A Spicy Secret

by D. Savannah George

  Alice snorted again. “Half an hour? You better be here in ten minutes. No more dithering around for you.”

  Annie could hear her giggling as she hung up.

  Eight minutes later—Annie timed it—she had climbed the carriage house stairs and now stood on the edge of Alice’s sitting room floor. That edge held literally the only clear space in the room; the rest of it, and the hallway, were completely covered.

  “If I help you, you have to help me pick out something to wear tonight,” Annie said, surveying the mess.

  “Done!” Alice replied, not looking up from her spot on the floor. “Wally stopped by to give me an estimate. He said the only way he’d start to work up here is if I cleared out everything, and the downstairs does not have enough room, nor do I want to move everything yet again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, and he also suggested we do the walls first in case paint or dust or whatever gets on the floor. He said it would be easier on him and cheaper for me in the long run if we try to do all the painting at once, and then the floors, and so on. We’re going to try to redo the entire upstairs, all at the same time, which means I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Do you really think you can go through all this?” Annie asked, flinging out her arms to encompass the piles.

  “Sure, why not?” Alice replied, finally looking up from a pile of magazines she was sorting. “Winter’s always my slowest time for booking parties. Luckily, Wally can’t start working for a couple weeks—he’s got a job in Bath or Bar Harbor or Brockton, or one of those that starts with a B. Anyway, I’ve got a little time. And I will be so glad to have this mess out of here. I haven’t even looked at most of this since I moved in. I haven’t used a lot of the stuff in my closets, and definitely haven’t missed the stuff I put in storage, so why hang onto all of it? It will be nice to have a fresh start. Will you help me sort and carry boxes to the dump or the thrift store?”

  “Sure, why not,” Annie echoed, moving aside some junk and sitting down gingerly on the floor. “What about having a yard sale when the weather warms up a bit?”

  “Eeew. Yuck—no! I hate yard sales. You probably don’t remember that Mom was a yard-sale fanatic—holding them and going to them.”

  “No,” Annie said, puzzled. “I don’t remember that at all. Where was I?”

  “Oh, probably doing chores for Betsy, or sleeping. Yard sales are always super-early, which meant I didn’t get to sleep in, and I hated it. But the best part? My mother would often buy things at someone’s yard sale that she’d already sold at one of her yard sales, only to turn around and sell them again at—you guessed it—yet another of her yard sales. My sister, Angela, and I had to help customers. We lived in a constant state of mortification; people of course noticed—and talked about it. They probably had a pool on how many times she’d buy and sell the same item.”

  “Wow. I had no idea your mom was so … quirky. OK, we won’t hold a yard sale. I’ll cart your junk off instead, though I don’t know that much will fit in my car.”

  “That might be a problem,” Alice agreed. “We may have to get some assistance. Doesn’t our fine mayor drive a pickup?”

  Annie felt herself start to blush, so she ignored the question. “What happened to all of your mother’s yard sale finds and inventory? Did she take them to your sister’s house in Florida?”

  “Ha ha. No. Angela and I went through everything, which believe me was quite the task and not a bit of fun. It took weeks and weeks,” Alice said. “We each kept what we wanted and packed boxes for Mom to take with her. Then we had the absolute largest yard sale ever, only we called it an estate sale, which meant we could charge more money. Then we took what didn’t sell to Goodwill.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand your hatred of yard sales, and why your house is usually quite spotless,” Annie said. “Anyway, I do believe you promised me a tour of your dating disasters.”

  “Indeed I did, and you let me know if there’s something you’d like to keep for your very own. I won’t even charge you. You never know what might strike your fancy. Like this outfit, the first on my dating disasters world tour.” Alice held up a multicolored pantsuit. She proceeded to gesture at it as if she were channeling Vanna White. “I wore this lovely ensemble on a date with Malcolm Westley, circa 1985. Note the swirls of burgundy, purple, gold, and sage, and how well they complement the black. And we must not forget the bat-wing sleeves and of course, the monster shoulder pads.”

  “It’s fantastic. Stunning even. Besides the outfit itself, what was disastrous about the date?” Annie asked.

  “Ah, yes, the best part of the story. Malcolm took me to a club to go dancing. There he proceeded to spill my very fruity, non-alcoholic drink all over me, after which he left me at the bar, sticky, dripping, and mad, to dance with other girls.”

  “And why did you keep this outfit?”

  “As a reminder of the date, of course.” Alice said. “So, what do you think? Garbage? Goodwill?”

  “Did you have it cleaned?”

  “But of course! And I actually wore it on a few non-horrible dates too.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” Annie said. “How about Goodwill? I’m sure they have a section for costumes and what not.”

  “Throw it in the appropriate box, will you? They’re the ones in the hallway.” Alice said as she handed it over. Annie managed to chuck the outfit into a box labeled “Goodwill.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” her friend said. “I had no idea you had that skill.”

  “Me either. I’m fairly certain I’ll be getting up approximately sixteen thousand times this afternoon to put things in the right box, after I’ve hurled them into the wrong one. So, what’s next?”

  Alice shared the details of her date with “some dude named Romero,” to which she wore a short, tight, white spandex skirt (Goodwill), which also got a fruity drink spilled on it; her date with preppy Knox Kingsley, which did not go well because she wore all black, including her eye makeup and scrunchy (shirt and pants: Goodwill; scrunchy: trash); and her date with Emmett Sadler, to which she wore brown cowboy boots and a long, multicolored prairie skirt with a white peasant top (kept the boots, the rest to Goodwill).

  “You are a great tour guide,” Annie said, wiping tears from her eyes after several hours of more dating stories. “I’ve laughed so hard, I’m crying and my abs hurt! And really? A guy named Emmett Sadler? Besides the old-man name, why didn’t that work out?”

  “Uh, well, because he was an old man—a friend of one of my college professors. I have no idea why I agreed to go on a date with him.”

  Alice yawned, and then looked at her watch.

  “OK, don’t panic, but it’s four o’clock.”

  “Yikes! Time for me to get dressed!” Annie said.

  ****

  Annie wore—at her friend’s insistence, not to mention Alice’s vehement rejection of all of her clothing choices—a pair of blue jeans embroidered with gold flowers down the left leg, and a cream turtleneck under a green knit cardigan with matching gold embroidered flowers. Gold hoops dangled from her ears, a gold scarab bracelet hung from one wrist, and she wore a pair of clunky brown boots with gold buckles.

  Now Annie sat in front of her dresser while Alice fussed with her hair.

  “Are you sure this isn’t too much gold?” Annie asked.

  “Gold is money, baby. And you look smashing.”

  “Even though literally none of this is mine?”

  “Even so, even so. And you forget. The turtleneck is actually yours.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks. That makes it all so much better.”

  Alice stepped back to survey her handiwork.

  “You look gorgeous, darling, if I do say so myself.”

  “Well, I’d hope you’d say so,” Annie retorted. “These are your clothes and jewelry from Princessa, and you did my hair and makeup.”

  “Yup!” Alice replied, smiling and brandishing her flat iron. “Well, I’
m off. You have a good date, you hear?”

  “Yes, I promise!”

  Annie surveyed herself in the full-length mirror, and then curled up in the library with her crochet work to wait. She’d finally decided on a size G crochet hook for Ian—not too big and not too small—and some 100 percent acrylic yarn in a deep forest green.

  The doorbell rang right at six o’clock.

  “That must be Ian,” Annie said to Boots, who yawned noncommittally. Annie gave herself one last look in the hall mirror, and then opened the door with a bright smile.

  “Hello, beautiful!” Ian said, the big smile on his face mirroring her own. “These are for you.” He handed her a bouquet of white lilies, lavender, and ivy, wrapped with a cream ribbon.

  “Thank you, Ian,” Annie said. “You are so thoughtful. Come in. Have a seat in the library while I put these in water.”

  “I wanted to get you your favorite flower, but then I realized I have no idea what that would be,” he said, following her into the house and taking off his big winter coat. He wore a pair of crisply ironed jeans and a cream sweater.

  Annie almost breathed a sigh of relief at her outfit. But then she worried that maybe they looked too matching. She’d have to ask Alice later. Or not. Her best friend would probably just laugh at her.

  “Oh, I love all flowers,” she replied as he went into the library and she continued to the kitchen.

  Ian had settled himself in her grandfather’s chair by the time she returned, bearing the flowers in a cut-glass vase. She put the vase on a corner of Grandpa’s desk.

  “Those really are lovely,” she said, admiring them. “A girl always loves flowers, and they definitely brighten up the room, especially now when it’s already dark out.” She walked to her chair and sat down. “Are you ready for your first crochet lesson?”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to the task,” Ian replied, splaying out his fingers and examining his hands. “Other than knitting every once in a while—and I haven’t even done that in quite some time—my hands are more used to manual labor and paperwork than yarn and—”

  “A crochet hook?”

  “Yes, a crochet hook.”

  “Oh, you’ll catch on just fine, I’m sure,” Annie replied.

  For the next hour, Annie patiently showed Ian how to crochet. She began with the most basic crochet stitch of all, a chain. When he could do that well, she moved on to single crochet stitch. As Ian practiced, they also talked about the mysterious recipes. Ian told her he’d looked through some old records at the sawmill.

  “Just as I figured, they were no help,” Ian told her. “We have files going back decades on big orders, but I couldn’t find anything about selling or cutting just one or two pieces of lumber. I guess they’d just put the money in the till and go on. Most of our work in recent years has been for major contractors. We haven’t sold directly to many individuals in a long time.”

  “Well, you were sweet to look. Thank you,” Annie said. “By the way, I keep meaning to ask you about your cat, Banana.”

  “Banana? How do you know about him?” Ian looked startled, and dropped his crochet hook on the floor.

  As he bent down to pick it up, Annie laughed. “Oh, I just found Banana’s file in with a bunch of my grandfather’s paperwork. Why did you name your cat ‘Banana’? And why did you keep doing things to make him sick?”

  Ian grinned wryly and shrugged. “What can I say? I wasn’t the brightest young lad. Now you know why I have a dog.”

  They went back to crocheting. “Wow,” Ian said after completing a yard-long chain and then a row of single crochet. “I’m not doing too badly, am I?”

  Annie smiled. “Pretty cool, huh? Making something out of nothing. Well, not nothing, out of yarn, but … you know what I mean.”

  He laughed. “I do indeed. Very satisfying, this crochet thing. Like knitting, but obviously different.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after seven. Shall we go?”

  “Yes, absolutely!” Annie beamed. “Let me just get you a bag for the yarn and the hook, so you can take it with you and practice.” She rummaged in the kitchen for a moment and returned with a brown paper sack. “And here’s a reminder sheet about the stitches,” she added, putting in the pages she’d copied out of one of Betsy’s old pattern books.

  Ian helped her on with her coat, put on his own, and then escorted her to his car.

  9

  Peggy sat next to Annie at the next Hook and Needle Club meeting. She leaned over and asked, “Did you have fun at Sweet Nell’s?” Once again, Alice had baked one of the recipes, and once again, everyone raved about how good it tasted. But at the mention of the karaoke restaurant, everyone quit talking and swiveled their heads to stare at Annie. They started firing questions at her all at once, so much so that she had no idea who had said what.

  “When did you go to Sweet Nell’s?”

  “Who’d you go with?”

  “Did Ian take you?”

  “Did you have fun?”

  “I want to go there sometime. Is the food good?”

  “You had a date with Ian, didn’t you?”

  The cacophony ceased when the bell rang as the door opened and shut.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Ian asked in the sudden silence, taking off his parka and hanging it on the rack next to Alice’s leopard-print coat. When no one answered, but a smattering of snickering ensued, he looked bemused and asked, “OK. What?”

  Mary Beth regained her composure first.

  “Ladies of the Hook and Needle Club, I meant to mention this before our esteemed mayor arrived, but Annie and Peggy have drafted Mr. Ian Butler as a temporary member of our club, in order to help us meet our goal of a hundred and twenty blankets.”

  “And so, maybe, we can get on TV,” Peggy said. “Annie promised to contact all the stations in the area. I for one would love to be on TV … I never have been!”

  “And yes, so we can get on TV,” Mary Beth said, giving Peggy a look. “But mainly so we can help those poor orphans in Haiti and assist Reverend Wallace and the volunteers with their mission trip.”

  “I could hardly say no to such persuasive arguments,” Ian said.

  “How wonderful of you, Ian,” Stella said, her knitting needles never slowing. “You are very kind to help us with our little project. Have one of Alice’s fudge bars. It’s from one of those recipes she found in the carriage house, you know.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he answered, taking a piece from the proffered container. “And yes, Annie told me about the recipes. Of course, the fact that the hole was covered by a different kind of wood interested me. I thought maybe I could help solve the mystery by looking through records at the sawmill, but unfortunately, I didn’t find anything.”

  “I didn’t even think about looking at that plank!” Alice exclaimed.

  “I’m sorry that it was a dead end,” Ian said. He turned to Peggy and said, “Would you mind terribly if I sat next to Annie? She’s begun teaching me how to crochet, and I’d like to continue the lessons with her, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Mayor.” Peggy blushed a little, gathered her things, and moved to a chair next to Mary Beth.

  “Thank you ever so much, dear Peggy,” he said, bowing.

  The blush gone, the young woman retorted, “Now don’t you start with that again. You remember what happened the last time you tried that snobby stuff with me.”

  “Indeed I do, as I’m sure does everyone who dined at The Cup & Saucer that hallowed day.”

  “Which was what exactly?” Mary Beth asked.

  “Come on, Peggy, help me out,” Annie said impulsively. “Let’s reenact it for them.”

  The two acted out the scene, with great embellishment of course, much to the ladies’ amusement. Ian found himself laughing as well, especially when, in this version, the chowder actually did get dumped on him.

  After their performance, Annie and Peggy bowed to the assembled ladies and took their seats.
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br />   “Now that we’re all settled—” Kate began to say once the laughter had died down. She was interrupted by the bell over the door and the appearance of Mike Malone. “Now what? Are you here to join the Hook and Needle Club too?” she asked.

  Mike look startled. “Why? Am I supposed to? No, Annie just asked me to get a picture of Ian crocheting for The Point. You know, to help publicize Blanket Haiti. Great name, by the way.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Kate replied. “My daughter and her best friend came up with it.”

  “Nice,” he said, barely glancing her way. “Sorry I have to rush, but I gotta get back to the store. Ian, Annie, would you mind looking this way please?”

  The next few minutes were filled with “Ian, please turn your head to the right” and “Annie, hold up your crochet a little higher” until Mike felt certain he’d gotten a good photograph.

  “Thanks for your time,” he said, grabbing three of Alice’s fudge bars on the way out the door. Kate watched him go and then turned back to the assembled group.

  “As I was trying to say,” she began, “we need to talk about our project. First of all, thank you to everyone who put flyers up around town. I think I’ve made more copies in the past week than I’ve made in my entire life. There’s a stack on the register counter if you need more. And don’t be shy about handing them to everyone you encounter.”

  She paused dramatically. “And thanks to Gordon Richards—our office supply salesman—his company is donating ten cases of paper to the church so we can make as many flyers as we need.”

  The ladies burst into applause.

  Kate was determined to stay on track, so she continued. “Secondly, I’m pleased to announce that we’ve received our first blanket donations from the community. Valerie Duffy, our very own librarian, stopped by the store last week to buy a few things, and on Friday, she brought us three cotton blankets. That means Valerie had the honor of being the first person to color in one of the blankets on our poster.”

  She pointed to it—all the ladies turned their heads to see that the blanket on the bottom had been colored a bright green, with Valerie’s neat signature in the middle.