by Tess Rothery
"Education isn’t in the reading so much as the understanding what's being read,” Lorraine corrected.
“Mom, I don’t think this is the time.” Tansy’s voice was soft and worried.
“I do not mean to imply that she doesn’t understand what she’s reading.” Lorraine spoke to Tansy about Courtney, as though that woman was a specimen. “But when you have an instructor, a professor, so to speak, you’ve got someone who is steeped in the background of the material and can lead you to a deeper and better understanding. That is the point of university.”
“I’m practically running a university.” Courtney’s face dimpled in laughter. Whatever hurt she’d originally felt seemed to have passed. She was a good-natured woman, and Taylor was glad for her presence.
"How many kids are you teaching at once?" Tansy asked. "I have two, and the end of the school year made me crazy. I hadn't planned on homeschooling and was in way over my head."
"You engaged in assisted online learning. Homeschooling is far different," Lorraine corrected her daughter.
"Just keeping the kids on track while someone else educated them was hard enough. I can't imagine running a whole family-school like you do." Tansy kept her eyes on Courtney’s tired but cheerful face.
"It was a rough transition for all of us. Our co-op had to close, and all their clubs and activities too. Even homeschooled kids aren’t used to actually being at home all day.”
Again, Taylor was impressed by Courtney’s grace and tact.
"I've got seven kids. But only six are currently at home, and the youngest two aren’t school age. The baby is only three. Just turned. And the next youngest, Joey, is just five."
"But doesn't Joey wish he was in kindergarten?" Tansy asked. “My oldest was in kindergarten and loved it."
“One can't long for what they've never had." Courtney gave a gentle shrug. "But the little ones do see their siblings having school, and they like the idea. They have little desks and coloring books. It's probably like preschool, really. Toys and pretending that they’re in school. But I'm under no pressure to break them to the saddle, so to speak. They aren't animals, after all. When they're tired of coloring, they play something else. They don't have to line up or get permission to use the bathroom. They’re just at home with their family. It's quite lovely, and I think if everyone had done it….” Her voice trailed away.
“Not everyone has the same opportunity.” Lorraine sat stiffly in her chair, perhaps remembering her own time as a divorced mom, struggling with alcohol. “Take for an example, Taylor and Belle’s mother. She was left a widow at a young age with two children.”
“I suppose it takes a village.” Tansy rested her fork on the edge of her plate.
“That is correct. A village should pull together to run quality public schools.” Lorraine’s thin lips compressed tightly.
Tansy closed her eyes.
Taylor counted to ten, on her behalf.
When Tansy opened her eyes, almost exactly when Taylor got to ten, she changed the subject. “I’m excited for the history lectures. Belle is so smart.”
“Belle Lang is a delightfully wise young lady,” Lorraine agreed. “So few women are as brilliant as she is. I’m glad she was discovered young and whisked into the world of academia.”
Courtney frowned. “I don’t know that being good in school is what makes someone wise.”
Footsteps on the staircase brought joy to Taylor’s heart. Sissy carried two trays laden with canary pudding, another of Aviva’s picks, and placed them on a cart for Taylor.
Taylor rolled the cart into the dining room. “Is everyone ready for dessert? We have some utterly scrumptious Canary Pudding for you. Don’t let the name worry you, it refers to the color, granted by the lovely fresh lemon.”
The announcement was like a clean spring wind blowing through the room. Voices quieted, tones softened, and heads all turned to Taylor. The women who hadn’t put their masks back on had relieved smiles on their faces.
As she went from person to person trading their barely eaten sandwiches for their traditional steamed dessert, everything seemed better. “Who would like coffee with their dessert? We even have decaf if you're interested."
Heads nodded, and Pyper Dorney called out, “Yes, please!” with youthful enthusiasm. Taylor ran down to the kitchen with the empty trays and the list of who wanted decaf and who wanted regular.
The tension in the group had triggered her wounded leg, tripping her as she navigated the stairs. Perhaps she should have expected it. Perhaps a group of people who’d been alone for the last four months would be tense. Rough spots were sure to rub each other wrong after all that isolation. All that anxiety she’d had about seeing Maddie again seemed like a waste. They were hardly the ones likely to ruin the event. But it was a pity they hadn’t had wine with lunch. Just to take the edge off.
The first group Taylor had in her parlor were Lorraine, Maddie, and Pyper. Each woman had received a small basket full of sewing supplies for the weekend. It contained needles, thread, those little stork-handled sewing scissors, and all of the materials they’d need for their projects. The outlay for this had come directly from Belle and Jonah's wealth. Belle was adamant that everything be as historically accurate as possible, and that wasn’t cheap.
Taylor had felt a little sick when she’d turned in her requests. She’d hoped her sister would find ways to save money on Taylor’s suggestions, but she hadn't. Instead, the materials provided were far nicer than the ones Taylor had listed.
The era the event was meant to represent bordered on a new and modern world. In Oregon, the women of the Boone-Love household would get to vote a mere seven years after they had moved in. But though the pioneer women of Oregon had modern rights and rugged territory, they would have been raised by thoroughly Victorian parents. With that in mind, Taylor had planned Victorian inspired crafts. “We’ll start today by hemming our own handkerchiefs.” Taylor introduced the project as everyone took their seats.
“Did they really use these for their noses?" Pyper asked. "It's just so rough."
“It might feel rough to you," Lorraine said, "but it was quite a luxurious fabric in 1904. Nothing lasts as well as linen, and once your fingers are used to the texture, you'll find it's uncommonly smooth and comfortable to work with."
"Lorraine’s right." Taylor smiled at the woman and wondered how she'd be able to keep any sense of authority over a small group with the town’s history expert as a student.
But showing them how to roll the edge, creasing it with their fingernails, then how to complete a simple whipstitch hadn’t been any trouble.
“Though at the time, this was called a felling stitch,” Lorraine corrected. “I’m sure Belle would have wanted that mentioned.”
Taylor’s face grew warm. “Thanks Lorraine. That’s true, and I forgot to say so.”
“My thread has a knot.” Pyper’s chin jutted in determination. She rolled the knot between her fingers like someone who’d been taught to sew before. “Got it! Jeesh. I didn’t think I would for a minute.”
Lorraine’s posture was perfect, only her head tilted toward her fabric as she stitched. It didn’t surprise Taylor to see a lovely row of shell stitch embroidery for the hem, rather than the simple whip.
“Ouch.” Pyper’s voice was small. She tucked her pointer finger into her fist. “Band-Aids?”
“They won’t be invented for another twelve years.” Lorraine’s still face did not let on that she was joking.
“I’ve got one.” Taylor slipped a bandage from a little tin on the fireplace mantle. She’d had a feeling a little blood would be shed.
Maddie had merely watched through the demonstration, but once Taylor was done talking, she began to search her basket. “I haven’t done any sewing since high school.” She smiled as she picked through the materials. No matter how stressed the group had been so far, she seemed like she was trying to have a good time.
Included with the linen cloth were the tool
s they would need for the rest of the weekend's work, including embroidery floss and felt for making a needle book. Maddie laid them out on the rosewood side table next to her chair. “What's this?” She held an object up and peered at it. "Is this more of the Boone-Loves good bones?" Maddie laughed. "Look at this Taylor, do you think it's one of the house rats?"
Taylor held her breath. Rat bones in the work basket?
Please let it not be so.
But as she joined Maddie at her chair, she saw it was definitely some kind of bone.
Maddie dropped it into Taylor's outstretched hand.
"This is not the correct era to be using bone needles." Lorraine pursed her lips, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
"I can't imagine how that got in there. I'm so sorry.” Taylor held the bone under a lamp. The brittle, beige bone looked too big to be from a rat bone. More like something from a chicken wing. “I put these baskets together myself, but they were stored here for a week before we met."
“You don’t think a rat died in her basket, do you?” Pyper wrinkled her nose.
Lorraine turned her head slowly side to side. "There would not have been enough time for a rat to decompose in a mere week. Besides, can you imagine what the rest of the basket would look like if that had been the case?”
Taylor felt for Pyper, whose face reddened. She was the youngest in the group by several years. They shouldn’t have split her from her sister. It didn’t seem kind.
Taylor pocketed the bone and wondered about rats. Could some kind of pack rat have hauled that into the house and left it in a basket? Or had something bigger been having snacks in their house? And if so, where on earth had it gotten the bone?
Maddie used the tips of her fingers to place her items back in the basket.
“Oh!” Taylor wished she’d realized the obvious sooner. “Please, use my basket. You can work on the handkerchief I started if you like.” She passed her own work basket and the linen to Maddie. There was no way she’d ask a guest to use contaminated materials. “While you enjoy yourselves, I’ll just take this…away. And get another basket. We have plenty of materials if anything else should go awry.”
“Very wise,” Lorraine said. “Do you ladies know why these little scissors have storks for handles?”
Taylor scrunched her face. That story had been on her list to tell. She’d have to beg Belle for a new bit of history to fill in the blank that left on her script.
She stashed the contaminated basket in the mud room near the back door. She had stored her spare work baskets in the bedroom she was sharing with her sister and ran to grab one.
Belle was laying on the bed with a damp washcloth over her forehead.
“Hey, are you okay?” Taylor stopped at the bed to check on her sister.
Belle pressed her knuckles to her forehead. “No. I feel just rotten. It’s not going well, is it?”
“It’ll all work out, I promise.” Taylor wasn’t sure this was true, but that’s what kind lies were for.
“The food.” Belle exhaled a sharp breath. “I should have picked a better cookbook for Aviva. Something with normal stuff in it.”
“It was an experience. It’s okay! It was memorable.” Taylor pulled out all the positives she could think of but in reality, she agreed. The fault had to lay at least somewhat with the book Belle had picked.
“It was repulsive.”
Taylor didn’t disagree. None of the staff had finished their sandwiches when they’d gathered in the kitchen for their lunch either. She hated to bring up yet another flaw in the plan, but it had to be mentioned. “Real quick, did you get the rodent problem sorted out?”
“Oh no,” Belle sighed. “What did you find?”
“I’m not sure, but…a bone? A chicken bone maybe? It was in Maddie’s work basket.”
Belle sat up and rested her head on her fist. “The exterminator swore we were set. I don’t know. Do rats eat chickens?”
“I don’t know, either.” Taylor sat down on the edge of the bed. “But the ladies like the stitching, and Lorraine is telling them interesting history factoids while I get another workbasket for myself. It’s going to be okay.”
“How are the makeovers going upstairs?” Belle asked.
Taylor shook her head. The other half of the ladies were with Sissy learning how to style their hair like Gibson Girls. “I bet they’re having a blast. Sissy is a great stylist and a lot of fun when she’s doing something she loves.”
“I helped Aviva with the dishes, and by the time we were done, my head felt like it was going to cave in.”
“Lie back down. Do you need aspirin? Water?”
“No. I’ve had some. I’ll lie down. If I don’t come back….”
“We’ve got the agenda for the evening. Don’t worry. Just rest so you can enjoy tomorrow, okay?”
Belle didn’t respond. She was already laying down again with the damp rag over her eyes.
Taylor slipped the chicken bone into the drawer of her bedside table, grabbed another basket, turned the light out, and pulled the door shut. Stress headaches had been a problem for Belle when she was going through adolescence. But a little lie down had always seemed to fix it.
Chapter Three
Belle appeared to be back in fighting form in time for dinner. She took the dining room duties and left Taylor in the kitchen with Aviva. The meal smelled extraordinary, at least compared to peanut-olive paste.
Each meal for the weekend had menus preprinted on linen texture paper. The first evening’s dinner was Chicken a la Stanley, which looked fancier in the script font than it sounded when said out loud. It would be served with Creole tomatoes, egg dumplings, and Lady Baltimore cake. Chicken a la Stanley and egg dumplings was suspiciously like chicken and dumplings, with a bit more onion in the gravy. Heavy for a warm June day but guaranteed to taste nice. And the Creole tomato would cut through the heaviness with its acid and heat.
No, Aviva wasn’t a professional by any means, but this was edible.
Taylor also approved of how the layers of the Lady Baltimore Cake were filled with a compote made from the leftover fruit and nut salad. She hadn’t seen the rest of the menus, but there was nothing suspicious in the extra-large refrigerators. Just more chicken, eggs, fruit, and cream. Perfectly normal. There was plenty of brown bread, but Taylor was sure that would be delicious when served with something that didn’t stick quite so badly to the roof of your mouth.
“I wish we could give them a glass of wine.” Taylor spooned the halved tomatoes onto plates that already held the chicken and dumplings. “A little something to take the edge off.”
“I bet the guests do too.” Aviva’s hair hung limp around her face. The heat of the stove had been intense, even in the naturally cool basement kitchen. Her kitschy cotton apron was splattered with the onion cream sauce she had tried to artistically pour over her main dish. “But Oregon is hardly going to give a temporary liquor license to business owners who aren’t twenty-one yet.”
“Ah.” Taylor hadn’t thought of that. In the mess that had been state covid guidelines little things like alcohol licensing had slipped her mind. A large punch bowl sat on the end of the kitchen island, far away from the stove. It was frosty with ice and smelled of limes and pineapple. “This looks good though.”
“Would you mind getting me a little cup?” Aviva wiped her forehead. “I’m dying over here.”
Taylor did as requested, and also took a small glass for herself. It was sweet but refreshing.
“The barley water was in the back of the Rumford cookbook—recipes to make for sick people.” Aviva pulled a stool out from the center island and sat. “I thought it would be a sort of soothing, relaxing drink. I swear it made sense, psychologically.”
“Sure, but did it taste good?” Taylor tried not to sound too mean, but the question needed to be asked.
“Belle made me promise to give a historical experience. It seems like you can’t just serve normal foods, you know? The book has a recipe for
iced coffee. But they can get that at Starbucks.”
“They’d have loved that!” Taylor smiled broadly. “Can we have that tomorrow at lunch?”
“If Belle argues, I can just point to the recipe, I guess. I do want them to have a good time.” Aviva stood again, stretched, and checked her watch. “Time to get this upstairs to Sissy.”
“Can do.”
“I made samples of that sandwich filling, and my parents liked it,” Aviva said to Taylor’s back as she left.
Taylor paused. “It’s okay. Something must have been off in the olives, that’s all.”
“You think?” There was a little sound of hope in Aviva’s voice.
“That’s got to be it.” Taylor couldn’t stand long with her arms laden with the loaded trays. A little door in the wall by the staircase caught Taylor’s eye as she walked past. The dumbwaiter. Unfortunately, those trays that were meant to keep things germ-free were just a bit too big for that nice food-elevator.
Things went smoothly on through dessert. Though no one asked for seconds of the dinner, the punch bowl was emptied before the cake was served.
Aviva seemed calmer now, her face relaxed as she faced the mountain of pots and pans she’d used to cook. “My parents will be disappointed.” She filled one side of the only-slightly-larger-than-average sink. “This experience isn’t making me want to take up the family business at all.”
“Aren’t there enough cousins to keep the ship afloat without you?” Taylor dug into her own plate of chicken and dumplings. She was pleased to find them as savory and tasty as she’d hoped.
“Sure, but I still want to do criminal science, and that freaks them out.”