How to Stuff a Wild Zucchini

by Heather Horrocks

  “I’m fixing a nice dinner tonight if you’d like to join me. There will be no zucchini anywhere.”

  Lori laughed. “Then I’ll be there.”

  ~

  Chopping zucchini a couple of days later for another recipe tryout, Lori glanced at the clock. Five after four, Monday afternoon. Only fifteen minutes later than the last time she’d checked. John would be calling around six. She missed him more than she thought was wise when he was on shift.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She thought about him more than was wise whether he was on shift or off.

  Pulling her attention back to the recipe, she added the other ingredients listed and placed the concoction on the stove. It wasn’t Charles’s recipe; she hadn’t found that yet, either on the computer or in his files.

  When Lori’s cell phone rang, she wiped her hands on the thick dish towel and answered.

  “Hi, Lori. This is Rusty Neal.”

  Who? Wait, he was her boss. Charles’s boss. Heat rose in her face. “Oh. Hi.”

  “We’ve received the first wave of responses from readers of Charles’s column. They are, to say the least, interesting.”

  She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. She hoped they were interesting in a positive way.

  “Your column is certainly unorthodox, different from the way Charles does it.”

  Uh-oh. Was he going to let her go? If she couldn’t do it like Charles, would he find someone else? Had he already found someone else?

  It was hard enough having her play shut down after a week; being kicked off this gardening column would be really demoralizing. Like rubbing lemon juice into a raw wound.

  Slowly, she said, “I understand if your readers want it done the old way.”

  Rusty chuckled. “Actually, overall, our readers seem to like your flippant style.”

  Flippant, huh? Well, that was probably accurate. She still wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. Where was he headed with this conversation? “How many of the readers liked it?”

  “We’ve gotten a few complaints from some old-timers who want Charles back, but we’ve got lots more new people reading and loving it. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”

  Pleased and immensely relieved, she smiled for the first time since she’d answered the phone. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’ve forwarded some of the e-mails to you so you can read them for yourself.” He paused. “Charles will be returning in a couple of months.”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously, wondering where he was headed now. If he was going to can her, she hoped he would just get on with it, because this conversation was beginning to wear on her nerves.

  “Would you be interested in writing another column after he returns?”

  “I’ll be moving back to New York.” A twinge of sadness hit her at the thought. She was really going to miss this place. The column. Agatha and her menagerie of cats. Serena. Fry sauce. Thick towels. John.

  “Oh. Well, would you be interested in starting another column now? The paper really needs someone on the art beat and with your Broadway experience and your witty style, I believe you could write some fantastic reviews on movies and plays.”

  The idea intrigued her. “Plays and movies? Or one or the other?”

  “Both until you find your niche and we learn what the readers like. Be sure to save your receipts, and we’ll reimburse you for the tickets. Why don’t you send me a sample review; if it’s what we want, I’ll get a contract worked up.”

  The desire to write that had compelled her since she was a teenager—and that she’d pushed down deep inside after her play flopped—rippled through her. Gently, like a whiff of smoke, it swirled, reawakening her to her old dream. She had to work to keep the sudden emotion from her voice. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  After she hung up, she walked slowly into the bedroom, reached under the bed, and pulled out the screenplay box her mother had packed.

  She sat for long minutes just staring, but found she still couldn’t bring herself to open it. She was afraid of lifting the lid on that Pandora’s box of unpleasant memories. Pushing it back under the bed, she rose, but her agitation continued. Writing used to make her happy. Maybe she’d rediscover that someday, but it wouldn’t be today.

  Through the bedroom window, she saw it had started to rain. It didn’t matter if she chose to water the zucchini or not, because God was handling it. She was glad for the coolness that came with the rain.

  With another sigh, she went back outside and watched the rain fall, sitting safe in her favorite chair under the patio cover. The rain made a pleasant sound on the roof.

  She was intrigued by Rusty’s request. If she did do the reviews, where should she start? What was the name of that theater John had wanted to take her to? Heritage Theater? Yes, she thought that was it.

  So when he called at six o’clock on the dot, she was ready. “Yes, I will go with you to the Heritage Theater.”

  He laughed, and the rich, low rumble pleased her. “Are you always this bossy?”

  “Hey, you offered.”

  “Yup, I most certainly did—quite a while ago.” He chuckled again, as if greatly amused. “Friday is the Bees home game against Bear River, but how about this Saturday?”

  “Great. It’s a deal.”

  “No,” he said, his voice husky. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sitting in the crowded, darkened theater with her chair mere inches from John’s, Lori was acutely aware of the heat radiating from his very warm body. It was all she could do to resist leaning her head on his shoulder and relaxing into him.

  Snap out of it, girl! She had to remember she was just having fun. No more than that. Definitely no cuddling.

  While the actors joked onstage and the audience laughed, Lori made brief notes to write her review from later. But she found she had to keep dragging her attention away from the man she wasn’t getting involved with, back to the stage, back to the notepad, back to the potential review.

  The theater was in a charming, ancient red-brick building that had been added onto over the years. John had managed to get them seats up close to the stage.

  The pianist played an unbelievably fast, intricate, jazz-type song while the cast of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat sang lustily.

  “Having fun?” John asked.

  She looked into his blue eyes, dark with an emotion she couldn’t identify but that took her breath away. She smiled and nodded, afraid her voice would betray too much of her own emotion.

  With an answering smile, he took her left hand. “Sorry, I can’t wait for you to stop taking notes.”

  A shiver worked its way up her neck and she relished the contact with him. He began to rub her palm with his thumb.

  The audience laughed again, only this time she missed the punch line. Apparently so had John. Neither of them seemed to care, especially not when he began to rub the tops of her fingers with his other hand. How on earth was she supposed to pay attention to the play with this sort of distraction?

  She struggled with the answer to that question throughout the rest of the play. All too soon, the curtain closed, and she and John clapped while the curtain reopened and the actors took their final bows. It brought back bittersweet memories for her of her own play’s opening night. Except there had been no curtain calls that night.

  She stood and turned—and found herself just inches from John. His breath caused her arms to tingle and she raised her face toward his, looking once again into his blue eyes. She found a longing there that echoed her own.

  She was in over her head here. She wanted John in her life, but she couldn’t have him. All she could do was remind herself—again—that this was only a short-term, holiday romance. Nothing more.

  John leaned down and
gently kissed her, and she allowed herself to get swept up in the wanting. And she realized that, if she only had a short time left with John, she was going to enjoy every moment of it. Starting with this fantastic kiss. Even if it didn’t seem wise. Even if she got involved. Even if she got hurt.

  When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

  During the drive to her house, Lori couldn’t seem to stop smiling and softly humming a very silly song from the musical. She was still humming it when John walked her to her front door, and later, after he’d kissed her again, leaving her breathless and her legs weak, and later still as she watched him climb back into his pickup.

  It took her a long time to unwind. She hugged herself and danced around the kitchen, remembering the kisses. She rubbed lotion onto her thirsty skin and climbed into her red-and-black Betty Boop jammies.

  And, finally, she pulled out her laptop and whipped out what she thought was a humorous and flippant enough play review. She’d give it one last read in the morning before e-mailing it to Rusty, but she thought he’d like it.

  She’d had a great evening. John’s kisses were fantastic. And watching the play and writing the review had gotten her excited about writing again. In fact, an idea had begun to play in her mind, at least a basic situation.

  It could be a fish-out-of-water story.

  Kind of like her own experience here in Brigham City.

  Maybe it could even be a love story.

  But, if it were a love story, it would have to end more happily than her own story would. Her heroine would get to stay, because audiences liked happy endings. While she, the author, had to return home, because real people often got unhappy endings.

  She was already jealous of her heroine.

  ~

  “Ugh. This does not look edible, amiga.” Serena brushed another coat of dark purple paint onto a large zucchini squash.

  “It’s edible paint, though. At least that’s what the lady said.” Suddenly worried she’d made a mistake, Lori asked, “Is this a bad idea? I mean, maybe these women are going to think painted and stuffed squash are stupid.”

  Serena laughed. “It’s a cool idea. I’ve never seen a purple zucchini before so it looks weird. Weird, but cool.”

  Agatha brushed a stroke of bright sunshine paint onto a pale spaghetti squash, turning it from pale to brilliant yellow. “What are you going to stuff them with?”

  “I’m only baking the zucchinis; the others are just for decoration. I found a recipe online.” Lori leaned back in her kitchen chair to inspect the blue polka dots she’d daubed onto the base layer of bright leaf green. “We’ll stuff them with hamburger, roasted red peppers, garlic, and some cheese. I tried it the other night and it’s really good.” She’d mixed it up ahead of time so they just needed to stuff and bake the zucchinis.

  “It must be, since you don’t even like zucchinis.” Serena stretched her arms above her head. “Which reminds me. I’m hungry. Got anything I can eat? Besides zucchini, that is.”

  Reaching into the fridge, Lori brought out the hoagie sandwiches and broccoli salad she’d fixed earlier. She’d known, since they were starting at eleven, that she’d need to serve lunch. One glance at the newspaper-strewn counters covered with painted vegetables and the table where the three of them were painting and she laughed. “Let’s eat on the patio.”

  As she carried the tray of food and glasses of lemonade outside, Lori drew in a deep breath of air—cool, at eighty-six degrees, for the last Saturday in August. Over the past eight days, she’d enjoyed everything more than usual, almost as though she had been stuck in black and white for years and then suddenly found herself awash in living color.

  The air seemed more clear, the sun shone more brightly, food tasted better. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, and even Charles’s stupid cat had come up to her yesterday to be petted. Would miracles never cease?

  On the patio, the three women chatted through lunch. Afterward they sat back and enjoyed the warmth of the peaceful afternoon and the breeze from the fan overhead.

  A bumblebee floated heavily by.

  “Look at that,” said Agatha. “Good thing they don’t know they’re not supposed to be able to fly.”

  One of Agatha’s cats jumped the fence and bounded into the older woman’s lap. Agatha said, “It looks like your Enrichment activity is going to be a huge success. Wish I could be there.”

  “Are you kidding?” Lori turned to her. “I’m hoping and praying you’ll come for moral support. Please.”

  “I’m kind of old for a singles activity.”

  “But you are single. And you’re my friend. And I’m practically begging you.”

  “You are begging, chica,” Serena chimed in. “You’re only one step above groveling.” She stood, stretched, and picked up her glass. “I’m going in for a refill. I’ll bring out the pitcher.”

  Agatha smiled as she stroked her cat’s back. “Well, since you’re begging and all, I’d love to come.”

  “Great. All that’s left is to print off the recipes people have given us so far.”

  Agatha pulled a leaf from her cat’s fur. “Did you ever find Charlie’s recipe?”

  Lori shook her head. “I didn’t.”

  The cat jumped down. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Charlie called me the other night.”

  “From China? That must have been expensive.”

  “We only talked for a minute. He just wanted me to make sure you were taking care of his garden and his column right.”

  Lori froze. She’d been worried about the editor wanting to fire her. What if Charles wanted her gone? And he might, too, if Agatha had told him the truth—that Lori had only the foggiest notion of what she was doing.

  “What did you tell him?” Lori asked, her mouth dry.

  “Don’t look so worried, sweetie.” Agatha laughed. “I told him you were doing a great job and he can go back to exploring the world until he gets it out of his system.”

  Relieved, Lori smiled. “Can he do that in three months?”

  Agatha laughed again. “He likes to think he’s a great traveler and plans vacations that are too long for him to enjoy. And he has too much pride to admit he’s homesick, but he wouldn’t have called, otherwise. Silly fool.” Her words were spoken with affection, and Lori wondered if Agatha held a torch for her neighbor.

  But then Agatha shook her head and said, “No wonder he’s never found a woman to put up with the likes of him,” and Lori realized she was mistaken. She was imagining romance everywhere these days.

  Serena slid the glass door open and poked her head out. “Oh, ladies, I think you ought to see this.”

  Exchanging curious glances, Lori and Agatha stepped inside.

  Smiling broadly, Serena pointed to the corkboard on the kitchen wall, beside the cat with the swinging eyes and tail.

  “Serena, sweetie,” said Agatha, “that’s been there all along.”

  “Yes, it has,” said Serena with a laugh.

  Agatha stepped to the board. “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled. He wanted it to be easily found.” She joined in the laughter.

  “What?” Lori stood beside Agatha, who was pointing at . . . “The zucchini chicken curry recipe!”

  “He hid it in plain sight, the devil,” whispered Agatha.

  “Well, you said he intended to put it in the column,” said Lori, glad it had been located. “And now we have time to use it for the activity, too.”

  THE GARDEN GURU

  Dear Ms. Scott: How many hours of direct sunlight do my vegetable plants need? (Mary Ann)

  Dear Mary Ann: Most vegetables need at least six full hours of direct sun a day in order to produce a good crop. Anyone with eyes can see that plants will bend and grow toward the sunlight. Even more interesting, studies also show they will grow toward speakers
playing classical music, as if the music were an audible form of light. It’s also been proven that they’ll do better if you speak nicely to them. Make sure your vegetable plants have direct sun for a good part of the day, and they will, most definitely and most satisfyingly, grow toward the light . . .

  Chapter Twenty

  “Everyone seems to be enjoying this,” said Serena, carrying another tray of painted squash out to the cultural hall for consumption, passing Lori coming back toward the church kitchen with an empty tray.

  Lori nodded, gratified. “It turned out tasty, didn’t it?”

  “And Charles’s zucchini chicken curry is really good. It’s nearly gone already.”

  Serena disappeared into the cultural hall, and Lori entered the kitchen.

  Setting her empty tray down to be refilled by two ladies who’d generously offered to help, even though it wasn’t even their calling, Lori gathered up another tray holding three brightly colored squash—purple swirls, red-white-and-blue stripes, and orange dots. She made another trip from the kitchen into the cultural hall.

  Serena was arranging her load along the several long tables that ran along one wall. The painted squash were interspersed with three different types of salad: green, cabbage with Ramen noodles, and broccoli.

  About ten large, round tables had been set up, each of them with a centerpiece of several painted squash. She recognized many of the faces, but few of the names, except for Dawn and the gossiper, Jeanette.

  Lori had taught a short lesson on the theme of the evening—“Color Your Life with the Gospel”—and thought she’d done a good job. At least she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself, and no one had booed, like they had at her play.

  Lori could hardly wait to talk with John when he picked her up, to tell him how well everything had gone. He’d been so sweet earlier, carrying everything inside, wishing her luck, telling her she’d do great. He seemed to have such confidence in her—certainly more than she had in herself.

  When Agatha came up to her, Lori set the heavy tray onto the table. “Thanks again for coming, Agatha. It made it easier to have you and Serena here.”