That sounded mysterious. “Wait a second. You were asking me questions about them as if you didn’t know.”
“I wanted to see how much you’d trust me. And to confirm that my current information is correct.”
Doug said grimly, “You’ve heard of Machiavelli? He was a Wakefield.”
Jay laughed and nodded. He pulled a thick envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket. “As I said, I see the potential in the MacBride franchise. I’m picturing Free Wheeler as a lifestyle destination property—recreate the bicycle paths, put in a museum of the ol’ Clapper trappers or whatever they were called, plus a large inn, shops, a pub, a restaurant, hiking trails, a small conference center—all spread out artfully and intimately throughout the bee-u-tee-ful six hundred acres that encompass Free Wheeler. Combined with the folksy allure of the Crossroads community and Tom Mitternich’s ideas for developing his vineyard into a full-fledged winery . . . let’s put it this way: I’d call it “Little Napa Valley of the Appalachians,” and promote it as an anchor for development of these isolated communities—bringing jobs and opportunities but not destroying the independence and serenity around here.”
He nodded to Doug. “It would include that no-kill pet shelter and wildlife rehab sanctuary we’ve discussed.”
Doug was not smiling. “You’d destroy what makes it special. Turn it into a gawker’s resort, no better than a theme park. Does Tom know about this?”
“No, and why should he? Tom is a consultant; he doesn’t make decisions for me. He’ll either agree, or I’ll hire someone new. Look, I inherited Free Wheeler from my grandfather, just as he inherited it from his father. It’s an albatross. Augustus’s will says no heir of his can ever sell it.” He swiveled his wolfish stare to me: “You MacBrides have the Appalachian street cred to be taken seriously up here.” He held out the envelope to Doug and me. “Just take a look at the proposal.”
After a tense moment, Doug shook his head. “I’m not having any part of this.”
“That’s not fair, Doc. You should at least look at the plan. Tal?”
I took the envelope. “I agree with Doug, but I have a duty to tell Gabby and Gus what you’re offering them.” I cast a quick forgive me glance at Doug. He gave a slight nod.
Jay tilted his head, studying the interaction. “She’s a keeper, Doug.”
“Back off,” Doug growled.
“I like you, Tallulah. When you were a little girl, I’m guessing three years old, your mother let you play with cookie dough every day. You’d put strange things in it like grapes and pimentos, then you’d pat your concoctions into little cakes and share them with anyone brave enough to sample raw dough with strange lumps in it. I ate one once just to see you smile.” He paused, arching a brow. “I was sick that night.”
A strong scent-memory rose in my mind. Pepsi Cola and ketchup. He was the PC and Ketchup Boy. There had been something sweet but sad about him.
He held out a hand to me. “You’ll read the proposal and share it with Gus and Gabs. Deal?”
Deal. Gabs. She’d slice him like a gherkin if he called her that now. What had gone on between them as kids? I shook his hand but didn’t let go immediately. “Are you really a witch?” he asked, trying and failing to sound completely bemused. “What are you doing?”
“I’m deciding what you smell like. Not your aftershave or cologne or laundry detergent. You. Your spiritual scent.”
“Doug, does she still make raw cookies with unnatural ingredients in them? I’m not sure she’s safe.”
Doug scowled at him. “You’ll get no sympathy from me.”
I released his hand. He’s changed. That gentle boy is barely there. “You smell like something that’s learned to grow in the dark. Something buried. Potatoes. And mushrooms.”
He frowned but quipped, “Not truffles? Wakefields are the truffles of the root fungi world.”
Still frowning, he pivoted toward Doug. “We’ll work this out, Doc. You love Free Wheeler, and you’ve taken care of it. I respect that. But I’m going to turn it into an asset instead of a peculiar obsession my great-grandfather chained to my family’s name.”
He nodded his goodbyes to us then strode back to his helicopter.
“That was his idea of ‘doing lunch?’” I asked, dazed.
“He lives on protein bars and bourbon. The stupid, greedy bastard.”
“I’m sorry if it sounded like I’m encouraging his plan. I’m not.”
Doug faced me, looking conflicted. “I don’t like what he’s springing on us. But . . . I like the idea of you staying around here for good.”
The words enclosed us in a cocoon. We stood there, just looking into each others’ eyes without speaking. Finally, the loud whir of Jay Wakefield’s helicopter broke the spell.
After it disappeared through a gap in the mountains, I opened the envelope. Doug and I read the enclosed pages quickly.
Jay would fund all costs to turn Free Wheeler into the centerpiece of a To-Be-Named-Later “mountain village.” He offered Doug a long-term contract as head of a veterinary complex including a wildlife rehab center and “management of scenic wildlife populations.” He offered me, Gabby, and Gus a five-year contract to design, implement, and manage “upscale restaurant and food services to be agreed upon in negotiations.” In return we’d get generous salaries, benefits, and a small share in any profits. But he’d own it all.
“He’d be our employer not our partner,” I said. “But . . . Gabby and I used to dream about running a restaurant together—and getting Gus to come home and run it with us. Maybe this is the only way that can happen.”
Doug took a step back, hands on hips, head down, thinking hard. Then, “I’d hoped to buy the property one day. At least the house, the barn, and a few acres besides. My ancestors were farmers and shepherds. They loved their land but lost it time and again to politics and rich men. I have that love of the soil in me and that love of the animals that share the land and their lives with us. I came to this country for love of a woman and the dream of having what my ancestors could n’er keep—a home and independence. The first was misguided, but the second was burned into my blood. I’ll not work for Jay or for anyone else but myself. And I’ll not stand by and watch quietly as he turns a legacy and a paradise into a fecking silly playground where the wild beasts are scenic and only those people with plenty o’ cash can visit. I’ll fight him tooth and nail.” He took a huge breath and dropped his hands to his sides. “But I understand what an opportunity like this means for you and your kin. I’ll not hold it against you if you take the deal.”
That was the exact moment I fell in love with him.
“I’ll tell Gus and Gabby about this offer,” I said quietly. “But I’ll also tell them to count me out. I remember something Delta wrote to us when we were teenagers. She said, ‘People are like dough. Some are too soft, some are too stiff, some are just waiting to rise to the occasion, and some will fall flat no matter how much you try to lighten them up.’” I held up the paperwork. “You’ve got the makings of a great biscuit, Doug Firth.”
I tore the pages into small bits and handed him half of them. We tossed the offer into the mountain breeze. He stepped toward me, a gleam in his eyes like a blue flame. “I’m going to take you up on that promise of another kiss.”
I reached for him and him for me. My body tingled, and the scent of papaya rose in my brain. In my psychic recipe book, “papaya brain” is one teaspoon away from a public orgasm.
The long, loud, screeching honk of an air horn blasted the wonderful moment to pieces.
“It’s eleven a.m.!” Cleo bellowed from the veranda of the gonzo Christmas extravaganza otherwise known as The Crossroads Café. She shook the air horn at me. “Your first batch of biscuits should be ready for the oven by now!”
I waved. Suddenly the Devil’s Food possessed me, and t
he wave turned into the middle-finger-only variety.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Doug said.
The care package
AT ONE POINT during lunch I looked up from my dough to find Brittany, Danielle, and Jenny staring at me and biting their smiles. They fled the kitchen quickly. I looked around for clues and found Cleo’s glare. “If you keep rubbing that dough that way, it’s gonna ask you out on a date. Doc’ll be jealous.”
She knew. Everyone knew. Doug and I were an item, less than twenty-four hours after we’d met. My thoughts swirled from heated feelings for him to Jay Wakefield’s offer and back again. My life, and Eve’s, had turned completely upside down, and yet . . . it felt exciting. I should be terrified. With my track record? Absolutely.
Gus’s text came through that afternoon as I prepped the first of the biscuit dough for the dinner menu. Doug was back at work, answering his routine vet calls. Eve and Teasel were outside chasing squirrels under the oaks.
LONG DAY. GOOD TO HEAR FROM YOU. SEND SOME HAPPY TEETH.
“Happy teeth,” I said aloud, frowning at Doug’s spare phone.
“Beg pardon?” Arnold asked. He was elbow-deep in raw chicken parts, battering them in buttermilk and cornmeal.
“My brother is texting from Afghanistan. When he asks for ‘happy teeth’ he’s had a rough time on patrol. He wants us to send pictures of our smiles.” I clapped a flour-dusted hand to my forehead. “And I’ve got to put together his care package today! I almost forgot! It’s three weeks until Christmas, and we always send more goodies during the holidays.”
“What kind of care package?” Bubba asked from the grill station. He stopped scrubbing the grill to wipe his hands on his apron. “Toothpaste and such? We’ve got all sorts of toiletries in the store.”
“No, we send him food. Cookies, fudge, pies, pickles, jam—anything that preserves well enough to survive the trip. He likes to share with his soldiers. Plus he takes some of it to the locals. Offering food is a powerful bonding ritual. He’s built up trust with men who won’t talk to any other Americans.”
“Then let’s get started on that package.” Bubba disappeared into the back storage area and returned with a huge, heavy-duty box. “We do a fair amount of shipping to our long-distance customers. We can pack a feast in this thing.”
“I’ll get the vacuum bagger,” said Arnold. “We’ll seal everything up in air-tight pouches.”
Jenny looked up from cleaning heads of cabbage for cole slaw. “Would Gus like some home-canned produce? We’ve got a pantry full. Tomato and okra stew, pole beans, summer squash…”
“You guys are wonderful.” I put a dusty hand to my throat. “Thank you.”
Bubba pulled a cell phone out of the overalls he wore with an Atlanta Braves jersey. A few clicks later, he held it out. I looked at a freckled twenty-something in a marine uniform. “Cleo and me have a son who served in Iraq.” He paused, his throat working. “Lost a leg. He’s been home for a year now. Somewhere out west. Gambling and doing who-knows-what. We’ve tried everything to get him back here, but he says he doesn’t want his family and old friends treating him like a cripple.”
“I’m so sorry, Bubba.” No wonder Cleo is in a bad mood all the time.
Bubba scrubbed a hand under one eye, leaving a smear of grill grease. He cleared his throat and put the phone away. He patted the enormous box. “Let’s fill this up with goodness.”
Happy teeth and Lucy’s scarf
FIVE P.M. The dough for the dinner biscuits was ready to bake, and Gus’s care package was nearly full. Swaddled in Styrofoam and bubble wrap were jars of soup, okra, beans, and stewed apples from an orchard near Turtlesville. Also local cheeses, a crockery jar full of fresh butter, jams made from the berries at Rainbow Goddess Farm, and a large bag of stone-ground grits.
And then there were the baked goods. Everyone had pitched in, under my direction, to make piles of decorated Christmas cookies. Last but not least, I baked two-dozen biscuits for him. Vacuum sealed and carefully protected in their own small box, they had a decent chance of arriving in edible condition.
Bubba and Arnold hoisted the giant box onto a scale in the back room. “Forty-two pounds,” Bubba called. “I’ll seal this up and have it ready for the mail in the morning.”
It would cost a small fortune to ship. “Can you deduct the shipping cost from my salary for today?”
“I could, but that wouldn’t be how family treats family. Delta would skin me alive. Nope, this one’s on the house.”
I carried a smaller box to the back. It, too, was packed with cookies and biscuits. “Do you have a mailing address for your son?”
Bubba looked stricken. “Yeah, I do. Not that he answers when we write to him.”
“Will you send this to him? Sometimes a taste of home does more good than we expect.”
He smiled. “You sound just like Delta.” He took the box gently. “Thanks. And listen . . . whatever’s going on between you and Doug, lemme tell you: he’s a good man. We’ve seen him handle terrible situations—sad ones with animals that are hurt too bad to save; their owners in hysterics. He’s got a calmness and a kindness about him that soothes people as well as animals.” Bubba nodded at the box of cookies for his and Cleo’s son. “Sort of the way you work your biscuit magic.”
“I like him,” I said. “I like him a lot.”
“I’m rooting for you two.”
I smiled at him, suddenly misty-eyed. I scrubbed the dampness with the hem of my apron. “Back to work before Cleo gets the air horn out again.”
He laughed.
I called Eve in from the yard. She was pink, sweaty, laughing, and covered in dirt. So was Teasel—except for the pink part. “We were jumping logs,” she explained. I had never seen her look so happy.
I brushed her hair, took off my hairnet, then posed her in front of the work counters and stoves. Pretty generic kitchen stuff. Gus might think we were visiting a friend’s kitchen in Brooklyn.
“I’ll be your photographer,” Arnold volunteered.
I knelt by Eve. We draped our arms around each other’s shoulders, held up a couple of cookies, and grinned widely for the camera. Arnold snapped several pictures before we agreed on the one with the happiest teeth.
I had just finished texting that one to Gus when Eve tugged on my apron. I looked down to find her pondering me solemnly. “My teeth are really, really happy here. Can we stay with Doug and not go back to Brooklyn?”
I took her hand. We went out on the kitchen porch and sat on the steps. I chose my words as if each one was a crucial dab of icing on an edible portrait of the Mona Lisa. We have lots of friends in New York, sweetie. Wouldn’t you miss your classmates? Mommy and Doug just met. We’d have to get to know Doug for months and months before . . .
“He makes you smile,” she countered. “And he likes your biscuits.”
Good points.
“I hear your heart when you look at him.”
I had told her how babies in the womb hear something no one else in the world can share: their mothers’ heartbeats.
“Do you, sweetie?”
“Hmmm uh. And I hear Doug’s heart, too.”
My throat closed with the sweetness of her ideas. I was still hunting for words when a truck rumbled down the lane. Macy waved at us and leaned out the window as she pulled alongside. “Doc’s okay, but he could use a little TLC. A llama kicked him in the head.”
We climbed in her truck and headed for Rainbow Goddess Farm.
And they spit, too
HIS NAME was Liberace, because every male animal at Rainbow Goddess was named after a famous gay man. I couldn’t figure out the symbolism, since the boys were all there as breeding studs, not to act like girlfriends with testicles. Anyhow, the shaggy llama bastard bit me on the shoulder as I knelt beside his special lady
, Hillary, as in Clinton. I was tying off the last suture on a nasty shoulder wound she’d gotten from the sharp branch of a fallen tree. It must’ve seemed to Liberace that I was taking liberties with her and that she was fallin’ under my manly Celtic spell since she kept curling her head around to sweetly nibble the sleeve of my jacket.
So Liberace, the jealous bastard, emitted a deep, snorting, growlish sound then bit me hard atop my left collarbone. It hurt like a “sumbitch,” as Pike Whittlespoon taught me to say during his Saturday-night poker games, even though I was wearing a heavy coat over a thick wool shirt. As I leaned back to yell at him, Liberace reared and flung out a front hoof. Clipped me right between the eyes.
I fell back amidst the shouts of Alberta and several o’ her women helpers who murmured a prayer or two as I passed out. They might have been praying that my head hadn’t hurt Liberace’s hooves. I blacked out when I hit the winter-hardened ground of the barn yard.
I came to right away, unfortunately. My ears picked up a sloshy ker-tooey noise the instant before a stinking stream of llama spit hit me in the face. Liberace glared down at me, his lips working and his ears pinned back. He shoulda just stomped me and been done with it. But no, he had to spit. The fecker.
All in all, there was no good reason for me to do more than just lay there and squall every filthy curse I knew. But, being a gentleman, I said only, “Be damned, you fecking beastie,” and sat up, swaying a bit, while Alberta and her crew grabbed Liberace by his halter and tugged him out of fightin’ range. Protectin’ him from me, I guess.
My ears rang, and I watched stars twirl in front of my eyes. “I’m just stunned a bit,” I protested, as Alberta began dabbing my face with a towelette I’d used to wipe my hands after wiping pus off Hillary’s wound. Adding insult to injury, you could say.
“Get my kit,” she called to one of the women. As a trained medic, she owned some basic exam gear. I want to keep a check on your eyes in case they start to dilate. We should take you over to the clinic at Turtleville, Doc. You’re getting a knot on your head.”
The Biscuit Witch Page 9