The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Max leaned back against the kitchen counter, clad in a pair of skinny black jeans and a black T-shirt, holding his favorite apron in his hand.

  “Today is the day when the teacher becomes the student, Grasshopper,” Max said, bowing. He then walked behind me and wrapped the apron around my waist. “Burnt sugar cake. Maple icing. Go.” Max sat down at the kitchen table and leaned his chair back so that his combat-booted feet were airborne.

  “Aren’t you going to help?” I asked, feeling a little lost. I was expecting Max and I to bake the cake the way we did the last time, elbow-to-elbow.

  “Nope. I have to take off my baking hat and put on my cinematographer hat. I’m handing the icing spatula to you.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘but,’” Max said. “Bake.”

  “I don’t know why we are making this cake anyway. No one has called or stopped by, asking for it, ever.”

  Max leaned forward, then sprung out of the chair, which landed squarely on the floor with a loud thud. “Because tomorrow is Friday, and somewhere out there is a beautiful soul of a human being who loves burnt sugar cake so much they ordered one to be made every week—every week—and when the magical day comes when they discover that someone has taken up the mantle of Peggy the cake lady, and that their lives will be cakeless no more, we will be ready for them. With a fresh, rich, maple-frosted burnt sugar cake.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “All right, what comes first?” he asked.

  “Mise en place,” I said, reaching for the measuring cup.

  “Yes. Mise en place. Perfect. Now get to work. Show me what you know. I have to be behind the camera to do light checks in two hours.”

  I made a pot of Irish breakfast tea once the cake was in the oven. Max poured the tea while I filled the cow-shaped creamer with milk.

  I nodded my head toward the door that led to the rest of the house. “So how’s the film coming?”

  Max ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. “More slowly than I’d like. Your sister has been caught up in volunteering at the Pudding Hill House.”

  “Again?” I had thought Max and Kit’s chanting event had been a one-off.

  “Yeah. Chanting turned into a yoga class, which led to an authentic movement class, which led to an expressive dance workshop.” Max tried to sound weary, but a smile threatened the edges of his mouth. “I can’t complain, though, right? All the suffering that is in the world arises from wishing ourselves to be happy. All the happiness there is in the world arises from wishing others to be happy. That’s this old Buddhist dude’s way of saying you should always think about other people. Like Kit—she’s making the world a better place. Plus, she’s really good with the elderly people.”

  “Kit’s really good with all the people,” I said, stirring sugar into my tea.

  “Truth.”

  “She’s always been like that,” I said. “She always got the most tips, even when she botched all of her orders.”

  “Kit worked in the diner?”

  “Only when we were desperate. She was always running off to band practice or dance class. She’s never been one to stay with things.”

  Max looked for a moment like a dog whose owner had just left the house with suitcase in hand. “That’s what worries me.”

  “What do you mean?” I got up to spin the cakes around so that they would bake evenly. Peggy’s oven had a hot spot.

  “Kit is always on to the next thing. But I’d like to—I’d like to be the thing that she keeps doing.” Max put his head down on the kitchen table. “I didn’t mean that in a dirty way.”

  I poked his arm with the end of a wooden spoon. “You want to marry my little sister?”

  Max’s head moved and he made a little moaning sound. “If it’s all right with you.”

  I laughed and sat back down. “Of course it’s all right with me. It’s Kit you have to ask.”

  Max lifted his head, but hid his face in his hands. “I’m pretty sure just asking her is going to freak her out and make her leave.”

  “You must know she adores you,” I said, patting his arm with the spoon.

  “She also adores the dairy farmer, Charlie at the diner—”

  “You know he’s gay, right?”

  Max shrugged as if to say Does that really matter? “The guy down at the recycling center, your ex-husband—”

  “They are like brother and sister,” I said.

  “All the old men at the Pudding Hill House—”

  “Old men.”

  “All of the loggers at the tug-of-war, the film society guy, the hot male nurse at the Pudding Hill House—”

  He had me there. We all adored the hot male nurse at the Pudding Hill House.

  “—Donkeys, maple creemees, clogging—”

  “Okay, now you are just being silly.”

  “But you get my point—she loves, like, everything. Makes it a little hard to know where I fall on the What Kit Huckleberry Loves spectrum.”

  “It’s just her way of making sure she feels loved, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we were kids—she doesn’t have many memories of our family just being a regular family, before Mom got sick. And after she died, Dad really turned in on himself. He didn’t have a lot to offer. And I was so—” Overwhelmed? Busy? Resentful?

  “She always says how you took care of her. She really loves you, Nora.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I know. But I also know I didn’t—couldn’t—give her everything that she needed. So she turned to her friends. I think she’s always been searching for what was missing at home. The attention. The affection. The lightness.”

  What I didn’t say was that there were times, too, when I really needed her and couldn’t pin her down. My heart ached a bit for Max. My little sister wasn’t the easiest person to love sometimes. Neither of us were.

  “Yeah.” Max walked over to the counter and started sifting confectioners sugar for the frosting. “Any thoughts on convincing her that my love is enough?”

  “Maybe if you could find a way to make it her idea?” I said, knowing it was terrible advice. It had worked when she was a teenager.

  Max laughed. “I’m not sure how I could pull that one off, but I’ll think about it.”

  The kitchen timer dinged. Max and I went over to the oven. I put on the quilted oven mitts and pulled the cake toward me. Max gently touched the top. “It’s springing back,” he said.

  I handed him a wooden skewer. He slipped it into the center of the cake and pulled it out quickly. It was clean.

  I gently set the Bundt pan on a cooling rack.

  Max leaned over and inhaled deeply. He held out his hands to me. “Ladies and gentlemen, a cake baker has been born. Let me introduce you to Nora—the—cake—lady!”

  Max waved his hands over his head like Kermit the Frog and made the sound of a crowd roaring.

  I curtsied to Max and waved a stiff, queenly wave to my imaginary audience.

  “Master the maple icing and a simple buttercream for layer cakes and you are ready to roll.”

  * * *

  I spent all morning Friday from after the breakfast rush through lunch in my office going over the new health insurance plans my broker had sent. I ate my way through a whole bag of ruffled potato chips trying to choose the best plan that we could afford.

  “Nora, the most fashionable person that has ever stepped into the Northeast Kingdom is here to see you,” Charlie said, poking his head in. He had just had his beard trimmed and was looking more gentleman farmer and less angry duck hunter. I wondered if he had met someone over at the Bear Cub.

  Fern’s head appeared over his shoulder. “It’s like she just stepped off the set of Project Runway. Come quick, before she realizes she has the wr
ong person and place.”

  I closed my laptop. Who on earth? Maybe it was an art student from the college who was working on a documentary project on small-town diners? That had happened before. I stood, brushing off the potato chip crumbs that had gathered in the bib of my overalls, and then patted my hair to remember what it had looked like that morning when I left the house. Two scruffy buns. Well, since she didn’t have an appointment, she couldn’t expect much. I made my way through the kitchen. Charlie waved me forward, as if I were keeping the queen waiting, then arched his neck out the window so he could watch.

  A tall, thin woman with a platinum pixie cut was standing at the end of the counter, paging through a copy of the Pennysaver. She was wearing a pale blue dress that seemed to float around her, defying the laws of physics. A large necklace that looked like it was made of silver pussy-willow buds hung around her neck. She looked like a modern fairy godmother.

  “Ms. Huckleberry?” she asked when she saw me gaping at her. Fern wiped the already-clean table across from us with a rag.

  I held out my hand. “Nora, please. How can I help you?”

  The woman smiled, a big genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle. “I’m Sonya Bellwether. I work for the HG Corporation.” Sonya dug into her giant leather handbag and produced a business card, which she handed to me. “I was in town interviewing artists for a possible installation at the new HG location here in the Northeast Kingdom. Elliot Danforth mentioned you.”

  “I’m not an artist,” I said quickly.

  “No, no. I’m sorry, I’m not being clear.” She took a tissue out of her purse and blew her nose. “Sorry. Allergies. I’ve been like this since I got up here.”

  “The ragweed has taken over.” I handed her a stack of paper napkins. “Can I get you something?”

  Sonya slid onto a stool. “Coffee. Black, please. The Benadryl is going to put me in a coma.”

  I poured her a cup of coffee and stayed behind the counter.

  “Elliot mentioned that you have a sculpture garden on your land, and that you might need some advice about conservation. I have a master’s in art restoration.”

  I looked over my shoulder to see if Fern or Charlie had heard what she said, but Fern was busy taking orders from a large group from the Garden Club who were peppering her with special dietary requests. Charlie’s head was no longer in the window. I felt a pang of guilt for keeping the sculptures a secret, and another pang of something else—jealousy? Disappointment? At the fact that Elliot had told someone else about them. Someone who was beautiful and elegant and sophisticated in a way that I never would be. I hadn’t explicitly said that the sculptures were a secret, but I thought he had understood that they were special, not to be shared. Certainly not with this mysterious woman who could afford clothes that float.

  “I do have a sculpture garden,” I said, because I did, and I wasn’t a fan of lying, even to strangers. “But I can’t afford to pay you. I’m sure Mr. Danforth told you we aren’t selling to HG.” And I was barely keeping the diner running as it was. Leaf-peeping season couldn’t start soon enough. I made a mental note to call the Realtor and ask if there had been any new interest in Peggy’s property. One of the sheep farmers had said he might like to have some of the farmland for grazing, but I hadn’t heard anything in a while.

  Sonya flashed a pearly smile that advertised thousands of dollars in dental work. “No charge. I’m on HG’s expenses right now. And Elliot just made the work sound so extraordinary. I’d love to see it, and help if I can.”

  “How long are you in town for? I don’t know when I can get away.”

  “Just until tomorrow morning. But I don’t want to be a bother. Elliot said he would show me around this afternoon, with your permission, of course.”

  Would he try to impress her with his extensive knowledge of rare apple varieties? Would she take her physics-defying dress off and skinny-dip with him at the swimming hole? My cheeks burned, and a wave of anger at my own foolishness washed over me. That day in the woods I had felt a connection, and a spark of something more. But that had been almost a week ago, and he hadn’t been in the diner since. It must not have been mutual. I took a quick glance at Sonya. Here was a woman who was more Elliot’s speed. I could see them together at some elegant, candlelit restaurant, or at the theater, or at a dinner party on the Vineyard. She probably had panties to match all of her bras. “Of course. You’ll need to wear better shoes,” I said lamely. She had on a pair of cream patent-leather flats that probably cost more than my rent.

  Sonya laughed. “Elliot said you were charming. It was wonderful to meet you.”

  “You, too,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I was pretty sure I had just thanked her for spending a romantic afternoon walking around my secret garden with the first man I have been drawn to since Sean. I hurried back into my office and shut the door before Charlie and Fern could grill me about who Sonya was and what she wanted. I wasn’t in the mood to hide my disappointment.

  * * *

  I didn’t feel like going back to my empty apartment after work. Thoughts of Sonya and Elliot flooded my imagination and I needed distraction. Besides, the apartment had become the film office of Kit and Max, packed with scripts and costumes, cables and tripods, even an occasional filmmaker friend in town to help shoot a difficult scene—anything that was in the way at Peggy’s had been dumped in my living room, to the point where it was difficult to walk. I couldn’t bear to be there.

  I drove around the back roads for a while, taking in the early signs of color. Little patches of leaves the colors of butternut squash and sunflower petals popped against the expanse of green. I breathed a sigh of relief. We took in a solid 25 percent of our yearly profits between the end of September and the end of October. If we had a good season, that meant I could keep the diner—and Elsie—going until I could find a buyer for Peggy’s place. If we didn’t . . . I couldn’t even let myself think about it. “Mom must be rolling in her grave,” I muttered to myself. Freedom is low overhead, she always said.

  I traveled the length of Pudding Hill Road. The corn had been plowed down, spent for the season. In the neighboring field was a pumpkin patch, the green lawn dotted with bright orange pumpkins, their plump bodies still attached to curling vines. As I turned down Hunger Mountain, the paved road turned to dirt, dry and dusty from lack of rain. There was a big SUV parked in front of our old house. The summer people.

  I pulled into Peggy’s drive, breathing a sigh of relief that Elliot’s car was not in sight. Peggy’s Shasta daisies and black-eyed Susans had grown tall and bushy and were threatening to take over the whole raised bed. The sunflowers were just naked stalks, the heads long since pulled apart by winter-gathering squirrels.

  “And cut,” Max said from the living room. I slipped into the kitchen without saying hello, not wanting to interrupt.

  The burnt sugar cake stood on the counter, untouched. Max walked in, large headphones hung around his neck.

  “Hey there,” Max said, leaning down to kiss my cheek.

  “No one picked that up, I see.” I pointed to the cake.

  “Nope. Not yet.” Max looked at the clock over the stove. “I guess it’s late enough to call it a day. Want a slice? Savor the success of your first solo bake?”

  I laughed. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I better hold out for some protein.” From the other room I could hear two female voices, neither one my sister’s. “Is Kit in there?”

  Max shook his head. “Nope. She’s over at the nursing home.”

  “Again?”

  “She’s teaching a workshop—storytelling, I think.”

  I took a seat at the kitchen table. “Has she been here at all?”

  Max sat next to me. “Yeah, she was here for the shoot last night, actually, and we got some more shooting in this morning. I’m just redoing a few of the scenes we felt needed a little work.” His
words were positive, but he sounded exhausted and a little disappointed.

  “Everything all right? You want me to talk to her?” I asked.

  Max laughed. “Nah. We’re due for a sit-down.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The deadline is starting to feel like a black bear riding piggyback on my shoulders. We need to finish shooting if we’re going to have any hope of being ready in time for postproduction.”

  “Did you find someone to help you with the edits?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” The only thing Kit had told me last night before I went to bed was that we were out of tequila and limes.

  Max sighed. “An old film school buddy of mine offered to help us edit it at his studio for cheap. He had a last-minute cancellation. He’s even got his sound guy lined up.”

  “Where is he located?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “And when can he take you?”

  “We’re due on September twenty-first.”

  In two weeks.

  Kit and Max were leaving. Of course they were. I had known that their stay was temporary. When did my sister ever stay anywhere? But I had grown accustomed to their showing up at the diner late every morning for breakfast, to Max and Charlie philosophizing about the state of the world while my sister entertained the customers at the counter with a story or a song or a reenactment of a scene from a Meryl Streep movie. I would miss the late nights talking in the living room. Baking with Max. Eating a second bowl of popcorn with Kit while binge-watching Alfred Hitchcock movies. Listening to Max serenade Kit from the bedroom while she was taking a shower. Talking to Kit about growing up, and Mom and Dad. The little apartment, despite it being a total wreck, felt like a home for the first time since I had moved in.