Johnny Cakes (The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  The soles of my rubber ankle boots skidded on a patch of ice in the parking lot outside Dad’s shop. I tottered through the barn doors and Edmond squeezed me tight. “Ah Rachael, I missed you.”

  I drank in the lemon and grapefruit scent washed on his skin. Besides his summer tan that had faded into a lighter shade of exotic, he hadn’t changed since I last saw him. He and Dad were early risers and from the looks of the spindle back chair he’d disassembled and stripped, he’d been busy for an hour or more before we’d arrived.

  “You’re not working too hard?” I asked.

  His index finger tapped my nose. “The busiest men have the most leisure.”

  After turning the Mr. Coffee maker on, Dad settled into his antique walnut desk, slipped on his reading glasses, and glanced at the work orders.

  Edmond moved back to the worktable and the box of donuts, and I sat across from him. I pointed to the pizza bread and winked. Neither Edmond nor I were shy about indulging in carbs.

  “Studying still-life?” he asked

  I shook my head as I chomped down on fluffy chocolate heaven. After I swallowed, I said, “Moved on to Cubism.”

  “Some Braque and Duchamp?”

  I nodded, “All of them.”

  “How’s that feared professor?”

  “Gnarly with sharp edges.”

  “What professor?” Dad asked.

  “Schleck,” Edmond and I growled.

  “She suckered me into interning, for free, again.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What about you, are you keeping up a social life outside of work?”

  He rolled a piece of sandpaper onto the end of a pencil and worked on removing the old stain that lay in the nooks and grooves of the spindles. “I meet every Wednesday night with the Leaves and Blooms Garden club.”

  “It’s December and the ground is frozen.”

  “We discuss soil acidity, fertilization, and our spring bulbs.”

  “That’s it?” My chewing pace slowed, but I still reached for another donut.

  His eyes smiled, but his mouth stayed shut.

  “Don’t let him fool you.” Dad said without looking over. “Edmond’s social calendar is busier than mine. Two nights ago, he took your grandmother to a fundraiser at the symphony. I owe you for that one.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “So how is GG?”

  “Full of attitude,” Dad said. “She’s been on an auction spree lately. Had two new art pieces in here for us to clean.”

  Edmond kept his focus on removing the stain from the chair.

  “What pieces?” I asked.

  “A Rodin watercolor and a Derain.”

  “Rodin, the sculptor?”

  Edmond looked up and nodded.

  My jaw dropped and a gob of donut clung to my tongue.

  Two well known artists whose work could fetch a fortune.

  “No one would know it by looking at her, but she’s got connections,” Dad said.

  “What pieces did she buy?”

  “Your grandmother has a penchant for portraits. The Rodin is a watercolor of a woman scantily clothed, short black hair.”

  “I’ve never seen a Rodin watercolor,” I remarked.

  “Both pieces are unique. The Derain is a red chalk drawing. I’m headed over to hang them both. Want to join me?” Edmond asked.

  The air inside the workshop hung quiet, and I listened to every bite I chewed. The donut lost its light and airy, and now tasted more overly sugary-sweet. My Grandmother Geneva, whom I nicknamed GG, hinted at a lively past. In her early twenties, she worked for a newspaper mogul and had traveled the world hunting treasure for him. From what I’d gathered, she’d made deals on the side for herself. She was hip for her age, had business sense, and hidden agendas. She was too smart and seasoned to take crap. The properties she owned in Ohio and England made it no secret that she’d done well for herself. She’d gifted me an oyster brooch that belonged to Wallis Simpson, and it led me to a whole lot of headache last summer. This school year, besides the Galaxie inferno, and my mom showing up, unannounced, things were uneventful, as long as you didn’t include roommate drama, which, considering the personalities I lived with, was to be expected. Normality was something I’d worked on, and I fretted that visiting my grandmother had the potential to open up some can of crazy.

  “She knows you’re home.” Dad said.

  He’d spent my childhood not speaking to his mother, now he was her cheerleader?

  “How?” I asked.

  He gave me one of those parental looks that didn’t require a verbal response.

  “Geneva would be awfully disappointed if you didn’t pop by and at least say hi,” Edmond said.

  Besides restoring antiquities both Edmond and my father had crafted another gift. Guilt! “I’d love to see her. When are we going over?”

  MY GRANDMOTHER GENEVA LIVED in a Hansel and Gretel fairytale home with high decorative gables. Spring, summer, and fall, you couldn’t see her home from the street, but in winter, anyone passing by had a clear view between the barren trees over her white-covered sloping landscape to the sandstone exterior and smoking chimney. Racing ahead of Edmond, I hustled up the salted sidewalk and knocked on her door.

  Her eyes beamed and her arms opened. “Rachael! Come in before you catch a cold.”

  I stomped my feet on her outdoor mat before I stepped inside. “Edmond’s with me. He’s getting some tools out of the van.”

  She peered behind me and loosely shut the door to keep the cold out until he caught up. “I wish I’d known what time you two were coming, I’d have the kettle warmed. Let me put it on, love.”

  “Dad called, but the line was busy.”

  “I was on with an auction house in New York. I’ve just hung up.”

  The storm door clunked as Edmond slipped off the outsoles that covered his shoes and dropped the salt streaked crumpled rubber into a bucket near the door. Backing up, I slipped off my duck shoes and put them by the bucket.

  “Auction house? It’s Saturday,” I said.

  She pulled some cups and saucers out of a high kitchen cabinet. “One never knows when art will circulate. Missing things become found. In the last few months, some very nice pieces thought to be lost in World War II have circulated.”

  Edmond settled into a kitchen chair. “Now Geneva, before you get too excited, you’re sure these pieces are authenticated?”

  GG’s eyes widened. “I’ve spent my life chasing works of art. I’ve established my sources and team of experts. The Derain is exquisite. Art is not for the faint of heart. You have to be prepared to bite. If you hesitate someone else will swoop in.”

  “Where is this Derain?” I asked.

  “In the entry.” She said, leading the way.

  I followed GG down the hallway. A high-shine round oak inlay table had a centerpiece that heaved with a profusion of red, mustard, and orange flowers. Like Edmond, GG had the gardening bug. Where Edmond grew vegetables, GG preferred flowers. Asiatic lilies, roses, cymbidium orchids, miniature callas, hydrangea, dahlias, accents of berries and curly willows warm tones reflected in the crystal chandelier that hung above the vase. A semi-professional gardener, she had a greenhouse out back and her home always smelled like summer.

  On the floor, tilted against the wall, just outside the library doorway, were two pieces of artwork, partially unwrapped. GG and I got down on our knees and I helped her slide the new purchases out of the cardboard and remove the bubble wrap that hid the treasures beneath.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  What was there to say? “The frames are as impressive as the art under the glass.” I took a step back to take in all the elements. “You are drawn to women as a subject.”

  “Women with something to say.”

  GG’s brash self-assuredness made me smile.

  “The Rodin is full of intrigue. Inspiration from one of his sculptures?”

  She shook her head. “This is one of his
early works. Before he took to sculpting and painting.”

  My eye turned to the other. A red chalk drawing of a female lying nude. “The Derain?”

  “It’s so French. Even without a face, they think they are something more special than the rest of us.”

  I laughed. GG was so English. I was almost surprised that she’d purchase anything from the land of mouth-watering baguettes, fine wine, and stinky cheese. “André Derain was a character,” I said.

  “He led a colorful life. Worked with Matisse after he served in World War I. They created paintings in bright tones with wild brush strokes and started a Fauvism style popular in the early turn of the century. The friends we keep,” GG said.

  I thought of my southerner roommates tucked into the warmer corners of the country kicking back, eating crawfish hoagies, and deep-frying vegetables, raw or pickled.

  The kettle whistled in the kitchen and Edmond said, “Touché.”

  “Indeed,” GG said. Moving to the entry table, she opened a drawer and removed a pack of Indonesian cigarettes.

  Stepping into the hallway, Edmond performed a brain dump. “During World War II, he lived in Paris. During the occupation his work was sought after by the Germans. He became friendly with them and some have held it against him.”

  “I’ve been studying Derain. Hanging around with Picasso, he moved from a bright palate to a muted tones and Cubism.”

  Gathering the cardboard and packaging, I moved down the hall and stuffed them into the kitchen garbage can. A corner stuck out and I noticed the smeared postmark stamp. I could only make out a portion, rth Carolina. “Did you use a southern auction house to buy the artwork?”

  “I didn’t buy these from an auction house. They are from an art dealer. A contact of a contact.

  Edmond set up a tray with sugar, milk, and steeping tea and placed it next to the flower vase. Removing two nails from his pocket, he balanced them between his teeth and picked up the Derain. He held it against the wall when the phone rang.

  Wrangling her fingers in the air GG had Edmond move half a step to the right, before going to the phone

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Is this a good spot?”

  “I don’t think there is a bad spot in GG’s house,” I said.

  “Hello,” GG said in the next room, then called for me.

  I walked into the library where she stood and watched how the morning light played on the wood shelves filled with old leather-bound books—some literary originals.

  The black phone, as old-fashioned as most everything in her home, lay in her left palm with the coiled cord strung to an old rotary dialer in her right. “It’s for you.”

  I moved forward. “For me?”

  She handed me the weighty phone. “Hello?”

  “Rachael, thank the Lord.”

  “Francine?”

  “Of course it’s Francine. How many Louisianans do you know?”

  One too many.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “I called your house.”

  “No one’s there.”

  “I figured that out, so I called the shop.”

  “How did you know the number of the shop?”

  “There’s only one O’Brien’s, How’s Your Art?”

  She had a point.

  “Your dad said you were over at your grandmother’s and gave me the number.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “Nice to hear your voice, too. Hope you’re well, ‘cause I’m not!”

  “Francine!”

  “There’s trouble at the house.”

  “Has there been a fire?”

  “No.”

  “An explosion?”

  “No.”

  “Burst pipe?”

  “No.”

  “Sheila’s lost it?”

  “That ain’t news.”

  “What then?”

  “The kitchen is my castle. There’s something under the refrigerator.”

  I lowered my voice. “I know. It’s disgusting under there.”

  She spat the Cajun word ‘Cooyan’ and I knew it wasn’t a compliment. “Put the dog on. You are as fast as all get out!”

  “Hey, I’m all about clean, but I don’t go looking for dirt in obscure nooks.”

  “Does dirt slither?”

  My heart suddenly beat loudly. “What color was it?”

  “How should I know? It’s dark under there.”

  I didn’t want to completely freak Francine out. I knew she’d yell things that my grandmother and Edmond could hear from North Carolina, if I told her about the sticky note Katie Lee had posted on my door after my mother left. Besides, if she hadn’t looked closely, how could I know if she’d spotted Onyx, Hiwalani’s snake? I mean what were the chances that the thing had found its way from the bus to inside our house? So I took a strategic approach and pretended to be annoyed.

  “I’m four hundred miles away. Why are you calling me?”

  “Rachael, I’m no member of snake healers anonymous and I’m not looking for the long lost Rod of Asclepius.”

  When Francine started making references to Greek Mythology’s serpent entwined stick, I knew she was serious.

  “No one’s here but me.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Locked myself in the upstairs bathroom and stuffed a towel in the door crack.”

  “Where’s Roger?”

  “He’s at basketball practice. You’re the one with the nature-lovin’ boyfriend. I figured you’d know what to do.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Over time, Dad’s girlfriend has not grown on me.

  Ditched for Thanksgiving. What am I? Unclaimed baggage.

  Snake in the house. The reptilian kind. Gee Mom, thanks for the housewarming gift.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cracked Boll

  The early rains that had stormed across North Carolina in October had been a tease. On the drive from Greensboro to New Bern, Katie Lee pointed out the cotton fields. “Should be white as snow. There’s nothing but a few cracked bolls, and they’re smaller than usual.”

  It was a three and a half hour drive that I’d become accustomed to. Like sipping a cordial, the journey started out tense—stop lights, heavy traffic—but as we moved east toward the coast, the stretches of two lane country roads ebbed and flowed with only a few cars for company. Tilting my head back, I found that my shoulders relaxed.

  Late afternoon, Katie Lee pulled her Olds Delta 88 into her parents’ driveway. We’d ridden with the windows wound down since we’d entered the countryside in Lenoir County. We knew we’d closed in on New Bern proper when we smelled warm salt air, scented with a combination of cut grass and dried leaves. From the first moment I’d set foot in The Bern, I’d fallen in love. Three years later, I’d visited my roommate’s hometown nearly a dozen times and I still felt giddy, like I was returning to meet a long lost suitor.

  Dr. Brown had the hood off his John Deere riding mower, and poured oil into the engine through a metal funnel. Hoards of pumpkins and striped green gourds with warts teetered in a waterfall down the Browns’ front porch. At every door, Mrs. Brown had knee-high clay pots that overflowed with autumn mums. With the warmth of the sun on our backs and the breeze sweeping in from the river, no jackets were needed. In my book, this rated as a perfect fall day.

  “Hey, Daddy,” Katie Lee shouted. “Where’s Mama?”

  After wiping his hands on a rag, Dr. Brown walked to the car and wrapped Katie Lee in his arms. “She went to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few last minute ingredients for tomorrow. Should be back real soon.”

  I’d plucked our bags out of the trunk and waited behind Katie Lee.

  “And I see you’ve brought your daredevil roommate.”

  He so thought I was a klutz.

  With a small wave, I said, “Hey, Dr. Brown. It was really kind of you and Mrs. Brown to invite me for Thanksgiving.”

  “We’re glad to have you. Police blotter’s been qu
iet lately. I informed the firehouse you were coming to town and they’re on alert. I expect you two will liven things up.”

  “Daddy!”

  Dr. Brown chortled.

  Uncle and Simms, Dr. Brown’s coonhounds, came tearing up the back from the direction of the riverbank. Barks and jangling collar tags could be heard before the dogs were seen. Once they came into view, their bottom halves were wet. They circled around the three of us before planting their paws and giving their coats a rigorous shake.

  “Daddy, they stink.”

  “Been fishing in the river is all. How’s the leg? Those sutures heal properly?”

  “Scabs are gone. Just a little pinkish where the stitches were.”

  The garage doors were open. The Browns’ cruiser van was tucked into a far corner. There were Jet Skis, a grass catcher attachment for the riding mover, and gas powered garden equipment taking up an aisle. On a far wall handheld tools—screwdrivers, hammers, saws—cluttered an orange pegboard. In the center of the garage, camouflage gear had been strewn on the floor.

  “You been huntin’?” Katie Lee asked.

  “How do you think we got the turkey? You girls have some feather plucking to help me with.”

  Katie Lee and I stood immobilized and horrified. I was okay eating Tom Turkey, as long as it didn’t have a head, wattle, feet, or feathers still attached.

  Simms scurried off to the side of the garage where they kept the garbage cans and sniffed around. Uncle stuck around and Dr. Brown scratched him behind the ears. I watched the corner of the doctor’s mouth curl.

  Katie Lee called her daddy on his bluff. “In my twenty years of livin’ I’ve never had fresh turkey on Thanksgiving. Since when have you become a sharp-shooter anywhere other than the ninth hole?”

  “Was out with Judge Husk Driskell for grouse season.”

  “Did you shoot anything?” I asked.

  “I spent six hours tromping around his buddy’s lodge, and besides sore feet, came up empty.”