The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  From across the field, the town manager arrived with several kids from the Guthrie football team, who were carrying the rope.

  “It won’t be long now,” I said. Max grabbed Kit’s hand. They took off running across the field.

  Fern sliced up a couple of burnt sugar cakes that Max had made on Friday before he and Kit tried to turn the residents of Pudding Hill into devotional yogis, and placed the slices on little plastic plates. When Guthrie lost, everyone would be wet and cold and in need of warm coffee and something sweet to cheer them up. It had been Max’s idea to make the cakes. He thought that maybe someone might recognize the taste and solve the mystery cake order.

  “Pullers, five-minute warning,” Martin McCracken said into the microphone. He kissed Livvy on the cheek, put his fiddle into its case, and hopped off the gazebo steps.

  A battle cry rose from the participants as they made their way to the muddy grass.

  “That’s my call,” Elliot said. “Wish me luck.”

  * * *

  On the muddy lawn, a crowd of people gathered at the field’s edge. The spectators were mostly from Guthrie, but the infamous Rowan varsity high school football team had arrived all together, a pile of boys as thick and tall as oak trunks. They stood at the corner of the field, arms crossed, trying to look tough.

  Elliot waved to me before joining the team.

  Fern and I elbowed our way into the crowd of spectators. The rules of the tug-of-war were best of three games. Kids ten to thirteen went first, lining up in order of size. Then came the high school team, and finally, the adults. Both men and women were encouraged to play. Phyllis, our mail carrier, was the adult team anchor.

  The kids’ match ended as it always did, with all the kids diving into the massive mud puddle in the center, but not before team Rowan took the first point. The high school teams were evenly matched. The Rowan varsity football team may have had girth, but the wiry track kids of Guthrie had the footwork. A deep roar rose from the crowd when the first football player’s feet were sucked into the muddy edge of the puddle. By the end, all of their white football uniforms were covered in mud.

  “It’s tied up,” Fern said to me, gripping my arm, her eyes searching the crowd.

  “Who are you looking for?” I scanned the Guthrie adults, who were passing a bag of chalk down the line. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  “I may or may not have gone on a date with one of the volunteer firemen. But I’m not ready to say which one.” Fern held up her hands. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

  “I’ll give you two weeks,” I said, pretending to check out the crowd of men in their Guthrie Fire Department T-shirts, but fixing my eyes on Elliot. He had taken off his sweatshirt. Underneath he was wearing a striped cotton shirt that was a little tight around his biceps. I felt my cheeks flush, and turned my attention to finding Max and my little sister. “And then I’m going to take you to the Black Bear and get you drunk until you spill all the details.”

  “Deal.” Fern held her pinkie out to me.

  “Everyone take your places. This is for the win,” the town manager called. He had taken over whistle duty since his gallbladder surgery.

  I was surprised to find that the town had given Elliot the front position. It might have been because he was one of the shortest members of the team. But he was agile.

  “On your mark. Get ready. Pull!” The town manager blew the whistle. The members of both teams leaned back, so that they were almost perpendicular to the ground.

  “Pull harder,” I heard Max cry from the middle of the line.

  The loggers in the back of the line dug their feet into the ground and yanked the rope with all of their strength, pulling the members of the Rowan team maybe an inch toward the puddle.

  “Keep tugging!” Fern and I screamed along with the whole town of Guthrie.

  The loggers took hold of the inch of rope they’d gained and pulled. Elliot worked his feet quickly. He had excellent balance, like a dancer, and seemed to be able to adjust with every twist of the rope.

  “Go Guthrie!” the crowd shouted. Hands clapped a rhythm in unison. The sound thundered across the field.

  Out beyond the tug-of-war, at the edge of the adjacent soccer field, a flash of black caught my eye.

  The Rowan team leaned farther back, gaining back the inch they had lost. The crowd gasped as Elliot slid toward the mud puddle, his feet scrambling, as if he were running backward. It looked as if he had no traction at all.

  “You can do it, Guthrie,” Fern cried. The loggers in back pulled harder, digging their heels into the earth.

  From off in the distance, I heard the rumble of barking. I rested my hands on Fern’s shoulders and stood on my toes. Out beyond the game was a shiny black dog, the white of his muddy feet barely visible, hackles up, body low, barking his head off at the players.

  “Oh, my God, that’s Freckles,” I said to Fern.

  “Freckles!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  Freckles ran back and forth, from one edge of the crowd to the other, as if he wanted to herd the whole town.

  Elliot turned his head toward the barking. The Rowan team pulled him to the very edge of the mud. He had to twist his body to keep from slipping in.

  “Keep pulling,” I yelled.

  “Someone control that dog,” one of the spectators from Rowan yelled. The town of Rowan hadn’t joined the Front Porch Forum.

  “Now,” shouted one of the loggers. They gave one last great heave, and the first puller of the Rowan team skidded into the mud, and then the next, sliding and collapsing on top of each other in a great big pig pile.

  The crowd roared. The Guthrie teammates leaned into each other, their arms too weak to embrace.

  I looked for Elliot, but he was nowhere to be seen. I pushed my way into the mess of players, my sneakers sucking the wet grass and the mud that lay beneath, slipping past spectators until I found him. He was on his knees in the middle of the soccer field, his hand outstretched. Freckles was just a couple of yards away, leaning low in a puppy bow, but his tail was tight between his legs, and he was growling, uncertain.

  “It’s okay,” Elliot said in a gentle voice. “It’s okay, boy.”

  Freckles backed up slowly a few steps at a time, whining a little. I kneeled beside Elliot, the muck seeping into the legs of my jeans, keeping my gaze down, as Erika had instructed. “Hey, Freckles,” I said, in a singsong way.

  Freckles pricked his ears up, but just for a moment. He turned quickly, then disappeared behind a line of rosebushes that hugged the town green.

  Elliot leaned forward and lay facedown on the grass, his arms limp at his side. “He was right there.”

  “I know,” I said, stretching out to lie on my back beside him. “But he was scared. There was no way we were going to get him now, with all this chaos.” I looked over at the crowd. The spectators had lifted the tug-of-war champs off the ground and were carrying them toward the tomato tents, where heirloom Bloody Marys were being served, under the yearly temporary suspension of the laws against open-air drinking.

  “I just want him to come home.”

  There was something about the way Elliot said home that surprised me. As if home—Freckles’s home and his—were a place not too far from here. I felt my heart fill with hope.

  “Me, too.”

  From across the green, the rosebushes rustled. A couple of rabbits flew out of the bushes and leapt across the grass in great strides. Freckles came tearing out behind them, tail high, his stride as long and reaching as the rabbits’. He didn’t look stressed. He looked happy. Free.

  I rolled over onto my side and looked at Elliot. His face was turned toward me, his cheek pressed against the grass, eyes closed. I thought for a moment he might be sleeping, but his eyes opened, and he returned my gaze.

  “I’m free tomorrow.” Some par
t of me had made a decision I hadn’t been aware I was debating. “If you want to see the orchard.”

  Elliot rolled over onto his back, his shirt a mess of mud and grass stains. “I’d like that,” he said to the sky. “Very much.”

  * * *

  We met just after sunrise at Peggy’s place. Elliot stood before my car with two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the gas station.

  “This was the only place open, other than the diner, but I thought you might like a change of coffee.”

  I had told Fern that I needed a day to get caught up on paperwork, which wasn’t a lie, exactly. I was planning on spending the afternoon filing invoices and putting together the dry goods order. Still, I was glad an early morning Elliot hadn’t shown up at the diner and told anyone about our walk. I didn’t want to have to face Charlie’s and Fern’s relentless teasing on my next shift.

  I took a sip of the coffee. Milk, no sugar. Had he remembered from before? I hadn’t noticed that he was paying attention. “This is secretly my favorite coffee in town,” I said, holding up the cup. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  It was a cold morning. You would never have known that the forecast said it would reach eighty-five degrees in town. The air held an undeniable taste of autumn. A breathtaking show of vermilion reds and persimmon orange would soon blanket the mountains. The morning fog lingered, making Peggy’s yard look soft in the early light. “The grass is still wet,” I said absently, and glanced over at him. He looked dapper in a cranberry fleece jacket that made his hazel eyes sparkle, dark jeans, and a pair of well-worn brown leather hiking boots. I had found myself dressing more carefully than I normally would to go for a walk, and wore my favorite green cardigan—the one that Charlie said made my eyes look like Grade B maple syrup—and had braided my hair in two neat ropes. I felt nervous to be out with Elliot and excited, but mostly nervous. “Ready?”

  Elliot held up his coffee cup. “I have everything I need. Lead the way.”

  I led Elliot through the white picket fence and into Peggy’s yard, then around the east side of the house. The tall grasses that had originally hidden the trailhead were well tamped down. The sun hadn’t quite reached the woods, but the birds were wide awake. As we walked crows cawed warnings to each other of our arrival. Soft light filtered through the thin branches of a stand of pines. I had walked down this path dozens of times by myself, but it felt different with Elliot. He looked at home in the woods, walking carefully, stopping every so often to inspect a hole in the ground. “Hornets,” he said, pointing to a mound off the path. I stopped and took a picture with my phone. I liked the thoughtful way he looked at everything. And I liked that he didn’t need to fill in all the quiet with words, and he didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t, either. I had always thought that mornings were a time to take things in, so you would have something to savor later. Elliot reached over to rub a smooth bare patch on an otherwise knobby-barked evergreen. “Deer scratching its antlers, probably. Too low for a moose.” I pressed my palm against the bare trunk to feel its cool, smooth texture.

  “We’re getting close,” I said, noticing a couple of tiny golden apples on the ground that some animal must have carried and then forgotten. Soon the musty, dank scent of ferment filled my nostrils. “Can you smell that?” I asked.

  “I can,” Elliot said, quickening his step, looking up. “Extraordinary.” Elliot circled the tree, inspecting the rough gray trunk, reaching up to pull a leaf off a low-hanging branch. He picked an old, blackened fruit off the ground, held it up to his nose, and breathed it in.

  “Medlars,” he said by way of explanation, as he let the old piece of fruit slip from his fingers.

  “What are medlars, exactly?” I asked.

  “You haven’t eaten one?” Elliot picked a rusty-colored fruit off a branch. “They’re a member of the rose family. See how they look like a rose hip?” He traced a finger lightly around the dry, pointy tentacles that hung off the bottom. “They can’t be eaten in this state. You have to pick them and basically let them ripen to the point of decay.”

  “That sounds kind of terrible,” I said.

  “You wait until they’re brown and wrinkled and squishy to the touch.” Elliot closed his eyes. “And then they’re heavenly. Like fresh apple butter. So smooth you need a spoon to eat them.” He picked up a fruit and tossed it into the woods. “They are a bit unusual. I think the process is why they aren’t too popular.”

  “People like things fresh and young,” I said, thinking about the intern.

  Elliot looked at me carefully. “I don’t know. Some of the best things in life take time to ripen.” He pulled on several of the branches, lifting up the leaves and turning them over to inspect underneath. He knocked on the trunk. “So what other treasures are you hiding in these woods?”

  He had no idea. But he would spot the yellow warblers in a moment or two. When I had invited him to see the orchard, I knew I would be sharing the sculptures with him. There was no way to see the orchard without the warblers leading you deeper into the forest. I wanted him to see them. And to know if he saw the beauty in them. I had to admit I was also excited to explore further. With Elliot, I could go deeper into the woods without fear of getting lost. “Many, many treasures,” I said, walking ahead of him farther into the orchard. “Keep looking up.”

  Elliot walked us off the path. He identified a quince tree, two unusual varieties of pear, several heirloom apples, a shaggy, ground cherry plant that grew low across the forest floor, and an overgrown elderberry bush that was heavy with clusters of dark blackish red berries. He picked a handful, and extended his hand to me. I took a couple and popped them in my mouth. The taste of sour blackberry pricked my tongue. I chewed quickly and swallowed like they were medicine, too shy to spit them out.

  “Delicious,” I said, scrunching my face up in pain.

  Elliot laughed and popped a couple of the berries in his mouth. “They’re tart, but when they’re cooked into a pie or jam they taste like honey and wildflowers.” He offered me another berry.

  “I think I’ll wait until I can try the cooked version,” I said.

  “It was definitely planted as an orchard,” Elliot said as we circled back to the medlar trees. “By a collector, I’d say—it’s a marvelous selection of fruits. You don’t remember anyone harvesting the orchard when you were a kid? It really is overgrown. It doesn’t look as if anyone has cared for it in . . .”

  He stopped short when he spotted the first glint of yellow wing in the trees.

  “What is that?” He pointed his hand up toward the branches. I didn’t have to look up to know he had seen one of the warblers.

  I had been admiring the way his fingertips were stained with elderberry juice, and had taken out my phone, trying to find a subtle way to snap a picture of his berry-stained lips. He looked over at me, his face full of questions, his mouth open in childlike awe.

  “Keep looking.”

  I snapped about a hundred pictures of Elliot as he discovered the warblers. He kept looking up at them, and then over to me, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Follow them,” I said. “They’re leading the way.”

  The sun had burned off the haze of morning, and the bright light glinted off the yellow tin wings and bodies. Elliot picked up the pace, and I walked quickly behind him, unbuttoning my sweater in the rising heat. Summer had claimed victory over the push of autumn for another day.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Elliot said quietly, his voice full of awe. I smiled up at him. The Moxie horse stood proud, forever paused in mid gallop. It gleamed bright in the morning sun. Peggy had placed him in exactly the right place. Impressive on his own, standing in the clearing he looked even more majestic.

  “Did you?” he asked, his expression questioning.

  “No, no, not me. I found them when I was looking for Freckles, right after Peggy died.”

  “It’s magnificent.” He
walked up to the horse, running his palm over the long flank, then brushing back the horse’s mane with his long fingers. He rubbed its muzzle as if it were a real horse. “Them?”

  “There are more,” I said. “I think I’ve only found a few. I’ve been wanting to explore more, but . . .” I looked over at him shyly. “I thought maybe the two of us could walk farther in, if you don’t have anywhere to be.”

  “I’d be delighted,” he said.

  I showed him the crystal egret, and the soda-can doe, all the way to the pair of computer keyboard letter sheep, quietly grazing in a patch of moss. “This is as far as I’ve gotten. I don’t have a great sense of direction,” I admitted. “I’ve been a little nervous about getting lost in the woods.”

  Elliot looked up at the sun and checked his watch. “I’ve got a compass on my phone, and we’ve got plenty of sunlight.” He tilted his head to the right, beyond the sheep. “Let’s go see what we find.”

  We walked awhile without talking, each of us focused on searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of something the artist made. To the right was a small stream. We could hear the water trickle over stones in the places where it bubbled to the surface. It offered us a direction, a path to follow.

  “So what do you know about these sculptures?”

  “Not much. I assume they’re Peggy’s. She has a barn full of collected materials.”

  “Did you know she was an artist?”

  “That’s the thing. I had no idea. She never mentioned it. I’ve never seen anything like these sculptures at the county fair craft competition, or the holiday art sale.” I shrugged. “She was just Peggy the cake lady. I never would have guessed.”

  “I love that about people,” Elliot said, holding a branch back for me to walk by.

  “What’s that?”

  “Their passions. Their surprises. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t have a little obsession.” Elliot looked over at me, his face open. “I thought I might have stumbled on yours by now, but I’m not sure that I have. Maybe photography?”