Breaking the Mould Page 4

  “Do you really think we can have it up and running by this time next year?” Jaymie asked softly.

  “If everything goes according to plan,” he said. “I’m hoping we can have it going by October first. I thought maybe we’d start in the spring with creating a pumpkin patch. We used to grow pumpkins when we were kids, and my dad is the best at it.”

  “Spring is a busy time of year for everyone,” she said, worried about them taking on too much. Most folks thought Christmas tree farmers rested and watched the trees grow from January until October, but in truth every season had its work. Spring was especially busy, with new planting, fertilizing, pulling stumps from the previous year’s cut, and a million and one other tasks.

  “We’ll have to hire extra help. We’ll be using some of the back acreage for more pine seedlings, and maybe . . . Sonya was thinking of a big garden of herbs.” Sonya was Helmut’s significant other; her kids by a previous relationship were Helmut’s too, now. He turned to look into Jaymie’s eyes. “What do you think of that? She said she could make herb wreaths and herbal whatevers for the store.”

  Jaymie laughed at “herbal whatevers” and put her head on his shoulder. “Knowing Sonya, whatever those ‘whatevers’ are, they’ll be beautiful. She has a knack for that kind of thing, and everything she touches, actually.” She raised her head and met his gaze. “Jakob, I was thinking . . . maybe Sonya could be the store manager.”

  “Would she want to?”

  “We were talking about it the other day, when we were at your folks’ for Thanksgiving dinner. Remember she went for a walk with me, Hoppy and the kids? She’s planning to take a retail management course at WC. She’d dearly like to manage the store, but she doesn’t want to push herself in. She thought I was going to do it, since I’ve already worked at so many stores and know the ropes.” Jaymie sighed. “I told her I can’t handle one more job, and that though I want to work at the store, I have no desire to manage it. Not my strength.”

  “Okay. What exactly did she say?”

  She examined him and petted his beard. “She asked me to talk to you.”

  He frowned. “Why didn’t she talk to me herself?”

  “She’s afraid of putting you in a tough position. Think about it, Jakob; she’s with Helmut, and he’s our partner in the business. She was worried that if she approached Helmut, he’d feel like he had to agree, and that if she approached you, she’d hurt Helmut’s feelings. She asked my advice.”

  “And you said . . . ?”

  “That I’d talk to you.”

  Jakob nodded. “I think a family meeting is in order. If she’s going to be manager, she needs to be able to talk to any one of us about anything. No secrets, no hurt feelings, no hidden agendas. In fact, maybe we ought to make meetings a regular part of the business, so that all of us have a venue for expressing our thoughts without dragging it into family gatherings.”

  “Agreed. So offer her the job,” Jaymie said, and kissed him. “Now, one more question: will you be up for going to a party at the Nezer residence in Queensville this Friday evening? Maybe Jocie can stay with your mom and dad and we can dress up and hobnob with the college crowd?”

  “Isn’t Nezer that guy in town you don’t like? The one who was complaining about a stake hammered into his grass?”

  “Yes, but his wife invited us, and I’d like to try to keep the peace for Dickens Days.”

  “Okay. Do I have to dress up?”

  “Mmm, sports jacket and slacks would be appropriate, I would imagine. No tie.”

  “All right, we’re on. We haven’t had a date night in a while. Now, let’s go to bed.”

  “Good idea. I have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Oh?”

  “I may have to head off a confrontation between one surprisingly hotheaded handyman and a snarky college professor.”

  Three

  Jaymie spent the morning testing recipes for her cookbook and updating her food blog. The cabin was a peaceful place to do both, with the view through the kitchen window and across the road of the spare black limbs and deep green of deciduous and coniferous trees in the woods opposite. The whole forest was edged in low stands of sumac, a hardy bush that grew in ditches and on hillsides throughout the countryside. Scarlet staghorn sumac, with their brilliant red leaves now gone, proliferated, the hardy long-tapered clusters of wine-colored berries remaining on the furred branches from which it got its name.

  It was a beautiful view, one she cherished after half a year living there.

  She had finally decided, after trying a few ideas, that her cookbook would be a collection of vintage recipes reimagined two ways, one for modern palates, and one elevated. She had, for example, taken a heavy meat loaf and made it with ground turkey instead of beef, for the fat-conscious among her readers. For a second version she had taken ground beef and, using a food processor, ground it finer; she then formed it into a pretty oblong loaf, with spinach to add color and a layer of chopped hard-boiled eggs. She finished by wrapping it in prosciutto.

  Her new approach had made the cookbook writing more complicated and it was taking a lot more time than she had originally anticipated, but there were so many cookbooks on the market that she needed a hook for hers, and the two-way treatment of vintage recipes was it.

  The cabin smelled delicious, and after doing some initial photographs of the meat loaves, she wrapped both in foil and set them to cool, after which they would go into the fridge to be reheated for a simple supper.

  Meanwhile, as she wrote the cookbook, she was doing what had been suggested to her by an editor she had approached. She had convinced the local newspaper to give her a food column, “Vintage Eats,” had started a blog that was gathering followers, and she had even done two radio interviews with a fellow who hosted a talk radio show about antiques and vintage collectibles! All of that took a lot of time, but it was a joy to do.

  Life was never boring.

  The meat loaves were going to be a quick-and-easy dinner for another night, so she started dinner in the slow cooker—a stuffed rolled pork loin that would cook all afternoon with no fussing—had lunch, played with Lilibet, took Hoppy for a walk, then got in her SUV ready to meet Bill at the village green by two. Her jeans from the previous winter wouldn’t do up anymore, the result of too much recipe testing, so she had bought some new jeggings, which fit in wide calf boots nicely. Jakob had bought her a leather jacket, and she topped it with an infinity scarf in a lovely pumpkin color with a fall leaf pattern. She felt smart and was comfortable.

  The sky was overcast and there was a distinct chill in the air. The forest across the road from the cabin had been splashed in a palette of yellow, orange and brown, but the leaves were almost all gone now. Soon a blanket of white would overtake it all. It would be her first winter living out here, though they did, as a family, spend time at the Queensville house, too. It was a balancing act, maintaining both homes, but Becca and Kevin spent about a week or two each month in the Queensville house, so it was well tenanted.

  She parked at the Leighton house and walked to the downtown area, but Bill had not yet arrived. She walked over to the Emporium to check in on Valetta, her new boots making a satisfying clunk clunk on the old board floor of the historic store.

  Her friend was in her glass-fronted pharmacy booth at the back of the store. She slid the window open. “Hey, Jaymie . . . didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “Hey, Val. I’m waiting for Bill. We’re going to finish up with some of the Dickens Days preparations. You missed the heritage society meeting last night.”

  “I was looking after Will and Eva,” she said, naming her nephew and niece. “You know I’m not as avid a hysterical society gal as you are.”

  “The second Mrs. Nezer was there, with her stepson.”

  “Oh, lovely Bella-the-Ball?”

  Jaymie chuckled. “She asked me and Jakob to a party on Friday night and wanted to know if I’d ask you, too.”

  Valetta pushed her glasses up
on the bridge of her nose. “Why would I go? Why would you go? Jaymie, that man has been a pain his whole life and spends most of his time thinking up new nuisance lawsuits, and wife number two treats me like I’m some kind of oddball.”

  “Yeah, why is that? She called you delightfully eccentric or something like that.”

  “Code for a whackadoodle,” Valetta said darkly.

  “I may have suggested you collect cat skeletons,” Jaymie said, struggling not to laugh out loud.

  “Jaymie!”

  Chuckling, she tapped on the glass and added, “Relax, she realized it was a joke. Finally. It took her a moment. Why does she treat you like that?”

  Valetta sighed and rolled her eyes. “I have no clue.” She paused, counted out some pills, then checked the prescription and counted them again—her mantra was count twice, bottle once—then swept them into a vial, sealing and carefully labeling it. “The only substantial interaction we’ve ever had was talking about books one day when she was in for a prescription and said something about Jane Austen. I said I didn’t care for her novels and preferred Charlotte Brontë. From then on she started treating me like I was a weirdo.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That is it.”

  “Okay. So . . . will you go?” Valetta sighed. “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Jaymie pleaded, folding her arms and leaning on the counter, staring into the glass booth. “Heidi’s going. Much to Bella’s chagrin, if I’m not mistaken. I’m hoping I can prove to Nezer that we’re just community-minded folk, not out to annoy anyone. We’ll get to see what they’ve done to the place. We can dress up and drink wine and pretend to be fancy. Think about it! We’ll hobnob with the glitterati, trip the light fantastic, mambo along the buffet line.” She wiggled her shoulders and grinned. “And we can gawk and make fun of the stuffed shirts.”

  “All right, but just for you.”

  “Yay!”

  “I’ll bring Brock as my plus one. He likes to hobnob.”

  “Oh. Not yay.” Jaymie did not like her friend’s brother at all.

  “That’s the price you pay, kiddo.”

  Jaymie sighed. “Okay. I’d better go in case Bill is over there and gets into a fistfight with Nezer. Hopefully the old Scrooge is at the college today. Bella was supposed to talk to Evan and get him to cooperate, and Haskell is supposed to join us, so maybe that will help.”

  Jaymie left the Emporium and stood on the porch, shifting out of the way as a couple entered. A breeze had sprung up and the sky had lowered, thick clouds rolling across it in ominous dark clots, like spoiled cream. The Emporium was on a slight rise above the village center, and from there she could see that Bill’s beat-up dark blue pickup truck was now parked by the village green and he was already walking around the cider house checking it structurally. The village had put in a waterproof electrical outlet on a post for such events, so he had to place the booth close to it. But in doing so, he was inevitably also close to the Nezer property.

  Jaymie descended from the porch and crossed to the village green. “Hey, Bill, how’s it going?”

  He straightened, his lined face wreathed in a smile. “So far, so good. Can’t complain for an old guy.”

  There was a comfort, Jaymie thought, in the day-to-day banalities of life, the can’t complain for an old guy and the can’t complain, who’d listen? responses to the usual question. But she wondered, was any of it true? Bill sometimes appeared to be in pain, a grimace crossing his weary face when he straightened. He had had back surgery three years before, and knee surgery before that. Maybe saying “can’t complain” was shorthand for “I don’t want to bother people.” She touched his shoulder and smiled. He covered her hand with his huge, arthritic mitt and nodded.

  “Where is Haskell?” she asked.

  “He called me this morning. Something’s come up and he can’t join us.”

  She sighed. That figured. “But you’re still finishing up here?”

  Bill nodded. “I’m not going to let Nezer interfere with what this town has been doing for years.”

  Jaymie felt a twinge of foreboding but pushed it to one side of her mind. Everything would be all right. It wasn’t like Bill was actually doing anything harmful, after all. “So, can I help?”

  “You’re a strong girl, sure. I need to shift the whole booth about five inches so it’s close enough to the electrical. If you could put your shoulder to it with me, I think we can do it.”

  They grunted and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. Jaymie stood back, sighing in exasperation. Her hands were freezing and she was regretting not bringing gloves. Or mittens. She had some in her car, but it was at the Queensville house, too far to run and get. She and Bill tried again. It moved a bit, but not enough.

  A blonde young man wearing a hooded khaki jacket paused and watched them for a moment. “Uh . . . can I help?” he finally asked.

  Bill eyed him and nodded. “That would be great. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Finn . . . Fancombe.”

  “Erla’s son?”

  He nodded.

  “Jaymie Leighton, this is Finn; I know his mom, Erla.” Bill glanced at Jaymie and winked. “She’s housekeeper for the Nezers.”

  Which made the man’s aid a delicious irony, Jaymie thought, given his connection to the Nezer household. She examined him, remembering the story from the paper, his being expelled from WC because of a plagiarism complaint from Nezer. He was a serious, attractive fellow, probably in his thirties. She wondered what he was doing now that he no longer was welcome at WC. Would another college take him? And would his work at WC be transferable given the scandal? She knew little or nothing about academia, having been satisfied with her arts degree from a Canadian university.

  They all put their shoulders to it, and the cider house was pushed into position, close enough to the electrical outlet for the heavy-duty outdoor plug to reach so the heritage society could hook up lights and the slow cookers of cider.

  “Maybe we don’t need to put in the anchor line. This thing is pretty heavy,” Jaymie said, hand on the cider house structure.

  Bill squinted and curled his lip, two circles of color on his cheeks. “I’m going to anchor it. I don’t give a good goldarn what Mr. Evan Nezer says!”

  Finn looked up quickly but didn’t say anything. Bill was feeling mulish, Jaymie could see. That didn’t happen often, but when it did, there was no use arguing with him. Nezer had put his back up, and he would not retreat.

  He got the length of rope out of his truck, and the wooden stake, along with the mallet. He slipped the loop of the rope over the hook screwed into the cider booth roof, then hunched down by the pine trees and swung the mallet, pegging the stake into the earth at an angle. He then tied a loop in the other end of the rope and slipped it over the stake. The rumble of a motor broke the Tuesday afternoon peace, and an old gold MK2 Jaguar throbbed closer, then stopped.

  “What are you doing on my property!”

  Nezer leaned out the driver’s-side window, which in his case was the right side of the car. Jaymie stared, and Finn looked up.

  Bill did not look up at Nezer’s irate shriek.

  “I told you not to touch my property,” Nezer yelled again. “You’re ruining my grass. What you’re doing is illegal. I’ll sue!”

  The siren call of a public dispute brought folks from many places. Georgina, who managed Queensville Fine Antiques for Becca and Kevin, trotted down the store porch and moved toward them, up the slight incline past the Emporium, hugging her cardigan tightly around her slim body. Jacklyn Marley emerged from the side door and down the stairs from the apartment above the grocery store.

  Mrs. Bellwood, walking her pug, Roary, paused on her afternoon stroll. This directly concerned her as one of the two ladies who ran the cider booth. She ambled up to the car as her pug leaned back, tugging on the leash, barking furiously with its choked, muffled grunt. “Mr. Nezer, the anchor will not harm your grass in the slightest. In fact, aeration of any kind is benefic
ial to turf. You must be reasonable!”

  “Didn’t your wife talk to you about it, Mr. Nezer?” Jaymie asked, joining Mrs. Bellwood and eyeing the driver.

  Nezer squinted, glancing from Jaymie to Bill—who had stood and watched, awaiting the outcome—to Mrs. Bellwood.

  “We met Bella at the heritage society meeting last night, and she said she’d speak with you,” Jaymie said, hoping to derail the argument.

  “She did not say anything and would not because she knows my feelings on this. She knows when to shut her mouth, unlike some people.” He glared up at Jaymie.

  Bill bent back to his work, hammering the long stake into place.

  “I said stop it!” Nezer climbed out of his car and slammed the door, the powerful engine still throbbing. He strode over to the handyman. “Cease and desist this moment or I’ll call the police!”

  The handyman kept at it, but the rigidity of his shoulders revealed to Jaymie exactly his feelings. He was angry, his ears becoming red with his ire. He disliked anyone who wasn’t community-minded.

  Nezer’s face turned brick red. He did not like to be ignored. He charged at Bill, grabbing his shoulder and shoving him. Bill toppled sideways. Finn, eyes wide, looked on. There was a cackle of laughter and Jaymie spotted the woman she presumed was Sarah Nezer standing over by the Emporium stairs, hand over her mouth and glee in her eyes.

  “Stop!” Jaymie yelped, scooting toward her friend and reaching out. “Bill, are you okay?”

  Bill staggered to his feet, face red, and yelled an expletive—the first time Jaymie had ever heard him swear—and roared, “Nezer, if you lay a hand on me one more time—”

  “You’ll what? Tell me, hammer boy,” Nezer taunted as he whipped out his cell phone and held it up in front of him, hitting an onscreen button.

  “So help me God, I will plant you in the ground, you condescending little turdwipe!”

  “Don’t you threaten me, Waterman!”

  “That’s not a threat, Nezer. Threats are empty,” Bill said, face twisted into a grimace that Jaymie thought indicated pain. “That’s a promise! I’ll plant you six feet under your precious turf.”