The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  “Everyone always enjoys your brunches,” Cici said. “It’s the only chance we get to dress up and pretend to be elegant for a few hours.”

  “And the food was good?” insisted Derrick, making no attempt whatsoever to hide his anxiety. “You’re not just saying that to be polite?”

  “Didn’t you taste it?”

  “Heavens no, I was far too nervous to eat.”

  “You could charge a hundred dollars a person in the city,” Lindsay assured him.

  Paul looked at Derrick thoughtfully. “We’d have to serve better wine.”

  “Seriously?” Derrick looked alarmed. “All our profit goes to booze now.”

  “So where did you find this girl, again?” Bridget asked. “What’s her name?”

  “We told you, she just walked in. I thought you’d sent her.”

  “Heaven sent her,” declared Derrick extravagantly. “She is an angel.”

  At that moment, the angel in question appeared and whisked the three plates away, despite the fact that Cici was still savoring her last bite of sweet potato, her fork in midair.

  “Williams,” said the girl, snatching up silverware and glasses. “My name’s Purline Williams. P-u-r-l-i-n-e. Y’all about done here?”

  Lindsay grabbed her glass, which still had a little wine left in it, before it was snatched away, and Derrick quickly introduced the three of them to Purline. Purline regarded the ladies with narrowed eyes for a moment before announcing, “I know who you all are. You bought the old Blackwell place a few years back. Everybody round here said you were crazy.”

  “I’m not too sure they were wrong,” Cici agreed wryly.

  “We’ve known the girls for years,” Paul explained. “In fact, they’re the reason we moved here.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Purline.” Bridget smiled warmly, and extended her hand across the table.

  Purline regarded the offered hand for a moment, then shifted the stack of dishes to the other arm, wiped her hand on her jeans, and gave Bridget’s hand a firm, military shake. “Likewise.”

  “The meal was delicious,” added Lindsay.

  “But perhaps,” Paul pointed out tactfully, “you might clear the tables with a little less alacrity next time.”

  Purline stared at him, snapped her gum, and said, “Alacrity, huh?” She thought about that for another moment, then turned and walked away, her jeaned hips and ponytail swinging in counterpoint to each other.

  Paul’s smile was just a trace uneasy. “Charming, am I right? The very salt of the Appalachian earth. Exactly what this place needs.”

  “She seems delightful,” Bridget assured him.

  “And she can cook,” Lindsay added.

  “And if she can help you keep the place in order,” Cici said, “what more do you need?”

  Derrick looked torn. “I don’t know. It’s just that we had pictured someone a little more …”

  “Mature,” supplied Paul.

  “Sophisticated,” suggested Derrick.

  “Reserved,” said Paul.

  Derrick said helplessly, “The gum, really. Can we live with that?”

  “Are you going to talk to her about it?”

  “I do think given half the chance she would have stripped our guests bare and tossed their clothing in the laundry with the tablecloths.”

  “There is such a thing as being too efficient,” Paul agreed.

  Derrick looked at him. “Did we make a mistake?”

  Lindsay rolled her eyes, Bridget sighed, and Cici placed her balled up napkin on the table. The three of them rose. “Good-bye, boys. Thank you for brunch. It was absolutely perfect.”

  “Perfect,” repeated Bridget with emphasis, and kissed Paul’s cheek.

  “Don’t be idiots,” Lindsay advised. “You know what they say about gift horses.”

  “I know what the Trojans said,” Paul replied, escorting them out. Derrick spotted a customer who was about to leave and excused himself to say good-bye. They prided themselves on taking a moment to chat with all the customers when they were seated and before they departed.

  Cici said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, relax, will you? For once, everything is going well. Enjoy it.”

  “Stop by this week for some cherry wine jam,” Bridget invited. “I just put up a new batch, and if Purline is any kind of cook at all she’ll know what to do with it.”

  “And I want to show you the new swatches for the table decorations for the reception,” Lindsay added. “I’m thinking onyx and dove gray.”

  “For a vineyard wedding?” Paul stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her. “I’ll throw myself in front of a train first. I’ll throw you in front of a train. I’ll be over first thing in the morning. Clearly there’s no time to waste.”

  Lindsay opened her mouth to protest, but they all turned at the sound of Derrick’s voice. He had an odd, strained smile on his face as he came toward them, a man in a blue suit at his side.

  “Um, Paul,” Derrick said, “this gentleman has a question.”

  A look of slow and carefully restrained dread came over Paul’s face which was quickly disguised by a gracious smile. “Everything was all right with the meal, I hope?”

  The man’s expression was unreadable as he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small leather wallet. One of the ladies gasped when he opened it to reveal a badge. “My name is Reginald Styles from the Virginia Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control. I just need to take a look at your liquor license, if I may.”

  The smile faded from Paul’s face. He looked at Derrick. Derrick’s eyes widened in a silent helpless message, which Paul received with the blank expression of absolute shock. He looked back at Reginald Styles.

  “What liquor license?” he said weakly.

  THREE

  Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

  Oscar Wilde

  “I suppose,” Derrick said thoughtfully, “we could always go back to Washington.” He polished a smudge off of one of the cobalt bud vases before carefully placing it in the breakfront with its charmingly mismatched companions. “I’ve always wanted to open a dog grooming parlor.”

  “We can’t go back to Washington,” Paul groaned as he sank into one of the empty dining room chairs and dropped his forehead to his hands. “I can never show my face in public again. I’m a criminal.” And then he glanced up at Derrick, distracted. “Dog grooming parlor? You hate dogs.”

  “I do not hate them.” Derrick plucked the wilting wildflowers from another vase centerpiece and tossed them into the garbage bag he carried from table to table. “I’m just not entirely comfortable around them. But I’m sure I could learn. And there’s no time like the present to get started.”

  “If you two ain’t the most pathetic excuses for businessmen I ever did see,” Purline declared, spraying disinfectant on the table and attacking it with a sponge. “Everybody knows you can’t sell liquor without a license. Everybody.”

  “Except, apparently,” replied Paul with a dark look at Derrick, “the person whose job it was to apply for one.”

  “You’re the writer,” Derrick returned, chin held high, “you’re accustomed to dealing with paperwork.” He focused determinedly on polishing the bud vase. “I’m an artist. I deal in concepts, not details.”

  Purline rolled her eyes and moved to the next table.

  “Class One Misdemeanor,” Paul said, pressing his forehead into his hands again. “Do you know what that means?”

  “A $2500 fine, according to the gentleman with the badge.”

  “And up to a year in jail and a hundred hours community service.”

  “Well, I can’t go to jail,” Derrick informed him flatly, holding the newly polished bud vase up to the window light and squinting for fingerprints. “I’m much too pretty. And I have no intention of missing the next season of Downton Abbey.”

  “It goes on your permanent record,” Paul informed him darkly. “I looked it up.”

  “Whi
ch certainly will not look good the next time I try to purchase a firearm.”

  “I had a cousin that went to jail once,” Purline volunteered, scrubbing hard. “He couldn’t even get a job butchering meat after that.”

  Paul raised his head from his hands to look at her steadily. “Well, I suppose the one saving grace in this whole sordid affair is the fact that, of all the dreams that have been crushed today, my ambition to get a job butchering meat was not among them.”

  Purline snapped her gum. “It’s a lot easier than grooming dogs, I’ll tell you that much. I had a neighbor that got bit by a rat terrier. Ended up with the rabies. They cut out his brain.”

  Paul and Derrick exchanged a cautious look, neither one of them quite willing to ask. “The neighbor?” Derrick said finally, when he couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.

  She gave him a disgusted look. “The dog. That’s how they knew it had the rabies.” Then she added thoughtfully, “I knew a man with a hole in his brain once, though. Of course, that was from a bullet. He walked around with it just fine for thirty-eight years, then one day fell over dead. Y’all’ve got pork chops and gravy for your supper, with some eggplant casserole and sliced tomatoes, and I whipped you up a blackberry cobbler for dessert. You know if you don’t pick those berries they’ll attract bears, don’t you? And your bushes are just about bent to the ground.” She walked over to Paul and held out her hand. “I’ll take my day’s wages, if you don’t mind.”

  Paul’s mind raced between bears, berries, bullets, and rabid dogs, but when he saw Derrick open his mouth to question, he was forced to focus. “Thank you, Purline,” he said quickly, reaching for his wallet. “Will cash be all right? You’ve been a lifesaver today. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  She frowned at him. “What didn’t work out? You don’t like my work, you need to speak up and I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Paul fumbled for words, surprised. “Well, that’s fine, that’s good news, it’s just with all the fuss …”

  “And since they closed down the restaurant …” Derrick added.

  “And since we talked about a weekly salary …”

  “We just assumed you’d decided not to stay,” Derrick finished, and Paul nodded.

  Purline looked from one to the other of them with a stubborn jut of her jaw. “You’ve still got to have somebody to cook and clean for you, don’t you? That’s what you hired me for, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then that’s what I aim to do. You got a problem with that?”

  “No, no problem at all. We’re delighted, really.”

  “So you’re coming back in the morning?”

  “Right after I drop the kids off at school.” She held out her hand again. “Cash is just fine. I’ve got to make a car payment.”

  Paul passed the bills to her, looking uncertain as he explained, “I’m afraid it’s not enough for a car payment.”

  She counted the money. “You haven’t seen my car.” She tucked the money into the back pocket of her jeans and added, “Don’t you ruin my pork chops in the microwave. Put them in a slow oven for twenty-five minutes until the gravy simmers. And how about picking some of those tomatoes that’re about to rot on the vine? I’ll bring over some jars and start putting them up tomorrow. How in God’s green acres did you grow them so big, anyhow?”

  And, without waiting for a reply, she sauntered back into the kitchen, slung her purse strap over her shoulder, and left by the back door.

  Derrick waited until they heard her car start up before venturing uncertainly, “It’s a good thing that she’s coming back, right?”

  Paul shook his head slowly. “Bears, rabies, liquor licenses …” He looked at Derrick with a touch of hesitance and a healthy portion of dismay. “Did it ever occur to you that we might not be cut out for this?”

  Derrick gave a philosophical lift of his shoulders. “The good news is that, according to the latest government reports, both bears and rabies are in short supply in jail.”

  Paul glared at him. “Bullets in the head, however, are not. Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

  Derrick smiled and patted his shoulder on his way into the kitchen. “Because, dear heart, while you were busy looking up the penalty for a Class One Misdemeanor, I was on the phone with Harrington.”

  Paul looked interested as he followed him into the kitchen. “Our lawyer?”

  “No, Harrington the Lionhearted.” But it didn’t even take a glance to assure him that Paul was in no mood for jokes, so Derrick went on quickly, “Harrington assures me that you can only go to jail for a misdemeanor if you’re convicted. He’s putting together the necessary paperwork to keep that from happening as we speak.”

  “Along with the application for our liquor license, I hope.”

  “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  Paul’s expression sank into glumness again. “Meanwhile, our livelihood is slowly circling the drain. What are we supposed to do with ourselves now?”

  Derrick dropped the trash bag into the container and suggested helpfully, “Go antiquing?”

  Paul opened a glass-fronted cabinet door and took out two sherry glasses. Derrick rearranged one of the lemons that sat in the carved wooden dough bowl on the countertop, and casually folded a bright yellow napkin next to it, making a mental note to remind Purline about the importance of staging. Paul poured the sherry.

  “Maybe this is a sign,” Paul said. Though his tone was neutral, his expression was shadowed and he was careful not to look at Derrick. “Maybe we should just cut our losses and move on.”

  “And open a dog grooming parlor?” Derrick opened the refrigerator and took out a wedge of havarti and a bunch of grapes, handing both to Paul over his shoulder. “This eggplant casserole looks divine, by the way. I’m glad we didn’t make dinner plans.”

  Paul unwrapped the cheese and arranged it on the wooden board with a cheese knife and the grapes. “How many times in our lives have we been able to say that?”

  “Goodness me, you are Miss Deborah Downer today.” Derrick searched for cocktail napkins, which Purline had apparently removed to the utility drawer for reasons known only to herself. He arranged two napkins on the cheese board and placed the remainder in the accessories drawer, where they belonged. “Wasn’t that the point of moving to the country? To escape the rat race?”

  “I personally never thought of our friends as rats. Not the majority of them, anyway.” Paul took the grape snips from a hook on the pegboard—made with cork salvaged from an old schoolhouse that still boasted faded scraps of original graffiti—and placed them on the cheese board. “And it would be nice to occasionally—just occasionally, mind you—have plans for dinner. Or even cocktails.”

  “We’ve only been here a few months,” Derrick reminded him. But even he looked a little wistful as he arranged the two sherry glasses on a tray. “It takes time to fit in to a new place.”

  Paul picked up the cheese tray. “We need to face the fact,” he replied soberly, “that we may never fit in here.”

  Derrick frowned, searching for a reply, but he couldn’t find one. They headed for the back hall and the garden door.

  “And,” Paul added, “who knows how long the restaurant will be closed down? Every week we don’t open we’re losing money.”

  “We need a plan,” Derrick admitted. He shifted the tray with the sherry to one hand while he nudged open the leaded glass French door, which always stuck. Today the humidity made it more stubborn than usual, and Paul reached around to give him a hand. The door rattled when he shoved the handle, but didn’t move.

  “What we need,” Paul said, putting his shoulder to the job, “is a miracle.”

  “Then this is your lucky day,” came an amused contralto voice behind them, “because I just happen to be in the miracle business.”

  ~*~

  On Ladybug Farm

  ~*~

  “We should have stayed,” Bridget
said, worried. “You don’t just run out on friends when they’re in trouble.”

  “We stayed for over an hour,” Cici reminded her. “We offered to go to court with them. And we tried to explain to that agent about the mix-up.”

  The three of them were gathered around the work island in the big brick-floored kitchen of Ladybug Farm, snapping green beans from the overflowing bushel basket at their feet into a big porcelain tub. Two pots of sweet vinegar pickling brine and a five-gallon canner simmered on the stove, steaming up the already heated kitchen, which the two fans that were aimed directly at them did very little to dissipate. Ida Mae, who refused to work on Sunday, sat in a rocking chair in the corner, fanning herself with a church bulletin and supervising.

  “It really wasn’t their fault,” Lindsay said, blotting her sweaty forehead with the back of her arm. They had all changed from the dressy brunch clothes into shorts and sleeveless cotton tops, tied back their hair, and kicked off their shoes. The windows were open to the still green late afternoon, as was the back door. But there was no such thing as a comfortable kitchen during canning season, so all they could do was make the best of it. She added, “What I mean is, not entirely. I mean, you can see how they might have thought that the license the last owner had was transferrable with the property.”

  Cici regarded her with lifted eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Face it,” Bridget said with a sigh. “No one has ever been better at self-sabotage than those two. Ever.”

  The quart jars they were sterilizing in the canner began to rattle, and Ida Mae pointed out from her rocking chair, “Y’all’re gonna break them jars if you don’t turn down the heat. You can’t put up beans in chipped jars. You won’t get a seal.”