Twenty-Four

  

By the time Bibi and Clay arrived, only a skeleton of the original table setting was left. Bibi stood in the front of the store and looked around at the twenty-plus people milling about. “Winsome Smiles” was emblazoned on the front of her light blue sweatshirt, but she had worn her best pants—she called them slacks—for the café opening, along with a light blue, butter yellow, and pink scarf that she had tied in a fashionable knot around her neck. Looking at her, Megan felt a stab of pride. Her grandmother’s eyes shone with intelligence, her posture stayed erect. Bonnie “Bibi” Birch was still one cool lady.

“Well, I haven’t seen this many people in this place since the day Elvis died and we had the only working television on Canal Street.” She honed in on Neil Dorfman. “And there’s Neil Dorfman. Now I know Megan must be giving away free food.”

Everybody laughed, including Neil.

“Come on in, Mrs. Birch,” Clover said. “I’ll get you a root beer.”

Megan watched her grandmother greet and entertain their guests, some of whom she’d known her whole life. She had a sophisticated ease with people, an ease that belied the fact that she’d lived solely in one location her entire life. She seemed to be enjoying herself today. She hadn’t been out other than to church and Bridge in weeks, and Megan was happy to see her this social.

“Will we see you Wednesday at the Historical Society fundraiser?” Merry was asking Bibi. Both women were dipping carrot sticks in Jeremy’s homemade dressing, but Merry’s eyes were on Jeremy; Bibi was watching Roger Becker, who was, in turn, talking to Clover and Lydia.

“Will that still go on in Lenora’s absence?” Bibi asked, clearly surprised.

“Oh, yes,” Merry said. Her head bobbed up and down for emphasis. “Lenora would want it that way. Both the Historical Society and the Beautification Board need the funds. There will be a silent auction, and dinner, of course.” She glanced over at the lunch counter, scrunching her features into a look of distaste as she did so. “Normal food.”

“Of course,” Bibi said. Megan caught the sarcasm, but she doubted Merry did. “And will you still be voting on the new preservation rules?”

Merry, still looking at Jeremy—he was rather good-looking, in an urban-sophisticate sort of way, Megan had to admit—shook her well-sprayed head. “Lenora was supposed to present her findings during her talk. Apparently George Washington stayed at your farm,” she whispered loudly, clarifying that it was George and not some other Washington who had resided there. “Imagine that. Lenora says she found historical records that prove he was there. What a boon for Winsome!”

Megan sidled closer to Bibi and Merry. She busied her hands with a rag, wiping nonexistent crumbs off the copper-topped table, and strained to listen.

Bibi, playing at casual, said, “Oh, dear, that is exciting.”

“It is, indeed. The Historical Society has toyed for some time with applying for historic district status with Pennsylvania for Canal Street, but first we must have a local preservation ordinance. Frankly, Lenora’s findings gave us the push we needed to get moving.”

Coolly, Bibi said, “It’s really the downtown area you want designated.”

“Oh, no. We want to nominate Washington Acres. We can do that if we have a local ordinance and can show the significance of your farm.” She beamed. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Your house would be a timeless treasure in our small town. And then if we can get the downtown area designated a preservation district, we can advertise that to tourists. Just think, we may even be able to get on the national register.”

Clenching the rag tightly, Megan bit her lip to stop from interrupting. It was one thing to nominate the downtown area—but their farm? Megan was familiar with the preservation rules; she’d looked them up after her conversation with Lenora at Merry’s nursery. While she and Bibi could make repairs and take basic restorative actions, she would have to ask for permission from the town’s to-be-created preservation board for any improvements or changes to the older buildings on the property. More red tape, and the possibility that the local board members could make decisions that would impact the farm. Even something as simple as a new outbuilding or a change to the home’s front porch—which needed paint and windows—would be subject to a vote. Like her grandmother, Megan had little patience for bureaucratic nonsense. Wasn’t that part of the reason she’d moved back to the country in the first place?

“Merry, do you have a say in this?” Bibi asked. Clover had handed Bibi another glass of root beer and she was using the cup to hide the growing scowl on her face.

“Of course.”

“Well, this sounds lovely. Truly. I wonder who else might be deciding how to proceed?”

Merry, oblivious to Bibi’s true feelings on the subject, said blithely, “There are a number of us. Roger, of course. Lenora, God-willing she make it. Eloise. Sarah Birch—”

“Sarah?” Bibi looked startled. “My sister-in-law? Since when is she a member of the Historical Society’s board?”

Bibi’s cool was slipping. Megan wondered whether it was time to interrupt.

“She’s not,” Merry said. She grabbed one of the few remaining empanadas and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly. Finally she said, “But she has pledged a great deal of money to the Society and our cause. You asked who the influencers are. She will definitely be an influencer.”

Megan saw Bibi’s neck turn red. To her credit, her voice remained steady. “Is that it?”

“And then there’s Jeremy.”

Megan and her grandmother both shot glances in the direction of the chef. “But he’s new to Winsome.”

“Ah, but he is a native. And he has very strong opinions,” Merry said, smiling. “Like me, he envisions a prettified Winsome, a place with wonderful gardens, well-preserved historical sites, and glorious restaurants.”

Is that so, Megan thought. She was pressing hard on the table and her fingertips were numb.

Roger interrupted Merry’s chatter, and Bibi wandered off to speak with Bobby King. Megan, full of spit and fire, marched back to where her chef was standing, chatting up a very flirtatious Lydia.

“I need you.”

“Honey, don’t we all need someone like Jeremy?” Lydia smiled.

Megan couldn’t help it—her eyes rolled, nearly to the back of her head. “Kitchen. Now.”

Clearly not used to being ordered around, Jeremy looked indecisive about whether to comply. Finally he nodded at Lydia and said, “Duty calls.”

Megan walked to the large walk-in pantry at the back of the kitchen. She opened the door and motioned for Jeremy to follow. He raised his well-groomed eyebrows but complied.

“What the hell, Jeremy? Were you going to tell me about your work on the historical preservation project?”

Jeremy looked momentarily nonplussed, but he quickly regained his composure. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Megan hissed. “Your vision for a prettier Winsome? Your desire to see preservation ordinances enacted?”

“Oh, that.”

“Oh, that? That’s all you can say?”

“Megan, calm down.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down in my store.” Her head felt like it was going to explode, all of the angst and turmoil of the last weeks skipping like stones on the inside of her skull. Her peripheral vision dimmed and all she could see was Jeremy’s aristocratic face, pinched in a look of haughty amusement. “Meanwhile, you are colluding to nominate my farm for historical preservation status?”

“I’m not colluding on anything. I happen to think Winsome could be a quaint little town of some significance, if—”

“If?” She was shouting, and she willed herself to take a deep breath. Jeremy had a right to his own opinions. She realized she felt betrayed by her new chef, a thought that was unsettling. She barely knew him, at least the grown-up version, and she certainly had no right to control his extracurricular activities. But she did expect a degree of loyalty as his employer, and the fact that he would be part of a movement affecting her farm without so much as a mention…well, that she felt she had a right to be upset about.

“Did you know that Lenora and the Historical Society members want to nominate my farm for preservation?”

Jeremy’s eyes darted from the white, heavily stocked shelves to the door behind Megan, as though he was planning his escape. The room smelled heavily of garlic and cumin. “Yes,” he said finally.

“And have you been advocating for that too?”

“Yes.”

Hands clenched by her side, short fingernails digging into soft palms, Megan said, “Why?”

“Because it’s right for Winsome.”

“Right for Winsome, or right for you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. You are obviously stressed and not in control of yourself.” He used a placating tone that only increased Megan’s ire.

“Oh, I am in complete control,” Megan said slowly, understanding dawning. “You’re using me and the café.”

“What on earth for?”

“To get a sense of the market in Winsome. To determine what works food-wise. To build a following.” She met his gaze, despising the arrogant smirk on his face. “You never intended to stay at the café. All that stuff about wanting to do something good? BS. You want to invest in Winsome, yes—with your own restaurant. And only after you use the café as a guinea pig and raise the town’s status through the Historical Society.”

Jeremy stared at her, that smirk still on his face—the confident smirk Megan remembered from high school. The one girls lusted over. The pantry was tight, a six-by-eight space lined on two sides with white metal shelves. Tight—and warm. Jeremy took a step toward her, his eyes bright, his shoulders squared. When he was inches from her, he looked down and shook his head slowly, back and forth.

He said, “So what?”

“So what? So what?” Megan closed her eyes. “You really haven’t changed, have you? Winsome isn’t some crappy town you can come into, remake to suit your needs, and then walk away from, counting the cash as you leave. Winsome is home to these people. To me.” She opened her eyes. “This café and the farm? Right now, it’s my life.”

Jeremy leaned in, his face inches from hers. “Megan—”

She placed her hands on his chest to push him away when the pantry door opened.

A surprised voice said, “Megan?”

Megan froze, hands on Jeremy’s chest, Jeremy’s face inches above her own. She took a step back, away from Jeremy, all too aware of how this looked.

“Denver,” she said.

“I need to talk to you,” he said coolly. “When you’re finished.”

“We were just…”

But Denver was already gone.

“Back to the party, then?” Jeremy asked, that smirk still on his face.

“We’re not finished with this discussion.”

Jeremy smiled. “I should hope not.”