by Tamar Myers
“Pass that down, dear, will you?”
Her fist closed around it. “No way! Finders keepers, losers weepers.”
“This is my inn,” I said sternly, “whatever you find here belongs to me.” Frankly, I didn’t really think she’d found a diamond in Freni’s stew, but in a Pittsburgh restaurant, I once found a glass eye in a bowl of bouillabaisse.
“I ain’t passing nothing,” Carlie said.
I glared at the impudent child.
“Pass it,” Art said. He was sitting across from his ward.
Carlie glared back at me, but made no move to give up her treasure.
Thanks to Susannah, who was watching the proceedings with some amusement, I knew how to handle Carlie’s type. I stood up and put my fists on my hips. “Pass it, toots, or you’re out of here.”
Art could tell I meant business. “Carlie, do as Miss Yoder asked, and do it now1”
“Ah shit! Why does everyone get to boss me around? It ain’t fair, you know. It’s my diamond ’cause I found it.”
“Maybe Miss Yoder will give you a reward.”
Carlie stuck a ring-studded tongue out at me, but dropped the object in Art’s extended hand.
He bravely polished it with his napkin. “Why, it isn’t a diamond at all. It’s just a piece of glass.”
“No way! Let me see!” Carlie lunged across the table and snatched the object in question from her mentor’s hand.
“Well?” I said, tapping my foot.
“Aw, shit! It is glass! Man, I could have cut myself on this sucker. I could have split my tongue wide open.”
“How would you even know the difference?” I demanded.
Ms. Holt condescended to snicker.
I glared at her. Then I pointed a long, bony finger at Carlie.
“Now you go straight to your room, young lady.” Carlie’s eyes widened.
“You mean me?”
“I don’t allow swearing in my establishment. It says so clearly on the back of every bedroom door.”
“But I’m staying in the f—well, you know—cellar!”
“Just the same, I’ve made it very clear. So stop arguing and go to your room—I mean, cellar.”
“Man, that’s not fair. That’s discrimination or something. He swears and gets away with it.” She pointed a black-lacquered nail at the dapper Mr. Mitchell.
George Mitchell’s eyes were twinkling like the lights of Philadelphia on a clear summer night. He seemed to be enjoying the show as much as Susannah.
In the interest of fairness, I glared at him.
“Now scoot,” I said to Carlie, “and make it fast if you know what’s good for you.”
In desperation, Carlie turned to my sister. “She ain’t serious, is she?”
Susannah nodded solemnly. “She’ll tan your hide.” Carlie scooted, but made a point of slamming the kitchen door behind her. She was, after all, just a child.
We had barely gotten back into the buzz of conversation when George Mitchell tapped on his water glass again. “Ladies, gentlemen—the time has come for another announcement. But first, we need Mrs. Hostetler.”
That very second the kitchen door swung open and Freni flounced in, wiping her hands on her apron. To the others she may have been the picture of innocence, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she had been holding an empty water glass between her ear and the door.
George Mitchell smiled warmly at Freni before clearing his throat. “It is my pleasure to announce the order in which you will be presenting your efforts to the judges.”
The CEO of E.C.D. was anything if not a skilled manipulator. During his dramatic pause the national debt was paid off, peace came to the Middle East, and Michael Jackson grew a beard. Of less consequence, but somewhat closer to home, Ms. Holt gasped softly and then dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Gladys Dolby’s fork hand began to tremble, Art shifted nervously in his seat, Alma Cornwater shoved her glasses up in yet another futile effort to keep them in place, and Freni frowned.
I confess that I hadn’t given the contest dynamics much thought. Now it occurred to me that some of the contestants might prefer specific time slots. A very nervous cook might, for instance, prefer to get his or her stint over with the first night. An extremely confident person might wish to wow us all at the last supper with the spectacular finale.
“The contestants, in the order in which they will cook are”—he paused wickedly again—“Mrs. Alma Cornwater, Ms. Gladys Dolby, Mr. Arthur Strump, Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt, and last, but not least, Mrs. Freni Hostetler.”
I would have expected Alma Cornwater to sigh with relief, or Freni to flare with frustration, but that was not the case. The five contestants were as inscrutable as the iguana Susannah briefly had as a pet (this was before Shnookums, and the lizard did not take to being carried around in a bra). Not an eye batted, not a lip twitched.
“Well, isn’t that nice,” I said finally, just to get the ball rolling again.
Freni was the first to crack. “Ach,” she said, looking at me, “the last day? Is this some kind of punishment, Magdalena?”
“Of course not, dear.” I turned to George Mitchell for confirmation.
“It was a random drawing from an actual hat,” he said. “The lovely Miss Benedict selected the names back at headquarters.”
Marge Benedict favored us with the thin-lipped smile and a slight rolling of the eyes.
Art sat back and crossed his arms. “Just like I said yesterday, Mrs. Hostetler has an unfair advantage. Y’all tasted her bread pudding first, and it’s the last thing you’ll taste. If you ask me, she should be disqualified.”
“Ach!” Freni squawked. Perhaps the noble Art seemed a little less so.
“Mr. Strump has a good point,” Gladys said in her soft little girl voice. “Couldn’t Mrs. Hostetler trade with one of us?”
“What if the order was reversed?” Ms. Holt asked. Personally, I thought it was a remarkably sensible suggestion.
Alma Cornwater came alive for the first time that evening. “Y’all are being ridiculous. Where I come from, we treat our elders with respect. So, she inadvertently served us her bread pudding before the contest began. So what?”
Freni nodded vigorously. “Yah!”
But Alma wasn’t through. “It could just as easily backfire, you know. Maybe the judges’ taste buds will be in the mood for something else.”
“Ach! I thought you were my friend.”
Alma removed her heavy glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “I am. I just want them to know that it doesn’t really matter who goes when.”
“Ha,” Ms. Holt said. “A likely story. Maybe you just don’t want to go last.”
I stood up. “Well, it’s a moot point, isn’t it? The bottom line is that this is Mr. Mitchell’s contest. He sets the rules. And while I plan to be as impartial as Solomon, a cooking contest can never really be fair. It’s not like grading a math problem where there’s only one right answer. Besides, life isn’t fair. At least four of you are just going to have to accept that.”
“Well spoken!” George Mitchell’s eyes were twinkling like the Milky Way.
Freni and I were wiping down the counters, the dishes dried and put away, when someone knocked on the door. It was past time for Mose to collect Freni, but Mose doesn’t knock.
“Who is it?” I called.
“It’s me, Jonathan Hostetler.”
“Ach!” Freni practically flew to the door.
Jonathan Hostetler is six feet two inches tall, a good foot taller than his mother, but they share the same beaky features. He is an intensely shy man, and has only graced my kitchen on a handful of occasions. Something clearly out of the ordinary had transpired. “Where’s your papa?” Freni demanded.
“At home,” Jonathan mumbled, at the same time looking around the kitchen as if it were the inside of a spaceship.
“Why at home?”
“I think Papa has the flu.”
“Ach!” Fr
eni’s plump little hands flew to her face. She and Mose may not be the most demonstrative of couples, but their affection for each other is genuine. When Freni had an emergency appendectomy five years ago, Mose was beside himself with concern. During her recovery time in the hospital he had a cot placed in her private room, and stayed with her until she was released. The staff at Bedford County Hospital couldn’t get over how devoted the tall, bearded Amish man was to his wife.
“He just has stomach problems, Mama. No fever. He sent me over to do the milking and bring you home.”
Freni whirled. “Magdalena, are you up to milking?”
What choice did I have? Betsy and Matilda, my two Holstein cows, have to be milked morning and evening without fail. If not, they will experience significant pain. Imagine, if you will, drinking a two-liter bottle of soda in the morning, not voiding during the day, and then having someone punch you in the groin just before bedtime.
“Sure, I’ll milk,” I said. I don’t mind milking, my head resting against their warm bodies—it’s the long cold trek to the barn I detest.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it tomorrow morning, if Papa’s not better.”
Freni, bless her heart, was already out the door.
“You’ve got your own chores, Jonathan. If your folks aren’t here by six-thirty, then I’ll just assume your papa’s still under the weather, and your mama’s stayed home to take care of him. But not to worry. I can manage just fine until he’s back on his feet.”
Jonathan thanked me profusely, and followed his mother out into the cold.
But milking two cows and cooking for an inn full of guests was easier said than done. And since even saints grumble from time to time, I may have been doing a little of that when Mr. Mitchell popped into the kitchen.
“Any refills on coffee?” he asked.
Why the English consume caffeine just before bedtime is beyond me, but it is not my place to judge.
“The kitchen is closed, dear,” I said politely. “You want to mess up the internal clock the good Lord gave you? Fine, then you’re going to have to drive all the way into Bedford. Just stay away from Desperate Joe’s.”
Mr. Mitchell laughed so hard, I looked around to see if Joan Rivers had popped in for a visit. Alas, Joan and her wonder dog, Spike, were nowhere to be seen.
“Well, I fail to see what’s so funny. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my cows need milking.”
“You can actually milk a cow?”
“They can’t milk themselves, dear.” Although I’d recently heard a rumor that the Japanese were breeding a strain of self-milking cows.
“Do you mind if I tag along and watch? I’ve never seen it done before. Only in the movies and on TV.”
“The more the merrier.”
Mr. Mitchell cleared his throat. “Well, would it be possible for me to give you a hand?”
“You want to milk?”
He nodded, his eyes dancing up a storm.
“We’ll see,” I said. “The truth is, Matilda’s shy around strangers and doesn’t let her milk down, and Betsey is, well, on the ticklish side. She’s liable to slap you in the face with her tail.”
But Matilda was charmed by the CEO of E.C.D. In fact, she was downright coquettish. As for Betsey, she fell into a relaxed trance and rumbled like a cement truck, which is the cow equivalent of purring. Both bovines gave a record amount of milk.
“Good heavens,” I said, “it’s like you had them under a spell.”
Twinkling George held up his hands. “It’s all in the fingers. Before I went into the food business, I was a chiropractor. If you need an adjustment, I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Ach!” No doubt I felt as flustered as Freni when she caught Kevin Costner sunbathing in the nude, and there wasn’t a wolf in sight. Now here I was, at night, alone in a barn with a handsome man who had twinkling blue eyes and magic fingers—it was a sin just to think about it.
“I mean it. A little manipulation here and there and—”
“Get behind me, Satan!”
I sloshed the milk in the cooler, and all but ran from the barn. In my haste to escape the temptations of the flesh, I tripped on the piece of old barn siding that I use to prop the barn door open. Fortunately I didn’t cut myself on the bent-over nail I’ve been meaning to remove. I don’t enjoy telling on myself, but fear I must, in the interest of truth.
According to George Mitchell, I went sailing out into the yard like a Frisbee, before landing face-down in a cow patty. Fortunately it was an old patty, and as dry as Freni’s meat loaf. And fortunately I didn’t break my bones or chip any teeth. But it was as undignified an exit as I can imagine.
“Gosh, damn it!” That’s as bad as I can swear.
George Mitchell nearly died laughing.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t watch television. The good Lord created books before he created TV, and that says it all.
Okay, so upon occasion I have been known to watch reruns of Green Acres on Susannah’s little black-and-white set—but nothing else! Until they started airing quality shows like that again, I refuse to patronize the idiot box.
My guests don’t get to watch TV either. This seems to matter only the first day or two. After that they settle into the pace of country living and enjoy the simple pleasures. During the day there are scenic drives, peaceful walks, games of horseshoes and badminton, and of course reading. Summer evenings usually find my guests rocking on the front porch, engaged in mindless conversation, while winter evenings will find them crowded around the fireplace, dishing dirt on those few folks who are even more rich and famous than they.
For those who like to run in the fast lane, I keep the parlor stocked with dominoes, jigsaw puzzles, and even a game of Sorry. In the dining room there is a large wooden frame, upon which one will always find an unfinished quilt. My guests are encouraged to add their stitches to this project, although they are never allowed to keep their handiwork. Late at night, after a quilt has been completed, I replace it with another still in progress. I then sell the finished quilts to a tourist shop in Lancaster. It is a perfect setup. My guests get to work their neuroses out with a needle and thread, and I get to pocket the moolah.
At any rate, after I had cleaned up from my post-milking fiasco, I wandered into the dining room to see if anyone was quilting, and much to my surprise found both the Dolbys. I am all for women’s lib, mind you— after all, a hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man—but I can seldom get a man to sit down and try his hand at quilting. Nevertheless, Bruce Willis does a mean slip stitch, Sly has an eye for color, and Tim Allen is great at tying knots.
“Well, good for you,” I said with an encouraging smile.
Gordon Dolby didn’t even bother to look up. Perhaps he was embarrassed.
“I learned to sew in the air force,” he said. “They teach you to be prepared for anything.”
“This is very relaxing,” Gladys said. “How am I doing?”
I made the mistake of looking at her stitches. Early tomorrow morning, when everyone was asleep, I was going to have to sneak into my own dining room, rip out Gladys’s stitches, and redo them.
“A drunken one-eyed hen could leave straighter tracks than that,” I said kindly.
Gladys bit her lip. Perhaps I had gone too far.
“Not everyone has the same talent, dear. You’re a great cook, or you wouldn’t be here. I, on the other hand, couldn’t boil water without a detailed recipe.”
She let go of her lip, but refused to smile. “I wouldn’t call myself a great cook, but I’m okay. At least Mr. Anderson thought so.”
“Don’t be so modest, dear, you’re not even a Mennonite. Tell your daughter, she’s a great cook,” I directed Gordon.
He grunted.
“Daddy’s the real cook in the family,” she whispered. “In fact, I’m using one of his recipes.”
“Is that so? I thought the recipes had to be original.”
“Oh, t
hey do. That is—they can’t have been published anywhere. But Daddy’s recipes are mostly original.”
“Where’d you learn to cook, Mr. Dolby? The army?”
“The air force!” he barked.
“Daddy does everything well.”
“Well, he’s not the one who entered East Coast Delicacies hundred-thousand-dollar contest,” I said.
She glanced at her father and, finding him engrossed in his work, smiled up at me. “Do you think I have a chance to win?”
I shrugged. “How should I know? I haven’t had a chance to taste your cooking. But Mr. Anderson seemed to think so.”
“I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life,” she mouthed. “I want it so bad I can taste it.”
I know that’s what she said, because I can read lips. Grandma Yoder, in her later years, was as deaf as stone. More often than not, she forgot to actually say her words, and just formed them with her mouth. Well, that’s what Mama said—although I think the old lady was just being cantankerous. Grandma too. At any rate, I learned to read Grandma like my first-grade primer. It was either that or get whacked on the behind with a wooden carpet beater.
“Then maybe you’ll win,” I mouthed back.
If only I’d learn to keep my big mouth shut.
There are times when I’d do well to keep my ears shut too. It wasn’t my fault that I just happened to be upstairs stocking the linen closet. It was Mr. Mitchell’s fault. His precious E.C.D. was too cheap to pay extra for A.L.P.O. That meant that yours truly had to tote clean towels up from the laundry room.
“Couldn’t we just share it?” Alma was saying. I couldn’t see the woman, but she had an unmistakable southern accent.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The nasal Boston tones weren’t that hard to place either.
The linen closet is at the short end of an L at the top of the stairs. The voices were coming from the long end. Since wallboard tends to muffle sounds, I had to listen carefully.
“What’s so ridiculous about that? We both need it, don’t we?”
“For your information, I don’t need anything. I have my own cooking show, remember?”