by Joyce Magnin
"That's right, Leon Fontaine," Edie continued. "She seemed a might suspicious about him. Said he found the Fountain of Youth or had some sort of relationship to Ponce de León? You know that explorer fella who discovered Florida?"
"Not exactly, Edie," I said. "She just intimated that Leon's name was similar to Ponce's and that his last name meant fountain in French or Italian or something." I tried to wave the subject away, but Ruth lit up.
"Vera," Ruth said. "Why, that little busybody. She just has to stick her big, fat nose in everything that happens around here—even when nothing is happening—even when we don't know what is happening. And who is she to draw correlations between that man and a dead explorer, I mean what in tarnation do you make of that?"
Mr. Brisco called number eleven.
"Oh," said Janeen, "I guess we better move up in line. I sure hope he got us a good turkey this year."
"Brisco's turkeys are always good," Ruth said. "It's all in how you cook them. I'm planning something different."
"Different?" Janeen said. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, what is wrong with a traditional turkey dinner? Why, my Frank would never stand for anything other than a good old-fashioned turkey. He loves to carve."
"I'm planning a Hawaiian Luau Tropical Thanksgiving," Ruth said, so proud I thought she'd bust.
Edie snickered into her hand, as did a few other people. "Did you say Hawaiian? What do they know about Thanksgiving? It's not like the pilgrims landed in Honolulu."
Janeen smirked. "Are you planning to stuff the turkey with a pineapple?"
"As a matter of fact," Ruth said.
Mr. Brisco called number twelve. And we moved closer to the display case filled with meats and sausages.
"As a matter of fact I am making a wonderful stuffing with macadamia nuts and passion fruit and—"
Edie and Janeen laughed.
Ruth stopped talking.
"Oh, we're sorry dear," Edie said. "We just never heard of a tropical Thanksgiving. I mean, what is the point?"
"I only wanted to attempt something fancy. Anyone can roast a turkey. But it takes real cooking finesse to make it . . . spectacular."
Edie looked at me. "I imagine all the regulars are invited, but what are you going to do about Agnes? This must be her first holiday away from home."
"We'll be taking dinner to her up at Greenbrier," Ruth said.
"Do you think you should?" Edie asked. "Isn't she on a strict diet?"
"Diets don't count on Thanksgiving," Ruth said.
I was glad when Mr. Brisco called Edie's number and she moved forward to claim her fresh turkey. It was so big it took the two of them to carry it out the door.
We waited a bit longer while other customers received their orders. Most people walked away with turkeys but others also left with sausage and ground beef. Finally, he called our number.
"Good morning, Ruth," Mr. Brisco said. "I got your bird all ready for you. Picked you out a nice one, nice and young. Should be tasty."
"Thank you," Ruth said. "Your turkeys are always the tastiest."
"And how are you, Griselda?" Mr. Brisco asked. "Don't see you in here much since Agnes moved to the nursing home."
"I know," I said. "Seems I don't eat much meat these days."
"And how is your sister?" he asked as his helper handed over the turkey to Ruth.
"She's doing well," I said.
But it seemed that even Mr. Brisco was not resistant to rumors. "So tell me, Griselda." He leaned over the counter. "Any truth to what I hear is happening up there. I mean the talk is pretty scary. Mildred Blessing's been snooping all over town, getting folks nervous."
"The truth is no one knows what's happening. Probably nothing more that the residents feeling a little happier than usual."
"I think it's just that the holidays are coming," Ruth said.
"Could be. Could be," Mr. Brisco said. He handed Ruth some change. "Thanks for your business as always. And happy Thanksgiving."
I was quite glad to be out of the shop but not thrilled when Ruth suggested another visit to Madam Zola's.
"I need more nuts," she said. "I used them all up in my experimentation phase."
"Well, I'll wait in the truck. You can go in yourself."
"Ah, you won't make me do that, will you?" We drove down the street and found the last parking spot anywhere near Madam Zola's. "Come on," I said. "Let's go get your nuts."
"Ah," Madam Zola said when we walked into the store. "I had a vision you vood be returning."
"Yeah, right," I whispered. "Just tell her to give you the nuts and let's get out of here. It gives me the creeps."
Madam Zola stepped closer to us. She still dragged her left leg behind her.
"Your nuts," Ruth said. "I mean I would like some more of your macadamia nuts, please. Just one jar this time."
"But of course you do. Top shelf, dahling."
I reached up and grabbed the jar. "Quick, pay for them."
It took Madam Zola a little too long to reach the cash register. But she finally made it. Ruth paid for the macadamias, and I thought we were out of there until Madam offered to read Ruth's palm. Ruth looked at her palm.
"I don't get it," she said. "How can these lines tell you anything? It's a bunch of malarkey, ain't it?"
Madam Zola's eyes grew wide and maybe a touch wild.
"Come on now, Ruth, before she puts a curse on us or something."
On the way home, Ruth said, "Can you believe those two?"
"Who?" I said. I was still seeing Madam Zola's angry eyes in my brain.
"Edie and Janeen. If they aren't the biggest buttinskies in town. And what about that sister-in-law of mine? She's got no right reporting about Greenbrier when nothing's been proved. And what could that weird little man have to do with Greenbrier?"
"Oh, she just likes to stir up trouble when she can. Her audience likes it."
"I suppose so, but all those people up at the nursing home have no way to defend themselves."
"You're right about that. But let's just hope there is nothing to defend and Mildred or someone, maybe Doctor Silver, gets to the bottom of it soon."
"I hope so," Ruth said. "For Greenbrier's sake." She thought a moment. "But tell me the truth, Griselda, do you think that fella, Leon, has anything to do with it—I mean really?"
"No, I don't think so. Mildred and I went to visit him at Paradise. He is a bit—eccentric," I said. "But I don't get the impression he's doing something to hurt people. He just loves what he does—even if he might be a little overly impressed with himself."
"Really? You talked to him?"
"Mildred and me. I got a little worried after Vera's radio spot that she might be onto something. I mean it is strange—his name, the fountain, the folks at the nursing home turning into children and teenagers."
"Uhm, uhm, uhm." Ruth shook her head. "I just can't think about all of this now. I got to get ready for my big day. Thanksgiving is just two days away."
"Now you're sure I can't help with anything?" I said as I turned onto Hector Street. "I can make sweet potatoes with those little marshmallows and maybe a three-bean salad."
"Three-bean," Ruth said. "I got a six-bean salad planned. "It involves pine nuts. Ever hear of pine nuts? They come from actual pine cones."
"Nope, never tasted pine nuts. Are they good?"
"You'll see soon enough. Like I've been telling everyone. Just bring your appetites."
"And your sense of humor," I said.
"What?"
"Nothing, Ruth. I'm just being facetious."
I pulled up out front of Ruth's house. "Are you coming to the next Yuletide Committee meeting?"
"Oh, sure, certainly, Griselda. I wouldn't miss it. When is it again?"
"Monday, at the café."
"I'll be there. I'm planning on sewing the shepherd costumes again and the sheep. I just love to make the robes. I wonder who will be Mary this year. Seems like all the girls are getting too big or are too young and we
might have more sheep than we need."
"Oh, we'll find someone, and Babette will always do it, you know. She's eighteen now but that won't matter."
"Well, it is the church children's pageant."
"I know. But when you need a Mary, you need a Mary."
I was driving down Filbert toward the funeral home when I noticed Charlotte Figg standing outside that empty store. She appeared to be waiting for someone and I decided that what she was doing was much more intriguing than going to the library, particularly since everyone's been talking about her opening a pie shop.
I pulled over and parked the truck.
"Charlotte," I called as I walked across the street.
"Hello." She waved.
I felt a wide smile stretch across my face. "Are you considering renting the space?"
She shielded her eyes with her hand and peered into the large window. "I thought I'd take a look. No reason not to— take a look I mean."
"I think it would make a fine pie shop. I can just see it. Charlotte Figg's Pie Shop in big bold neon lights."
This time a smile appeared on Charlotte's face. "Neon? Really? That does sound nice."
Charlotte tilted her head slightly. She was an attractive woman with graying hair—but not completely—broad shoulders, but not big—and her high cheekbones were a bit flushed.
"It just seems like such a huge undertaking. Something my dead husband would never approve, but like Rose keeps telling me, he's not here to boss me anymore."
"I think most folks can do whatever they set their hearts on. Look at me, I wanted to fly an airplane and now I'm this close," I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart, "to getting my pilot's license."
"You are? Well, I think that's just amazing. I didn't get my driver's license until I was close to forty, and Herman wasn't even too happy about that."
"Like Rose says, he's not here and you need to be your own person—even if it means opening a pie shop."
She shielded her eyes and looked inside again. "It would be nice. I can see it now, a long counter with a glass case filled with pies and maybe a couple of tables with pretty yellow tablecloths and flowers in the center where folks can sit and eat pie and drink tea or coffee and talk their cares away."
"That does sound nice."
Charlotte looked down the street in both directions. "I am looking forward to Thanksgiving. And so are Rose and Ginger."
"I am too. It should be a great time."
"I plan on bringing apple pie and maybe a berry or two, pumpkin, of course. You think that will be OK?"
"I can't wait. I think your pies will be the only normal food there—well, your pie and Zeb's—if he comes."
"If he comes?"
I looked at my feet and wondered if I should say anything personal to this woman. I hardly knew her but there was something easy in her countenance and body language that invited me to speak. Agnes always made me feel drawn out, like chewing gum, when we spoke.
"You know he's my—gee, what would you call him—boyfriend? It sounds so high schoolish to say."
"I didn't know that. I only ate at the café once, maybe twice. I'm not sure if I ever met Zeb."
"He'd be the one with the paper hat. The chief cook and bottle washer as he calls himself."
"No, sorry. I don't remember. But I hope he comes." Charlotte looked down the street. "Boris Lender was supposed to meet me. Guess that's why I seem so . . . distracted."
"He'll be here. I've never known Boris to miss an appointment."
"Oh, good. Anyway, is everything OK—with Zeb and you?"
I shook my head. "Not really. He's very jealous."
Charlotte took a step back. "Jealousy is never a good sign. It's sad when a man can't let a woman be herself without going all nuts. Tread softly. And just be very sure."
That was when Boris arrived, wearing his usual gray suit with the striped tie. He carried a thick cigar cradled between his middle and index fingers.
"Afternoon," he said flicking the ash in the gutter. He looked first to Charlotte and then me. "Are you with Charlotte, Griselda?" he asked.
"No, no I was just saying hello."
I touched her arm. "I guess I'll see you Thursday."
"Looking forward to it."
"Be ready for anything," I said.
"Well, Charlotte," Boris said. "Shall we look inside? I have a good feeling you will soon be our newest shop owner."
I headed back across the street with Charlotte's words, "tread softly" ringing in my ears.
11
Thanksgiving morning I woke early, 5:00 a.m. No matter what Ruth might have said, I knew she was going to need some help. So I fed Arthur his Thanksgiving meal and headed over to Ruth's. It was cold and icy, as frost had etched the windows and my truck wouldn't start. But that was OK. I walked the few blocks to her house.
I pushed open the front door. "Ruth," I called, first in whisper and because I thought there was a small chance she was still asleep. But then I heard a crash, like pots and pans falling from a cabinet in the kitchen and went running. "Ruth. Are you all right?"
She was sitting in the middle of the floor, sobbing.
"What's wrong?" I said.
"If I ever say I'm making Thanksgiving again, just hit me over the head and put me out of my misery. I just plain didn't think that cooking for eight people, nine including myself, ten, including making a plate up for Agnes would be so cottonpicking hard."
"How can I help?" I took her hand and lifted her up.
"Well, for one thing I really don't know what to do with that bird. How long it takes to cook, and that six-bean tropical salad I was making has been demoted to three beans. And I can't find my macadamia nuts."
"They're probably still in your handbag. That's where you put them Tuesday."
"Oh, that's right. I hope they're still there."
Ruth looked around her kitchen. "Have you ever known me to make such a mess? I don't understand."
"It's a lot to do, Ruth. Don't worry. You have plenty of time, and I'm here to help now. Just tell me what to do."
"I appreciate that but I don't really have plenty of time. Folks are arriving at three o'clock. Must take ten hours for a bird that big to cook through."
"No, no, it will take half the time. You don't need to even pop him into the oven until ten o'clock or so. You'll want him to set a while after cooking."
"Will you do it? Will you take care of the turkey? I think I can handle the rest—especially mashed potatoes. Now that I know I can do."
"You mean you're making regular mashed potatoes? The white kind?"
"Well, yeah. I thought about it and I just don't have the skills needed to make something exotic. I keep trying and I keep falling flat on my face."
"I'm sorry Ruth. Maybe we can do a little traditional mixed with a little exotic."
"That's true. It certainly doesn't mean we still can't use all the decorations and hand out leis, and I'm still making my pineapple upside-down cherry surprise cake."
"What's the surprise?"
"I ain't gonna tell you. It wouldn't be a surprise if I did."
I tied a yellow apron with white trim around my waist and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. "OK, Ruth," I said drying my hands on a terry towel. "What can I do?"
Ruth looked around at the mounds of food and bags and cans scattered on the countertop and the small round kitchen table. "I don't rightly know. It's early to prepare the veggies, and the hors d'oeuvres can wait.
"What about the turkey? I can get him stuffed and into a pan and ready for the oven."
"Oh, would you? Thank you."
It didn't take me too long to get old Tom ready for roasting. After stuffing the breast with Ruth's exotic mixture, which I must say smelled kind of tasty, I laced him up and plopped him into a roasting pan. Then I slathered his skin with butter and salt and pepper.
"Say good-bye, Ruth."
Ruth turned from what she was doing with the pineapple. "Good-bye, Tom. Roast well."
And then I got busy preparing the vegetables for cooking and even mixed up dough for biscuits. Almost before we knew it the kitchen had taken on that Thanksgiving aroma that had the capacity to warm even the coldest hearts. That nutty, brown, spicy smell with just enough savory to make your mouth water.
Later in the day, Ruth was busy making her pineapple surprise when the first guests arrived. She was up to her elbows in some kind of yellowish mixture in the stand mixer, even had a streak or three of it in her hair. The first to arrive were Charlotte, Rose, and Ginger Rodgers. I greeted them at the door.
"Welcome. Come on in and get comfy. Dinner will be about an hour or so."
Charlotte was carrying some kind of fancy pie-carrying bag. It was white with tiny red roses all over it. Embroidered on the bag were the words, "Nothing Like a Warm Pie Fresh from Our Oven to Your Affair."
"It's not mine," she said when she noticed me reading. "Herman brought it home for one day. Never did tell me where he swiped it from. Where would you like me to put these?"
I looked around. Just about every spare inch of table and counter surface had been occupied.
"I'll just take them into the kitchen."
Fortunately, I was able to set the pies on top of the refrigerator.
"Happy Thanksgiving," Ginger said when I returned to the living room. "And thanks for inviting us." She sat on the long blue sofa. Her feet barely reached the edge of the seat cushion.
"Sure thing," I said. I took their coats and hung them in the closet.
"This is a very nice house," Rose said. "Very spacious—and what are those? Palm trees?"
"Yes," I said. "These old Victorians have lots of room—and yep, palm trees. Ruth wanted a tropical Thanksgiving."
"Oh, how cool," said Ginger. "And look, I see tiki torches in the dining room. Is she going to light them?" "Oh, I hope not," I said. "I don't think the fire department would appreciate getting called away from their Thanksgiving to put out the fire."
That was when Ruth came from the kitchen. She was wearing an orange apron with a giant pumpkin appliquéd on the front and she carried a large mixing spoon.
"Hello," she said. "Happy Thanksgiving."
