Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (17 page)

After another quiet minute I climbed back down. "Uhm," I said to myself. "I think I'll come back here."

It still seemed remarkable to me that I didn't see any of the other trailer park residents as I walked toward Charlotte's. I smelled cooking though, onions frying, maybe bacon, barbecued chicken for sure. But the only life I saw was a stray kitten drinking water from a birdbath in someone's yard.

When I turned onto Charlotte's street I saw the long red car first, a convertible with several yards of gray duct tape on the convertible roof. "Must have sprung a leak at one time."

Charlotte's wooden walkway was slightly reminiscent of the one Nate Kincaid built for last year's Spring Dance. We had a Western theme and everyone dressed like cowboys and cowgirls. Except Cliff Cardwell, who was dashing enough in his bomber jacket. But I smiled at the memory of Nate wearing a skinny bolo tie with a silver clasp.

Charlotte's trailer looked old and out-of-date compared to some of the others I passed, but I did like the hanging baskets of autumn wildflowers she had dangling from the makeshift porch roof. I knocked on the door and then I heard a dog bark. Then I heard Charlotte. "Lucky, come on boy. Let me get the door."

The door opened.

"Griselda," Charlotte said. "What are you doing here? Come on in."

I stepped over the threshold and into another world. Charlotte's trailer was very much a trailer on the outside, but inside it was like a regular home with regular furniture and carpet, curtains, and the cutest little kitchen I had ever seen. But how she made all those pies in that space was beyond me. Charlotte Figg was truly a pie genius.

"I was here with Mildred and actually came to see Rose. But she wasn't at her trailer so I took a chance that she might be here."

"I am," Rose said coming out of the bathroom. "How are you, Griselda?"

"I'm fine. I was just telling Charlotte that I came with Mildred but I was really looking for you."

"Is she still after Leon?" Charlotte asked showing me to a sofa. "Sit. I can make coffee, and I have pie."

That was when I noticed the large silver trophy on a long side table.

"Pie?" I said. "Do you have cherry?"

She smiled. "Uh-huh."

"Charlotte always has cherry pie," Rose said. "It's become her signature." And that was when I noticed Rose was not wearing her usual brown sweater. I could see all her tattoos plain as day. The stories were correct. That woman had the entire gospel played out on her two arms and clear up to her neck. I saw a shepherd and a tomb and three empty crosses among other images that were difficult to make out depending on how she bent her elbows.

I supposed we could have gotten into big old conversation about the reasons she had the picture made, but it wasn't my business—not then. Maybe one day.

"Yes," I said bringing myself back to the moment. "Mildred came to speak with Leon, but I came to speak with you, Rose—about our annual Sunday school pageant."

"Me? What can I do for the pageant?"

"Well, I hear you're an artist."

She nodded. "I like to paint, if that's what you mean."

"Well, yes, I know. I saw the pictures on your trailer. They're beautiful."

"Thanks."

"Anyway, I was hoping you might consider painting the scenery for the play. Not much, just a manger scene and maybe a shepherd's field, some stars in the sky, that sort of thing."

She looked at me for a long few seconds, almost like she was trying to look right through me and I felt a little uneasy. I thought I might have offended her sensibilities but if she had all those tattoos then . . .

"Why not?" she said. "It would be fun. But, can I do the scenes up here? I'd feel better than going into town."

"I don't see why not. Asa and Stu and probably Nate Kincaid can haul them down to the church when you're done."

Charlotte returned with a Christmas-y tray with pie and coffee on it.

"Help yourself," she said. "And Rose, I think that sounds like a fabulous idea. About time you used your talent outside of Paradise."

"It does sound like fun," Rose said chewing a bite of cherry pie. "But you're gonna help me, Charlotte."

"Me? I can't paint."

"If you can work a brush you can paint sky and grass. I'll add the details."

It was as though Rose had already imagined the entire scene. She knew exactly what she was going to do.

"I'll get started right away," Rose said. "But I need some materials."

"I'll have Nate bring you the stuff. He has these giant rolls of paper."

"Good and thick, I hope," Rose said.

"Yep. He gets leftovers from the printer in Shoops."

We finished our pie and sipped coffee and enjoyed a bit of small talk about Christmas and such. Charlotte was looking forward to the parade.

"Do you know I have only seen Christmas parades on the TV? I never been to one for real. Not a single one. Herman always said parades were stupid and he didn't want to stand out in the cold watching a bunch of idiots parading around like they were better than everyone else."

"Geeze," I said. "I'm sorry you missed out. I think you'll enjoy this parade. We do it every year and it's always a lot of fun."

That was when I spied the trophy a second time and an idea popped into my head. "Charlotte," I said. "I have a grand idea. Why don't you not only watch the parade but be in it?"

"What? In the parade? But why?"

"You and the Angels can ride on one of the floats. Maybe even have your own."

Rose looked at Charlotte and the two of them burst into huge smiles. "Oh my goodness," Rose said. "That is a great idea. What do you say, Charlotte?"

"I love it. The Angels will all be there—in our uniforms!"

"We never had a softball float," I said.

Charlotte sniffed and I think she might have wiped tears from her eyes. "I love it here. I never felt so at home in my life."

Rose poured me more coffee. I also asked for another slice of pie—a sliver. The conversation lulled for a minute.

"How's the pie shop coming along?" I asked

Charlotte laughed a little. "Oh, that will be a while. I thought I might have it up and running for Christmas, but it doesn't look like it. Asa says it needs a lot of work to get it up to code— whatever that means. So I'll just take my time. I'm in no rush. Maybe by spring."

She handed me a yellow plate with a perfect slice, more than the sliver I asked for of cherry pie. It could have been in a picture in a magazine.

"How do you do this?" I asked. "I can't make pie to save my life. Crust is so hard."

"It is tricky, but I had so much practice. My dead husband loved his pie."

"I'm sorry for your loss." I took a bite of pie.

Charlotte sat in her rocker across from me. She held a slice of pie on her lap. "Oh, thank you, for your concern," she said. "But don't be sorry, I mean—gee, that sounds terrible—I'm sorry he died and all and I guess I still grieve for him in ways, but it wasn't a happy marriage."

"Is that why you said what you said?"

"What did I say?"

"You told me to tread softly with Zeb the other day."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rattle you. And here you are all engaged and everything. I'm just a little leery of—men."

"So your husband, did he—"

"Let's just say he was a bit domineering."

I swallowed more pie. "Oh, Zeb isn't domineering. He just gets so jealous whenever I try to do anything on my own—fly an airplane for instance."

"Fly an airplane?"

"Yeah, that pilot fella, Cliff Cardwell, they talked about him at Thanksgiving, he's been giving me lessons."

Charlotte nodded her head. "Oh, and Zeb is jealous."

"Uh-huh."

Charlotte looked at me for a long few seconds. "Should he be?"

I finished my pie. "Cliff likes me and all, but I just like his plane. At least I think that's all I like."

Charlotte clicked her tongue. "You better make certain. Make very certain Zeb's the right choice."

"How can I tell?"

"Ha! That's the question for the ages. I was sure when I married Herman. But then it all went wrong. And I let it fester for years and years. It would still be festering if he hadn't taken that stroke."

"Stroke? Yikes."

"Dropped him like a sack of potatoes."

"Wish someone could tell me if I was making the right decision."

"Pray about it first. And, then, I think you need to talk to Zeb about your concerns. Tell him—now."

Charlotte was correct, of course, so I decided that I would tell Zeb my feelings that night. I felt good about it too. I had agreed to marry him but there was still time to be sure. And it would seem to me that of all the decisions I needed to make in life, certainty about marriage rated pretty high.

Charlotte ended up driving me back to town. We let Asa know first and he was fine with it. Rose went along because she wanted to go into Shoops and get some paint she would need for the scenery.

"Just give me the receipts and I'll get the church to reimburse you."

Rose waved her hand. "Nope. It's on me. All part of my tithe."

"As long as you're sure," I said.

They dropped me at the town hall. I liked riding in her convertible. It was sleek and fast. Not like Old Bessie, who drove like . . . well, a truck.

"I hope Leon isn't in any trouble," Charlotte said before I opened the door.

"Me too. I kind of like him, and I really don't think he's trying to hurt anyone."

"Leon? No. He's just weird is all," Rose said.

"Thanks for the ride and the talk."

The jail was little more than a locked room with no windows in the basement of the town hall. We didn't even have one until Mildred came to town. She insisted on it.

"Got to have a place to lock the perpetrators up," she had said. "I can't be driving them all to Shoops all the time."

I don't know why she thought Bright's Pond had a crime problem, but her jail was voted on and passed. Nate and Studebaker put the heavy-duty lock on the door and declared it the Bright's Pond Prison. Even hung a sign on the wall outside the room. Harriet Nurse embroidered it with big block letters but the tiny rosebuds seemed to take away from the seriousness of the place. I had only been in the basement a couple of times, usually to look for something missing from one of the town celebrations. It was where they kept the town nativity and Santa Claus decorations.

Mildred was sitting outside the room reading a newspaper.

"What's up?" I said.

"If he isn't the most exasperating little man on the planet. I can't get a word out of him that makes sense. He just talks in circles and repeats things. I figured I'll let him stew in there for a while, then maybe he'll talk."

"Ah, let him go. I really don't think he's doing anything. Did you ask him straight out about selling water?"

"Claims he isn't selling it."

"Did you ask if he was giving it to them?"

"That was when he started that double-talk gibberish. I even checked up on him. Called Dabs Lemon, the reporter fella and asked him to do some checking. Waiting to hear."

"So why are you keeping him?"

"Mostly, Griselda, because he's annoying. And it isn't like he's being treated like a prisoner. Heavens to Betsy, Harriet brought him a basket of food, and he's had three bathroom breaks already. He's having a good time."

"How did Harriet know you were holding him?"

"I have to tell her. Boris makes me tell the jail committee whenever I lock anyone up so they can see that the prisoner is properly attended to. Boris is always on the lookout for a possible legal situation. And besides, Harriet likes to bring them a basket, like he's a prisoner of war and the rules of the Geneva Convention apply." She yawned and stretched. "I just put up with it."

"Leon hasn't committed any crime. Come on. Let him go home. You might get more information if you kinda followed him around, staked out his trailer or something."

"Oh, all right."

Mildred opened the door. "What in jumpin' blue heck?" she said. "That's not possible."

"What?" I looked in the room and giggled. Leon Fontaine had flown the coop.