The Cherry Cola Book Club

by Ashton Lee

  She had called him on the weight gain and his eating habits early on. “We’re going to have to buy you new clothes the way you’re going—at the big, tall, and spiffy store, if it exists,” she had said, trying her best to make light of it.

  “That’s not a bad thing,” he had pointed out. “A well-fed husband is good advertising for your cooking show. Your listeners would lose faith in you if I were the gaunt, skinny runt of Cherico.” And he had kept right on standing and making more “islands” of his ice cream, while taking second and third helpings of her scrumptious cooking at the dining room table.

  “You need to slow down,” she had warned on another occasion. “You act like food and time are in limited supply. You’re always on that cell phone. I wish the damned thing had never been invented!”

  “I sees ’em, and I calls ’em—just like I used to in the huddle,” he had answered, making a joke of it.

  But he was serious about cornering the real-estate market in Cherico before he was thirty-five, and he had done so with a succession of high-profile lake development projects. After that, his bank balance and his waistline had expanded simultaneously. Yet there were still vestiges in his fleshy face of the rugged, but handsome athlete who had swept bubbly Becca Heflin off her feet and down the aisle to the altar over a decade ago.

  “The least you can do is accompany me to the library and have a bite to eat. You don’t have to stay and open your big mouth after that. But everyone is expecting you to show up. They’ve been just dying to meet you,” Becca reminded him. “You could end up being the star of the evening.”

  “And you set all of that up without my permission!” he fired back. “One night, I come home from work, and you tell me that we’re going to one of your fussy ‘ladies’ night out’ affairs at the library. You expect me to jump up and down?”

  “I expect us to do something together once in a while, Justin. What’s the harm in that?”

  He didn’t answer her, plopping down on the edge of the huge four-poster bed to pull his socks on. “For cripes’ sake, these don’t match!” he cried out suddenly, dangling the pair in front of his face. “One’s navy blue and the other’s black. You spend much more time on the radio than you do with our laundry. I told you to hire someone to help you around the house. Why do you object to our having servants? We can easily afford it!”

  “I’m well aware of that, but let’s argue one thing at a time,” she continued as he headed toward his closet. “All I’m asking right now is that you go and at least meet my new friends. Won’t you do that much?”

  Momentarily, he emerged with a matching pair and then surprisingly gave in, nodding his head grudgingly. “Okay, okay. I’ll put in an appearance to keep the peace around here. But after that, I’m off to The Twinkle to meet up with Winston. You can stay and yak about To Kill a Mockingbird ’til the cows come home and the early bird gets the worm.”

  “Now that’s original commentary if I ever heard it,” Becca remarked, rising from her vanity with a pert little smile firmly in place.

  Connie was standing at one of her great room windows admiring the way the early evening sun played off the slack water of Lake Cherico in the distance. The horizon was tinged with orange and gold, except for wild brush strokes of coral that were doing their best to blot out what remained of the day’s blue allotment. It was now quarter to seven, and she had spent the better part of the last hour luring Douglas out of his precious bass boat—which he had named The Verdict—and into shaving and showering mode.

  “You smell like bait,” she had told him, once she had him on the terra firma of the pier’s faded planks and he had stowed his stringer of fish in the cooler. “Not that that’s anything new. But I don’t want everyone at the library to smell you coming. So, please, give yourself a thorough scrubbing.”

  Once inside, he had good-naturedly fallen to, even to the extent of singing in the shower. She could hear him trying to work his way through “Singin’ in the Rain,” although he was far from a Gene Kelly in the vocal department. Fishing most of the day had that effect on him, though. In short, he was in paradise. Connie, however, felt she had not yet punched her ticket, and she hoped that this Mockingbird evening would be the beginning of a shared retirement experience for them.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing ole Justin Brachle again, now that I think about it,” Douglas said out of nowhere, emerging from getting dressed at last and heading toward his wife with a snap to his step. He had chosen a silver guayabera shirt and dark slacks for the occasion, complementing the first waves of gray that had invaded his slightly receding hairline. “He did sell us this land seven years ago when we were first thinking of building the lodge.”

  Connie turned away from the window and the ongoing prelude to the sunset. “I told his wife, Becca, that I thought I remembered him as being quite a catch.” Then she took in her own husband’s still-trim physique, ending with the devilish smile that never failed to melt her in the bedroom. “Speaking of looking good, I don’t think you’ve been this presentable since we left Nashville. And you smell divine! To Kill a Mockingbird be damned! I may have to attack you. What have you got on?”

  He inched his sunburned but carefully shaven face closer to hers and lightly kissed her cheek. “Just a splash of Old Spice. I found a bottle in the bedroom closet. It was in one of those boxes we still haven’t opened.”

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. “Weren’t you wearing that when we first started dating thirty-something years ago? That bottle belongs in the Smithsonian.”

  He pulled away and enjoyed a good laugh. “Not this one. I think Lindy gave it to me for Father’s Day not too long ago. Maybe just before we moved down. She knows her old man’s history, that’s for sure.”

  “Not as well as I do,” Connie added. “And I’ve begun to think you’ve given me up for the fishes. Maybe I should grow scales.”

  He narrowed his eyes and played at taking offense. “Okay, I haven’t been that bad, have I? I even managed to reread five whole chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird so I’d be up to snuff and wouldn’t embarrass you at the thing tonight. It’s been more than a few decades since high school, you know.”

  “Let’s just see how it goes at the library. Then we’ll talk,” she said, managing a smile as she checked her watch. “We need to get there while the food’s still hot. Or before Stout Fella eats it all.”

  Douglas looked puzzled. “Who?”

  “Your Realtor friend, Justin. Oh, I explained everything last week. I’ll remind you on the way there.”

  Miss Voncille got to her feet and smoothed out the wrinkles in her emerald green bedspread. She had been sitting beside her pillow, riveted to her beloved picture of Frank Gibbons on the nightstand for the past five minutes. “I’m going to hide you temporarily in the potpourri,” she said out loud to the photo as she cupped it in her hands as if it were an injured baby bird. “The deal is, I may have company tonight, and I don’t need you making me nervous standing guard the way you always do. But don’t worry, I won’t leave you with my scented hankies forever.”

  For a split second she imagined that her sturdy sentinel might just spring to life and answer her, giving her permission to change things up. But she knew only too well that she could not seek permission from anyone but herself. So she headed toward her chest of drawers, giving the picture a little peck before tucking it away among her many fancy sachets. “There!” she exclaimed, nodding proudly. “That’s done. Onward and upward!”

  As if staged perfectly by a theater prop crew, the doorbell rang, and Miss Voncille knew that her potential suitor was right on time. She drew in a hopeful, romantic breath and struck a graceful pose. An imaginary photographer would be capturing her at her best and bravest in that moment. After that, the sequence would be a simple one: She and Locke would have something to eat and drink while chatting amiably with the others; then seriously discuss the merits of Harper Lee’s work; and finally Locke would escort her to her cozy co
ttage as usual. Only this time, she would not shrink like a wallflower from her intentions—

  Locke Linwood’s voice crashed in on her reverie from the other side of the front door. “Miss Voncille?!” He pushed the doorbell again. “Miss Voncille?!”

  “Coming!” she called out, shutting the bottom drawer and rushing out of her bedroom like a teenager on her first date. “I’ll be right there!”

  From the moment she opened the door, she knew something about Locke had changed, and it wasn’t just the single red rose he presented to her right off the bat. “For you, my dear lady,” he told her, handing it over with the suggestion of a bow.

  “My goodness, Locke!” she exclaimed, taking it and holding it briefly beneath her nose. “You’ve never brought me flowers before!”

  “I still haven’t,” he said. “This is only one flower. But there could be more where that came from. I think you’re getting sweeter every day.”

  Miss Voncille found herself blushing, and for a few moments she just stood there with her mind a perfect blank. Then she recovered nicely. “Well, I’m honestly trying not to be such a diva anymore. But where are my manners? Come on in, and I’ll put this little beauty in a vase. And you can carry the biscuits out to your car for me. Let’s head to the kitchen, shall we?”

  After she had put the rose in water and pointed out the foil-covered baking sheet full of biscuits that she had prepared, Miss Voncille retrieved an unopened jar of her green pepper jelly and dropped it into her shimmering, emerald green clutch. “Good. It just fits, and the color is a perfect match. I guess that’s everything.”

  “Not quite,” Locke said, momentarily putting the biscuits down on the breakfast table and nervously clearing his throat. “I’ve come to an important decision, and I wanted you to know about it before we headed off to the library.”

  “I’m intrigued. First a rose, now an important decision.”

  “Yes, well, I just wanted to say that I think I’ve finally come to my senses. I haven’t let any woman inside my residence on Perry Street since Pamela’s wake two years ago. But I know she didn’t want the house kept like a museum. So this demeanor of mine has had nothing to do with you. It’s all been due to my ridiculous defenses. As if keeping the whole world out could bring Pamela back to me. I have faith that she’s gone on to better things.” He paused for a big chest full of air. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to invite you back to my house after this to-do at the library is over, and we can have a nip of sherry . . . or something.”

  Miss Voncille could not suppress her laughter, a captivating mixture of delight and surprise. “Forgive me,” she managed as she eventually regained control. “You’re probably getting the wrong impression. I couldn’t be more flattered by what you’ve just said to me. I’ve always been a big believer in great minds thinking alike.”

  Locke looked reassured. “Well, as long as you weren’t laughing at me . . .”

  “Not even close, believe me. All sorts of images were swirling around my head when you extended your generous invitation to me. Sachets, potpourri, scented handkerchiefs. Don’t ask me to explain, just understand that I’ll be thrilled to extend our evening together. Meanwhile, we need to get these biscuits and jelly to the library and put this party on the front burner.”

  Maura Beth was feeling on top of the world as she surveyed her busy lobby. As with the first meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club a month earlier, the food was going over well, and everyone seemed to be getting along. It also appeared that Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood had chosen to keep largely to themselves, looking as if they were plotting something in a far corner of the room. While the others were either sitting or standing to savor what was on their plates, Stout Fella was living up to his billing and gobbling up his generous servings at what seemed to be a record pace.

  “Who woudda thought corn and peppers would go this good together?” he was saying in between hurried bites of Connie’s salad.

  Becca gave him a skeptical frown. “For heaven’s sake, Justin, I’ve been serving you Niblets for years. Same thing basically.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re right. But it’s got something else in it.”

  Connie stepped up quickly. “It’s the herbs. I put dill and rosemary in it. Gives it a little extra zing.”

  Stout Fella kept right on chowing down as if he were in a competitive eating contest. “Whatever it is, it’s mighty good. I’ll have another helping, I do believe.”

  For her part, Maura Beth kept right on circulating to engage her guests. Even Councilman Sparks seemed to be in a fairly sociable mood as she caught up with him near the Academy Award poster of Gregory Peck.

  “Very warm, fuzzy shindig, Miz Mayhew. Maybe even award-winning,” he told her while pointing to the blow-up. “Your numbers are growing slightly, I see. Emphasis on the slightly. By the way, who’s the young lady over by the punch bowl?”

  “Oh, that’s one of my front desk clerks, Renette Posey. She’s also my girl Friday when I need her to be. I didn’t ask her to, but she seems to have taken over the ladling duties. She’s probably a little nervous, being the youngster here tonight.”

  “Very sweet girl,” he added, looking her over from a distance. “I see you’ve also gotten the wives to collar their husbands this time out. I never thought Justin Brachle would have the time to darken the doors of this library. He’s the all-time wheeler-dealer of Cherico, and we’re thankful he works his realty magic so well.”

  Maura Beth cocked her head. “As in lots more taxes to collect from wealthy homeowners?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But not enough to keep the library open?”

  Councilman Sparks gave her one of his most conspiratorial winks. “Don’t worry, Miz Mayhew. I fully intend not to underestimate you. That’s why I’m here tonight. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you: What shade do you officially call that red hair of yours? It’s very unusual—even stunning, if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh! Well, I guess auburn would be the most traditional way of describing it,” she answered, completely caught off guard. “An ex-boyfriend of mine at LSU once told me that I had a head full of good bourbon whiskey, but that always made me sound like the ultimate party girl, which I wasn’t.”

  He wagged his eyebrows and smiled. “I’ve been noticing the way your hair changes in different kinds of light.”

  “Yes, it does do that.”

  “It looks one way in the sun and another way under the fluorescents.”

  Maura Beth decided to say nothing and nod her head.

  “My wife’s hair is brunette. It always looks the same everywhere.”

  They had reached an awkward pause, and Maura Beth decided she’d had enough. “Maybe you should get a job out at Cherico Tresses, Councilman. I think your comments would be much more appropriate there. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to continue to make the rounds.”

  She walked away without looking back, approaching the McShays and the Brachles. They were in the midst of friendly banter, and it was Connie who was holding forth at the moment. “. . . and I just love the way the light plays off the lake at certain times of the day, particularly around sunset. I could hardly pull myself away this evening.” She gave Becca one of her nudges. “We must have you and Justin out for dinner soon around that time so you can see for yourself. I’ll try and persuade Douglas to go out in The Verdict and catch some fish for us.”

  “Oh, we’d love to, wouldn’t we, Stout Fella?” Becca replied.

  He quickly swallowed the last of the corn and pepper salad he was chewing and nodded his head obediently, while Douglas flashed a sarcastic smile at his wife.

  Maura Beth glanced at the front desk clock and decided to make an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ll begin our discussion in about fifteen more minutes. Meanwhile, please continue to enjoy this wonderful spread and each other’s company.”

  “I intend to try a piece of your sheet cake next, Miz Mayhew,” Stout Fel
la explained, stepping up and wiping the edges of his mouth with a napkin. “It looks mighty tempting from here, and Becca raved about it last time she came. Of course, everybody’s dish was worth the price of admission. But after my cake, I’m afraid I’ll have to make my manners to all you good folks and leave. I have some pressing business to attend to over at The Twinkle. But don’t worry, Becca’s staying for all this book bid’ness, and I’ll be back to pick her up later. And don’t let me forget to say again that all a’ y’all are fantastic cooks. This was just delicious.”

  Maura Beth and the others offered up their group thanks and then watched him practically inhale his cake a few moments later. Finally, after guzzling a cup of punch and giving Becca’s cheek a perfunctory peck, he headed toward the front door, dialing his cell phone all along the way.

  “Isn’t he incorrigible?!” Becca exclaimed to Maura Beth and Connie after he’d left. “Never even allows himself time to digest his food. He’s the most driven person I’ve ever known in my life!”

  “Connie told me about you nicknaming him Stout Fella,” Douglas put in, “but I didn’t really get it until he came over and shook hands with me when we first walked in. I did recognize him, of course, but I’m afraid it was a shock all the same. No offense, Becca.”

  “Oh, none taken. It is what it is. I just don’t know what to do about it. He’s completely turned up his nose at my new recipes. ‘Fix it like you always do,’ he complains. ‘Stop taking things out. Make it taste like it used to.’ I’m afraid he hasn’t downsized an ounce.”

  On that note, Maura Beth decided to put an end to her kibitzing and get the literary portion of The Cherry Cola Book Club under way. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we put away our plates, freshen up if we need to, and then delve into some Pulitzer Prize–winning prose?”

  Maura Beth stood behind the podium ready to tackle the major theme of the evening: namely, “Was To Kill a Mockingbird one of the catalysts for the 1964 Civil Rights Act?” She did not, however, intend to open with such a ponderous question. She would lead up to it gradually, soliciting opinions from the members about the consequences of racism described in the novel. She expected the discussion would be far more substantial than the lightweight diversion that was Scarlett versus Melanie of a month ago. Her unspoken motto was: “Start simple, then step it up.”