her head. “If I notice anything amiss I certainly will, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of the latch not holding.”
Monica smiled. It was well known that no one in Cranberry Cove bothered to lock their door. They all looked out for each other and woe betide anyone who tried to break into someone’s home when they weren’t there.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” Monica assured her as Arline closed the door behind her.
Monica was used to working alone and doing everything herself. She’d single-handedly made all the baked goods for her now-defunct café in Chicago and had then gone behind the counter and waited on customers. It had made for a terribly long day, and in the end it hadn’t been enough to keep the café from going under when a national chain coffee shop moved in across the street.
But if that hadn’t happened, Monica mused, she wouldn’t be in Cranberry Cove right now, where she was enjoying life in a small town more than she ever thought possible. She certainly wasn’t considered a local yet—that took several generations—but she knew many of the people and they had come to accept her presence in what they considered to be their town.
Monica was pouri
ng batter into muffin tins when a hollow knock sounded on the wooden frame of the screen door to the kitchen.
“Come in,” Monica called as she opened the oven door. A blast of dry heat billowed out and Monica averted her face momentarily. She slid the muffin tins in and turned around to find Lori standing by the entrance.
She felt herself bristle slightly after having heard Nora’s comments, but forced herself to smile as a wave of pity washed over her. The girl really didn’t look well.
“Can I help you?”
Lori took a step farther into the kitchen. She looked embarrassed. “Do you have a restroom I could use?”
Her face was still alarmingly pale and the hair around her face was damp with perspiration.
Monica slid off her potholders. “Oh, sure. Right over there.” She pointed toward a door that was slightly ajar.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Monica was pulling a bag of cranberries from the freezer when Lori reappeared.
“If it’s not too much trouble, could I have a glass of water?” She reached into her pocket and pulled something out that she held in her palm, her hand trembling. “I hope I’m not being a pest, but I’m afraid I must have a migraine coming on.” She held her hand toward Monica. “Hopefully one of these will help.” She opened her fist to reveal a small pill. “It’s the swift change in the weather that’s brought it on I’m afraid.”
Monica grabbed a glass from the cabinet next to the sink and filled it with water. She handed it to Lori.
“Thanks.” Lori tossed the pill into her mouth and took a gulp of water. She swiped a hand across her wet lips. “Hopefully that will head it off before it gets too bad.”
Monica smiled. “I hope so.” The girl’s face was pinched and her breathing was still more rapid than normal. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Lori nodded. “Thanks,” she said as she headed toward the door.
The door to the kitchen was closing behind her when the timer on the stove pinged. Monica quickly donned her oven mitts again and pulled out the half dozen tins of baked muffins. She set them on the long counter and whipped off her gloves. She looked around the room.
