Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (3 page)

"When I was up in Paradise the other day, you know doing some work for The Society. She's a very nice woman, they both are, her and that Rose Tattoo. Rose has got her arms covered with pictures, Griselda. Pictures of the whole gospel played out."

I felt my eyebrows rise. "Really?"

"Yes indeedy, seems there's some story behind them but she didn't tell me, and I figured that was fine. It's her business if she wants to have those pictures on her body."

"I hope Charlotte brings pie to Thanksgiving." I felt a smile creep across my face. "Not that yours won't be good, Ruth."

"I understand, and to tell the truth, I hope she does also. I think I might just ask her. I got my hands full with everything else."

I pulled the truck into a spot at the Piggly Wiggly. The closest one I could find to the entrance.

"I bet she'd love to bake pies for the dinner," I said. "I'm eager to taste them."

"They're delicious. I ate a slice of cherry when I was up there. It was incredible. Not too tart or sour—you know how cherries can be—or too sweet. Perfect."

"Is that right. I wonder how Zeb will take to having competition in town," I said.

"He's fine with the notion. I was at the café the other day and he said he'd welcome her pies. Maybe even put them on the menu, let them ride around in the pie carousel. He was tickled pink."

Yeah, tickled pink as in nearly fuming red. Zeb had the market on pie cornered in town. And he did serve some of Charlotte's, particularly her amazing lattice-top cherry. But I couldn't imagine him being glad to have Charlotte Figg's pies next to his in the pie carousel. Unless he had an angle I didn't see.

It was one week before Thanksgiving and the grocery store was crowded with shoppers, just as I figured. Ruth snagged a cart. She rifled through her handbag. "Now I know I put my list in here. Just this morning after adding a few last-minute items. There's always last-minute items."

"You just had it in your hand. You were looking at it in the truck."

"I know, but I shoved it back inside when we pulled into the parking lot."

"I guess you're planning a pretty traditional Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, yams with those tiny marshmallows—all the trimmings."

Ruth was up to her elbow in her bag. "Ah, there it is." She pulled a folded page from the depths of her purse. "Not exactly. I thought we'd do something more . . . exotic."

I swallowed. The page she held had disaster written all over it. "Really, Ruth. No turkey?"

"Of course, we'll have turkey. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without one. But I saw this fancy-dancy tropical Thanksgiving dinner in a magazine while I was waiting for the doctor the other day—I had to go see the gynecologist even though I'm way past all that stuff—"

"Ruth."

"Oh, sorry. Anyhoo . . . " She reached back into her bag. "I asked the nurse permission to take the magazine home. She said I could so I ripped out the picture." She came up with a second folded sheet—this one colorful and glossy. "Look at this. Isn't it the most scrumptious table you have ever seen? It's a Hawaiian Luau Thanksgiving. Look at all the colors and the flowers and those fancy drinks with the paper umbrellas."

Oh, dear. Ruth Knickerbocker has done some crazy things in her day, but I did not think anything other than a traditional Rockwellian Thanksgiving would pass muster with the gang. "Are you sure about this? A tropical Thanksgiving?"

"Look at this. It's a turkey with a pineapple and mango glaze. And I'm going to make a macadamia nut stuffing— not that tired old chestnut stuffing people expect every year. Macadamias are the official nut of Hawaii."

I just hoped our friends wouldn't be calling Ruth the official nut of Bright's Pond. "To be honest, Ruth, I never liked chestnuts, but are you sure about macadamia nuts? Where are you going to find them?"

"I called ahead. That fancy teashop down the road has them. I don't need many."

"Tea shop?"

"Yeah, I saw it the last time I was here. It's the very last shop on Main Street. It's a little scary on account of she has a sign outside—one of them wooden tent signs touting something about having a tarot card reader psychic woman in there. And it is called Madam Zola's Teashop and Psychic Fare."

"Ew, that's weird. Not sure how I feel about all the mumbojumbo."

"Well, I'm sure. I hate it, too, but it's the only place to get my macadamia nuts this time of year without going all the way to Hawaii, and I can't do that. And I figured with you along it will be less scary. Hope she doesn't have skulls and voodoo stuff in there. We'll just pop in, buy the nuts, and pop out."

"OK, Ruth, let's get inside the grocery store. It looks like a storm is rolling in."

"Oh, gee, you don't think it's because I want to go into a voodoo shop, do you? Do you think maybe the Good Lord is trying to warn me?"

"Nah, I think it's because the clouds are heavy and need to rain."

"Know-it-all."

It took the better part of an hour to find all the ingredients Ruth needed for her Thanksgiving luau at the Piggly Wiggly. I was surprised we found fresh pineapple. Mangos were another issue but she found a jar of already sliced fruit that had some mango in the mix. She grabbed three jars. She bought canned pineapple also—lots of cans. I pushed the heavy cart to the checkout and we waited and waited for the line to move. It gave me an opportunity to read the sensational headlines on those extraordinary news magazines. My favorite that day read, "World's First Mutant Turkey Over Five Feet Tall."

"I ordered our turkey from Brisco's Butcher Shop," Ruth said when I showed her the headline. "But it won't be here until next Tuesday, so I'll need to come back. I ordered a twentypounder. Do you think that's big enough?"

I nodded. "Yep. I don't think we need a mutant turkey."

"Probably tough and dry as shoe leather," Ruth said. It was hard to know if she believed the headline or not.

"And just let me know when you're ready next week," I said. "I'll drive you back down."

We finally had all the groceries bagged and out the door. We placed them in the truck bed. I pushed some other boxes I had in there near them, like a wall, to keep the bags from toppling over when we drove over the bumps on the way home.

The Madam Zola Teashop was the last in a row of stores that included Yost's Hardware, a Rexall Drug Store, and Mrs. Deeter's Fabric and Notion Shoppe. Ruth was not kidding; there was a yellow plywood tent sign outside touting psychic readings, tarot cards, and crystals in giant red letters with an image of a crystal ball on it. It gave me the willies just to look at it.

"Are you sure you want to go in?" I asked.

"Well, it's the only place I can get my nuts, Griselda, unless you want to drive to Hawaii, and that's just not very practical now is it?"

"Whoa, fine. The place is just a little spooky. But come on, let's go inside."

"I'm sorry," Ruth said. "I think I might be a little nervous about making such a large and difficult meal. I never cooked all by myself for so many people, and I'm trying some new recipes and, well, that's always nerve-racking."

"It's OK. I understand. And don't fret, I'll be there to help, and Ivy will pitch in. And I hear Studebaker mashes a pretty mean potato—you
are
having mashed potatoes?" I had just that moment realized Ruth did not purchase any potatoes— yams, yes, but no regular russets.

"At a Hawaiian Thanksgiving luau? Nope." Ruth picked a stray hair off her wool coat.

My heart sank. Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes is like a face with no eyebrows, Snap and Crackle with no Pop.

"But Ruth. You gotta have spuds. Mashed potatoes are the most important side dish. They're like the second-in-command of the dinner."

"I bought sweet potatoes—they're more . . . tropicallooking."

"Are you gonna mash them?"

"Yes."

"OK," I said even though I knew I would not be the only guest at Ruth's table missing traditional white, creamy mashed potatoes with butter and gravy. But believe me when I tell you there will be a bunch of us meeting at the café afterward for some serious albeit sneaky turkey and gravy snacking. Zeb would most likely have some Thanksgiving specials left over.

Ruth and I took deep breaths, and I pulled open the teashop door. A buzzer buzzed as we stepped across the threshold. The store felt and looked creepy with all manner of odd items everywhere. A wide assortment of teas was arranged on a large bookcase that looked like it came out of a medieval castle. The teas were in jars and cans. A metal scale hung from the ceiling. Tables strewn with all sorts of crystals and incense burners, and other strange apparatuses made it difficult to negotiate the tight little store.

Madam Zola sat behind a counter with an old-fashioned cash register. She was heavyset, wearing a dark blue scarf with yellow stars on her head. Frizzy red hair shot like flames from underneath. She wore a long striped skirt and a gauzy white blouse. Chains hung around her neck, and long earrings with crescent moons dangled from her ears. I figured her to be in her sixties.

"Velcome, Velcome to Madam Zola's," she said not looking up from what she was doing. "I can see you've come for zomething . . . out of zee ordinary today."

I waved with three fingers. Ruth took a step back and whispered, "How does she know that?"

"Look around," I whispered back. "Everything in the store is out of the ordinary. It's not a tough call."

"Vhat vill be your pleasure today?" She spoke with what I decided was an affected quasi-Russian-slash-Transylvanian accent. I'll bet she was from Northeast Philly.

"Macadamia nuts, please," Ruth said as though she had just approached the Wizard of Oz.

"For tea. You like for tea? I have some nice macadamia nut tea here." She reached behind her on a shelf and pulled off a small yellow tin with orange writing. "Ve only stock zee best. And this tea is right from the island of Molokai vhere zee lepers are."

I swallowed. It didn't sound good.

"Oh," Ruth said. "I don't zink—I mean think—I want leper nuts."

Madam Zola chuckled with a boisterous chuckle. "Oh, no, no." She clicked her tongue. "Zay are harvested vis only ze best hands but grown in the most sorrowful soils—making ze best tastes for you."

"But I need whole nuts," Ruth said.

"I got those," Madam Zola said. "Zay are over dare." She pointed a gnarled finger toward the front of the store. She moved from behind the counter and took hold of a long, rickety cane with a serpent head and glaring green eyes. She tapped the cane twice on the floor. "Follow me."

We did. She limped and dragged one of her legs behind.

"Polio," she said.

Madam Zola pointed to a top shelf with jars of nuts, all manner of exotic nuts. She, of course, being chief among the nuts in my opinion. I saw walnuts, Chinese chestnuts, pawpaw nuts, and something called Allegheny chinquapin nuts.

"Zere zay are," Madam Zola said. "To ze right."

I reached up and grabbed the small jar.

"I might need two," Ruth said.

I grabbed a second jar.

"Excellent," Madam Zola said. "Vould you like me to read your palm today?"

"No, thank you," I said. "My palms are boring."

"Yeah," Ruth said nervously. "It's hard to find a palm that holds your interest these days."

We paid for the nuts and skedaddled out of there but not before Madam Zola made a second offer to gaze into her crystal ball on our behalf.

"Not today," Ruth said. "I'm in a hurry."

Once we were safely on our way back to Bright's Pond, Ruth looked at her palm. "Do you suppose it's true?"

"What?"

"That palm-reading stuff. Do you think Madam Zola can really see my future?"

I winced. "Why would you want to?"

"That's true."

"And creepy."

Ruth clung to her bag of nuts. "I hope they're not cursed or something."

"Nobody curses nuts."

"Just the same, I think Agnes should pray for—"

"Your macadamias?"

"For the whole party."

I took a moment and looked straight ahead. "Agnes is a little sad about not having Thanksgiving at the funeral home this year."