by Joyce Magnin
By the time she got to town, it was four o’clock. Harriet parked the SUV, dropping the gearshift into park with a thud and a sigh. She checked her face in the rearview mirror and brushed her fingers through her hair. Oh well, good enough. She saw Win and Lily standing outside the bank, waiting. She was feeling mixed emotions. On the one hand she was glad that she finally heard from Win, but on the other hand she was feeling nervous since telling Florence Caldwell about it. It wasn’t that Florence had told her to run in the other direction, but she was not all that positive or enthusiastic either.
After taking two deep breaths, she started across the street. The closer she got the easier it was to see that Lily looked, well, a little slutty. She was wearing dark blue shorts that were so short and tight that a passerby could see way too much. Her white T-shirt was cut way too deep. But Harriet took solace in the fact that Lily wore a pair of bright yellow Chucks.
Of course, Harriet still did not like Lily’s tar-black hair. She wondered if she could talk Lily into letting her pay to have it brought back to its natural glory. If that was even possible.
“Hello there,” Harriet called with a quick wave.
Win turned his head in her direction. “Hey there, darlin’,” he called. Win gave Lily a look and then took her hand as they walked toward Harriet.
“Hi, Lily,” Harriet said.
Lily glanced first at Harriet and then locked her eyes on the street. “Hello, Mrs. Beamer.”
Harriet felt her brow wrinkle. “Now, what did we say about that? I want you to call me Harriet unless it’s just too hard. I know it can be—hard, that is—to refer to an elder by their first name.”
A smile crept across Lily’s face. “Okay, Harriet,” she said.
“Now ain’t that just so sweet,” Win said. “I’m glad to see the two of you gettin’ on so well.”
Lily sidled near Harriet and walked beside her.
“Well now, tell me about this … trommel, was it? And another sluice box?” Harriet said.
“I’ll be tickled to tell you all about it,” Win said, “but maybe we should step into this here coffee shop and talk.”
Harriet read the sign that hung by two chains over the door. Clancey Hannigan’s.
The trio took a small table after ordering their drinks. It was one of those places that didn’t have wait service. Just kids behind the counter, probably college students, who made coffee with pretty designs in the foam. Harriet’s was a gorgeous leaf design that she just hated to mess up. And somehow, one of the students managed to form a pretty sun shining in Lily’s. Her father had given her permission to drink coffee, thanks to Harriet’s urging.
“So tell me,” Harriet said after she sipped. She tried to sip at the edges and ever so carefully as to keep the design from shifting. But she knew it was short-lived.
Win on the other hand stirred his latte. And this made Lily shake her head and say, “You know, Pop, you got no class. No class at all. You don’t appreciate fine art.”
“Fine art? It’s coffee and milk foam. Art schmart. Now, if you ever saw those paintings they do on the black velvet, you know, of the Grand Canyon and Jesus, now that’s art.”
Harriet nearly choked on her foam.
“It’s garbage,” Lily said.
“Now, now,” Harriet said. “To each his own.”
“But you can’t be serious. Those paintings are not real art.”
“I agree. My friend Martha is an artist. Now, she does what I suppose you would call real art.”
Lily folded a piece of straw paper. “I do art. I like to draw.”
“And she’s pretty good,” Win said. “But I keep telling her that art is no way to make a living.”
“I’d like to see some of your drawing sometime,” Harriet said. “And I’m sure my friend Martha will. She’s the expert.”
Lily shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not very good.”
“I bet you are a good artist,” Harriet said, wondering why Lily’s father was not being more supportive.
“Any-hoo,” Harriet said, “I’m a little pressed for time, and if we are going to the bank … But I sure would like to learn more about gold mining.”
“Sorry, Harriet,” Win said. He glared at Lily, who had chosen to sit closer to Harriet.
“Sorry, Mrs. Beamer,” she said.
Harriet patted her hand. “It’s all right, dear.”
“Now let me tell you about trommels,” Win said.
Harriet smiled wide. It was like being let in on ancient secrets.
“A trommel is kind of like a washing machine, or a great big sifter. It turns”—he made a motion with his finger—“like this, sifting through tons of dirt and gravel. The heavier stuff, hopefully the gold, falls through the trommel into the box below.”
Harriet nodded her head. “I think I understand.”
Win sipped his coffee, leaving a bit of foam on his lip, which he wiped with his hand. “We already got one up on the site. We call it the beast because it just does so much work. Sifts through tons of dirt and gravel.”
Once again the image of the giant flour sifter popped into Harriet’s mind.
“You see”—Win took a pen from his pocket and drew on a napkin—“it looks a little like this.” He drew an image of a machine with a large cylinder attached to some sort of rigging and motor. “Now, inside this here large tube are a bunch of screens and things that sort through the gravel and size the ore and pebbles and tiny rocks and things.”
Harriet understood the theory, but she really didn’t see how the machine could tell the difference between the gold and the ordinary rock.
Win scribbled a little more on the page and pointed to a box. “See here? That’s the sluice box. We run water through it and it washes off the ore and helps sort the gold. The bigger junk rocks are extracted and the gold stays in the sluice.”
“Then you just pick it out?” Harriet said.
“Yep. All there is to it.”
“It really is pretty simple,” Harriet said. “And I guess it beats kneeling by the river with a pan.”
“Hot diggety dog,” Win said. “You got that right. And I got the sore knees to show for it. Now, you just don’t worry your pretty little head over all this technical stuff. You let ol’ Winslow take care of that.”
Harriet looked at Lily. “How are you enjoying your latte, dear?”
“It’s good,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a treat, a small something to tide you over till dinnertime?” Harriet thought Lily looked too skinny. “A vanilla scone?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. The coffee kind of took my appetite away.”
“As long as you’re sure. I saw they have cheesecake. I’d be happy to get you a slice, maybe with raspberries.”
Lily’s eyes widened. Harriet figured you could tell a lot about a person by how she reacted to cheesecake. Harriet reached into her bag and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. She pushed it into Lily’s hand. “Now you get a slice while your pop and I talk business.”
Lily glanced at Win. He nodded his head. “Maybe get it to go.”
“Good,” Harriet said, turning to Win as soon as Lily had left. “Now, how much do you think you need? And please, remember I have a grandchild on the way.”
“Well now,” Win said. “Ain’t that a blessing, just a doggone blessing. I’m happy for you. Do you know if it’s a grandson or granddaughter?”
Harriet finished her drink. “Not yet, and maybe my son and daughter-in-law will want to be surprised.”
Win reached across the table and took Harriet’s hand. He sniffed. “Well, I’ll just never forget the morning my Sally, God rest her soul, presented me with the most precious bundle of joy. My Lily. She was the prettiest little thing I had ever seen.” He took a breath. “Still gets me choked up.”
“Ah,” Harriet said. “That’s so sweet. But, well … can I be honest with you?”
“Wee doggies, little lady. If you can’t be honest wi
th your business partner, who can you be honest with?”
Harriet fiddled with the salt shaker. Standard restaurant issue. Nothing memorable. “Don’t get me wrong but, are you sure of this … this mine?”
Win leaned back in the chair. “As sure as sure can be. As sure as I am that the sun will shine tomorrow. As sure as I am that God is in his heaven.”
Lily returned with the cheesecake.
“Now, what do you say we mosey over to the bank and finish our business,” Win said.
It didn’t take long for Harriet to hand over more cash to Win.
“Cash on the barrelhead always gets the best deal,” he always said.
“That’s fine,” Harriet said. “Now I guess I should be on my way. My friend from Philly is arriving tomorrow.”
Harriet watched Lily’s eyes grow wide with interest.
“Would you like to come along with me right now, Lily?” Harriet asked. “I have a little shopping to do.” She really didn’t, but something inside told her she should spend some time alone with Lily. And another hour wouldn’t matter much.
Lily looked at her father. He hesitated, hemmed and hawed, but then finally he agreed that Lily could go along with Harriet. But only for an hour or so.
“I’ll meet you at the café, at Rachel’s,” Win said, looking at his watch.
“Thanks, Pop,” Lily said.
“Good,” Harriet said. “We won’t be long.”
Win took hold of Lily’s hand. “Would you excuse us a second? I just want to have a couple of father-daughter words with Lily.”
“Sure,” Harriet said.
Win led Lily a few paces away, out of earshot.
Harriet watched as Win seemed to have something mighty important and serious to say. Lily wasn’t saying a word until Harriet was pretty certain she saw Win squeeze her wrist a little too hard. Most of the time, Win and Lily appeared to get along pretty well, but she supposed that the stress and worry of being a single parent could get to him now and again. Maybe he was telling her to mind her manners and not overstay her welcome.
Harriet and Lily headed toward the shops. “Now, I don’t know if I told you this, Lily, but my son is having an addition put onto his house. It’s a mother-in-law suite, but I think that sounds so … old. So I’m calling it the Grammy Suite.” She looked at Lily who didn’t seem to be paying attention.
“Is everything all right, dear?” she asked Lily.
Lily smiled, but it was a forced smile, the kind that has so much truth behind it. “Oh sure. I’m all right. I was just thinking about how nice it is to shop. Pop never takes me—unless it’s to the Goodwill. That’s where I got these Converse sneakers. Or sometimes we snag clothes out of those clothes collection boxes in parking lots. I’ve raided lots of drop boxes all across the country.”
Harriet felt her heart drop just a little. Something just wasn’t adding up. “All across the country?”
Lily stopped walking for a fraction of a second and then sped up. “Yeah, like I said before, Pop and I have to keep moving because of jobs.”
Harriet stopped in front of a small boutique. “But maybe now with the gold mine your traveling days could be behind you.”
Lily let go a nervous laugh. “Yeah, right.”
Harriet looked at the store window. It was filled with a lovely assortment of household treasures—statues of birds and small boxes that could hold any little treasure you’d want. There was a dolphin lamp and a perfect little Goldilocks and the Three Bears lamp that appeared to be handcrafted. “Now, that would be just right for the nursery. I don’t think you heard me tell your father that I’m going to be a grandmother.”
Lily didn’t say anything.
“You know what?” Harriet said. “Here I am thinking about myself, and you have such a need for some new clothes. What do you say we take care of that? Let’s get you some more … stylish clothes.” She didn’t dare say what she really thought.
“Really? You mean it?”
“Sure do.”
That was when Harriet saw a true smile on Lily’s face.
“And then if we have time, I’ll come back and get that lamp. I can always take it back if my daughter-in-law doesn’t like it.”
“Thank you,” Lily said. “But … I don’t want to be a problem.”
This time Harriet’s heart broke just a little.
Henry assumed his mother would be home soon. It was nearly six o’clock, and he had already fired up the gas grill on the deck. This was something that Humphrey especially enjoyed. The grill always meant hot dogs. He watched intently as Henry worked. It was a perfect evening for steaks and salads. And there was enough potatoes au gratin left over from when Harriet made them to make a nice side dish. She always made extra.
He even thought he had time to whip together a nice peach cobbler and fresh whipped cream. But he needed to check the fridge. Yep, a full container of heavy cream. And there were six, large peaches on the counter. Prudence’s boss, the senior partner at her Sacramento law firm, had given the peaches to her. It seemed his wife had an incredible garden, including a small orchard of fruit trees. She was always sharing the fruits or vegetables of her labor.
At one point, maybe even while he was still running his father’s construction business, Henry imagined himself a chef at a four-star restaurant. But he never pursued it. It seemed the writing virus never left him, even when he prayed for it to go away, prayed that God would give him another mission in life. But the desire always came back stronger. But now with the baby on the way, Henry was thinking about alternative means to make ends meet. It was hard to make it as a writer, and if Prudence didn’t want to work anymore, he would have to do something about their income.
He closed the refrigerator door with his foot as his arms were full of various ingredients. Maybe cooking school was in the future. Or, who knew, a bestseller.
Henry assembled the ingredients for the cobbler and got to work. And it wasn’t long before he had the peaches prepared and the cobbler mixture—flour, sugar, and milk—ready to go.
Humphrey was sticking close by, ready to lap up anything that might spill on the floor.
“The secret is the cinnamon,” Henry told Humphrey. “You wouldn’t think peaches and cinnamon make a good taste combo, but they do.”
Henry mixed sugar, cornstarch, and a little water, for the peaches, together and set it on the stove to boil. He stirred it constantly. “This is where it takes patience to be a chef,” he said.
Humphrey whimpered.
“Ah, you don’t care. You just want to eat.”
He added the peaches, folded them into the mixture gently, and then poured the whole glorious, wonderful smelling mixture into a pie tin. Yes, he knew that was a little unorthodox, but he preferred to make peach cobbler in a pie tin. Actually it was Florence Caldwell who gave him the idea.
Then came the final step of mixing the cobbler part, the batter, which he dropped by spoonfuls onto the peaches.
“Now, we just bake for thirty minutes or so and there you have it.”
He set the timer.
“So, Humphrey, did I tell you about the cowboy I saw at JavaScone? He was talking about gold mines. I wish I had talked to him. Maybe the next time I go to JavaScone he’ll be there, and I can ask him a few questions.”
Humphrey said, “Woof.”
Harriet and Lily finished their shopping. Lily was very pleased with her new clothes and even some new underwear.
“Thank you,” Lily said when they were standing in front of the café. “I haven’t had new underwear in a long time. Pop says I don’t need it.”
“Do you?” Harriet asked.
“Kind of. Makes me feel pretty and, you know, all … womanly.”
Harriet patted Lily’s cheek. “You are beautiful. And I’m not saying to dress all flirty and flaunty, no siree Bob, but I am telling you it’s okay to look nice and feel nice.”
Lily dropped her shopping bags and threw her arms around Harriet, who in tur
n dropped her tote and hugged Lily back.
Harriet thought Lily wanted to say something else, but Win strolled out of the café. “There you are. I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Lily picked up her bags. “Hi, Pop. Harriet got me the nicest clothes.”
“Did she now?” Win said. “You can show me later. Right now, it’s time for meat loaf.”
Harriet waited a second or two for Win to say thank you or something, but he never did. “I guess I need to get home also. I’m sure Henry has been cooking. He’s quite the chef, you know. You’d think he was trained at the Cordon Bleu.”
“Thank you again, Harriet,” Lily said.
“Okay, now, you two run along for dinner. I just thought of something I forgot,” Harriet said.
Harriet still thought she needed to show up at home with something for herself. She did not want Henry to get suspicious. She walked past several shops until turning into The Wild Onion, a store boasting fine home furnishings. She was nearly knocked over by the sweet potpourri when she entered, a mixture of balsa and rosehips, sage and vanilla, and maybe a hint of cinnamon—according to Harriet’s nose. It smelled nice enough, just a little too strong.
The store carried many specialty items like flower arrangements, vases, brass and stone statues of horses and angels, garden ornaments, shiny gazing balls, and the like. But her eye fell almost immediately on a small, wrought-iron plant stand.
She ran her hand over the cool, black metal. It was twisted and gnarled like vines and had two shelves for plants. And two gargoyles. One on each shelf. At first she thought they were just taking up room, but then she liked them. The stand gave her a twinge of homesickness. Harriet had gotten quite good at raising and propagating African Violets. Perhaps she could again.
“Oh, that’s a lovely piece. Handmade right here in Grass Valley.”
It was the voice of a middle-aged woman, short, a little dumpy, and Harriet thought she had the prettiest face, almost angelic. She also thought she had been pegged for a tourist. But that was okay.
“Oh, I do like this little stand. How much is it?”
“That’s three hundred and twenty-six dollars. It’s all hand-wrought by a local craftsman. It’s the only one like it.”