Delicious!

by Ruth Reichl

  “It stands for Branford Lock Works, an old New Haven company that was not known by that name until after the Civil War.”

  “And the house was built before then?”

  “Without a doubt. My guess is early 1830s, the last gasp of the Federal style. That remains to be seen, but the lock has to be a later addition; I won’t know how much later until I can get the paint off and see the pattern underneath.”

  “Why would they put a new lock on the door?”

  “Why would anyone? To keep people out. Back then, locks were the only way to ensure privacy, and wealthy people tended to change them as the technology improved. The lock business was very big and extremely competitive, and locksmiths were always trying to make new and more-efficient models. There was obviously something important kept in this room.”

  “Like what?”

  “Could have been anything. If it was an office, you’d assume the owner wanted to ensure that nobody was snooping through his papers. If it has always been a library, it must have contained valuable books. Putting in a new lock every few years would be reasonably inexpensive insurance. The room will tell us, if we give it enough time.”

  He startled me by reaching for my hand and pulling me down to his level. His breath was warm, and for a moment his face filled my entire vision. Then he turned to peer through the circle the lock had left in the door, and I felt, rather than heard, his sharp intake of breath.

  He gently guided my shoulders so that I was in front of him, looking through the place where the lock had been. “Tell me what you see.”

  The room was in shadow, and I could just make out the library tables piled high with books, the lamps, the cozy chairs. From here the room seemed like a distant diorama; I felt as if it were reaching through the keyhole, yearning to gather me in. I was aware of the pressure of Mitch’s hands on my shoulders. “A very beautiful library.”

  “No.” His soft voice warmed the inside of my ear. “Don’t look into the room yet. Focus where the lock used to be. Do you see the carved initials?” I squinted, and then, yes, I did see them, an ornate “F” and an even more ornate “A,” carved in old-fashioned script.

  “Somebody signed this room. Somebody was so proud of something here that he wanted to leave his mark. But he—I’m assuming it was a man—did it in a place where no one was ever likely to see it. That’s strange. I’ve seen that only once before.”

  I turned to look at him. His entire face had grown more animated. He pulled me up. “Let’s go inside. I want to poke around before anybody else arrives. After you.”

  He pushed the door open, but he did not go right in. He just stood on the threshold, sniffing the air.

  “I always love that apple smell—” I clapped my hand to my mouth.

  But Mitch wasn’t paying attention to me. He was taking deep, appreciative breaths, inhaling the air. “Apples. Leather. Paper. I’d like to bottle the scent of old libraries.”

  “The aroma of history.”

  “Hardly.” He tapped my shoulder. “The smell of history was more like chamber pots, used linen, and unwashed bodies. Old New York was a pretty stinky place; it lagged way behind other cities in providing clean water to its citizens. The Croton Reservoir didn’t open until 1842. It’s possible that the past smelled good, at least out in the country, but before the advent of indoor plumbing this city would have been filled with a throng of rank odors. That’s what I like so much about old libraries—they smell the way we’d like to imagine the past.”

  I felt a little stab of disappointment. I knew it was silly, but I couldn’t help feeling that I’d been subtly rebuffed. He took a step into the library, and I followed.

  Mitch stopped in the middle of the room, turning slowly, as if he were listening for voices. In the quiet, I thought I heard them too: an oyster vendor hawking his wares, the town crier announcing the news, carriage horses clopping by outside. I thought I could detect the scent of wood smoke, and a shiver went through me.

  “Cold?” He broke the spell. “I was expecting it to be colder in here. When a room’s been shut up for as long as this one has, it’s always cold. It can take weeks before a room warms up. But it’s not cold in here. Very strange.”

  He had turned away as he talked, so I couldn’t read his face. Was he suspecting something?

  “Was this always a library?” I threw it out more as distraction than a question.

  “I don’t know yet.” He was prowling around, examining the lamps, the globe, the desk with its inlaid-wood zodiac signs. He touched every piece of furniture he passed, very lightly, as if he were receiving information through his fingertips. “The entire layout of this building is odd, but I can’t understand why they would have put a library up here with the servants’ quarters. There had to be a reason.” He was talking more to himself than to me. “There’s a story here, a secret. That’s a serious lock, clearly intended to deter the curious. I’ll know more when I’ve gotten the paint off.”

  “Are you going to restore it?”

  “Depends on what Joan-Mary has in mind. The client may not want to spend the money. As she said, I’m expensive.”

  “True.” Joan-Mary had come in so quietly that she spoke before we were aware of her presence. Now I saw her standing in the library doorway, her face alight with astonishment. She let out a small, happy sigh. “What a beautiful room. So much more than I’d hoped for.” She glanced at Mitch. “Good thing we called you.”

  He went to the door, took her hand, and led her into the room, an oddly proprietary gesture, as if he’d claimed the library and she was a visitor. “I am very grateful that you didn’t let a locksmith at that door. The lock’s already talking to me.”

  She laughed, brushing her hair out of her face. “And what does it have to say?”

  “At the moment it’s covered with more than a century of paint, so the voice is a little muffled. But it’s a Branford, which means that it can’t be original to the mansion. The Squires lock company didn’t become Branford Lock Works until at least thirty years after this house was built. And that in turn”—he looked at her, all seriousness—“might tell us why they put this room up here, whether it has always been a library, and, most important, why they locked it. What the hell were they hiding? This room has some secrets, and I’m going to enjoy finding out what they are.”

  “How long will you need?” Joan-Mary’s question made me wonder if he was paid by the hour.

  “It all depends. I’ll start with this lock. I’m guessing it’s an Eastlake model, which would put it in the 1880s, or about fifty years after the house was likely built. Then I’ll want to wander around, get a feel for the place, see if there’s any minor restoration that might impact a sale. I’ll let you know.”

  “Fine. I’ve got showings scheduled all day, but call me when you have an idea of the scope of this project. I’ve got some gardeners coming this afternoon to clean up the yard. And we’ll probably need to stage the place.”

  “Keep your decorators out of this room, okay?”

  She turned a withering look on him. “Why would I let them in here? This library’s perfect exactly as it is.”

  “And give me a day or so before you loose your stagers on the rest of the mansion?”

  “I know, I know.” She began pulling on her gloves. “You don’t want them messing up your crime scene.”

  I was walking out the door with her when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Billie? Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  I stopped, feeling strangely anxious. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just what you remember people saying about the library.”

  “Nobody ever talked about it in the time I was here. Sorry.” Was that what he really wanted to know? He was watching me, saying nothing, and I noticed that his brown eyes were flecked with gold. I was the one to break the silence. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  He squeezed my shoulder, and I thought what an extremely physical person he
was. I remembered how he’d been at Fontanari’s, a large man who used up all the available air. “An interesting woman.” He stared at me, mouth quivering a little. “Isn’t every man?”

  I flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He touched my cheek briefly, but I could feel his fingers burn my skin long after he took them away. “I know. To be honest, I’m not completely sure what I’m after. But a room like this, one that hasn’t been repainted and redecorated a thousand times, has a lot to reveal. The floors in the rest of the house have been replaced, but these …” He crouched and ran his long fingers across one of the boards. “Give me your hand.” He pulled me down until we were both crouching, then he laid my hand against the wood, which was surprisingly soft and satiny. “It’s been sanded by time. No splinters here. By almost two centuries of feet marching across it. You can’t imitate that, although people certainly try.”

  He stood up, pulling me with him again, and we walked to the windows. Mitch pulled the curtains aside. “See the glass?” The uneven panes were like amber, thick and wavy with thousands of tiny bubbles trapped inside. “All the windows in the house are Palladian, but I’ll bet these are the only ones with original panes. See how watery the light is? Modern glass transmits light in an entirely different way.”

  I reached out and touched the glass, which was smooth beneath my fingers. Outside, in the garden, the forsythia was just beginning to bloom. Mitch said, “If I can figure out why the library’s up here, it will help me evaluate the rest of the house. There may be secret panels, hidden rooms.”

  My heart did a little somersault. “And what about a ghost?”

  “Oh, that would be too much to hope for. Do you know the going rate for haunted houses?” He walked me to the door. “Get out of here and let me work. But come and check on me from time to time. Just in case I discover that ghost.”

  MITCH WAS IN THE LIBRARY all day, and I was torn. Part of me wished he would leave so I could look up “honey,” but part of me liked knowing he was there. Every now and then he’d stick his head into my office to share a little detail. “Look at this!” It apparently did not occur to him that I might not be as thrilled as he was by an antique lock, but his enthusiasm was infectious. “I was right. It’s an Eastlake.”

  He held out the lock so I could see the vaguely Asian motif.

  “Branford invented it, but it was widely copied. But the interesting thing is that this lock replaced a more serious one. Three of them, in fact. Between the time this house was built and the Eastlake was installed, something important was kept in that room.”

  “Joan-Mary’s right,” I told him. “You do consider this a crime scene. Any idea what that might have been?”

  Mitch turned toward the hall but said over his shoulder, “I have a hunch, but I’ll keep it to myself until I know more.”

  Now I wished he would leave. I had to search for Lulu’s letter, and Mitch’s diligence was reminding me that our time was running out.

  Mitch wasn’t the only one poking around the place; Joan-Mary’s gardeners had arrived, and I could hear them outside all afternoon, laying sod, planting shrubs, and loudly complaining about the difficulty of the job.

  “Another oyster shell!” I heard. “What the hell?” I went into Jake’s office and looked out the window; at the far end of the garden, against the back fence, a huge pile of shells was growing. “What the hell are they doing here?” one of the gardeners asked. “It’s not like this part of Manhattan was ever landfill.”

  “They were just trying to make our work harder,” grumbled his colleague, dumping out another load of shells.

  To my relief, the gardeners left promptly at five. Mitch was not far behind them. “Nice working with you,” he said. “See you soon.”

  That was it? I felt let down, but at least his abrupt departure gave me time to run upstairs and look up “honey.”

  There were dozens of entries in the card catalog, but only two were in turquoise. “The sadly underappreciated bees of Ohio,” Bertie had written on the first card, “produce some of the world’s finest honey. A rare and mysterious product, Mad Bee Jars were highly prized by connoisseurs. Notes on this extraordinary American comestible can be found among the letters on beekeeping.”

  The second card said only this: “See also ‘Jade’s Amber’ a closely related product.” Looking in the “J” drawer, I found the entry, and as I read the bold turquoise writing, I could picture Bertie chortling at his own cleverness. “Honey,” he had written, “was widely used as a sugar substitute during World War II, causing the creation of a spate of new apiaries. Among them was a small concern in Akron, Jade’s Amber, whose young proprietor kept bees throughout the war. She offered some extremely interesting recipes, which can be found among the reader letters on beekeeping. Sadly, the apiary was shuttered at war’s end. See also ‘Mad Bee Jars.’ ”

  “Beekeeping.” Of course. The file was quite fat.

  OCTOBER 18, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Still no word about Father. Mother and I are remaining hopeful, but it’s very hard. Mother tries to be cheerful, for my sake, I realize, but sometimes when she doesn’t know I’m watching, I can see how sad she is.

  Yesterday the principal called me down to his office. It made me nervous, but my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Bridgeman, gave me such an encouraging smile that I decided nothing too terrible was about to happen.

  It turned out he’d been talking with Principal Jones, who told him about the milkweed floss. Then he asked all about my bee hives; he’s been trying to keep bees but he says that they frighten him. I think he might have said it just to put me at ease, but we talked for a while, and then, to my surprise, he asked if I would consider giving cooking classes.

  Would I! My first class will be next week. I asked what he wanted me to teach, but all he would say is, “You’re the teacher, Lulu.” So, dear wonderful Mr. Beard, if you have any ideas, I’d be very grateful.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  OCTOBER 29, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  Thank you for all those ideas. You were absolutely right: A class on pumpkins was a fine way to begin. When I said I was doing a Halloween class on pumpkins, everybody was expecting plain old pumpkin pie. Were they ever surprised! First I showed them how to toast the seeds. We did do pie, of course, using my own honey, but then I brought out the pumpkin leaves and said that we were going to cook those too. Everybody looked a little doubtful, and nobody wanted a taste until Mrs. Bridgeman took a bite. She said it was delicious, and after that a few more people were brave enough to try them. Rosie Mullaney even said she liked them. Still, I’m sad to say that pumpkin leaves are not destined to become an Akron staple.

  Mrs. Bridgeman asked if I knew of any other ways to use pumpkin, and I told her about Mrs. Cappuzzelli’s ravioli. And guess what? Next week Mrs. C. is going to come in and show us how to make them. I wish Marco could see his mama teaching Americans to make the food he had no use for.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  NOVEMBER 8, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I feel as if I am slowly losing Father. Sometimes, when I’m lying in bed, trying to remember his face, the only image I have is the photograph on the mantel. I know it’s superstitious, but so long as I can hold him in my mind, I believe he will be safe.

  Will this war ever end? The Western Union man is so busy that we call him the Angel of Death. Last week we heard that Susie Rivera’s father was shot down in Leyte. Three of Rosie Mullaney’s brothers have been killed in the South Pacific. And Tommy’s oldest brother, Joe, lost a leg at Aachen and is being shipped home.

  I’m guessing that you won’t be eating turkey this year—or ever again. I laugh every time I think about you and the four thousand pounds of turkey you cooked for the servicemen in Miami. But we won’t be eating turkey either; the one I raised got so big Mother suggested giving him to the Cappuzzellis. She said that a chicken would do for us,
and their family is so large. Sometimes Mother surprises me.

  I’m so glad to know you’re coming back to New York soon. Maybe when the war is over we will finally meet.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  DECEMBER 12, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  The cooking classes are going very well. Tommy’s been helping me. I think he needs an excuse to get out of the house now that his brother has come back. Joe has turned into an angry, bitter man, but it’s hard to blame him. Even though his leg is gone, it still hurts him quite a lot. They call it “phantom pain,” and he may have it all his life. It seems so unfair. I hate this war.

  Next week we’ll do cookies. Even though it’s more impossible than ever to get the ingredients for Snowballs, we’re going to start with those. By this time next year, the war may be over, and rationing will be behind us. Hope can’t hurt.

  Your friend,

  Lulu

  DECEMBER 29, 1944

  Dear Mr. Beard,

  I was anticipating a miserable Christmas, but you just never know how life is going to turn out. Mrs. Bridgeman invited Mother and me to Christmas dinner. She said that with Mr. Bridgeman in the South Pacific, we’d be doing her a favor. We pooled our ration stamps and bought a real roast. I brought some of my canned beans and carrots, and I baked a Liberation Cake. As I was frosting it, I remembered Father telling us how the soldiers call stale bread “make-believe cake.” I hope that, wherever he is, he has real cake for Christmas.

  We found another surprise waiting at Mrs. Bridgeman’s house: Mr. Jones. Even though he’s no longer my principal, it made me feel queer to have him sitting across the dinner table. But afterward we stood by the fire for a while, singing carols, and for just a moment it felt so jolly that I forgot about the war. Then I came back to reality with a guilty jerk. That was when Mr. Jones leaned over and whispered in my ear. He said that being sad wouldn’t bring Father back, that no matter where he was, he’d want me to be happy.

  How did he know what I was feeling? But since then I’ve given his words careful consideration, and I’ve decided that he’s right. From now on I’m resolved to set a good example for Mother. I know Father would want that.