by Jacquie Gee
“No, I meant, Trudy Swenson? Al Bertram’s wilting flower daughter?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but she’s come out of her shell a good bit since you’ve seen her last—”
“But still, she can’t know a lick about marketing.” I fold my arms. “She’s never even left the Cove.”
Penny’s mouth pulls into a stiff line. “Because that makes you an expert potato event planner, does it?”
She turns her back to me and starts fluffing pillows more vigorously than usual, filling the room with dust mote air.
The International Potato Festival is only the biggest summer event around these parts, drawing upwards of five thousand visitors from all over Canada. It’s a big deal in the farm community. It brings in big profits. The International Potato Festival is the largest farm fair held in these parts. We could put some of the money toward fixing the bridge.
“What if we were to continue the plans, anyway?”
Penny frowns. “I don’t see how now, with Jebson threatening to close the only road in and out of here. Without the bridge, we have no major attraction. If it stays shut down, we’ll have no way to connect the two sides of the event—”
“Yes, but, let’s suppose we get that overthrown and the bridge back in operation.”
“There’s still the matter of the repairs.”
“Which we won’t be able to fix before— When is the fair scheduled?”
“It was to be August 20th.”
“Yeah, that’ll never happen.” I chew a nail. “But it’s still safe for foot traffic. And they didn’t say anything about the horse,” I mutter to myself.
“What?”
“You know,”—I whirl around— “I had the idea this morning to bring the horse and buggy rides back.”
“You?” Penny raises a wary brow. “Want to bring back the horses?”
“Yeah.” I sip my coffee. “That was my thought.”
“You? The one who hated Annabelle?”
“I never hated Annabelle. I hated the smell of Annabelle. And mucking her stall. And cleaning her hooves. And washing her down.” I drink. “I miss the clomp of the hooves on the wooden planks, the sound of her nickering as she sauntered past, the sheen of her sweaty coat glinting through the sun glazed slats of bridge as she drifted through the middle of it, transporting happy chattering consumers to the opposite side.” I look dreamily past Aunt Penny’s head, out the window at the bridge. “I liked all that.” My gaze connects back with Aunt Penny’s. She’s almost laughing. “What?” I swat her with a rag.
She grins. “It was nicer when life was simpler, that’s for sure.” Aunt Penny’s gaze drifts off a little reminiscent herself. “Truth is, we’d be broke by now without the tour buses. People just don’t holiday like they used to.” She returns a sad face to me.
“Why can’t we have both?” I look at her. “The buses and the horses?”
“It’s going to take a lot more than just one horse and cart to transport all those people. Besides, I think Annabelle’s too old.”
“Well, then I’ll just have to rustle me up some other horses, won’t I?”
“Where are you going?” she asks, when I put my cup down and head toward the door.
“Looks like I’ve got a Potato Festival to help plan," I smirk. “I figure I’ll pay Trudy a visit. See where things stand. And go do a little more digging about those so-called taxes.” I raise my brows.
“Don’t you think we should tell Trudy to call it all off.”
“Don’t you go canceling anything.” I palm my way through the door, digging in my purse for Mom’s keys.
“Becca!” Aunt Penny catches the screen before it shuts. She stands looking rattled half in half out of the house, one foot on the porch, the other not. She draws in a heavy breath. “There’s something more you should know.” Her face screws up.
“What is it, Aunt Penny?” I step back toward her.
Every muscle in my gut tightens. By the look on her face, I’m afraid of what she has to say.
She gets a winsome look in her eyes and her breath tatters. “I just want you to remember when you’re out there digging around for information. Your father was a good man. He loved both you and your mother dearly.” Her mouth quivers. “I just want you to remember that, no matter what happens.”
“I know that Aunty Penny?” I say to her softly. “Is that it?”
She thinks a moment, her eyes flooding up with tears, then she adverts them. “That’s all,” she says and turns to go back into the apartment again.
Why do I feel like she’s not telling me everything?
Chapter 32
I head for my car and stop dead in my tracks. Standing on the barge below the bridge, is a slight-built man who looks to be of Asian descent. He’s leaning dangerously out from the railing of the barge, over the rapids side. He’s trying to get a better photograph of the underside of the bridge.
The bridge. Photographs. I wonder how long he’s been in town. He might have what I need.
“Hey! Hey, you!” I shout and start running toward him, but I’m too far away to see his face.
He turns around, not hearing me, and starts up the embankment on the opposite side of the river. I can’t get to him fast enough. “Hey! Wait! Please!” I shout, but he doesn’t hear me, can’t hear me for the sound of the rushing rapids.
The lanyard around his neck catches in the wind and floats out to the side. A plastic, shoe-string lanyard, just like the ones the bus tours hand out. He’s with the tour, and he’s missed the bus.
“Hey! Hey, sir!” I wave. “Over here!” But doesn’t see me and just keeps climbing until he reaches the top, then disappearing between the buildings.
I head across the bridge, full speed and come flying out the other side, but I’ve no idea which way he’s gone.
“Have you seen a man about yay tall, with black hair and glasses?” I burst into Bait’s Bates, showing Jules with my hands, who’s standing behind the counter.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Okay, thanks.” I pop into the Realtors and ask Anna the same thing. Not sighting there either.
I try six more shops before giving up.
Where could he have gone? I look around. This town isn’t that big.
Dabbit! I clap my fist and start my way back toward the bridge.
That’s strange. Very strange.
Why am I so crazy nervous? It’s not like I’ve never met her. I mean, I know it’s been a long time, but we did go to high school together.
I stand, hand hovering over its bright shiny red surface of the freshly painted door. I sigh and smooth down the sides of my jeans, for like the tenth time, then finally go to knock when…
“Oh, hey. Hi.”
She’s there. Right in front of me. Holding the door open. “Sorry. The kids noticed you out here on the stoop. I was just checking for burglars.” She’s all smiles, her hair freshly curled, with a sweet little dress on that looks like she’s just walked out of a fashion magazine.
“You look amazing, as usual.” Her voice lilts up.
Funny, I was thinking the same about you.
“What brings you to town, long-lost Rebecca Lane?” She tilts her head playfully to one side. “More specifically, what brings you to my door.” Her cheery disposition dips. “How did you even know this was my door?”
“Aunt Penny told me.”
“Oh, that masks sense. How are you, anyway?” She smiles again, relaxing her shoulder against the doorjamb. Several sets of hurried, little feet pad up behind her, clinging to the back of her skirt. The children don’t look to be any more than five years old. A couple of toddlers. The smallest one sucks his thumb. He tilts up his cherub face, his eyes as round as Timbits. “Want some?” He offers me his half-sucked cookie.
“No, thanks.”
“Jonas, what have I said about sharing?” Trudy scowls him. “It’s nice to do, but we offer people a fresh cookie, not the one we’re eating.” She pats
him on the head. “Pardon him.” She looks to me. “He’s a giver.”
“Oh. That’ll be a rare trait when he gets older.”
She laughs. “Would you like to come in?” She swings the door open wider, and the faces of three more children appear—five in total. I have to admit, I’m intimidated, but I need to talk to her. I’m going to have to just suck up my phobia of children and go inside.
Toddlers and me, not a good mix.
I step in, and I’m in awe of her already. The house looks remarkably clean, considering its occupants. Everything is neat and in order. Not even a pillow out of place. How does she do this?
“Looks like New York City’s been treating you well,” she sings, sweeping past me, shooing the kids ahead of her into another part of the house as she leads me into the parlor.
“Thanks,” I say.
I think I should take off my shoes—the Canadian way, but she says nothing, so I just go on being American and leave them on.
“No, seriously. You haven’t changed a bit.” She closes the door behind me, and I’m struck by a small pang of guilt. I haven’t told her how great she looks.
“This way,” she leads me on through the main parlor to a private den-like room tucked in back. Light streams in through the plate glass window at the side, with the lovely view of the river. This truly is a gorgeous Victorian, very well preserved, lots of natural light. And Trudy has it decorated so cute.
“Go ahead, sit down.” She stretches a hand toward a large cushy chair in the corner. “I’ll just get the kids settled and come back.” She swings around the skirt of her vintage throwback, Lucile Ball style skirt twining about her long, slender legs. Who knew Trudy Swenson was so stylish?
“I hear, you’re running your own successful business,” she shouts from the other room. “Out there in the Big Apple.” She floats back in, covered tray in hand, and places the tray down on the coffee table. “What a dream life you’re living.” She smooths down her skirt, looking bashfully as she sits, plopping down beside me.
“Not always,” I say, trying hard to appear normal, in a not so normal way. She frowns as if I’ve burst some magical bubble. “I mean…it’s a lot of work, too.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” she adds, quickly. “But still—how glamorous.” She melts down, chin on her hands. “It’s got to beat the stuffing out of anything here in Heartland Cove,” she adds with an eye roll, and I know exactly what she means.
This was always Trudy. She’s so darned nice—almost too nice—that she often appeared to be fake sometimes. Like a Barbie doll with a great shape, and all the right things to say coming out of her mouth.
But I see now, sitting with her in her living room, that it’s not an act. It’s real. Trudy Swenson is this sweet.
I should have been nicer to her in high school.
I should have been nicer to a whole lot of people.
Omigye, I think I was a snob.
Trudy gushes on about me until it starts to feel awkward. I have to end this and get on with why I’m here.
I pause, enraptured by the thought of how this would be me if I’d stayed here and married to Jebson. Living in an old Victorian, along the shores of a Smells-of-Pee River, in a small town, smothering, Heartland Cove, N.B. Just like Trudy, I’d be dreaming about every other place. My stomach clenches till it hurts.
Everything you’ll ever need is right here, in your own backyard, my father used to say.
And for him, it was.
For me, things were different.
I couldn’t wait to escape.
A child explodes into a terrible shriek. “Can you excuse me a minute?” Trudy very calmly pardons herself. “I’ll just give them some Kool-Aid and set them up at the play center. I’ll be right back.” She exits the room in a brisk walk.
I lean, glancing around the wall, through the dining room into the kitchen, which has been set up as a makeshift, very colorful, and toy-enriched, playroom. The furniture has all been shoved against the walls.
Five little heads swing around when she enters the room. The shrieking immediately stops.
She claps her hands, and they all follow her to a low craft table placed in the back. “I have a surprise for you,” she says. The children nod and giggle and hurry to finish their Kool-Aid, she presented to them in large lime-colored cups. One by one, they break away and bustle over to the craft table. “Clean hands everyone, and then you can play.” Once they’ve all landed and stopped squirming in their chairs, Trudy takes a large bowl from of the fridge and walks over, plopping its contents in the center of the table. Eyes alight. Giggles abound. “Now, you know the rules.” She bends to their height, bringing a finger to her lips to quiet them down. “Once the Play-Doh hits the table there’s no fussing, no fighting, and no bothering me for anything, except to go to the bathroom, correct?”
“Yes, Miss Trudy!” the children sing in unison. Wow, that is some training.
“Bibs on, so we don’t make a mess.” She claps her hands again, and the children pull smocks over their heads.
This is truly amazing!
Five sets of hands shoot out, grabbing handfuls of the lemon-colored dough, and the fun begins.
A small part of me envies her abilities, her simple existence—but just a small part of me. Nothing big.
She waltzes back into the room. “So,”—she fluffs her skirt and sits back down— “where were we? What brings you to my door this afternoon?”
“I, ah… I wanted to talk to you about something.” I don’t know why I feel nervous again. Maybe it’s because of Mom. I wonder if she knows, or if Mom is able to hold it together when they meet.
A child pops his head around the archway, and she scolds him gently, sending him back to his spot at the table. "Amazing," I say. "You really have a way with them.”
“Thanks.” She shrugs. “It’s my super talent.”
“It sure is. You talk about me; you’re quite the entrepreneur yourself.”
“Oh, not really.” She blushes, waving a hand before her face. “It’s just a day care.”
“So, what. It’s still a business. And you’re running it.”
“I guess you’re right.” She beams. “But it’s not a lucrative one, not like yours.” She’s quick to override the positive. “But it does help pay the rent.” She injects some positive back. She has to stop doing that. She has so much going for her. Doesn’t she recognize that?
“The house is a rental.” I fold my hands.
She nods. “Just for now, until we get back on our feet.”
Things here must be bad around here for everybody.
“That is we do,” her voice slows. She looks up from her feet. “Dave and I have been having some problems,” she explains, though I haven’t asked her to. “We’ve hit a sort of a rough patch in our marriage”—she lowers her chin and bites her bottom lip. “Or rather, he’s hit a rough patch in his business which has put a strain on our marriage.” She twists the rings on her finger. “We had to give up our home, but we’ll have another, some day.” Her cheeks flush red. “But then again, you probably already know that.” She waves her hand. “You likely know everything about everyone already if you’ve been in town for more than an hour,” she mutters, straining a smile. “Especially if you run into Mrs. Williams.” She scratches her cheek. “Tea?” She pops up to her feet.
“No thanks,” I say.
“You’re sure?”
I nod, and she sits back down. I can’t help but notice, with the light pouring in from the window, what an incredibly lovely girl she is. Her high cheekbones and chiseled features— with that height, she could have been a model easy. She has lips that people in New York pay to achieve. Which I have never noticed before. Not to mention her perfectly curly, blonde hair.
“What was it you want to discuss?” She brings the conversation back full circle. “What has brought you to my humble abode?” She crosses her long, thin legs and folds her hands over her knees so eloquently, I can’t help
but see her on a runway in New York. She straightens her back, and a cushion around shoots up. She pushes it down, embarrassed. “Though I can’t imagine what I could do for you.”
"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Trudy." I slide forward in my chair. "You've got a lot of great qualities."
“I do?” She sounds shocked. “I mean, thank you.” She inclines her head and bats her long lashes, and again, I wish she could see her potential. “I’m trying harder these days just to accept a compliment. You know, without canceling it out. It’s just that”—she swallows— “well, you know.”
I smile. “So, you’re married?” I change the subject, glancing down at her ring.
“Yeah, To Dave.” She stretches out her hand to admire it.
“Dave from high school, Dave?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Dave Palmer.” She gazes longingly down at the ring. “Or, at least I was.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault.” She shrugs.
“Is it recent?”
“Um-hum. Half the town still doesn’t know. It’s a blooming miracle.” She half-laughs and flashes her eyes. “Somehow, we’ve been able to keep the news to ourselves, in a town where nothing is yours.”
“Good for you.” I raise my glass of Kool-Aid to her victory.
“I guess it helps that I’m still wearing his ring.” She admires it again. “At any rate,” she claps her hands to her lap, “our recent split is Heartland Cove’s best-kept—maybe Heartland’s only kept—secret. For now.” She smiles. “We’re still living here together, so that helps. Dave lives upstairs in the attic apartment, and I live down here.” She twirls the ring. “Though I’m sure, people have their suspicions.”
“Let them. People around here have their suspicions even when nothing to be suspicious about.”
We share a brief all-knowing smile. I feel like hugging her, but it would be weird, so I don’t. I don’t know her that well, yet.
“Financially, it just works out better, you know? To go on sharing the house?” She looks to me for approval.
