Fetching Sweetness

by Dana Mentink

  “I have a road conditions app on my phone. It’s still not passable.” He opened the cans of broth. If only he’d had enough time to make it from scratch.

  “We could go another way.”

  “Yes, but that would take more than an hour so we wouldn’t be gaining any time.”

  “At least we’d be moving,” she grumped. She poked her head outside to check on Sweetness, who was once again foraging in the bushes, tethered to his long leash.

  The frown lingered on Stephanie’s face as she returned to the stove. He understood. So close to her goal, like a runner stopped a few yards from the victory tape. It made sense, but it saddened him anyway. So anxious to leave? No, anxious to succeed, he chided himself. Don’t make it personal. “No updates from Laura?”

  “Nope. It’s driving me crazy. Mr. Klein has stopped emailing me, which is also driving me nuts.”

  “Maybe you should deal with Mr. Gregory.”

  She sighed. “There is no Mr. Gregory. When Mr. Klein started the agency, he thought it would add to the allure if there were two agents employed there.”

  “So he made up a partner?”

  “Yes. Nowadays we just tell people who ask that Mr. Gregory is semiretired.”

  “Book people are weird.”

  “So true.”

  He handed her a wooden spoon. “Stir while I pour in the broth.”

  She started off in vigorous swipes.

  “Stir, not brutalize,” he commanded.

  “You are bossy.”

  “And you are a wreck in the kitchen.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “That was unkind, and wreck is way overstated. I know my way around a slice of bologna, don’t I?”

  He was going to add a sarcastic remark, but something about the soft bow of her mouth and the delicately arched eyebrow stopped him. “I apologize,” he said simply. “Thank you for helping.”

  She relaxed a fraction. “It smells good.”

  “Yes, it does. In an hour, we’ll be enjoying a delicious soup complete with a floating island of cheese toast.”

  She let loose with a peal of laughter that both thrilled and irked him. “Floating cheese toast? Who taught you how to cook, anyway?”

  “I taught myself.” A long-buried memory bubbled to the surface. “I used to sneak into cinemas when I was a kid, and the theater manager in the small town where we lived cooked on a hot plate in the back room after hours. He made ragout and stroganoff and all kinds of things I’d never heard of.” It was, in fact, the best food he’d ever tasted. His cheeks burned when he recalled that he had snuck into that back room and sampled the food like some sort of vagabond. She didn’t need to know that part. “It smelled so good it made me want to learn how to cook too.”

  He would not tell her either that he’d proudly tried out a recipe for beef ragout for his family, the ingredients purchased out of his meager wages. His dad had sniffed dubiously and pronounced it “fancified slop” and fixed a sandwich instead. Rhett could still hear the sound of the knife on the plate as he’d scraped the food into the trash.

  “He didn’t mean it,” Karen had whispered.

  Yes, he had.

  He shook himself back to the present. “I had this crazy notion that theaters should sell more than popcorn and candy. We now have a dozen theaters across the country that serve everything from salmon sliders to lobster rolls.”

  “So I guess you don’t get many poor folks in your theaters.”

  He stopped stirring. “On Wednesdays, all movies are a buck. Everywhere, in every state, in every one of my theaters without exception. I remember what it felt like to be a kid without enough for a ticket. I’m not the heartless monster I’m made out to be in the press.” He thought of Paulo. “Not completely, anyway.”

  She touched his arm, her beautiful eyes catching his, drawing him in if he let them. Her fingers grazed his wrist, exciting his pulse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Now I’m the one being insensitive.”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, after dinner, the on-ramp should be cleared and off we go, full speed ahead. We’ll bunk for the night at the orchard, and by the end of the weekend you will have that manuscript in your possession.” He forced a happy tone. Finish line, remember, Rhett? You knew this was the deal.

  Karen came downstairs. “Why did you let me sleep so long?”

  “Because you’re going to have to read the map for the next part. The GPS isn’t going to help find the orchard.”

  “What smells so good?”

  “French onion soup with cheesy toast islands,” Stephanie said promptly.

  Karen laughed. “My brother is still the gourmand, I see. That hasn’t changed. I would have been just fine with peanut butter and jelly.”

  “French onion soup is better than peanut butter and jelly. That’s not snobbery. It’s a universal truth.” He lowered the heat to simmer on the soup and went for the Gruyère in the fridge while Karen settled herself cross-legged on the rocking chair with Panny in her lap.

  Rhett stuck his head in a cupboard. “Did you see a cheese grater around here, or did Sweetness get hold of that too?”

  “I don’t…” Stephanie’s words were drowned out by a sound unlike anything Rhett had ever heard before.

  Eighteen

  This time it was not a feeble, geriatric dog Sweetness had decided to save. As he lugged the gyrating animal inside, Stephanie leaped onto the bench seat, followed by Rhett right next to her. The hissing cat, lanky and striped, contorted wildly, striking at Sweetness on the face and ears. Undeterred, Sweetness held firmly onto the cat’s scruff, presenting the ferocious thing for inspection.

  From the dim recesses of her mind, Stephanie understood this was not some domesticated tabby but a feral cat. It was probably a good twelve pounds, strong and agile, and not at all used to being manhandled by a Good Samaritan dog. Puffs of fur volleyed through the air.

  “Sweetness!” Rhett bellowed. “Drop it!”

  Sweetness cocked his head as he considered, sending the cat off kilter, whereupon it unleashed a new round of frantic slashing. A pinwheeling claw caught Sweetness on the ear, and he whined but did not loosen his grip.

  Karen clutched Panny close. “He’s going to get cut to ribbons.”

  “Drop that cat!” Rhett thundered again.

  Sweetness looked from Rhett to Stephanie, the movement joggling the cat back and forth. The cat let loose with a bloodcurdling yowl. Sweetness finally complied and opened his mouth. The enraged cat landed feet first on the tile. The feline ears were flattened, its mouth wide, showing neat rows of needle-like teeth, limbs stretched, every muscle and sinew taut.

  “Still a cat lover?” Rhett said from the corner of his mouth.

  “I’m not sure that’s really a cat,” she whispered back.

  The enraged animal arched its back and let out a noise that was more akin to a human shriek than a meow, its claws slicing in a full-out assault as it sprang. The dog dove under the kitchen table, wedging himself there until only his shivering rump was exposed. The cat set to work, clawing and biting at the canine behind. Piteous whimpers came from under the kitchen table.

  “Oh, no!” Karen cried. “Rhett! You have to do something.”

  “What? All I’ve got is a cheese grater.” He waved the instrument helplessly.

  “Bad cat! Bad, bad, cat!” Stephanie yelled.

  “I don’t think that’s going to do the trick.” Rhett handed her the grater, leaped off the bench seat, grabbed the broom, and gave the cat a swat. The cat whirled to face the new attacker.

  As Stephanie held her breath, the cat’s eyes glowed with molten anger. It pounced on the broom, latching onto the bristles with a vicious bite.

  “Be careful,” Stephanie called. “It might have diseases.”

  Rhett pulled the connected broom and cat in an effort to get the animal closer to the door. Instead, it let go and leaped onto the kitchen counter. “Get away from my soup!” he yelled.

  “Let
it have the soup.” Stephanie stepped carefully off the seat.

  Rhett’s eyes flashed. “There is no way this cat is going to ruin my French onion soup.” Using the pot lid as a shield against the slashing claws, he maneuvered the cat away from the stove, edging it slowly toward the door.

  Stephanie snatched up the bench seat cushion and approached from the other side to be sure the cat didn’t head back into the kitchen. Slowly, with much hissing and swiping, the animal was eased toward the exit. With one final look of disgust beamed at the trailer occupants, the cat streaked out the door and down the steps, disappearing once again into the bushes.

  Rhett heaved out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. Stephanie lowered the sofa cushion. It took her a moment to realize the miracle that was taking place behind her. Sweetness was still stuffed under the table, quivering and whining, but little Panny was standing up on Karen’s lap, barking vigorously in a volume just north of a whisper.

  Karen watched her, face lit up in an exact match of Rhett’s. “Well, look who’s come to join the party.”

  Rhett hurried over, kneeling down next to the minuscule dog. “Panny,” he said, stroking the dog’s quivering ears. “Look at you. You’re standing up.”

  The wonder on his face almost made Stephanie cry. Panny stopped barking and gave Rhett a lick on his chin. “Good job, girl. You scared that nasty cat away, didn’t you?”

  Panny absorbed the praise and gave one more raspy bark before she settled back down on Karen’s lap to finish her nap.

  “You see?” Rhett said triumphantly. “I told you she would get better.”

  His exuberance lit his entire face, lifted his shoulders, and made him appear every bit a victorious lion. Stephanie laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “Bravo, Rhett. I guess it was all your doctoring that did it.”

  He grinned, retrieving the grater from where she’d laid it. “And maybe a little added motivation from a feral cat.”

  “I’m still not sure that was a cat,” Stephanie said. “It was more like a small, hostile tiger.”

  “Sweetness would agree with you on that point.” They both looked at the still-shivering bottom protruding from under the table. “Can you try your hand at some first aid for the big lug while I finish up the soup?”

  “I don’t think I’m qualified,” Stephanie said. “I’m not a dog person, remember?”

  “Time to rewrite your résumé,” he said, saluting her with the cheese grater.

  The soup filled the trailer with a sumptuous aroma that made Stephanie’s mouth water. Rhett fussed around with his cheese islands, and Karen held Sweetness still while Stephanie cleaned and applied some antibacterial spray to the dog’s bitten behind.

  “Good thing you have plenty of fur down here,” Stephanie said. “Only one little nick and that scratch on your ear. That should teach you to be more selective about the company you bring home.”

  Sweetness was so dejected, he would do no more than slink back under the table. Karen set Panny down nearby, and the two cuddled close. When the bowls of onion soup complete with cheesy toast islands were handed round, Stephanie thought she had never enjoyed such a special meal in her whole life. Karen and Rhett seemed to feel the same, contentment written all over their faces.

  Rhett joined hands with his sister and Stephanie. He said a simple grace, his fingers warm and gentle in hers. “All that we have, is a gift. It comes, O God, from You. Thank You.”

  After the “amen,” Stephanie smiled at him. “You googled some more prayers?”

  “I thought that one captured the big points, even though it doesn’t rhyme.”

  They ate the soup, and it was, as Stephanie expected, the most incredible thing she had ever had the privilege to consume. Was it the savory beef broth or the way the cheese melted into unctuous ribbons that mingled with the onions? Perhaps it was the bits of bread, silky and luxurious on her tongue.

  As she looked around, the sunset painting the sky outside the trailer windows, she suspected that the soup was seasoned with ingredients far more precious and rare.

  Two nutty dogs, snuggling together to comfort one another.

  A sister who had lost a love and found her brother.

  A trailer held together with duct tape and memories.

  And a man who knew how to make islands out of cheese.

  It comes, O God, from You.

  Her own sense of gratitude in that moment did not surprise her as much as it would have a week before.

  She imagined it would not have surprised Mrs. Granato either.

  Rhett whistled a tune as he guided the truck and trailer along the highway with Karen crammed between him and Stephanie. The darkness crept in, and Karen used a flashlight to check the map more and more frequently as the hours went by. The terrain became decidedly rural as they left the highway. When they stopped so that Stephanie could take the dogs out for a potty break, he rolled down his window and breathed in the scent of dry grass. Rhett wondered if Stephanie had noticed the same things he had as they drove along—the heavy canopy of trees, the chitter of crickets, and the small roadside fruit stands, shuttered until morning. But she had not, he decided. She was probably focused on the whereabouts of literary agent Laura.

  “You’re thinking of Stephanie, aren’t you?”

  He blinked at his sister. “What? No. Why would you say that?”

  She gave him the same maddening smile she’d doled out repeatedly when they were teens. “What’s this?” She tapped the tattered paperback he’d stuck under the driver’s side visor. “Red Lady Lost,” she read from the title.

  “Some detective novel I picked up.”

  “I didn’t know you’d become a fiction lover.”

  “I got it for Stephanie,” he admitted. “She has to have books around all the time for some reason. She gets antsy without something to read.”

  “I see,” she said in a tone he didn’t care for.

  He glared. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s only along for the ride.”

  “If you say so.”

  He did want to say so, though he figured trying to explain it to Karen would only make him look foolish. What had tripped his sister’s matchmaker radar? Had he given some sort of signal that Stephanie was occupying too much of his thoughts? He resolved to watch for signs of that tendency and squash them as Stephanie and Panny rejoined them. She reported that Sweetness was settled inside the trailer with his spatula.

  The rode became bumpier still when they came within the last few miles of their destination. Potholes dotted the asphalt as they passed the little town where they had spent time as children.

  “Sparrowville has changed,” Karen said, peering out into the night. “Where did the ice-cream shop go? And the bowling alley is all boarded up.”

  He noted that many of the storefronts appeared to be empty. The buildings, caught in the sickly glow of streetlights, were old and weathered, and the few cars parked along the street were no better. A gas station sign blinked a forlorn Morse code. Perhaps it was the darkness that gave the town the sheen of desolation.

  “Economy’s been tough on small towns. It will probably look better in the morning,” he said, though it troubled him.

  Karen didn’t answer. He rumbled through town and searched for the narrow road that would lead up to Dappled Acres. Another surge of nostalgia hit him with surprising force. During many a sleepless night he thought he would never again clap eyes on this orchard and the aged farmhouse, especially after it was sold years before when his grandfather died. His shock at finding out it was for sale again still echoed inside him. A God thing. It could be nothing else. He’d called the real estate agent, who’d eagerly sent him pictures, and delivered the full asking price in cash that same day, sight unseen. Not a smart way to do business, not Rhett’s way, but he’d done it nonetheless.

  And now they were here. It was surreal. The long sloping road up to the ranch was as he remembered it, though the trees had grown to massive heights and crowde
d together along the roadside. He’d have a crew in to cut them back before the storm season arrived.

  There was only a sliver of moon and the headlights to guide them. The tires picked up rocks that pinged and rang against the sides of the truck, which caused Panny to sit up.

  Karen’s face was eager, her body straining forward. She pointed to a crooked sign. “Dappled Acres Apple Orchard. I can’t believe it.”

  He felt all the weight of the world slip away. He’d done it. In spite of all the damage, he’d brought her home. And she’d let him. His soul expanded with a gratefulness that was almost too big to contain.

  “It’s like a dream to be back here, Rhett.”

  Too emotional to risk a response, he nodded and kept the truck rumbling steadily upward. Another mile and the road flattened out somewhat. To his left was a heavy screen of trees. To the right, the old barn, with a sunken roof.

  “Going to have to replace that,” Rhett said. Karen didn’t seem to hear.

  She peered ahead into the night. “That’s new.”

  He braked to a stop at an iron gate. “Never had a gate in Grandpa’s day.” Well, they had to expect a few things had changed in the many years since they’d been there. He got out and went to open it, but he found a heavy padlock in place, for which he had no key.

  Irritated, he took out his cell and dialed the real estate agent’s number, ready to let him have it despite the time, which was after midnight. The phone rang and rang with no answer. No voicemail either? Odd, but perhaps not so unusual for a small-town Realtor.

  He stabbed the “end call” button and yanked on the lock again. It was solid and unyielding, and he fought the urge to aim a hearty kick at the metal rails.

  Karen joined him, walking stiffly. She held a hand to her back as if to quell a pain. Lines of fatigue aged her.

  Stephanie walked up, carrying Panny. She also had Sweetness on his leash. He didn’t seem to be slowed by his injured rump. “What’s up?” she asked with a yawn. “This is the place, right?”

  “Gate’s locked. I don’t have a key.” He looked beyond the fence. “It’s another two miles to the farmhouse. I’ll climb the fence and see if I can locate a key or some bolt cutters or something. You two stay here.”