French Fried

by Kylie Logan

  To say this new injury annoyed me no end makes me look small-minded when, in fact, it makes sense that I’d be irritated. See, I had no intention of staying in Hubbard and I’d told Sophie that from the start. I promised I’d stay only until she felt better and could take over the management of the restaurant herself again.

  Only that didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.

  I held on to my temper along with the thought that this, too, would pass. And when it did . . .

  We had just walked out the front door of the Terminal and a brisk autumn breeze ruffled my hair along with the French flag we were flying from a post out front, and I made sure to keep a smile off my face.

  Sophie had an uncanny way of reading into my smiles, and for now, what I knew about how long I was staying and where I might be going when I waved adios to the town that time forgot was my business and mine alone.

  We fell into step behind the throngs of people milling in front of the bookstore and slowly making themselves into some sort of orderly line, and while Sophie and Rocky chatted about people I didn’t know, I had a few minutes to look around. What was now called the Traintown neighborhood had once been at the heart of Hubbard’s industrial center. There were railroad tracks that ran along the back side of the restaurant and six times a day, a train still rumbled by and shook the Terminal to its nineteenth-century foundation. Across the tracks was a factory, long shuttered, just one of the many businesses that had gone south/closed their doors/given up the ghost in what had once been a vibrant community.

  Fortunately for the people of Hubbard and the small-business people who wanted so desperately to make a go of life there, Traintown took shape from the battered landscape. It was only one street, anchored at one end by the Book Nook and at the other by the Irish store, a charming little gift shop run by Declan Fury, who was even more charming than every last little stuffed leprechaun he kept in stock.

  And he knew it.

  Automatically I glanced down the street toward the green shamrock that danced above the shop’s front door in the autumn breeze. There was no sign of Declan, and while I couldn’t say if that was good or bad, I wasn’t surprised. Not only was Yesterday’s Passion the biggest thing to come out of New York publishing since Scarlett lifted her fist to the sky, it was historical romance it all its overblown, trashy, bodice-ripping glory. Traintown fairly gushed estrogen, and no self-respecting guy would be caught dead in the crowd.

  We crossed to the other side of the street and the end of the line that snaked out of the bookstore and past Caf-Fiends, our local coffee shop, and all the way over in front of Artisans All, a craft and gift shop with decent merchandise and prices that made this California girl think she’d died and gone to heaven. There we stopped behind three young women wearing medieval attire: long dresses, wimples, and veils. Though I am certainly no historian, I was pretty sure the tattoo on one girl’s wrist wasn’t exactly authentic to the period.

  “Oh, I forgot to give you the CDs of French music!” Rocky passed a hand over her eyes. “Silly me. You’ll find them, Laurel.” She put a hand on my arm. “In the basket with the herbs. I brought you Piaf and Maurice Chevalier and, of course, Téléphone!” When Sophie looked at her in wonder, Rocky managed a laugh that for a second, erased whatever it was that was bothering her and transformed her into the vivacious Rocky I knew. “Hey, back in the day, they opened for the Stones!”

  The doors of the Book Nook swung open and a buzz of feminine excitement filled Traintown as we surged forward and closer to the shop and to Mike and John, who stood on either side of the front door.

  The Guys, as they were affectionately known throughout Traintown, were personal as well as business partners. They were middle-aged, both tall and thin, and they both wore wire-rimmed glasses and had receding hairlines. Mike, dressed tonight in a dapper suit, favored herb teas and had been the first in line when we introduced sushi at the Terminal. John, who sported a beret and a red cravat, adored the strong coffee I made for myself (and shared with him when he stopped in). That evening, he had a cup from Caf-Fiends in one hand, and when we finally got close enough, he raised it in greeting.

  “Fabulous turnout.” Not that he needed me to tell him. I tried to glance over the crowd and into the shop. “And the guest of honor?”

  Behind those wire-rimmed glasses, John rolled his eyes. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to us when he mouthed the words prima donna.

  This didn’t surprise me in the least. But then, I had previously lived and worked in a place where prima was never prima enough and every last donna thought she was God’s gift.

  A few minutes later we were in the shop and just a bit after that, directly in front of the table where Aurore Brisson, blond, plump lipped, and curvy, looked very bored and very eager for the harried assistant at her elbow to grab the next book, open it, and slide it in front of her so she could scrawl her signature and move on to the next fan.

  “Bonjour.” When Rocky greeted her, Aurore glanced up, but only for a moment. “Bienvenue à Hubbard!”

  The author’s smile was tight.

  “Next!” the assistant called out.

  Rocky stepped aside and Sophie took her place. “So much for trying to be friendly,” I said to Rocky, but she was hardly listening. She’d already flipped open the book and stepped to the side. The last I saw of her, she was headed down an aisle between two bookshelves marked CRAFTS and COOKING, her nose in the book.

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault.” Sophie sidestepped her way around the three medieval maidens who were busy trying to find the best angle for selfies that would include Aurore Brisson in the background. “Rocky’s worried. She’s nervous. You know, about the symposium over at Youngstown State.”

  It took a moment for the pieces to fall into place in my brain. “The peace symposium? Rocky’s speaking at it, I know, but how is that your—”

  “I talked her into it.” Sophie’s shoulders hunched. “She didn’t want to do it, and I talked her into accepting the invitation. In fact, I volunteered her when I heard Professor Weinhart was putting together the symposium. I told Rocky I thought it was important for people to hear about her experiences on the front lines of the peace movement back in the ’60s and ’70s.”

  Though Rocky had never said a word to me about her hippie days, I’d heard the story from Sophie before. I knew that Rocky had once been involved in a group devoted to ending the Vietnam War. While they were at it, they did their best to spread peace, love, and joy throughout the land. Now, like I always did, I marveled at the very thought. The only thing Rocky Arnaud was radical about these days was the quality of her produce.

  “She has so much valuable information, so many interesting experiences with community organizing and lobbying,” Sophie said, glancing toward the aisle where Rocky had disappeared. “They were peaceniks, you know. They were sure they could change the world through their message of love and tolerance. Young people need to hear the story these days, and it wouldn’t hurt for some of us old-timers to be reminded, too. But ever since she agreed to speak at the symposium, Rocky’s been . . .” Sophie crinkled her nose. “Well, when she first heard Aurore Brisson was coming to town, she couldn’t wait to get over here and meet her. And last time I talked to her about it, she was just about jumping up and down with excitement about the big parade tomorrow and the talk that Statue of Liberty expert is giving over at the library. But the symposium is getting closer and closer and now tonight . . .”

  “She’ll be fine,” I assured Sophie. “Maybe it’s just a case of the jitters.”

  Sophie cradled her copy of Yesterday’s Passion to her broad bosom. “Well, I hope so. At least she’s excited about reading the book. I mean, she must be, right, because she couldn’t wait to open it and get started. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe it will take her mind off that symposium and speaking in front of an auditorium full o
f people.”

  Another group of people—all clutching the book—moved away from the signing table, and I grabbed Sophie’s arm to get her out of the way. But then, the last thing I wanted to do was see her take a fall and end up in rehab again. “Caf-Fiends is serving cookies and coffee,” I told her. “Let’s get some.”

  If the crowd hadn’t been so heavy, there was no way Sophie would have agreed. See, in her book, Caf-Fiends is an affront to humanity, a place that adulterated coffee with things like whipped cream, sprinkles, and flavored syrups. Then they have the nerve to charge three dollars a cup for it. Back when I first arrived in Hubbard, there had been plenty of tension between Caf-Fiends and the Terminal because the Terminal was losing business to the new coffee shop with its wraps, its fancy sandwiches, and its killer key lime pie. The good news was that these days with the ethnic specialties on our menu and our crowds up, the Terminal and Caf-Fiends were learning to peacefully coexist.

  Well, some of us were.

  I stepped up to the dessert table and came eye to eye with Myra, the Caf-Fiends waitress who made no secret of the fact that she had her eye on Declan Fury and that she didn’t like it one bit when she saw the two of us together. Hey, I wasn’t the one who was going to tell her that she had nothing to worry about. Declan and I, we were—

  “Coffee?” Myra held out a cup toward Sophie and pretended I didn’t exist. “We’ve got cookies, too. John and Mike had us bring lots of cookies.” When she swiveled to look my way, her chestnut-colored ponytail twitched. “Ours are the best.”

  “I have no doubt,” I said, scooping a cookie from the table even though I didn’t want one. I chomped into it, turned my back, and made my way over toward the cash register so Sophie could pay for her book. After that, it was all a matter of waiting. Once the crowd of book buyers dwindled, we were told that Aurore Brisson, she of the too-yellow hair and the too-white smile, would be giving a little talk.

  I found Sophie one of the last chairs in the shop and stood behind it, waiting for the big moment, and I have to say, once it came, I was a tad underwhelmed.

  Aurore, who spoke decent-enough English, didn’t have a whole lot to say other than that her book, it was fabulous, and the cable TV series that was about to premiere . . . well, it was nothing short of extraordinaire!

  When she was finished singing her own praises, we clapped politely and Mike moved to the front of the room.

  “We’ve only got a few minutes,” he said. “But I think . . . I hope . . .” He smiled at the author, who did not smile back. “Ms. Brisson has been gracious enough to say she would answer a few questions.”

  “Questions? Questions?” Where Rocky came from, I couldn’t tell. I knew only that there she was, out of whatever hidey-hole she’d gone into to read, standing at the center of the room with her arms pressed to her sides and her cheeks flaming, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the peace crusader she had once been.

  Rocky’s head was high. Her shoulders were steady. Her voice rang through the shop like the first strident, brilliant chord of Jimi Hendrix’s “Star-Spangled Banner.”

  “I’ve got a question for you, Aurore Brisson!” Rocky held her copy of Yesterday’s Passion to the sky and used her other hand to point a finger at the author. “How did you . . . Why did you . . .” Rocky’s voice broke and she pulled in a sob. “How can you stand there and let these mensonges . . . these lies . . . leave your lips? Why did you steal Marie Daigneau’s book?”

  Chapter 2

  “She was a friend of Rocky’s,” Sophie told me later that evening. “Marie Daigneau. I remember the name because they wrote to each other for years and Rocky would always tell me what was happening in Marie’s life. She died a few years ago and Rocky was so sad. They knew each other back in France. You know, before Rocky came to this country to attend college.”

  “And Marie Daigneau wrote a book?”

  We were back at the Terminal, and Sophie had a carton of rocky road ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other. She paused just as she was about to dig in and scoop ice cream into the two bowls she’d put on the counter. In Sophie’s world, ice cream was the cure for everything from a broken heart to money troubles to friends who spouted crazy accusations at bookstores that left the proprietors red-faced, the guest of honor with her Gallic knickers in a twist, and the crowd in an uproar.

  It was all we’d been able to do to get Rocky out of there in one piece.

  Ice cream sounded like a good idea to me, too.

  “I wish she hadn’t insisted on going home.” Sophie filled the bowls to overflowing and pushed one toward me. “And I wish she explained herself before she headed out. I’m worried about her.”

  I was worried, too, and the next afternoon as we shuffled our way through the festive crowd gathering for the parade that would mark the official opening of Hubbard’s Statue of Liberty Festival, I was still uneasy.

  The good news was that there were plenty of people there in what was charitably called downtown Hubbard, and certainly that provided a distraction. In a small town like this, a parade was as good as any other reason to gather, and the crisp fall afternoon, the dome of blue sky dotted with cottony clouds over our heads, and the trees in their fiery shades of red and gold and orange gave the folks of Hubbard a perfect excuse to get out and join in the fun. The main street through town was closed to traffic, and it teemed with people. Around us, parents herded children and shoppers gathered at the booths set up by local farmers who sold fat orange pumpkins and warm cider. Since the public library was sponsoring the whole event, they had a huge presence, too, and kids ran hither and yon waving paper bookmarks and balloons and greeting costumed characters who I guessed were the stars of various and sundry kids’ books.

  The bad news . . .

  Well, that didn’t smack us in the face until Sophie and I found ourselves a place at the curb between the Taco Bell and the VFW hall, near the grandstand where the parade would end. That’s when Rocky joined us.

  And that’s when I heard the whispered voices all around.

  “Drinks, you know.” It was a woman’s voice, and I didn’t dare turn around and see who it belonged to because if I did, there was going to be another incident, and I figured Hubbard could ill afford two melees in less than twenty-four hours. “Wine. Just like they said in that newspaper article they published about her a couple of months ago. She must have been hitting the bottle last night.”

  “She’s wacky. Has been for years.” This came from a man who stood on the other side of me, and caution be damned; I turned and glared him into silence.

  If Rocky heard any of this swill—if she cared—I really couldn’t tell. Like the night before when she faced down Aurore Brisson with fire in her eyes, her cheeks were bright with color and her eyes shone.

  “It was hard to find a parking space,” Rocky said, and pressed a hand to her heart. “I was afraid I was going to miss it.” She craned her neck and bent at the waist, the better to look down the street in the direction the parade would come from. “They haven’t started yet?”

  I was just about to tell her that it should be soon when we heard the first notes of “Seventy-Six Trombones” from down the street played by the Hubbard High School marching band.

  “It’s starting!” Rocky clamped a hand on my arm and gave me a squeeze. “Isn’t it exciting, Laurel? The parade is starting!”

  Start it did, and I endured forty-five minutes of marching bands, smiling beauty queens, and convertibles where politicians and wannabe politicians grinned and waved and tossed candy to the people waiting along the curb.

  “Muriel Ross!” When the lady in question waved in our direction, Sophie jumped up and down (I held my breath and waited for her knee to pop again) and waved back. “Such a nice lady. Her family owns the furniture factory, you know.” She gave Muriel another wave, just for good measure. “I hear she’s going to be running for state senate
. She’s a customer of ours.”

  I recognized the slightly older than middle-aged woman with a mane of highlighted hair, the tasteful style of people who have money, and the aplomb of a seasoned politico. “Who’s the guy with her?” I asked Sophie.

  Her cheeks shot through with pink. “New husband. Haven’t you heard? Ben . . .”

  When Sophie stumbled over the name, Rocky provided it. “Newcomb,” she said. “Not that I’ve met him, but I’ve heard about him.”

  “Oh, haven’t we all!” Since the car Muriel and her hubby were riding in was moving like molasses in January, Sophie had another chance to wave. “They met at some la-di-da resort when Muriel was on vacation earlier this year,” she told me. “And I hear it was love at first sight. Lucky dog, Muriel! Every woman in Hubbard is green with envy.”

  Not every. But I could see the appeal, at least for the women in Sophie’s age bracket. Ben Newcomb was a man in his sixties with thick, salt-and-pepper hair, a cleft chin, and a nose as straight and as patrician as that of a Roman statue. He had the kind of build that told me he was a runner or a swimmer, and a smile that dazzled nearly as bright as his wife’s. When the sun ducked behind a fat, white cloud, then peeped out again, Ben squinted and tipped his head back, drinking it in, laughing, reflecting all that heat and all that light and all that upper-crust Hubbard glory back at the crowd like a fun house mirror designed to show them that they, too, could be as handsome and as virile—if only they were as rich.