Sweet Temptations Collection

by Brant, Marilyn

  After a twenty-minute search for house keys, they strolled the few blocks to Pummelhof’s Market, grabbed a blue basket and began sniffing and squeezing peppers. They selected six near-perfect specimens—firm to the touch, green like a palm leaf and possessing the distinctly scented aroma of roasted cactus. At least, that’s what Cait always thought roast cactus should smell like.

  They’d just moved on to the tomatoes when a familiar tuft of dark hair nabbed her attention. Her surprised gaze collided with Garrett’s. He, however, recovered an instant sooner and set his lips in a rigid line of incivility.

  “Good evening, Miss Walsh,” he said, sounding maliciously formal.

  Clearly she wasn’t forgiven for the day’s earlier comments. Not that she needed his forgiveness. So, okay, maybe she’d been a little rude. Normally she’d feel awful. Heck, normally she’d never resort to shouting or insult slinging. But none of her reactions to Garrett Ellis were remotely normal and, anyway, it was too late to take back her words.

  “And how are you, Mr. Ellis?” she said, proud of her reserved voice. Then, stating the obvious, “Out grocery shopping?”

  He looked fleetingly amused. “Why, yes, Miss Walsh. Even we hypocritical administrators eat broccoli on occasion.” He held up a baggie of Mr. Pummelhof’s best organic broccoli and swung it between them for a moment of show-and-tell. “And you?”

  “Peppers.”

  “Ah.”

  Cait noticed her mom watching their exchange from a few feet away with some confusion. Finally, the older woman stepped up to them and put a finger to her lips, her gray-eyed stare riveted on Garrett. “Why, I know your face, young man. Were you one of Cait’s high school boyfriends?”

  “Mom!”

  Her mother ignored Cait’s vigorous head shaking. “I’ve seen your picture, that’s what. Were you a college buddy of Seth’s? Maybe in our photo album at home—”

  “No, Mom. I don’t think so. This is Garrett Ellis, our new financial director. You’ve never met him before.” She turned to Garrett. “This is my mom, Georgina Walsh.”

  Garrett circumnavigated a mound of tomatoes and extended his hand to Cait’s mother. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Walsh.” Then tossing a significant glance at Cait, he added, “Working with your daughter has been an enlightening experience.” While he wasn’t exactly smiling, his voice didn’t have the same edge as before.

  “How wonderful,” her mother gushed. “It’s so nice when you can work with people you enjoy. Cait’s fortunate to have you in her school district.”

  Cait stifled a snicker.

  “But you look so very familiar, I can’t get over it. Do you do house painting?”

  “Mom, no. Mr. Ellis did not paint our house. Ever. I’m sure of it.”

  “Hmm,” her mother said, then abruptly walked away, picking up a large grapefruit in a bin and regarding it thoughtfully.

  Garrett squinted at the older woman as if trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle without the reference picture. He then glanced at Cait. “Got enough angst out of your system today, Miss Walsh? Think you’ll be ready to play nice with all the big kiddies tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” Cait shot back. “But, honestly, I wouldn’t count on it. Maybe you’d better just keep your distance if you don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.” She closed her eyes briefly, but when she opened them it was to the vision of her mother hopping up and down near a selection of fruit baskets. Oh, no.

  “You’re one of fruit and nut kids!” her mom said, pointing excitedly at him. “I knew I knew you from somewhere!”

  Cait saw him clamp his lips together and bow his head. “Yes, ma’am. That’s me. One of the fruit and nut kids.” She had to concede he used considerable restraint. Under his breath, however, he added, “I’ll force my father to cut me out of that damn basket photo tag if I have to turn his own lawyers against him.”

  Cait gave a short laugh. “A gift, from your house to his?”

  “You’re hilarious,” he murmured. In a regular voice he said, “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walsh. Hope you have a good evening.”

  “You, too, Mr. Ellis.” Her mom waved from the pineapples.

  Garrett looked once again at Cait. “See you tomorrow,” he said stiffly, heading to the checkout before she could reply.

  “What a nice young man the fruit and nut kid is,” Georgina said ten minutes later on their walk home. “And so attractive, too. Did you say he was your boyfriend, dear?”

  “Financial director.”

  “That’s right.” Her mother inhaled. “What a delicious night. Something in that brown paper bag smells wonderful.”

  “The green peppers, perhaps?” Cait suggested.

  “Yes, that’s it. I like peppers, but Seth loves them.”

  “He sure does. Since Dianne isn’t much for cooking them, I think he’ll really enjoy his dinner with us tomorrow night.”

  Her mother tilted her head in bewilderment. “Seth’s coming for dinner tomorrow?”

  ***

  Cait’s brother Seth burst through the back door, spotted her and grabbed her for a quick squeeze, lifting her feet off the kitchen floor in the process.

  “Put me down!” she shrieked, kicking him once or twice on the shin until he finally relented. All in all, not much had changed since they were kids.

  “Hey, Cait. Where’s Mom?”

  “Upstairs changing her outfit again. Every time she tries anything on, she’s reminded of another garment she’s misplaced. We search the closets and drawers until we find it, she puts it on and then remembers something she wore in nineteen seventy-two.” Cait felt ready to collapse and it was only five-thirty. “I’m a little worn out,” she admitted.

  “I can see that. Dealing with this is exhausting as hell.” Seth sniffed the warm kitchen aromas. “Stuffed peppers,” he said, grinning at her. “My favorite.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

  He reached over and sandwiched her right hand between both of his. “So, you for sure think it’s dementia setting in, huh?”

  She fought the tears that had been threatening to come out all day and nodded at her brother. “She has all the classic symptoms although, fortunately, she’s neither depressed nor argumentative. At least not yet. But it seems like she’s moving through the stages quickly. It’s more than typical age-related memory loss, Seth. We’ve got to get her in to see Dr. Zimmerman next week.”

  “I live closer. I’ll take her on Monday.” He stopped. “No, wait. Monday’s Labor Day. I’ll make sure she gets in Tuesday.”

  “Seth, I’m scared. If the decline in her memory continues at this rate, soon she won’t be able to take care of herself at all. What are we going to do then?”

  “Let’s wait and see what the doc says but, if need be, we can hire a nurse to come here to be with her. For peace of mind. Ours, of course.” He shrugged. “Mom probably wouldn’t be wild about giving up her independence. She’s like someone else I know.” He winked at her. “But maybe Dianne and I can convince her to move in with us eventually. We’ve got plenty of room, and Mia would be in toddler heaven with Grammy there.”

  Seth pulled her into a long hug and tried to lure her into a conversation about teaching. She resisted at first, but he finally managed to drag the problem out of her.

  “So, you need to find a large, open space to host this event, the Harvest Hoopla? And you need to find it in New Brighton?”

  “Exactly. I’ll probably spend the weekend making inquiries.”

  “Consider them made.”

  What was he up to now? She leveled her most suspicious look at him.

  “Would two acres of apple orchard be large enough?” he asked.

  Then she remembered. “You didn’t! You finally bought the property next door? When?”

  “Once they started seriously hinting about selling, we put in an offer. They accepted our bid a month ago, but we weren’t going to say anything until closing.”

  “Which is?”

  “N
ext Wednesday,” Seth admitted with a devilish grin. “Things have been so crazy around here…” He shrugged and kissed the top of her head. “So, you didn’t answer me. Will the orchard work?”

  “Are you sure you—”

  “Yes. And I can check downtown about permits, if one is even required for private property. You like?”

  She hugged him. “It would be perfect.”

  ***

  Later, back at her apartment, Cait placed the keys to her mother’s Escort in her jewelry box. After a long discussion, she and Seth had convinced their mom to forgo driving, and they gently wrestled away both sets of car keys on the condition that they’d ask Dr. Zimmerman’s opinion next week. Cait already knew what he’d say, though. Her mom’s memory was regressing in every way. Soon stop signs would be a mystery. She took a few yoga-like cleansing breaths, but they didn’t help.

  On the brighter side, this was one step in the right direction, and they’d all be together again on Monday for a little family Labor Day picnic. With Dianne and Mia there, too, her mother would be in high spirits.

  Although Mom had managed to retain her positive attitude so far, this had to be hardest of all on her. Cait sighed. Her mother needed moments like Monday’s event to cherish and look forward to, and Cait planned to provide them whenever possible. No matter what.

  Fortunately, the arrangements surrounding the Harvest Hoopla were looking up. Despite Sour Grapes Ellis. She’d seen Garrett a time or two in passing, but mostly he’d avoided her during school that day. No big surprise there. But with Seth offering the use of the orchard, she and the other teachers finally had a starting point in their attack.

  Now all she had to do was contact the vendors. Find out if they were willing to relocate to New Brighton. Ask if they could bring their own tables. Get in touch with members of the community who might donate supplies, services and decorations. Communicate the changes to the children and their parents while maintaining her professionalism. (Or, at least, not openly railing against the shortsightedness of the school’s financial director in public.) Oh, and she had to figure out how to publicize the event without cost or the usual channels of support.

  Not much work, eh?

  Cait collapsed into her cozy armchair, an ugly burnt orange dinosaur that had once graced her father’s den. If she put her nose up against the worn fabric, she sometimes thought she could still smell him there. Campfire smoke, hot coffee and paint chips.

  Maybe she could call a Racine or Kenosha radio station for advertising, since neither New Brighton nor Ridgewood Grove had one of its own. This would cost money though. She and the children in her class could make signs and post them. It would be cute, but a lot of information needed to be conveyed on a single poster. She wondered if there was anyone in the community who might volunteer to make eye-catching…

  Cait shot a look at the clock. 8:16PM Central Standard Time. That would be 9:16 Eastern. Not too terribly late. She fished in her tote bag, pulled out a tiny lavender business card, then she punched in the area code and telephone number. It rang twice before a chipper young woman answered.

  “Hello? Hello?” the upbeat voice asked.

  Cait inhaled and gathered her courage. She wasn’t really being bad, she told herself. This was divine justice. “Hi, Marianne. This is Cait Walsh from Ridgewood Grove. I’m calling to ask you for a little help.”

  “Well, heck, yeah! It’s about time. Ask away, girlfriend.”

  ***

  Garrett had a headache the size of the New England Patriots’ home field. He was about ready to strangle his sister, who’d just lectured him long distance for damn near an hour. He wished Unlimited Minutes and Family Discounts had never been invented by enterprising phone company employees.

  He opened the fridge. Oh, hell. No milk. No bread. No meat of any kind. Just some mustard packets, week-old leftover tuna salad and a half-empty jar of green olives with lost pimentos floating on the bottom. He checked the freezer. Ice cubes.

  He grabbed his wallet and his keys. He should’ve known to buy more than a bag of broccoli and a bunch of grapes when he was out at Pummelhof’s Market Thursday night, but seeing Cait there threw him. Now she and Marianne were in cahoots over this ridiculous Harvest Hoopla festival, the superintendent would be pissed when word of its covert reinstatement got out, he’d be back to square one in the search for the person siphoning money and, to top it all off, he couldn’t so much as make a sandwich for the noontime Denver-Dallas game.

  It was a quiet Sunday morning when Garrett entered the bakery. He’d picked up a few choice items from the deli next door and shifted the bag containing them from one hand to the other. Would Asiago cheese loaf or sourdough baguettes go better with smoked turkey and pepperjack? He was leaning toward the sourdough when the bell rattled, and he found himself face-to-face with Cait’s mom. He could tell she recognized him.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Walsh. How are you?” he said, feeling the edges of discomfort returning as he remembered his last conversation with her feisty, pain-in-the-ass daughter.

  “Why, good morning, Mr. El—um, El—” She broke off looking perplexed.

  “Ellis,” Garrett supplied.

  “Yes, Mr. Ellis. The fruit and nut kid!”

  “That’s right.” He glanced around, glad the place was almost empty. “Please, call me Garrett.”

  “I came in here to buy some nice rolls for our Labor Day picnic tomorrow. They have wonderful honey wheat rolls. Have you ever tried them?”

  “No,” he said, “but I’m sure they’re very good.” He snatched three sourdough baguettes and lunged toward the counter. He needed to get out of here, and fast. Where the mom was, the daughter might follow.

  “Oh, regular grocery stores don’t carry freshly baked breads like these. Hank and I used to enjoy coming here after church, especially when the children were little. Cait loved smelling the sweet rolls, fresh out of the oven. Hank would lift her up so she could see them all.” Mrs. Walsh sighed, a wistful look smoothing away some of the worry lines across her forehead. “She was Daddy’s Little Girl for so many, many years.”

  Garrett stepped a little closer to her. The expression on Georgina’s face revealed something he’d felt himself, more than once, whenever he’d remember what he and his grandmother did together. Grandma Maria didn’t treat him like a second-rate kid. She didn’t ignore him or threaten to never speak to him. The only bad thing she ever did was up and die when Garrett was twenty-one and leave him without a family advocate.

  Garrett whispered, “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mrs. Walsh looked up at him. He was pained by the tears he saw glistening in her eyes.

  She sniffled. “Well, never mind.” She dug into her purse. “There was another important thing I wanted besides rolls, and now I can’t find my list. You’re such a nice young man, Mr. Ellis—Garrett—could you please look for me?”

  She surprised him by thrusting her unzipped handbag at him. Garrett laid his bread down on the counter and sifted through lipstick and a bunch of female gunk before discovering a folded half-slip of paper.

  He handed it to her along with the heavy brown purse. “Here you go, Mrs. Walsh. The paper says, ‘Honey wheat rolls and cinnamon-raisin bread.’”

  “Thank you.” She was really staring at him now, no longer lost in memory. In fact, she looked alert and altogether too attentive. “You know,” she said, “our lunch picnic is tomorrow from eleven to three. We’re at Two-Thirty-Six West Lawn Avenue. I’d be delighted if you could join us.”

  Garrett inhaled. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but—”

  “Oh, I know you young people are always so busy, with so many plans, even on a national holiday. But Cait will be there, and I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you. You haven’t met my son Seth yet, have you?”

  He shook his head.

  “My, would he ever enjoy getting to talk with one of Cait’s new colleagues! And you could meet his wife, Dianne, and my precious little granddaughter, Mia.” Mr
s. Walsh plunged into her purse and retrieved a photo. She flicked the image of a pigtailed cherub in sturdy toddler overalls at him and beamed. “Please join us.”

  While he could imagine just how thrilled Cait would be to see him at a private family function, he had to admit the idea appealed to his more devious side. Turnabout was fair play. Plus, she’d have to talk with him in her mother’s home. He grinned at Georgina Walsh.

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “Thanks for the kind invitation.”

  ***

  Cait parked in her mom’s driveway behind Seth and Dianne’s Land Rover and rushed to the door for the picnic. She loathed being late, but she’d been stuck in a discussion with the storyteller, who was excited to tell ghost tales at the Hoopla’s new location. An hour of conversation couldn’t sufficiently express his delight.

  She clutched a tub of homemade potato salad and a bottle of sweet apple cider in one hand, unlocked the front door with the other and entered a house under siege. Mia’s puppy Gibberish, a chunky golden lab, sprang high off the stairs with his three-year-old owner in hot pursuit, both missing Cait by inches as they rounded the corner toward the family room. Cait heard laughing voices in the kitchen. She smiled.

  “Hello, everyone,” she called out, flushing a bit from her hurried arrival and striding toward the kitchen with the expectation of seeing Seth in his usual spot snitching chips, Dianne leaning against the doorframe chatting while folding paper napkins and Mom giving the chili a final stir. Cait burst into the room and her smile froze.

  Seth tossed a chip in the air, catching it in his open mouth. Dianne leaned over and smacked him in the nose with a stack of unfolded napkins. Her mother giggled before turning back to the pot on the stove. And Garrett Ellis, a paring knife in one hand and a cantaloupe wedge in the other, let his baritone laugh ring out across the kitchen as Seth said to him, “Your turn, buddy.”