The Late Bloomers' Club

by Louise Miller

  Kit sank down onto the couch and rubbed her face with her hands. “Don’t you think your resentment about being stuck taking care of me came through? Nora, you seriously have the worst poker face. Why did you think I kept so busy? And left as soon as I could?”

  “Because you had the choice,” I spat. “I didn’t.”

  “Well, you have it now.” Kit slapped her hands against her thighs. “No more diner,” she said with a bitter laugh. “No more family to worry about. Go ahead and sell to HG. Pay off the bills. You’re free, Nora. Let me know how great that feels.”

  Kit pulled her boots on and grabbed her coat. “Come on, Max,” she said over her shoulder as she thundered out of the room.

  Max lingered for a moment, then pulled on his jacket. He leaned down and kissed my cheek. “I’m really sorry about the diner.”

  “I’m really sorry about the movie,” I said, barely able to choke the words out.

  Max placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “I know. She knows, too.”

  * * *

  I drove for hours, around the town, down the highway, and on the back roads into Guthrie, my head spinning. Kit was right—I did have a choice now. Once we settled Peggy’s estate, I would be free to do anything I wanted. But the only thing that I seemed to want to do was to stand behind the counter of the Miss Guthrie, pour coffee, and listen to the old men in the early morning talk about what they thought of the Little League team this year. The contractor Sean had recommended sent me over an estimate, as did the company who would desmoke the diner and clean up all the grease and soot. Insurance would cover most of it, but anything cosmetic—like replacing the embossed aluminum backsplash that had melted in the heat—would have to come out of my own pocket. And there was Elsie, of course. Why hadn’t I just followed Peggy’s plan to sell all along? I am sure she had weighed the decision as carefully as I had, and realized this was the only option.

  The parking lot to the Sugar Maple Inn was full, so I parked in the back, where Elliot and I had been just a few nights before. I let myself in through the green door. The foyer and sitting room were packed with men and women in sharp clothing, drinks in hand.

  I caught the eye of Sarah, the front-of-the-house manager. She smiled at me from across the room and waved me over.

  “Hey, Nora. We’re all heartbroken about the diner. Is there anything we can do?”

  I looked across the crowded room. “Do you have any extra work for Fern and Charlie?”

  Sarah smiled. “I desperately need an extra server through the holidays. I bet Alfred and Livvy could use a hand in the kitchen, too. I’ll talk to Margaret tomorrow morning and have her give you a call.”

  A little wave of relief washed over me. “I’d be grateful.”

  Sarah poured champagne into a dozen glasses that were set up on a tarnished silver tray. “I should get these out. Was that what brought you here tonight? Charlie and Fern?”

  “I was looking for Elliot Danforth,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush.

  “He’s in room 8, second floor. Go on up—he’s in. I just saw him.”

  “Thanks, Sarah.”

  I slinked my way through the crowd, conscious that my overalls and sneakers weren’t exactly party attire, and for a moment wondered who all of these people were. They didn’t look like the average leaf peepers.

  I knocked quickly on room 8. Elliot came to the door in a faded Bates T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. I almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Hi,” he said, stepping aside to let me in the room. “Are you okay? Did you get my texts?”

  Elliot had texted me several times since the fire but I had been too overwhelmed to answer him.

  “I did, I’m sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  Elliot slipped his feet into a pair of running shoes. “Can I get you something to drink? There is no room service, but I could run down. The chef showed me where they keep a stash of bourbon.”

  “No, thank you. I can’t stay long.” I did a quick scan of the room and sat in a chair next to a small desk. “I’m here to talk about the Johnson land. I’m ready to sell.”

  “Oh, Nora.” Elliot pushed aside a folded pile of laundry and sat down on the bed. “What made you change your mind?”

  “I have no other choice. It was what Peggy was going to do. I don’t know why I thought I could come up with a better solution.” I pushed the hair out of my eyes. “I need to move forward. Which means I need to wrap up the things in the past.”

  I had thought Elliot would be happy. It was what he had been sent here for. Instead he looked as if he had lost his childhood dog all over again.

  “What is it?”

  Elliot tapped his fingers together. “I already gave them my assessment. That I didn’t think the community was a good match.”

  “You did what?”

  “I agreed with you. I think HG would have a negative impact on the town.”

  “Couldn’t you call them back? They liked the location, right?” My mind was spinning. Without HG, I had no options.

  “I had a teleconference this morning. They had come to the same conclusion out there. They just started working with a new analyst, and the numbers came out weak.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’ve decided to pull out of the Northeast Kingdom altogether.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

  That’s when I noticed the suitcase.

  “You’re leaving.”

  “They’re sending me to Tennessee,” he said softly.

  I nodded, looking around the room. The nightstand and the top of the dresser were bare. “When?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Oh.”

  It struck me in that moment that my entire life had been one loss after the other—my mom, my dad, my sister, my husband, the house. Even my little herd of goats. And now this. It was just the loss of a beginning, but it was more than my heart could handle.

  “I thought, maybe we—”

  “I did, too.”

  My heart started to speed up, trying to get ahead of the tears that threatened to spill before I could make it back to my car. “I mean, I thought you, I mean we—I—”

  “I did. I do.” Elliot moved down to the edge of the bed and reached for my hand. “If I had any idea this was going to happen, that I was going to be leaving so soon, I wouldn’t have—I don’t know.” Elliot turned away from me, but his grip on my hand grew stronger. “I’m so sorry.”

  I stood up quickly. His hand dropped into his lap. “Me, too,” I said, not knowing exactly what I was sorry for. I felt sorry for everything. I walked out the door before he could try to start saying good-bye.

  When I returned to the apartment, the stacks of screenplays, the Indian-print bag overflowing with scarves and embroidered tunics and vintage dresses were all gone, though the sweet honeysuckle scent of my sister still lingered in the room. I walked straight into my bedroom without turning on any lights, closed the door, and crawled into my bed.

  * * *

  I didn’t leave my apartment for six days. Max texted from the road. He said that they had picked up their equipment from the diner, and a tech guru friend from the city was trying to dig deep into the hard drive to retrieve the movie files, but it wasn’t looking hopeful. Kit was fine, he assured me, getting sunnier every day. He didn’t mention whether the camera was reparable and I didn’t ask.

  The evening of day three Charlie and Fern showed up with the makings of Fern’s margaritas and Charlie’s portable karaoke machine. We got drunk and ate nachos and sang old Patsy Cline songs, which did make me feel better in the moment, but a little worse the next day. I was relieved to hear that the Sugar Maple had hired them both part time, and Charlie had hooked Fern up with a few shifts as a barback at the Bear Cub, which she said was so much fun I was going to have to offe
r her a raise to lure her back to the diner when it was up and running.

  On day six I listened to all the voice mails I had been avoiding. Elliot had called several times, but left only one message, saying he would be in touch when he completed his project in Tennessee. Both the cleaning company and the contractor had questions, and the insurance guy needed me to sign some paperwork. Since my fax machine was melted into a bookcase in the office, I made a plan to meet him at the diner the next day.

  I went in through the front door. The broken windows had been boarded up and the shards of glass had been swept away. The air still reeked of acrid smoke, and was dank, like forgotten towels left to fester in a heap. I ran my hand across the counter, relieved to see that the sparkly boomerang pattern wasn’t stained. The Naugahyde stools and benches were covered in soot but looked cleanable. The old Dr Pepper clock had been hosed off the wall. One of the workers had placed it faceup on the counter, but the domed glass cover was cracked in several places.

  A ragged hole remained where the old range had stood, dark and absent like a missing tooth. Wires and pipes were carefully marked, ready for their replacements. The walls and ceiling had been power washed, but the floor was still black and ashy—it would need to be completely replaced.

  The smokiness mixed with the scent of industrial cleaner was making me dizzy. I went to open the back door and found a letter taped to the window from the outside.

  Dear Nora,

  So you’ll always have a bit of the orchard, no matter who you sell it to. My dad said it’s not the best time of year to do this, so it might take a season or two for the tree to bear fruit, but I think the best things are worth waiting for. I hope you do, too.

  E

  I looked out the screen door. Over by the picnic table, the little McIntosh tree my dad had planted was covered in what looked like white ribbons. I pushed my way out the door to have a closer look. Elliot had grafted eight varieties of fruit onto the tree, each carefully wrapped in thin strips of white fabric. One of the branches had a russet fruit dangling from it, the tentaclelike edges prickly to the touch. “A medlar,” I said to myself. At the sound of those words, the fruit dropped to the ground with a heavy thud, and with it went all of my defenses. I sat on the table, my feet on the bench, cradling the fruit in my cupped hands, and let the tears come. I cried for my mom, who suffered for so long, and for my dad, who couldn’t live with the loss. I cried for Kit for never having had true parents, and for all the ways I had failed her. I cried for my marriage, and for the years that I had gone through the motions, which hadn’t been fair to Sean. For all the miscarriages. For the diner. For Peggy and for Elsie, who both lost the one they loved. And I cried for myself, for all the years I had lost wishing for something to be different, and for all the wasted time not seeing what I had.

  A twig snapped in the woods. I heard a rustling in the leaves. And then the bench shifted slightly. Nails scratched against the wood, and I felt the hot, sweet breath of a dog on my neck. A wet tongue raked across my cheek.

  I looked up slowly. Freckles stood on the table, panting, his long pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. He turned, and for a moment I feared he would jump off the table and bolt into the woods, but instead he turned around, and around, and around, before lying down next to me, his body flush with my thighs. Freckles laid his muzzle on my leg, snuggling in, and sighed heavily. I stroked the white stripe that ran between his eyes. When I rubbed around his velvety black ears, he moaned and leaned into me. When I stopped petting him for a moment, he pressed his head into my palm. I smoothed the soft, short fur on his muzzle, and under his chin, following the strong lines of bone. Freckles closed his eyes and licked his lips. I dug my fingers into his ruff, scruffing his neck, then smoothing down the fur along his back. He was a little thin, his tail and legs were covered in burrs, but his coat still looked shiny.

  We sat there for what felt like hours, me crying and petting Freckles, working out the occasional burr, him sleeping heavily for what may have been the first time since Peggy had passed.

  “All right, sweetie,” I said softly, wrapping my arm around his chest and pulling him a little closer. “Let’s see if we can get you home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Guthrie Front Porch Forum

  Freckles Update—FRECKLES IS HOME

  User: GuthriePD/DW

  We here at the dog warden’s office are pleased as punch to announce that after almost two months on the run, Freckles the Border collie has been found, and is safe, happy, and healthy. Thanks to everyone who pitched in: To the Haskell farm, which donated fresh meat for the trap, and everyone who left out kibble and water. The vet says he actually gained five pounds! To Burt Grant and everyone down at the Hammer and Nail for help with the construction of the trap. To Tom Carrigan for the use of his game cameras, and to the McCrackens and Margaret Hurley for letting us set up the trap on their land. And of course to everyone here on the forum who sent in tips. You made me proud.—Erika

  Wanted: Small, dog-friendly apartment

  User: MissGuthrieDiner

  Hi, everyone. I’m looking for a small, affordable, dog-friendly apartment to rent. Extra bonus if it’s sunny and has hardwood floors! Happy to consider any options, but dog friendly is nonnegotiable. If you know of a place, please leave a message for Nora at the Miss Guthrie Diner. 802-228-0424. (We’re not open yet, but I check messages every day.)

  Emergency Fund-raiser for the Miss Guthrie Diner

  User: CouncilmanSean

  I know everyone is missing the pancakes and corned beef hash down at the Miss Guthrie as much as I am—now is your chance to help. A fund-raiser will be held at the grange hall on Friday, October 20. We scheduled it to happen after peak color so all could attend. Both the Hungry Mountaineers and the Beagles are going to play all of your favorite dance and Eagles tunes. There will be a bake sale and silent auction. And yes, Troop 235 is making kettle corn. All proceeds go to the Miss Guthrie Emergency Fund. Dotty McCracken and Margaret Hurley will be handling all bake sale donations. If you have something you’d like to donate to the silent auction, contact Mrs. Fairbanks over at town hall. Help us show Nora Huckleberry how much the Miss Guthrie means to all of us. Any questions, shoot me an e-mail: slaplante@guthrievt.gov.

  Call for Volunteers: The Pudding Hill House

  User: PuddingHill

  We have lost a couple of lively volunteers, and the residents of the Pudding Hill House deeply miss the creativity and fun they brought to our afternoons. Do you have a talent you’d like to share? Or a flair for leading discussions about current events or the latest bestseller? Or perhaps you are an expert at meditation or movement therapy? Come enrich your life and the lives of this vivacious group of seniors by becoming a volunteer at the Pudding Hill House. Please call M–F. Ask for Mary Beth.

  The doors to the grange hall were wide open, and a warm yellow light spilled onto the wooden steps. I sat in my car and watched the activity inside, overwhelmed at the number of people who had come out to help me get the diner up and running. A part of me wanted to stay in the car and watch from afar all night, but Freckles started whining from the backseat, leaning over and relentlessly licking my neck and ears until I gave in and turned off the ignition.

  Freckles hadn’t left my side since the day he appeared at the diner. He was constantly underfoot, a half step in front of me, swinging his head around to make sure I was following him, even if it was just from the kitchen to the living room. He leaned against my thigh when I was decorating a cake, and he came in very handy when I dropped lumps of frosting or a bit of cake trimming on the ground. I carried the thick nylon leash with me, and attached it to Freckles’s harness as a precaution, but really, I was lucky if I could even pee without the company of a one-hundred-pound herding dog. It was like having a giant, furry toddler.

  “Go on in, Ms. Huckleberry,” said the high school girls who were collecting donations at th
e door. The diner had sponsored their trip to the state cheer dancing semifinals two years before.

  “Nora,” Fern called from a table near the entrance. Both she and Charlie were dressed in their Miss Guthrie uniforms. Charlie had set up three George Foreman grills and was cooking up cheeseburgers, while Fern served sodas, passed out condiments, and collected donations for the food. Judging by the bulging pockets of her apron, it looked like people were being generous. Either that or everyone was paying in singles, which wouldn’t be that unusual. As we approached the table, Charlie tossed Freckles a bun, which he wolfed down in one bite.

  “It’s so cheery to see you both back in action,” I said.

  “It’s good to be back in action.” Fern threw her arm over my shoulder. “It’s fun over at the Sugar Maple—”

  “But it’s a little stuffy,” Charlie said, handing a burger to one of the Beagles. Next to him, a tall, clean-cut man in a Miss Guthrie T-shirt with an apron tied around his waist handed Charlie a slice of cheese.

  “Ignore him,” Fern said. “He just hates being ordered around by Alfred.”

  “He’s a tyrant,” Charlie said, shaking his head.

  “You don’t like him because he makes a better omelet than you do,” said the helper.

  Charlie held his spatula up to the man. “Careful, those are fighting words.”

  Fern took Freckles’s leash so I could shake off my coat. The room was packed with people, and had grown as hot as the kitchen in August. I tossed my coat behind the table.

  “Amazing turnout, right?” she asked, handing back Freckles’s lead. “We’ll be open in no time.”

  “It’s overwhelming.”

  Martin and Livvy McCracken were playing a jaunty fiddle and banjo tune, with Tom Carrigan backing them up on the piano. Several couples were dancing in front of the stage. The line in front of Troop 235’s kettle corn table was at least twenty deep, even though they were selling the bags for ten dollars a pop. Along the back wall Dotty McCracken and Margaret Hurley, along with this year’s Mrs. Coventry County, were manning a long table that was crowded with baked goods.