FIONA MCGUINESS’S SHORTBREAD
FOR YOUR USE ONLY: MEMORIZE AND DESTROY
Makes 14 biscuits
¾ cup flour
¼ cup rice flour
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup super-fine sugar
½ cup butter
In a bowl, mix flour, rice flour, salt, and sugar, then add butter and stir until the dough holds together. Form the dough into a ball and knead well on a floured flat surface. With a rolling pin, roll out the kneaded dough, then cut into round shapes with a cutter. For decoration, make slight indents around the edge of each biscuit using your thumb. Place on baking trays and bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes or until slightly golden at the edges.
“You’re kidding. She gave it to you?”
I give Jack his glasses and climb back into bed. “She must’ve liked you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Etta peeks in. “May I come in?”
“Sure, sure.” I sit up in bed and make a space near my feet for Etta to lie down. Jack sits up and gives Etta a pillow to rest on.
“That was some trip. Daddy, you come from interesting people.”
Jack smiles. “I do indeed.”
“I can’t believe it’s a boy,” Etta says. “Stefano didn’t want to know the sex of the baby.”
“She could be wrong,” Jack says.
“I doubt it. I don’t think she’s wrong about anything. She’s like a Scottish weathervane, picking up vibes and spitting them back out at you like they’re real. I think she’s totally authentic. Stefano thought she was a nut.”
“She’s a mystic,” I tell her.
“Does she really look like Grandma Mac?”
“Exactly,” Jack promises her. “She was like my mother alive again.”
“Are you okay?” I take Jack’s hand. After all, we’d had a such a gentle visit in old Scotland until we came across Fiona. She was like one of those cold winds that cuts across the North Sea and stings you.
Jack shrugs. “I don’t know what to make of her.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m having a boy,” Etta says.
“Why?”
“I want my brother back.” Etta leans back on the bed, resting her head on a pillow. “I didn’t have enough time with Joe. Sometimes I forget things about him, and I don’t want to. I guess I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“I don’t know.” Etta turns and faces me. “After what happened to Joe, I don’t take anything for granted.”
“Dear God,” I say aloud.
“What?” Jack looks worried.
“Etta is five months pregnant, and the worry wheel that God puts in all mothers has already started to turn.”
“You just need to have about ten kids, Etta,” Jack says. “Then you’ll find your worry divides down to nothing.”
I kick my husband under the covers. Jack doesn’t get it—he thinks that taking care of babies is simple and raising children is easy. He never minded a moment of the drudgery of parenthood. He loved to bathe the babies, feed them, get down on the floor and wrestle with them. When they were small, I was in a constant state of exhaustion, while he seemed to be in a state of bliss. He felt enhanced around his children, not dragged down by the responsibility. And oh, how daring he was with them. Etta could climb a tree so young; at five years old, she’d go way high in the pear tree in the back woods. Jack taught her how to shimmy down the trunk if she felt herself falling. Joe was smaller, but Jack would let him loose in the field to roll in the mud and meet the bugs and caterpillars face-to-face. I wanted the children on blankets when they were on the grass, but Jack thought they should be exposed to nature, to “texture,” he called it. It made me nuts. And here he is, planning nine children beyond the one Etta is carrying. “Increase, multiply, and stay at it” should be his motto.
“Jack, don’t push your mountaineer agenda, please,” I say. “Our daughter is a little more worldly than we were. And she’s going to finish her degree.”
“You’ll never take Cracker’s Neck out of Daddy.”
“You got that right,” Jack says proudly.
“Don’t listen to your father. I didn’t want to tell you this, but he’s nuts.”
“Who do you think drove me to the edge?” Jack nudges me.
I climb out of the bed and go to my suitcase in the closet. I pull out a small package I brought to give Etta when I was hoping we’d tack a quick trip to Italy on the end of our Scottish sojourn. It contains some things I saved for her. I thought I would give them to her later, but with the way our year has gone, I take nothing and no one for granted. Time used to be my friend, and now it’s a skittish acquaintance at best. I want Etta to know what she means to me now, instead of waiting until I die; I want to see her enjoy the things that have meant something to me. “These are my mother’s pearls.” I pull the delicate strand of tiny pink pearls out of the box.
“I can’t take these. You still wear them.”
“Your dad has given me lots of pretty things. These pearls are one of the few things my mother had that she treasured. She wore them every day, even when she did her chores. She said that the worst thing for pearls was to leave them in a drawer. That’s why they’re so lustrous. They never spent any time in hiding. So wear them like she did.”
“I will.”
I put the strand of pearls around Etta’s neck, remembering how many times I helped her with a button, a zipper, or a clasp—maybe a thousand times, maybe a million, and how I wish I had those same opportunities all over again. How I miss taking care of her!
“This next thing is something you played with when you were little, and I always had to take it away and put it on a shelf because you would leave parts of it all over the house.” I give Etta my mother’s sewing kit, a square tin box filled with bobbins of bright thread, shiny gold needles, a silver thimble shaped like a hat, and a small pair of gold trimming scissors with the rosebud design on the handles worn away from use. There’s also a pincushion made of red felt, in the shape of a tomato, with green felt leaves as an accent. There are a few jeweled buttons and a wire threader.
“Finally, it’s mine!” Etta holds the tin box close. “Ma, I’ve wanted this sewing box all of my life!”
“I knew the day would come when you’d be old enough to take care of it.”
“Thank you.” Etta kisses me on the cheek.
“And there’s one more thing.” I give my daughter a first-edition copy of The Trail of the Lonesome Pine. The jacket is a painting of young June Tolliver leaning against the trunk of a tree, looking up into the branches. Her expression is winsome and wistful, like that of any mountain girl hoping for love. The forest surrounding her reminds me of our woods in Cracker’s Neck Holler.
“Whenever I get homesick, I’ll take this book out and look at it,” Etta says.
“Someday you’ll pass it down to your children.”
Jack lets out a yahoo. “You said ‘children.’ See, you’re coming around to my way of thinking already. There’s joy in numbers!”
It’s our last night in Aberdeen, and we’re going out with a bang. Arthur has made roasted duck, and Jack whipped up a pesto-and-asparagus pasta that fills the Stoneman house with a buttery scent, the perfect send-off after a glorious stay.
Arthur sets the roasting pan on the stove. Stefano, Etta, and Jack are outside, giving a final tweak and nightly watering to the garden. The Stonemans will return to the first leaves of lettuce pushing up through the black earth. With Arthur’s help, Jack has done a great job maintaining their garden. I hope they will be pleased.
The traditional Celtic gardens in the front yard burst forth during the last week of our stay, just as Rosalind predicted. A crazy mix of blue jonquils, sweet-scented narcissi, and fragrant snowdrops nestle among the odd eager bluebells pushing their faces to the sun. Lemon-yellow daffodils, with their reedy stems, and a clutter of hot-pink cabbage roses rest against a backdrop of crimson a
nd mauve rhododendrons. The effect is an explosion of color that looks like a mop of curling ribbon. I can’t wait to plant my own garden back in Cracker’s Neck Holler. What was I thinking, leaving the front lawn plain, with a green carpet of Zoysia grass? Just looking out at the mix of colors lifts my spirits.
“I’m going to miss you, Ave Maria,” Arthur says quietly. He looks older to me now, sitting alone at the end of the kitchen table. He becomes robust whenever he goes out back to help Jack in the garden.
I give him a hug. “I’ll miss you too, Arthur.”
“You asked me something when you first arrived, and I thought you were a little bold—bordering on rude, really.”
“What did I say?”
“You asked me what my pain was.”
“I did? I’m very sorry. You know, when I got here, I didn’t take time to understand the way you folks process your feelings—I barged right in with my own brand of on-the-sleeve emotions. It wasn’t right. I hope you forgive me.”
“I don’t want to forgive you.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, I want to tell you.”
“You do.”
Arthur pulls out the chair next to him, so I sit. I look out through the solarium and see Etta and Stefano at the far end of the garden. Jack is busy tying up some vines.
“I was married once,” he begins.
“You were?”
“There were four sisters in Aberdeen, the McGrath girls. There were Imogen, Esme, Eleanor, and Amelia. I was in love with Esme. She was a robust redhead with enormous brown eyes, not unlike yours. She had a spirit about her. She wasn’t considered the prettiest or the smartest, but she had the best sense of humor.”
“That’s the talent of middle children.”
“Quite right. I was besotted with her. I was drafted into the British navy, as were all my contemporaries straight out of university—we were required to give up our studies and enlist. Esme was bereft, and on an impulse, we married the night before I was to ship out to the Pacific theater, where we were joining the Americans. Esme was to go to the country with her sisters to wait out the war.
“I sent dozens of letters to the country, but they were all returned. I assumed that it was impossible to have my letters delivered because it was wartime, and I didn’t think much of it.
“Eventually, I heard from Esme in a letter with an English postmark. She hadn’t been able to stand staying home and waiting; she’d wanted to do something, so she enlisted as an army nurse. She was sent to London, where she worked in a hospital.
“Our correspondence began in earnest then. She wrote marvelous letters to me, full of stories she heard in the hospital, and all of them spilling forth with such enthusiasm for the cause. In one letter, she named our children: a girl would be Lily, and a son, Arthur. That one was the last letter I received from her.”
“Oh, no…”
“I had been shipped out on leave, planning to surprise her in London. The night before my arrival, her hospital was hit in an air raid while Esme was on duty. She died instantly, along with most of the doctors, nurses, and patients.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. What a terribly sad story!
“I tell you this long story not so you’ll pity me but to answer your original question. Believe it or not, I had to think about what my pain was. You see, I feel I’m a lucky man. I survived the war, and I live in a comfortable home, and I had a wonderful career, so I didn’t think about Esme in terms of my own suffering. I always thought of all she missed by dying so young.”
“That’s very Scottish.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Did you ever fall in love again?”
“Several times, thank you.”
I smile. “Good for you.”
“But I never married again. I never longed for children either. You see, any children I would have had would have been Esme’s. After all, I felt I already knew them: Lily and Arthur. She saw them in her mind’s eye—in her heart, I suppose—and that made them very real to me. So I never had a desire to create a family beyond them. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.”
Jack, Etta, and Stefano come into the house. “Muddy shoes off, please!” I tell them. “Wash up. Arthur made duck.”
ARTHUR KERR’S ROAST DUCK
Makes enough for six people
2 pounds bacon
2-pound duck
Honey
Spread strips of bacon over the breast of the duck and tie them in place. Roast for one hour at 400 degrees, basting the duck occasionally with the drippings. Remove bacon from duck and raise the heat to 425–500 and cook for another 20–30 minutes until the duck is brown on top. Drizzle honey over the top of the duck five minutes before serving.
“Yum!” Etta says as she lathers up at the sink. Then Jack and Stefano wash their hands.
“Arthur, sit and relax. Jack, do the honors, please.” I hand my husband a carving knife and pull the covers off the hot platters on the table. Stefano pours the wine.
“What a way to spend our last night in Aberdeen!” Jack says.
Sir Charles, the cat who could not have cared less that we were visiting, shows up at the edge of the table. “It’s the duck,” Arthur says.
“He never took to us, this old cat.”
“Sometimes we’re just too old to bother to make new friends. I’m almost there.” Arthur smiles. “You got here in the nick of time.”
“I’m glad we missed the cutoff.”
“I am too.” Arthur raises his glass. “To my friends.”
“To you, Arthur!”
“And to Fiona McGuiness!” Etta beams.
“To Fiona!” we practically sing.
As we begin to eat, I think how lucky we are to be part of a wonderful extended family who shows us how to live. I thought the Italians, with their gusto and warmth, invented fine living. And now I see that in the Scottish Highlands, where the winds off the sea blow bitter cold, that shelter can always be found in the loving hearts of friends.
Home
Though our hearts are breaking a bit to leave Aberdeen, we must get back to our lives in Big Stone Gap. I can coast on the good graces of Eddie Carleton and Fleeta Olinger only so long; it’s time to get home and back to work.
We land in late afternoon in Bristol, Tennessee. Fleeta and Otto pick us up at the airport. Life has gone on as usual. Fleeta has racked up six weeks of complaints to share with me. If it’s not problems with stoves in the café, it’s Eddie Carleton’s strict adherence to an open/close schedule or the lousy distributors who stiffed her on a crate of Crisco. It’s always something. Fleeta music, we call it: the song of the discontented. And I have to admit I missed it, and her.
Spring has come to our mountains. As we drive home through the hills, the redbuds are full of their pale pink velvet blossoms, purple crocuses are pushing up through the bright green grass, and the dogwoods—my favorite—are loaded with blossoms the color of ballet slippers.
When we take the turn up Cracker’s Neck Road, the yellow daffodils tip their heads to us as we pass. The tulips I planted alongside the porch reach up to the steps with their purple and white blossoms. The peonies and azaleas in the side yard are bursting with magenta blooms. The mountains took their magical spring turn while we were gone.
Fleeta and Otto help us with our bags. Shoo the Cat meets us at the front door. He purrs and rubs up against my legs. I flip on the lights and go back to the kitchen. There’s a box of mail from the past week, and a crate of wine on the table with a note of thanks. I can’t help laughing: we left the exact same gift on their kitchen table in Aberdeen.
I throw open the windows and let the fresh night air into the old stone house. Jack comes to the sink and puts his arms around me. “Strange to be home, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But I missed it.”
“Me too.”
We look out to the woods, barren when we left, the oak, the elm, and the birch now bursting with yellow buds that loo
k like beads on branches nestled in green taffeta leaves. Jack takes our bags upstairs. I go into the fridge. There’s a note from Iva Lou:
Rolls for breakfast, jam and butter from my aunt’s down in Lee County. Call me. I.L.W.M.
I put on my nightgown. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I missed this old sink and tub. I climb into bed with my husband. He’s reading another Ian Rankin novel. I’m afraid he’s hooked.
I pick up a magazine and read. After a few moments, he puts down his book and wraps his arms around me.
“Ave?”
“Uh-huh?”
“What are you reading?”
“Father Rausch’s opus on mountaintop removal in the Glenmary Challenge magazine.”
“How romantic.”
“It’s romantic when our mountains are left to their natural grandeur.”
“You’re a liberal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Didn’t know you were a liberal.”
“Well, now you do. How long we been married?”
“Almost twenty-one years.”
“Is that a deal breaker?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Smart man.”
“Ave, I’m going to quit the coal company.”
“You are? What changed your mind?”
“Arthur.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that if you get to live long enough, if you make it to eighty, you realize that the only priceless gift you can leave behind is that you did more good than harm to the world you lived in. That’s why he still has a garden; he thinks his corner of the world still matters.”
“And it does.”
“There’s a lot I can do with my time. I want to feel good about what I’m doing.”
“Good.” I go back to my magazine, smiling. I’m smug. I finally got through to him.
Jack takes the article out of my hands and throws it off the side of the bed.
“Hey, I was reading.”
“Don’t want you reading.”
My husband kisses me. Like a lover, not a husband. I like it. Still. “Jack?”
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