“I’m sorry?” I was completely confused.
“Did you hear that? The call?” He smiled. “I think it’s a barred owl. Listen. It sounds like it’s asking Who cooks for you?”
We waited in silence for several minutes, but the bird never made another peep.
Elliot cupped his hands to his mouth. “Whoo whoo foo yooooo.”
Nothing.
He stared at Peggy’s barn. He looked prepared to wait all night.
“Um, I don’t want to sound impolite, but could I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Oh. I stopped by the diner, but you weren’t there. I thought I might find you here.”
“Did you need something?” I was never this direct, but it was getting late. Invite him in for a cup of tea, Nora, I could hear my mother admonishing me from the grave. But I had had a strange day. And I didn’t like him here, on Peggy’s land, looking at it through the filter of money. All I wanted was to clear my head, then get home and into a hot bath.
“Actually, I have something for you,” he offered, popping open his trunk with a press of a button on his keys. I opened my car door and stepped out—it seemed impolite to receive a gift through an open window.
Elliot walked over and pulled out what looked like an extra-fat sawed-off shotgun.
“I’m not sure what you’ve heard about Vermont women, but giving me the gift of firearms isn’t going to sway my opinion.”
Elliot chuckled. With a steady arm, he pointed the gun toward Peggy’s herb garden, aimed, and pulled the trigger. With a loud pop, a giant orange net shot at least fifty feet into the garden, attached to the gun by a long orange line, and landed softly on a shaggy, overgrown sage bush. He turned to me, his smile bright, looking like a kid who had just made his three-pointer.
“I thought it might help. With Freckles,” he clarified. He tugged on the line where it was attached to the gun. The net closed itself around the bottom of the plant. “It’s a little harder with a moving object, of course.”
He looked quite comfortable with the net gun in his hands—not something I would have guessed that first day we met in the diner.
Elliot tugged at the line again. The sage shook and several leaves fell off the plant. “See?”
“That herb does look good and trapped,” I said, rubbing my arms. The night had grown cool. “I’m not sure I could even catch a shrub, though, to be honest.”
“I thought I could go out with you.” The way he said it sounded a little like he was asking me out to the movies, and from the way his eyes avoided mine I could tell he heard it the same way. “I mean, next time you get a tip. About the dog.” Elliot walked toward the garden, his leather-soled shoes slipping on the damp grass. “My dad is a hunter,” he said loudly as he freed the net from the sage bush, winding the line loosely around his arm as he walked back to me. “He uses one of these to retrieve ducks that land in the lake. His last Labrador didn’t like the water,” he added. When he reached me he said, “I learned from him. I’m originally from Maine.”
He had a New England accent, but I would have guessed from the tempo that he was from Massachusetts.
I watched him as he lay the net gun on the ground. He spread the net on the grass and tugged at the end of the line, making sure it was secure. He had a calm, steady way about him that I found appealing. I realized then that I wanted to trust him. He was friendly and polite and he didn’t know anyone in town so I imagined he might be a little lonely. But the very nature of what brought Elliot into my life made everything he did seem suspicious to me. I didn’t want to be taken advantage of, or lulled into believing a glossed-over version of what a complex like HG’s might do to a town like Guthrie. But Freckles was alone somewhere and neither Erika nor I had had any luck in getting within ten feet of him. I needed help.
“Aren’t you planning on leaving?” I asked.
“Why would I leave?”
“Because of tonight—I think it was pretty obvious what the majority of the town thinks.”
“What do you think?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think I—I just can’t do it. I’m sorry. It would be too big a change for the town.”
Elliot folded the net neatly, making sure the weights attached to the corners lined up evenly, and tucked it back into the canister of the gun. He stood, fumbling with the gun’s nylon carrying case. “Would you still accept my help?”
“I suppose so. If you’re staying,” I said.
Elliot rocked back and forth on his heels. “I’ll be here for a little longer, I think. The Sugar Maple is quite comfortable. Great food. Have you had dinner there?”
“Chef Alfred is amazing.”
“You need to come by and try his gazpacho. He adds pickled corn. I’ve never tasted anything like it.” Elliot nervously zipped and unzipped the carrying case of the net gun. “They have room for me for the month, at least. It’s a good home base for my search.” Elliot smiled. “And besides, I heard there is a spectacular display of carved jack-o’-lanterns that I shouldn’t miss.”
“That’s not for another couple of months,” I pointed out. “Surely you’ll have closed a deal with someone by then.”
“If I still want to have a job, yes. But until then.” He held up the net gun, as if it were a trophy.
“The tips could come in at any hour. You’ll have to let me know when it’s appropriate to call.”
Elliot smiled, tucked the net gun under his arm, and fished a business card out of his jacket pocket. “Call anytime. I turn off the ringer when I’m sleeping.”
I took the card and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans without looking, and got back into my car. “Thanks,” I said through the open window, and turned the key in the ignition.
“Wait, your gun.”
“Keep it,” I said, but it came out wrong, a little harsh. “I mean, bring it with you. When we hear about Freckles.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Okay, then,” I said, feeling shy all of a sudden. I rolled up the window and pulled away, leaving Elliot Danforth and his net gun in complete darkness, and confused by the sudden hope that Erika would call with a Freckles sighting so I could take him up on his offer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Saturday mornings were always busy at the diner, so I scheduled four waitresses—better to have one of the high school girls standing around flirting with the dishwasher during a slow period than to be short staffed when a bus full of tourists came in. It’s officially my day off, but I usually spend an hour or two getting caught up on paperwork or doing inventory or paying bills—all the little things I’m sure my dad never imagined when he was thinking of opening a restaurant. I tried to stay out of everyone’s hair—the Saturday crew had their own flow and they didn’t need me telling them the most efficient way to set up the coffee station, even if my way is the best.
The Saturday after the town meeting I spent decorating the diner for the upcoming Corn and Tomato Festival. It was Guthrie’s annual festival celebrating the riches of summer. It was my favorite Guthrie holiday—I had loved it since I was a child, mostly because it was an excuse to eat as much buttery, salted sweet corn as humanly possible without my mom fussing at me. The highlight of the festival was the annual tug-of-war against the neighboring town of Rowan. It had been held every year, rain or shine, since 1921. No one remembers how the rivalry started, but that didn’t keep the citizens of Guthrie from desperately wanting to win. We hadn’t taken home the trophy—a coiled yard of bronze-plated rope—in over two decades.
Fern had made a garland by stitching together cornhusks that she had collected from the kitchen, which I intended to hang over the entrance. I set up the ladder and climbed up, garland and nail gun in hand.
“Looks very festive,” said a calm voice. I looked down to find Elliot Danforth gazing up at me. “Need a hand?”
“Sorry if I’m
keeping you from your brunch. Almost done.” I nailed the garland in five spots and climbed down the ladder. When I stepped off, Elliot reached over and folded the ladder back to flat.
“I’ve already eaten, just out for a walk.” Elliot eyed the garland. “Special occasion?”
“There’s a festival coming up.” I brushed away the loose strands of hair that were sticking to my face. “Corn and Tomato. You’ve probably seen the signs.”
Elliot nodded. “‘Old-Fashioned Family Fun.’ And I may have noticed some decorations.” He waved his arm down the street. Every business had a cornstalk or two tied to the trees near their doors, or tomato cages decorated with streamers stuck in their planters alongside the mums.
“Guthrie takes its festivals pretty seriously.”
“Is that so?”
I leaned a little closer to him. He had that good smoky scent. “If you don’t decorate for Corn and Tomato Festival or the Harvest Festival, or for the Mud Season Spectacular, or the Sugar on Snow Fair, you open yourself up to all sorts of speculation.”
“What kind of speculation?”
I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was approaching. The coast was clear. “One year I didn’t hang twinkle lights outside the diner during the Summer Solstice celebration and word got out that it was because I was suffering from vertigo and couldn’t climb a ladder.”
“Someone just made that up?”
I nodded. “I still have old-timers shuffle over to offer me an arm while I’m waiting to cross the street.” I didn’t tell him the reason I didn’t hang the lights was because when I went to the hardware store to buy replacement twinkle lightbulbs, I saw Sean and the intern kissing in the glues and adhesives aisle, and I had to flee.
I held up a string of lights that were made up of little plastic cherry tomatoes. “I better put these up inside before the festival committee comes in for lunch.”
Elliot reached for the ladder. “Could I talk to you while you’re working?”
I glanced at him. He looked harmless enough in his dark jeans and pressed oxford shirt. Handsome even. “I can even take a break. Come on in.”
Elliot sat on one of the two free stools at the counter while I poured us both cups of coffee. A group of twentysomethings wearing “Keep Guthrie Small” T-shirts waited by the door to be seated.
“Sorry,” I said, nodding my head toward them.
“I’m all for a healthy debate.” By his relaxed shoulders I believed him. Elliot smiled warmly at the protestors and said good morning as they passed by on their way to their booth.
I was impressed by his open attitude and his willingness to discuss the issues. It made me want to be more like him. “So what did you want to talk about?” I asked, sliding onto the stool next to him.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions about the other night?”
“You mean the town meeting? Sure.”
He nodded. “Is that usually how they go?”
I poured milk from the creamer into my cup. “You mean, do they usually devolve into chaos?”
Elliot rubbed his face with his fingers. He had pianist’s hands, elegant and strong and clean. “That is what I was wondering.”
“I’d love to say no, but . . . the town meeting before last ended in a heated discussion over whether the winner of this year’s giant pumpkin contest had cheated because he used Miracle-Gro.”
“I kind of figured that would be the answer.” He carefully peeled off the cap of one creamer and poured it into his cup. “What did they decide?”
“There wasn’t anything in the bylaws that said you couldn’t use it. They decided to break the award into two categories next year—organic and nonorganic.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Elliot tapped his fingertips together as he watched the cook stir hash brows on the griddle through the window. “I know this is inappropriate to ask, and I hope you won’t be offended—”
I tucked my arms into the bib of my overalls, then untucked them. “Shoot.”
“I may have heard that the town councilman who mediated the meeting is your ex-husband.”
“How did you hear that?”
The tips of Elliot’s ears reddened.
The front door bell tinkled and Fern walked in, trailed by her two daughters. The two girls plopped into a booth and whipped out their phones.
“I’m not offended,” I said, although it did make me uncomfortable to think of Elliot talking about me with people in town. “It’s common knowledge. Sean is my ex.”
I swiveled on the stool to face the row of booths by the windows. “Hey there,” I said to Fern. “What are you doing here on your day off?”
“The girls have a favor to ask.” Fern glanced over at the table and gave us an exasperated look. “Come ask Nora yourself.”
Fern’s daughters put their phones facedown on the table and came to stand by their mother.
“What do you say?”
“Nora, we’ve signed up for Girls Rock Boston this summer and we are asking area businesses for donations to help us raise funds for our travel expenses,” said Joan in a nonchalant way that was the perfect imitation of her mother. Joan was only twelve. I was pretty sure Fern was in for a hell of a ride through Joan’s teen years.
“And for new outfits,” added Alice, the youngest. She was nine and still as soft and round as she was as a baby. Joan elbowed her in the ribs.
“And what happens at Girls Rock Boston?” I asked.
“We start a band,” Joan said in a distracted way, her eyes on a table of junior high soccer players who were throwing French fries at each other.
Alice looked over her shoulder to see what had captured her sister’s attention. “And we learn to write songs.”
“That sounds like a worthy cause. Could I ask you to do something in return?”
The two girls looked at each other.
“Sure,” said Joan.
I put my hand on Elliot’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
I popped into my office, plopped the string of lights on my desk, and grabbed my checkbook and the stack of missing dog flyers I had made. I stopped by the freezer and plucked out two ice-cream sandwiches.
When I returned to the dining room, Elliot was showing the girls a Sleater-Kinney video. “Carrie Brownstein is widely recognized as a pioneer in the Riot Grrrl movement,” he said, tapping on the screen. I wrote each of the girls a check for fifty dollars while they watched.
“Could you post these around town as you are soliciting donations?” I asked as I handed each of the girls an ice-cream sandwich, a stack of flyers, and a check.
“Got any tape?” Joan asked, biting into the ice cream.
“I’ll grab it,” Fern said. “Okay, girls. Next stop.”
“Okay,” I said, sliding back onto my stool. “Where were we?”
“We were talking about your ex-husband. Here’s the part that might offend you.” He had a way of saying things so calmly that they sounded reasonable, even when he was telling you that they might not be. “Would you mind asking Sean to put the zoning vote on the top of the agenda for the next town meeting?”
“Even when we already decided no?”
Elliot looked sheepish. “It will give me a chance to see if the town is open to the idea at all. Even if you don’t want to sell the Johnson property to HG, how the town votes will give me a chance to see how people are leaning. If they vote no, I’ll take Guthrie off my list of prospects.”
“And if they say yes?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you’ll change your mind?”
I shot him a look.
Elliot smiled and held his hands up in surrender. “If they say yes, then I’ll keep looking in the area. There are a couple of pieces of property that might work. Not as good as the Johnson land, though.”
“Nothing is a
s good as the Johnson land,” I agreed. I had caught myself a couple of times daydreaming about living in Peggy’s little house. It held the same warmth and charm as my childhood home. Every time I returned to my apartment from visiting Peggy’s, I found myself feeling restless and itchy, confined. “Can I be honest with you?”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“The issue not coming to a vote the other day . . . that might have been the town’s way of voting without—”
“Without offending anyone. I’m familiar with the tactic.” Elliot tapped his fingertips together. “Still, I’d be curious to see what happens when an actual vote occurs.”
“Just curious?”
“A lot of my work is based on intuition. Let’s just say I’d like to settle a hunch. But I’m afraid the conversation might . . .”
“Drift?” I offered.
He smiled. “Drift, and we’ll have to wait another month before we know if the town will even consider changing the zoning. I’m afraid if that happens it will push HG in another direction.”
As much as I wanted to see Peggy’s land preserved, I was grateful to still have Elliot’s interest. No one else had made an offer and I was starting to get nervous. There were utility bills to pay. The oven stopped working while Max was baking a cake, and we had to bring in a repairman. The quarterly property tax payment was due in September, and now that the bank had said yes, I would have to budget in making loan payments at the end of every month. I had enough in savings to get us through three, maybe four months tops as long as business at the diner kept steady. HG might have to be my emergency backup plan. “I’ll mention it to him. But I’m not making any promises.”
“No promises needed.” He smiled at me then, and I noticed for the first time that his eyes were hazel: green and gold and brown, like autumn leaves floating on the surface of a pond. I fought the urge to snap his picture.
Elliot stood and followed me out the door and back onto the street. “So what do you do on a sunny Saturday?” he asked.
“Normally nothing too exciting—laundry, grocery shopping, chores.” I shrugged. “Right now I’m headed over to see how my sister’s callbacks are going.”
The Late Bloomers' Club Page 12
