The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  “Not in person, but my friends over at Pudding Hill all adore him. One of them said he has tattoos of forties starlets all over his chest and back. Imagine that!”

  I tried to think of what kind of class Max could have been teaching that gave him the opportunity to take his shirt off. “Some from the thirties, too,” was all I could think to say.

  “Can’t forget Garbo,” Mrs. Fairbanks said in approval. She looked over at the check-in table. “I’m neglecting my official duties. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Hi,” I said shyly, looking at Elliot. He had on a purple-and-white-checked shirt that made his eyes greener. I handed him the bag of kettle corn. “I should warn you, once you start you can’t stop.”

  “Thanks.” He popped a few kernels into his mouth. “What’s in this?”

  “No one knows. We don’t want to know. We just want those little scouts to keep making it.”

  We both stood in front of the stage, crunching. I started to become horribly aware of every kernel in my teeth. I felt as if a spotlight were on me, and the whole room could hear me chewing. I was suddenly desperate for a glass of water.

  “Will you sit with me?” He moved his camel wool coat off of one of the folding chairs. I slipped out of the raincoat I was wearing and draped it over the back of one of the chairs.

  As I sat down, my arm brushed his.

  “This is nice.” Elliot’s hand reached out and touched my arm. He stroked it lightly, just around the wrist. I held my breath, not moving my body. I stared at his hand on my arm. His touch felt warm, his hand strong. The bag of popcorn slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

  Elliot seemed to wake up from a dream. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your sweater—it looks so soft, I wanted to see—”

  “Mohair,” I whispered. “From angora goats.”

  Elliot leaned in a little closer. He took the sleeve between his fingertips, rubbing it gently, as if studying the craftsmanship of the weave. The back of his thumb brushed my skin. “Did you knit this?” he asked, his head close.

  I swallowed and shook my head. “My mom did. But the wool is from goats I raised. I helped spin and dye the fibers.”

  “It’s lovely,” he said, so close I could feel his breath on my ear.

  “Thanks,” I said, as if he were some knitting enthusiast I had met in line at the farmer’s market. Really what I wanted was for him to reach up higher, to feel the sweater’s softness from the inside out.

  The pop and squeal of a microphone pierced the room. I suddenly became aware of the din of voices talking and laughing, the crunching, the squeak of the metal chairs. Elliot and I were only an inch apart. I leaned over and picked the popcorn bag off the floor. When I glanced at Elliot, his lips turned up in a slight smile. He focused on the stage, where the town manager was patting his jacket and pants pockets in search of his reading glasses.

  Elliot kept his gaze on the stage, but leaned his head toward mine. “Nora, can I take you—”

  “Here we are,” the town manager said. “We’ve got some important announcements to make before I turn the meeting over to Councilman LaPlante.”

  Sean waved at the crowd from a seat on the stage. I hadn’t even noticed him come in. He looked different tonight. The suit was gone, replaced by a dress shirt under some kind of high-tech-looking fleece vest. His dress shoes had been swapped out for a pair of expensive-looking hiking boots. I glanced down both front rows—Sean’s girlfriend was nowhere to be found. I glanced back at Elliot. He smiled shyly at me in a way that made my stomach flip.

  “Last report from the weather service was the storm has been downgraded. That means no serious winds, but we’re still expecting heavy rainfall starting—”

  As if on cue, the hall echoed with the clatter of rain driving into the long windowpanes. The audience erupted in laughter.

  “—right about now, I guess. That’s good news for the foliage season—no strong winds means hopefully the leaves will stay on the trees where they belong. Our friends over at the forestry service have predicted that we will be at peak color Columbus Day weekend and into the week following. I know many of us are counting on those tourist dollars. If everyone could take some time in the days leading up to that weekend to give their businesses a little spruce—”

  My cell phone made a loud ping. The town manager glared down at me for a moment before continuing his plea for tidiness. I dug around in my purse, then sheepishly pulled it out to turn off the ringer. There was a text message from Max.

  Forgot to tell you—the lady from the nursing home ordered a 10” burnt sugar cake! Said ours was just as good as Peggy’s—even better. Couldn’t say no. Pickup at diner, Thursday, 8 a.m. Me & K won’t be back until Friday. You’re on your own, kid. Just emailed you the recipe. You can do it! GO NORA THE CAKE LADY. ;)

  Thursday 8:00 A.M. was the following morning. I was going to have to bake the cake that night.

  “—change your window boxes, sweep the sidewalk out in front—anything you can do to give Guthrie a little extra shine. We want to encourage people to come back, and to tell their friends. Should be a good weekend for the hunters as well. Might be a good idea for the hospitality businesses to bring on extra staff.” The manager shuffled some papers. “Margaret Hurley from the Sugar Maple Inn tells me that the Harvest Festival dinner has sold out. If anyone has tickets that they can’t use, she would be happy to offer a refund—she has a waiting list of hopeful diners. And let’s see here. I think that’s it.” The town manager looked over the audience. “Time to get down to business. Councilman LaPlante?”

  Sean walked across the stage and took the mic. “Thanks, Mr. Manager. All right, folks. I know you are all anxious to get home and get ready for the influx of tourists coming our way, but let’s give our full attention to the matters at hand. First up—article one. Ben Smith has filed a complaint against John Hammond, owner of Sweet Pea Farm, stating that the farm has moved its manure pile too close to the Smith property. Mr. Smith, you have the floor.”

  Ben Smith walked up the steps slowly, leaning heavily on a cane. Sean met him over by the steps with a chair.

  “Don’t have much to say. John Hammond has been a good neighbor. But that manure pile is stinking up my whole house. Can’t even enjoy a cup of coffee on my own front porch. The missus has started drying the laundry indoors. There are bedsheets hanging in the living room.”

  Mr. Smith handed Sean the mic and sat down.

  “Okay. Mr. Hammond, would you like to respond?”

  John Hammond was one of those enthusiastic new farmers who had moved to Vermont after getting his agriculture degree. He handed the toddler on his lap over to his wife, who already had a newborn in her arms.

  “It isn’t that we moved the pile,” John explained when he reached the stage. “It’s that we had to add another pile. Three actually. We added four sows this season, and we just haven’t been able to keep up with—”

  “Production?” Sean offered. He was always pretty good at smoothing things over.

  John sighed. “Yes.” He leaned over and addressed Mr. Smith directly. “We haven’t been able to sit outside, either. I’m sorry.”

  Oona Avery, the new science teacher at the high school, stood up. “May I offer a solution?”

  Sean beamed down at her for a brief moment. It took everything I had not to whip around and gesture to Fern. Sean took the mic. “Mr. Smith, Mr. Hammond, what do you think?”

  “I’m all ears,” said John Hammond.

  “What do you have to say, young lady?” Ben Smith said.

  Oona made her way to the mic in the center aisle. “There is no shortage of vegetable farmers in the area. Why not set up a co-operative manure exchange?”

  “How does that work, Oona?” Sean asked. I had a sneaking suspicion he had already heard all about this over a candlelit dinner.

  “It wouldn’t cost a
thing. We would just need to set up a website. Animal farmers with excessive waste can list what they have available, and the vegetable farmers can come pick it up. It would be like Craigslist, for manure. It’s win-win.”

  Sean smiled as if she had just discovered the cure for cancer. “Let me get a show of hands from the vegetable farmers in the room. Would you be willing to shovel some crap to get free manure?”

  Dozens of hands shot up.

  “Mr. Smith? Mr. Hammond?”

  “Sounds great to me,” John Hammond said, as his face visibly relaxed.

  “Mr. Smith?”

  Mr. Smith scratched his ankle with the heel of his cane. “The missus might want some of the compost for her flower beds in the spring.”

  “Ms. Avery, are you willing to set up the website?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Sounds like we have an agreement. Thank you, gentlemen, and special thanks to you, Ms. Avery. These kind of creative initiatives are what make a town like Guthrie thrive.”

  I could feel Fern rolling her eyes from the back of the hall.

  John Hammond walked over to Ben Smith, and extended his arm to help him out of the chair.

  “Okay, next up we have article two—Say No to HG petition—the Keep Guthrie Small coalition will present their petition and signature collection to the town. Come on up, Burt.”

  Burt Grant stepped onto the stage, papers in hand. He looked thinner than the last time he was at the diner, and the dark circles under his eyes gave him a raccoonish stare.

  “The Keep Guthrie Small coalition has collected more than four hundred signatures, all verified, from Guthrie citizens who oppose changing the zoning laws in Guthrie to allow a large corporation such as HG to build within our community. Let it be a part of the official record—we want to keep Guthrie small. Small businesses, small community, small taxes. It’s like what Sean just said—what makes us great is our ability to band together. Don’t let some corporate giant come in and tell us what we need and want. It’s only a matter of time before it starts making demands of us, not the other way around. Thank you.” Burt handed the pages of the petition to Sean, but as he walked off the stage he looked defeated. No one applauded him off the stage. I turned around. More than half the chairs were still empty. Maybe it was the threat of the nor’easter—the farmers probably hadn’t heard about the downgrade. A big storm meant a lot of work, harvesting pumpkins in case of flooding, mending weak areas of fences, and making sure the doors to the animal stalls were tight and secure. Checking the backup generators that would keep milk and cheese supplies safe and fresh. No matter what had kept the normally civic-minded citizens of Guthrie away from the town meeting, it didn’t seem as if the bulk of the Keep Guthrie Small coalition had shown up to vote.

  “Thanks so much, Burt,” Sean said, turning the pages of the petition. “That’s a lot of work right there. Let this petition be a part of the permanent record.” Sean handed the pages to Mrs. Fairbanks, who was in charge of those sorts of things.

  “Last on the agenda tonight, article three. Zoning—HG Corporation has asked about the possibility of rezoning the land owned by Nora Huckleberry LaPlante and Katherine Huckleberry, formerly the property of Peggy Johnson, for commercial use. HG made its case at the last town meeting, and I know there has been much discussion of the issue in both the Coventry County Record and the Guthrie Independent. Is there anyone who has something to add to the discussion before we take a vote? No one? All right. Should the town of Guthrie rezone the Huckleberry property for commercial use? Those in favor, say aye.”

  “Aye,” said a good portion of the crowd. Elliot glanced over both his shoulders. He looked pleased.

  “And those opposed to a change in zoning, say nay.”

  “Nay,” said what sounded like the exact same number of people.

  Elliot leaned over to me. “Now what happens?”

  “This has never happened before that I can remember.”

  Sean looked like he didn’t know what happened next, either. He stepped away from the mic. The town manager and Mrs. Fairbanks joined Sean on the stage, and the three of them talked quietly.

  After a few long moments, Sean stepped up to the mic. “It’s too close to call, folks. We’re going to have to go to a show of hands. Troop 235, would a couple of you serve as assistant counters? I need one to count ayes and one to count nays. Come on up here, girls.”

  Two girls in green sashes marched boldly up the aisle, as if they had been training for this moment their whole lives. The brown-haired girl stood by Mrs. Fairbanks, and the redhead with the freckles went over to the town manager.

  “Those in favor, say aye and hold up your hand.”

  “Aye,” said Elliot, his hand waving.

  “You’re not even a resident,” I said, pulling his arm down.

  “You got a count, sweetie?” Sean said, squatting down to meet the scout at eye level. The girl nodded, her face serious. “Mrs. Fairbanks, you are both in agreement? Great. Those opposed? Say nay and hold up your hand.”

  “Nay,” I said, my arm straight up in the air.

  “Are you really opposed?” Elliot asked, looking a little hurt.

  “You’ve known that all along. Besides, now our votes cancel each other out.”

  “Scout? Mr. Manager?” Sean handed the two teams pieces of paper. “Write down your counts and give them to me.”

  The two scouts sat on the floor, taking their time to form their numbers neatly. Each folded her paper in half and handed it to Sean.

  “Votes in favor of changing the zoning of the Huckleberry land: 53. Votes opposed: 49. The Huckleberry land will be rezoned to allow for commercial development. Town meeting is officially adjourned. Be safe, everybody.”

  Elliot Danforth stood up and draped his coat over his arm. I did the same. He cocked his head toward one of the doors that led behind the stage. I followed him, thinking he must have parked his car in the back lot.

  When we were safely out of view, Elliot tossed his coat to the floor. He wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the ground. “Yes,” he said, spinning me from side to side before putting me down.

  When my feet hit the floor his arms were still around my waist, and he was holding me lightly to him. I breathed in his peat fire and woolly scent. “This doesn’t change anything, you know,” I said, not wanting to break the spell, but needing to be clear.

  “It does for me. Even if you don’t sell to HG, it shows the company I’m good at my job. And it will make it easier for you to sell the land, no matter who you sell it to. That sounds like a win for both of us.”

  I smiled up at him. “To me, too.”

  “Celebrate with me. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I have to go bake a cake.” I have never felt so frustrated by a baked good in my entire life.

  “Tomorrow night, then. Let me take you out. We could drive over to Montpelier. I heard there are some nice restaurants over there.” Elliot placed his hands gently on my upper arms and squeezed. “To be clear, I’m asking you out on a date. Will you go on a date with me, Ms. Huckleberry?”

  “Okay,” I said softy. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  Elliot lingered for a moment, his hands sliding gently down my arms, until he was holding both of my hands in his. He leaned toward me then, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot between my cheek and my ear.

  A door that led to the front hall opened, and the muffled laughter of the teenage boys hired to clean up after the meeting filtered into the room. Elliot leaned his forehead into mine before letting go of my hands.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said quietly. It sounded like a promise.

  * * *

  I ducked out one of the side doors and walked briskly down the sidewalk, holding the hood of my raincoat to keep it from flying off, avoiding anyone I knew. I wanted to lin
ger in the moment, to remember the feeling of Elliot’s hands in mine, and not get caught up in a conversation about my plans for the Johnson place.

  I let myself into the diner through the back door and turned on the lights in the kitchen. Without a car it would be too difficult to get to Peggy’s to bake the cake. And I was sure we had all the ingredients and a Bundt pan at the diner.

  I sifted the flour and leavening while I played the short clip of Elliot’s hand stroking my arm over and over in my mind. His touch was gentle, but not tentative. The soft feeling of his breath on my cheek, sweet and minty. The way the tip of his nose lightly skimmed the shell of my ear. The smoky scent of him. I liked the way he took his time. As I turned on a low flame under a pot of sugar I found myself wondering if he took his time at other things.

  I was acting like a teenager, I mused, but that didn’t stop my silly grin from growing a little wider. I tossed chunks of butter into the bowl of the stand mixer, covered them with sugar, and turned the machine on. It began to whirl. When was the last time I had felt desire? Sex with Sean had become like most things in our marriage, a habit, something that we did occasionally because we were supposed to, like going to church on the major holidays. I hadn’t felt a true longing for Sean since we were in high school, and even then it felt more like escaping into something, disappearing, a break from all the pressures I was facing. When had I stopped seeing myself as a woman who wanted, who had dreams and ambitions and longings of her own? All of that changed when Elliot took his shirt off at the pond in the woods. What else had I stopped myself from wanting without even realizing it?

  Kit had said to go toward what I love. But I wasn’t even sure what that was. All I knew in that moment was that I wanted to paint. And I wanted to have someone look at me the way Max looked at Kit, as if he were a wanderer and she was home. And I wanted to know what it felt like to have Elliot Danforth’s hands on my skin, beyond my wrist.

  My cell phone buzzed to life on the counter. Elliot Danforth popped up on my screen, as if I had conjured him out of thin air. A wave of heat washed over my body. If he had been in front of me in that moment, and not on the phone, I would have pushed him into the corner booth and climbed on top of him. I switched off the mixer, pressed answer, and held the phone up to my ear.