Читать книгу Milky Way - Muriel Jensen - Страница 11

JAKE FELT the resentment the moment he walked into the diner. The place had been abuzz with conversation when he opened the door, but it fell silent in the few seconds it took him to walk to the counter. Men in coveralls and baseball caps, men in suits and women dressed for work in town watched him every step of the way. As he settled on a stool at the L-shaped bar, talk started up again, but he got the distinct impression he was the subject of it.

He tried to take it in stride. News got around fast in small towns, and he’d paid four calls yesterday, trying to collect. He was the good guy when he could provide products needed, but the bad guy when he had to collect for them in hard times. He was getting used to being treated like the biblical tax collector or the contemporary IRS auditor.

He indicated the pile of newspapers on the counter between himself and the police officer seated beside him. “Finished with this?” he asked with a courteous smile.

The officer gave him a long, measuring look, then nodded. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Jake found the sports page and decided to lose himself in the Cubs’ spring-training stats.

The woman behind the counter ignored him, while second-guessing the needs of everyone else. A second waitress raced from the kitchen to the banks of booths against the wall. He gathered from the teasing going on back and forth that the woman ignoring him was named Marge and that she owned the diner.

He finally commanded her attention with a loud but courteous “Ham-and-cheese omelet, please. Hash browns. Sourdough toast. And coffee with cream.”

She glared at him and he added with a pointed look, “When you get around to it. Thank you.”

She came to stand in front of him, the coffeepot held aloft. He got the distinct impression she intended to pour its contents on him if he made one wrong move.

“Fresh out of ham and cheese,” she said aggressively.

He put down the paper. He pointed to the officer’s plate, where half of a ham-and-cheese omelet lay fluffy and plump beside a wedge of wheat toast.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Brown eyes looked back at him evenly. “That’s his ham-and-cheese omelet. He protects the people around here. He doesn’t take food out of children’s mouths and make life miserable for young widows who are barely—”

“Marge,” the officer said quietly, his expression mildly amused. “That’s harassment. Get him his omelet or I’ll have to take you in.”

Marge put down the pot and offered both wrists across the counter. “Here. Do it now. Put me in solitary, but don’t expect me to do anything for this monster who—”

“What is going on?” a familiar voice demanded near Jake’s shoulder.

He turned to find the widow Hansen standing in the small space between his shoulder and the police officer’s. She wore jeans and another baggy sweater, this one a soft blue that was the color of her eyes. She had a wide, flat plastic container balanced on one hand and a big purse hung over her shoulder.

“Hey, babe.” The officer snaked an arm around her and pulled her to him, kissing her temple. He rubbed her shoulder. “Buy you breakfast?”

She smiled at him affectionately, and Jake felt the irritation that had been building in him since he walked into the place develop into anger. “Thanks, Brick. Had it two hours ago.” She placed the container on the counter, then frowned from him to Jake to Marge, whose hands were still held out sacrificially. “You’re arresting Marge?”

Brick grinned. “She refused to serve this gentleman his ham-and-cheese omelet. That’s unconstitutional.”

Britt blinked at Marge. “Why?”

“Because he—”

Jake folded his paper and put it aside. “Forget the omelet. I was just leaving.” He tried to stand, but a soft but surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder held him in place.

Britt’s blue, blue eyes flashed at him. “You stay right there.” She turned to Marge. “Why won’t you order his omelet?”

Everyone in the restaurant was absolutely still, waiting for her answer.

“Because I know he’s from Winnebago Dairy, and that he cut you off yesterday because you couldn’t pay. Nobody does that to my friends and gets away with it.” Marge’s eyes filled briefly, then she sniffed and swiped at something on the counter that wasn’t there. “Not after what you’ve been through. So Officer Bauer here—” she glanced in his direction “—threatened to take me in.”

Britt drew a breath and sat Jake down a second time when he tried again to get up. “Margie, he was just doing his job,” she said reasonably, almost surprised to hear the words come out of her own mouth. It was one thing to feel personal resentment at the bind his actions had left her in. But to see him unfairly treated by her friends in a public place for having done nothing more than what was required of him made her furious.

“I ordered the stuff,” she said, “and I couldn’t pay. His company has waited eight months already, while still supplying me. Do you think I’d keep making Danishes for you,” she asked, tapping the plastic container, “if you didn’t pay me?”

Marge folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Britt wedged herself in between Jake and Brick so that she could lean over the counter toward Marge and give her the full effect of her stare. Brick grinned at Jake behind her back.

“You get this man his ham-and-cheese omelet,” she said firmly, placing a hand on top of the container, “or I won’t give you these extra Danishes you ordered for the Kiwanis breakfast. Whoever told you I’d been cut off apparently neglected to mention that when Mr. Marshack arrived at my place I was hanging by my fingernails from the roof. He saved me from falling, at considerable risk to himself.”

That was somewhat overstated, Jake thought, but Marge’s spine seemed to relax a fraction. She looked suspiciously from him to Britt.

“That’s true,” Brick confirmed, taking a bite of toast. “She told me yesterday afternoon. Even blushed when she said it. I don’t think she’s half as mad at him as you are.”

Britt turned on Brick and whomped him in the stomach with the back of her hand. He choked on the toast and had to reach for his coffee.

She turned back to Marge. “Get the omelet now.”

With one last, distrustful look at Jake, Marge made notes on her order pad, tore off the check and, scooping up the plastic container, went toward the kitchen.

“Spoilsport,” Brick said, finally recovered. “That would’ve been my first collar in a the week.”

Britt rolled her eyes at him. “You’re a nut, Bauer.”

“Runs in the family,” he returned. “Faulty chromosomes or something.”

Britt gave Jake an uncertain smile. “You okay?”

He was having palpitations over the nearness of her eyes, but he suspected she wouldn’t want to know that. “Fine,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Jake Marshack—” she swept a hand toward the officer “—my cousin, Donald Bauer, known among family and friends as Brick because his head bears a remarkable resem—” Her fingers traced a square in the air as Brick reached around with one hand to cover her mouth. He thrust the other toward Jake.

“Actually, it’s a name from my football days. Pleased to meet you. And thanks for saving her neck. I offered to do that roofing job for her, but she finds it impossible to wait for anything.”

Britt pulled Brick’s hand from her mouth. “He’s been promising for weeks. I’d hoped to enjoy the porch before snow sets in again.”

Listening to their affectionate banter, Jake felt a wave of loneliness he usually kept at bay with long hours in the office and at his desk at home. But here in Tyler the pace was slower, and after calling on her yesterday, he hadn’t been able to turn off his mind.

He wasn’t even sure why he was still here. Though he’d made another call after visiting her yesterday, he’d easily have gotten back to Chicago in time for a late dinner. But it had started raining, and he’d told himself rush hour would be slick and ugly and he might as well stay the night.

He’d watched cable television in the small motel room he’d found on the outskirts of town and had wondered how in hell the widow Hansen could be expected to make it with no feed, four kids, and everybody from bank to grocer breathing down her neck.

Then he remembered Brick saying a moment ago that Britt had told him about being saved from the roof, and that she’d blushed while telling him. Every time he thought about grabbing her thigh in his hand and scooping her bottom toward him as she’d dangled there, he felt a catch in his chest, a hitch in his pulse. Something subtle had happened to him yesterday. And it was possible something had happened to her.

“I’ve got to go,” Britt announced, her purse bumping him as she slipped out from between them. She turned to give him a quick smile, one that on the surface held only courtesy. But her eyes were so close to his that he saw deep inside a vague little longing that flashed when their eyes met, then was gone. “Safe trip home,” she said. Then she leaned over to kiss Brick on the cheek. “Have a good day, cuz.”

“Where you off to?” he asked.

“Worthington House to see Grandma and Inger.”

When she was out the door, Jake couldn’t resist asking Brick, “What happened to her husband?”

“He was plowing near a ditch,” Brick said grimly. “Got too close. Tractor turned over on him.”

Jake closed his eyes. That ugly accident happened all too often in farm country, but it was hard for him to think it had happened to someone Britt had loved.

“She’d gone to Milwaukee with a friend for a weekend of shopping,” Brick went on. “The first time she’d ever left Jimmy and the kids alone. She carries a lot of guilt over it.”

“God,” Jake said quietly, feelingly.

“Yeah. You can see why Marge got testy. Britt’s fighting an uphill battle, and we’re all pushing and pulling for her.”

As though on cue, Marge appeared with a steaming plate. The omelet was fat and beautiful, the hash browns golden and the toast buttered in every little corner. She poured coffee into a cup, put a pot of cream beside him and a jar of jam. “Anything else?” she asked, her tone a shade more congenial, but only just.

Jake looked down at his breakfast, then up at her again. “Something to eat it with,” he said, “and I’ll be a happy man.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised that she’d forgotten utensils. She retrieved knife, fork and spoon and a generous-size napkin, then leaned on her elbows across from him as he peppered the omelet.

“So you can’t see your way clear to get her a month’s extension?” she prodded. “She’s got big plans, you know. She makes the best low-calorie cheesecake east of the Rockies, and she’s going to pick up more clients and make more different products with her yogurt.”

Jake frowned, knowing how overworked she had to be already. “By herself?”

Marge sighed. “That’s how she does everything since Jimmy died.”

Jake couldn’t see how that was going to make any difference—provided she could even do it. Cheesecake, however elegant, would have to be produced by the thousands to affect the kind of debt on her books....

Though she’d been gone ten minutes, he could still see deep into those blue eyes and that little flash of longing in them. Business was business, but it was hard to step on someone who was trying so hard.

Marge was still waiting for an answer.

“I’ll try,” he promised with a thin smile.

A cheer rose from Marge’s Diner’s clientele. Jake looked around from the counter to find himself being applauded.

Brick slapped him on the back. “All right,” he said.

Jake turned back to his breakfast, mystified. He’d visited Tyler a dozen times in the past few years, but he’d never stayed overnight, so he’d never stopped in for breakfast. He’d never spoken to anyone but the people from whom he’d been trying to collect, so he’d never gotten below the surface of the pretty little lake town.

Now that he had, it was a little scary. For a boy who’d lived with his mother in a tenement in Chicago, crowded in with an aunt who’d made it clear every day that they were there on the sufferance of charity, this warm caring of one person for another was something alien and new. As an adult, he’d certainly never seen it in the corporate world.

Marge topped up his coffee and gave him a brilliant smile. Brick picked up his tab. When Jake tried to protest, he offered his hand again, then was gone.

Jake dug into his succulent omelet, feeling as though his world had slipped a little out of orbit.

* * *

WALKING ACROSS the parking lot toward the rest home that sprawled on a corner of Elm Street, Britt tried to stop her mind’s erratic jumping, from Jake Marshack to cheesecakes, to Jake Marshack to money, to Jake Marshack.

She’d seen a lonely man in the diner. Though she missed Jimmy abominably, she had friends and relatives who were always generous with emotional support or a more substantive helping hand. She hated to think of anyone trying to get through life without them.

Of course, why she was worried about a man with a secure, high-paying job when her personal economy was about to bottom out, she couldn’t imagine. There was just something in his face that touched her.

Topping the stairs and blindly turning down the corridor, Britt collided with George Phelps, who was perusing a chart.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Phelps,” she apologized breathlessly. “Did I hurt you?”

He grinned at the question. Tall and fit, with graying brown hair, he twirled the end of his elegant mustache in a parody of villainy. “Hardly. It was the nicest thing that’s happened to me this morning. How are you, Britt?”

“Good. How are things with you?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his expression failing to match his words. He waved a typewritten sheet in the air. “Except for the resignation of Finklebaum, my nursing supervisor. She’ll be missed around here. But how’re the kids? I don’t recall seeing any of your brood since back-to-school checkups.”

Britt rapped on the paneled wall. “Knock on wood. I think they move too fast to catch anything.” She began to back away. “I’m on my way to visit the ladies. Take care, Doctor.”

Britt turned down the corridor toward Inger Hansen’s room, bracing herself for the ordeal. She visited Jimmy’s great-aunt before her grandmother because the woman’s irascible personality made it more of a challenge than a pleasure. With that chore behind her, Britt could then relax and enjoy her Grandma Martha.

The theme music from “The Price is Right” blared from the television as Britt entered the room. The woman sharing the space with Inger, apparently cursed with good hearing, wore large orange ear protectors as she concentrated on her cross-stitching.

“Hi, Inger,” Britt said, coming up beside her to put a bag of goodies on her bedside table.

“Shh!” Inger snapped, her sharp eyes focused on the television as she held Britt out of the way with one arm. “This guy’s about to blow it. He is so stupid! You wonder how some people get by!”

The television audience cheered for a correct answer and Inger slapped her blanket in disgust. “One live brain cell. Big deal!” She turned to Britt and shouted over the loud television. “How are you? You look like a refugee. Don’t you ever eat?”

Britt smiled and gave her a hug, tuning out her considerable annoyance quotient in deference to her age and her status as family.

“I’m fine, Aunt Inger. How are you?”

“Old. Arthritic. God knows what else. I hope that bag isn’t filled with more cheesecake.”

“No.” Britt allowed herself a smile, grateful her small success didn’t depend on Inger. It was interesting, she thought, how differently time and loss of loved ones aged individuals. Some, like her grandmother, drew others toward them. Inger pushed everyone away, as though telling the world that if she couldn’t have the people she wanted, she didn’t want anyone.

Britt delved into the bag and held out a Linder ball, a chocolate confection wrapped in colorful foil. They were Inger’s weakness.

Inger’s eyes softened for an instant, then she snatched the candy from Britt. “Thank you,” she said, almost resentful at having a reason for gratitude. “How are your little monsters?”

Britt poured water into Inger’s glass from the small carafe and tidied her tray. “Oh, you know. Monstrous. Anything I can get you?”

“No.” Inger made a shooing motion toward the door. “Go on. Get back to your kids and your cows. And for God’s sake, eat something before somebody puts old clothes on you and sticks you in a cornfield.”

Britt leaned down to hug her again and felt the old woman’s surprisingly strong response before she pushed her away and turned her concentration back to the television. When Britt paused at the door to wave, Inger had the bag of Linder balls in her lap.

She found an earnest game of gin rummy in progress in Martha Bauer’s room. The tiny, fragile woman was propped up against her pillows, her white hair in a neat braid coronet atop her head, her bony shoulders adorned with a soft blue bed jacket.

“Brittany!” Martha’s deep voice was slightly fractured with age. From the bank of pillows, her bright blue eyes smiled behind wire-rimmed bifocals. She patted the side of her bed for Britt to join her, then returned to the serious business of winning the hand. She tilted her head slightly backward to focus on the spread of cards she held. She considered for a moment, then placed everything in her hand in threes and fours on the swivel tray serving as a card table. “Gin!” she said with satisfaction.

Martha’s round, gray-haired opponent occupied a room down the hall but visited Martha regularly to play cards and cadge treats. Britt knew her simply as Lavinia.

Lavinia looked at her full hand of cards, then down at the table in disgust. “I don’t know why I drag my arthritic carcass all the way over here just to get beaten day after day. How much am I in your debt now?”

“Ah...” Martha consulted the score sheet. “Nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars.”

“You cheat!” Lavinia accused with a smile. “If it wasn’t for the food your granddaughter brings—” she winked at Britt “—I wouldn’t come back.”

She stood laboriously, and Britt went around the bed to help her untangle herself from the chair and position herself within the protective rails of her walker. Someone in Lavinia’s family had made a colorful little calico pouch that snapped on the side of the walker, and Britt stuffed a bag full of soft cookies she and the children had made into it.

“Bless you,” Lavinia said, leaning heavily on one hand to put the other arm around Britt in a hug. Then she started for the door, moving surely, but at a snail’s pace. “Here I go,” she said. “Like a turtle with her tail on fire. Out of my way. Watch my dust. That’s not an explosion you hear, it’s me, breaking the sound barrier. Hi, ho, Silver! Awayyyy...” Her voice trailed after her as she made her way down the hall.

Britt and Martha giggled.

“How are you today, Grandma?” Britt asked, settling herself on the edge of the bed again. “Do you really cheat?”

“Of course. She’s a better player—it’s the only way I can win.” She looked more pleased with herself than apologetic. Then she tilted back her head to study Britt through the lower half of her bifocals. “How are you? You look more like your mother every day. Except for the circles under your eyes.”

Britt delved into the bag she’d brought. “Well, I’m no spring chicken anymore, you know.”

“Thirty-two. Still a baby.”

“Thirty-three,” Britt corrected, handing her the current supermarket tabloids. “Here’s your Globe, Inquirer, Star, Shalimar, and a small piece of cheesecake.”

Martha frowned at her playfully. “Small piece?”

“Got to watch that waistline.” Britt put the cheesecake on her tray, pulled off the plastic wrap, then poured a cup of milky coffee from a thermos she’d brought.

Martha rolled a bite of cheesecake on her tongue and made an appreciative sound. Then she pointed at the cake with her fork. “You know, my mother used to love rich things. Torte with custard filling and meringue. And she made the most beautiful lattice crust you ever saw.”

This was a story Martha loved to tell, so Britt smiled encouragingly and listened patiently as time rolled away and the old woman focused with misting blue eyes on her childhood. “’Course, she was only ten years old when her family came here from Germany, so she remembered life there very clearly. She was scandalized when stores started carrying cake mix in a box. She and our neighbor, Mrs. Olson, made a pact never to bake anything that was prepackaged.”

“Hi, Martha!” An enthusiastic voice interrupted the old woman’s reminiscences. “That’s right, isn’t it? I’m trying to learn names today.”

Martha looked up with a bright smile, and Britt turned as a woman she guessed to be somewhere around her own age walked into the room. She was plump and red-haired, and was wearing the pale green uniform of the Worthington House staff. She spoke deliberately and with the childlike need to please of the developmentally disabled.

Martha beckoned her closer. “That’s right, Freddie. You’re doing very well. Come and meet my most favorite person in the whole world.”

Britt stood and Freddie came forward shyly.

“Freddie, this is Britt Hansen, my granddaughter,” she said, “Britt, this is Freddie Houser. Dr. Phelps just hired her a few days ago and she’s fitting right in. She helps me with my bath.”

Freddie beamed at the praise.

Britt offered her hand. “I’m happy to meet you, Freddie. I’m glad to know you’re taking such good care of Grandma.”

“I work very hard,” Freddie assured her. “And I try to do everything just the way Mrs. Finklebaum showed me.”

“Freddie?” One of the other aides appeared in the doorway. With a wave and a smile for Britt and Martha, she asked Freddie, “Can you come and help me with Mrs. Norgaard?”

“Okay.” Before she left, Freddie whispered to Britt conspiratorially, “I’ll take special care of Martha, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Freddie.”

As the aides disappeared down the hall, Martha shook her head sadly, pulling Britt closer. “Poor Freddie,” she said quietly. “She lived at home until her mother died. Lavinia told me Phyllis had been diagnosed as terminally ill, but lately had been in a kind of remission. Then, suddenly, she just died without warning. Now Freddie’s all alone. Dr. Phelps hired her to help out around here and she’s trying so hard.” She sighed. “Imagine being not quite up to snuff and having nobody.”

“That would be tough,” Britt commiserated. “Well, she really seems to like you, so you keep encouraging her. Now finish that cheesecake so I can take the plate with me.”

Martha tucked back into the treat with fervor. “My mother used to make something kind of like this. Though she never liked using cow’s milk. She always wanted a goat, so that we could have goat’s milk, but my father raised dairy cows and was horrified at the idea. She insisted goat’s milk was healthier and tasted better. He said it tasted like—” She stopped abruptly and grinned. “I won’t tell you what he said it tasted like. She tried to tell him goat’s milk could be delicious if the goat ate the right things, and that it was easier to digest. Often, people who are allergic to dairy products can still drink goat’s milk. But he wouldn’t hear of it and she never did get a goat.”

“I had goat’s milk a couple of times in college,” Britt said, trying to remember the circumstances. “We were on a health kick, I think, to get in bikini shape by the summer. We’d been impressed in class with how low in fat and...”

Something clanged in her brain.

Goat’s milk. Lower in fat than cow’s milk. Snob appeal. Gimmick!

Martha ate and chatted while Britt’s heart began to pound and her brain ticked over with the idea. At the moment, yogurt was the ordinary consumer’s fair-haired child. Goat’s milk yogurt would probably bring them running. No. Would it? Would they go for it? Of course. All she had to do was think it through carefully and find the right approach.

She had to make some. Now. Today.

* * *

A BLOND EYEBROW went up disbelievingly. “You’re going to make what?”

“Goat’s milk yogurt,” Britt repeated, taking her friend and neighbor, Judy Lowery, by the wrist and dragging her across the yard toward the pen where she kept three Alpine goats.

“You’ve got to be joking. You ever tasted the stuff?” Judy was a writer who kept the goats for company. She was a newcomer to the Tyler area and a cynic, but a wonderful friend.

“I’m going to scope it out in detail at the library, but my grandmother says goat’s milk can be delicious if they’re properly fed. Can I rent one of your goats for a couple of days? Long enough to get milk and make yogurt and try a few recipes?”

Judy, half a head taller than Britt, put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and said gravely, “Why don’t you come inside and lie down? I’ve seen this coming. You’ve blown a fuse. I knew this was—”

“Go ahead and scoff,” Britt said, undaunted by her attitude, “but I’m going to produce a yogurt that’s lower in fat and calories than anything currently on the market. And I’m going to make a bundle.”

Judy folded her arms. “Why don’t you just find a rich man and remarry? You’ve still got it, you know. Tight body, great hair, unconscious sex appeal. Why put yourself through this?”

This time Britt took Judy’s arms and gave her a shake. She’d thought about her idea in the car all the way over here and it just felt right. “Judy, I’ve spent my life living everyone else’s dream. I came home from college to take over the farm when my dad had a heart attack. I worked beside Jimmy toward his plan of what Lakeside Farm should be. This dream is mine. I’m going to save the farm with the hottest damned food product on the market.”

Judy shifted her weight and cleared her throat. “Britt,” she said, “as a dream, goat’s milk yogurt kind of lacks the cosmic quality.”

Britt swatted her arm. “This is going to work. Can I rent a goat or not?”

“No,” Judy replied, “but you can borrow one. Take your pick.”

“Which one’s your best milker?”

“Mildred.” Judy pointed to the doe in the middle, which was tan with white-and-black markings on her face and hindquarters. She was angular with prominent hipbones, thin thighs and a long, lean neck and body. Britt knew the uninitiated might consider her underfed, but a good dairy goat was neither fat nor meaty. Mildred looked like a good prospect.

Britt stretched a hand toward her and all three goats edged forward to nip at her fingers and sleeve. She patted Mildred between the stumps of her horns.

“Okay, Milly,” she said. “You and I are going to take the world by storm.”

Though Britt was pleased with Mildred, Mildred didn’t appear to be thrilled with Britt. She complained loudly as the two women lifted her into the back of the truck. Britt raised the tailgate and locked it. Mildred looked at her with sad, accusing yellow eyes.

Britt patted her flank. “It’s just for a couple of days, Milly. You’ll have fun.” Britt walked around the truck to the driver’s side, then turned to hug Judy. “Wish me luck. If this works, it could be the end of my problems.”

Judy smiled skeptically. “Don’t be silly. This is life, Brittany. Problems never end, they just rest between eruptions.”

“How’s the book coming?”

“So-so. I think it needs more violence, but I’m not very good at that. I hate to hurt anyone I create.”

“I’ll lend you my kids,” Britt said, grinning at her little play on words. “Fair exchange. They do violence to one another without a second thought or hint of remorse. Would that help?”

Judy smiled blandly. “Thanks awfully, but I’ll pass. Let me know how it goes.”

Britt waved out the window as she headed home.

Her mind glutted with ideas, she tried to make herself relax and take it one slow and careful step at a time. First, she’d make Mildred comfortable. Then she’d see that she had just the right things to eat to produce the perfect milk for her recipe. Then she would make the recipe work.

Everything would come together; she just felt it would.

Britt pulled into her drive, noticing the young spring green on the tips of everything, then turned into the yard.

She was just beginning to relax when she saw the red Explorer parked behind her station wagon. Her heart gave an involuntary and rather violent lurch. Jake Marshack was back.