by Ashton Lee
“Excellent work,” Maura Beth said, shaking her hand vigorously. “As I keep telling my clerks, nothing less than standing room only will do for The Cherry Cola Book Club this time around.”
“Locke and I are getting an awfully good feeling about this,” Miss Voncille replied. “Everyone in the club is certainly doing their part.” And then they were off to join the crowd at the buffet table.
But it was when Jeremy finally returned from the visit with his mother that Maura Beth realized the evening would end up being about far more than the library’s future.
“Mom wanted a blow-by-blow of how it was going with you,” he told her. “She said she was getting tired of trying to read our lips and body language from a discreet distance. Typical mother, huh?”
Maura Beth flashed a smile and couldn’t help batting her eyelashes coyly. “And what did you tell her?”
“I said that I wanted very much to see you again and that I hoped you felt the same way. And I didn’t mean just for the Mockingbird review.”
At first Maura Beth said nothing, playing at building the suspense, but she couldn’t sustain it for long. “When you have a weekend free of field trips, please give me a call. I think I’d like to discuss everything under the sun with you.”
Then they both just stood there, locking eyes and letting that and their smiles do all the talking.
Becca’s contribution to promoting The Cherry Cola Book Club had been going splendidly in the weeks since the brainstorming in Brentwood, even if it was a constant hassle to keep Stout Fella focused on the over-the-air role he had been assigned. This particular frosty October morning was no exception.
“Just one more week on the air, sweetheart,” she was saying to him as they enjoyed their healthful breakfast of cereal, fresh fruit, yogurt, and coffee at the kitchen table.
He glanced at his watch and groaned. “Why couldn’t you have gotten you an afternoon radio show? I’m so tired of getting up at six to get to the station on time.”
“It’s part of the price you have to pay for being a radio personality,” she quipped, after swallowing a spoonful of her Cheerios and sliced bananas. “And you, my dear husband—minus all that weight you’ve lost so far—are helping my program and Maura Beth’s library at the same time. You can catch up on your sleep later, and, believe me, I’ll see to it that you do.”
He leaned back in his chair and briefly glanced down at his significantly reduced girth, the result of the nutrition regimen and exercise program that had been prescribed for him before he’d come home from Nashville over a month ago. “It still seems like apples and oranges to me. I mean, a Pulitzer Prize–winning novel and weight loss don’t exactly go together. Unless, you get so caught up in reading it that you forget to eat.”
Becca took a sip of her coffee and chuckled softly. “That’s a cute idea for a diet. And who knows—it just might work. But you’ve finished To Kill a Mockingbird now, and you said you really enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to imagine that things were really like that at one time. Kinda opens your eyes.”
Becca pointed her index finger in his general direction. “Now you’ve got it. That’s what Maura Beth wants us to concentrate on during the meeting. How much things have changed here in the South since the novel came out. So if one of my listeners comes up to you and compliments you on sticking with my downsizing program, you just shake up the bottle and get all bubbly about The Cherry Cola Book Club.” She swallowed more Cheerios and continued, “Now, have you gone over this morning’s script yet?”
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Yes, ma’am. If you’d like to rehearse it with me right now, your Stout Fella aims to please.”
She put down her cup, glanced at her own copy on the table, and gave him the go-ahead with a nod. “That’s more like it. Okay, we’ll skip over my intro—yada, yada, yada. ‘And how are we feeling this morning, Stout Fella?’ ”
He began a line reading that was short on enthusiasm but technically correct. “Why, hello there, Miz Becca Broccoli! I’m feeling on top a’ the world, mostly due to your downsizing regimen. So, what delicious recipe are we gonna fix up today for all the good folks listening out there in our beloved Greater Cherico?”
“This one’s a real crowd pleaser. How does a honey mustard turkey burger strike you?”
His energy level picked up a tad bit, if only because it was difficult to deliver the next line without sounding excited. “Bam! Pow! It knocks me out! But here’s the big question: Is it a lot of trouble to prepare?”
“That’s the beauty of it. It’s quick and easy and guaranteed to help get and keep you in shape. By the way, Stout Fella, I know our listeners will want to know how many pounds you’ve dropped since we started you on our ‘Downsizing with Comfort Food’ regimen.”
At last, his sincerity broke through. “Twenty big ones and counting in a little more than five weeks, and I have to say, I don’t miss an ounce.”
“Wow! That’s quite an achievement. But my Stout Fella has also been improving his mind. As I’ve been telling you, he’s been reading To Kill a Mockingbird for the November 6th, seven-o’clock meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club in the library. And now he’s finished it and ready to review it with his fellow Chericoans.”
“Yes, I am, and I just wanted to say how much fun I’ve had getting back into reading. You can, too, by using your library card. Let’s shake hands, have something good to eat, and talk about it on November 6th, why don’t we?”
Becca gave him a thumbs-up for the enthusiasm he was finally showing. “Great suggestion, Stout Fella. But for now, why don’t we get those turkey burgers started by listing all the ingredients you’ll need? First, of course, you’ll want to pick up some lean ground turkey at your supermarket. Be sure it’s fresh, and remember to leave time to thaw it if you buy it frozen. You want your meat to be pliable when you form your patties. Next, some seasoned salt, pepper, paprika, bread crumbs, honey mustard—”
Stout Fella’s cell phone suddenly buzzed on the kitchen counter, and he jumped up to answer it, cutting short their rehearsal. Despite the early hour, Becca knew it would be pointless to continue. He was talking to whoever was on the line in his real-estate, negotiating voice that had returned full force scarcely a week after his hospitalization.
But at least she had gotten him to take all his medications regularly, chew his food more slowly, get more rest, and go for those thirty-minute walks the doctor had recommended. Leaving nothing to chance or indifference anymore, she had wisely chosen to accompany him so it wouldn’t feel so much like work; and she’d dropped a couple of pounds herself in the process.
“I don’t care who that was at this ungodly hour or how close you are to a deal,” Becca admonished after he had hung up, clearly on one of his negotiating highs. “You and I are still due at the studio in twenty-five minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “Can’t disappoint my public. And for the record, I’m nowhere close to a deal yet.”
She finished her last bite of cereal and gave him a warm smile. “As long as you take your time.”
He returned to the last of his yogurt and then looked up with a quizzical expression. “Do you think all these plugs you’ve been giving the book club will actually work?”
“Judging by the e-mails I’ve been getting, I have to say it looks promising. Some of my listeners say they’ll drop by and see what all this hoopla is about. But one lady said she didn’t know the library was still open. That’s not good. I’m not about to tell Maura Beth about that one. So my opinion is that we can’t plug away at this enough.”
In the weeks leading up to November 6, no one in the club worked harder at promoting the Mockingbird event than Maura Beth did. Picking up on her theme of an under-the-radar political campaign, she explored every nook and cranny of Cherico with her flyers and unflagging charm. She was out of the library more than she was in, but the ever-dependable Renette always covered for her beautifully,
and the small cadre of loyal patrons never knew the difference.
On one of her appointments at her trendy salon, Cherico Tresses, Maura Beth talked up a storm to her tall, blond stylist with the edgy, geometric cut, Terra Munrow, after getting permission to leave a stack of flyers on the faux-marble front counter. To be sure, this was not your grandmother’s beauty parlor, given over largely to henna and blue rinses. The clients were mostly younger women, many of them single and therefore still searching for a suitable partner. Perhaps, Maura Beth reasoned, a decent percentage of them might also be readers.
“My goodness,” Terra told her favorite customer as she applied a towel to her dripping-wet red hair. “I’ve never seen you so excited before. You haven’t talked that much about the library since I started styling you, but now you can’t seem to stop. This book club must be a real big deal.”
Maura Beth waited for the towel to come off and then kept at it. “Now, Terra, I’ve heard you say many times that you just love those Wednesday night potluck dinners at the Methodist church. We’ve got some delicious dishes at our book club, too. But you also told me once that you liked to read romance novels. I remember telling you to check out our selection at the library, but you’ve never come in.”
Terra exhaled and began combing out Maura Beth’s hair. “My schedule is so hectic. But, you know what, I think I’ll come in on my day off and check something out. You’re one of my best tippers. I owe you the courtesy.”
“And what about the book club?”
Terra giggled as she took her scissors in hand. “Why not? Truth is, I used to read a lot more than I do now. Then my grandmother kinda made me feel guilty about reading romance novels all the time. She claimed those covers with the shirtless men and the women spilling out of their bras, as she so graphically put it, were bad news, and they would rot my mind.”
“Bodice rippers and lusty busties.”
Terra jerked her head and blinked. “What?”
“In the library business that’s what we call the books you just described,” Maura Beth explained, enjoying herself thoroughly.
“That’s news to me. I just liked them for the fantasy of it all.”
But by the time Maura Beth had walked out of the salon freshly coiffed, she was reasonably certain that Terra Munrow would resume her career as a reader and maybe even join the book club as a bonus.
On another occasion, Maura Beth was equally effective proselytizing at The Cherico Market, where she already had her flyer tacked to the community bulletin board just inside the automatic sliding doors. But she wanted to go a step further and decided to go all out with the portly but affable manager, James Hannigan, who had special-ordered many holiday food items for her over the years. She also began to wonder if the relatively sparse use of the library might just be on her more than she cared to admit when she realized she had never once invited Mr. Hannigan to patronize her library. Well, it was way past time to do it.
“Mr. Hannigan,” she began one afternoon, seated in his office overlooking the aisles filled with shoppers and their carts below. “I wanted to ask you about your P.A. system, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind. What did you want to know? Is the music too loud? I realize it sounds like elevator music,” he replied, clearly puzzled.
“Oh, no. The music is just fine. Just wondering if you’d be willing to use the P.A. to help my library,” she told him. “You already know about The Cherry Cola Book Club because you’ve been generous enough to let me post my flyer here. But I’d like to ask you to go a step further. Would it be out of line for me to request that someone in the store read the flyer to the shoppers several times a day over the intercom?”
Mr. Hannigan raised his eyebrows but looked more amused than anything else. “As in, ‘Attention, shoppers!’ That sort of thing?”
Maura Beth matched his pleasant expression and light-hearted tone of voice. “Any way you wanted to handle it would be fine with me. We’re just trying to let everyone know about our next meeting because we need a healthy attendance. Frankly, the future of the library could be at stake.”
“I had no idea,” he said, his demeanor darkening considerably. “But let’s just put it this way, Miz Mayhew. You’re one of my best customers, particularly around holiday time, so if you think these announcements over the P.A. would do you some good, then let’s go ahead and start ’em right away.”
“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Hannigan. I can’t tell you how much it means to me,” she answered, handing over another of her flyers. But she wasn’t finished yet. “And maybe at the tail end of the announcement about the book club meeting, you could mention to the customers that flyers were available at the checkout counters?”
He laughed big, his entire body shaking for a brief moment. “You’re as tough-nosed as one of my route salesmen, Miz Mayhew. But in a delightful way. Don’t worry, I’d be happy to help you out here.”
“I couldn’t ask for more than that. Except maybe your attendance, too.”
He cut her off with a playful wink. “I’ll see what I can do about juggling my schedule. I’ll even talk to the wife.” Then he pushed a notepad and pen across the desk in front of her. “Meanwhile, as long as you’re here, you might as well give me your special-order list for Thanksgiving and Christmas since they’re not very far away. I assume you’re in the market for another free-range turkey?”
She smiled warmly and began writing. “Among other things. It’s the time of year I like to splurge.”
“We’ll get everything to you as usual,” he added. “I also have something I’d like to share with you. Most everyone here at the store knows you—all the cashiers and the clerks, the deli people, too. You’re one of our favorite customers, and we have a special name for you.”
She momentarily abandoned her list and caught his impish gaze. “Don’t tell me. I bet I can guess.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Something to do with crackers?”
“You got it. You’re the Peanut Butter Cracker Lady.”
They both had a good laugh, and Maura Beth revealed everything about Mr. Putzel and his behavior.
“I’ll share that with the store, Miz Mayhew. Maybe everybody that works for The Cherico Market will show up for your book club meeting.”
“I’ve heard rumors from a certain source,” Councilman Sparks was saying to Chunky Badham and Gopher Joe Martin, as the three of them gathered in his office for a last-minute strategy session the day before the Mockingbird meeting. “Of course, I’ll be attending the book club to-do as usual. But I want both of you working that library full-time tomorrow night, too. It shouldn’t be a problem for you. There’ll be plenty of food to eat and lots of folks to talk to. What I want you to be on the lookout for is where people are actually from. It should be easy enough to find out if they live here in Cherico or somewhere else. We need to see if these rumors are true that Miz Mayhew may be bringing in out-of-towners to pump up her numbers and give us a false impression of the library’s popularity. Not that we’d be fooled.”
Chunky frowned. “What about license plates?”
“What about them?”
“Should we inspect all the parked cars and see if there are any from different states?”
Councilman Sparks took a moment and then cleared his throat. “I want you to stay in the library to circulate, Chunky. There’s no point in your roaming the streets at night. Someone may think you’re about to steal their car. Besides, a license plate is nowhere near as conclusive as a direct question.”
“What about if I ask them if that car with the Alabama plate outside belongs to them?” Chunky continued.
Councilman Sparks was unable to keep from rolling his eyes. “Again, not as direct as asking them if they live in Alabama. Or Tennessee, or anywhere else in Mississippi, for that matter. Either they live in Cherico, or they don’t. Either they’re regular library users, or this is just a bunch of smoke and mirrors on the part of Miz Mayhew and
her fellow travelers.”
Chunky busied himself writing things down, while Gopher Joe entered the fray. “What kind of rumors you been hearing?”
“Oh, that this book club meeting has gotten to be the talk of the town. All the little people seem to be excited about it. Also, that there might be a bus coming down from Nashville. I have to hand it to Miz Mayhew. She doesn’t give up easily, men. She’s been out there beating the bushes.”
“Can we eat as much as we want?” Chunky said, having finished his note-taking duties.
“Yes, Chunky, you can go for seconds and thirds if you like. Just remember to also use your mouth for a few questions. Listen, I don’t want you two going around frightening people or making them think they’re being investigated or something. For God’s sake, try to be subtle.”
“Gotcha!” Gopher Joe exclaimed, while Chunky settled for nodding his head obediently.
Councilman Sparks dismissed his cohorts and then buzzed his new secretary in the outer office. “That’ll be all for today, Lottie. See you on Monday morning bright and early.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered promptly.
He could picture Mrs. Lottie Howard throwing on her warm coat, padding down the hall and out into the chilly weather. She was a pleasant enough woman, certainly more animated than Nora Duddney had ever thought about being, and she had come highly recommended from friends. But she was also plain, middle-aged, prone to be forgetful, and addicted to abbreviating his messages with cryptic abandon. Above all else, she was a far cry from the first impression that Maura Beth Mayhew and that wild red hair of hers would have made on anyone walking through his office door.
This was a tough one to take on the chin; firing the listless but reasonably efficient Nora Duddney only to end up with someone who had turned out to be quirky, obstinate, and a hundred other adjectives no businessman ever wanted to deal with in his daily routine.
13
