Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky

by Sharon Love Cook

  “Where’s Tiny?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Okay, now do me a favor.”

  “Another time,” she said. “I’m going.”

  “Meet me for a cup of coffee.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Rose, and nothing’s open at this hour anyway.”

  “I know a place that’s open all night. It’s called Marilyn’s Pie Palace, and it’s on 128 South. It’s got an orange roof. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Yeah, that’s where Tiny buys worms.”

  “They don’t sell worms anymore, they sell pies. All night long. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, but it won’t change anything. I’m still taking my suitcases.”

  The building that housed Marilyn’s Pie Palace had undergone various incarnations over the years. In the ‘50s it was a Howard Johnson’s with the requisite orange plastic roof, still intact. Later it became a motorcycle repair shop. Its last metamorphosis, before pie emporium, was a bait and tackle shop. Under the cracked plastic roof, hope sprung eternal.

  B.A. was waiting when I pulled in next to her Thunderbird. Two weekender suitcases were stacked in the back seat. Together we stared at the low-slung building where a sign on the roof read Marilyn’s Pie Palace. “Is she nuts?” B.A. said. “Who’s gonna drive way out here for pies?”

  “Let’s give her a break. She’s only been open a month.” I guided her to the entrance. A bell over the door tinkled when we entered. Inside, fluorescent lights illuminated freshly painted aqua walls. A long Formica counter held a row of pies under clear plastic domes. It was like stepping into a time capsule. “How about this booth by the window?” Betty Ann said.

  “I gotta wipe it down first.” A waitress, vigorously sponging a table at the end of the room, looked up. We waited while she attacked our table with antiseptic spray. When we were seated she distributed menus and stood back, taking an order pad from an apron pocket. A plastic name tag on her shirt pocket read Donna: Happy to serve you!

  “Would you like to hear our specials tonight?”

  “Just coffee for me,” Betty Ann said, handing back her menu.

  “It’s a five-dollar minimum after midnight to sit in the booths,” she said, “but not at the counter.”

  “I’d like to hear the specials,” I said. “By the way, how’s business?”

  She shrugged. “It’s okay. A lot of people come in looking for worms.” She read from her pad. “Tonight’s pies are pineapple custard, key lime, butterscotch parfait and prune whip.”

  “How about plain old apple?” Betty Ann said.

  Donna shook her head. “Don’t have that. You want time to think it over?”

  “What the hell,” B. A. said. “I’ll have the butterscotch whatever and black coffee,”

  “Butterscotch parfait,” Donna said, writing on her pad.

  I’ll have the key lime,” I said, “and coffee with milk.”

  Donna slipped the pad into her pocket and headed for the counter. Betty Ann watched her go. “Is this the diner from hell? How’d you hear about this place?”

  “Yvonne and Marilyn attend the same church.”

  “Well, they’d better pray hard. This place won’t last the summer.”

  You’ve got to admit it’s clean.”

  “Seriously, the only people who’ll come here are drunks after the bars close.”

  “Not so loud,” I whispered as Donna appeared with a tray.

  “Anything else I can get you?”

  “This is fine,” I said.

  Betty Ann dug into a mound of fluffy golden cream atop her pie. “Mmm, this is good. Cream tastes fresh.”

  “Of course it’s fresh. Do you think Marilyn would serve canned whipped cream?”

  We ate in companionable silence. I watched Betty Ann scoop up every bit. “How long since your last cigarette?” I asked.

  “A whole week.”

  “You should be proud of yourself, saving your lungs.”

  “Saving my lungs and losing my mind.”

  “It won’t always be like this.”

  “No, it’ll get worse. Jonah will become a teenager, the kind in the tabloids who stab their parents in their sleep.”

  “Things still lousy between you?”

  “I’ve stopped trying. Yesterday when I got home from work, I smelled smoke. Sure enough, Jonah was in his room with another juvenile delinquent smoking cigarettes. He was mad that I hadn’t knocked. He said, ‘You’re not my mother.’”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Don’t be. At least I have something to be happy about.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not his mother.”

  “Summer’s coming. Can you send Jonah off to camp?”

  “Tiny wouldn’t allow it. He says Jonah needs nurturing, not discipline.”

  “Hang in there, buddy.”

  “I left Tiny a note. I said he’s gotta choose. It’s either Jonah or me. He can’t have both, not in the same house.” She blinked back tears. I handed her a napkin from the dispenser. “Why oh why didn’t I follow Father Brendan to Pawtucket?”

  “Father who?” I asked.

  She stared at me. “I never told you about Father Brendan?” She smiled. “He was an interim priest from Ireland, just out of the seminary. I was a senior in high school, immediately in love. I started attending mass every day. That summer, I spent so much time in church my mother thought I’d become a nun.”

  “Somehow I can’t imagine that,” I said.

  “Everyone loved Father Brendan… kids, parents. To me it was a spiritual experience to sit in church and watch him say mass. His hair was thick and black. When I knelt at the altar for communion, he seemed to pause while standing over me. Once, his hand brushed my face, sending thrills through my body.” She glanced at me, her cheeks flushed. “I sound like one of those true love magazines.”

  “Go on.”

  “One day, Father Brendan chaperoned our CYO trip to Canobie Lake Park. It was a hot summer day. I wore shorts. My legs were tanned. During the bus ride, I felt Father Brendan’s eyes on me. Anyway, I don’t remember how it came about, but we found ourselves sharing a car on the roller coaster. Father Brendan’s arm rested on the back of the seat. We didn’t look at each other.

  “At the top, kids were screaming like crazy, but we never made a sound. For some reason I wasn’t the least bit scared, even though I’m petrified of heights. After hovering for the longest time at the top, we plunged straight down into a dark tunnel. For one second there, Father Brendan put his arm around me and pressed his leg against mine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Nothing. The ride ended.”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “No, and I didn’t expect it. Back then priests lived by the rules, the good ones.”

  “That was the end of it?”

  “About three weeks later, I went to confession. I’d been staying away from church. My feelings for Father Brendan were intense. That afternoon, when I stepped into the confessional booth, I felt he was expecting me. When he slid open the screened panel, my heart pounded. Seeing his profile, I wanted to cry. Instead, I mumbled something about my sins… you know, the usual stuff about arguing with my parents, lying to them.

  “He listened, absolutely still. Then he asked if that was all. I said, ‘No, Father. I’ve had impure thoughts.’ I closed my eyes. All I could hear was his breathing and the faint sounds of traffic outside. Finally I opened my eyes. His palm was flat against the screen.”

  “He put his hand on the screen?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t hesitate. I put mine flat against his. For a few seconds our palms touched. I felt like we were joined. He was first to slide his hand away. He gave me my penance, which I forgot.” She sighed. “I loved him. It was as simple and as complicated as that.”

  “What happened after t
hat?” I said.

  “A week later my mother came home saying she’d heard Father Brendan was being transferred to a parish in Pawtucket, Rhode Island.”

  “Did he get in touch with you?”

  “I never expected him to. The night before he was to leave, around midnight, I snuck out of the house. I walked two miles to the rectory. The moon was full that night. I stood in the shadows under a tree. I didn’t have long to wait. Father Brendan appeared at an upstairs window as if he’d been expecting me. He wore a white tee shirt. I’d never seen him in anything other than his collar.

  “I moved from the shadows and stood under his window. We looked at each other for a long time. It was like being in a trance. If he’d asked me in, I would have gone. Eventually, he lowered the shade, and I went home.”

  “You’ve never told me that story,” I said.

  “I guess I was afraid to sound silly. Not long after Father Brendan left, I went off to college. During the next few years I wanted to drive to Pawtucket but never got the courage. I’ve always wondered if he remembers me.”

  Before leaving Marilyn’s, we left a big tip for Donna, who stopped scrubbing long enough to wave goodbye. Outside, a bright moon lit up the parking lot, illuminating the cars. “What happened to your window?” Betty Ann said when we reached the Jetta.

  I told her about the warning note. “And you didn’t tell me? You’re coming home with me.”

  “I thought you had a reservation at Home Suite Homes. I wouldn’t want to bump into Cal. He’s living there, you know.”

  She grinned. “How often have you visited him?”

  “You know I wouldn’t—”

  “Well I would. Matter of fact, this might be my chance. Does Cal like Turkey tetrazzini?”

  “You’re forgetting Mrs. Devine.”

  She smirked. “The barracuda guarding the Devine moat. She knows Cal’s carried a torch for you since kindergarten. Marcie got him on the rebound after you got cold feet.”

  “I had cold feet long before that. It didn’t have anything to do with Cal.”

  “Why did you lead him on, pretending you’d marry him?”

  “I thought I could go through with it. I was wrong.”

  She leaned against my car. “The guy’s a certified hunk. You make it sound like gall bladder surgery. When exactly did you bow out?”

  “About a month before the wedding.”

  “You just woke up one morning and thought, ‘I can’t do this?’”

  “I never felt the excitement. Sure, I showed off the ring and talked wedding plans, but my heart wasn’t in it. Meanwhile, it was tearing me up because I loved Cal. He was my best friend. Maybe if we could have run off to a remote island…

  “The awakening came at Bliss, the bridal shop where I’d gone with my mother to look at china patterns. She loved that stuff. After looking at a hundred plates, I found a pattern I could live with. My mom, however, thought it was too casual. I told her that’s me, I’m not a formal person. Paper plates would suffice.

  “She lectured me on social obligations like hosting dinners, setting a correct table. I’ll never forget her words: ‘Soon you’ll be a young matron.’ That made me think of prison. It led to a verbal exchange, me saying I would not be entertaining because the concept didn’t sound entertaining to me. She told me to grow up; marriage required maturity.”

  I paused, remembering. “Then it hit me like a gale force wind. The only reason I was going through with a wedding was because of her. I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t want an expensive dress I’d never wear again. I didn’t want new pots and pans. I didn’t want to invite people I ordinarily avoided. I hated all the anal details. It seemed like Cal and I were disappearing into this whirlpool with no choice but to go along with it.

  “So, in the Lenox China section of Bliss, I handed my mother the plate and told her she was right, the pattern was inappropriate. In fact, the whole store was inappropriate. I would have none of it.”

  B.A. whistled. “What did your mother say to that?”

  I fished my keys from my bag. “I don’t know. I turned and marched out of the store. I walked home. It was five miles. I could have walked twenty, I felt so good, so free. Not long after that I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I left Granite Cove.”

  “And returned when your mother had a stroke,” Betty Ann added.

  I looked at her. “Are you connecting the two, my walking out and her illness? Didn’t we get enough guilt in Sunday school?”

  “I didn’t connect the two, you did. It’s plain to me you still feel guilty about your mother. She was devastated when you called off the wedding. You stayed away to avoid dealing with her disappointment.”

  I unlocked the car and slid in. “A nice theory, Dr. Zagrobski. Thanks for the free analysis.”

  “Rose, I’m your best friend. I’m not judging you. I just want you to see it objectively. After your mother’s death, remember how you insisted your dad move in with you even though he didn’t want to? It was like you were atoning for your sins. You had to make it up to everybody.” When I didn’t answer, she continued. “It explains your obsession with Dr. Klinger.”

  “My obsession?” At that, I leaped out of the car, slamming the door.

  “Just see it my way,” she said. “You’re a local gal who’s won awards for your writing. Meanwhile, the snooty Women’s Professional League takes no notice. They choose Dr. Klinger, an outsider, as Woman of the Year. Don’t tell me you didn’t resent that. Remember how you referred to her as Dr. Anal?”

  When I protested, Betty Ann held up a hand. “Then when Dr. Klinger was murdered, you felt guilty and unworthy all over again. Can’t you see? For you, Vivian Klinger is a mother figure.”

  After several moments I spoke. “I do see, Betty Ann. I see that you should have gone to Pawtucket and stayed there.”

  She threw her head back and laughed, saying, “Give me a hug.” We rocked back and forth on the asphalt. “Sorry I’m such a big mouth,” she said.

  “I’m used to it,” I said, pulling away. “Where are you headed now?”

  She jiggled her keys. “It occurred to me that I’m in the parking lot of Marilyn’s goddamn Pie Palace. It’s two-thirty in the morning. Something is wrong with my head, but I can’t fix it by running away.” She got into her car. “Holy crap, I hope I get home before Tiny reads that note.”

  “Let him worry for a change,” I said, sliding into the Jetta’s front seat.

  She started the ignition and rolled down her window. “Rose?

  I leaned out. “Yeah?”

  “I just want to say thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Dear Auntie Pearl:

  I leave my condo building early in the morning when few tenants are up. Lately, though, I’ve noticed a man who occupies the ground floor unit in front of my assigned parking space. On several occasions he’s been outside on his deck watering the plants. Sometimes his bathrobe falls open, revealing he is naked underneath.

  When it first happened, I was in my car and thought I was mistaken. The early morning mist collects on my windshield, making it difficult to see clearly. But after repeated “exposures,” I am certain he is doing it deliberately.

  Now I am considering making a formal complaint to management. My roommate, however, says to notify the police. What do you think is the best course of action, Auntie Pearl?

  Grossed out in Gloucester

  Dear Grossed:

  I keep the niftiest item in my glove compartment—a “moisture mitt” for windshield condensation. It sounds like you have that problem as well. Here’s what you do: Take an old pair of white cotton gloves (you may have to ask your mother for hers) and sprinkle with ammonia. Roll them up tightly and put inside a plastic bag, sealing it well.

  Stored inside your glove compartment, this little driver’s helper will provide a clear view, no matter what time of day!

  Happy motoring!

  Auntie Pearl
r />   Twelve

  On Tuesday, I was searching the archived photos from the Wellesley College yearbooks dated 1981 to 1985 when Yvonne returned from lunch. I knew she had something up her sleeve when she placed a Styrofoam cup on my desk.

  “Caramel Mocha Chill. Your favorite, n’est pas?”

  I stared at the sweating container. “Hey, thanks.”

  Yvonne is not in the habit of opening her purse strings unless there’s something in it for her. This was one of those instances. Instead of returning to her workstation, she hefted her buttocks onto the edge of my desk. Leaning toward me in a confidential manner, she said, “I’ve just had the most delightful lunch with Chip Pennyworth.”

  “Who’s Chip Pennyworth?”

  “He’s the theater director at the community college. He’s going to work with the actors.”

  “For the play you’re directing?”

  “Guys & Dolls. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Directing is demanding enough without having to be an acting coach as well.”

  “I imagine he’s had a lot of experience.”

  “Are you familiar with The Music Man?”

  “Sure, somewhat.”

  “Chip had the leading role at the Ogunquit Theatre in Maine. That was several years ago, of course.” She patted my hand. “You must come to opening night. A percentage of the profits are going to Youth at Risk.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Instead of sentencing juvenile offenders to a locked facility, the court sends them to theater camp. Isn’t that a marvelous idea?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll buy a ticket. Matter of fact, put me down for two. I’ll bring Kevin.”

  “Kevin attends the theater?” Her eyebrows rose to her hairline.

  “Kevin adores the theater, particularly Ibsen.”

  She blinked. “I had no idea.”

  I turned back to my monitor. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got one more yearbook to search.”

  The following day I forfeited lunch and instead headed for Granite Cove Community Hospital. Doc Moss had been after me to get my thyroid checked. During my last visit I’d complained of a general malaise. Life had all the appeal of a bowl of shredded wheat. I doubted my thyroid was to blame. If anything, I needed sun. Not just an hour or two, but a week in St. Lucia. Such a trip would alleviate my symptoms.