by Sofie Ryan
“No,” I said. “Let’s go make gravy.”
Everyone other than Nick seemed to be in the kitchen. Liam and Mr. P. had just walked in. The turkey was on a large platter, tented with foil. The roast pan was straddling one of the stove burners. Rose had a whisk, an odd-looking measuring cup, and a Mason jar of something on the counter next to the stove. I remembered Charlotte’s remark about ketchup and fervently hoped she had some in her refrigerator.
Rose clapped her hands. “Everybody out,” she said. “Sarah doesn’t need an audience while she’s cooking.” She looked toward Mr. P. and made a move-along gesture with her hand.
He started for the dining room. “Rosie’s right,” he said. “Let’s give them some space to work.”
“You’ll do just fine,” Charlotte said as she passed me.
Mr. P. held the door open and once everyone else was out of the room, he smiled at me. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “You have a good teacher.” He looked at Rose. “I’ll keep them in the living room.”
She beamed at him. “Thank you, Alfred,” she said.
He disappeared into the next room and Rose turned to me.
“Sarah darling, you know I love you like you were my own,” she said solemnly, taking my hands in her own.
“I love you, too,” I said, wondering where this was going.
She looked over her shoulder seemingly to make certain no one was spying on us and then took a step closer to me. “I’m going to share with you the secret of my perfect gravy, but you have to swear that you won’t tell anyone. Ever.” She looked back over her shoulder again.
I would have laughed except she was so deadly serious. “I swear,” I promised, crossing my heart with one finger for good measure and hoping the secret wasn’t something like fried turkey livers or brains or something.
Rose took a deep breath and pulled two red packets out of the pocket of her apron.
“A mix?” I said.
“Shhhhh!” she hissed, putting her index finger to her mouth.
“I thought you could cook everything,” I whispered.
“Well, surprise. I can’t make gravy from scratch. Or pineapple upside-down cake.”
I frowned. “Wait a minute. I’ve eaten your pineapple upside-down cake.”
“You’ve eaten a pineapple upside-down cake,” she said. “And we really don’t have time to talk about that right now.”
“Okay,” I said. “What do I do?”
Rose walked me through the instructions on the back of the mix packet and in five minutes actual turkey gravy was simmering in the roaster. She handed me a spoon and I took a taste.
“It’s good,” I said in surprise.
“Of course it’s good,” she said. “The company would have gone out of business by now if it wasn’t.”
Charlotte poked her head around the door then. “How’s it going?” she asked.
I smiled at her. “Good. Really good.”
She came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder to look into the pan. “It smells wonderful,” she said.
“It tastes wonderful, too,” Rose said, handing Charlotte a spoon so she could take a taste.
“Um, that is delicious,” Charlotte exclaimed. Behind her Rose tucked the empty gravy mix packages in the pocket of her apron. Charlotte straightened up and smiled at me. “I knew you could do it,” she said. “Now, could you help me dish out the food?”
I smiled back at her. “What would you like me to do?”
“Put some hot water in the gravy boat to warm it and then put those rolls on the table.” She pointed to the counter behind me. Then she reached for the turkey platter, glancing over at Rose at the same time. “You did get Sarah to make two packages of gravy, didn’t you?” she asked.
Rose’s expression didn’t change, but her shoulders went rigid and the hand in her pocket froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, a tad stiffly.
Charlotte moved the bird to the counter, pulled off the foil that had been loosely covering it and finally looked at her friend full-on. “Rose, you haven’t made gravy completely from scratch since the seventies. Do you have one empty gravy mix in your pocket or two?”
Rose slowly withdrew her hand from her apron pocket. She was still holding the two empty packets.
“Good,” Charlotte said, leaning back to regard the golden brown turkey for a moment. “That should be enough.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “Sarah, are you warming the gravy boat?”
“I’m on it,” I said.
“How long have you known?” Rose asked, somewhat indignantly, one hand on her hip.
“How long have you been buying those packages?” Charlotte countered.
“A while,” Rose hedged.
“Nineteen seventy-three,” Charlotte said, picking up the knife. She seemed to have planned her attack on the turkey.
Rose’s lips moved as she did the math. “What gave me away?” she asked, indignation replaced with genuine curiosity.
“No offense, but before 1973 your gravy tasted like burned shoes.”
“How do you know what burned shoes taste like?” Rose asked, slipping on a pair of oven mitts.
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at her friend. “You ate my mother’s cooking. You know the answer to that,” she said. “And the potatoes are in the green casserole dish.”
Rose nodded as if it all made sense. “Are you going to tell?” she asked.
“Nothing to tell,” Charlotte said.
They both looked at me. I held up the hand that wasn’t holding the gravy boat. “Hey, I just made gravy that people can actually eat. The how doesn’t matter. It could have been leprechauns.”
“I think that’s cookies, dear,” Rose said helpfully.
We were about to go way off on a tangent. I smiled at her. “Either way, your secret’s safe with me.”
Dinner was delicious as usual. It was fun to watch both Nick and Liam take a tentative taste of the gravy and then try to hide their surprise that it was edible. After we’d eaten I caught Nick’s eye across the table and tipped my head, ever so slightly, in the direction of the kitchen.
He nodded, set his napkin next to his plate and then pushed back his chair. “Mom, that was delicious. Thank you,” he said. He grinned at me. “And, Sarah, good job with the gravy.”
I ducked my head and smiled.
Nick swept his finger from Charlotte to Liz to Rose and Mr. P. “Now go sit.”
Charlotte was already getting to her feet. “Don’t be silly,” she said.
Nick looked at Liam. “Please escort my mother to the living room.”
Liam jumped up, grinning. He moved around the table and offered his arm to Charlotte with a bow.
Charlotte took it and turned to look at Nick. “Yeah, I know I’m stubborn,” he said with that charming little boy smile. “I’ve heard it’s hereditary.”
“It is,” Avery chimed it. “I get it from Nonna even though she says she’s not stubborn at all.”
“I’m not,” Liz said, setting her napkin next to her plate. “I’m determined.”
“Yes, you are, Elizabeth,” Mr. P. said warmly. Then he got to his feet and smiled across the table at Nick. “Could I help, Nicolas?” he asked, effectively ending the stubbornness discussion.
“Yes,” Nick said. “You can tell Avery if you’d like another cup of coffee.”
Mr. P. tipped his head to one side. He reminded me of a balding woodchuck or a groundhog with high-water pants. “I think I would like another. Thank you,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” Avery said. She looked at her grandmother. “More tea, right?”
“Please,” Liz said.
“I’ll get some for Charlotte and Rose, too,” Avery said to no one in particular.
I cleared the table while Nick pu
t the food away in the kitchen. Then I started on the pots and knives that I knew Charlotte always washed by hand while Avery and Liam loaded the dishwasher.
“Thanks, guys,” Nick said when the kitchen was almost back to rights. Liam and Avery headed for the living room, each with a slice of pie—his second and her third.
“Want a cup?” Nick asked, holding up the coffeepot as I wiped the counter by the sink.
“Um, yeah,” I said.
He poured, added cream and sugar and handed the mug to me.
I leaned against the counter and took a sip.
“You know, if we stay in here very long, my mother and her cohorts are going to get ideas,” Nick said.
“They already have ideas,” I said. “Rose pointed out that you have lots of hair and there are no bald men on either side of your family.”
Nick laughed. “That’s a bald-faced fabrication, pardon the pun. My grandfather McPhee had hair, but it spent the week in a box and only came out Sunday for church.” He tipped his head and pointed at his own head. “This hair is man-made, but it’s made by this man.” He tapped his chest with two fingers.
“Good to know,” I said.
He leaned against the counter beside me. “Apparently one of your selling points is that you have very few cavities.”
I laughed. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “What can I say? Good dental hygiene is important to my mother.”
“We should go see what they’re doing,” I said.
“Talking about us or talking about their case would be my guess,” Nick said, pushing away from the counter.
They were talking about the case. Mr. P. was sitting on Charlotte’s sofa with Rose on one side, Liam on the other, and Avery hanging over the back. They were all looking at his laptop. Liz was in the big overstuffed chair, one elbow propped on the padded arm. Charlotte was sitting opposite in a brown leather club chair, writing in an old-style steno notebook I hadn’t known they made anymore.
I took my coffee and went to sit on the footstool in front of Liz. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Making a list of people who were at Feast in the Field who may have taken photos,” Rose said. She looked at Liz. “Celeste?”
Charlotte looked up from her notepad.
Liz shook her head. “No. She doesn’t have a cell phone and the last camera she would have used was an Instamatic.”
Nick had walked around the sofa to stand next to Avery. I saw him look over Mr. P.’s shoulder at the laptop balanced on his knees. Then something in his body language changed. He stiffened, then leaned in slightly.
I watched out of the corner of my eye. Something had clearly caught his attention on the computer screen. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He swiped his free hand over the back of his neck, came around the end of the sofa and sat on the arm next to Liam. “What’s happening with the development?” I heard him ask. “Have you started looking at those old warehouses?”
Liam shifted in his seat and I leaned forward to see what was on the screen before Mr. P. moved to another photo. The image was of a fair-haired man, arms caught animatedly in the air, in front of one of the booths. There had to be a dozen people around him, but he was the only one facing the camera. I was betting it was him Nick had recognized.
By the time Mr. P. had gone through all the pictures, Charlotte had written down twenty-one names of people who might have taken photos at Feast in the Field. Rose and Mr. P. were hoping for a better shot of the mystery man.
Liz and Avery left at the same time I did. I’d hoped to get a chance to talk to Nick and maybe find out what had caught his attention on that computer screen, but he was talking to Liam and since I was giving Rose and Mr. P. a ride, I couldn’t really stall.
When I got home I found Elvis sprawled on his back on the top of his cat tower. After I’d stowed the leftovers Charlotte had sent me home with in the refrigerator, I went over to him. He eyed me upside down and I scratched the black fur under his chin. He sighed and began to purr. For a moment I wished all it would take was a scratch under my chin to make me relax.
I was sitting on the couch about an hour later going through a pile of old home-reno magazines when there was a knock on the door. “That’s Liam,” I said to Elvis, who had been stretched out across my legs. I moved him to the floor and went to let my brother in.
Except it wasn’t Liam. It was Nick.
“Hi,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I said, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
He stepped inside. “I can’t stay for long.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
He put a hand in his pocket and held out a business card. “Here,” he said. “This is the man Rose and Alfred are looking for.”
I took the cardboard rectangle from him. “You recognized him. In the photos.”
He studied me, dark eyes serious. “You knew.”
I nodded. “I know your tells, remember? That’s how I kept gas in Gram’s truck the summer I learned to drive.”
Nick gave me a sheepish grin. “I remember.”
“Thank you for this,” I said, turning the card over in my fingers. It was made from heavy, cream-colored card stock with a streamlined font—Century Gothic, I thought—in black. I remembered Liam saying the wine dealer had been handing out business cards.
“This doesn’t mean I think they’re right,” he cautioned.
“Doesn’t mean you think they’re wrong, either.”
“I didn’t say that, Sarah,” he said. He shook his head and gave me a wry smile. “Look, when I saw that photo I remembered the guy. There wasn’t anything shifty about him. He was personable and well-spoken.”
“But,” I finished.
“Just between us?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded.
“I noticed that he was just a little faster handing those out to anyone who looked to be a senior. At the time I chalked it up to him just targeting people who seemed more likely to have money.”
“Or maybe he was targeting people who’d be a little more open to his pitch.” I looked at the card again. “Thorne Logan,” I said. “You think that’s a real name?”
Nick shrugged. “It could be. I had a chemistry class with a girl named Peaches.” He looked at his watch. “Do me a favor? Try to rein them in if they do find the guy.”
I laughed. “Right. Because I’ve done such a good job in the past.”
He rolled his eyes. “They listen to you more than they listen to me.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I promised.
“Thanks,” he said. One eyebrow went up and the corners of his lips twitched. “Nice shirt.”
I put a hand on my chest and looked down at my tee. It was a Power Rangers shirt. Nick had bought it to replace the similar one I’d had as a kid that he’d wiped his nose on—an act he claimed was one of social commentary but that I thought was just him being a boy.
“I never asked, where on earth did you find it?”
“EBay. I’ve been watching for a Samurai Pizza Cats shirt for Liam’s birthday.”
I laughed. “He’ll kill me for telling you about that, but it would be worth it.”
“I’ll warn you if I find it,” Nick said. He looked at his watch again. “I’ve gotta go. Will I see you Thursday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
I locked the door behind him and went back to the sofa, where Elvis was waiting. I sat down beside him and he craned his neck over my arm to look at the business card. The only thing on it was Thorne Logan’s name and a phone number. Any connection between him and the fake wine was spiderweb thin at best. And what about the woman with the plaid purse? Were they connected? Was she involved at all? The only thing we had to go on was Rose’s gut feeling.
“I’m not really sure what this means, either,” I said to him.
Mac and Rose went out to work on the Hall house Monday morning. Charlotte and I stayed at the shop. I was expecting Cleveland, the other picker I bought from regularly, to stop by with his haul from the weekend.
I spent a chunk of my time outside working on an old metal cabinet that Jess and I had found in the ditch along an old woods road. I could still see the look on Mac’s face when I’d asked him to help me lift it out of the back of the SUV.
“Let me get this straight,” he’d said. “You found this in a ditch?”
“People dump their garbage out on a couple of those woods roads because they don’t want to pay the fee at the landfill,” I’d said, pulling on a pair of canvas work gloves before grabbing one side of the cabinet. “It’s disgusting.”
“So you decided to bring it here? How exactly did you get this . . . thing from the ditch to your car?”
“Jess and I carried it.”
Jess had actually been the one who climbed down into the mud and heaved the metal cabinet up onto the trail.
Mac had tried to swallow down a grin and pretty much failed. “I don’t know, Sarah,” he’d said. “I think you may have jumped the shark this time.”
“O ye of little faith,” I’d said as he’d help me carry the cabinet into the old garage. Now, standing on a tarp, scraping who knew how many years of blistered, peeling paint off the old metal, I wondered if he was right. Not that I was willing to admit defeat yet.
Cleveland showed up midmorning. I bought a couple of paintings, three potato baskets and an armless upholstered chair that looked as though it had been used as a cat scratching post.
Avery and Mr. P. showed up at lunchtime. Avery’s progressive school only had morning classes, so she worked most afternoons for me. Liz grumbled that there was no way she was learning anything only attending classes in the morning, but from what I’d seen of Avery’s homework, they seemed to be using the time well. I had no idea what exactly had happened at home or at her previous school, but being in North Harbor had been good for the teen. And living with Liz, for all they squabbled about kale smoothies and Avery’s driving, had been good for both of them. I sent her out to the garage to work on a set of old kitchen cabinets I wanted to eventually use for storage out there.