How to Stuff a Wild Zucchini

by Heather Horrocks

  His father cleared his throat. When John looked at him, his father raised an eyebrow. His brothers were no better. They stared at him, daring him silently, except for Roy, who whispered, “Fifty bucks.”

  If they wanted to invite Dawn, let them. John would do it on his own timetable. He smiled at her and changed the subject again. “Did you talk with your mother? What did the doctor say?”

  “There’s good news.” Dawn’s eyes brightened. “Dad’s in remission. His leukemia’s gone.”

  “That’s fantastic news!”

  John’s four-year-old niece, Gabi, ran into the room and between their legs. He picked her up and tickled her until she giggled and said, “Stop it, Uncle John.”

  “She’s adorable.” Dawn smiled at John. “What’s her name?”

  “Gabriella. She’s Clint’s little girl. Takes after his wife, thank goodness.”

  “Hey,” said Clint.

  “That’s a beautiful name.” Dawn reached out her arms, and Gabi slipped into them. Once again, John should have been glad that this woman, who he was considering asking—someday—to marry him, liked children as much as he did, but the anxious feeling returned. Maybe things were moving too quickly for his comfort.

  As John’s mother and two other sisters-in-law crowded into the den, his mother said, “So how far along are you now, Becky?”

  Immediately phrases from the women rose, mingled, and hung in the air: “Six months along . . . October tenth . . . baby shower . . . morning sickness . . . wonderful.”

  Roy and Becky were going to have a baby? He’d noticed Becky looked like she’d gained a little weight, but he hadn’t realized why.

  It hadn’t bothered John when his two older brothers, Kirk and Clint, had married their wives, but when Roy, who was two years younger than John, had married three years ago, it had been harder to handle. This news was like a fist in his gut. He ached for a wife and children of his own.

  He’d been looking for “the right one” for a decade.

  Maybe “the right one” was a myth.

  Perhaps true love took awhile to develop—after marriage, after children, after a while.

  John looked at Dawn again. As if she felt his gaze upon her, she glanced up and her face lit with a warm smile for him.

  He smiled back. He did care for her. There was a warmth there for her. Was that love? He didn’t know, but suddenly he hoped that the warmth he felt could be fanned into a flame. He wanted a wife who would totally light his fire, who would ignite a flame even a firefighter couldn’t put out.

  Perhaps he’d have to wade through those first few years of marriage to reach that point.

  Maybe Dawn really was the right one.

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, yeah, dude. I remember that car. Old dude made arrangements for someone else to pick it up.” The young man was in his twenties, his arms covered with swirling and colorful tattoos. He pushed back his long hair with one hand and held the copy of the claim ticket in the other. “Wait here and I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Lori. She watched Tattoo Guy thread his way back through the cars until he disappeared down a side row.

  She was hot and tired. It had been a long flight from New York to Salt Lake City. As soon as she’d landed and retrieved her luggage, she’d called the number for Park ’n Jet and they’d sent a shuttle over immediately.

  Right now she didn’t much care what Charles Dobson’s car looked like, or if it was a classic or not. She just wanted to get inside, drive to his house, and lie down. Even ibuprofen hadn’t been able to knock the headache that’d started mid-flight.

  A car drove up the side row and she got her hopes up, but it wasn’t old and it wasn’t cherry-red. Lori sighed and rubbed her forehead.

  From the brochure Charles had mailed her, she knew this place had more than twelve hundred stalls, so it might take forever for Tattoo Guy to retrieve Charles’s classic car. Impatient at the delay, she put her fingers to her aching temples.

  Finally, an older red car headed up the middle row. This must be Charles’s cherry-red vintage auto. It even looked kind of cool, in an antique kind of way. Maybe she would enjoy driving a classic.

  As the young man pulled it up beside her, she blinked her eyes. It took a few seconds for the truth of what she was seeing to

  register. What started out as an ordinary-looking car suddenly morphed into a truck bed.

  She walked around the car, shaking her head. This was a classic? Ben was the ugliest vehicle she’d ever seen. If this was Charles’s classic car, what on earth did his house look like?

  Dazed, she looked at Tattoo Guy. “What is it?”

  “A ’65 Chevrolet El Camino, dude.” He grinned and hopped out of the car.

  “Who designed it? The most indecisive person in the world? Is it for people who can’t decide between a truck and a car?”

  He handed her the keys and shrugged. “At least it’s got a hot engine and the AC works. Listen, I gotta go help this other couple, dude. Thanks for using Park ’n Jet.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

  Still shaking her head, Lori climbed into the front seat. There was a sheet of paper folded neatly on the passenger seat.

  With a sigh, she unfolded the note.

  Dear Ms. Scott,

  Please take good care of Ben; he’s not as young as he used to be.

  - Charles Dobson

  He wasn’t kidding, either. Ben was decades older than Lori and she hoped she’d never be anywhere near as ugly. Ben was a monstrosity.

  She started to laugh. Must be the hysteria setting in, she thought. What a hoot. And she’d promised to drive this monstrosity, at least once a week, for the next three months. If her old friends could see her now, they’d doubtless die laughing.

  She was wrong. She did care what Charles’s car looked like. And she hoped that he, right at this very moment, was riding the ugliest and most uncomfortable yak in all of China.

  ~

  Lori steered the vehicle to the curb, pulled out the key, and climbed from the coolness of the car into the hot July sun. She’d stopped at a local grocery store, Kent’s Market, to buy a few basics, and now she was ready to drop. At least the ibuprofen was beginning to work, because her headache, though still there, had eased a little.

  At least Tattoo Guy had been right: the monstrosity on wheels had a working air conditioner. Utah wasn’t nearly as humid as New York, but still hot nonetheless. Ninety-seven, if the thermometer Charles had glued to the dashboard could be trusted. It had taken more than an hour to work her way through the Wednesday traffic from the Salt Lake International Airport to Brigham City, which was at the edge of nowhere with fields everywhere. There was even a large “Welcome to Brigham City” sign overhanging Main Street. She’d just moved to Mayberry with Mormons. It was enough to make her headache worse.

  Lori just wanted to go inside her new house, pull the blinds shut, turn the AC on full blast, and take a long nap.

  She squinted against the blazing July sun. The fluffy clouds along the horizon did nothing to block the harsh rays. She was also going to put on some lotion, as she could already feel the moisture being sucked from her skin.

  Leaving her bags in the monstrosity, she walked to the front door, still wearing the sunglasses she’d donned when her play flopped and hadn’t taken off in public since then, though her pity party was now officially over.

  Charles’s house at 521 Hill Street was a quaint, older brick cottage with a curved door and ornate handle. It wasn’t classy, definitely not New York, but cozy in a small-town kind of way. And, she noted with relief, it wasn’t a monstrosity.

  She caught sight of an envelope taped to the inside of the glass storm door. Her name was printed on it, so she retrieved it and pulled out the neatly printed note inside. />
  Dear Ms. Scott,

  The key is safe with Agatha McCrea, next door at 525 Hill Street. Thank you.

  - Charles Dobson

  P.S. Would you mind taking care of my cat?

  Lori groaned aloud.

  A cat. He hadn’t said anything about a cat. She didn’t even like cats. She was more of a dog person.

  Pushing her sunglasses up her nose and tugging on her purse strap, she sighed deeply and walked toward the next house. She hadn’t wanted to meet any neighbors while she was here.

  Stepping onto the porch of Agatha McCrea’s house, she noticed the neatly tended flower garden.

  Lori knocked and, as she waited, thought how amazing it was that these people were so trusting they would leave their house keys with neighbors. She was definitely not in New York anymore.

  She raised her hand to knock again when the door was opened by an older woman whose hair was pulled back in an elaborate style of curves and curls and who sported an apron announcing “Don’t Expect Miracles.” The woman looked like a typical grandma, only her hair was still brown with just a few streaks of gray. The woman tilted her head and smiled. “Yes?”

  “Ms. McCrea?”

  “Oh, land sakes, how silly of me. You must be Lori Scott. Come on in, sweetie.” She held open the screen door. “And call me Agatha. ‘Ms. McCrea’ makes me feel older than my years, and my years are already older than dirt.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Let’s just say I could have officially joined the Red Hat Club fifteen years ago, and leave it at that.”

  At the moment, Lori really didn’t care how old Agatha was. Her head was starting to pound again, and she needed to get out of the heat. “I came to get the key. Charles left a note saying you had it.”

  “I do. Come on in and I’ll get it for you. Wouldn’t want to just leave it lying around, you know. It might get lost.”

  Lori stepped into the cool of the house. What a relief.

  Agatha led her into a very feminine living room, filled with wicker furniture and soft flowered cushions, and pointed to one of the chairs. “Would you like some lemonade, sweetie? You look a little peaked.”

  Lori sank gratefully into the chair. “Actually, that sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

  “You just sit there and I’ll go get us some.”

  Lori listened to Agatha humming in the kitchen before closing her eyes for a moment, nearly falling asleep in the chair.

  When Agatha returned, she handed Lori a glass. The woman may have been in her sixties, but she moved like a much younger woman.

  After draining half the glass of cool liquid, Lori leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you. That was exactly what I needed.”

  “Just the ticket on a hot day.” Agatha placed two coasters shaped like honeybees on the table between them and sat in the wicker chair opposite. “Charlie tells me you’re from New York. That is so exciting.”

  Lori took another sip and thought of her play flopping like a fish on land. “Not as much as you might think.”

  “Ah. There’s a story in there somewhere, I think.” Agatha leaned back in her chair and intertwined her fingers and waited.

  As if Lori were going to tell this stranger her most humiliating moment. No way. She set her glass on the empty coaster and forced a smile. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I’ve been traveling since early this morning, and I would really like to get settled.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. What was I thinking?” Agatha set down her glass, stood, and went over to the wooden mantel above her fireplace. There was a collection of little jars, about fifteen in all. Agatha picked up the first one, lifted the lid, and looked inside.

  She replaced it and picked up the next one. “You know, I put things in safe places and then I can’t find them later. It drives me crazy.”

  It was driving Lori crazy, too. She did her best not to sigh in frustration. Did everyone here in Utah move—and speak—this slowly? You could apparently fit a hundred New York minutes into one Utah minute.

  “So are you a single lady? I notice there’s no ring.”

  Lori glanced down at her ring-less fingers. Uncanny. The older woman had zeroed in on Lori’s two areas of humiliation. With a wry chuckle, Lori said, “Definitely single.”

  “There are several men I can think of around here who will want to change that right quick. Good LDS men.” Agatha lifted another lid. Lori swallowed another impatient sigh as Agatha continued to work her way from one jar to the next. Slowly. Ever so slowly. “Men who, unlike Charlie, don’t plan on spending the rest of their lives as confirmed bachelors.”

  “I’m not looking to change my status.”

  “Won’t matter to them, sweetie. They’re men, therefore they’re clueless.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  Agatha lifted the lid on the last jar. “Ah-ha.”

  Finally.

  “Here you are, Miss Scott.”

  “Lori, please. And thank you.” Lori stood and took the keys.

  “Oh, sweetie, you are like a breath of fresh air in this neighborhood. Your accent is delightful. Come back any time.”

  “Thanks.” Heading for the door, Lori remembered the note. Reluctantly, she turned back to Agatha. “Mr. Dobson’s note asked if I would take care of his cat. Do you know where I’ll find it?”

  Agatha laughed, a husky sound. “The cat’s not at Charlie’s.”

  Lori did sigh at that. She didn’t want the bother of watching after the cat, but knew she should be worried about it.

  Agatha continued, “She hangs out with my cats. They’re probably out back. I’ll bring her over to Charlie’s house later.”

  Lori supposed that was all she could do about the unexpected cat problem. “Thanks.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  Before Lori could step outside, Agatha grabbed her and gave her a huge, all-encompassing hug. Lori couldn’t loosen up enough to hug her back.

  When Agatha released her, she smiled warmly. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  ~

  Beautiful blossoms filled the two flower beds lining the walk from the driveway to Charles’s house. There must have been twenty different kinds of flowers, half of which Lori didn’t recognize. It was quickly becoming obvious to Lori that she’d have to do a little research to write his flower columns. But she’d worry about that later. For now, she just wanted to go inside, cool down, eat something, and rest.

  Turning the key in the lock, she opened the curved door and stepped inside. It was about twenty degrees cooler inside, which meant it was still nearly eighty in the old house.

  She paused in the small tile entryway, closed the door, and stopped. There was the doorknob and a deadbolt, but nothing else. That was it? Two locks? Where was the security system in this place? Back home she had four locks plus a chain. Even her mother’s place had three locks.

  In the semi-darkness, she made her way to the windows and pulled back the drapes.

  Slanting open the blinds and letting in the indirect sunlight, she turned and caught her first sight of the room. And laughed. She couldn’t help it.

  She’d left her beautiful, elegant, black-on-white New York apartment for this? What had she been thinking? None of her family or friends would even believe this place. She’d have to take pictures.

  The couch and two chairs were well kept up, not worn or torn at all, but way out of style—maybe even as old as Ben—with doilies laid neatly over the arms. A sturdy oak coffee table in the center of the room and two heavy lamps adorning matching end tables completed the furnishings. Charles must have bought them all in a different era.

  The furniture wasn’t the only thing that was out of style. There were old-fashioned decorations everywhere. On one end table, there were even s
ome of the old resin grape clusters like Lori’s Great-Grandma Forsythe had made in Relief Society eons ago. But at least the place was clean. And it was certainly roomier than her very expensive and very small walk-up.

  Suddenly she started to laugh in earnest. Surprised, she realized her heart was a little lighter.

  This was the perfect place for her to get away and hide from everyone she knew. No one would search for her here. And the more she looked around, the more she laughed. She was caught in a Mormon time warp in Brigham City, Utah, and it seemed incredibly funny.

  Wiping away tears, she walked into the hallway to find the control for the central air. As she adjusted it, she hoped it wouldn’t take too long to lower the temperature.

  This really might be a good place to lick her wounds. To make the changes she needed to make, once she figured out what they were. She used to be happy when she was writing her plays and screenplays, but she didn’t want anything to do with that now. No, for the next three months, she was going to take pleasure in simply writing three flower columns a week. Set some new goals. Think things through.

  Either that—or the slower pace of life here might drive her crazy after the energy of Manhattan. Even Schenectady moved faster than Brigham City.

  She lugged in her suitcase, laptop case, and the bag of groceries, leaving the heavy duffle for later. She set them in the kitchen, which held an old chrome-edged table and padded chairs. She would have been surprised to find anything else. Surely Charles hadn’t intended it when he bought them thirty years ago, but the table and chairs were retro cool.

  One of those old-fashioned cat clocks hung on the wall, its tail and eyes moving back and forth. There was a corkboard on the far wall with a bright orange piece of paper tacked to it amid recipe cards and the miscellany of Charles’s life. Another note.

  Dear Ms. Scott,

  I thought you might like to read through my previous columns to bring yourself up to speed; you’ll find them in the filing cabinet in my office, down at the end of the hall. Your new boss is Russell Neal, and his phone number is written below. Call to set up an appointment so you can become an official, paid employee and get started on the column.