Every head in the town hall turned toward the microphone. Fern leaned forward, then way back. “I can’t see. Nora, stand up and take a peek.”
Unable to contain my curiosity, I stood up. A tall woman with a mane of hair the color of horse chestnuts stood at the microphone. She wore one of those tight, stretchy shirts that are supposed to be for doing yoga but women mostly shop in, and a pair of well-worn hiking boots. “No need to apologize, Mr. Moderator. My name is Oona Avery. I’m the new science teacher at the high school.”
Sean blushed. He actually blushed! Several people stood up to get a look at the newcomer. A new teacher in town was usually pretty big news in Guthrie, and we hadn’t had anyone new move to town since Livvy Rawlings, the pastry chef over at the Sugar Maple, had arrived a couple of years back. Not a few of the loggers in the audience took off their baseball caps and combed their hair back with their fingers.
“Well, welcome, Ms. Avery.” Sean made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if he were giving Oona the whole town. “You have the floor.”
She beamed up at him, then set her eyes on Elliot. “Mr. Danforth, could you speak to the pollution that the building and running of a store like HG would create? I am specifically interested in how you plan to deal with the water runoff after you remove all of those trees.”
Elliot took a deep breath and smiled at Oona before replying. “Of course, the engineers could—and will—speak to this with more accuracy. Traditionally we place a box vault for storm water management underneath the building.”
“But a box vault wouldn’t prevent pollutants from getting into the groundwater. Many properties still rely on wells for some of their water. Wouldn’t planting native species and rain gardens be a more effective, environmentally friendly solution?”
“All options will be considered by our team of engineers to ensure—”
“And what about the orchard?” This did not come from Oona, or the microphone.
Sean looked unequipped to handle any Guthrie resident who wasn’t following the rules of town meetings.
A pair of sneakers squeaked across the recently waxed town hall floor.
“Who is it?” Fern asked.
Dotty McCracken walked by us, ignoring the line, her white braid bouncing off her back. She didn’t stop until she was standing next to Oona Avery. “I said, what about the orchard?”
“Mrs. McCracken, I’m sorry, but Oona has the floor.”
Oona looked bemused. “That’s okay—I give the floor to—what’s your name?”
Dotty held out her hand. “Dotty McCracken. Nice to meet you, dear.” Dotty turned to the mic. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Avery talking about pollution rattled my memory. Peggy’s family had an orchard on her land. My Henry and I used to steal away up there from time to time.” Judging by the sweet smile on Dotty’s face, it was a fond recollection.
“I wish my marriage had had half the romance the McCrackens’ did.” Fern sighed, and rested her head on my shoulder.
“You and me both.”
“And what has this to do with the environmental impact?” Elliot asked. An edge of impatience had crept into his voice. I felt the whole room turn away from him. Dotty McCracken was one of the most beloved citizens of Guthrie. It was like Elliot had taken a phone call in a movie theater right when the couple finally kissed.
“I don’t know about the environmental impact, but there are varieties of apples up in those woods that no one has seen in decades. That seems like an important part of the environment to me.”
“Amen,” said Oona, placing a hand on Dotty’s shoulder.
“I remember that orchard,” some old-timer called, and the room broke into dozens of conversations about apples that tasted like pears and the best way to blett a medlar.
Sean tapped on the mic. “Folks, folks. There are rules to town meetings for a reason.” But the crowd was lost in collective memories of stolen kisses and late afternoons gathering fruit, and of the taste of turnovers that would make a man weep. Sean looked over at the town manager. “All right, folks, I’m calling it. Meeting is adjourned. Please see Mrs. Fairbanks if you want to get your issue on the warning for next meeting.”
Elliot cleared his throat. “What about the vote on changing the zoning?”
Sean looked out over the crowd picking up empty popcorn containers and draping sweaters over their arms. Some of the high school kids were already folding up the vacated chairs and stacking them in the back. “Next time,” Sean replied, slapping Elliot on the shoulder.
“Well, that’s that,” I said to Fern as I pulled on my jean jacket.
“What do you mean?”
I pointed over at Sean, who was chatting up the science teacher. “This is the classic ‘make it look like you are postponing something when you have absolutely no intention of ever doing it’ town meeting move. Sean pulled it off well, considering it’s his first time.”
“Like the time they never voted on legalizing pot,” Fern said, “but the charges against Sally Banforth were mysteriously dropped.”
“Exactly. It’s clever, really. If the town never takes a vote on the zoning laws, they know HG will eventually move on.”
“And no one has to be pissed off at their neighbors for voting a different way than they did. It really is brilliant,” Fern agreed.
“Guthrie town council. Keeping the peace.”
“What does that mean for you, Nora?”
Fern offered me the dregs of her kettle corn. “It means I won’t have to listen to the old-timers telling me what to do,” I said. “At least for a little while.” I looked at the thinning crowd. Kit and Max were nowhere to be seen. “And it means I won’t be the one to disappoint my sister, which will be a nice change of pace.”
“I’m sure you’ll find other buyers,” said Fern.
“We have time.”
* * *
Kit and Max waved Fern and me over to their booth at the Black Bear Tavern. The bar was packed with people still in a sociable mood after the town meeting. The pair had slipped out the back of the town hall the moment Sean had officially closed the meeting, and had texted me to meet them at the bar.
“This place is classic,” Max said, his arms stretched the length of the booth. Kit was pressed against his side, doing something on her phone. “Have you seen that stuffed bear over by the bar?”
“We’ve seen it,” Kit and I said at the same time. Even Kit, the most enthusiastic person on the planet, seemed to be growing a little tired of Max’s delight in all things Vermont. I think she was worried that he would ask if they could stay.
The waitress brought over a pitcher of beer and four frosted glasses. Fern waved her away when she started to pour. “Sally, you know I can’t have you waiting on me.” Fern and I always had a hard time being waited on by our own customers. It was like seeing your high school teacher on the elliptical at the gym. It just didn’t feel right.
“You poured me coffee twelve hours ago.”
Fern pulled the glasses closer to her. “Can’t do it. Go away.”
Sally laughed. “Fine. Holler at me when you want to order food.”
Fern poured the beer and raised her glass. “Here’s to Rebecca Goodwin. May her attempt to get rid of the Mrs. Coventry County pageant inspire the young women of Guthrie for years to come.”
We held up our glasses and clinked. “Hear, hear.”
The door opened and a cheer rose from the crowd of drinkers over by the empty stage. When I looked over, they were slapping Sean on the back.
“Well done, councilman,” someone shouted. A few people whistled.
“I don’t see the intern,” Fern said. “Do you think it has something to do with the new science teacher?”
Max clapped his hands on the table. “I thought there was something going on there, too.”
Kit rolled her eyes a
t me and returned to her phone.
“Can we not speculate about my ex-husband’s sex life?” I pleaded, taking a long sip of my beer.
Fern surveyed Sean over her shoulder. “She’d be a better match than the intern.”
“And she’s pretty foxy, in a saving-the-planet-with-science kind of way.” This was from Max.
Fern nodded. “What he said. Exactly. Sean always needed someone to boss him around. Nora was too—”
“You guys,” I said, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. “Can we talk about the meeting?”
“Yes,” Kit said, tossing her phone onto the seat beside her. “Let’s talk about the meeting.”
This was a surprise. I assumed she and Max had spent the whole meeting whispering to each other, not actually paying attention.
Kit poured us all another round. “Big-box boy just got the Guthrie slapdown, am I right?”
“Yes,” Fern and I agreed.
“So I have a proposal to make.” Kit looked up at Max. He put his arm around her. “Actually, more of a favor to ask.”
Max smiled down at her and gave her shoulder a little squeeze. It was obvious they had discussed whatever was coming next.
Kit took a deep breath. “Nora, I would like to ask you for a loan. As soon as Peggy’s place is sold you would get the money back, plus interest.”
I should have seen this coming. Kit moved a lot faster than the town of Guthrie, or me. But the question still caught me off guard. Asking for things just wasn’t something we did in our family. Both Mom and Dad were raised by Depression-era parents, and they knew better than to ask for anything extra. Mom thought anything worth doing you should do yourself. That was before she was sick, of course, but even when she was at her weakest, she wouldn’t ask for more than a glass of water, and then she would apologize for having to put you through the trouble. I had learned to anticipate what she needed before she knew herself. Dad was easier to ask—at least he wouldn’t make you feel guilty the way Mom sometimes did—but he never followed through with any of the promises he made, so it was better not to get your hopes up. I couldn’t remember the last time I had asked anyone who didn’t work for me for help. It was one of the things that Sean complained about. That I didn’t need anything from him. That I didn’t need him.
“How big a loan?” It was obvious that neither she nor Max had any cash to speak of. They checked out books and movies from the library, crashed on my couch, and ate at my house or at the diner free of charge. I had a small nest egg—three thousand dollars saved in a coffee can at the back of my freezer, tip money from the hour I covered the counter in the mornings. I didn’t have any plans for it. I could spare at least half.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“What?”
“Fifty thousand would be more realistic,” Max countered, looking at Kit instead of me.
“Fifty thousand,” Kit said, meeting my gaze. “I know it sounds like a lot of money, Nora, but before you say anything—”
“It doesn’t just sound like a lot of money, Kit. It is—”
“Even if we shoot the bulk of Side Work for free in Peggy’s house, doing all the camera work ourselves, making movies even on a micro budget like ours—”
“You have to have a good camera,” Max said. “It doesn’t matter how good the script is, or the acting. If it doesn’t look professional no one will take it seriously. Same goes for sound.”
“And we have to pay the actors. And postproduction. Getting a decent sound person and editor—”
“Especially with the turnaround time we need.”
I held up my hands. “Okay, you guys, I get it. But the diner just isn’t that profitable. I had to replace the refrigeration last year, and the insurance rates keep going up. I might even have to raise my prices. I just don’t have that kind of money saved. I’m sorry.”
Kit looked down at her hands. “You could borrow it,” she said quietly.
“Kit.” If losing the family homestead had drilled anything into me—into us—I thought, it was to avoid debt at any cost. Dad had taken on piles of credit card debt when Mom was dying and had fallen behind on the mortgage. It was one of the reasons we had to sell the house.
“It would be temporary—just until we settle Peggy’s estate. The money can go straight to the bank, I won’t even touch it.”
“It’s not that simple, Kit. There’s already a lien against Peggy’s estate—she owed a bunch of back taxes. And with the HG deal hanging on town approval, no bank is going to give us money with that collateral.”
“No one is going to give us money,” Kit said. “But they would give you money.”
“Why? Peggy’s land belongs to both of us. I’m in the same boat you are.”
“But you have the diner.”
Fern met my eyes before she emptied the remains of the pitcher of beer into my glass and slid out of the booth, taking the pitcher with her to the bar.
The Miss Guthrie. It was all that was left of our parents. Would they have gambled it even for a moment to help Kit follow her dream? Our pragmatic mother—no way. She would say that any dream worth chasing was worth waiting for, and if they didn’t have the funds it meant that this wasn’t the opportunity for them, and that the right one would come along when they were ready. But our dad . . . he might have said yes.
And then there was the question of what would happen to me if I lost the diner.
“Kitty,” I said quietly. “You have to realize what you are asking. If anything went wrong—it’s all I have.”
“This movie is my big shot, Nora. It’s the break I’ve been dreaming about. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come around more than once.”
It wasn’t the first time that Kit had asked me to put her dreams in front of my needs, but this was different. The diner was the reason I got out of bed in the morning. It was my role in the community. It was the last place left that I could call home. Running it was the only thing I knew how to do, and being the owner was who I was. If I lost the diner, I would lose my identity, my purpose. The Miss Guthrie wasn’t just my job; it was my whole life.
I looked up at Kit. Her face was an illustration from a storybook, a vision of hope, all possibility. A flash of envy washed over me at her ability to dream big. But envy was quickly replaced by the love I had for the woman in front of me—the little sister I used to know, the sister who would crawl into my bed on the nights when our mom, fading in front of us, couldn’t mask the pain. The sister who looked to me for milk money, to sign permission slips, to French braid her hair, who trusted me to figure out the best way to make the maximum amount of glitter stick to her fairy costume. The sister who saw me as someone who would lift her up, not hold her back.
“I’ll think about it. We can ask the bank. But if the payments are more than I think I can handle—I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Kit pushed Max out of the booth, hopped into the space Fern had left, threw her arms around me, and kissed my cheek. “Thanks, sis. It won’t be for long, I promise. Peggy’s place will sell in a snap. We’ll find some nice goat farmer. And we’ll give you a producer credit!”
I looked over at Max. He held up his hand in prayer and bowed his head. Thank you, he mouthed.
I bowed back, thinking we needed all the prayers we could get.
* * *
Fern offered to drive Max and Kit back to the apartment after I said I wanted to stop by the diner and work on payroll. Really I just needed a little space, some time away from talk of movies and money. I drove the back roads for a while with the windows rolled down, letting the chorus of peepers drown out my racing thoughts. Eventually I found myself leaning into the familiar twists of Pudding Hill Road, each lift and curve a memory held in my body. I slowed down to turn onto Hunger Mountain, and pulled up in front of our old house. The new owners had had it painted a colonial blue that
made it look suburban. The barn was still white, though, and the roof had been replaced. Mom’s garden had been turned over, and grass seed planted. They had to be paying someone to come by and mow—the lawn was trim and tidy, not a rangy daisy or cornflower in sight. The windows were dark, the driveway where Kit and I learned to ride bikes was empty. One of the carpenters had told me they had removed several walls inside and turned it into an open floor plan. I had liked the cozy little rooms. There had been a tiny room on the west side that Dad used as his “study.” It was a warm, dusty space just big enough to fit an antique secretary and two comfy chairs that our cats used to sleep on during the day. Dad had hung shelves on the walls and stuffed them full of paperback books. It was my go-to place in the afternoons, where I would snuggle up with Susan, the calico, and get lost in a story. Now it was probably a walk-in closet. I pressed the gas and kept driving.
When I reached Peggy’s house, I was surprised to find the Mercedes two-seater parked in front. I pulled in behind it, turning off the engine but keeping my headlights on.
Elliot gracefully stepped out of his car and walked up to my open window. “Ms. Huckleberry,” he said warmly, his hand held up in a frozen wave.
“Hi,” I said, searching my mind for the memory of an appointment, but coming up empty.
“Hi.” His self-assured expression dropped for a moment and he looked uncertain. He put his hands in his pants pockets.
“I thought you might have skipped town by now,” I said.
He laughed, and I was surprised to hear that it sounded genuine, without anger. “And miss tomorrow’s reaction pieces in the Coventry County Record? Never.”
“They will probably print at least three editions,” I offered. “It’s best to wait for the last printing or you won’t get the full story.”
A deep hoot sounded from the woods behind Peggy’s barn.
“Who cooks for you?” he said as if he were almost singing.
The Late Bloomers' Club Page 11
