The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  “Okay. You’re right. I take it back. You are driving me crazy.” Seriously, Kit woke up each day talking and continued until she passed out, usually in the early hours of the morning.

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to change the subject. Where have you been painting? Did you get a studio somewhere?”

  “In Guthrie? Last time I checked, the town wasn’t teeming with unused loft space. And besides, it doesn’t matter. I don’t paint anymore.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. Nora, what’s the point of—everything—if you aren’t doing your work?”

  “I don’t have any ‘work’ other than running the diner. So you and Max can stay with me. The Realtor is going to start showing the place.” Following our lawyer’s advice, we had just put Peggy’s property on the market.

  “But that’s not what I was thinking.” Kit stood and leaned her head out the door. “Hey, Max, come here.”

  Max came in holding the box of recipes. “She was a pretty creative baker, I have to say—”

  Kit linked her arm in his. “Max, look around. Do you see what I see?”

  I followed Max’s gaze as he took in the sitting room, the leather chair, the braided rug, the dog figurines. He took his time, really looking at the space closely.

  “You’re a genius,” he said finally.

  “Right?” Kit replied, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s perfect. It’s better than the original.”

  “This room is great. So is the kitchen,” Max said, nodding. “I bet the light is gorgeous in here in the morning.”

  “Wait till you see upstairs,” Kit said, grabbing his hand. The two of them disappeared up the staircase.

  “Look at this rocking chair,” Kit cheered from the top of the steps.

  “A claw-foot tub. Unbelievable,” Max exclaimed.

  They returned downstairs, beaming, transformed.

  “All right, what on earth is going on?” I asked, tired of being on the outside.

  “We can film here. It’s absolutely perfect. That’s why we can’t stay here—it will be much easier if we leave everything set up—the lights, the cameras, the microphones.”

  “Just taping down the extension cords can take hours,” Max explained, as if this cleared everything up.

  “But how can this house be in your movie—haven’t you already shot most of it?”

  “We had shot a lot.” Kit stuck a fingernail into her mouth and started chewing. “Most might be an exaggeration.”

  I looked at Max.

  “We lost almost everything when the equipment was stolen.”

  “What about your actors?”

  “She has a point,” Max said, looking at Kit.

  “Simone is already committed to something else.” Kit looked sheepish. Based on the stunned look on Max’s face, this was news to him.

  “And Annie?” he asked in a careful tone.

  “We can recast them both. Right from here!” Kit grabbed a notebook and started scribbling. “There’s still a local theater here, right, Nora?”

  “There’s the Guthrie Players, if that’s what you mean. And there are the folks at Bread and Puppet. There are usually a fair number of resident artists over there. Most of them are puppet makers, but it is a theater. Some of them might be actors.”

  Max raked his fingers through his thick brown hair over and over again. It looked as if he had just woken up. “We have about four months.”

  My head whipped from Max to Kit and back again. “Wait a minute. Four months? I thought the festival wasn’t until August.”

  “They want to see a rough cut in January,” Max explained evenly. “Kit, recasting sets us back months.”

  Kit wrapped her arms around Max’s waist and looked up at him, her face doelike. “We could still use those long shots that were saved on your laptop, and the exteriors. If we cast the right people, I know we can do it.” Kit snuggled her face into his chest and said into his sweater, “What do you think?”

  Max’s expression softened. “I think you should have told me about Simone. But fine. You’re right. It’s a great location. If we can find the right people for the script.”

  “When we find the right people,” Kit corrected, and leaned up to kiss him.

  I moved to the fireplace, threw on another log, then adjusted it with the poker. The fire finally began to give off some heat. I pulled the leather chair a bit closer and settled into it, covering myself with the woven blanket. The powdery scent of rose perfume surrounded me. When Max went back into the kitchen, Kit plopped down on the couch and sighed.

  “He’s very forgiving of your chaotic ways,” I said, stretching my toes toward the fire. “You’re lucky.” In the beginning of the end, Sean and I hadn’t been able to get through a shopping trip at White’s without a power struggle over which brand of converted rice had the most flavor.

  “It’s not chaos, it’s my creative process.”

  “How long have you been together, anyway?” I asked. Kit and I hadn’t had any time alone together since she and Max arrived, and I hadn’t had the chance to grill her for the details.

  “How long have I been together with who?” Kit asked, lying down in front of the fire.

  “Max. Isn’t he your boyfriend?”

  Kit barked out a laugh. “We’re not in junior high, Nora. We’re creative partners. He’s my cinematographer.”

  I had heard noises the other night that didn’t sound like two people creating much of anything, unless someone had forgotten the birth control. “But you seem so . . . together.”

  “We are, kinda. I don’t know.”

  “Um, you live together, you spend all of your time together. Are either of you seeing anyone else?”

  “Nora, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. Just because two people hang out doesn’t mean they have to run and get married.”

  I bristled. “And what’s so wrong with getting married?”

  “How’s it working out for you?” Kit asked. The words weren’t out of her mouth for a second before she sucked in a breath. “Oh, Nora. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just—you and Sean were so young, and I hate to see you so unhappy.”

  “Who said I’m unhappy?”

  “Oh, honey,” Kit said. “No one has to say it.”

  Is there anything worse than receiving pity from your little sister?

  I stood, feeling the familiar knot in the back of my neck that can only be brought on by Kit. “It’s fine if you want to film here, but I don’t want you to do anything to mess up the house.”

  “It’s not an action film. We’re not going to set it on fire.”

  “No nailing things into the walls, no scratching up the floor. And you have to keep it clean, in case we get any potential buyers who want to see the place.”

  “We wouldn’t have to worry about potential buyers or the house if we just sold to big-box guy.”

  “Kit,” I said, my voice tight, “can you try to see my point of view here? I’m just asking you to keep the house tidy.”

  “I’m not planning on harming the house, Nora. I’m just saying—if HG buys us out, you know they’re probably going to bulldoze the place for a parking lot or something.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?” I hated the thought of Peggy’s house being leveled, like she was never even here. As though her life could be turned over like a compost heap. “I care because I care about the town. I care about Peggy’s neighbors—”

  “You hate the neighbors. They’re summer people.”

  “—and how all of this will affect them.”

  Kit rolled on her back and looked up at me. “Nora, don’t be like that.”

  Nora, don’t be like that was how most of Kit’s and my worst arguments began. “Be like what?”

  “Like Nora,
patron saint of Guthrie.”

  I threw the blanket off and stood. “That’s enough, Kit. I’m just being pragmatic. I don’t think we should sell to HG. There are other options. We could sell this house to someone else, someone local. A summer person, even. We could break the land apart and sell it bit by bit, like Mr. Hickey said Peggy was already doing.”

  “That would take forever. We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “Selling to HG would change things forever. And I would be the one who would have to live with the consequences after you run off to Tauranga or wherever you end up next.” That was the one thing I was certain of. Kit would leave, and she would leave a mess behind her. She always did.

  Max walked into the room, white, floury handprints on his black jeans. “I found Peggy’s stash of baking ingredients in a closet. She’s pretty well stocked up. It probably makes sense to bake the cakes here, don’t you think?”

  I watched Max take in Kit lying on the couch with her eyes closed tight, arms knotted across her chest, then he turned his gaze to me. “Since the cake molds are here and everything.” He shrugged. “I think we have the best chance of making them taste like Peggy’s if I bake them in her oven. Baking is funny that way. Ovens, ingredients, humidity—even time of day can all have an effect on the finished product.”

  I let out my breath. “That makes sense,” I replied, even though it felt as if nothing did.

  * * *

  Guthrie Front Porch Forum

  Town Meeting Announcement

  User: ToG

  A town meeting will be held Wednesday, August 23, at 6 p.m., at the town hall.

  Refreshments provided by Girl Scout Troop 235. Please bring small bills.

  To be discussed:

  Article 1: Coventry County Fair—Rebecca Goodwin has started a petition to ban the Mrs. Coventry County pageant. A vote will be taken.

  Article 2: HG Corporation—HG Corporation has expressed an interest in opening a shopping area in Guthrie that would be anchored by the store HG, and is actively looking at properties to purchase. Elliot Danforth will give a talk on why the company thinks HG would be of benefit to the town. There will be plenty of time for Q&A, as we expect people will have many questions.

  Article 3: Zoning—HG Corporation has asked about the possibility of rezoning the land owned by Nora Huckleberry LaPlante and Katherine Huckleberry, formally the property of Peggy Johnson. This will be a discussion only. A vote will be taken at a future town meeting.

  Freckles Sighting

  User: JaneWhite

  I believe I spotted Mrs. Johnson’s missing dog, Freckles, behind the market, eating old donuts near the dumpster. Two of my nephews tried to catch him, but had no luck. He’s fast for a dog that large. Mrs. Johnson was a dear friend from the altar guild. We at the White Market are all praying for the safe return of Freckles.

  User: SarahT

  I saw him there, too! His fur was covered in powdered sugar. I thought he might be rabid or something. Does anyone know if his shots are up-to-date?

  User: GuthrieVet

  I can confirm that Freckles has up-to-date vaccinations. He isn’t rabid.

  User: GuthriePD/DW

  Thanks, everybody, these tips really help a lot! Keep them coming—Erika

  Did You Place a Cake Order with Peggy the Cake Lady?

  User: MissGuthrieDiner

  Hi, everyone. We are trying to fulfill all of Peggy Johnson’s cake orders, but are having a difficult time deciphering her order book. If you have an outstanding cake order, please call Nora Huckleberry at the Miss Guthrie Diner. 802-228-0424.

  Please note: We will not be taking new cake orders at this time. Thank you for your understanding.

  Open Auditions for Film

  User: KitCatB

  Do you have a passion for acting? Have you always dreamed of breaking into the cutting-edge world of indie film?

  Baker’s Dozen Productions is holding auditions for 2 female leads, and an open casting call for extras. E-mail bkrsdzpro@gmail.com for a time slot. Auditions will take place on August 19 from 10–2 at the grange hall. Please bring head shot and resume.

  * * *

  I overslept the next morning. Kit’s Saint Nora comment kept turning over in my head. It was Kit’s go-to insult. And the way she kept bringing up painting! She acted like I had some deep personality flaw because I wasn’t following my bliss. When did I have time for bliss? Our mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was thirteen and Kit was only six. I spent my teenage years being a mom to Kit and helping out at the diner. Before she was sick, Mom had done everything. She hired and managed the front-of-the-house staff at the diner. She did payroll. Thanks to her, the bills both at the Miss Guthrie and at home were always paid on time and the checkbooks were in perfect balance. Plus she kept the house and took care of us kids. Dad had his own role in our family. He was good at fixing things, and knowing all the names of plants and birds that you might run into in the woods. And he was an excellent bread baker—we used to serve homemade bread at the diner until Dad was forced to retire. But his main job was making us giggle at the dinner table, telling stories about his childhood and making Mom blush. When the chemo made Mom too sick to get out of bed, I began to take over everything she did. And after she died, I shouldered some of the things my grief-stricken father did, too. By the time Kit left for college I was already married to Sean and running the Miss Guthrie. Kit managed to forget all of this whenever she was comparing my life to hers.

  * * *

  When I arrived at the diner at 5:30 the following morning, Charlie was already in the kitchen frying onions and red peppers for the hash browns, listening to the oldies station, and attempting to reach a Frankie Valli high note in his painfully off-key tenor. He nodded at me when he saw me walk in.

  “All right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling off my jean jacket and hanging it on one of the pegs near the time clock. “Just slept through my alarm.”

  There were several messages scrawled on a pad of paper by the telephone. I scanned for signs of Freckles, but they were all calls about cakes. I shoved the pad in my purse so I would remember to bring it to Max.

  I fell into the familiar rhythm of opening the diner: setting out place mats, coffee cups, and silverware; making up little dishes of shelf-stable creamers and placing them on all the tables; refilling the sugar shakers and stuffing blue and pink packets of sugar substitute into their holders; filling up ice water pitchers; writing Charlie’s special—today was an omelet with heirloom tomatoes, goat cheese, and basil—on the neon specials board. Last was filling the giant urns with coffee. We’d go through three before the morning settled down.

  At six o’clock I turned on the houselights and flipped the little sign in the window to OPEN. I poured myself a big cup of coffee and topped it off with four creamers. I was only on my third sip when the bell rang. Sheriff Granby took his usual seat at the end of the counter, near the register. I liked to think he was protecting the cash from thieves.

  I poured Granby a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. “How’s things? Are you keeping the peace?” I asked, pulling out my order pad.

  “Bit of a tussle down at the Black Bear last night, but nothing serious.”

  “Surprised it was there and not the Greasy Pole.” The Black Bear was someplace you could take your grandmother for lunch, and your girlfriend for a couple of beers. The Greasy Pole was the bar where the loggers spent their free time. They could be a rough bunch.

  “Between two brothers. Family thing.”

  The bell rang again. Burt Grant from the hardware store came in, followed by my ex-husband. I wondered if they were having breakfast together, but they took seats at different ends of the counter.

  “What can I get you, sheriff?”

  “That special, if you don’t mind, Nora. And a muffin if it’s blueberry.”
<
br />   I smiled at him as I grabbed a couple of menus. “You got it.”

  I served Burt a cup of coffee, gave Sean a stern look, and headed into the kitchen. No one needs to see their ex-husband before the sun has come up.

  The muffins were still warm in their tins. I picked one out and turned it upside down, trying to determine what kind of fruit flecked the surface. “Charlie, what are these?”

  “Box said berry.”

  I split one open and sniffed. Inside, the pale surface was flecked with blue, red, and pink bits of some fruitlike substance. It smelled like a combination of Crunch Berries cereal and Starburst. I placed the muffin down on a bright blue plate, pulled out my smartphone, and snapped a couple of pictures.

  “You better get out there,” Charlie said, peering out the kitchen window and into the dining room. “The natives are getting restless.”

  “One special,” I said over my shoulder.

  When I returned, every seat at the counter was taken by someone I knew. It’s not uncommon for the town manager, the presidents of the Rotary Club and Kiwanis, and several of the volunteer fire department all to be eating eggs at my counter at the same time. The citizens of Guthrie may be under the impression that decisions get made at the monthly town meeting, but I know for a fact that everything from the school budgets to how much sand to order for the winter to the dates of next year’s Coventry County Fair was hashed out first over buttered toast and hot coffee. But the stools were not usually full this early, before I had a chance to finish my side work.

  I filled up a coffeepot and poured my way down the counter. When I arrived in front of Sean I held the coffeepot back, eyebrows raised.

  “What? Nora, don’t tease a man like that.” He pushed his empty cup toward me. “Please may I have some coffee?”

  “What’s going on here?” I asked in a low tone, smiling over Sean’s head at Jeff Rutland, who owned the feed store in neighboring Lyndonville.

  Sean shrugged. “I’m just here for pancakes.”