Brian and Nicky had been seated in the front row; now they moved to a pair of chairs at the end of the selectmen’s table. Meg wondered how they were going to handle their presentation, and crossed her fingers. Nicky looked nervous—she was clearly more at home in front of a stove than in front of a group. Meg sneaked a quick look at her neighbors in the audience, who all appeared interested. At least they weren’t hostile. She settled back in her chair to listen to Brian, who had begun to speak.
“Thank you for inviting us to speak at your meeting. We haven’t had the opportunity to meet most of you—we’ve been busy working on the building—but we’re looking forward to getting to know our neighbors soon. I’m Brian Czarnecki, and this is my wife, Nicky.” Nicky waved and smiled nervously. “We’re from Boston most recently, but we wanted to get away from the competition among restaurants there, so we looked around for an area where we’d like to live and work, and found this town. There’s not a lot of competition here.”
Some members of the audience laughed.
Brian went on, “Nicky’s the cook in the family, and I’ll be handling the business side and the front of the restaurant. This is our first venture on our own, although between us we’ve worked in something like seven different restaurants. Right, Nicky?” She nodded. “So we’re kind of learning as we go. I know we need approvals from the town, permits and that kind of thing, so we wanted to give you a chance to get to know us and to ask any questions you might have.”
“What kind of food you going to cook?” a voice behind Meg asked.
“Nicky, you want to take that?” Brian said.
Nicky stood up, somewhat reluctantly. “First and foremost, food that people here will want to eat, and can afford.” Another laugh rippled through the crowd. “What we want to do is to use the freshest local produce, and make simple healthy food at reasonable prices. Nothing too fancy—we’ll leave that to Amherst and Northampton. But we hope we can attract people from all over.” She swallowed, then resumed. “What’s more, we’re hoping that you all can help us with supplies. I know there are farmers’ cooperatives around here, but I’d love to know what grows right here in Granford. And that includes what moos and swims and anything else. Ideally we’d like to see you harvest it in the morning and deliver it to our door the same day. Or we’ll even pick it up.”
“You gonna have a liquor license?” said a female voice Meg didn’t recognize.
Brian answered that. “We’ve applied for one. But don’t worry that we’re going to have a roadhouse with a lot of drunken patrons staggering out onto the town green in the middle of the night. Our place is going to be about the food, not about drinking.”
“What about the dead guy?” a male voice from the rear asked.
There was a moment of awkward silence until Brian swallowed, then spoke. “Sam Anderson was a good friend of ours, and we’d hoped he would be part of this restaurant. We were deeply saddened by his death, but we believe he would have wanted us to go forward.”
“I heard he was he a fag,” the same voice said.
Seth stood up quickly. “Jim, that statement is both insulting and inappropriate in this meeting.”
Meg looked over her shoulder to see who was talking—a short and clearly angry man at the back of the room, already on his feet, his arms crossed. “Why? You think I want to eat in a place with people like that doing the cooking?”
Nicky and Brian exchanged glances. Seth stared at the speaker, his expression carefully neutral. “Jim, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You have a right to your opinion, but it has no place here.”
Meg turned back toward the front and stared at her hands. Who was Jim, and why did he have an axe to grind? Why was anyone’s sexual preference relevant to their cooking? And did Jim represent a real—and bigoted—faction of Granford’s population?
Jim glared at Seth, then turned and stormed out, all but knocking over his flimsy chair. Seth waited until he heard the front door slam before he addressed the small crowd. “I’m sorry about that. If Jim has issues about any one individual, he can stay away from the restaurant. But I hope the rest of you don’t share his opinion.”
Nicky, her cheeks flushed, spoke unexpectedly. “Sam was one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. He was warm and funny, and he was a good friend. So if any of you have a problem with us working with a person who isn’t just like you, you’d better let us know now.”
Meg was surprised when Gail spoke up, “Nicky, as far as I’m concerned, the only important thing here is the quality of your food. We really need a restaurant in this town, and what you’re planning sounds great.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?” Nicky responded.
“I’m Gail Selden. I’m head of the Historical Society, among other things. If you want to know anything about the history of your building or the town, just ask.”
“Thank you, Gail. I’d like that. We do want to keep the place pretty authentic—not that we can afford to make a lot of changes anyway. Does anyone else have any questions?”
“What do the police think about the death?” another male voice from the rear threw in.
When Seth made another move to divert attention, Brian stopped him. “I want to answer that. We don’t know anything more than you do, I’m sorry to say. We’ve told the state police everything we know. Listen, this isn’t the way we wanted to start out with the restaurant, but it happened. I hope you all won’t hold it against us. And if you have any other questions, or ideas, or whatever, you know where to find us—right across the street. Please, feel free to drop in and talk to us. We’re there all the time. We’re looking forward to getting to know you all.”
Seth took charge again. “Thank you, Brian, Nicky. I know there will be some issues about permits and the like that will come before this board again, so it’s good that you’ve had a chance to let people learn something about you. Is there any new business?” Seth looked at the other board members. Tom Moody shook his head “no”; Caroline Goldthwaite stared straight ahead, her face blank. She had expressed reservations about the restaurant earlier, and had sat in stony silence since Brian had begun to talk. What was she thinking now? Meg wondered. She didn’t look happy. But at least she wasn’t actively speaking out against it.
After a few more details, Tom Moody declared the meeting adjourned. People stood, stretched, then drifted out, except for Gail, who made her way to the front to greet Nicky and Brian. “Welcome to Granford. I meant to come by and introduce myself sooner, but it’s summer, and my kids are out of school. You two don’t have kids, do you?”
Nicky smiled. “Not yet. I think we’re going to be a little busy for the next few years anyway. But thank you for introducing yourself. I would love to know more about the building and the town. Maybe we could put together some historic dishes?”
“That’s a nice idea, although it may be a challenge to find anything like recipes. Most of the women around here were farm wives, and they didn’t write down a lot, just kept all of their recipes in their heads. Meg, would you keep your eye out for anything like that in the archives?” Meg nodded.
“Wasn’t there a cookbook published recently about old family recipes?” Nicky asked. “By a couple of sisters in Boston? That’s exactly what they did—tracked down a lot of scribbled notes and file cards and put them together with some history. It would be nice to know for sure how people cooked in the days before preservatives—heck, even before refrigerators. Would people around here like that kind of food, Gail?”
“If it tastes good, sure. Just don’t poison anybody.” She immediately looked contrite. “Oops, that was a stupid thing to say. I was thinking of salmonella or something like that. Look, I’ve got to go—my husband’s home with the kids. But it was good to meet you, and I’ll look forward to talking with you again.” Gail beat a hasty retreat, just as Seth disengaged himself from a conversation with Tom Moody and walked over to where Meg, Nicky, and Brian were standing.
�
��I apologize for Jim—he has a brother who’s gay, and he’s not too happy about it,” Seth said.
“I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ve got a whole bunch of homophobes in Granford,” Nicky said dubiously.
“No, of course not. Jim’s the exception, and that’s personal. Aside from him, I think the meeting went pretty well, overall. Although”—Seth dropped his voice and looked around—“Mrs. Goldthwaite doesn’t seem to have warmed to the idea much. If she had her way, nothing around here would ever change.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Brian asked.
“I don’t think so. Tom’s definitely on board, so you have a majority. But it would be easier for all of us if Mrs. Goldthwaite accepted the whole idea. She has loyal supporters in town.”
They left together, Nicky and Brian crossing the now-empty road toward the restaurant, hand in hand. Meg and Seth turned toward the parking lot alongside the Town Hall.
“You don’t see any problems, do you?” Meg asked.
Seth shook his head. “Not really. They sell themselves well.”
“I thought so, too. Sam’s death isn’t too much of an obstacle?”
“I don’t think so. He wasn’t around long enough for anyone to get to know him. Now, if someone had dumped his body in the middle of the town green, it might be different. But since he died under muddled circumstances on the edge of town, most people haven’t paid much attention. Don’t hold it against them—he just wasn’t on their radar.”
“I can understand that. Well, I’d better get back and—”
Meg was interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of the restaurant. Seth set off in that direction immediately, and Meg followed. As they came nearer, it was clear that the noise was coming from one person—a drunken one, whom both Nicky and Brian were trying to hush.
“No!” howled the man, “I will not shut up. It’s you and this backwater town that killed him! And everybody just says, oh, it’s some queer from the big city, and forgets about him. It’s not right!” The man appeared close to tears. Despite his slight build, he seemed to have a wiry strength that Brian was having trouble controlling.
“Derek, you’re drunk,” Brian said flatly. “Come inside before you wake up the whole neighborhood.”
“Why should I care about these hicks?” Derek said, volume undiminished. “They killed him, one way or another.”
“Problem?” Seth asked quietly when they were in earshot.
Nicky answered, “Derek is Sam’s ex-boyfriend from Boston. He’s upset.”
“I can see that. Brian, let me give you a hand.” Seth took hold of one of Derek’s arms, Brian the other, and with surprisingly little fuss they steered Derek into the restaurant, leaving Nicky and Meg alone on the porch.
“I feel terrible about Derek,” Nicky began.
“Don’t worry about it,” Meg said quickly. “Did you invite him here?”
“No! I tried to reach him when Sam died, but I couldn’t. Apparently he just heard about it. He was really pissed that it was the police who told him, not us.”
“Were they still together?”
Nicky shook her head. “No, it was over before Sam came out here, and I think Derek was on a beach somewhere with his new guy, which is why he didn’t hear for so long. But now I think he’s wallowing in guilt or something—and decided to take it out on us.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure once he’s sobered up, he’ll settle down.” Meg wasn’t sure if she believed her own words.
Nicky smiled ruefully. “Seems like all I do these days is worry—what to buy, what to order, who to hire, will the money hold out until we open? Taking care of Derek is the last thing I need right now.”
Seth came out of the front door, shutting it quietly behind him. “Brian’s got him calmed down and is pouring coffee down his throat. Can you two handle him?”
“Sure, Seth. He’s not a bad guy usually—he’s just upset now. Thanks for stepping in. We’ll make sure he doesn’t do this again. ’Night.” Nicky slipped into the building.
Meg smiled at Seth. “You have to admit that the entertainment around here has stepped up since the restaurant came to town. Let’s hope Jim doesn’t hear about this.”
“Right on both counts.”
16
Meg was surprised to find Bree sitting at the kitchen table leafing through a stack of documents when she let herself in after the meeting. “Hi. You’re up late,” Meg said.
“Just going over the forms for the pickers,” Bree responded.
“Ah. I assume I’m supposed to sign something? Have you got everyone lined up?”
“More or less. I started with the crew Christopher’s been using for years. A few of ’em dropped out—some are getting too old, others got a better offer somewhere else. We’ve recruited some new ones. The younger ones, though—they don’t want to work as hard.”
Meg suppressed a smile. Bree was no more than twenty-two. “It’s not personal, right? I mean, it’s not that they don’t want to work for women?” Meg poured herself a glass of iced tea, then sat down at the table across from Bree. Lolly strolled in from somewhere, rubbed her head once against Meg’s ankle, then wandered off again.
Bree shook her head. “Nah, nothing like that. These days, any job’s a good job. When do you want to get together with them?”
“Do I need to see them all at once? Is there a foreman I should talk to?”
“Raynard Lawrence—he’s the foreman. I’d talk to him first.”
“And he’s worked in this orchard before?”
“He has. And he’s willing to come back, maybe because he’s my aunt’s husband’s cousin and she’d give him hell if he didn’t.” Bree grinned.
“Well, I won’t complain. You go ahead and set up the meeting, then. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Of course. It’s part of my job.” She sighed, looking down at the cluster of papers on the table. “I’m trying to hold the salaries steady from last year. They deserve a raise, but they know we’re just starting out and can’t afford it right now.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fair.” Meg drained her glass and stood up. “Well, I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
Meg made her way toward the front of the house, turning off lights. She checked the lock on the front door, then trudged up the stairs to her room. She’d left the windows open an inch or two, and evening air riffled the curtains. It was still surprisingly cool at night, out here in the country. She climbed into bed and pulled the light blanket up to her chin.
It was hard to believe that in a month she’d be picking the first of her apple crop, all things willing. She had to check with Bree about whether they needed any more apple crates, how to order additional picking bags. And she really had to line up purchasers for her apples, something she’d been putting off. Why? she wondered. Because somewhere deep inside she harbored the fear that they would all laugh at her and say no, and she would fail even before she began? She’d done her homework: better to go after the smaller and more appreciative stores. She needed to talk to Christopher again . . . She drifted off to sleep.
The next morning she had barely started her coffee brewing when Seth’s sister, Rachel Dickinson, knocked on the frame of the screen door, carrying the inevitable basket issuing good smells. Rachel and her husband, Noah, ran a B&B in Amherst, which Rachel kept supplied with delectable pastries. It always startled Meg to see a smaller, rounder female version of Seth.
“Hi, stranger. I haven’t seen you in weeks!” Meg exclaimed as she let Rachel in. “Are you swamped with guests? And you don’t have to bribe me with food every time you come by.”
“It was crazy for a month or so, what with all the local graduations and weddings. But now it’s calmed down again, and since it’s midweek, I’ve only got one guest, who’s already out hunting through graveyards—another manic genealogist. The kids are at day camp. Noah’s pounding on something. I’ve been working out a new recipe with str
awberries. They’re hard to bake with because they go mushy so fast, so I keep experimenting. This time I tried a layer in the middle, instead of mixing them in with the batter. You’re my guinea pig. I’ll trade you a muffin for a cup of coffee.”
“It’s a deal. They smell great. So, sit down and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Rachel grimaced. “Just the usual. Sounds like you’ve been busy in Granford, though.”
Meg brought coffee mugs over, along with plates and butter. “Do you mean the restaurant?” she said innocently.
“No, dummy, the death. But that’s connected with the restaurant, isn’t it? What’s the story? All I heard was that he was found in Jake Kellogg’s pigsty. What a lousy way to go! Did you know the guy?”
Meg sighed. “I met him a couple of times before he died. His name was Sam, and I gather he’d been friends with the owners, Brian and Nicky, back in Boston, and with Nicky even before that. By the way, they’ve hired Edna Blakely to replace Sam as sous chef.”
“Oh, good. I like Edna, and she’s a great cook. Plus she’s really calm and steady, and knows the business. She should be an asset.”
“That’s good to hear.” Meg reached for her second muffin. “These are great, by the way—I think you’ve got the balance of fruit to batter just right. But I need to test a few more, to be sure.”
“Help yourself. So, what else have you heard about the death?”
“As far as I know, Sam died where they found him. He suffocated in the mud.”
“How on earth did that happen?” Rachel asked.
“Someone held him down until he died,” Meg said. “But don’t spread that around. The state police have been shying away from saying ‘murder,’ although that’s what everyone thinks anyway.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“Poor guy,” Rachel said softly. “Why would anyone want to kill him? He didn’t know anyone around here, did he?”
“Just Nicky and Brian. He had a boyfriend back in Boston, but Nicky said that was over before Sam arrived.”
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