Sophie smiled impishly. “I thought the prospect of actual work might send her scurrying.” Sophie shook her head. “She hasn’t changed a bit since we were in school. She was a self-important little snob then and she’s worse now.”
“Come on. Let’s move this stuff inside. I have to get back to the Spoonful before the lunch crowd hits.” They reached the church and navigated the pathway to the side door that led to the meeting hall. Lucky pushed open the heavy wooden door and held it while Sophie bumped her dolly over the threshold. The smell of polished floors and chalk-covered erasers hovered in the air. Sophie held the door for Lucky in turn. They wheeled their carts through the meeting hall and into the large kitchen.
“Where should we put this stuff?”
“Hang on. There are some long tables in the storage room we can set up.” With Sophie’s help, she hauled out two long folding tables. Sophie lifted one end and together they pulled the retractable legs open, setting both tables up by the entry to the kitchen. Lucky searched the kitchen drawers and found long paper tablecloths in plastic wrappers. Ripping them open, she shook out the paper cloths and spread them over the long tables, placing stacks of napkins at each end. She opened the refrigerator. “Let’s cram as many drinks as we can in here, and I’ll bring a couple of big plastic bins tomorrow for the ice. Can you dig out the coffee urn?”
“Sure. I’ll find it,” Sophie replied, opening and closing cupboard doors in her search.
Lucky unloaded canned and bottled drinks from the carts until the refrigerator would hold no more. “That should do it for now. I should let Pastor Wilson know the drinks are here and the ice will be delivered early tomorrow.”
“I’ll rummage around and see what other supplies are on hand.”
“Be right back.” Lucky pushed through the door leading to the main part of the church. She followed the corridor to the end hoping to find the Pastor in his office. As she approached the door, she halted. She heard voices. Pastor Wilson wasn’t alone. She listened, certain she had heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Then silence. Someone was having a very emotional conversation with the Pastor. She tiptoed back a few steps, but before she could retreat from the corridor, the office door opened. It was Harry Hodges, the town’s auto mechanic and one of the major forces behind the demonstration. Harry’s voice carried clearly through the partially open door. “I had to talk to someone.”
The Pastor’s voice was closer now. “You did the right thing. Be calm. We can talk again . . . whenever you’re ready.”
It was too late to retreat. Harry stepped into the corridor. He started visibly when he saw her standing nearby. His face darkened. Pastor Wilson peeked around the doorjamb. “Lucky! Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. We just came over to unload drinks. I wanted to alert you that an ice delivery would be coming tomorrow.”
“Oh, good, good. That’s wonderful. Harry and I . . . well, we were just discussing the plans . . .” Lucky suspected the Pastor was making an effort to cover for Harry, who seemed embarrassed she might have overheard his conversation.
Harry glanced at the Pastor. “I’ll call you very soon.” Without a backward glance, he turned away and left by the door leading into the church.
Pastor Wilson cleared his throat and opened the office door wider. “I can’t thank you enough. This is truly wonderful what the Spoonful is doing. It’ll really help keep everyone’s spirits up tomorrow.”
“I am sorry if I interrupted anything.”
“That’s quite all right. Harry and I were just finishing our little chat. Anything I can do for you?”
“No, thank you. I have a helper today. But you might want to lock that side door now that the drinks are there.”
“Good idea. I’ll just get my keys.” Lucky stood in the doorway and watched the Pastor as he scanned his desk, littered with papers, books, a Bible and remnants of a piece of toast. Pastor Wilson was tall and thin with a prominent Adam’s apple. His face was pale, his hair a shade between sand and gray. His movements were disjointed, as though confused by the objects around him—as if the furniture of his life belonged to someone else. She detected a faint whiff of naphthalene. She smiled to herself. Sophie was right about the mothballs.
“Now what did I do with those keys?” Pastor Wilson brushed a few wisps of hair from his forehead and replastered them over a bald spot on the top of his head.
Realizing this search could take quite a while, Lucky said, “I’ll be on my way then.”
“Oh yes, yes, my dear . . . you go on. I’ll find them eventually.”
Lucky headed back down the corridor to the meeting hall and pushed through the swinging doors. Sophie was leaning against one of the dollies, waiting for her. “Ready?” Lucky nodded, grabbed her dolly and followed Sophie out the door. She was silent as they headed across the Village Green to Broadway.
“Something wrong?” Sophie watched her critically.
“Oh, no. Nothing.” Sophie waited, aware that something was on her friend’s mind.
“Well, actually, I think I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.” Lucky repeated the exchange between Harry Hodges and the Pastor as they walked.
Sophie shrugged. “Probably nothing at all. Maybe Harry wanted to confess he had dipped into the collection box.”
Lucky didn’t respond to Sophie’s gibe. “It was more than that. There seemed to be a . . .” She hesitated. “. . . an emotional charge to the words, I guess. I could have sworn Harry was crying. More than that—Harry almost jumped out of his skin when he saw me standing in the corridor.”
“Hard to imagine him being emotional. The most excited I’ve ever seen him was when he was staring under the hood of my car.”
Lucky chewed her lip. Sophie was right, of course. Harry definitely took more interest in the workings of internal combustion engines than in people. She pictured his shocked look when he saw her in the corridor—as if afraid she might have overheard something. Harry was a man of few words, not rude but taciturn, definitely not forthcoming. All the same, Harry’s tone hinted at a very painful subject—something deeply buried.
Chapter 3
“CAN YOU TELL Sage I’ll see him later? I’ve got to get up the hill. I have two classes and a private this afternoon and I’m running late.”
“I will. Thanks again.” Lucky waved as Sophie hopped in her car and pulled out of the small parking lot behind the restaurant. She dragged both dollies up to the door and over the threshold, wheeling them into the storage closet. Then she headed down the hall, grabbed a fresh apron from the closet and slipped it over her head. Her mother had designed the Spoonful’s aprons—yellow, like the checked café curtains at the front windows, with an outline in dark blue of a steaming bowl of soup. They echoed the neon sign at the front window that her Dad had designed. It hardly seemed possible that only eight months had passed since her parents had died on an icy road and she had inherited their business. Last winter, when the Spoonful was on the verge of bankruptcy, seemed a universe away, yet her parents’ deaths were still fresh in her heart. She peeked into the kitchen. Sage was at the stove, stirring a simmering pot of one of his daily specials.
“Sophie had to run. She’ll call you later.”
“Okay.” Sage didn’t turn his head, but held up a wooden spoon to acknowledge the news. He was sprinkling flecks of fresh thyme into the broth.
Lucky pushed through the swinging door into the main room of the restaurant, cooler here, thanks to ceiling fans and air-conditioning. Soft piano music filled the space. Once her grandfather Jack had gotten used to the CD player, he went out of his way to buy more music. Jack’s taste ran to forties’ sounds, which Lucky had come to love as much as Jack did. He could name all the top hits and musicians of the day. A tinkling piano solo was just the thing. R&B and rock were great for the winter when people needed to move just to keep warm, but not on a steamy August day like today.
Her grandfather, Jack Ja
mieson, and three of the Spoonful’s regulars, Hank Northcross, Barry Sanders and Horace Winthorpe, had taken over one of the corner tables. Normally, Hank and Barry would have been engrossed in a game of Connect Four or chess, but now their attention was focused on the demonstration against the car wash planned for the following day.
In summer months, the By the Spoonful Soup Shop usually enjoyed a lull when winter visitors to the ski slopes abandoned the town. Lucky had been toying with the idea of taking a few days off to go camping and swimming, but was finally forced to postpone her plans. Over the last month, the Spoonful had become a meeting place for angry discussions about the proposed construction—no longer proposed, but actually commencing—on the other side of the Village Green, just a block or two from the Spoonful itself.
Snowflake, Vermont, prided itself on preserving its heritage. The town was united in its disapproval of the car wash. Even though most of the town’s tourist business came from the ski resort, many people arrived in August to celebrate the Reenactment of the Battle of Bennington, a battle crucial in the ultimate defeat of British forces in the Revolutionary War. No one wanted an ugly industrial edifice that would mar the quaint charm of their town.
“Something has to be done to stop this. We can’t have a car wash in the center of town. It’s downright blasphemous. What barbarian would even think of erecting such an eyesore here?” Barry fumed.
“You know, he’s originally from Snowflake,” Hank volunteered, looking over his pince-nez glasses at his friend.
“Who? That Philistine? What’s his name again?”
“Rowland, Richard Rowland,” Jack volunteered. “And yes, Hank’s right. He’s a Snowflake boy. Born and raised here. Well, I should say, originally from here. His family moved away when he was a young kid.”
“Hmph.” Barry snorted. “So wouldn’t you think he’d have a bit more taste, now that’s he’s such a big-shot developer? But no, he plans to inflict a disgusting, noisy car wash on us. Why not stick it up at the Resort in one of their huge parking lots?”
“It’s the Resort that’s been pushing the town council to put it down here. They’re afraid it might ruin the ambience of their buildings,” Hank said.
“Oh my,” Barry replied sarcastically. “We wouldn’t want that. Heaven forbid it wouldn’t look like an overgrown collection of Swiss chalets! It’s a much better idea to put an ugly, square, hissing, concrete-block monstrosity right in the center of our little town.” Barry’s plaid cotton shirt threatened to burst. One very strained buttonhole was keeping it together. “We wouldn’t want to ruin the ambience of the Resort, now, would we?” Barry slammed his coffee cup down on the table, causing some of the liquid to splash over the edge of his cup.
Horace Winthorpe sat quietly, offering no comment. He took off his glasses and wiped them carefully with a tissue. A retired professor now living in Snowflake, and renting Lucky’s parents’ home, Horace had become one of the Spoonful’s regulars. Lucky and Jack had welcomed him to town and had grown very fond of him. When Lucky took over the restaurant, she was struggling with grief. She couldn’t bring herself to live in her childhood home, nor was she able to afford to do so with the restaurant doing poorly. When their local Realtor found Horace, Lucky was delighted and relieved he wanted to rent the house on a long-term basis. Horace had taught history all his life and was now working on a book about his particular field of interest—the Revolutionary War years in New England. He, like many others before him, had fallen in love with Snowflake and had settled happily into Lucky’s family home to enjoy his retirement and begin work on his long-desired project.
“Horace, you haven’t said very much all morning,” Hank said.
Horace slipped on his wire rim glasses. The sun streaming in through the gingham curtains lit up his mane of white hair. He was a big man, slightly portly, who had been enjoying most of his meals at the Spoonful and had put on several pounds since living in Snowflake. “I, like you, am terribly saddened to see this happening. I haven’t said very much—after all, I don’t have a long history here—but I so appreciate this town and the efforts everyone has made to keep the old buildings and restore so many of them.”
“Are you willing to join us, then?” Barry asked.
“Well, yes, if you’ll have me. I would be honored.” He smiled sweetly. “Nothing like a good demonstration to remind ourselves we were all rebels once. Besides, the Reenactment of the Battle is only a few days away and I for one would prefer to have something more dignified than a car wash as a backdrop for our town celebration. After all, I’ve been asked to play a Hessian and I’d much rather like to do so without bulldozers growling in the background—really interferes with the willing suspension of disbelief.”
“Well, that’s it then,” Barry said. “We’re starting tomorrow at nine o’clock. I’ll give your name to Harry Hodges to add to the list.”
“Harry from the Auto Shop?” Horace asked. “I know him. He put in a new alternator for me a few months ago.”
“Good then. We’re agreed. The plan is to do whatever we can to halt or delay construction. Demonstrating with signs and all that is fine, but it’s gonna take more than that. If our own town council can be swayed into voting for this, the hell with ’em.”
Hank grimaced. “Swayed! That’s a nice way to put it. Bought off, more likely. Every single one of them, except Edward Embry, the only honorable man on the council in my opinion. Maybe we should be working on a recall vote of the rest of those corrupt twits.”
“I agree. But first we have to do whatever it takes to stop this project. Even if it means we block the big equipment from getting in or out with our cars, or we lie down in the dirt. They won’t be able to carry us all away. And there isn’t enough room in the two cells at the police station to hold all of us anyway.” Barry’s face had grown flushed and angry.
“Jack. You with us?” Hank turned to Jack.
“You bet I am.”
Lucky glanced at her grandfather and exchanged a look with Sage through the kitchen hatch. Jack’s health had steadily improved over the last few months, but she wanted to keep a close eye on him. When she had first returned to Snowflake, her grandfather was suffering from a constellation of health problems—heart palpitations, fatigue, memory lapses and actual episodes of dementia. It was Dr. Elias Scott at the Snowflake Medical Clinic who had diagnosed Jack’s problems as a severe vitamin B deficiency. Now, after six months of treatment, Jack was strong and healthy. He occasionally suffered from his wartime memories, but even these seemed to be lessened with his medical treatments. He was getting older, there was no denying that, and Lucky worried about him. Jack was the only family she had now, and at his age, she was thankful he wanted to run the Spoonful with her. She didn’t like the thought that he could be involved in physical confrontations at the demonstration. She had seen Richard Rowland, the developer, around town and took an instant dislike to him. He was a man as nasty and sleek as a shark, determined to push his agenda through.
Sage shrugged his shoulders in response to Lucky’s quick look, as if to say, What can you do? He’s a grown man. Lucky accepted the truth of it. Most of Jack’s life had been spent in the Navy. He had always been tough and fearless. She had to bite her tongue. Getting old was tough enough. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him to feel less than powerful now that he was aging.
Chapter 4
HARRY HODGES HIT the control button for the garage bay door. He took two steps back and watched as it rumbled shut. Other than a stack of paperwork on his desk, he was done for the day. His assistant mechanic, Guy Bessette, stood at the utility sink scrubbing his hands, anxious to be on his way.
“Harry . . .” Guy approached, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “You sure you don’t mind if I take a few days off? I’m playing a militiaman in the Reenactment and it’s just . . . well, the rehearsals are in the afternoon, and the Reenactment is at midday. If you need me . . . I can come in earlier and come back to the shop when rehearsals
are over.”
“Nah, that’s fine, Guy. You go ahead. Have some fun. I can manage on my own, and all the big jobs are done now anyway.”
“I finished Mr. Rank’s car.”
“Good. I told him it’d be done. He might stop by tonight to pick it up. I’m gonna stay late and try to clear up some of that paperwork. Piles up so fast.”
“Thanks, Harry. I really appreciate it.” Guy smiled and pushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. His front teeth were crooked and he was self-conscious about smiling widely—at least when he was in unfamiliar company. In front of his boss, though, it didn’t matter. His boss liked him, and as long as he worked hard, Harry didn’t care anything about how his teeth looked. Guy hesitated. He couldn’t help but notice his employer was distracted. Maybe asking for a whole week off was too much. “You sure you don’t mind, Harry?”
“No, Guy. For the last time. Be on your way and don’t worry about it. I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Okay then.” Guy tossed the paper towel into the round metal trash bin and grabbed his backpack. “I’ll see you next week.” Guy left by the small side door and made sure the lock clicked behind him. Once on the sidewalk, he hesitated. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it, but he couldn’t imagine what it was. Harry said he was okay with his taking a few days off, but something was definitely troubling him. Guy just hoped it had nothing to do with him or his work.
Harry heard the lock click on the door as Guy stepped out to the sidewalk. He walked into his small office and sat heavily in the chair behind the desk. It creaked loudly as he leaned back. Soon it will all be over, he thought. He heaved a sigh and reached for the nearest stack of paperwork. After an hour, he had managed to clear most of it away. He set the unpaid invoices to the side in a neat pile, placing a heavy wrench on top to keep the papers secure. It had been a very long day. He was hungry, but every time he thought of eating, his stomach cramped and the hunger was forgotten. He’d feel better when it was over. Just one more thing to take care of before he broke his silence.
A Broth of Betrayal Page 2
