by Hannah Reed
Chance Anderson was our age, and had been born and raised in Moraine. All of us here had thought he’d eventually settle down with a local girl, but Chance had had his own ideas—he and Effie met through an online matchmaking service and had a long-distance courtship before they got married and Chance brought her home with him. When Holly found out they needed a place to live, she made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, and they moved right into Max and Holly’s “carriage house,” as Holly insists on calling the guest suite above the garage. Apparently the original building was used to house horse-drawn carriages, and Holly likes the old-time reference. The apartment, like my sister’s mansion, had been updated by the last owner and was a sweet little cozy den.
“But who’s going to feed those people? I told Max I could do it, you know, play Martha Stewart for the weekend, but you and I both know I can’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right about that. My sister can’t boil water, let alone an egg, so I could see her problem.
“How many are coming?” I asked.
“Three. And they’re already here.”
“They’re at your house right now?”
Holly nodded and visibly slumped. “They came in last night in time for a sunset boat ride. They’re all still sleeping. What am I going to do when they wake up? OMG, what if they’re awake right now?” Holly, the acronym queen, just finished several months of therapy to control her nervous habit of using text-speak in place of plain English. She hasn’t slipped up in a long time. Until now. And if she stopped right there, this would be only a minor setback. I couldn’t help thinking that spitting out, “Oh! My! God!” instead of “OMG” would take the same amount of effort and be much more satisfying.
“Can’t Effie handle it?” I asked.
Effie handles all Holly’s housework. She’s a few years younger than her new husband, in her late twenties, has a farm-girl frame, the strength of a mule, and should be perfectly capable in the kitchen.
“I asked her,” Holly said. “Actually begged, but she said no, she doesn’t cook.”
Chance is a big guy, slightly overweight, which meant he likes his food. Maybe he was the cook in the family. But Holly shook her head when I suggested it. “Well, someone over there must know how to cook for a small group.”
“Small!” Holly huffed. “We’re talking five of us.”
Like that was some humungous gathering. Good thing Max didn’t suggest entertaining at their house more often. Ongoing dinner parties would send Holly deep into text-speak for sure.
I don’t know much about what Max Paine does for a living other than he works for Savour Foods, and he’s way up on their food chain, in more than one sense of the word. His company develops flavor enhancers, making things taste better—seasonings, sauces, that sort of thing. Which is ironic, really. Here’s Max with a successful career in the food industry, and a wife who can’t cook.
“Tell me, what does this visiting team actually work on?” I asked Holly.
“All I know is that they develop top-secret product lines,” she said. “The reason I’m so stressed out is because they’re food flavorists.”
“So?”
“So,” Holly said, “they know good food from bad food. They’re flavorists, for God’s sake!”
“I bet they’re all a bunch of geeky chemists with slide rules in their pockets,” I said. “Probably really dorky, and when they do take time to eat it’s probably fast food. Relax.”
To tell the truth, I didn’t have a clue what a flavorist really was or whether they had gourmet taste buds. What I did know was that my sister Holly is a drama queen. Just because she’s a few years younger than me shouldn’t give her the right to act like a big baby and expect her older sister to take care of all her problems. We’re talking about a woman who has been known to tackle shoplifters and wrestle them to the ground. What had happened to her all of a sudden?
“Hire a caterer,” I said next, which seemed like a no-brainer for my wealthy sister.
“I tried,” she responded. “Nobody can come on such short notice.”
“What about Mom and Grams? They cook.”
“Mom said you should do it. Grams can help make lunch. And Mom will take care of things at The Wild Clover while you help me out with tonight’s menu.”
Great. Just great. Thanks a bunch, Mom. “How hard can it be to throw together breakfast?” I said, realizing my fate was sealed. “Go pick up a dozen doughnuts and coffee, then take them out for lunch and dinner.”
“I want to make Max happy. He’s so proud of me, and now I’m going to be a huge disappointment to him. What am I going to do?” Now my sister shed a few tears for my benefit before saying, “I need you.”
I groaned inwardly. I should be harvesting honey and getting ready to open the store. But what could I say? My sister had played the need card.
“Tell you what,” I said, caving in. “Go home and freshen up. I’ll bring over some bread, some hard-boiled eggs, a few jars of honey butter, and a little fruit. Would that help?”
Holly sniffed. “It’s a start.”
“What’s tonight’s menu?” I said, hating to ask.
“I don’t know. What are you good at making? It has to be special, something that will impress everybody.”
“Anything else I can do?” I put a little sarcasm into my tone, but it zinged right past my sister.
Holly dug a piece of paper out of her back pocket and scanned it. “Bring carrot juice,” she said. “Make sure it’s organic. One of them is a health nut and drinks it every day. And soy milk, too—another one is lactose intolerant. And no shellfish.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I can for today. Tomorrow you’re on your own.” Like that was actually going to happen.
“I’m hoping that they’ll leave early Sunday morning for the airport, but that might be wishful thinking. Apparently the team isn’t on the best terms with each other. Max says they’ve been arguing a lot. He thinks a nice relaxed weekend at our house, some boating and fishing, will revive their spirits and build camaraderie.”
“So it isn’t a business meeting?”
Holly shook her head. “Shop talk is off-limits the entire weekend.”
“Okay then. Like I said, I’ll figure out something.”
And with her immediate worries taken care of, Holly bounced back to her old self, got up, and strolled back to her Jag.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You aren’t coming in to work for the next few days?”
She chose to ignore me and took off.
Several years ago, I’d purchased an abandoned church and turned it into The Wild Clover, a market where I sell Wisconsin products and produce, purchasing most of my stock locally. I’m immensely proud of my store, from the choir loft I converted into a gathering place for the community, to the honey displays front and center.
Unfortunately, The Wild Clover has been taken over by my family members. Yes, I own it—well, most of it anyway. At least I still have controlling interest. Holly had given me survival cash when I went through my divorce, which I’d thought was a no-interest, no-payment-for-eighteen-months type of loan. I should have read the contract her husband concocted, however, because in reality Holly had bought herself a chunk of my store. I didn’t find the damaging clause (buried six feet under in ultra-fine print) until it was way too late.
Even though Holly denies my accusations, I suspect the brilliant idea to trick me out of full ownership came from Mom, who has been trying to worm her way into my business since its inception. In the meantime, I still control the business/financial end, while my family basically dumps the bad stuff on me and runs with the good.
Like what Holly’s doing right now. Bailing on her responsibilities in more ways than one.
After first taking the time to hard-boil a dozen eggs, I hurried to the store and opened up. Usually, this is my favorite part of the day, taking a few quiet minutes before starting each new workday to survey my creation and relish the shop’s kaleidoscope
of colors and aromas. Today, though, I didn’t have time to admire my handiwork, thanks to my sister’s so-called crisis. I started down the aisles with a small basket.
I have to admit I’m not the world’s greatest cook, either, not by a long shot, but owning the store and talking to customers about recipes has given me a quick and easy repertoire of simple, but scrumptious dishes. And as luck would have it, all the ingredients I needed were here at my fingertips. For now, I picked out strawberries, cantaloupe, blueberry muffins, crusty sourdough bread leftover from yesterday, a jar of pumpkin pie honey butter, and another jar of plain whipped butter and honey, and I was good to go.
Except I couldn’t go, because Carrie Ann (my cousin and recently promoted store manager) hadn’t arrived yet. A few customers came in as soon as I opened the door, and we caught up on news. Easy, because there wasn’t any new news. Even the weather—consistently warm and sunny lately—refused to give us any reason to talk about it.
Pretty soon, my cousin came rushing in. Carrie Ann had a drinking problem in the past, but those days might actually be behind her. Hunter is her sponsor and he’s doing a great job with her. He had his own problems with alcohol right after high school, when all of us were binging, only Hunter kept right on going until he found AA. He doesn’t drink a drop now and has been a good role model for my cousin. She’s even dating her ex-husband Gunnar again, and seeing their two kids on a regular basis. And she looks good—spiky, funky hair, a trim figure, and an outgoing personality that works well in our service-related business. That’s why I made her manager on a probationary basis. If she can stay on the wagon through the twists and turns of life, the job is hers.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, her voice all rushed like the rest of her. “My alarm didn’t go off.”
“Everybody uses that exact same excuse,” I said, searching my pockets for the truck keys and not finding them. “Now that you’re a manager, you have to get more original.”
“Ask Gunnar. It’s true.” Then Carrie Ann gave me a knowing smirk. “I see you and Hunter finally came up for air!” she said, referring to my mini-honeymoon with Hunter. I hadn’t said a single thing about our new living arrangement to anybody except Holly, figuring it would leak out fast enough. Apparently it had. I felt a slight tremor shoot through my nervous system imagining what my mother would do to me when she heard.
My mother. What can I say about her? In the past, I’ve compared her to a rabid bulldog. She used to be stubborn as a mule, overly judgmental, and obsessively concerned with appearances, a façade-like world she built of sticks, and which I used to gleefully smash to pieces. I say she used to be all these things, however, because after being a widow for over five years, my mom has a new man in her life: Tom Stocke. I’ve never seen a woman’s personality change overnight before, but now I find she’s scary tolerant of me. At least she has been so far. But Mom never really liked Hunter, remembering his wild teenage years more clearly than the man he is today, so the living together news might push her back into mean mode.
“I have to take off,” I said to Carrie Ann, refusing to think too hard about my mother’s upcoming reaction. “Holly’s having a crisis.”
“Again?”
I nodded. “And can you call Milly and tell her I need help coming up with an easy but elegant dinner menu for a group of five?” Milly Hopticourt, looking for something fun to do after retiring, published The Wild Clover’s monthly newsletter—and it turned out that the woman has a magic touch with recipe creation. I knew she’d come through for me.
“When do you need the menu by?”
“ASAP,” I said, finally finding the keys behind the counter next to the register. “It’s for tonight.”
Right before I left, I remembered Holly’s request for carrot juice and soy milk. I ran back to one of the coolers, pulled out the organic brands, and took off in my trusty blue pickup truck.
I like to think I’m a positive person. Or at least, I try to be.
As I drove along, the sun shining, songbirds singing, the air smelling of freshly mowed grass, I remember thinking it was going to be a great day.
Looking back, I should have just kept on truckin’ right out of town.
Two
Holly and Max live in a small, exclusive community called Chenequa (pronounced Sha-ni-qua) about five miles from our hometown of Moraine. Wisconsin has a reputation for its tongue-twisting burgs. Some fun ones, those that tourists really mess up, are:
Oconomowoc (Oh-con-uh-ma-walk)
Waukesha (Walk-ee-shaw)
Menomonee Falls (Men-ah-mo-knee falls)
Mukwonago (Muk-wah-nuh-go)
Ashwaubenon (Ash-wab-ah-non)
Kaukauna (Ka-caw-nah)
And that’s just a few.
Anyway, Chenequa surrounds Pine Lake, where lake lots aren’t your typical postage-stamp size—these average four acres each. The median home value is a cool $1.4 million. Holly’s mansion is a gigantic historic home, completely renovated by the previous owner. Talk about overkill on Holly and Max’s part. What childless couple needs six bedrooms and the same amount of full baths? But Max believes the bigger, the better.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s compensating for . . . well . . . you know . . . an inadequacy. But that subject (spelled out S-E-X) is a topic my sister and I have always avoided discussing. Though now that Holly’s been studying human nature since beginning her therapy sessions, I bet she’d have some insight into the reason behind Max’s excessive material cravings.
I spotted Holly waiting for me at the bottom of her long driveway. Holly hopped into the truck, still whimpering a little as we drove around the side of her sprawling mansion and parked.
“They’re awake!” she said, like it was some kind of shocking event.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got everything for breakfast right here.”
Holly grabbed one of the grocery bags and headed for a large patio table overlooking Pine Lake. She had been setting the table in advance, proving to me that she still could function on a primitive level. On second thought, that wasn’t necessarily true, because Effie Anderson popped out through the kitchen patio door with an armload of plates.
“Hi, Effie,” I said. “Thanks for helping.”
“I keep telling her I won’t cook, so don’t even suggest it,” Effie said before I could suggest it. How did all these people survive without cooking? I wondered. What did they eat? Canned and frozen goods? And didn’t they have anything they could defrost for the guests?
“I should offer a basic cooking class at The Wild Clover,” I said. “Everybody should know how to cook.”
Neither Effie nor Holly let out shouts of joy at the prospect.
Effie seemed distracted and impatient, like she wanted to get back to her regular routine, so when she said to me, “Will you take over from here?” my immediate response was, “Sure thing.”
“Oh, I almost forgot, Holly,” Effie said, turning to my sister, “I discovered an enormous spider lurking in the rose garden. I almost put my hand right down on it when I was picking a bouquet for the table. Don’t let your guests go out there. I’ll tell Chance he has to deal with the problem right away.”
“Ew. That’s it for me,” Holly said, turning a lighter shade of tan. “I’m outta the garden for good.”
“Spiders are beneficial in a garden,” I said to Effie, ignoring my sister’s vow to make the garden off-limits. “They keep the pest population down. Spiders are good guys as long as they’re left alone. Just like my honeybees, they’ll only attack if they feel threatened.”
“Except this was a brown recluse spider, I’m certain of it.” A brown recluse’s venom was powerful stuff, perfectly capable of killing a human.
“Is the thing still out there?” Holly almost shouted.
“Don’t worry, I squashed it under my shoe. But there might be more, maybe a whole nest of them.”
“I doubt it was a brown recluse,” I said, trying to remember if I’d ever seen one of the poiso
nous spiders, although occasionally I’ve heard about someone getting bitten. “They’re pretty rare in this area. And aren’t they nocturnal?”
“I don’t know anything about that, but it was big with really long legs. And brown. I’ll send Chance to take care of any others,” Effie said as she walked off in the direction of the carriage house.
“You’re lucky to have her,” I said, meaning otherwise Holly might have to actually kill her own spiders and deal with her own dishes.
“A real blessing, both Chance and Effie,” she agreed. “Well, let’s unpack.”
Just as we’d gotten everything laid out, the patio door slid open and out stepped one of the guests I’d previously assumed would be a nerdy dork. She was anything but—tall, thin, and gorgeous, even in the jogging suit she wore. Long ebony hair gathered up in a band, perfectly arched eyebrows, full red-ruby lips, and classic femme fatale body language. She had everything a woman could possibly want in the way of male-enticing attributes.
So I instantly disliked her. Not that I have a history of good judgment regarding first impressions, but this kind of woman makes the rest of us feel small and insignificant. It didn’t help that when she opened her mouth, she didn’t even acknowledge my existence. I wasn’t even worth a glance.
Holly put on a cheesy smile and her best manners (which she has plenty of when she decides to display them) and did the introductions. “Nova Campbell, this is Story Fischer, my sister.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” Nova said to Holly with a derisive expression, brushing off the introduction like I was a bothersome insect. She paused to take in the spread and found it lacking. I could tell that much by the upturned nose. “Especially this kind. Tell Max . . .” She hesitated over his name, putting some seriously possessive affection into it. “. . . I’ve gone for a quick run.”
Her eyes scanned the table again and hovered over the jar of carrot juice. “And put my juice in the refrigerator. It should be chilled. And make sure no one else drinks any.”
