Autumn Spring

by Shelley Thrasher

  “Interesting? Are you slipping drugs into your coffee? She’s in her midsixties and told me she’s married and has kids and grandkids.”

  A sly grin stretched Carolyn’s mouth. “She used to be married. But now she’s not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, before one of our master gardeners’ meetings several months ago, somebody said they saw her picture on Facebook.”

  “So? That’s not very thrilling news.”

  Carolyn lowered her voice. “She was in Tyler, playing some kind of game with a lot of other women with really short hair. If you know what I mean.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Almost every woman I know has short hair.”

  “But do they play something called Gay Monopoly?” Carolyn smiled like she’d just originated the theory of evolution.

  “So what if she enjoys the company of lesbians, if that’s what they are. Some straight people do, don’t they?” Bree stared pointedly at Carolyn, who finally nodded.

  “Yes, if they’ve known ’em all their lives. But I don’t think of you as a lesbian. To me, you’ll always be the little girl next door who can never get enough to eat.” Her affection glowed in her eyes.

  “Then I rest my case.” Bree was getting tired. Sarah always said Carolyn could talk the ears off a donkey.

  “Linda Morton may keep her nose clean, but her daughter who lives up North doesn’t. She even brings her girlfriend home with her on holidays, and they sleep in the same bed. People whisper about her up a storm.” Carolyn always loved to have the last word.

  “Good for her.” Bree walked Carolyn to the back gate.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s what I always say. Maybe you can find out if I’m right.”

  Maybe. But I’d rather rip out my tongue than add anything to the gossip mill. “Thanks a million for the omelet, Carolyn. I have to return my rental car, and then I plan to treat myself to a nap before I go visit Sarah again. See you later.”

  So Ann’s not married and is here in town, Linda might be a lesbian, and her daughter’s definitely one, Bree thought as she sauntered back toward the house. This visit might be a lot more interesting than she’d expected.

  *

  Ann White teed off on the fifth hole and hit a perfect drive. What a beautiful October day. She stuck her club into her bag and stood beside her golf cart as her current boyfriend, Carl Paul, swung at his ball.

  His shot dribbled down the fairway, and Ann cringed as the thin young man who’d just driven up shook his head and said, “Better luck next time, Pops.”

  Ann frowned at the smart aleck, who promptly gave her the eye. She poufed up her bleached-blond hair and stared him down. The nerve of some guys. She could be his grandmother. Besides, that ship had already sailed more times than she cared to count, and she’d stayed in all the first-class staterooms.

  She slid into her cart and waited for Carl. He finally climbed in and slumped beside her. Poor thing. He was just trying to please her. He’d spent most of his life indoors, playing with stocks and bonds instead of golf balls.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that jerk, dear. You have something he’ll never have.”

  Carl looked up. “What’s that?”

  “Me.”

  He brightened as she steered them down the fairway to their balls. She’d play with some of her female acquaintances from now on instead of torture poor Carl again. She had more important plans for him. She smiled with satisfaction.

  *

  Linda hunched over her steering wheel and sped faster than usual down the familiar winding country road. Being around Bree had shredded the mellow mood her daily visualization exercise had created. The canopy of oaks, sweet gums, and pines stretching over the pavement soothed her a bit, but she still felt on edge.

  She took a right onto a gravel road and drove as fast as she dared over the hills dotted with trees. Their beauty continued to work their magic, so by the time she pulled into the large parking area in front of her aunt Sandy’s dome home, she’d slowed her speed and was breathing less heavily than when she left Silverado.

  Bree had asked reasonable questions, she kept telling herself. Of course she was concerned about her mother. Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have questioned Linda’s qualifications.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Sandy said as she strolled down her driveway toward Linda, two golden retrievers dancing around her. “Thought we might have a frost last night but guess we’ll have to wait a while longer for the leaves to start changing.” Her long silver hair gleamed in the sunlight, and in her jeans and lightweight purple plaid flannel shirt, she didn’t look or act like a typical seventy-five-year-old.

  Linda climbed out of her blue CR-V and popped her trunk open. “Brought you something for our celebration tomorrow night.” She pointed toward a piece of orange cloth, plus three yellow pumpkins and a cornucopia she’d just bought at a local produce stand.

  “Aw. How sweet.” Sandy unfolded the cloth and inspected it. “Did you make this?”

  “Yes. Thought you needed a new one.”

  Sandy strode over to a nearby shed and grabbed the handles of a rusty old wheelbarrow. “It’ll look great on the altar. Thanks.” She stacked the largest pumpkin in the wheelbarrow and motioned for Linda to carry the cornucopia inside.

  Sandy had obviously begun to prepare for her big event tomorrow night. A cauldron near the front door contained dried cornstalks, several large ears still attached to them, probably from Sandy’s garden. A dazzling arrangement of leaves and acorns sat on the rough-hewn mantel, where Linda placed the cornucopia—full of squash, miniature pumpkins, turnips, and apples—on the other end of it. The altar held the skull of a cow, as well as several orange and black candles. Linda placed the new cloth on a nearby chair. She’d let Sandy replace the old one with it.

  Sandy put the large pumpkin in an undecorated corner and stared at her. “Why so down in the mouth?” She bent and petted Zoe, one of the retrievers, who stood beside her and gazed at her with clear adoration.

  “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “Not when it comes to you.”

  Linda shrugged. “Someone I used to know a long time ago just shook me up. I’ll get over it.”

  Sandy threw an arm around her shoulder as they walked outside again. “Come help me carry in those other two pumpkins, and then you can tell me all about it.”

  “It’s not important, but I appreciate you noticing.” Linda snuggled into her aunt, who radiated strength. “Just being here’s already made me feel better. What do you want me to bring for the celebration tomorrow night?”

  “Nothing besides what the group’s already planned. A picture of someone special who’s passed away, their favorite dish, and something negative you’d like to resolve.”

  After they’d carried the remaining pumpkins inside, Linda put hers on Sandy’s cluttered kitchen table. “I’ve thought about the things we’re supposed to bring for our ceremony but haven’t had time to finish getting everything ready.” She washed her hands in the sink. “I’ll be here about eight thirty, after my grandkids finish trick-or-treating.”

  “Fine. We’ll start eating about nine. Don’t be too late.” Sandy kissed Linda’s cheek. “Have a good day. And thanks again for all the decorations.”

  As Linda slid into her Honda, she felt so much more relaxed than when she got here. What would she do without Sandy?

  *

  “This beef stew’s great,” Bree said. “Thanks for waking me up and forcing me to come share it with you, Carolyn.”

  “No problem. I hate to eat alone.”

  Bree dished herself another bowlful from the Crock-Pot that sat in the middle of Carolyn’s dining-room table. “I’ll be happy to keep you company at mealtime as long as I’m here.” She buttered a third piece of homemade cornbread. “If I keep this up, though, I’ll have to buy two tickets when I fly back to Chicago, to fit myself into those tiny airline seats.”

  C
arolyn chuckled. “I know you better than that. You’ll be so busy while you’re here, you’ll burn off anything I can come up with to feed you.”

  “What do you think I’ll find to do except visit Sarah? And even she doesn’t act like she wants me to hang around her much. Some things never change.”

  “She’ll probably act independent until the day she dies.” Carolyn scraped the last of the stew from her vintage Fiestaware bowl and leaned back in her chair. “She really does need you right now though. This can’t be an easy transition. I’m glad she still has her painting.”

  “Yes. Though I used to be jealous of it.” Bree gazed at the Crock-Pot but decided to forego a third helping and shoved her own bowl away.

  “Jealous? Why?”

  “Between it and her teaching and Dad, she didn’t have enough time to pay attention to me.”

  “I never knew that. You were usually busier than she was, always rushing from one activity to the next.”

  Bree slumped. “I had to do something to occupy myself. But now, back here in this place, I’m probably at as much of a loss as Sarah is. I don’t really know anybody in town anymore, except you. I only shop when I need or want something—not that this place has many stores. And I’m definitely not into church activities. Any ideas?”

  Carolyn gathered their bowls and silverware. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Bree straightened her back. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How about going to a sort of Halloween celebration tomorrow night?”

  “And do what? Bob for apples and scream with the kids when a slimy hand grabs me in a house of horrors?”

  Carolyn grinned. “Not exactly what I had in mind. This is a small, intimate gathering of women in our age range. No kids, no slimy hands. You might fit right in.”

  “Fit in at a social event here?” Bree frowned. “I never did when I was growing up. Why should I hope to now?”

  “Times and places change. People change. You never know.” Carolyn smiled mysteriously.

  “Sure. I’ll give it a whirl. But I won’t get my hopes up. Do I need to take anything?”

  “Yes. And one of them requires cooking.”

  “Ugh. Go by yourself. I’d rather spend Halloween alone.”

  Carolyn put her hands on her waist. “You can’t wiggle out of my invitation that easy. Think it over and let me know in the morning.”

  Bree raised a brow.

  “All you need’s a picture of a person in your life who’s passed over and his or her favorite dish. Plus, you have to make it yourself. That’s not too hard, is it? Just don’t use meat. Oh, and think of a bad habit you’d like to break.”

  As Carolyn carried their dishes into the kitchen, Bree picked up a damp sponge and wiped off the table where they’d just eaten. Then she took the mustard-colored salt and pepper shakers into the kitchen and set them on the counter. “No meat, eh? Now you’ve made me curious.”

  “So you want to go?”

  “I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow. But right now, how about a few games of Scrabble?” She looked forward to the satisfaction of beating Carolyn, like she always did.

  Chapter Four

  Linda scooped the last of the baked sweet potatoes from their skins and plopped them into a large mixing bowl. Her dad had loved sweet-potato casserole, so she’d decided to take it to the celebration tonight. The back door banged.

  “Granny, can I help?” Riley, her youngest grandchild, rarely slowed down except when it came to cooking.

  “Sure. How about getting me some butter and brown sugar?”

  Riley brought them and stood beside her at the Corian counter. “Can I stir ’em in? I like to watch the butter melt.”

  “Of course. I’ll go round up the other ingredients. Here.” Linda handed her a potato masher, noticing how Riley’s hair almost matched the orange sweet potatoes. Just like her own, once. And freckles covered Riley’s cheeks too, like hers at that age. Hopefully they didn’t embarrass Riley as much as hers had.

  Riley finally made the lumpy orange mixture smooth.

  “Here. Add the salt and vanilla, and then we’ll be almost through,” Linda said.

  Riley carefully measured the ingredients and mixed them in, then gazed up at her. “Can I chop the nuts too?”

  “Sure. And I’ll get a Pyrex dish and some marshmallows.”

  Soon, she slid the casserole into the preheated oven, and Riley headed toward the back door. “See you later, Granny. I’m going out to play again.”

  Linda sighed as she watched her leave. How she wished her reclusive grandmother had spent more time with her. Her mother had made her feel special, but her mother’s mother had rarely socialized, except for picnics. Poor Ann hadn’t even had a real grandmother and had lost her mother at such an early age. She must have really felt bad about that.

  Oh. She’d forgotten she needed to call Ann. As she ran water into the sink, she punched in Ann’s phone number and put her on speaker.

  “Hey. How’s it going, sis?”

  She listened patiently as Ann complained about her usual aches and pains, all the while washing and drying the mixing bowl and utensils she’d used.

  “Hope you feel better soon. Say, I don’t want to bother you, but can I look through that basket of old family pictures we found in Mom’s house after the funeral? I can run by and pick it up in an hour or so, when I take the kids home.” Ann was agreeable.

  Linda wiped the saffron-colored countertop clean. “Okay. See you after while.”

  She clicked the phone off. The casserole would be done in half an hour, so she had time to put away the puzzles and games her grandchildren had left scattered around the family room. It warmed her inside to act like the grandmother she wished she’d had.

  *

  Sitting on the couch, Bree flipped through the scrapbooks her mother had assembled. She’d recorded the first twelve years of Bree’s life in detail: her first word, her first tooth, her first step, her first birthday party. But then her mother had condensed the rest of the almost-seventy years of Bree’s existence into one volume.

  Of course, Bree’s twin brother Brett had shared an equal amount of space with her in the first scrapbooks. Until the accident…

  She gazed at the dark-haired boy who she’d spent her first twelve birthdays with. In this photo he stood resting his hand on the green Olivetti typewriter he’d pestered their father for. Brett wanted to learn to type, he’d said, because a banker should be able to.

  At twelve, Bree had wanted to become a sculptor and, in a picture of her taken just after the one of Brett, she stood with her hand on the potter’s wheel their parents had given her. She’d craved to learn to throw a pot and could hardly wait to set up her new present.

  A knock sounded on the back door. “Ready to go, Bree?” Carolyn called.

  After carefully sliding the old photo of her brother from the four small black corners that held it, Bree slipped it into an envelope. “Just a minute. I’d have been ready on time, but I had to look for a recipe.”

  “A recipe. You actually cooked something? By the way, you better grab a jacket,” Carolyn said as she strode into the den. “It’s nippy, and we’ll probably stay out pretty late.”

  “Sure. Just wait till you see the apple pie I made. I’m not totally helpless in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll like to see the scene of the crime for myself, thank you very much.” Carolyn walked into the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” she called. “Are you sure you made this? It looks almost edible.” She emerged carrying the pie in its covered plastic container, treating it like a crown jewel.

  “Don’t drop it.” Bree pulled on an old black leather jacket she hadn’t worn since high school, amazed her mother hadn’t donated it to Goodwill a long time ago. It fit a little snugly across her breasts, but she managed to zip it. Its soft leather still felt supple, though it had lost its oily, tallow smell, and she flipped up the collar just like she used to.


  Carolyn stared. “Wow. You look great. And you can even cook. I can’t imagine why you’ve never found a good woman to settle down with.”

  “Thanks, I think, but I’m fine on my own.” She headed for the back door. “Are you ready? My stomach’s growling. Do all your parties start this late?”

  “Nope. This one’s special. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Why all the mystery? Bree shrugged, already bored before she got there, though the food would surely be worth her time. What else could interest her about a group of little old small-town ladies getting together on Halloween?

  *

  Linda gently closed her front door behind the final trick-or-treater and turned to the straw basket of old photos she’d rummaged through periodically, when she wasn’t holding out a jack-o’-lantern full of candy to neighborhood children dressed up as Spider-Man, Elsa, and other characters, celebrities, and creatures. She searched through the basket for a good picture of her dad, but almost at the bottom of the container, she discovered a mystifying photo.

  A young woman not that much older than Linda’s oldest grandson stood beside a man in his forties. Even in the blurry shot he conveyed an air of sophistication most of the local men lacked. Did his posture, the way he held himself, his facial expression, or the world-weary look in his eyes create this impression?

  On the back of the picture someone had scrawled only Patrick, 1949. Though she’d never seen this photo before, it made her pause, made her remember a confused confession her mother had made. Your father isn’t who you think he is. Her mother had been dying, in hospice, and Linda had assumed that her mother’s fractured tale about a tall redheaded stranger who’d walked into the drugstore where she worked and swept her off her feet was the Alzheimer’s talking, the horrible disease that had robbed her mother of her memories and herself.

  Linda never brought up the subject again and didn’t want to believe it, and she never discussed it with her dad. And she’d almost forgotten the strange confession, but tonight she stared at the photo. His name was Patrick. And he left me you. Had her mother been telling the truth?