Fortunate Harbor (6 page)

She settled on a traditional double-crusted apple pie, since that was the favorite of people with no imagination. Of course, she added her secret touches. A pastry recipe she had perfected. A careful mixture of spices. A generous sprinkle of whiskey, her own secret ingredient that made all the difference. She was proud enough of the pie, even if it wasn’t her favorite.

She baked her famous Key lime, as well, the one they’d served instead of cake at her son’s wedding. And to show that she was an innovator and not just somebody who perfected the ordinary, she made a green tomato pie, with green tomatoes from a farm stand in Palmetto Grove. Her mama had made green tomato pies every fall and spring, a woman who used what she had and never complained. But Wanda knew that most people had never had one, and certainly not one as good as her very own version.

At noon she put the pies in two carriers, one double, one single, that she used for church suppers, and set them carefully in her car. There was nothing she could do to make herself look as wholesome as Betty Crocker, but she wore her simplest dress and flats, and played down her jewelry. Then she made the trip into town.

Sunshine Bakery was on State Street, in an ideal location near restaurants and a small grocery store in the central shopping district. The place had changed hands in the fall, and she hadn’t heard much about it one way or the other since.

There was a park on the next block, where parents gathered to watch children’s soccer matches or Little League games, and couples played tennis on half a dozen courts. Wanda imagined children and parents alike stopped by for brownies or cookies, or something to bring home for dessert.

State Street itself needed sprucing up. She noted a couple of empty storefronts, although one looked as if it were in the midst of renovation. The city had torn up the sidewalks across the road from Sunshine, but new sidewalks would be an advantage. It looked as if they might be putting in some landscaping, too. All in all, the spot was good.

She found a parking space at the end of the block, and gathered her pies and the sheet she’d printed with her information and what she expected to charge per pie. The last had been the hardest. She had no idea what people might really pay. She’d made a run to Publix that morning to see what their pies went for, then figured how much hers would be worth per slice. By the time she subtracted the cost of ingredients, there hadn’t been that much left over to pay for her time. But pies were a labor of love. And if she started making them in bulk, she could buy in bulk, too, and that would save her some money.

From the outside, Sunshine Bakery was no great shakes. The plate glass window needed cleaning, and the displays of fake wedding cakes looked as if they’d been bought at a garage sale. Wanda knew that most people in town bought their wedding cakes from a woman one town over who specialized in nothing but and was more or less famous in South Florida. Apparently the Sunshine Bakery wasn’t trying hard to compete.

Inside, the bakery was narrow, with a counter on the right over a glass display case. While the room should have smelled like something baking in the oven, the smell was more like a house that had been closed up too long. The woman minding the counter was on the telephone, and she signaled to Wanda that she would be with her in a moment.

Wanda used the time to examine the baked goods. She was surprised there was so little to see other than bread. Shiny,
seeded loaves sat on a shelf behind the counter, long tapering loaves Wanda might buy if she wanted to pitch baseballs to one of her grandsons. Then there were round loaves of differing colors and textures. Sandwich loaves that ached to be slathered with peanut butter or layered with cheese.

She spotted three cakes, all covered with fluffy commercial icing that probably tasted like paste, and four platters of perfectly symmetrical cookies that looked like cardboard. One shelf was devoted to éclairs that were sadly dripping chocolate on parchment paper. The final item was a lemon meringue pie missing two slices. Due to the dissection Wanda observed an anemic graham cracker crust, an egg-yolk-colored filling that was much too shallow and meringue that was much too deep. If a person wanted nothing for dessert but meringue oozing sticky little droplets, Sunshine was the place to come.

The woman hung up and sighed. “I’m sorry. Problems with a supplier. Prices going up, up, up, or so he says. I’ll be darned if I’m going to pay college tuition for his children.”

Wanda thought the woman sounded like maybe she was happiest trying to get people to give her more for less. There was nothing wrong with getting a bargain; Wanda shopped on sale when she could, but she also knew times were tough. Likely the man just wanted to put food on his table, not send his children to Yale or Harvard.

The woman gestured to the case. “So, what can I help you with? We have some nice éclairs on sale. That first cake’s chocolate, with raspberry filling. If you want it for a special occasion, my daughter can write on it in a jiffy.”

The woman was pushing sixty, round as a doughnut, with frowsy brown hair and a little smile that seemed to be engraved
on her face. Wanda thought the smile was as fake as the frosting on the cakes.

“As a matter of fact, I thought maybe I could help you.” Wanda set the two carriers on the counter. “I’m a pie baker. It’s what I love to do most in the world.” She was glad Ken wasn’t there to hear the insult to his charms. “I decided it’s time to start selling them, and I wanted to give you first crack. I brought three for you to try, but I make about a hundred different kinds. I’m just wondering if we could work out some kind of partnership.”

The little smile widened just a bit. “Did you make them in a
professional
kitchen?”

“No, I make them in my own kitchen, but I can turn out a lot if I need to.”

The woman looked pleased, as if educating Wanda was the best part of her day. “You haven’t looked into this very much, have you? You can’t sell
anything
you make at home, not in Florida. A kitchen and living quarters have to be completely separated. And you have to have permits. My, the permits you have to have.” She shook her head and looked even more pleased.

“Well, do
you
have a professional kitchen?”

“Of course. My daughter and I make most of what you see here.”

“Then I suppose I could come in and bake here for you, if you were interested, that is. It’s not my preference, but it sounds like the way to go.”

“I
have
pies.”

“Not like these, you don’t.” Wanda began to take off the covers. “I can tell you that nobody who eats one of my pies ever forgets it. Your customers won’t, either. By the way, I’m Wanda Gray.”

“I’m Frieda Mertz.” Frieda walked over to examine the pies. “What did you bring?”

Wanda told her. “But like I said, I have about a hundred carefully tested recipes. I could make just about anything you wanted. Why don’t you give one a try?”

“Well, I am partial to apple.”

This didn’t surprise Wanda, although it would surprise her if Frieda could turn out a tasty one herself. Frieda left, and returned with a knife and a plastic fork and a paper plate. She didn’t offer to share. She just cut right into the pie and slapped a small slice on the plate, then dug in.

Wanda, who hadn’t eaten lunch herself, felt her stomach rumble.

“Good,” Frieda said, when she had finished. “A little unusual. You’ve added something different to the traditional recipe.”

“I have.”

“I don’t think I can have a pie on my shelves without knowing what’s in it.”

Wanda thought a discussion of ingredients was premature, but she shrugged. “Whiskey. Just a splash.”

“Is that so. And the spices?”

Wanda told her. At least she told her
some
of them. She could always plead a memory lapse later, but for now, she wasn’t ready to share every little secret.

“And what else did you bring?”

They followed the same routine with the other two pies. Frieda tasted, and questioned her. By the third pie, Wanda was getting suspicious. At one point Frieda excused herself and went into the back. She returned a few minutes later.

“The pies are fine,” Frieda said. “But I think I need to taste a few more before I commit. And I’d like to take these and pass
them around my family, just to see if they think hiring you to bake for us would be a good idea. What else can you bring me?”

Wanda wasn’t about to let Frieda have her pies. Not until they had an understanding. She didn’t like the woman well enough, and worse, with every passing second she was growing more suspicious something was wrong.

She put the lid back on the carriers and removed them from the counter before Frieda could run off with them.

“I’m sorry, but I planned to take these over to the police station. My pies are a big hit with my husband’s buddies over there. What other kinds would you like to sample?”

A young woman with Frieda’s frizzy hair came out from the back, holding a sheet of paper in front of her. “Mom, is this supposed to be some kind of recipe for me to follow? Apple pie with real whiskey? We don’t have any whiskey on our shelves, that’s for sure, and you’re really going to spring for some?”

For the first time Frieda’s smile wobbled. She didn’t take her eyes from Wanda. “No, of course it’s not a recipe, you idiot. I just made a few notes to jog my memory when I talk to this lady again.”

“Sure looks like a recipe. Names of spices. Whiskey. How many apples. Sounds good. Sounds better than ours.” The young woman wandered back into the other room.

“I thought you asked too many questions,” Wanda said, gathering the pies up higher and closer to her chest.

“I told you I just need to know what you put in them if I’m going to sell—”

Wanda was getting angrier and angrier. “You’re not planning to sell my pies. You’re planning to steal my recipes! You even tried to steal these samples. Family my eyebrow! Bet when I walked out the door you’d have put them on those shelves of yours, pro
fessional kitchen or not! Well, guess again! I wouldn’t bake a pie for you if I was starving. Bet you wouldn’t pay me even a fraction of what they’re worth, either. And you know what? I figured out what you were up to, and I only told you a little and some of that was a lie. You won’t be able to duplicate my recipes no matter what you do, ’cause you’re a no-talent hack!”

“I didn’t ask you to come in here. I can make my own pies. My customers seem to like them just fine.”

“What customers? There hasn’t been a soul since I came in, and it’s lunchtime. People ought to be streaming in, buying something to go with their sandwiches, or picking up a treat for supper.” Wanda headed for the door. “Somebody ought to give you a run for your money. Palmetto Grove deserves real dessert for a change.”

The door tinkled loudly when she slammed it behind her.

The air outside smelled fresher and sweeter than the air in the bakery. She took a deep breath before she started back to her car, but she was steaming, and not because she was in the sun.

Under the anger, disappointment was blooming. She did two things really well. One was taking care of people and making them feel special. The other was baking pies. First she’d been fired as a server, just because she was past fifty. Now an overblown apple dumpling was trying to steal her pies. It seemed like there was some sort of eternal vendetta going on, but Wanda couldn’t figure out why. Nothing had changed on her end. She’d done her job well. She’d baked pies and been willing to offer them for sale at very little profit.

As if the Fates were conspiring to make a point, she stumbled over an uneven piece of sidewalk and nearly fell to her knees. She managed to stay her fall by bouncing against the wall of the store just in front of her. Shaken, but pies intact, she rested a moment, breathing hard.

The store was one of the empty ones she’d noticed on her walk down the block, but not the one that was being renovated. As she gathered herself, she peeked inside the window and saw this hadn’t been a store at all, but some kind of restaurant. She pressed her face against the glass and saw a short counter with several stools, the old-fashioned kind she remembered from the soda fountains of her youth, chrome, with red plastic seats that twirled round and round. She could see where tables had probably clustered. Swinging doors led into the back.

She heard somebody walk by, then turn and approach her. She looked up and saw an old man with a halo of fluffy white hair.

“Luncheonette,” he explained, as if she had asked out loud. “It was here almost forever, but it’s been closed most of a year. Never could figure why the space hasn’t been rented or sold. It’s a good location.”

“Well, it’s tiny,” Wanda said. “Any decent-size restaurant would have to knock out walls and expand into the place next door.”

“Yeah, and they’ll never sell. Mom-and-pop establishment, and so’s the one on the other side of the alley.” He pointed to what was really just a walkway that ran beside the shop. “Been here for years. This place used to buzz, though. I guess egg salad sandwiches and a bottomless cup of coffee can’t make any man rich enough today.”

After he left, Wanda stood there for fifteen minutes wondering what the little luncheonette could do for a woman who didn’t care if she got rich, a woman who only cared if she could bake pies and make people happy.

Janya stared at the open box in front of her. “
Aai
has sent me not one gift, but two. At least her generosity cannot be questioned.”

Something about the way Janya said the last made Tracy take notice. “Your mother?” She continued after Janya’s nod. “So what did she send?”

When the other woman didn’t answer, Tracy peeked over a cardboard flap to see for herself. She had lugged the surprisingly heavy package to Janya’s door after it had been left by “mistake” in Tracy’s own generously sized mailbox. This mistake was one the carrier made frequently. Tracy’s box was the largest in the little development, and leaving packages inside it saved him a trip to the true recipient’s front door.

Janya grimaced; then she pried out a red stone statue that was wedged tightly inside. “It is Nandi, the bull.” She held it up for Tracy to see, using both hands.

“Well, that’s… something else.”

“It is well-done.” Janya didn’t sound happy.

Tracy viewed the bull, who was lying on his stomach, an elaborately carved saddle adorning his back. It was well-done, yes, but it was also heavy.

“I guess I don’t understand,” Tracy said. “If my mother was in the mood to give gifts, which she’s certainly not, she’d send me a blouse or a scarf. You get a bull? And one that must have cost a fortune to ship?”

“Nandi is the bull Shiva rides. He…” Janya seemed to search for the right word. “Symbolizes? He
represents
sexual energy.” She looked up. “And fertility.”

“Ah, I get it. Grandchildren.”

“So it would seem.”

Tracy tried to think of something to say. “Well, that’s a really interesting way to get them. What will you do with him, or shouldn’t I ask?”

Janya lifted an eyebrow, but she was reading the letter that had been enclosed in the box and didn’t answer. Even when Tracy peered over her shoulder, she wasn’t able to decipher the characters, which were entirely different from anything she’d seen. She wasn’t even sure which direction they were to be read.

Finally Janya looked up. “She suggests that I display him in our bedroom.”

“Right. Very…exotic.”

Janya sighed and put the letter down. “
Aai
has outdone herself.”

“What’s the second thing?” Tracy nodded toward a white jar that looked as if it had contained a drugstore cleansing cream, although there was no label.

“It will be harder to explain.”

If Janya thought that would lessen Tracy’s interest, she was
mistaken. “I’ve still got almost an hour to finish Dana’s cottage before she arrives with all her stuff.”

This sigh was louder. “It seems there is a temple in Tamil Nadu devoted to the goddess Garbharakshambigai.” The long name rolled off her tongue. “She blesses couples who long for a child. Many make pilgrimages there, my mother says. They offer ghee to put at her feet.”

“Ghee?”

“You have eaten it at my table. Similar to your clarified butter. It does not spoil in our heat the way ordinary butter might.”

“So they pour it on the feet of the goddess?”

“Something like that, yes. And when they have said the
shlokas
—prayers—they are told to say, and performed other rituals, they are given the ghee to take home. Then they are to eat a little of it for forty-eight days, both man and woman, and a child will come.”

“Hum…yummy.” Tracy made a face. “Still, to my Western ears, that sounds a lot saner than taking your temperature ten times a day to figure out when you’re ovulating, or making love with your knees over your ears. Give it a try.”

“Can a woman truly make love with her knees over her ears?”

“Your people wrote the Kama Sutra. Look it up.”

“Rishi will wonder what I have told my mother that she would send these to us.”

“I bet you didn’t have to tell her anything. I bet she’s been counting on her fingers since your wedding night.”

“Did your mother do the same when you were married?”

“My mother would have had a cow.” Tracy grimaced. “I’m sorry, nothing like this one,” she said, gesturing to the statue. “My mother has had at least two face-lifts, breast enhancements, liposuction, tummy tucks, you name it. A grandchild
would just point out how old she actually is. So the advice I got went more like, ‘You and CJ have no need for children, and I hope you don’t plan any.’”

“Someday we will lock our mothers in a room together and see which emerges the victor.”

“I didn’t want a baby anyway.” Tracy paused. “Not with CJ. I didn’t know how to be a mother. Now it’s a moot point. But for you it’s a different story, huh?”

“Rishi has missed having a real family. He is ready.”

Tracy rested her hand on Janya’s shoulder. “Are you ready, too? I mean, it’s a big job. I see all kinds of parents at the center, and some of them are pretty resentful because they never get a break.”

“I hope I would be different.”

“Of course you would be. I just want you to be happy.”

Janya smiled sadly. “You want me to be happy. I want Rishi to be happy. Who does Rishi want to be happy?”

“Well, you, I hope.”

“My husband will make an excellent father. He is a good man.”

“So he is.” Tracy glanced at her watch. “I guess I ought to get over to Herb’s—make that Dana’s—cottage. It’s in pretty good shape, but I want to do a little more sprucing up.”

“Do you need help?”

“Need? Nope. Want? You bet.”

After Janya put her gifts away, she and Tracy walked over to the soon-to-be-occupied cottage. Tracy had been in that morning to air it out and hadn’t locked up. She threw the door open, and Janya went in first.

“Go see what I did to the old study this week,” she told Janya. “Lizzie’s new bedroom.”

“Come and show me.”

They went together. The former laundry room adjoined the only bathroom, a pink-and-gray affair that had been all the rage in the 1950s. Unfortunately, Lizzie would have to squeeze through a doorway beside the shower whenever she entered or exited, unless she crawled through the window. The room was so tiny Tracy had been afraid she couldn’t fit a bed along the longest wall, but she had found a daybed and new mattress that fit exactly, both on sale at a discount store going out of business.

She’d been under no obligation to provide the little girl with a bed, but something had told her weeks might pass before Dana found the money to buy one. Besides, brightening Dana’s and Lizzie’s lives was good karma. And working on the room had given her something to do other than think about Marsh at home, cooking one of his fabulous dinners.

For Sylvia.

“Oh, you painted it.” Janya sent Tracy a big smile. The room was now flooded with sunshine, the pale buttery kind that comes from a paint can.

“Olivia told me Lizzie’s favorite color is yellow. And the walls were so shabby, the room needed a new coat of paint anyway. I had some extra time one evening.” Tracy had also clipped coupons and bought sunflower sheets and a matching comforter. The entire renovation had cost very little.

“She will love it.”

“Well, it’s not an ideal situation. She’s going to have to develop some patience coming and going, that’s for sure. But I’m pretty sure it’s a big step up from that awful motel.”

“And I have just the right print for that wall,” said another voice.

The two women turned to find Wanda behind them in the bathroom doorway.

Wanda flapped her fingers in a wave. “It’s a big old shaggy
sheepdog rolling around in a flower-filled meadow—with some sunflowers, even. Goes with the theme. I bought the frame for something else and the print was already in it. Do you want it?”

Wanda’s taste was questionable, but Tracy figured this might be enough of an exception to put on the wall. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Got some sheer green curtains to put over the window, too. Used to hang in our guest bedroom back in Miami.”

“And I have a carved table we can put beside the bed,” Janya said. “Very lightweight. I will bring it. And a little pink lamp I bought at a garage sale and have no place for.”

By the time they finished moving everything in, the room looked surprisingly inviting. Tracy was sure Lizzie would be pleased.

“It seems odd, don’t you think, that they have no furniture of their own?” she said. “I mean, even I had a few little things with me when I came from California. In a sports car, no less.”

“You want the truth?” Wanda lowered her voice. “I think maybe they’ve been homeless, or just about, a time or two. Dana hasn’t said so, exactly, but we all know what the economy’s like, and how hard it is to find a job. From what I can tell, they’ve moved a lot, and they don’t seem to have much in the way of savings. I’m betting they’ve left a lot of stuff along the way.”

Tracy knew how many people were suffering. In fact, she had worried she might not find renters at all. So once she’d seen that Dana liked the cottage, she had waived the security deposit. She had wanted Dana and Lizzie to have the house. Olivia was so excited about having her friend just down the road. And Dana? Well, Dana just seemed to need it.

They were interrupted by somebody knocking on the front
door. The women went into the living room, and Tracy found Alice and Olivia waiting outside.

“She’ll need groceries,” Alice said. “I have…” She was carrying two brown bags, and she held them out to finish her sentence without words.

Olivia held out a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. “And I made brownies.”

“Well, if this isn’t a party,” Wanda said, taking a grocery bag from Alice’s arms, as Tracy took the brownies. “Come on inside, ladies.”

Tracy put her arm around Olivia’s shoulders. She was more than fond of the girl. Olivia had gone through difficult times, first losing her mother, who had drowned, then her father, who was now in jail. But Olivia was still a sweet, thoughtful kid who worried about others. She was growing taller by the moment, and her brown hair was growing out after a short cut she’d hated. Now, due to some careful trimming under Tracy’s expert supervision, it fell silky and smooth to her collar. Olivia showed all the signs of being a beautiful young woman someday. Tracy just hoped she would get through adolescence trouble free—or close enough.

“You’re excited about having Lizzie here?” Tracy asked.

“It’s gonna be great.”

“I don’t know…. Didn’t I hear something about you having a whole lot of homework, with the year winding down?”

“We’ll do it together.” Olivia poked Tracy in the side. “You know it’ll get done.”

Tracy hugged her, then let her go. “Go see what we did to Lizzie’s new room and tell me you approve.”

While Olivia inspected, Tracy joined the other women, who were checking out the kitchen. “Everything’s pretty much
finished,” Tracy said. “I just thought I’d give the cabinet shelves another quick wipe and some shelf paper.” She brandished a roll lying on the kitchen counter. She was not a shelf paper kind of woman, but the old shelves needed something bright.

“You clean the fridge out good?” Wanda asked.

“I tossed out everything the last tenants left there. You want to wipe it down for me?”

“Not a problem.”

Alice had already busied herself sweeping the floor. Alice could find enough dirt in a sterile operating room to fill a dustpan. A good mopping would come next. Tracy knew the way the older woman worked.

Olivia ran in and told the women she was going home to go through her books and games so she could give some to Lizzie for her new room. The announcement was quickly followed by the slam of the front door.

Without being asked, Janya began removing the few dishes in the cabinets. “I think Herb would be glad Dana and Lizzie were moving in. I will ask Dana if she wants some of his plants to put near the windows. I have many.”

Herb, who had died the past summer, had nurtured a full-fledged garden in pots. After his death, Janya had appointed herself to watch over them. She had been certain his heirs would claim them, but in the end, she’d inherited them for herself. Now she spread them around when she could. Tracy thought the generosity was an unconscious memorial to the old man, a way of keeping something he had enjoyed alive.

Wanda finished filling the sink with soapy water and found a sponge. “I know she’ll want plants. Dana told me she likes to dig in the dirt. I think she was hoping she’d get a discount on the rent for doing some gardening around here.”

“I gave her the best break I could.” Tracy dipped a cloth in the soapy water and hoisted herself to the counter to begin wiping shelves. “But she knows she’s welcome to do any gardening she wants.” She didn’t add that Dana had made it clear she would do some landscaping just as a thank-you. For Tracy, getting a reputation as a do-gooder was too strange to contemplate.

“So,” Wanda said, head now in the refrigerator, “tell us about getting pregnant, Janya.”

Janya sounded disgruntled. “I should not have said anything.”

“Sure you should have. Who else would you talk to about this? You’ve been to the doctor to see what’s what?”

Janya looked as if she was contemplating a change of subject, although she had to know that would be like heading off a hurricane with a paper fan.

Finally she shrugged. “The doctor says it is too soon to worry, that we will talk again when a year has passed.”

“I’ve been reading up on this,” Wanda said.

“Along with my mother. Do you, perhaps, have a fertility statue to give me?”

Wanda came out of the refrigerator at that. “A fertility statue?”

“A really cool red stone bull that anyone would be proud to have,” Tracy said. “And aren’t you being a little bit nosy?”

“It’s my job to make Janya happy.” Wanda pulled out the vegetable bin and brought it to the sink. “If she wants a baby, it’s my job to help.”

“No, I think that’s Rishi’s job,” Tracy said. “He’s better equipped for it.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “I did some reading, as I started to say. And there are ways to help things along.”

“This is a personal matter,” Janya said.

“Not since the moment you brought it up to the whole crew, it’s not. So I went to Wal-Mart, and I got you something.” Wanda abandoned the bin on the counter and left, returning with her purse. She removed a small bag and thrust it in Janya’s direction. “For you.”