The Irresistible Blueberry Bakeshop & Cafe

by Mary Simses

  “He must have been really talented,” I said as a breeze rustled the grass. “And a great mentor.”

  Roy leaned back against the bench and gazed at the lawn. “If something broke,” he said, “Uncle Chet could repair it. He didn’t think about throwing things away and getting new ones.” He paused to watch a field sparrow dart across the grass. “He was an amazing guy and I’m glad he came to live with me at the end.”

  I looked at the house as a few drops of rain sprinkled the bench. “So this place is yours?”

  “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “But the owner’s name shows up as Chester R. Cummings. That’s your uncle.”

  “No,” Roy said. “That’s me, Chester Roy Cummings. But I’ve always gone by Roy.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That explains a few things.”

  I watched the leaves of the beech tree shimmer in the breeze and thought about Chet Cummings imparting his knowledge and skills to Roy and what a great legacy that was. “You’re lucky to have had a father and an uncle like Chet,” I said. “I hardly had a father. He died when I was fourteen.”

  “That’s so young.”

  I nodded, trying to recall my father’s face, trying to strengthen the details that over time had become hazy. I knew the same thing would happen with my memory of Gran.

  “It’s hard to lose somebody at such a young age,” Roy said. “Well…at any age.” He looked down at the letter. “I wish I could help you, Ellen, but I don’t know what this is about—this apology.” He opened the letter and glanced at it again. “Did your grandmother ever say anything about my uncle?”

  “No,” I said. “She hardly ever talked about Beacon. That’s why I was so anxious to meet him.”

  Roy sighed. “Yeah, well…” He handed the letter to me.

  The air had that metallic smell of imminent rain, and I wondered when the sky would open and drench us. I noticed Roy staring at the letter in my hand. And then I realized he was staring at my engagement ring.

  There was a long silence. Finally he said, “You’re getting married.” He kept looking at the ring.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward, conscious of something heavy in the pit of my stomach.

  He reached down, pulled a few blades of grass from the lawn, and studied them. “I didn’t happen to notice that.”

  “I had to take it off,” I said, my words steeped in guilt, as though I’d somehow misled him. “The first day I was here my fingers puffed up.” I tried to laugh. “Even worse than this.” I held up my hand. “Maybe the salt air…”

  He nodded and turned a piece of grass over a couple of times. Then he let it blow away on the breeze.

  A drop of rain landed on the letter, creating a little blue puddle of ink. I blotted it with my finger, then I folded up the paper and put it back in the envelope.

  Mr. Puddy ambled by and rubbed himself against Roy’s leg. “So the story of the letter,” Roy said as he stood up, “is that he loved her but she loved your grandfather.”

  Raindrops began to hit my arm like pinpricks. I stood up and looked at the sky, now a smoky gray shroud above us.

  “What was that line?” Roy asked. “‘It was easier that way—easier to make a clean break. At least that’s what I believed at the time.’ Seems to me your grandmother might have had some regrets about leaving my uncle.”

  “Oh, no, she was happily married,” I said, shivering as the drops flicked against my skin.

  Neither one of us spoke. Finally I handed him the envelope. “You should have this.”

  For a second, we stood there, each of us holding one side of the envelope. Then I let go. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. I’ll be leaving town soon.”

  Roy sighed. “I guess that is it,” he said as thunder breathed in the distance.

  His eyes looked cloudy and tired. We shook hands, but when it was time to let go, he kept his hand on mine. His gaze was so intense I finally had to look away. He was still holding my hand when rain began tapping the leaves and the thunder’s growl became louder.

  At any moment we would be in the middle of a downpour. Mr. Puddy mewed and ran across the yard, up the steps, and onto the porch. I watched him sit down by the front door and a part of me wondered what I would say if Roy invited me onto that porch, into that house.

  Instead he released my hand. “All right, then,” he said, putting the baseball cap on his head. “Have a safe trip back, Swimmer.”

  The rain fell in a fury as I ran to the car. A clap of thunder rattled the sky as I shut the door. I turned on my windshield wipers in time to see Roy running into the house, the cat behind him. Then the porch was empty and I pulled away, the water streaming across my windshield.

  Chapter 10

  The Library

  When I opened the shades the following morning the sky was clear. Pink clouds hung in a blue sky, full of sunlight and conviction. All signs of the previous day’s rain were gone, but the memory of Roy Cummings ran through me like a streak of color in a rock—the softness in his eyes when I told him about my grandmother, the tender way he talked about his uncle, how he understood all too well the loss of a loved one.

  Leaning closer to the window screen, I saw that something was going on next door, at the Beacon Historical Society. Cars were parked up and down the street, and people were making their way, like a line of ants, to the door of the gray house. I breathed in the cool, salty air and watched a boy coast down the street on a bike, the ticking from the derailleur growing softer as he faded from view. What a perfect day for a ride, I thought, wishing I had a bike and wondering if there was a place where I could rent one. I imagined myself coasting down a winding country road, camera over my shoulder, no GPS to direct my wheels. And then I remembered it was Saturday and I had an appointment to meet Lila Falk.

  Saturday.

  Oh, God, the Men of Note dinner was last night, and I hadn’t called Hayden yet. He was going to think I didn’t even care. And there I was daydreaming about bicycles and…Roy Cummings.

  I grabbed my cell phone, yanking the charger cord from the wall along with it, and dashed into the bathroom. The screen said HAYDEN CROFT: MISSED CALL. I sat down on the toilet seat, my foot wiggling nervously as I played the message. Hey, Ellen, it’s about one thirty and I just got home. You really missed a great night. Everybody was asking for you. I think I did a good job with my acceptance speech. I think you would have been proud of me.

  I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I felt horrible. Of course I would have been proud of him. And I was sure he’d done a great job with his speech. I could picture him standing at the podium, no note cards, just saying what was in his heart. Later he would have shaken hands with the mayor, shared a humorous story.

  Hayden’s cell phone went straight to voice mail when I dialed his number. I left a message, a breezy, happy message, sending my congratulations and telling him I couldn’t wait to see him. I ended by giving him some kisses through the phone.

  I hung up, thinking how lucky I was to have Hayden in my life. Sweet, loyal, honest. The man every guy wanted as a friend. The guy every woman couldn’t help but notice. Not to mention he was a Croft. And he was marrying me.

  So what was my problem? Why had I woken up thinking about Roy Cummings? I was not interested in Roy. Not like that, anyway. I mean, he was nice enough, once you got past the lawyer paranoia. And he was kind of charming in his own way—his own small-town, boyish way. And I had to admit he was good-looking. In fact, he was quite attractive. If I didn’t know him and I saw him walking down the street in the middle of Manhattan I’m sure I’d…

  I clutched my cell phone in my hand. I had to stop this. I was beginning to sound like I was attracted to him. I was engaged, I loved Hayden, I was getting married. There had to be a logical reason why I was having these odd feelings about Roy. They couldn’t have sprung out of nowhere. I gazed at the print of the lighthouse on the bathroom wall and tried to sort it out the way I would analyze a legal issue, arra
nging and rearranging the pieces until they made sense. Me, Hayden, our wedding. Gran, Beacon, Roy, the dock, the Antler.

  And after a while it dawned on me. I was getting married in three months. That meant I would soon be out of circulation. No more flirting, no more dating. I’d be a married woman. So wasn’t it logical that I might want to feel I was still attractive to men? That I still had that power? Yes, of course it was. If I felt the tiniest spark or tingle for Roy…well, that was the reason why. I was just proving I still had it. Didn’t that make sense? I twirled my engagement ring around my finger, breathing easily again. Of course it did.

  “What’s going on next door?” I asked Paula as I grabbed a blueberry muffin and a glass of orange juice from the breakfast buffet.

  Paula replaced an empty pot of coffee with a full one. “Annual picnic. It’s a fund-raiser. They have games, contests…auction things off.” A coy smile appeared on her face. “Last year Troy Blanchard had the winning bid for a year’s worth of manicures and pedicures from Shear Magic. You know, the salon?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Said it was for his wife,” Paula went on, her eyes crinkling in delight. “But Poppy Norwich saw him in there one day, hand in the bowl of cuticle softener.” She chuckled. “Oh, we gave him such a hard time. I don’t think he’ll do that again.”

  “Guess not,” I said, tearing off a piece of the muffin and taking a bite. It was a little dry and didn’t have nearly enough blueberries. Why call it a blueberry muffin if you can’t even find the berries? Gran would have said. I took a long sip of my orange juice and thought about how she could teach these folks a thing or two.

  Paula set a stack of napkins on the table and turned to me. “You ought to go next door if you want to learn about Beacon. They’ve got some nice things on display.”

  “Oh, really?” I said.

  “Sure. You know, historical stuff. And with your grandmother being from Beacon and all…”

  My grandmother being from Beacon.… Had I told her about that?

  Most of the people at the picnic were already out back, milling around, talking to friends, or watching their children in the egg toss or the three-legged race.

  I was happy to stay inside, where it was quiet. I strolled through the house, floorboards creaking as I walked from room to room. One room had a special exhibit of Currier and Ives lithographs. In another, vintage sepia-tone photographs of downtown Beacon were on display. I was excited when I realized that many of the buildings in the photos still existed. Another room was filled with antique furniture, including a lovely settee, desk, and cherry highboy.

  In the last room, paintings by local artists were displayed. The oldest piece, of a ship at sea, dated back two hundred and fifty years. There were quiet harbor scenes and scenes of girls wading in the ocean, holding their ballooning skirts above the waves. And there were landscapes—fields and forests and farms with cows grazing lazily over mint-green hills.

  But the painting that stopped me, made my heart skip a beat, was one of a small two-story shingled building, yellow with white trim around the windows. Redbrick steps led to a blue front door, over which a sign read THE IRRESISTIBLE BLUEBERRY BAKESHOP & CAFÉ. Pink roses climbed happily over a trellis to the right of the door, and through the windows customers could be seen sitting at little wooden tables.

  I knew the building. The outside was white now, not yellow, and the steps were wooden rather than brick, but I could tell it was the tailor shop downtown. I also knew the artist. I would have recognized the style anywhere, but the signature confirmed it. In the bottom right corner my grandmother had signed her name.

  I moved in closer to the canvas and touched the frame, tracing my finger along its ornate carving. Then I touched the painting, the blue door and the sign above it, imagining my grandmother’s hand mixing the paints, creating the colors, brushing them onto the canvas. I couldn’t believe I’d found another painting. Two of them now. Beacon was sharing its secrets, and I was thrilled to be the recipient. I examined each section of the canvas—the way Gran had captured the detail in the weathered shingles, the reflection of the roses in the windowpane, the burst of blue color on the door. Then I read the card on the wall. BLUEBERRY CAFÉ BY RUTH GODDARD. THIS PAINTING WON FIRST PLACE AT THE BEACON FESTIVAL OF THE ARTS, 1950.

  The Beacon Festival of the Arts. First place. How fantastic. Gran had won the top honor. But what was the Beacon Festival of the Arts? And were there any other paintings? I’d found two. There could be more. There had to be. If Gran had painted this well, if she had won first prize in a contest, there had to be more.

  I flagged down a woman who had a VOLUNTEER sticker on her sweater and asked if they had more information about the painting or the artist. “She was my grandmother,” I said, pointing to the painting, astonished that the woman wasn’t as excited as I was.

  “Oh, you need to talk to Flynn, honey.”

  “Who is Flynn?”

  “Flynn Sweeney,” she said. “He’s the director. He’ll know.”

  She walked me to the back door and pointed to a tall man with a bit of a Humpty Dumpty build and a bulbous nose. He was hovering over a long table. The sign in front said SILENT AUCTION. Dozens of items were on the table, including a large earthenware vase, a set of home-repair instruction manuals, a crocheted blanket, fishing rods, boat cleats, a carton of previously viewed science fiction DVDs, and eight drinking glasses with Donald Duck’s face on them. I wondered if Shear Magic had donated the manicures and pedicures again.

  I introduced myself and told Flynn Sweeney about my grandmother’s painting. “The one of the Irresistible Blueberry Café,” I said.

  “Oh, really?” He looked at me with deep brown eyes, the color of pecan shells, and then moved a set of steak knives from one side of the table to the other, as if he were trying to decide where they looked best. “She painted that, did she?”

  “Yes, her name was Ruth Goddard and—”

  “She grew up here?” he asked as he cocked his head and stepped back to view the table from a distance.

  “Yes, she grew up in Beacon.”

  “That café was owned by the Chapman family,” he said, finally leaving the steak knives on the right side, next to a bicycle seat. “For years, one Chapman or another ran the thing. A sister or a brother or an uncle or somebody…until it finally closed. I think that was around”—he paused—“oh, maybe twenty years ago.”

  I nodded. “Well, I was wondering if you might have any more of my grandmother’s paintings. So far I know of—”

  “Really too bad they closed,” he said, moving a curling iron to the end of the table. “They made great blueberry muffins. Can’t get a decent blueberry muffin anywhere these days.”

  “No, you can’t,” I said. He had a point there. “It’s always unfortunate to lose a place that makes good food,” I said. “But do you think you might have any more of her paintings? My grandmother’s, I mean. Ruth Goddard. See, I’m from out of town and I came up here to—”

  “Out-of-towner, are you?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’m—”

  “Well, you know, that little café was a favorite of the tourists. People used to line up at the door in the morning to get the muffins when they came right out of the oven. You never had anything so good in your life, I can promise you that.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure of it. But do you have any other work by my grandmother?”

  He looked at me as though the question surprised him. “If we had other paintings by your grandmother,” he said, picking up a milk-glass jug, “they would be on display.”

  “What about records?” I asked. “Are there any records I could check for information about her? Do you have any archives?”

  He turned the jug over. “Don’t know who donated this,” he muttered. “Sticker fell off. Too bad.”

  I waited while he inspected the jug. Finally he glanced at me. “Hmm?…Oh, yes, records…” He scratched his chin. “Any informat
ion we have would be on the card by the painting.”

  “So that’s everything?” I asked. “Just what’s on the card? It said she won some kind of an art contest. The Beacon Festival of the Arts.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “That was something they held every year.” He squinted at me. “Did you say she won the contest?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, then, you might try the library. Look at the old issues of The Beacon Bugle. Maybe they published something about it.”

  The Bugle. That was a great idea. “Yes, all right,” I said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “Just check the ones published in June, July, and August,” Flynn said. “They used to hold that festival in the summer.”

  He looked away, rubbing the jug as though it were Aladdin’s lamp and he hoped a genie might appear. “Summer,” he said with a sigh. “That’s when the blueberries were fresh.” He was almost whispering now. “Those Chapmans. They could really make a muffin. You want to see a contest? They could win a baking contest any day of the week, any week of the month, any month of…”

  I didn’t hear what else he said. I scooted past the makeup mirror and the Parcheesi game and the silver picture frame with the dented corner and I made a hasty exit.

  The Beacon Free Library was a large white colonial house surrounded by a picket fence and located on a side street several blocks from the center of town. A plaque over the front door read 1790. I followed a sign that took me to the checkout desk, located in a sunny room where several people sat reading at tables or in armchairs.

  A man with round glasses stood behind the front desk talking to an elderly woman.