The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  “Well then,” said Annabelle briskly, lifting the cup again, “it’s a good thing I didn’t die. Now you have something to occupy your time while you think things through. It’s amazing how things work out when you live right and work hard. ”

  Megan chuckled. Her grandmother had always been able to pull her out of her pain, whether that pain was from a scraped knee or a broken heart. “What do you know about living right?” She brushed a kiss across Annabelle’s cheek as she moved toward the adjacent bathroom. “You’re the crazy person who climbed up two flights of stairs in the middle of the night when you know perfectly well how dangerous that is.” She returned with a paper cup and poured a measure of bourbon into it from the bottle at her grandmother’s feet. “What if you’d fallen?”

  “I’d never do anything so inconsiderate. That would have ruined our big adventure.”

  Megan looked around the dusty, nearly barren room until she found a footstool in the corner, and dragged it close to her grandmothers chair. She sat and took a sip of the bourbon. “If your idea of a big adventure is sitting in an empty room looking at old photographs, I’m starting to regret springing you from the hospital.”

  “Well, we can hardly start our adventure until we find the first clue, can we?”

  “The clue to what?” Megan reached forward and scooped a handful of photos from the box. “Is this a scavenger hunt?”

  “In a way, I suppose.”

  Megan began to sort through the photos. “What are we looking for?”

  “We are looking,” replied Annabelle with more than a hint of the dramatic in her tone, “for a place to begin.”

  Megan fixed a dry look upon her. “Don’t make me sorry I agreed to help you with this.”

  A smile twitched at Annabelle’s lips and she took another sip of the whiskey. “When I was six years old,” she said, “a very, very long time ago, my mother and I went on a trip together. A birthday trip. It was the happiest summer of my life. ” Her eyes clouded for a moment, and her brow furrowed with the struggle for memory. “What we are looking for … what I need to remember, is where we went.” She smiled. “In a way, I suppose, I am looking for my happy place.”

  Megan looked up at her grandmother. “Do you have any idea where to start?”

  “Not really. But I remember there’s a photograph of us on that trip. My mother used to keep it in a silver frame on her bedroom dresser, and whenever she looked at it her smile would grow kind of sad. Eventually the frame broke, but I kept it in this box, with all the other family photos from the old days.”

  “Wow, some of these are really old.” Megan looked through the photographs slowly. “Is this World War Two?”

  Annabelle glanced at the faded 3x3 snapshot of a young man in uniform she held up. “That’s your grandfather. And the picture we’re looking for is older than that.” She chuckled. “The camera was still a new-fangled invention back then. It’s a wonder in this world that it even held a picture after all these years. ”

  “You really should preserve these somehow.”

  “I’ve preserved them for sixty-eight years, and I think that’s long enough. But you’re welcome to give it a try, if you’ve a mind to.”

  They sipped and sorted for a time in leisure, occasionally taking a foray down memory lane when Megan held up a studio portrait of a baby or a bride, a boy with a new wagon or a girl on a pony. The farther toward the bottom of the box they went, the stiffer and more faded the photographs became, the edges of the paper crumbling like moth wings to the touch. Megan looked up with a smile to inquire about the children posed in front of a very old-fashioned Christmas tree, and realized that her grandmother had gone very still. She was staring at the photograph she held.

  “Mission accomplished,” she said softly.

  “You found it?” Megan got up and came around her grandmother’s chair, bending down to look over her shoulder.

  The snapshot was of a young woman in a flapper-era bob and pleated skirt with a short jacket and gloves standing at the side of the road in front of a sign of some sort. A young girl with curly blond hair in a sailor dress with a big white collar and white stockings stood between them, squinting into the camera and looking impatient with it all. Megan could not prevent a wash of pure awe to realize that the woman who now sat gazing into the past, as faded and as fragile as the photograph she held, had once been that blonde-haired child in itchy crinolines and cotton stockings so eager to have the photograph finished so that she could get on with living the almost one hundred years that awaited her. Stealing a quick glance at her grandmother’s melancholy face, she wondered if she was thinking the same thing, and if she had known everything that those years before her would hold, whether she would have been quite so anxious to get on with them way back then.

  Megan looked back at the photograph. There were mountains in the background, and lots of trees. It might have been taken at a roadway overlook, or a national park.

  “Where is this?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.” Annabelle gave a satisfied nod. “But this is it. This is where it all started. Look.” She pointed with a thin, wavering finger to a corner of the photograph. “See that mountain in the background, the way the shadows fall? It looks like a T-Rex.”

  Megan giggled, astonished at the trick of nature, or of photography, that had captured a prehistoric creature on film from the nineteen twenties. “It does!”

  “When we find this place, we’ll be well on our way to solving the mystery.”

  “But …” Megan took the photograph carefully from her grandmother’s hands and studied it closely. “Gram, a lot can change in eighty-odd years. Trees grow, landscapes change, roads close, high-rises are built … even mountains get strip-mined. How are we going to figure out where this place is? You’re standing in front of the sign.”

  Annabelle smiled complacently and sipped her whiskey. “My dear,” she said, “that’s what makes it a mystery.”

  ~*~

  Josh weighed his options for a brief moment, then made his way cautiously forward. As far as he could tell, he only had two weapons: his wit and his charm. He hoped one of them was still working.

  “Hey,” he said, and gave the gnome his most disingenuous smile as he slid into the cracked leather passenger seat. “Thanks for not freaking out. I didn’t mean to stow away. The thing is, my brother’s RV looks just like this, and it was so late, and I was so tired, I guess I didn’t notice I was in the wrong one. I must’ve dozed off, and when I woke up we were already moving. I should’ve said something, but I was afraid you’d shoot me.”

  It was the lamest story even Josh had ever heard, but the gnome didn’t appear to spot the flaws. He replied cheerfully, “Not much chance of that.”

  Josh held on to his smile. “Well, I appreciate that. You can just drop me off at the next exit, if it’s not too much trouble. I can call my brother to come get me.” He forced a rueful laugh. “He’ll be telling this story at family dinners for the next ten years, you can bet on that.”

  The old man just nodded pleasantly and kept his eyes on the road. “I like driving at night, don’t you? You’ve got the road to yourself, no sun in your eyes, and I’m afraid the air-conditioning in this old baby isn’t what she used to be, so it’s a blessing to be out of the heat of the day.” He reached forward to pat the battered dashboard affectionately. “There’s a campground in the foothills I like to stop at. Quiet, lots of shade, easy to sleep through the day. We ought to get there right after sunup.”

  Josh’s smile faded. “I said you could let me off at the next exit.”

  “Now why in the world would you want me to do that?” the man replied cheerfully. “You wouldn’t be a bit better off than you were. At least this way, you’re going somewhere.”

  Josh’s fingers dug into the armrest and his voice lost its charm. “Listen, you crazy old pervert, I don’t know what you’ve got in mind but it’s not going to happen. And if you try anything, you need to know I’ve got a
knife.”

  The gnome chuckled. “I don’t think so. I think you lost it to that fellow you tried to rob back at the truck stop. And I’m not a pervert.” He sounded a little hurt. “You really mustn’t think the worst of everyone you meet.”

  Josh swallowed hard, cursing himself, the old man, the thugs at the truck stop, and his own stupidity. A green exit sign flashed past the window, and then nothing but highway.

  “So what are you going to do?” he said. “Call the cops on me?”

  He darted a quick astonished look at Josh. “For what? There was no harm done, was there? Besides, how in heaven’s name would I call the police even if I wanted to? I’m driving down the highway.”

  Josh blinked and stared at him in disbelief. “Wait a minute. Don’t you have a phone?”

  “Why, no.” He sounded mildly surprised. “Do you?”

  Josh stared straight ahead, every muscle in his body tensed for the flight that was not going to happen because there was no place to go. He was trapped in this rolling tin can with one of the seven dwarves until sunrise and there was not a thing he could do about it. “If I did I’d use to it report a kidnapping.”

  “Oh?” He looked interested. “Whose?”

  “Mine.”

  Again the man laughed. “Oh my, you are an amusing young man. This is going to be an entertaining trip. Do you like music?”

  “No.”

  The man turned a knob on the dashboard and Frank Sinatra was singing “My Way.” For a moment Josh was flooded with memories, and each memory was a sensation—the flicker of candlelight tingled in his throat, the smell of perfume burned his eyes, the brush of a woman’s silk dress as it swayed past him smothered his breath—until the pain threatened to explode in his gut and he reached forward and snapped the radio off. The driver appeared not to notice, or care.

  “My name’s Artemis,” he said. “People call me Artie. What’s yours?”

  “Joshua,” replied Josh before he could think to tell a lie.

  “Ah. You were named for a warrior.”

  Josh shot him a sharp, suspicious look.

  “I’m headed for Memphis, myself,” he went on easily, “to pay my respects to the King. Where did you say you were bound again?”

  “London, to see the queen,” Josh returned irritably.

  The man called Artie chuckled again. He was very easily amused. “Well, you’ve got a long trip ahead of you. If you’re hungry, I’ve got some cookies in that cabinet behind the driver’s seat. I could use one myself.”

  That was the first thing the gnome had said that got Josh’s full attention. He got up and, holding on to the seats for balance, made his way back to the overhead cabinet.

  Artie said, “Be careful when you open it—” just as Josh twisted the lock and the door sprang open, raining packages of cookies, potato chips, crackers, and dried soup over his head. He swore and batted them away as Artie finished, “Because things can fall out.”

  Josh glared at the back of the Artie’s head as the last mini-box of raisin bran bounced to the floor, and he knelt to start picking things up. He tossed a bag of chips and two candy bars, along with the entire package of cookies, into the passenger seat, and stuffed four more candy bars into his pockets. He was gathering up the cereal and soup when he noticed a leather pouch that did not appear to contain food mixed in with the boxes and bags. In the flickering dimness it was hard to tell, but it looked like a bank bag. He glanced furtively at the driver’s seat, but Artie’s eyes were on the road. He unzipped the bag, and sure enough, it was filled with cash.

  “I’ve got some sodas in the fridge underneath the table,” Artie added without looking around. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks,” said Josh, He stuffed the bank pouch under his shirt, and stood to replace the groceries in the cabinet. “I will.”

  Things were looking up.

  ~*~

  Brunch at the Hummingbird House began at 11:00 a.m., but the preparations started hours earlier with wildflowers in cobalt glass vases on each table, linen napkins starched and folded just so, china and sterling—fashionably mismatched of course—artfully arranged at each place setting. The menu of the day was printed on heavy vellum paper in flowing script and folded to stand in the center of each table beside the flower vase, and a small basket of dainty nibbles—usually miniature scones and cheese biscuits from Bridget—was placed on each table.

  In the foyer, a platter of goat cheese and water crackers greeted guests, along with small crystal glasses—barely more than a sip, really—of an appropriately priced wine. Paul and Derrick wanted to be hospitable, but they were not complete fools, and they barely made a profit on brunch as it was. The surround sound stereo system, which had been one of their first additions to the ambiance of the B&B, was adjusted until the volume of the classical music that wafted from the front foyer, through the art gallery back to the dining room and even into the back garden, was precisely right to be heard over the clatter of dishware and the murmur of voices, but not so loud that it distracted from civilized conversation.

  In the kitchen, the big urn would be filled with coffee, and Derrick would be fussing over the sugar bowls and cream pitchers while Paul mixed the drink of the day—this Sunday it was bright mint grasshoppers made with mint crushed fresh from the garden only minutes earlier—and whatever entrée Bridget had brought over the day before filled the kitchen with delectable aromas. Foil-covered sides would be heating in the warming oven and fragrant sauces simmering on the burners.

  On most Sundays.

  On this particular Sunday, Derrick opened the oven door and stared in dismay at the beautifully tied, prepped, and completely raw pork loin that should have by now been a lovely, moist golden brown main dish.

  Paul said, “When Bridget said to start it in a cold oven, I don’t think this is what she meant.”

  Derrick reached into the oven and lifted out the roasting pan with his bare hands. “We forgot to turn the oven on,” he announced in the flat, expressionless tone of someone who is still in a state of shock. “How could we forget to turn the oven on?”

  “Well,” Paul said, “we had to chop all those vegetables for the country salad …”

  “And then I had to make the vinaigrette …”

  “Which wouldn’t have taken half as long if the Internet hadn’t been down so we couldn’t find the recipe …”

  “And then I had to puree the yams, and salt the eggplant for the casserole …”

  “And I had to boil the eggs for the garnish …”

  They looked at each other. “Preparing a brunch by ourselves is a good deal more complex than we anticipated,” Derrick admitted. “We have twenty-five people coming for brunch in fifteen minutes and we have nothing to serve them but pureed yams and chopped vegetables in vinaigrette.”

  Paul rubbed his hands together briskly. “Don’t despair. We’ve been in worse spots than this. Remember the time I almost seated the editor of the New York Times Book Review next to that porn star?”

  “She wasn’t a porn star,” Derrick reminded him patiently, “she only wrote porn.”

  “Precisely. But disaster averted, and we’ll do it again.” He looked around the kitchen alertly. “We have eggs, we have fontina, we have escarole we can pretend is spinach … I can make omelets.”

  “You’re going to charge thirty-five dollars a head for an omelet?” Derrick was incredulous. “In the country?”

  Paul frowned a little. “We have some dried porcini mushrooms, don’t we? We’ll shave them on top and tell people they’re truffles.”

  Derrick’s eyes grew even bigger. “You’re going to lie?”

  Paul grabbed the bowl of eggs and took them over to the stove. “First I’m going to serve free drinks.”

  “But what about the eggplant? And all those lovely pureed yams? And—”

  “Y’all looking for a cook?”

  A young woman in faded jeans and a tee shirt decorated with glitter-enhanced dancing poodles stood a
t the entry to the kitchen, chewing gum and looking around, assessing. She had a freckled nose and a brown ponytail that swung when she tilted her head, and she carried a big patchwork purse slung over one shoulder. Both Paul and Derrick stared at her for a moment, and then Derrick said, “Excuse me?”

  She held her ground at the doorway. “My name is Purline Williams. I need a half day off Wednesdays and an hour and a half Sunday mornings off for church. Otherwise I work seven to three weekdays so I can pick up my kids from school. I do cleaning, laundry, windows, and cooking.”

  Paul looked at Derrick, confusion gradually widening his eyes into delight. “Bridget!’ he said.

  “Of course!” Derrick turned to the girl happily. “Did Bridget send you?”

  She frowned. “Bridget who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Derrick rushed to take her purse and pull her into the room. “Can you make a roast loin of pork in fifteen minutes?”

  ~*~

  Three hours and twenty-five servings of pan-roasted medallions of pork served with herb gravy, curried sweet potatoes, and sliced eggplant later, the hosts of the Hummingbird House Sunday brunch joined their three lady friends at their table on the sun porch. Lindsay beamed at them.

  “You see?” she said. “I knew you could do it!”

  “It was quite good,” admitted Bridget. She dipped the tines of her fork into the smudge of gravy that was left on her plate and licked it off with an air of casual discernment. “Personally, I would have added just a smidge of port wine to the sauce. And maybe a whisk of sour cream. But otherwise, it was really … quite nice.” She seemed both surprised and reluctantly impressed.

  Cici grinned and lifted her glass to them. “I’m proud of you! You took charge, you found yourself a cook, you pulled it off. And this is just the beginning! The only thing I can’t figure out is what took you so long.”

  Paul gazed around the dining porch with an air of cautious satisfaction. Only a few diners lingered over coffee with ice cream and fresh berries, and Purline had cleared the tables—centerpieces, tablecloths, and all—as soon as they had emptied. Paul made a mental note to ask her to wait until brunch was over to strip the tables in the future, but otherwise he thought things had gone remarkably well. “Everyone did seem to enjoy it, didn’t they?” He tried not to sound too anxious for reassurance.