By the time I walk back downstairs, Tally and Dutch are already outside on the porch. I pull on my fleece jacket, push my feet into my shoes, and head out.
“I’m going to put blackberries there and plant some apple trees over there,” Dutch says, pointing toward a spot to the right of the house.
“You do know it takes at least seven years before you have apples,” Tally says.
Dutch shrugs. “I can wait.” He glances over at Tally, who looks skeptical. “I’m old,” he says, “but not that old.”
“I know,” Tally says. “Seven years is just so long.” She looks at me for confirmation and I nod. Seven years is more than half my lifetime.
Dutch shakes his head. “You young ’uns. You want everything yesterday.” He starts down the stairs and toward where we left off painting. “One day you’ll figure out the best things are those you have to wait for.” Tally makes a face and I nod again. Dutch smiles and shakes his head at us. “Come on,” he says. “I’m not paying you to stand around.” He steps off the porch and we follow. Dutch starts singing a song about planting watermelons on his grave. He insists we sing along, saying it’s in our job description.
“I thought we were just here to paint,” Tally says, picking up her brush.
“This is part of the other duties as assigned,” Dutch says. “Now listen: You have to get the next part right or the song just doesn’t make any sense.”
We each take a section of fence while he teaches us the rest of the watermelon song. Within minutes, all three of us are singing about how chicken and biscuits are mighty fine, but they ain’t nothing like a watermelon vine. Tally protests that when you’re dead, you’re not going to care about watermelons or chicken and biscuits, but Dutch just shakes his head and says she’ll understand someday. Tally looks at me for support, but I can’t stop laughing. And soon she’s laughing with me. And hearing her laugh again after a long week of anger and sadness makes even the twenty miles of fence that still need paint bearable.
With Dutch helping, we are able to finish almost thirty sections by the time the sun is beginning to set over the trees. We help Dutch carry the buckets and brushes to his cellar door and then we walk back to retrieve our coats that we ditched during the warmth of the afternoon. Dutch looks at the fence, and then pulls out his wallet. He extracts two bills, folds them, and holds them out to Tally.
She tries to wave them away. “You pay when the job’s done,” she says.
“Consider it a down payment,” Dutch says. Tally takes the bills and shoves them into the front pocket of her jeans.
“Thanks,” she says. “We’ll be back next weekend.”
“And the weekend after that,” I say, smiling.
Headlights dance across the lilac bushes as my mother’s car pulls into the driveway. Dutch walks us around the side of the house and waves at my mother, who steps out of the car. She walks toward Dutch with her hand outstretched.
“Mr. Ingmar,” she says. He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze before releasing it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Some of it good, I hope,” he says.
“Some,” she concedes.
“Please call me Dutch,” he says. “Everyone does.” He looks over at Tally and me. I cover a yawn with my hand, which makes Dutch smile.
“We should go,” Mom says.
Dutch nods. “Of course.”
The three of us pile into the car. Mom starts the engine and we head toward the street. As we pull out onto the road, I look back and see Dutch still standing there, watching us go. The look on his face reminds me of how I felt when I first moved to Hog’s Hollow.
“He must get lonely out here all by himself,” Tally says from the backseat.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hog’s Hollow is the best place to be when you feel like you belong.”
“And the worst place to be when you feel like you don’t,” Tally finishes. Her comment makes me think of Esmeralda. And I wonder if she feels lonely, too. I can barely stand to be around Charity for a few hours during the school day. I’m not sure what I would do if I had to live with her. I decide that in spite of Tally’s misgivings, I want to give Esmeralda a chance.
We drive past the Christmas tree farm and the Tide Mill Dairy, where the cows are making their trek up to the barn. We slow as the fog rolling off the ocean pours across the road. Then we make the last turn toward the beach and pull up in front of Tally’s house.
Tally climbs out and I roll down my window. “Thank you so much for helping today.”
“No problem,” I say.
She ducks so she can see my mom. “And thanks for the ride,” she says.
“Anytime,” Mom says.
Poppy steps out onto the porch and waves. She has her reading glasses on and is holding a thick packet of papers. She steps into her clogs and walks over to us. “So how was it?” she asks me. The smile playing at the corner of her mouth hints that she’s familiar with the fence at the Windham Farm.
“It was actually pretty fun,” I say.
“I’m glad,” she says.
“Dutch said next time he’ll teach us how to juggle,” Tally says.
“Excellent,” Poppy says. She bends so she can see my mother. “Will you tell Joy that I’ll drop the extension cords off in the morning? I thought I’d be able to dig them out today, but things got busy—” She gestures with the papers in her hand.
I glance at my mom, who is frowning. Tally stuffs her hands into her pockets and steps back from the car. Suddenly everyone is awkward and no one wants to make eye contact. It seems I’m the only one who has no idea what’s going on.
Poppy is the first to recover. “I’ll bet you’re wondering what all of the extension cords are for,” she says.
I nod, but what I’m really wondering about are those papers and why everyone’s acting so squirrelly.
“Your grandmother likes putting up decorations for the holidays,” she says. Okay. A couple of wreaths. Some lights. I’m not sure why everyone is acting oddly.
Tally smiles. It’s a little hesitant, but it’s there. “It’s awesome,” Tally says. “Neon pink flamingos. Dancing polar bears. Lights that blink in time to the music.” I try to picture what Tally’s describing. It’s hard for me to reconcile it with my down-to-earth grandmother.
I glance at my mother, who nods her agreement with what Tally’s telling me. “It’s true,” she says. I’ve never seen Gram’s house during the holidays. She always visited us in the City, claiming it was the one time of the year she preferred the press of humanity to the solitude of nature.
“Speaking of—” my mother begins. “We really should get home. When I left, the whole living room was covered in strings of lights and boxes full of flamingo parts.”
“Ew,” I say, making my mother laugh.
“Call me if you need anything,” my mother says to Poppy.
“Thank you,” Poppy says. She and Tally head to the porch, where they stand and wait while we pull out. I glance back and see them still standing there. Poppy has her arm around Tally and Tally is leaning into her.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
My mother turns onto the road and heads toward Gram’s house. “What do you mean?”
“The papers and the awkwardness and the whole call me if you need anything,” I say.
“Poppy’s just dealing with some things,” Mom says. We pull into Gram’s driveway and up to the barn.
“Some things?” I ask. Mom shuts off the engine and looks at me. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry.” The barn door opens and Gram comes out with a giant flamingo tucked under one arm and an extension cord clutched in her hand. She smiles when she sees us and then heads over to a flock of flamingos leaning against the side of the house.
“We’d better go help,” Mom says. She climbs out of the car and walks over to Gram, who points at the barn.
I make a f
ace. And not because I don’t want to help Gram. I’m happy to support any wacky scheme she has cooked up. I just hate being on the outside of things, particularly when those things seem to be about my best friend. I climb out of the car and join my mother as she hauls several more flamingos out of one of the storage closets at the back of the barn.
Once we have what Gram informs me is a flamboyance of flamingos positioned perfectly in the yard, we add top hats and tiaras (yes, half are wearing top hats, the other half, tiaras) and hundreds of twinkle lights. Then we stand back and watch as Gram plugs in the lights. The effect is overwhelming, both in a good and bad way.
“So, what do you think?” Gram asks.
“It’s bright,” I say.
“And—” Gram presses.
“Festive?”
“It’s tacky,” my mom says.
I turn and look at her, slightly shocked, but Gram just grins. “I was going for kitschy, but tacky’s good, too,” she says.
“Wait,” I say. “You want it to look bad?”
Gram laughs. “Not bad. Memorable.” She straightens one of the flamingos’ top hats. She smiles again and it’s positively gleeful. “People drive from miles around to see my little display. I wouldn’t want them to be disappointed.”
“Well, I’m sure they won’t be,” I say, gesturing at the brightly lit flock.
Gram just shakes her head. “Oh, Penny. This is just the beginning. We’ll put the polar bears over there,” she says, pointing toward the road. “And then there’s the lights and the tree and, well, the roof.”
“The roof?” I ask.
“Santa and his sleigh, of course,” she says.
“Of course,” I say, smiling.
“Unfortunately, something used Donner’s torso for a nest this summer.”
An image of a zombie reindeer prances through my head. “That’s pretty gruesome,” I say, making Gram laugh. The three of us walk toward the house for dinner and more talk about decorations.
Gram unplugs the lights on the way in, plunging the yard back into darkness. “We go live on the first of December.”
“Ah,” I say, because what else can you say when your mother has to step over a box of oversize ornaments just to reach the kitchen, and your living room looks like it was ransacked by Santa’s elves?
“Who wants soup?” my mom asks from where she’s pulling bowls down from the cabinet. My stomach growls in response. It’s been a long time since PB&J’s with Dutch. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mom says.
“I’ll get the bread,” Gram says. She pulls a loaf of homemade sourdough from the oven, where it was keeping warm, and carries it to the table. I grab plates, spoons, and napkins and place them on the table at each of our spots. I add three glasses of water to the table and then help my mom carry over the bowls of soup. I have to nudge Oscar off my chair before I can sit. He hops down and proceeds to glare at me from the floor.
“So,” Gram says after we say grace and start eating. “What have you been up to today?” she asks me. I glance at my mother, who cringes slightly.
“Tally and I were painting a fence,” I say, keeping it vague. There’s no telling how Gram will react if I tell her we spent the day with Dutch.
“No roosters?” Gram asks.
“Not that I saw,” I say.
“Whose fence were you painting?” she asks, picking up the bread knife to slice a piece of bread.
I glance at my mother again, but she won’t meet my eyes. I’m on my own. “We were at the Windham Farm,” I say.
Gram slices the piece of bread calmly and places it on her plate. “That’s nice,” she says. Her tone indicates that she means just the opposite.
“So, you’re not mad?” I ask.
Her laugh is only slightly disturbing. “Of course not. Why would I be mad?”
“You seem mad,” I say. She puts down the knife with more force than necessary, waking Cupcake from where she was napping near the woodstove.
“What that man does is of no consequence to me.”
I look at my mother. She’s not buying it either. “Well, that’s good,” I say. “Because I was thinking maybe we could ask him to dinner.” Mom’s eyes get huge. “I mean, I remember what it was like to be new in town.” My mom is fighting hard not to smile. Gram frowns. She’s caught in her own trap and she knows it.
“Great,” she says. Her voice is slightly shrill. “I’ll look forward to it.”
We finish dinner in silence. Me, relishing my tiny victory in the cold war between Gram and Dutch. Gram, simmering almost as much as the soup on the stovetop. And Mom, well, maybe it’s sort of fun to see your own daughter outmaneuver your mother every once in a while. By the time we’re finished eating, the sounds of bagpipes are starting to filter down the beach, accompanied by an off-pitch howl that rises and falls with the notes of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”
“Well, that is just the icing on the cake,” Gram says, picking up her bowl and taking it to the sink. “I’m going for a walk,” she states. She has her coat on and is out the door before either my mom or I can say anything.
Mom smiles at me. “What do you say we clean up?”
I nod and start clearing the table while Mom fills the sink with soapy water. “I hope I didn’t go too far,” I say, standing beside my mom at the counter.
“No, you’re fine,” she says. “Dutch’s arrival is probably the best thing that could happen to her even if she can’t see it yet.”
“I still don’t know what happened between them,” I say.
“He broke her heart,” Mom says. It’s simple, but the weight of what she said hangs in the air.
Gram is totally getting her revenge. She could have mentioned that Marcus was coming by in the morning to help hoist everything up onto the roof. She could have woken me up so I could at least brush my teeth. Instead, when I stumble downstairs, still blinking sleep out of my eyes and following the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls, it takes me a moment to realize that there are more people at the table than live at our house. In addition to Marcus and his dad, Tally, Blake, and Poppy are all standing, sitting, and leaning in various spots around my kitchen.
“Hey!” Tally says. “Your grandmother told us not to wake you.” She smiles encouragingly at me. “Sorry,” she mouths. Gram gives me her equivalent of the Cheshire cat’s smile from where she’s pouring juice into glasses.
“I think I’ll just—” I start backing toward the stairs, where at the top I know there is a hairbrush and a change of clothes that don’t look, well, slept in. I’m pretty sure there’s also a toothbrush.
“Here,” Marcus says, sliding over on the bench so there’s room. I resist the impulse to look down at what I’m wearing. I know I’ve got on my comfiest sweatpants. Utilitarian gray and about two sizes too big. Topped with a cozy hoodie.
“Want a cinnamon roll?” Gram asks. I nod, trying not to open my mouth until I can eat or drink something. I have a feeling my breath isn’t as fresh as it could be. I take the cinnamon roll Gram hands me and narrow my eyes at her. “Want another one, Marcus?” she asks, ignoring my look.
“No, thank you,” he says, making Gram smile. She’s all about manners and Marcus is all about being polite. I take a bite of my cinnamon roll and a little of my irritation fades away. I mean, how can you be grouchy when you’re eating a cinnamon roll?
“How was painting yesterday?” Marcus asks.
I shrug. “Long,” I say. “But Mr. Ingmar is really nice.”
“I saw him at the hardware store yesterday buying an ax,” Marcus says. He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “He was carrying a jar full of worms.”
“Like fishing worms?” I ask.
Marcus shakes his head. “I don’t think so. They looked—” He frowns. “Different.”
“Different?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.
“Less wormy and more …”
“Different?” I suggest, smiling. He smiles back at me, and the clink of dishe
s and sounds of the coffeemaker popping and Oscar meowing under the table for a handout all fade. And it’s just Marcus and me sitting together in the warm kitchen filled with the smells of cinnamon and sugar. And—
“Hey!” Blake says, slapping Marcus on the back. “You ready?” I look up and see everyone putting their coats on and heading toward the door. Tally is grinning at me and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Yep,” Marcus says, picking up his plate to carry it to the sink.
Gram waves him away, telling him she’ll clean up later. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for all the hard work.”
“I’ll take payment in cinnamon rolls any day,” Blake says. Gram grins and follows him out of the house.
“You coming, Penny?” Marcus asks.
I nod. “Be right there,” I say. Tally hangs back while Blake and Marcus follow Gram outside.
“Sorry,” she says. “I tried to get your grandmother to let me go up and wake you. You know, warn you, but she said to let you sleep.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“Well, from what I could see, Marcus doesn’t care about all that stuff anyway.”
“What stuff?” I ask. “You mean, brushed hair and fresh breath?” Tally laughs and tells me she’ll see me outside. I hurry upstairs and throw on some jeans and quickly brush my teeth. Whatever Tally says, I’d still rather not look like a complete mess every time Marcus sees me.
I dash back downstairs again before Gram even makes it back inside. I grab my fleece and head outside, where the wind has picked up and is blowing the pom-poms on the snowmen’s hats and making their bells jingle.
“Hey, Penny!” I step into the yard and look up to where Mr. Fish is standing anchoring a giant tree into place beside the chimney. “Does it look straight?”
“A little to the right,” I yell. He moves it slightly and I give him a thumbs-up. He lashes the tree to the brick while Marcus holds it steady.
Frosted Kisses Page 8