The Big Chili

by Julia Buckley

  My father felt the same, and sometimes accompanied her, but this evening he had committed to going out for coffee with his friend Sam, a long-lost college buddy who had recently moved to Pine Haven. Since his arrival, my father suddenly had a new best friend. As I watched my dad dig out his old Indiana sweatshirt and pull it over his head, I remembered Mike Sullivan’s longing for someone to talk to outside of his marriage.

  “Dad,” I said, as he ran a brush through his thinning hair. “Do you ever feel that your marriage is a little island, and you’ve lost all connection to the outside world?”

  My father cocked his head slightly. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just something someone said the other day.”

  He shook his head and brushed some Mick hair off of his jeans. “I married your mother so that I would be on a little island with her. That’s what you want when you love someone. It’s a happy island, and I have no need for the mainland. And that’s all the metaphor I choose to indulge in this evening.”

  I laughed and hugged him. He kissed my mother, grabbed his keys, and went out for his evening of nostalgia.

  “He’s a good guy,” I said to my mom.

  “He’s okay,” she joked.

  Then she and I bundled into her car and traveled to the church. “That police car is following us again,” she said. “I wonder how long they’re going to do that. It’s got to be costing a lot of overtime money. I can’t imagine the Pine Haven PD will want to fund it much longer, can you?”

  I hadn’t really thought much of the salaries of the people involved, but this made sense. Like all of America, Pine Haven had been forced to tighten its municipal budget belt, which had been discussed ad nauseam in the local papers. I felt a burst of gratitude to Parker. He was making this happen, and there were probably people who opposed him. “I wonder if I should tell Parker to let it go,” I said. “This can’t be making him any friends over there.”

  “Maybe just a few more days,” my mother said, and I laughed.

  * * *

  MY MOTHER GOT busy in the kitchen when we got there; Pet Grandy and Father Schmidt were handing bedrolls to volunteers and asking them to set up sleep stations. I stood in a line of about ten people who had showed up to help and waited for my pile of freshly laundered linens. I realized, as I watched Pet rush back and forth between a big wheeled laundry hamper and the counter where Father Schmidt was holding court, that I was among the people who took it for granted that things just got done: clothing got laundered, food got made, people who needed feeding were fed. But all of that only happened because of people like Pet, and Father Schmidt, and my mother.

  “Hello, Lilah,” Father Schmidt said. “You look nice this evening.”

  I was wearing jeans and a purple sweater with some rather grungy gym shoes, but I took the compliment. “Thanks, Father. What do you need me to do?”

  He picked up a bundle and studied it. Then he made a wry face at Pet, who had just bustled up to us. “Perpetua, we have a problem,” he said. “That sounded like I’m from NASA. Houston, we have a problem!” They both laughed at his lame joke. Father Schmidt loved to laugh, but none of his jokes were ever funny, including the ones he insisted on telling in his sermons. I had often wondered if the parishioners who forced out laughter at those times weren’t, in fact, sinning.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Pet asked. She took the bundle, studied it, and then laughed again. “Okay—you got me!” Then she turned to me, taking pity on my blank expression and my inability to get the joke. “All of these should have a sleeping bag, a washrag and towel, a Baggie full of necessities like toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, all that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look at this one!” Pet said. “It’s just a sleeping bag and an empty Baggie!” She and Father Schmidt laughed again. This moment was apparently priceless for them.

  I was struck, as I looked at their laughing faces, by how comfortable they were together. Even though Alice had been cruel to suggest that Pet had romantic designs on Father Schmidt, it was clear that their friendship was almost like a happy, platonic marriage. Even the way Father Schmidt had said her name sounded like a doting husband speaking to his wife. It was sweet, the way they interacted with each other.

  Pet went to fix the faulty bundle, and Father Schmidt found me a new one that was not quite so hilarious in its oddity. I took it from him. “Now just find a cot and set up the station. When you come back you can grab another,” he said.

  I paused. “Pet sure does a lot around here,” I said.

  Father Schmidt beamed at me. “St. Bartholomew Parish would crumble to the ground if it ever lost Perpetua Grandy,” he said proudly. “And I probably would, as well. I’m another old ruin that she somehow keeps in shape.” He grinned at me, and I grinned back.

  I took my bundle to the line of cots in the north side of the hall. The room looked different from the way it had looked on bingo night. The chairs and tables were gone; now the space would function, in essence, as a hotel, and the parishioners who bustled around were attempting to make it comfortable and pleasing for those who would come here, trying to make the best of a difficult situation. I found the first free cot and spread out the sleeping bag, unzipping it and folding back the top coverlet. At the foot of the bag I laid out the towel, washrag, and Baggie full of necessities. Angelica Grandy came past and handed me a pillow, which I centered neatly at the top of the sleeping bag. Harmonia followed her with a bag of cards and chocolate kisses; I took one of each and read the card. “God Loves You. From St. Bartholomew Parish Members.”

  I centered this on the pillow, along with the kiss. This was a class-A shelter—it provided chocolate on pillows. I liked that.

  I set up two more beds, and by then the rest of them were completed. I felt that I hadn’t done much at all, so I found my mother in the kitchen, where they were making sloppy joes for the evening meal. “Need help?” I asked.

  “You can start pouring drinks and setting them on the counter there,” she said. “Fill half the cups with milk and half with the Coke. If they want coffee, that’s self-serve.” I found the little disposable cups and started filling them with the required beverages. If I were tired and hungry, I decided, I would find this place most hospitable.

  While I was filling the cups, Father Schmidt began admitting people for the evening. What surprised me most about the people who needed shelter was how little any of them looked like stereotypical homeless people. They looked, for the most part, like people you would see every day at shopping malls or restaurants. They were men and women, and they were all particularly polite as they filed in to the tables that the volunteers had set for dinner. Some of them came over to claim a beverage; they knew the drill from previous stays at St. Bart’s. “Thank you very much, young lady,” said an elderly gentleman who wore a white dress shirt with a bow tie.

  “You’re quite welcome. I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

  He winked at me and made his way back to a table, where he seemed to know a couple of other people. They talked quietly while they ate the fruit cups that had been set on their plates.

  Perpetua appeared in the corner with a little trolley full of cleaning supplies. So she’d been here for setup, and she was on cleanup detail, too. I wondered what Pet got out of all this volunteering. Did it bring her joy? Did she feel it was necessary to ensure her a place in heaven? Did she just enjoy being around her friend Father Schmidt?

  Harmonia approached me with her bag of chocolate kisses. It looked small in her big Grandy hands. “I have some extra, Lilah. Would you like one?”

  “Sure.” I took a kiss and unwrapped it. “It’s nice of you guys to do this. I feel guilty, looking at the Grandy family.”

  Harmonia shrugged. “It’s what we do. We just grew up doing all these things, and we kept doing them. We like it.” She smiled at her sister Angelica, who was blushing while one of the diners
flirted with her. “It’s nice to have everything back the way it was.”

  I nodded. “It’s been pretty crazy around here, hasn’t it?”

  My mother approached. “Okay—the dishwashing crew is here, so I guess I’m off duty.”

  “Thanks for coming out to help,” Harmonia said. Angelica, having extricated herself from the amorous diner, came to join her. Both women wore cross medallions on delicate silver chains.

  “Those are pretty,” I said.

  Harmonia lifted her necklace. “Pet gave them to us last Christmas.”

  Perpetua Grandy, I marveled as we walked out. Seemingly, she was everything to everyone, and this church hall was her kingdom.

  I wondered, as I followed my mother into the cold, dark parking lot, if a proverbial queen like Pet could really kill to protect her throne.

  But where had that thought come from? This was Pet, of the velour sweat suits and the secret chili. She was a lot of things, but a murderer wasn’t one of them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Britt called me at work on Monday. “Hey, Lilah. Can I pick you up from work today? I’ve set up a little meeting with Esther Reynolds.”

  “What? Oh my gosh. I don’t know if I’m wearing something nice enough—”

  Britt laughed. “We’re not meeting the queen. Esther is down-to-earth. But you have to see her kitchen.”

  “I do, I really do. Oh, Britt, you are my best friend.”

  Britt giggled. “I’ll be there at—what time—four?”

  “Yeah, that’s great. Thanks so much.”

  I was so thrilled at the thought of meeting the Haven creator that I didn’t get angry when Mrs. Andrews cornered me and started telling a boring story about her dot matrix printer and how it used to be the norm in offices. I eyed her giant white hairdo and wondered if I could hide a pencil in there.

  My father appeared with some file folders. “Celia, could you file these with the recent closings?”

  Mrs. Andrews took them with a flourish, leaving a trace of lilac perfume in her wake.

  “Lilah, I need you to make some calls, see if these people are still interested. If anyone sounds ready to make an offer, transfer them to me.”

  “You got it, Donald Trump.”

  My father scowled. “Never compare me to him again.”

  “Just kidding, Dad. Why are you so grumpy?”

  He yawned. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Your mother wanted the window slightly open, and it was freezing! Sharing a bed with that woman is a constant challenge.”

  “That woman got up early to make you coffee. And fresh air is good for you.”

  “That’s what she said. It was forty-eight degrees last night, Lilah.”

  I laughed and ruffled his hair, which also made him scowl. Then I got to work on the phone calls, which were mostly failures, but my last try generated enough interest that I patched the guy through to my father. Maybe he’d get a sale out of it—that would cheer him up.

  * * *

  BRITT PICKED ME up in her sea glass–blue Passat, which had been a gift from Terry. Yeah, that was how people like Britt and Terry rolled—giving each other cars and throwing lavish parties. Since they were both particularly kind and down-to-earth, I couldn’t even resent them for their luxuries; I simply admired them as one would admire royalty from another world.

  “Hey, Lilah! Oh, don’t you look cute, with that pretty knitted sweater!”

  My mother had made it. I tended to wear it when I felt nostalgic for my childhood, when much of my clothing (and Cam’s) had been mother-made. Today’s sweater had been knitted with a multihued yarn in autumn tones. It was lovely, and people always commented on it. I wore it with brown corduroys and flat brown Aerosoles. I had thought it was an attractive outfit, although it didn’t hold a candle to Britt’s elegant brushed-suede jacket in an unusual shade of purple, worn over an understated blue pantsuit. Her dark hair hung in a glossy, fragrant sheet on either side of her pretty face.

  “Thanks. You look amazing.”

  “You’re too kind.” She fiddled with the windshield wiper switch; a cold drizzle was falling.

  “I’m actually having second thoughts about meeting her today,” I said.

  Britt laughed. “That’s called cold feet, and I will not allow it. Esther is expecting us, and she said she was making gingerbread cake.”

  “Oh,” I said. One couldn’t argue with Britt, no matter how nervous one might feel.

  Moments later we pulled up in front of Haven, a darling little storefront right next to the Village Hall, with a hand-painted sign of white letters on a green background, and a simple graphic of a fork and knife with smiling faces. The sign read HAVEN OF PINE HAVEN: CATERING FOR EVERY OCCASION.

  The moment we crossed the threshold I knew that we were in the presence of greatness; the aroma alone told me that. This wasn’t just the smell of gingerbread—buttery tones over cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg with a slight vanilla base—but some extra, indefinable ingredient that made me feel nostalgic, happy, and sad all at once. Nothing can elicit emotion—and memory—like the scent of food, and this came home to me in an instant in Esther Reynolds’s kitchen.

  We were in a little green-tiled lobby, and before us was a long white counter that held a cash register and a big sample book full of photographs of food. I opened this and began to page through it, but my eyes kept straying past the counter to the giant kitchen beyond. Everything was stainless steel and spotless. I felt a burst of envy for the giant island in the center of the room—how easy it would be to prepare multiple dishes on that work space! Pots, pans, and bowls were tucked under the island on a variety of wooden shelves; it was clear that the furniture had been designed with their profession in mind.

  I returned to the book in front of me and flipped to a page with the heading “High Tea.” Beneath a picture of a long wooden table filled with food were various menu options, including things like sun-dried tomato–asparagus muffins, spiced blueberry scones, olive and cream cheese sandwiches on pretzel bread, caramelized puff pastry with hazelnut praline mousseline cream . . .

  “Oh my! You’re here. I thought I heard the bell. Hello, Britt.” Esther Reynolds appeared before us, placid and bespectacled, white-haired but not old. She embraced my companion with a warm smile. Then she turned to me. “And you must be Lilah. Britt told me you’re quite a cook.”

  “Oh—well—I like to think so. I’ve enjoyed your food at many events, and it’s all been fantastic. I’m a bit in awe—you’ve always been the go-to catering company of this town.”

  She smiled at me. “That’s nice of you, dear. We have held our own, I’ll say that, and we have a loyal client base. But my husband and I are the main chefs these days. My daughter Marian and her husband used to work with us, but they had a great opportunity to relocate to Philadelphia. And our sons have no interest in cooking—Mark’s a computer whiz and Luke’s a teacher. So here we are. We’re considering retirement; maybe finding out what it’s like to live in Florida or California.”

  “Or maybe you can just find someone who’s experienced and a great helper, like Lilah,” Britt said. She really was selling me, which I appreciated.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” Esther said.

  We moved past her front counter and into a side room where she’d set a table with a white linen cloth and delicate china teacups. The teapot looked at least fifty years old, and it bore a pattern of pale pink tea roses. “That’s lovely,” I said.

  “Thanks. Sit down, sit down. Help yourself to some gingerbread cake and tea. I always like to talk over a meal, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Britt and I said in unison. We did as Esther urged and helped ourselves; soon I was tasting the wonder that the lovely aroma had promised.

  “This is amazing,” I said. “I think I can pinpoint all the ingredients except one. I can taste the ginger,
the nutmeg—vanilla, butter, cinnamon—”

  “Cloves,” said Esther with a smile. “And molasses. And some of my husband Rick’s homemade applesauce. And some almond paste.”

  “Almonds! That’s it. I never would have paired almonds with those other things, but somehow—God, this is good.”

  We ate for a moment in silence, Britt groaning her agreement as she sampled her own cake from the tiny rose-patterned plate.

  “Thank you so much, Esther,” Britt said. “The tea and cake—such a soul-warming treat after that cold rain outside.”

  “Food warms the soul, indeed,” Esther said, smiling. Then she turned to me. “What sort of things do you like to make, Lilah?”

  I stared at her, awestruck, and then, as I had done with Britt days before, I told her about my undercover business. How I had expanded from my first few clients; how I had to keep people’s secrets as a part of my service; how I had invented various new covered dishes to meet the demand of school events, bingo suppers, Scout meetings.

  Esther stirred some sugar into her tea and nodded. “That is clever,” she said. “Very innovative. You found your niche clientele. But obviously you’d like to be able to come out of the cooking closet, as it were. Establish a name for yourself.”

  “Yes, that’s the goal,” I said. “Although whatever I did, I’d keep a lot of my clients, since I generally make their food on my own time—evenings and weekends.”

  “Hmm.” She cut some more pieces of cake and offered one to both Britt and me; we accepted. “I wonder if you might like to try working at Haven. We could call it a trial period for you and for us. Jim and I still aren’t sure that we don’t want to retire. On the other hand, if we had some capable help around here, we might not have to think about closing our doors quite so soon.”