Wilfred served the chili, basking in the compliments that followed the first few spoonfuls. They ate in silence for a bit, then chatted about this and that until Bettina looked at her watch and discovered she was due for babysitting duty with the Arborville grandchildren in five minutes.
“I’ll let you know the details for our meeting with Swinton,” she called to Pamela as she hurried out the door.
Pamela helped Wilfred with cleanup and then went back to her own house, Thomas Swinton’s heavy book tucked under her arm.
Chapter Ten
Richard Larkin’s car had not magically appeared in his driveway overnight. No car was in evidence when Pamela went out to fetch the Register, and it was only seven a.m. If he was back in Arborville, he wouldn’t have left for work yet. In fact, Pamela had awakened even earlier than usual—despite having stayed up till nearly midnight reading Time and Time Again. The sun had made the curtains at her bedroom windows glow and she’d opened her eyes and that had been the end of sleep. But she was positive that waking up early had nothing to do with Richard Larkin’s possible return.
Bettina had been sure he’d decided to stay away just a bit longer—through the weekend. But—through the weekend. The thought struck Pamela with such relief that she set down her coffee cup and closed her eyes to reflect on it. Maine was eight hours away, even more. If a person wanted to prolong their stay in Maine through the weekend they’d wait till Monday to drive back. That was certainly what he’d decided to do. Not that she cared, she assured herself as she opened her eyes and resumed drinking her coffee.
The kittens were clustered around their bowl in the corner, nibbling eagerly at a few tablespoonfuls of chicken-fish blend. Catrina had wandered off, perhaps to look for the patch of sun that appeared reliably on the entry carpet every morning.
Pamela finished her coffee and rinsed the cup at the sink. Upstairs, she traded her robe and pajamas for jeans and her chambray shirt, stepped across the hall to her office, and awakened her computer. After the customary beeps and whirrs that constituted its morning greeting, it set to work receiving its first email of the day—an email so slow to arrive that Pamela knew it could only be from her boss at Fiber Craft. Indeed, her premonition proved to be correct. Stylized paper clips spaced across the top of the message signaled the presence of three attachments, identified as “Lapland,” “Surrealism,” and “Raffia.” The message itself summoned Pamela to an editorial meeting at the magazine’s offices in Manhattan, to take place at the end of the month, and requested that she edit the attached articles and return them by six p.m. the next day.
A message from Pamela’s alma mater announced that the current president was stepping down, after seventeen years of service, to devote herself to volunteer work in Honduras. Three other messages were quickly labeled junk and dispatched. Finally, smiling, Pamela opened a message from Penny reporting on her doings over the weekend: She’d discovered a thrift shop with fabulous vintage clothing within walking distance of the campus, and her dorm had sponsored a food drive for the town’s food pantry.
Pamela returned to the message from her boss, opened the first attachment, and set to work editing “The Vertical Looms of Lapland’s Sami Culture.” She was immersed in the world of the Sami people and their ingenious weaving techniques when the doorbell chimed. For a moment the sound didn’t register—she was staring at a picture of a loom constructed of thick twigs lashed together with leather thongs. Then she remembered Bettina had promised to call Thomas Swinton that morning. Undoubtedly it was her, with something to report, and it was time for a break besides. Pamela commanded the computer to save her work and headed down the stairs.
Through the lace that curtained the oval window in the front door, Pamela could see Bettina’s figure, dressed in a brilliant fuchsia that stood out against the greenery beyond. Bettina started to talk as soon as Pamela opened the door, and by the time she stepped over the threshold she’d reached the last words of her first sentence: “Richard Larkin.” Whatever led up to those words had been indistinct.
“He’s back?” Pamela felt her brows rise and her eyes grow wide.
“No.” Bettina reached out to grasp her friend’s hand. “I said, ‘I guess it’s going to be a bit longer before we see Richard Larkin.’ ”
“Well . . . it’s not . . . important.” Pamela detached her hand from Bettina’s and motioned as if to push away whatever conclusion Bettina might draw about her initial excitement. Then she reflected for a minute. “Did he call you?”
“No—but I haven’t seen his car this morning.”
“He could come tonight,” Pamela said. “Maybe he wanted to stay through the whole weekend. Maine is probably really pretty this time of year.”
“You’ve been thinking about him, haven’t you?” Bettina tilted her head to study Pamela’s face.
“I haven’t,” Pamela said firmly. “It’s just—” She searched for words, then pointed to the cardboard box under the mail table, the box in which she had been collecting mail that strayed into Richard Larkin’s mailbox and newspapers that strayed onto his driveway. “I want to get rid of that. What have you brought?” she added quickly before Bettina could pursue the Richard Larkin topic.
“Goodies from the Co-Op bakery counter, of course.” Bettina put the white bakery box into Pamela’s waiting hands. White string circled it and formed a bow on top. “What would you say to a chocolate croissant?”
Pamela laughed. “Definitely not ‘no.’ I’ve been editing all morning—vertical looms in Lapland—and I’m ready for a break.”
“I’ve been busy too,” Bettina said as she followed Pamela to the kitchen. Her fuchsia outfit had proved to be a close-fitting linen skirt and a matching jacket styled like a short kimono. The effect of the fuchsia with her bright red hair, which she herself described as a color not found in nature, was striking. “The mayor gave a talk on civic responsibility at the middle school this morning,” she said. “Something more cheerful to write about for the Advocate than the sad Caralee business. And speaking of that,” she continued as Pamela began spooning coffee beans into her coffee grinder, “Thomas Swinton is thrilled that I want to interview him again, and he can’t wait to meet you—his biggest fan, as I described you. We’re invited for lunch this Saturday.”
Bettina set two dessert plates from Pamela’s wedding china on the table. Untying the string on the bakery box and folding back the cover, she placed a chocolate croissant on each plate. Layers of flaky crust formed the pastries, like small pillows glazed golden brown. At each end a dark knob of chocolate marked where the filling had oozed and then congealed.
At the counter Pamela was busy with coffee preparations. She set the kettle boiling on the stove and slipped a filter into the plastic cone atop the carafe. Bettina sidled up next to her to fetch two forks from the silverware drawer. “You could call Laine or Sybil,” Bettina began, but the sharp growl of the coffee grinder cut her off. Pamela lifted the grinder’s cover to check on the state of the beans. Bettina tried again. “His daughters, I mean. They’ve been in touch with him, I’m sure.”
“I know what you mean,” Pamela said, and pushed down on the grinder’s cover. The half-ground beans clattered and churned in the grinding chamber. She stole a glance at Bettina, who looked perturbed. “I just . . .” Pamela removed the grinder’s cover and poured the beans, now finely ground, into the filter. “I don’t . . .” From the stove, the kettle whistled. Glad of the distraction, Pamela completed the coffee-making process without another word.
“It wouldn’t be like you were chasing him,” Bettina said after they were settled at the table, coffee cups filled and Pamela’s cut-glass cream pitcher and sugar bowl at the ready. “He’s definitely interested.”
“He may be.” Pamela took a sip of coffee. “And he’s very nice. And I agree with you that he’s good-looking. But I like my life the way it is.”
“It won’t always be the way it is,” Bettina said. “Penny is growing up. She’ll gradua
te. She’ll get a job and move into her own place. She’ll meet someone.”
Pamela stared into her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t mind being married,” she said, “like you and Wilfred, or Nell and Harold. Old. And comfortable together.”
“Old?” Bettina said, pretending to be horrified. “I’ll have you to know that I’m Wilfred’s child bride. I was twenty-five and he was forty when we were married.”
“You know what I mean though.” Pamela studied Bettina’s face, as if searching to see whether her friend really did know. “It’s the getting to know each other, the settling in. I don’t want to go through that again.” She returned to contemplating her coffee. “I do find him attractive,” she said. “I’m trying not to.” She picked up her fork and probed the croissant, teasing off a morsel of pastry garnished with a dab of chocolate.
Half an hour later, the carafe was empty and all that remained on the dessert plates was a scattering of pastry crumbs and a few chocolaty smears. Thanks were exchanged, for the coffee and for the croissants, and Bettina went on her way. Pamela saw her to the door, then returned to the kitchen. She lifted one of the peaches, heavy in her hand, from the bowl where she’d placed them. It was pale gold in spots, rosy in others, its soft fuzz making it seem to glow. Its aroma was like a fruity perfume and its surface yielded just enough under her thumb to tell her that tomorrow’s cobbler would be perfect. Upstairs, she returned to the article about the vertical looms of Lapland, then moved on to “The Influence of Surrealism on Modernist Textile Design.”
Lunchtime came and went, and it wasn’t until three p.m. that she realized she was hungry. The chocolate croissant hadn’t been a nourishing meal, or a healthful one, but it had been quite filling. She’d edited all three articles and returned them to her boss, so after a quick bite of toasted whole-grain bread and some of the Co-Op Gouda, she decided to take a walk. The September day deserved to be enjoyed. Then she’d spend the rest of the afternoon with Time and Time Again. She’d been asking herself what Caralee could have ferreted out that a best-selling author and Arborville’s intellectual treasure could be desperate to keep hidden. But she hadn’t thought of anything yet.
* * *
That night an insistent sound, high-pitched but gentle, roused Pamela from a dream in which she was exploring the Mittendorf House. Reluctantly, she abandoned the adventure just as she reached the Mittendorf House kitchen, with its huge stone fireplace and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. A glance at the glowing numerals on her bedside clock told her it was barely eleven-thirty. Her dreaming mind had packed quite an adventure into the half hour since she came up to bed.
The sound seemed to be coming from outside her bedroom door. It wasn’t the type of sound to cause alarm, but it was insistent—and growing louder. She sat up, casting off the last remnants of the dream. The moon, which had been full just a few days ago, was still bright enough that the familiar landscape of her room was recognizable in pale shapes and shadowy outlines, and the sound resolved itself into one she was familiar with. She stepped to the door and eased it toward her. Through the six-inch opening slipped a streak of black. It brushed past her bare ankle like the flick of a soft wool scarf.
“Catrina?” she murmured as the cat—it was Catrina—scaled the few feet from floor to mattress top with the aid of her claws and settled right where Pamela’s back had previously reposed, a dark spot against sheets that the moonlight had turned silvery. “What about your babies?” Pamela added.
Catrina seemed unconcerned. She didn’t complain as Pamela moved her aside to take up her own rightful place in the bed, but she snuggled against Pamela’s side as soon as Pamela climbed in beside her and pulled the covers up.
* * *
In the morning, the kittens greeted their mother matter-of-factly, none the worse for their first night spent on their own. But they were obviously eager to nurse. They followed Catrina back to the bed in the laundry room as Pamela headed out to retrieve the Register—and insist to herself that it made no difference to her that Richard Larkin’s car had not appeared overnight.
The kittens emerged sometime later, as Pamela was drinking her coffee, to investigate the contents of their food bowl. “Perhaps you’re getting ready to be adopted,” Pamela said to them as they jockeyed for position around the bowl’s rim. Bettina’s idea had been a good one. Knit and Nibble would be right there in Pamela’s house that evening. What better advertisement for free kittens than to see them at play, stalking one another and tussling, playing with their ball of yarn, trying so hard to be fearsome, succeeding only in looking cute? And then to pick one up and hear its tiny purr as it squirmed this way and that to maximize a good rub.
She’d keep them a bit longer, until they weren’t nursing anymore. But if she could line up some commitments. . . Holly might be a good prospect, and maybe Karen Dowling if she wasn’t worried about a new cat and a new baby arriving at once. But Dave Dowling was allergic to wool, Pamela recalled. Would he also be allergic to cats? Nell might succumb to the kittens’ charms. Nell had had cats, Pamela knew, cats that had grown old and died. Perhaps she’d like to start over, with a new cat. Roland was hopeless—Pamela laughed even to think of the staid corporate lawyer being seduced by a kitten. He’d probably be horrified at the thought of cat hair on his pinstripe suit. But Bettina would take one.
And Pamela would take one. She’d already decided which—the bold ginger female. The kitten hadn’t inherited her mother’s looks, but certainly the will to survive that had sustained Catrina in the months she’d lived on the streets had been passed on to this particular daughter.
* * *
A cobbler wasn’t a pie. A pie, or its crust at any rate, required artful sifting, measuring, and kneading. Then the crust had to be carefully rolled out to a circle a bit larger than the pan that was to contain it, fitted delicately into the pan without tearing, and the edges precisely crimped. Making a pie was like following a complicated knitting pattern, perhaps a pattern for a delicate sweater in a lace or openwork stitch. Making a cobbler was like making a big slouchy shawl, with rustic yarn so forgiving that a dropped stitch here or there made no difference.
Pamela was a good pie maker, and she enjoyed the challenge. But when the weather began to suggest that fall wasn’t far away, a cobbler still warm from the oven was the ultimate comfort food. Now she stood in her kitchen consulting her standard cobbler recipe, a yellowed newspaper clipping stapled to a large index card. The baking dish she’d use waited on the kitchen table, already buttered—a humble Pyrex rectangle that she’d had since the early days of her marriage.
The peaches Wilfred had brought back from the Newfield farmers market waited in their bowl. Four cups of fruit the recipe called for. The peaches would provide that much and more—so she’d use more. Cobblers were very forgiving. She picked up a peach and her favorite paring knife, ran the knife around the peach to make two matching halves, and picked out the dark, rough-textured pit. Already her hands were sticky with peach juice.
She cut each half into two quarters and peeled the first quarter, pulling the delicate fuzzy skin loose in one long strip. Then she sliced the quarter into a waiting bowl, bite-sized pieces. The peach flesh was a rich gold, much deeper than the color of the skin, and glistening with sweetness. This stage of cobbler-making, preparing the fruit, could be laborious—unless one started with blueberries. But the peaches peeled and sliced easily, and as she repeated the rhythmic motions again and again, Pamela felt herself slipping into the trance-like state that accompanied knitting—but with sticky fingers.
When the last peach had been turned into slices, Pamela scooped the contents of the bowl into the Pyrex baking dish. The peaches were already sweet, very sweet, but Pamela sprinkled a heaping tablespoon of sugar over them. And because a secret ingredient was always fun, she opened the cupboard above the stove where she kept things that came in tall bottles, like Worcestershire sauce and vinegar. Way at the back she found what she was looking for—a tall brown
bottle with an ocean vista and a palm tree on the label. It was rum and it had been up there forever. The sudden whiff of alcohol as she poured a tablespoonful almost took her breath away, but the alcohol would disappear in baking and the rum would enhance the flavor of the peaches. She dribbled the tablespoon of rum here and there over the peaches and added another for good measure.
Now it was time to make the cobbler dough. She set butter to melting in a small saucepan while she sifted flour, baking powder, and salt into her favorite mixing bowl, the caramel-colored one with white stripes near the rim. She added a few tablespoons of sugar to the flour mixture, then poured in melted butter and stirred until some of the flour mixture formed buttery lumps. She continued stirring until the lumps were smaller and distributed evenly. Then she added a bit of heavy cream, and a bit more, until she’d created a soft, sticky dough. Now came the stage of cobbler-making that most definitely distinguished a cobbler from a pie. She picked up handfuls of the dough and deposited them here and there atop the peaches in the Pyrex baking dish. When all the dough had been transferred to the peaches, she began to pat the small mounds of dough, evening them out and making sure that no giant bare spots remained on the cobbler’s surface. When she had finished, the peaches seemed covered with a pale, lumpy coverlet. A few threadbare spots allowed a glimpse of the golden fruit beneath.
Before baking, the cobbler had to be chilled, longer or shorter as one wished. Pamela wanted to take it out of the oven right before people arrived for Knit and Nibble, so it would still be warm when the time came for refreshments. She covered the dish with plastic wrap and slipped it into the refrigerator. It could chill all afternoon with no harm done. And she could handle the day’s Fiber Craft chores, as well as making sure the parts of the house that Knit and Nibble would see were tidy.
Chapter Eleven
At six p.m. Pamela stood in her kitchen again, wearing one of her hand-knit creations. She’d barely thought of sweaters, at least to wear, all summer, but when she’d stepped outside to sweep the porch and the front walk, the evening air had carried a hint of fall. So she’d taken from her closet shelf a light pullover knit from a cotton and linen blend in a pale amber shade, like autumn leaves. Back downstairs, she’d eaten the tail end of the bean and ham hock soup. Now she was waiting for the oven to heat and butter to melt in a small saucepan on the stovetop so she could put the finishing touches on the cobbler, which had been stripped of its plastic wrap and was sitting on the counter.
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