Good painting? Good grief.
“Good painting to you,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
“It’s a small town,” I replied. “Maybe you’ll show up at my back door with your nuts again.”
Leo shook his head as he turned to go, and I could hear him chuckling as he went down the stairs. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him about the paint all over the back of his shirt.
I grinned at Logan, slapped him on the shoulder, and said “I’m starving. Let’s go have some snacks!”
Chapter 7
That week sped by, and before I knew it, I was helping my mother pack for her reality show. And that’s a sentence rarely uttered. The producers had given her a list of things she couldn’t bring, including a phone or laptop. She’d need to be totally cut off from what was going on at home, and while that would have driven me batty, she was excited to unplug. She went through her final to-do lists with me, made sure I had everything I needed for the diner for the summer, and then was ready to go.
The trait that annoyed me the most about my mother was also one that I admired: her ability to go with the flow. Growing up, it was frustrating as hell to have my only parent be so easygoing. I wished for the kind of mom who made sure I did my homework, made sure things like permission slips were signed and bag lunches packed for field trips. But her flight-of-fancy brain also caused her to wake me up out of a dead sleep at night to make sure I didn’t miss a meteor shower, and sing Christmas carols in July at the top of her lungs as we barreled up the highway because she just had to go to an antique fair in Albany she’d just read about.
This same attitude made it possible for her to enjoy the trip she was about to go on and truly see it as an adventure. I watched her buzz about the kitchen, searching for a chopstick to stick into her hair bun while we waited for the car that was picking her up and taking her to the airport. Aunt Cheryl lived in Dayton, Ohio, and was meeting her in New York City. Since Aunt Cheryl was short, squatty, and cantankerous, the two of them were going to make for great television.
“Okay, is there anything else you need from me? You’ve got the phone numbers for all of the employees in case you need to get hold of them, and did you ever find the insurance papers in that stack I showed you on the desk?”
“I do and I did. We’re good, Mom.” And I was ready to take over.
“And don’t forget—if the walk-in seems like its leaking, just shove a few towels under there and it’s good to go. It usually only does that on really hot days, and you know how it can get in July,” she said, buzzing by in a cloud of neroli and peppermint. Mom was a big fan of essential oils. Hmm, was that a hint of clary sage? She might just be a little nervous.
“I got it, Mom,” I said, handing her the passport she’d just set down and now couldn’t find again.
“Oh, thank you, dear, thank you.” When a horn sounded outside, she almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh! That’s my car, it’s time to go!” She hooted, then ran out the front door. I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched her excitement, helping her get her bags into the car. I doubted any of the other contestants would be traveling with a vintage army knapsack embroidered with the phrase Make Biscuits Not War on the side.
“And you’ve got the contact information for the producers, so if you need me, you call, right?”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She stopped loading her bags and looked at me. “I don’t worry about you handling things, Roxie. That’s never something I have to think about,”
“So go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back,” I assured her, patting her on the arm.
She caught me in a close hug, holding me tight. “You have some fun this summer too. Enjoy, okay?”
“I will, Mom.”
“Use mitts if you’re baking; that old oven is testy.”
“I will.”
“Use citronella oil if you’re in the woods.”
“I will.”
“Use sunscreen if you go swimming in the lake.”
“I will.”
“Use a condom if you have sex with a farmer.”
“I will—Jesus, Mother!”
She snickered, then climbed into the backseat, blowing me a kiss and telling me that she loved me. She told the driver to take her away on an adventure, and then she was gone, leaving me shaking my head. Honestly.
Ears and cheeks burning, I headed back inside and took a good look around. I had the day off, and I knew exactly how I was going to spend it. I cleaned.
I’d always been the housekeeper, and always would be. I enjoyed cleaning, and clutter made me nuts. So I stacked and straightened, dusted and swept. I didn’t throw anything away, since it wasn’t my house, but I did file and box up much of the stuff and nonsense. Once the living room was done, I tackled the kitchen, making the wood floors gleam and the countertops sparkle.
Taking a load of boxes out to the shed, I decided the garden could use a good weeding and made that my afternoon project. The annual beds were a tangled mess of honeysuckle vines and old shrub roses, the blooms thick and the thorns thicker.
As I was dragging a mess of cut vines back toward the trash heap, something caught my eye. Something that had been part of the backyard for so long that it was just part of the scenery: the old Airstream trailer, parked behind a row of straggly pines.
It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d used to it to travel the country on the original hippie train, Woodstock not being far from Bailey Falls. After he passed away, it was put out to pasture. It was always far down on the list of things to do, with something else always taking priority for where to spend those few extra dollars each month, and it gradually became a giant starting-to-rust elephant in the backyard, so big it was unnoticeable.
But today I noticed it, and went in for a closer look. I’d always thought these old trailers were kind of beautiful, in a retro kitschy kind of way. Very Rosie the Riveter meets the open road. But this one was half covered by weeds and listing to one side on bald tires, doubtless a home for critters as well. Someday it could be fun to look inside the trailer, but not today.
I returned to my garden work, finished it up, and then headed inside. After my mother’s constant chatter for the last week or so, the small house felt big and empty.
Another day, another breakfast rush. I kept my eyes and ears open as I worked my first managing shift at the diner the next day. The employees had mostly been there for years and the place really was capable of running itself, but I knew why my mom wanted someone in charge. It was her baby, it had been her father’s baby, and she was hoping it would one day be mine, no matter how many times I’d told her pigs would fly first. But that was a thought for another day; I had a breakfast shift to run. So I played short order cook, cracking eggs and slapping toast down for Adam and Eve on a raft, wrecked.
A steady flow of orders, constant gossip from the people doing the ordering, three burned fingers, two quarreling waitresses, and one very small grease fire later, I had successfully made it through the breakfast. And found myself once more on the business end of a potato peeler.
Concentrating on the perfection that would become my steak fries, I almost didn’t hear the back door opening. But this time the farmer was smart enough to announce himself before spuds went flying.
“Are you armed?”
I peeked over my shoulder to see Leo, wearing a teasing grin. I answered it with my own and held my hands up in the air, potato in one and peeler in the other.
“I am; you may not want to come much closer,” I said very seriously. I nodded toward the basket on top of the boxes he was carrying. “I can’t believe you brought nuts to a potato fight.”
“I’ll admit it didn’t go well for me last time,” he said, walking over to my station and setting down the boxes he was carrying. “Or it went very well for me last time, depending on the point of view.”
“Point of view is important,” I said, setting down
my peeler. He was closer than I expected and I found myself staring up into the incredible green eyes, bright and curious. “So what did you bring me today?”
Without taking his eyes from mine, he thumped lightly on the stack of boxes. “Lettuce—a few different kinds, including a new blush variety. Big mess of fennel and garlic bulbs. Leeks, celery, and a big fat rutabaga. And a special treat, the first strawberries.” He lifted a small paper bag from the top of the pile, opened the top, and I peered inside. Nestled at the bottom were a handful of plump strawberries, pinky red and speckled with fragrant green leaves.
“Mmm.” I breathed in. “That smells like summer.”
“Doesn’t it?” he answered, pulling out one of the tiny fruits. “It’s a new variety we’re trying this year—brown sugar strawberries. A low yield so far, but it’s about the sweetest strawberry I’ve ever tasted.”
“Yeah?” It looked the same as every other one I’d ever seen.
“Go on. Try it,” he said, offering me the strawberry.
“I don’t take candy from strangers.”
“It’s not candy, and we’re not strangers. We painted together.”
“And fell down a few times.”
“Exactly,” he nodded, holding it out once more. “Put this in your mouth.”
“That’s exactly what a stranger might say,” I said, but opened up.
He dropped it onto my tongue, his eyes crinkling when I let out the tiniest sigh.
“That’s a great fucking strawberry.”
“I like to think so,” he replied. We looked at each other exactly two seconds longer than was necessary, then moved on.
“So what’s with all the walnuts?” I asked, looking at the big basket.
“There’s an old grove on the property, and we’re always rolling in them. So I started adding them to the foodshare, and people love them.”
Suddenly inspired, I said, “I’ll make a black walnut cake! I haven’t made one in ages, and I could make a few, based on how many nuts you’ve brought me.”
“I feel like so many of our conversations have been nut based,” he said.
I tilted my head sideways, my thoughts drawn back from visions of thick frosting to the very handsome farmer in front of me. “Agreed. How can we change that?”
“You wanna come see my farm?”
“Hell yes. Should I bring some walnut cake?”
He nodded, and I made him feed me another strawberry.
Summer lovin’, happened so fast . . .
After the lunch shift, I got out some cake pans and went to work. I’d found the recipe in an old church cookbook that I came across at a flea market when I was in school. I frequented them and garage sales for exactly this kind of thing—especially old cookbooks from bake sales and church socials. Spiral bound and usually well used, they contained recipes that stood the test of time. Meat loaf, chicken and dumplings, brisket—they were still around for a reason. But I particularly loved the desserts, especially the cakes. Good old-fashioned cakes like triple coconut. Hummingbird. Spice. Black walnut.
I’d gone straight to the black walnut cake recipe in this cookbook because it was on the most worn-out page. The pages with the spatters and the spoon rest stains were the ones used most often, so you knew they’d be good. And this one was no exception. Given to the First Methodist Church cookbook by a Mrs. Myra Oglesby of Latrobe, Pennsylvania, this black walnut recipe was “in my family for generations. My mother used walnuts from her mother’s trees, picked by hand and shelled by the fire.”
I loved this idea. I loved that the cookbook had grease stains and chocolate speckles throughout. I loved that someone a hundred years ago sat by a fire and shelled walnuts. In much the same way a quilt could tell a story, so could a recipe. You could approach an old recipe like a detective and whittle out clues about the people who had written it. Did a recipe call for shortening or butter? Margarine or oleo? The term oleo was used only by people of a certain age, so I could often date the recipe based on this one word. Occasionally, I’d get very lucky and find an old recipe box that contained handwritten index cards, and I’d marvel over the penmanship. People used to write! In cursive! On purpose!
And how charming, albeit frustrating, to find that some of these handwritten recipe cards included measurements only the family would understand. “Two spoonfuls of vanilla using the old blue enameled spoon.” “Three dashes of vinegar from the green glass cruet.” “Add salt till Uncle Elmer’s face pinches.”
The black walnut cake was a labor of love for Mrs. Myra Oglesby, and for anyone who used her recipe to bake for their family and friends. Of all the recipes I’d come across, this one was my favorite. Thick, rich, stacked high with three layers, and flecked with walnuts and cinnamon. The surprise was the slight tang from a cup of buttermilk, and the flecks of coconut that were spread throughout the cake. But the highlight? Delectable cream cheese frosting, whipped fluffy with egg whites and creamy butter.
As I pressed the final touch of chopped walnuts onto the outside edge of the cakes, I glanced out the diner’s big front window and saw that it was almost dark. Where had the time gone? I quickly hurried the cakes into the old-fashioned glass display case by the cash register, where the desserts had lived since the thirties, and turned off the lights. Letting myself out the front door and into the soft early summer evening, I stopped, suddenly overcome by how truly beautiful my hometown was. Had I been taking it for granted all these years?
The streetlights were just coming on, adding another layer of gold against the sunshine peeking over the old elm trees. The streets in the downtown area were a bit higgledy-piggledy, as many of the small towns in the Northeast were. Old Indian trails, post roads, even cow paths had over the years become the roads we see today. The town was built at the foot of the Catskill Mountains, and some of the oldest homes were built almost directly into the hills themselves, with tiered porches spilling down along Main Street.
After being inside all day, I walked the long way around the block to where I had parked, breathing in that special June twilight, where even the air seemed gentle, cushiony on tired arms and legs. Kids were outside, taking advantage of those extra hours of sunshine, riding bikes and yelling back and forth in that unconcerned way all kids have of being present in the moment, and your entire world is whether you can talk your mom into having a Popsicle. I walked a little further, cutting down Locust and down along the river walk, the Hudson sparkling gold and orange. A marshy scent rose as I got closer to the water, clean and a little silty from the oozy mud.
It really was a great little town. If you liked that roll-the-sidewalks-up-at-eight kind of thing.
The next afternoon after the diner had closed, I headed over to Maxwell Farms with a slice of walnut cake as thick as my bicep riding shotgun. Mountain laurel and spiky chokeberry trees dotted the woods, and here and there the pines thinned enough to get a glimpse of the rocky stone below the surface.
I bounced along, humming a very specific song from Grease, feeling the sun bake into my bones through the windows. I felt a little like I was on a field trip, heading up to see the farm with the rest of my class. But this time I’d be escorted around by the farmer himself.
The very cute farmer.
This would be the time to elaborate on my farmer fantasy. I read the Little House books cover to cover when I was a child, over and over again. I loved everything about this little family, and their struggles with pioneer life. I’d marvel at the fact that Ma and Pa left Laura and Mary alone, on the prairie, while they went to town . . . for hours! They were six and eight years old, and they were building fires, milking cows, and sewing on their nine-block quilts! That was free-range parenting at its finest.
When I got a little older, I’d pile onto the old couch with my mom and watch reruns of the Little House TV series, booing at Nellie Oleson and wondering what it must be like to have a Pa who would cry at the drop of a hat.
And then somewhere around season six, a certain blond farm
er made his appearance and changed Laura’s life, and little Miss Roxie Callahan’s life as well. He was my first crush. Almanzo was strong, and lean, and cute as a button, and I sighed along with Laura whenever he drove his buggy through town. Even as an adult, if I was flipping through the channels late at night and an episode of Little House was on, I’d watch long enough to see if Almanzo was going to show up. And if he did . . .
Let’s just say that if I was driving my buggy alone that night, he was a helpful addition.
And in tonight’s fantasy, ladies and gentlemen, the part of Almanzo Wilder will be played by Leo Maxwell.
I shivered a little as I bounced along over the potholes toward the Maxwell Farm. Mmm, bouncing . . . more daydream fuel . . .
An enormous sign stretched across the driveway, proclaiming that I had arrived at Maxwell Farms. Stone pillars on either side held up the old oak beams spelling out the family name. It’d been here as long as I could remember. I suppose when you have more money than practically everyone, a simple name on a mailbox just isn’t enough.
The property was fronted by the rural highway, and once you turned down the driveway you were enveloped in a tunnel of trees, planted to feel majestic yet protective. It was an impression, that’s for sure. Tremendous live oaks, soaring proud and tall and arching across the drive toward their friends on the other side, their branches tangled together, shaking little acorn hands and making sure the sun was dappled and soft below. Signs appeared intermittently, pointing the way toward other destinations on the property. Hiking trails, turn left. English maze, head straight. Pond, turn right here. I stayed on the main road, marveling at how large the property was. It was a whole other world, living back behind this green tunnel that separated the real world from this rich one.
Now and again I’d see patches of sun on either side of the road, giving way to a meadow here, an outbuilding there. And finally, around one last curve, there was farmland as far as I could see. But not the kind of farm I’d seen as I drove across Kansas, Missouri, and Iowa. There the land was wide and mostly treeless, green corn or soybean marching away in uniform rows. But here, I saw an explosion of color. Small fields, plants of all shapes and sizes. Between the fields were bushes and small scrubby trees. There was activity everywhere I looked: people kneeling in the dirt, workers with baskets carefully picking over what looked like pole beans, someone spreading mulch on a freshly planted bed.