by Joyce Magnin
Harriet shrugged. “I guess. It’s just hard to be without the things I’m so familiar with. It’s been tough enough getting used to living with you and Prudence, and, frankly, dear … Now, you know I love Prudence like she was my own daughter, but”—Harriet leaned closer to Henry—“she can be a little difficult.”
Henry smiled. “I know. Especially lately. It’s been hard for me also. She’s been so moody. Yesterday she yelled at me for leaving one sock—one sock—on top of the hamper and not in it.”
“Yes, and if I didn’t know better I’d say she was—”
“Oh Mom, don’t even say it. Don’t even think it. We’ve been trying again for months now, and nothing is happening.”
Harriet sighed and patted Henry’s hand. “A grandchild would definitely give me something to do.”
“Please, Mother, I think I would know if my wife was pregnant.”
Harriet laughed. “Of course you would, dear.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, dear. Geeze. Talk about being on edge. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to take Humphrey for a walk.”
“Okay. And I should get back to work. And really, Mom, we want you to feel at home, and I promise we’ll do whatever it takes to help.”
“Okay. So I guess we’ll discuss Martha’s visit over dinner?”
“Sure, Mom.” Henry snagged a third Little Debbie. But he put it back in the box when Harriet wagged her finger at him.
“You eat too many of those,” Harriet said. “They’re not good for your cholesterol.”
“Oh, my cholesterol is fine.” Henry glanced around the kitchen. “What’s not fine is the rest of this house. It’s so small. And with another adult living here …”
Harriet felt her eyebrows rise. “We can make it work. I’ll need to set up another bed in my room.”
“I know, Mom. If only … well, if only the whole house had rooms proportionate to the kitchen.”
“Henry, you’re making much too much out of this.”
“We do have that old double mattress in the garage still, unless Prudence had it hauled away to make room for your shakers.”
Harriet laughed. “I hope you are not suggesting that Martha and I share a bed.”
“Why not?”
“Henry. No. Just no. And besides, Martha snores like a stevedore. It’s going to be rough enough.”
“All right. I’ll do something.”
“And please, Henry, a real bed. Not one of those blow-up mattresses you throw on the floor. This is a home, not one of those city crack houses.”
“What’s wrong with an air mattress?”
“Everything, dear. Everything. Especially at our age.”
Chapter Two
HARRIET CLIPPED HUMPHREY’S LEASH ONTO HIS COLLAR. “I don’t like you in this thing,” she said, “but they insist.” Back east, Harriet mostly let Humphrey loose in the yard. And when they did go for a walk, Humphrey sidled close to her side, only straying long enough to visit a telephone pole or a hydrant.
Humphrey looked up at Harriet under his wiry eyebrows. He hated the leash also.
“But it’s a nice day for a walk, don’t you think? And Henry is right. I do spend too much time indoors. Just don’t tell him I said that.”
Harriet pulled open the front door and breathed in the fresh mountain air. She really did like Grass Valley, especially the town’s history and what she called an artsy fartsy feel—but not in a bad or pretentious way. It was a place where you might expect to see Jack London or Mark Twain stroll out of a cornfield. Or maybe hear Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man whenever you opened a door to the outside. A place of original art and ice cream cones. She understood why her author son liked it here.
Before Henry and Prudence moved here, Harriet read that Grass Valley, a relatively small town with a population around thirteen thousand, sits in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and has its roots in the California Gold Rush of the mid-1840s. And Prudence told Harriet that it supposedly got its name when a group of men searching for lost cattle came upon a “grassy valley.” Harriet thought that was quaint and all, but she especially enjoyed downtown Grass Valley, which still maintained its rustic, Western look. And as she pulled slightly on Humphrey’s leash, she thought she might ride the Vespa into town later and do a little shopping.
“Let’s go, boy.”
But before she could take a first step down the porch steps, Henry called for her.
“Mom,” he said when he caught up with her on the porch. “I have a suggestion.”
Harriet felt her eyes roll even though she didn’t tell them to.
“No, no, it’s a good suggestion,” Henry said. “Why not stop at Mrs. Caldwell’s house today? Like I told you before, she makes great pie, and I think she could be a good friend.”
“Oh, there you go mentioning that woman again. You’d think she was like your Auntie or something. You go over there so much.”
“I like her. She’s easy to talk to. And she already loves Humphrey from our visits with her when I used to take him for his walks. You’ve been here three months and all you’ve done is wave to her from a distance.”
“Oh not again, Henry. I told you, I can’t just walk up to someone’s front door and say, ‘Hi, I’m Harriet. Want to be my friend?’ For crying out loud, I’m seventy-two years old, not seven. People would think I’m senile or off my meds or something.”
“Mother, you’ve been seen riding a bright yellow Vespa up and down the block a few times. The neighbors already think you’re off your meds.” Then he laughed. “I’m kidding, Mom. No one thinks that.”
“Yes, but it’s still weird to just walk up to someone’s door. What if she’s sick or still in her bathrobe or hasn’t washed her hair in a couple of weeks or is on a chocolate binge? No respectable person wants to be interrupted in that state.”
“Then let me call first.”
Harriet stepped off the porch with Humphrey at her side. “No. Not today. Perhaps another day. After Martha’s visit.”
“It’s the fourth house up, the white one with the yellow trim—in case you change your mind. And by the way, Mrs. Caldwell always has clean hair.”
“Okay, okay, I know which house. You’ve told me a dozen times,” Harriet said without turning around. Now, why would he be noticing Florence Caldwell’s clean hair?
She and Humphrey walked onto the sidewalk. “I don’t know why I’m so … so afraid to make new friends. I’m sure this Mrs. Caldwell is very pleasant, but I’m not ready or something. And with Martha coming, I really don’t see the need.” She stopped while Humphrey sniffed a telephone pole. “I want to go home. That’s the God’s honest truth. I want to go home to Pennsylvania.”
Humphrey let go a loud woof.
“Don’t you dare tell the kids, though. It would break their little hearts. Well, at least Henry’s.”
Harriet paused to let a car back out of a driveway. She watched it head down the street before she walked on. “Did I ever tell you how I crossed the Royal Gorge in a tram car, Humphrey? I rode 1,178 feet above the Arkansas River in a box the size of a small elevator with twenty other people, including one woman who was screaming her lungs out the entire way—and no, it wasn’t me. Now, if that doesn’t take guts I don’t know what does. It was scary but so invigorating.”
The dog stopped, sat on his haunches, and looked up at her as if to say, “Only a hundred times, Harriet.”
“I want to feel invigorated again, like I did on the road, on the busses. I’m turning into an old fuddy-duddy living in this development.”
Harriet walked a few more paces when she spotted the pretty house with the yellow trim. The bright sunshiny color looked inviting against the white house and the endless blue of summer sky. “It is a beautiful day. Just some wispy clouds.”
Just as Harriet and Humphrey reached the yellow-trimmed house, the door opened and a woman walked out.
“Now isn’t this a handy c
oincidence, Humphrey. There she is—Mrs. Caldwell. I bet you dollars to donuts that Henry called her and said to be on the lookout for me, the doddering old woman and her hound. I just bet he did.”
Harriet needed to think fast. If she just turned on her heel and set off toward home, she was certain Mrs. Caldwell would be insulted, and she didn’t want that. On the other hand, if she kept moving forward she most assuredly would be sipping coffee and eating pie very shortly. But she was curious about why Henry had taken such a liking to this woman, and maybe she was a little jealous. Perhaps she’d investigate, just to satiate her advanced curiosity.
“She looks friendly enough. A little younger than me, but at least she’s not some thirty-year-old kid like everyone else around here.”
Humphrey and Harriet moved closer to the house. Mrs. Caldwell waved with a vigorous hand raised in the air like she was flagging a rescue plane. “Yoo-hoo,” she called. “Yoo-hoo! Harriet.” And then she motioned for Harriet to come over.
“Oh dear, Humphrey. I guess we have no choice. Darn you, Henry Beamer.”
Humphrey pulled on the leash. Pie. She has pie.
“I bet you want pie,” Harriet said to the dog. “Henry told me he took you here and about how you two ate pie with her. It’s a miracle you didn’t get a bad case of the collywobbles.”
“It’s about time you came for a visit,” called Mrs. Caldwell. “I was starting to think you didn’t like me. Come on in.”
Mrs. Caldwell met Harriet at the fence. She pushed the picket gate open with her left hand while she extended her right, criss-crossed. “We should have a proper meeting. I’m Florence Caldwell. I cannot believe it’s taken us this long to shake hands. Although”—and she let a small chuckle escape—“I have enjoyed seeing you tooling down the street on your scooter. You are a riot, Harriet Beamer.”
“Henry has told me how much he’s enjoyed visiting you.”
“He’s such a nice boy,” Florence said. “And so talented. A regular Ernest Hemingway living in our midst.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said. “I don’t know where he gets his talent from. I have trouble writing a grocery list.”
The next thing Harriet knew she and Humphrey were inside the house, sitting at Florence’s kitchen table. Harriet immediately understood why Henry liked to go there. Florence’s kitchen reminded her of the one she left in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. It was the West Coast twin of the kitchen Henry grew up in, with the pots hanging on the wall and the refrigerator humming in the corner. Even the Formica-topped table with its four, red vinyl-seated chairs was familiar. And the smell—well, the two places were interchangeable with the aroma of fresh coffee and cinnamon, with a hint of leftover tomato sauce that was probably pooling in the garbage disposal. This was home to Henry, a home away from home.
The tiny hint of jealousy had turned into a large green-eyed monster. “This is a lovely room,” she said as she used all her powers to tame the monster.
“I just made a pot of coffee,” Florence said. “French roast with a hint of hazelnut.”
“That would be delightful,” Harriet said. As soon as the word left her mouth she wanted to reel it back in. Now she was just sounding pretentious and silly. Who says “delightful”? She went back to surveying the kitchen, which opened up into a family room with a large window overlooking Florence’s backyard. Harriet saw a small, wrought-iron plant stand on the right side of the window that reminded her of a staircase, and each step had a row of African Violets in terra-cotta pots. Harriet had grown African Violets back home.
“And I made an apple pie yesterday,” Florence added.
“Henry loves your pies. And well, they really are quite scrumptious.” There she went again. Quite scrumptious. Henry would never say, “Quite scrumptious.” But she did feel the need to confess that she enjoyed Florence’s pies.
Humphrey, who was resting under the table, let go a quiet woof.
“And Humphrey also,” Florence said. “He always enjoys a slice—unless you’d prefer he not have any.”
“Maybe just a very small slice. Eating too many apples sometimes gives him the collywobbles.”
Florence laughed a hearty laugh. “Collywobbles? Honestly, you are a nut.”
Harriet ignored the remark and watched Florence slice two large pieces of apple pie. And one smaller Humphrey-sized slice.
Harriet took a small bite and let it sit in her mouth a moment before chewing. She let all the cinnamon and allspice, apple goodness swirl around before chewing. She couldn’t help it. The pie was that good. Memorable even. “Oh dear,” Harriet said. “This is the best pie I have ever eaten. I mean that sincerely. You should have a shop.”
Florence only smiled. “My daughter keeps trying to talk me into opening a bakery, exclusive to pies. But in this economy? No thanks.”
“Well, thank you very much. It’s delicious. So do you have one child, then?”
“Yes. She’s grown now, of course.”
Harriet nodded. “Henry is an only child.” How she hated that phrase—as though there was something wrong with having just one child. Martha had one child too.
“I know,” Florence said as she took a bite of pie. “He told me.”
Harriet chewed, swallowed, and then sipped her coffee. Florence probably knew everything about Henry. Maybe he even told her why he sold his father’s business. Maybe it was easier to talk to Florence than to his own mother. She was surprised he hadn’t visited Florence since Harriet had come to live with him and Prudence. Or had he and just not mentioned it? She didn’t always know where Henry was when he went out. But Florence certainly had not been over to visit him.
“So how are you enjoying Grass Valley?” Florence asked after a pause.
Harriet looked into the backyard as though the answer to Florence’s question was out there with the rose bushes. “It’s lovely. Nice weather. Always smells like pine trees.”
“You don’t sound convinced.” Florence finished her last bite of pie.
“Oh, it’s not that I’m not convinced. I guess I’m just feeling a bit homesick.” Henry was right. Florence Caldwell was easy to talk to, and she kind of reminded her of Martha.
“Perhaps you should get involved,” Florence said. “Make some new friends. I mean, besides me, of course. Henry said you collect salt and pepper shakers. I’m not certain, I’ve never heard of one, but there might be a club nearby.”
Bells rang like Big Ben in Harriet’s head. Her suspicions about Henry calling this woman when she had expressly told him not to were probably right. “Did my Henry put you up to this? Did he call you and tell you to invite me in for pie and to talk me into—”
Florence smiled. “Don’t be upset, Harriet. He just loves you. He wants you to be happy.”
“I know. I just don’t know my way around here. Prudence is way too busy with her fancy dancy job, and Henry is always on a deadline or something. And he doesn’t like me driving his BMW, not really. For heaven’s sake, it’s a car. And I’m a good driver—well, most of the time, and it’s not like I can ride my Vespa everywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I like my scooter—it’s so cute—but sometimes you need four wheels and …” She stopped talking. Now she was just running off—diarrhea of the mouth, as Martha would say.
“They are busy. So is my daughter. But maybe I could take you around. Show you the sights. We could visit a gold mine or go into town and visit the shops. There are some lovely places around. Do you like art? There is a lovely gallery in town—The Bitter Herb on Mill Street. I know the owner. She’s my daughter, Mabel.”
Harriet finished the last bite of her pie. “That would be nice, but … did you say gold mines? Are they real? I mean, I know this town has that kind of history—the Gold Rush and all—but I didn’t know they still had mines.”
“Of course. This part of the country is famous for gold mines. One of the most famous is the Empire Gold Mine. It’s a park now, a tourist destination. But still very cool. What do you say we go now?” Florence pick
ed a piece of crust from the pie.
“To a gold mine? Today?” For the first time in three months, Harriet’s heart quickened.
“Sure, it’s early. Not too hot yet. Empire is only up the road a piece. And I’ll drive. Don’t think I want to share your scooter. Just because it can accommodate two passengers doesn’t mean you should.” Florence rubbed her behind probably from just thinking about it. “And best of all, I don’t have to go into work today.”
“Oh, do you work?”
“Part-time. At my daughter’s gallery. But I don’t work on Wednesdays.”
“Oh for goodness sake, that’s wonderful. Then you get to see her all the time.”
“You would think that would be a good thing, but when we’re at the gallery, she’s strictly business. She’s my boss. And she has no trouble letting me know it.”
Harriet wrinkled her nose. “Eww. That’s uncomfortable. Why do you work for her?”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. And she needs me. Helps hold her overhead down.” Florence leaned back in her chair. “And believe you me, I am not shy about telling her when she’s overstepped a boundary.”
Harriet noticed the salt shaker on Florence’s counter. It was a short, fat, round ball made of melamine, probably manufactured in the 1950s. They were pretty popular back then, and she had several like it in her collection. Different, bright colors. “I guess I would love a visit to a gold mine. I’ve never seen one. Even in my cross-country trip I never ran across a gold mine. A few doggy-type land mines at the bus stops, but never gold.”
Florence laughed. “Then it’s settled. Let’s go.”
Harriet tugged Humphrey’s leash. “I just need to take him home, and then I guess I’ll be ready to go. Should I wear anything particular?”
“No, what you’re wearing, capris and sneakers—I love your red high tops—is perfect for the gold mine. But bring a sweater. It can be cold inside some of the buildings.”
“Oh, maybe I can find a salt and pepper shaker set. Do they sell souvenirs?”
Florence nodded her head. “Not sure if they have salt and pepper shakers. I never looked for them there. But yes, they do have a souvenir shop.”
