The Cherry Cola Book Club

by Ashton Lee

  They had both laughed, waved good-bye, and headed toward their cars down the street.

  Back on the sofa where her hair had blended nicely into the fabric of one of the big cushions behind her, Maura Beth suddenly realized that all those cups of fruit punch had coated her throat with sugar. She needed a nice glass of ice water, so she jumped up and headed toward the fridge and the big pitcher she always kept inside on the middle shelf.

  The phone rang on the way over, startling her, but she reached the crowded kitchenette counter soon enough. Whoever was on the other end of the line opened the conversation with an enthusiastic, “Guess what?”

  Maura Beth immediately played along, easily recognizing Periwinkle’s down-home voice. “And hello to you, too. Don’t tell me. You have another picture of a person in pants for me. Or is it another set of twin cowboys passing through from Dallas on the way to become country singers in Nashville? One for you, and one for me.”

  Periwinkle produced her usual hearty laugh. “Even better. Someone signed up for your book club tonight over here. She just left—in fact, we closed the place down together we had so much fun chatting. You won’t believe who it is!”

  “Enough guessing games,” Maura Beth said. “Just tell me.”

  “Okay, here goes. It’s Becca Broccoli!”

  Maura Beth frowned immediately. “Who?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of her. Becca Broccoli of radio fame? Haven’t you ever listened to her show on WHYY?”

  “Periwinkle, I don’t listen to the radio or even watch much television,” Maura Beth said, growing slightly impatient. “I’m always curled up on my sofa reading the free galleys all the publishers send us librarians. How do you think they get the buzz going for their new writers? We’re their foot soldiers in spreading the word.”

  “Never mind that. This is exciting news. Becca Broccoli has a cooking and recipe show on local radio—how do you think I get some of my best ideas for The Twinkle menu? I listen to her faithfully every morning.”

  Maura Beth mulled things over, still somewhat puzzled. “Cooking on the radio? Not exactly a visual medium. And what’s with the name Broccoli? That can’t be real, can it? Is she one of those vegans or vegetarians?”

  There was the faint sound of paper rustling, and then Periwinkle explained. “I’m holding the sign-up sheet in my hand right now. I didn’t know this before, but Becca’s real name is Mrs. Justin B-R-A-C-H-L-E. She told me tonight over her bread pudding that since her name was pronounced like broccoli, she decided to go ahead and capitalize on it. Thus was born The Becca Broccoli Show, weekday mornings at seven-thirty. Don’t you realize what this means for your club?”

  “She can review cookbooks for us?” Maura Beth ventured, unable to resist.

  “Seriously, now. Think about the publicity angle, girl. She can mention the club over the radio whenever she has a mind to. She has a huge audience. You’re a bit slow on the uptake tonight!”

  Maura Beth briefly debated whether to mention all the hoopla at the “Who’s Who?” meeting but thought better of it. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. But I’ve got a sign-up myself at this end. Miss Voncille Nettles of ‘Who’s Who in Cherico?’ is on board. So now we’ll have at least four people for our organizational meeting next week. And if you could find a way to join us—”

  “Like I said before,” Periwinkle interrupted, “I just don’t have the time, honey. Not to read books and run the restaurant six days a week, too. Just let me hand out flyers here at The Twinkle and talk you up that way. Reading recipes is more my speed. Anyway, you got you a good one in Becca Broccoli, and who knows how many more’ll eat at The Twinkle and end up in your club?”

  “Thanks, Periwinkle,” Maura Beth said. “You really are my eyes and ears, even without your cell phone camera.”

  An hour later, Maura Beth was propped up in bed against her purple pillows, smiling down at her wiggling, freshly painted, pink toenails. “You are such a girlie girl sometimes, Maura Beth,” she said out loud, pouting her lips playfully.

  Anyone surveying her bedroom would have thought so. She had changed the nondescript wallpaper she had inherited to a lavender floral design, and her solid lavender bedspread picked up the theme. What little money she had managed to put aside—with significant help from her parents, of course— had been spent on the brass bed, which was the centerpiece of the room. Altogether, it was an environment that had yet to welcome its first male visitor, and Maura Beth wasn’t particularly happy about that.

  Before turning out the lights, she decided to open the top drawer of her night stand and retrieve her journal. She had been keeping it off and on since her freshman year at LSU, and whenever she needed a boost of any kind, she would trot it out and turn to page twenty-five. Tonight was one of those nights.

  It read:

  THREE THINGS TO ACCOMPLISH

  BEFORE I’M THIRTY, PLUS A P.S.

  1. —Become the director of a decent-sized library (city of at least 20,000 people).

  2. —Get married (but not out of desperation).

  3. —Have two children, one of each (natural childbirth—ouch!). P. S.—Hope one of the bambinos has red hair. (We’re such a minority!)

  Maura Beth gingerly rubbed the tips of her fingers on the page and slowly closed the journal. Then she put it away, sighing resolutely. Would any of those things ever happen, even past thirty?

  4

  Out of the Mouths of Babes

  It was nearly ten after seven on the evening of July 17, but the organizational meeting of The Cherico Page Turners had not yet begun. Maura Beth had decided to disdain the meeting room because of the claustrophobia it never failed to produce. Instead, she was standing behind a podium she had placed in front of the circulation desk in the main lobby, gazing out at the half-circle of folding chairs arranged before her. Connie McShay, Miss Voncille, along with her guest, Locke Linwood, and Councilman Sparks had arrived early and were talking among themselves in their seats. But Mrs. Justin Brachle (aka Becca Broccoli) had not yet made an appearance, and Maura Beth was beginning to worry. Their numbers were paltry enough as it was.

  “If Mrs. Brachle doesn’t show up within the next five minutes, we’ll begin without her,” Maura Beth announced.

  But no sooner had those words escaped her than the celebrated Becca Broccoli breezed through the front door wearing a summery yellow frock and apologizing profusely as she approached the group. “I know I’ve kept everyone waiting,” she began, “but I had to feed my Stout Fella. That’s my husband, Justin, you know. He was trying to wind up one of his real-estate deals over the phone, and he just wouldn’t come to the table—” She broke off and flashed a smile. “I guess none of you are really interested in all this. Except, I owe you an introduction, at the very least. I generally go by the name of Becca Broccoli these days, and, again, I’m so sorry I’m late.” Finally, she sat down in the open chair next to Connie, who offered her a gracious nod.

  Maura Beth couldn’t have been more surprised. Not at the tardiness, nor the rambling, breathless monologue, but at Becca’s actual appearance. This petite, perfectly accessorized, very attractive blonde did not match the voice on the radio that Maura Beth had taken the time to tune in to the day after Periwinkle had informed her of the sign-up. That next morning, she had envisioned the woman loudly enumerating the ingredients for spicy beef stew as matronly, perhaps even as tall and ungainly as Julia Child had been. Instead, Becca was more like a bouncier, much younger version of Miss Voncille.

  “Don’t worry,” Maura Beth replied, briefly waving her off. “You haven’t missed a thing. We’ve all just been getting better acquainted. So, shall we begin?”

  But before she had a chance to mention the first item on her scripted agenda, Councilman Sparks stood up and stole the floor from her. “We’re a pretty sparse crowd, aren’t we? Is this going to be enough to have a viable book club? I’m just a kibitzer, you know, so don’t mind me.”

  It was Connie, however, who answered h
is question, turning toward him with a deferential smile. “We started out with seven people for The Music City Page Turners in Nashville, Councilman. It only takes a few dedicated readers to make a book club work.”

  “Yes, we’ll worry about numbers later,” Maura Beth added, eager to take back control. “And there’s no need for anyone to stand while speaking. We’re going to be very casual in our approach.”

  Councilman Sparks resumed his seat with what amounted to a mock salute. “As you wish.”

  Maura Beth offered a perfunctory but still civil, “Thank you!” and then moved on immediately. There were a few parliamentary issues to resolve first—such as confirming the head of the club and the necessity of a treasurer. It was decided that Maura Beth would continue to lead and see to it that there were multiple library copies of the books they would reviewing, while Connie would handle the bookkeeping, since she had performed that function so admirably for The Music City Page Turners.

  Next came the matter of coordinating the menus for each meeting—something that perhaps only Maura Beth had considered. “After all,” she continued, “I think we’d prefer an appetizer, entrée, and dessert for our get-togethers. Someone needs to make sure we have a balance of dishes with a few timely phone calls to the others. Volunteers?”

  Becca glanced first one way and then the other, checking for competition. As no one else budged, she said, “I’ll be happy to do that since I’m planning menus all the time for my shows.”

  It was exactly what Maura Beth had hoped to hear. She had even thought about phoning Becca the day before to ask if she would willing to assume the food planning duties. Since the two women had never met, however, she had concluded that it might be too forward and chose to wait until the meeting got under way when they were face-to-face.

  “I, for one, would be delighted to have you do that for us,” Maura Beth replied, “and I assume that the rest of you feel the same way? Show of hands?”

  Councilman Sparks rightfully abstained from voting, but everyone else was on board.

  “I’m honored, ladies and gentlemen,” Becca stated, while scanning the group with a smile. “But I did have one question. Will we be reviewing cookbooks from time to time? I feel I have special insight into their effectiveness.”

  Maura Beth was trying her best to conceal her surprise. The flyer had made it quite clear that Southern literature would be the focus of the club. “To be honest with you, I thought we would sample each other’s dishes and exchange recipes as we saw fit,” Maura Beth explained. “But our discussions would be strictly literary.”

  “Didn’t you know that I’m publishing a cookbook next year? I’m calling it The Best of Becca Broccoli, and I’ll be transcribing some of my most popular radio shows. Of course, I was hoping it would be the subject of one of our future meetings.”

  Maura Beth felt her body tensing up at the wrench that had just been thrown into the works. It was imperative that she think on her feet and strike the right note. “I see no reason why we can’t consider that down the line. You say your cookbook is forthcoming anyway,” she pointed out, proceeding carefully. “For now, though, I believe we need to concentrate on our famous Southern female writers and get firmly established. We can make the rest up as we go along.”

  Becca settled back in her chair, offering up a pleasant little nod. “I’ll just keep everyone posted on the progress of my cookbook, then. And I’ll be more than happy to autograph copies when it comes out.”

  “Very good. We’ll look forward to that,” Maura Beth continued, returning to her notes with a decided sense of relief. “Now, the next item I have down here is our club name. Are we all in agreement on The Cherico Page Turners? May I have a show of hands?”

  Everyone except Councilman Sparks raised their hand briefly, but Connie continued to wave in the studied manner of Queen Elizabeth on the balcony at Buckingham Palace or a newly crowned Miss America walking the runway.

  “Yes, Connie? Do you have something to add?”

  “Well, I was just thinking, Maura Beth . . . maybe we should consider going with something original instead of copying somebody else.”

  “But you were the one that told me all about The Music City Page Turners.”

  “Yes, I know. But if you’ll bear with me. Something happened recently that I just have to share with y’all.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts, obviously amused by what she was about to reveal.

  “Our daughter, Lindy, has been visiting us from Memphis with our little granddaughter, Melissa. We told Lindy we weren’t quite ready for visitors yet, but she wanted to come anyway. She said, ‘Melissa misses her Gigi and Paw.’ That’s what the little angel calls my husband, Douglas, and me. Anyway, she’s just eight, and she still has trouble with certain words—like Cherico, for instance. So after a few days, she said, ‘Gigi and Paw, I just love visitin’ with y’all here in Cherry Cola, Mis-’sippi! ’ We just thought it was the cutest thing ever. So I was wondering if we might consider calling ourselves The Cherry Cola Book Club instead of The Cherico Page Turners? What do you think?”

  Subdued oohing, ahhing, and nodding rippled through the half-circle, and it was Miss Voncille who spoke up first. “I like it. It gets my vote. Locke, you’ll go along with it, won’t you?”

  “Whatever you ladies prefer is fine with me,” he said, patting her hand. “I’m only here because of Sadie Hawkins sitting next to me.”

  “But you didn’t say no to me, Locke Linwood!” Miss Voncille exclaimed, looking smug.

  Becca then offered her approval, and finally Maura Beth chimed in. “It’s highly original, if nothing else. And since I haven’t had any logos printed up yet, I don’t see why we can’t change our minds. Ladies’ prerogative, as they say.”

  All the women were chuckling or rolling their eyes, but it was Maura Beth who truly offered up the exclamation point. “As they also say—out of the mouths of babes. So, many thanks to your precious granddaughter, Connie. Looks like we’re now officially The Cherry Cola Book Club. Maybe the name alone will intrigue people enough to join.”

  “And we could add the cherry cola part to the menus,” Becca suggested. “I mean, nothing spruces up a soft drink like dropping a few ice cubes and cherries into a tumbler and then giving it a shake or a stir with a swizzle stick. Add a twist of lime, and you’ve got a cola to remember—especially in the summer heat.”

  Connie gave Becca a gentle nudge and chuckled softly. “That sounds marvelously refreshing, of course, but did anyone ever tell you that you talk like a recipe?”

  “I’d be in trouble if I didn’t, considering the thousands of shows I’ve produced!” Becca exclaimed. “Oh, yes, my Stout Fella says all the time that I’m very fluent in listing ingredients!”

  “What I want to know is how you keep that cute little figure of yours while hanging around the kitchen so much?” Connie continued. “Mine blew up on me years ago. My figure, not my kitchen, of course.”

  Everyone present enjoyed a good laugh, and Becca said, “No big secret. I do all the cooking, but Stout Fella does all the eating around our house. He’s gained about forty-five pounds since we got married ten years ago. I really should put him on a diet for his own good. Last time he went to the doctor, his cholesterol was up in the stratosphere. If I could just stop him from ‘islanding’ his ice cream, for starters.”

  Connie’s brow furrowed dramatically. “Islanding? You mean scooping?”

  “No, I only wish he would scoop. It’s when Stout Fella hovers over a half gallon of ice cream with his big spoon. He starts digging around the edges where it’s softer, and then he keeps going around and around and deeper and deeper until he’s eaten enough to make an island out of the middle.”

  “What does he do with the middle?” Connie continued, still looking puzzled.

  “Oh, he eventually gets around to that, too. Another time, he chips away from the edges until the island has completely disappeared. The point is, he consumes thousands of extra calories at one
standing. I’ve informed him of the existence of bowls, but he won’t use them because he knows they would make him commit to a finite amount.”

  Sensing that she was losing control of the meeting again, Maura Beth stepped in and abruptly switched subjects. “Ladies, this is all very fascinating, but I wanted to get your opinions on when to schedule the next meeting. We need to decide how long it will take us to read our first selection.”

  “Exactly what is our first selection, by the way?” Miss Voncille wanted to know.

  “I planned to go into that, too,” Maura Beth explained. “I had one particular classic in mind but thought we’d discuss it first. We might as well do that right now and then worry about the scheduling later. So, to cut to the chase, what does everybody think about getting our feet wet with the very dependable Gone with the Wind?”

  “I’ve waded in that pool before with The Music City Page Turners,” Connie explained. “It’s been a few years, though.”

  “So you’re less than enthusiastic?” Maura Beth said, sounding slightly disappointed.

  Connie shrugged while patting her hair. “I’ll go along with the majority, of course, but it’s just such familiar territory to me.”

  “We’ll branch out, I assure you,” Maura Beth explained. “Harper Lee, Eudora Welty, Ellen Douglas, and Ellen Gilchrist won’t be far behind.”

  “Getting back to Gone with the Wind, though,” Miss Voncille began. “I’d like to know what could possibly be said about Margaret Mitchell’s only contribution to literature after all these decades? Hasn’t it been done to death and then some? Because the truth is, I don’t know if I can get through all those dialects again. I read the book way back in high school and never deciphered a word Mammy said. Did slaves really talk like that? Lord knows, I don’t want to get into that can of worms called political correctness, but I am a student of history, and it seemed so exaggerated.”