“What, she doesn’t get up in the morning and make you breakfast?” I flipped over the coffee cup of the fireman who was sitting next to him and filled it. “What can I get you, Jack?”
Sean stood, walked around the counter, and filled his cup directly from the urn. “There are rumors flying around about what you’re going to do with Peggy’s land,” he said into my ear. I waved him off like he was a fly. “I’ll take the Truck Stop, eggs scrambled. Banana pancakes, sausage,” he said as he slid back onto his seat.
The bell over the door kept chiming, and by 6:30 all the booths in the front of the restaurant were taken. Fern wasn’t scheduled to come in until seven. I could barely manage to keep everyone’s coffee cup full.
“Is it true you’re selling Peggy’s land to a big-box store, Nora?” Burt Grant asked when I served him his Belgian waffle.
I handed him a little jar of pure maple syrup instead of the imitation kind in apology. Burt and his hardware store had the most to lose if a business like HG moved in. “We did have a meeting with them, Burt. Peggy was in talks with them about selling when she passed.”
“I heard they want to clear-cut the whole hundred-plus acres of woods behind her house,” said my elderly neighbor Pat. “Sell the trees, then pave the whole thing over.”
“Will they hire local?” asked John LeFerrier, whose family owned one of the logging companies. “We could use the work.”
“Good hardwood up in that orchard,” Walt commented. “I remember fruit picking behind the Johnsons’ when I was a boy. Shouldn’t be clear-cut—some of those trees could catch a good price to someone like Betsy Caleb over in Danville.”
Sean nodded in agreement. “She got a lathe last spring. Did you see the bowls she was selling at the farmer’s market?” Nods all around the room. “Of course, I’d love to get my hands on some of that wood myself,” Sean added, winking at me. “Could I still get a family discount, Nora?”
Some of the men in the diner laughed, and I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. “I’m pretty sure there was a ‘no discount’ clause written into our divorce papers,” I said, slapping down his bill in front of him. “That includes breakfast.”
Charlie high-fived me through the window before handing me a plate of cinnamon French toast. He never liked Sean much.
“Sheriff over in Littleton said traffic increased three hundred percent when their box store moved in,” Granby said. “Needed to hire four more deputies just to keep up with the influx.”
“That a good thing or a bad thing?” someone asked.
Granby shrugged. “I don’t know. I like keeping the force small. I know all the deputies and their families. I can count on them.”
I wondered if his force was feeling more like family since his wife left him. I put a cider donut on a plate and placed it in front of him.
“But it would mean more jobs,” one of the furniture makers said. “Some good jobs, too. I’d like to work for the town. Good pay. Insurance. A pension.”
The crowd mumbled in agreement. Who wouldn’t want that kind of security? So many of the citizens of Guthrie relied on the tourists for their living—leaf peepers in the fall, skiers in the winter, folks from Boston and New York and Montreal in the summer; it was a life full of ups and downs and leaps of faith. A winter without snow or a wet summer could mean trouble. I know I couldn’t keep the diner open if my only customers were the folks of Guthrie and the neighboring towns.
“And more tax money would give us the funds to make some upgrades. The shelter is badly in need of a new roof,” Erika offered.
Burt stood up and cleared his throat. “But those kinds of developments kill downtowns, Nora. Who’s going to come to the Hammer and Nail when they can get their ice melt and garden shears for pennies on the dollar? Plus all of their groceries?” Burt put his hand on the shoulder of John Harrington, who owned Guthrie Books. “And pick up the latest Nora Roberts at the same time?”
John looked up at me. I gave him a donut, too.
“I know you all have concerns,” I said, holding up my hands. “Mr. Danforth of HG will be at the town meeting next week to answer all of your questions.”
“But you’ll have the final say,” Burt said.
“Me and Kit,” I said, not wanting to bear the burden alone.
The door bell rang, and in walked Fern, her frizzy blond hair woven into a perfect French braid. She laughed as she took in the crowd. “Don’t you all know better than to come in before my shift starts? Nora is a terrible waitress.”
The mood immediately lifted, as it always does when Fern arrives. “My savior,” I whispered as she breezed past me.
“My two girls spent the whole ride to school explaining to me why I am the most horrible, unfair mother in the entire state of Vermont, so I appreciate the compliment.” In a matter of seconds, Fern appeared with her apron on, menus in hand, ready to seat the parties waiting at the door. One by one the morning regulars paid their bills and filtered out the door. “Do me a favor and bus those tables while I take these orders?” she asked as she ushered another group of tourists into the back dining room.
I grabbed a black plastic bus bucket and made my way around the room picking up plates and cups, throwing ripped-open sugar packets and wrinkled straw wrappers in the bin, and dropping piles of change and dollar bills into my apron. When I got to the last table, the one in the corner, underneath a clean napkin I found a little bird the size of a saltshaker. It had been fashioned out of twist ties. A folded five-dollar bill was tucked under one of its wings. It looked like a miniature model of one of the warblers in the woods behind Peggy’s house. I whipped around, scanning the diner. Most of the regulars had cleared out, and the counter and dining room were filling with people from neighboring towns and travelers passing through.
“Did you see who was sitting here?” I asked Fern as she walked by.
“In that ruckus?” Fern shook her head. “Why, did they stiff you?”
“Nope,” I said, pocketing the songbird. “They left a good tip.”
“So what are you thinking of doing, Nor?” Charlie had come out from the kitchen and was refilling his giant steel tumbler with coffee. “Are you considering selling out?”
Fern threw an ice cube at Charlie’s back. “Easy for you to say, Charlie. You have a steady job.”
“And a second job,” Charlie said, a little offended. He had been on his own since he was a teenager and was proud of making his way all this time.
“My point exactly. Dan hasn’t had steady work since the LaPlante factory closed down.”
“Since when do you care about Dan?” Charlie said. I shot him a warning look.
Fern plopped a stack of menus on the counter. “Since Dan hasn’t paid child support in nine months.”
“Jesus, Ferny, why didn’t you say something? Do you need extra shifts?” I could move some of the part-timers around. And the leaf peepers would be coming in soon.
“What she needs is a wealthy husband,” Charlie said, ducking to avoid being hit by the barrage of wet, crumpled paper napkins Fern threw his way.
“Amen to that,” she said, laughing. “One of those nice ski instructors who come up for the winter.”
“Someone to warm up your bed?”
“Wood’s not getting any cheaper.”
I took the bus bucket of dishes in back and stacked them in neat piles for the dishwasher. When I came back out into the dining room, Charlie and Fern were huddled together, looking at something on one of their phones. I peered over their shoulders. They were looking at Charlie’s dating app.
“Here he is,” Charlie said, tapping on the screen. “Do you think he’s worth traveling all the way to Burlington for?”
“He’s pretty cute,” Fern said, grabbing a couple of menus and smiling at the couple who had just walked in the door. “Dining room in back all right? This way.”
I caught Fern on her way to grab a water pitcher. “Seriously, honey. Do you need anything? I had no idea about Dan.”
Fern pinched my cheeks. “You are the sweetest. No, I’m fine. It’s been a little slow, but it always is this time of year, with the summer people gone and school starting up. I was just making a point. People need jobs. I don’t know if a company as big as HG is the answer, but something needs to be.”
“Do you think I should consider it?”
Fern shrugged. “Something has to change. It can’t hurt to hear what he has to say.”
“I guess not,” I said, because this was fundamentally true—seasons changed, people grew older, businesses came and went. Change was inevitable. But that didn’t mean that I welcomed it. Sure, life in Guthrie was a little predictable. There wasn’t much opportunity to meet new people or to try new things. But I liked our little village how it was. And a change like HG moving in—it could make things worse for a lot of people, not better. Did I want to be the person who gambled the town of Guthrie and lost? Peggy had been willing to. “I said I’d stay open-minded until the town has its say. But honestly, I don’t think I could do it.”
“That’s going to be one heck of a town meeting,” Fern said over her shoulder.
I was sure she was right.
* * *
We had a late lunch rush, which kept me at work into the early evening, but I drove straight from the diner to Peggy’s house, my pants pockets crammed with dog biscuits, hoping that the light would last long enough for me to walk far into the woods. My mind raced with questions. Was Peggy the artist, or was it a friend or a love who had made the sculptures? Was the little bird a gift Peggy had given someone, or was it a present made for me? And who had left it? Questions led to more questions. All I knew was I needed to get back into the woods.
I left the diner prepared for walking, trading my squishy black waitressing sneakers, skirt, and T-shirt for a sturdy pair of my mother’s Wellingtons, jeans, and a bright white T-shirt. I didn’t want any foraging bears to mistake me for one of their own. The Vanagon was parked in the driveway, but I decided not to stop in the house until I returned from my walk. I was still angry with Kit, and wasn’t ready to share the sculptures with her, or anyone. They felt like a treasure. If Kit knew about them, the woods would be filled with lights and cameras and a troupe of dancers and probably a brass band. She had a way of claiming things if she liked them, even if they were someone else’s—vintage dresses, new books, the occasional crush.
My wanting to keep the sculptures to myself for a little longer wasn’t just about my kid sister. I had grown more private since my divorce. I had stayed at home to take care of my dad after Mom died, so when Sean and I married, he moved in with us. I had had the naive thought that being married meant I would have someone to share the work of living with, but with Sean it just seemed like I had one more person’s socks to match. And my dad—even when he couldn’t remember that library books don’t belong in the refrigerator, he managed to remember, and bring up, the arguments he overheard between Sean and me, usually loudly and someplace public.
The first night alone in my family’s farmhouse I spent sitting at the round kitchen table my grandfather made, drinking coffee, too afraid to go to bed. I thought I would never get used to the silence or the solitude. But now it was something I cherished. I liked having time when no one knew where I was. I could go walking alone for hours. Out in the woods, or along one of the long, twisting dirt roads that cut through the mountains, I felt more like myself and at the same time like no one, just a tiny part in something much greater. Those moments felt deeply private. I felt the same way when I first found the sculptures—like I had stumbled upon something magical. They felt hopeful. I wasn’t ready to break the spell.
I walked quickly through the orchard, dropping a biscuit onto the ground every so often. I followed the flock of warblers through the trees until I reached the orange-and-blue horse, his tail and mane waving in the breeze as if he had reached full gallop and would soon be a dot in the distance.
With my back to the horse, I looked deeper into the woods. A few yards away there was a murky kettle pond with water that was thick and dark like hot chocolate. Light glinted by the edge of the pond. The wind picked up and I heard a faint sound of tinkling, like ice cubes rattling in a glass. I knew it, I said into the trees. There, perched on the bank, as if it were hunting for tonight’s dinner, was a snowy egret made almost entirely of crystal chandelier pieces, its long legs and beak made out of those old glass Christmas ornaments shaped like icicles. The raking afternoon light hit the crystal pieces and beamed tiny rainbows onto the surrounding trees. The crystal moved like feathers in the breeze. I snapped a couple of pictures before I walked briskly onward. Off in the distance I spotted a patch of bright blue. It took everything I had not to break into a run.
I found three more sculptures before the sun started to set. A doe made of flattened Pepsi cans, in the style of the galloping horse. A cat and a pair of kittens fashioned out of tiny pinecones and perched in a tree. The last was a pair of sheep whose coats were constructed out of thousands of light gray computer keyboard letters that had been arranged thoughtfully, so that the letters and characters added shadow and texture. Their eyes were black typewriter keys. There could be hundreds more sculptures in the woods, I thought as I raced the fading light.
The night air held the promise of autumn. In a few months these woods would become impassable until after mud season. In the distance, I heard a high-pitched howl followed by yip yip yip. Freckles? Or a coyote, most likely. There had been complaints about a couple of them getting into some chicken pens. I was certain Freckles had slept on Peggy’s couch or on her bed his whole life. He was no match for a coyote or a wolf. Then there was hunting season to keep in mind. Bow-and-arrow season would begin in just six weeks, followed by rifle. And next would be the weather. It wasn’t unheard of to get a decent snowfall in mid-October.
I walked faster, my hands shoved deep into my jean pockets, the skin of my arms bumpy from the chill of the night woods, until I reached the orchard and then the warm light of Peggy’s porch.
* * *
“Kitty, I’m here,” I called as I kicked off my boots. Max opened the door that separated the mudroom from the kitchen.
“You’re just in time,” he said, smiling. He was wearing a lace-trimmed green chiffon apron over his skinny black jeans and white T-shirt. “Come on in.”
The kitchen was warm and smelled of butter and vanilla and something smoky like scotch. On the kitchen counter there had been an explosion of powdered sugar. Unraveling pastry bags half filled with pink, yellow, and blue icing leaked onto the countertop and spilled onto the floor. There was an open bottle of Glenfiddich next to a carton of buttermilk. Max gestured toward one of the kitchen chairs and I slid onto it.
“First things first,” he said as he poured me a juice glass full of scotch. He refilled his own, and held up the glass. “To Peggy.”
“To Peggy,” I said as we clinked drinks. I took a sip and let the scotch burn its way down my throat. “Where’s Kit?” Kit would never miss out on a celebration, especially one that included whiskey and cake.
“She drove down to the printer in Littleton to make copies of the scenes she wants to use for the auditions.” The auditions for Kit’s movie were scheduled to begin the following weekend. Ever since Kit decided to shoot the film in Guthrie, I had barely caught a glimpse of her. She stayed up all night, rewriting dialogue or creating storyboard images of scenes inside Peggy’s house, then rearranging the furniture at Peggy’s to match her drawings. The only room in Peggy’s house that had kept its original configuration was the kitchen, which Max had taken over and forbidden Kit to enter unless invited.
Max placed a clean fork on top of a folded, checkered cloth napkin next to my right hand.
“Are you ready?” he asked. His voice held excitement a
nd pride. “Ta-da!”
Max presented me with a round cake on a tarnished silver platter. Creamy white waves of frosting swirled over the layers. The surface of the cake was decorated with dozens of tiny balloons in bright primary colors.
“I thought I should practice the balloons,” Max said, a little shyly. “It’s been awhile.”
“We get to eat this?” I asked, using my index finger to swipe up a chunk of frosting that had landed on the plate. Its buttery texture melted on my tongue, and a round, butterscotch flavor lingered.
Max bowed and presented me with a long knife. “If you would do the honors, madam.”
I had cut into countless cakes, pies, and puddings at the diner, but this felt different. Special. Important somehow. I took the knife and with gentle, deliberate strokes cut two large pieces. Max held out a plate. I lifted one of the cake slices with the knife and my fingers and slid it carefully onto the plate, bits of the moist crumb sticking to the blade. Max placed the slice in front of me. When I scooped up the second slice with the knife, he shook his head, and reached for the scotch bottle. He held up his glass and said, “Bon appetit.”
The cake had the finest crumb and a warm yellow hue, like the color of a chick’s first feathers. The layers were thick and even. Holding them together were ruby red preserves, studded with chunks of whole raspberries. I pushed a fork into my slice, and with no effort cut a tiny wedge. I could feel Max watching me, but I couldn’t make myself rush. It was the first homemade thing I could remember anyone making me since my mother had passed. I took my first bite. The buttery softness of the cake, the sharp tang of the lumpy preserves, and the creamy sweetness of the frosting were perfectly balanced. With less ceremony, I took another bite, and then another. The preserves tasted like summer, the frosting like childhood, the cake like a promise.
“How is it? Is it close to what you remembered?” Max asked. I had forgotten for a moment that he was there.
The Late Bloomers' Club Page 8
