The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  “And don’t you develop chains?”

  Elliot looked shocked. “Not chain restaurants.”

  “Is there a big difference between a chain restaurant and a chain store?”

  “I think there is.” Elliot leaned over on his side to meet my eyes. “All stores sell manufactured goods. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a small hardware store is selling the same factory-made nail as a store like HG. But food, what you do at the diner—”

  “What Charlie does, really,” I said, because honestly, if I were working the grill at the Miss Guthrie, the lines at the McDonald’s in the town next door would be miles long.

  “What Charlie does, and what you do—the way you know your customers, and the way you can tailor the food you make to the community you serve—a chain restaurant can’t compare.”

  “But Burt Grant down at the Hammer and Nail does the same thing that I do. He knows all of his customers. He offers credit to farmers who need to mend their fences before their cash crops come in. He tailors what he carries in his store to the town’s needs.”

  The sun had dropped below the trees, and the sugar bush was beginning to take on the inky blue of dusk. Elliot reached over for the night vision binoculars. He uncapped them and handed them to me. “These can take a little getting used to.”

  I raised the binoculars up to my eyes and peered into the woods. The world looked hyperfocused, bright and green.

  “I’d never say that a store like HG doesn’t have an impact on a town like Guthrie. And of course it would have a huge impact on someone like Burt Grant. But some corporations do good for a community as well.”

  I sighed. I didn’t feel like hearing the HG pitch when my belly was wet from the damp earth. “Tell me something good, something not in your pitch. Tell me something you’re proud of in your work.” It was a question I had been wanting to ask him. Maybe it was easier because of the darkness.

  Elliot was silent for several minutes. I played with the focus on the binoculars while he thought over my question. Through the lenses I could make out the distinct shape of a gray fox walking along the edge of the woods.

  “Oh.”

  “Freckles?”

  “No. Look,” I said, handing Elliot the binoculars.

  “What a beauty,” he said. Elliot’s bottom lip hung down a fraction, and his tongue just barely stuck out as he leaned forward to get a better view. I wished there was a little light—just enough to capture the look of pure wonder on his face, but I knew it was impossible in the darkness. “Do you see many foxes around here?”

  “They were the reason I stopped trying to keep chickens,” I said.

  Elliot turned his face toward me, his expression still unguarded. “HG commissions local artists wherever they develop,” he said quietly. “And they pay them very well to make art in their spaces. Some of the artists get to create on a scale they could never afford to on their own. HG even has a curator on staff in charge of taking care of the work, and reaching out to the communities to find out what they would like to see. I’d love to show you some of the art. That’s something I’m really proud of.”

  I opened my mouth, about to tell him about Peggy’s sculpture garden, but a part of me hesitated.

  “There he is!” Elliot thrust the binoculars at me and grabbed the net gun. “Keep your eyes on him.”

  And there he was. Freckles, all one hundred pounds of him, paced in front of the bowls of kibble and water, stopping to sniff in the direction of the canoe, his white-striped muzzle moving in a circular motion, his white-tipped tail hanging low.

  “Tell me when he reaches the bowls,” Elliot said in a whisper.

  Freckles took one step toward the kibble bowl, and then another.

  “He’s eating,” I whispered into Elliot’s ear.

  Elliot leaned up straight onto his forearms, held the gun steady, and pulled the trigger. Freckles flinched at the sound. The net shot across the field, opened, and snared the two speckled bowls. Freckles had bolted a split second before. I scanned the woods—he was nowhere to be seen. Elliot scooched out from underneath the canoe and reached down to help me up. He pulled a Maglite out of the backpack he had brought with him and flashed it into the trees. The gray fox looked straight at us, blinking in the bright light, then slinked back into the woods.

  “Well,” Elliot said, brushing off his pants.

  I peeled several wet blades of grass off of my vest. “Erika said the trap she ordered uses a pressure plate trigger to close the trapdoor. Maybe that will work.”

  “Maybe,” said Elliot. He turned his face toward the cabin, and the light from the windows illuminated his disappointment. “Would you come in for a glass of cider? I have a bottle in the cabin.”

  It was dark, and I felt dirty from lying on the cold ground, and my back was a bit stiff, but I wasn’t quite ready to face my little apartment and my little sister. “Okay.”

  * * *

  Elliot handed me a glass of cider as I settled into the puffed cushions on the sofa. I took a long sip, and then another more thoughtful one. It was like no cider I had ever had. The bubbles were tiny, like champagne. It was clean tasting, like maple sap straight from the tree, and perfectly balanced, walking the finest line between dry and sweet. I hoped the bottle was full. “This is incredible.”

  “It’s made from a variety of apple that was around during the time of Shakespeare.”

  “A really old apple, then,” I said, and drained my glass.

  Elliot laughed, and filled my glass to the rim. “Did you know that if you plant an apple tree from seed, the tree will produce fruit that tastes completely different from the apple it came from?”

  “That’s my sister Kit. She isn’t like either of my parents.”

  “Or very much like you?” Elliot settled into the other end of the couch.

  “At first glance. We do have some things in common. We have the same sense of humor. And we both love film—”

  “Are you a filmmaker, too?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. Kit is the artist in the family.” I turned my attention back to the cool cider. “So how do all Red Delicious apples taste the same if you can’t grow a tree from seed?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

  Elliot shuddered. “First of all, although it’s technically an apple, let’s take the Red Delicious out of the conversation.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “Have you ever actually eaten a Red Delicious?”

  “Of course.”

  Elliot shook his head. “And you weren’t disgusted by it?”

  I held my hands up in surrender. “They are mealy.”

  Elliot leaned back. “And they taste like a Yankee Candle.”

  I laughed. “It’s true. I’ve never thought of that before, they taste like—”

  “The idea of an apple, not an actual flavor that comes from nature.”

  “So, no Red Delicious. How do you make a McIntosh apple—”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “—taste like a McIntosh apple?”

  Elliot leaned back, his hands resting on his belly. “Grafting.”

  “I remember my dad teaching me a little about this when we were kids. That’s when you tie two branches together?”

  “Let me borrow your scarf.”

  I unwound the scarf, my neck feeling exposed when the last few inches of fabric slipped onto my lap.

  “Give me your arm.” Elliot reached over and placed his hand by my elbow, so that my arm was resting on his, my fingers curled into the crook of his arm. “You carefully make a long slice at the end of a fresh branch on a tree, and the end of the apple branch you want to grow, then fit them together like this.” Elliot pressed his forearm to mine. He took the scarf and started to wind the fabric over our joined arms, tossing the scarf over and pulling it back, binding us together. “
Then you wrap them with cloth, snug, like this.”

  “You’re good at this,” I said softly, aware of the warmth of my arm on his, and the way his hand cupped my elbow. He was leaning forward, his face close as he worked.

  “I’m an Eagle Scout,” he said and gave me a small smile as he tucked the end of the scarf into the fabric around my wrist. With his free hand he rubbed our bound arms, inspecting his work. “In time, the new branch will heal onto the tree, and will bear its original fruit.” He said this quietly. I could feel his warm breath on my skin.

  “That’s really cool,” I said lamely, my cheeks burning at the realization that I liked the feeling of being pressed against him, even in this small way. The binding reminded me of what I thought a marriage could be—joining yourself to a new family, and with their support, growing and blooming. “Are some trees better than others?” I asked, and a little trace of hope escaped in my question. I hadn’t done a lot of blooming as a LaPlante.

  Elliot thought for a moment as he slowly unraveled the scarf. “I think technically you could join any fruit tree onto another, but some trees are better suited than others. Climate, environment, the health of the tree, the soil, all of those things come into play.”

  I thought the same was true for couples, but I didn’t say anything.

  “There’s a man in England who has grafted over two hundred and fifty varieties of apples onto one tree.”

  The last loop of fabric loosened and the scarf fell free. Elliot squeezed my elbow before letting go. My arm felt cold without his. “How do you know so much about apples, anyway?”

  “It was a hobby of my father’s. He collected apple varieties. He actually saved three varieties that were extinct here in the U.S.”

  “What are they like?”

  Elliot stood, straightening his shirt. “Sour. And small. Terrible, really.”

  I laughed. “Good thing he saved them.”

  “He has a soft spot for the neglected and unlikable.” Elliot took both glasses and brought them to the sink. “At the town meeting, who was the older woman with the long silver braid?”

  “That’s Dotty McCracken. She’s Margaret’s best friend. I’m sure you’ll see her at the Sugar Maple if you stay a little longer.”

  “She mentioned an orchard here in town?” he asked over the rush of water pouring from the faucet.

  “On Peggy’s land. Yes, there is a small orchard. It’s full of odd fruit. Berry bushes, too.” I thought I heard a deep woof from outside. I looked out the back window, but could see only the reflection of Elliot rinsing the glasses. “She must not have kept it up—it’s really overgrown.”

  “Would you take me there?”

  He could have asked if he could see it, or for directions or a map. He could have just added it to the list of things for the surveyor to take account of. But he asked if I would take him there.

  “Did you bring muck boots?”

  Elliot laughed, a full, loud laugh that left him openmouthed. “You have to be the most practical woman I have ever met.”

  The way he said it sounded like a compliment.

  “I have some sturdy, waterproof boots with me, yes.”

  “The ground is thick with old fruit,” I said, cheeks burning, feeling dumb and pleased at the same time. “It’s super slippery.”

  “Was there anything ripening?” Elliot’s face held that hopeful look again.

  “There were some tall bushes covered with shiny black berries.”

  He thought for a moment. Then his face brightened. “Did they have red stems?”

  “Blood red. They reminded me of drawings of the vascular system.”

  “Elderberry,” he said, and he looked as if he were forming a plan. “You’re in for a treat.”

  * * *

  Max met me on Peggy’s porch on Monday afternoon, wearing one of Peggy’s aprons—this time an orange chiffon with white lace. He held a matching red apron in his hands. “Put it on,” Max said. I tied it around my overalls. I looked like a farmer wearing a tutu.

  “Perfect!” He slapped his hands together. “Now you are prepared to learn to bake. My teacher always said it was important to dress properly for whatever you are doing—that it puts you in the right mind-set.”

  “Your baking teacher?”

  “Meditation teacher. Guru. It’s all the same.” Max beamed. “Let’s do this.”

  In Peggy’s kitchen, Max had already pulled out all the ingredients. Judging from the state of the kitchen, it looked as if Max had been baking for hours. The counter was piled high with bags of flour, cartons of eggs, and softening sticks of butter. A sifter half full lay on its side, dusting the floor with confectioners sugar. Rivulets of maple syrup ran down a gray gallon jug and onto the table. But Max seemed to thrive in all the chaos. He pushed back two half-empty bottles of milk to clear a work space.

  “The first step is to measure out all of your ingredients. The French call it mise en place—everything in its place. That way you don’t get halfway into a recipe and find out you needed softened butter or that you are out of eggs.” Max reached into the wood-paneled cabinet and took out four Pyrex bowls in descending sizes that were nesting together. Each bowl was white on the inside, a different primary color on the outside.

  Max slid the recipe card toward me. I dutifully dipped a straight-edged metal measuring cup into a box of cake flour.

  “Hold that out for me. Now watch.” Max slid his finger across the top of the cup so that the flour was level. “That’s it. Perfect. Now just sift that with the salt and baking powder.”

  I followed Max’s instructions, swiping the teaspoons of leavening and salt with my finger so that they were even.

  “I’m really sorry about the other day, at the auditions,” Max said, handing me a pound of butter. “I hadn’t realized how much Kit had pulled from your relationship when I first read the script, since I hadn’t met you yet.” He smiled at me sweetly.

  “And now?” I asked as I poured maple syrup into a metal measuring cup.

  “Not that one,” he said, taking the cup of syrup out of my hands. He held up a glass measuring cup with a little spout. “This one is for liquids. Go ahead and pour it in. See how the dry cup is just a little more? Baking is all about measurement.”

  “Will it really make a difference?”

  “It will. That’s what I love about baking.” Max squatted down so the maple syrup was at eye level. He poured out a little splash, then checked it again. “It invites you to slow down and pay attention.” Max poured the syrup into a saucepan and turned the flame on underneath, adjusting the gas until he was satisfied. “The frosting was too thin when I tried this recipe last week. Maybe reducing the syrup will help.”

  “My grandmother used to do that. I remember her scolding me for trying to taste the syrup while it was still cooking down.”

  Max pumped his fist and mouthed yes to himself, happy he had guessed correctly.

  “Have you read the script yet?” Max asked.

  I hadn’t. I had tried, after I left the sugarhouse on Sunday night, but I was only on page 3 when I realized I didn’t want to know how my sister saw me. I just added a note at the top to make the older sister less depressing and angry and left it under Kit’s bag of mini Snickers bars to find when she got home.

  “You don’t need to apologize for my sister,” I said. I pretended to study the recipe card. “I know her better than anybody. I practically raised her.”

  “She told me,” Max said. He took a pat of butter and worked it into the sides of one of the cake pans. “About you two losing your mom, and basically losing your dad at the same time.”

  “Dad was there,” I started, but I knew this was only half true. He kept the diner barely afloat, and paid the bills, but he wasn’t able to be there for Kit and me the way we needed.

  “You did a good job, Nor
a.” Max lowered the flame under the maple syrup, which was boiling away. “Kit is extraordinary. She’s kind and friendly. She has this magical way of making anyone laugh at themselves, which is such a gift, you know?” Max shook his head. “She’s super generous with her talents and her ideas. I’ve never met anyone who went so out of her way to help her friends.”

  I had always felt a little jealous of Kit’s friends. I had Fern, and Charlie, and Sean, of course, but Kit always seemed to have a mob of people orbiting around her, as if she were the sun. And I was a piece of space debris.

  “It’s like she radiates goodwill,” Max continued. “I feel so lucky to have her in my life. And now I’m doubly lucky because I know you. The unstoppable Huckleberry sisters!”

  I laughed. “You make us sound like superheroes. Kit is extraordinary, I agree with you. But I’m pretty sure I am quite stoppable.”

  “That’s the craziest thing I have ever heard. Here, stop saying ridiculous things and get back to work. We need two yolks,” he said, handing me a carton of eggs.

  I cracked an egg open, and carefully poured it back and forth from shell to shell, trying to separate the white without breaking the yolk.

  “Check this out,” Max said. He broke an egg and put it into his hand, fingers closed. He held the hand over the sink, cracked his fingers slightly, and let the white ooze between them. “I used to do it this way at the Zen center, when I needed gallons of yolks for the brioche.” He handed me an egg. “You try it.”

  “But we don’t need any more yolks.”

  “Just try it. It feels kind of good when the white gives.”

  I cracked the egg and let the white slide through my fingers. A perfectly plump yolk sat in my hand. “That is cool. I can’t believe Charlie doesn’t do it this way.”

  “You’ll have to show him,” Max said, cracking a couple more eggs and adding them to the bowl of yolks. “You’re a superhero to your sister, you know.”

  “To Kit?”

  Max laughed. “Tell me there are more of you. I’d love it if there were five more Huckleberry sisters. Six even.” Max rinsed his hands under the faucet. “It means the world to her that you agreed to the loan. That you have faith in her.”