“Shelby, would you take this recipe over to Mrs. Carter? She’s having company tomorrow and needs it before then.”
We’d been getting ready to head over to the Taylors’ place for dinner when the phone rang, and I’d held out a momentary hope that it was going to be Dr. Taylor calling to say he had to cancel for some reason. From Mom’s request, I knew it had to have been Mrs. Carter asking for a recipe instead.
I took the paper she held out, slipped on my spring jacket, and headed out. Mom had explained that Mrs. Carter lived two streets away, in a green bungalow across from the bus stop. I had no trouble finding it and reached her place in a few minutes.
She ushered me inside despite my protests that I had to hurry back home, insisting that she had something she wanted to send back to my mother to thank her for all the trouble she’d gone to.
“It was no trouble,” I pointed out. “All she had to do was copy out a recipe.”
Ignoring my remark, Mrs. Carter disappeared into the other room, where I could hear her chattering on while I stood in the entrance feeling foolish. Her son Tony is my age, and I was afraid he was going to come along and think I was there to see him. He’s a nice enough guy and all, but I never hang out with him.
“Here we are then,” she said brightly when she finally returned. “This is chutney that I made last summer. You give it to your mother and tell her I appreciate her trouble, I do so. My grandmother, rest her soul, always made this preserve and it never fails. Why, my husband is crazy about it. I’m surprised we even have any left. I suppose that’s because the boys don’t care for it so much, although they love everything else I make, yes they do.”
I took the jar from her, said thanks, and turned toward the door, but she wasn’t finished. In fact, she went on so fast that it seemed she hardly had time to take a breath between words.
“You must know my boys, Raymond and Tony. Well, Raymond is older so you probably don’t know him, but you and Tony must be close to the same age. What grade are you in? Tony is in tenth grade; would you be in his class?”
I told her I was in grade ten too, and that Tony was in two of my classes.
“Is that right?” she asked, as though she suspected I was lying. “Two classes? Only two? Now how does that work? When I was a student someone was either in your class or they weren’t.”
I explained that there were different students in each class, depending on the subjects each person was taking.
“Is that so? Well, well, I didn’t know that. Tony doesn’t tell me much about those things. He’s away this weekend, gone over to Veander to spend a few days with his brother, Raymond, who’s taking a course in computers at the community college there. The boys used to fight like cats and dogs, but they’ve gotten close in the last few months, and now Tony goes there every weekend he gets a chance. For goodness’ sake! I just realized that he should be back on the bus any minute now. It’s very handy, having the bus stop so nearby. Just walks across the street, he does. Why, maybe you’d like to come in and wait, and have a little visit with him when he gets home.”
Half frantic to escape I blurted again that I really had to go, thanked her for the preserves, and rushed out the door before she could get going on some other subject. It struck me on the way home that Mrs. Carter could probably talk for a whole day without saying anything of much interest to anyone.
Most of the students who go on to the college in Veander after high school come home every weekend, since it’s only about an hour’s drive. I wondered if the fact that the Carter boys seemed to prefer spending time away instead of at home had anything to do with the fact that their mother prattles on that way. My mom talks a lot too, but at least she says something.
My folks were ready to leave for the Taylors’ place when I got back home. I practised looking totally nonchalant in case Greg brought up the subject of Amber. Picturing myself being incredibly brave and saying things like “that’s great” and “I’m really happy for you” (though I knew I wouldn’t mean a word of it) cheered me a little. As long as I kept him from realizing how hurt I felt I could at least save my pride. It would be awful if he ever guessed just how miserable I was that he was dating someone else.
The house smelled great when Dr. Taylor welcomed us and ushered us into the sitting room. It made me hungry right away, even though I hadn’t even been thinking about food beforehand.
Greg came into the room a moment later, and I was annoyed to feel the familiar lurch in my stomach as soon as I saw him. He smiled and came to sit in the armchair beside the couch where Mom and I were seated.
“Hey, Shelby.”
“Hi, Greg. Something sure smells good.”
“Probably my cologne,” he joked, leaning toward me as if offering me a sniff.
“Oh, my mistake then, I thought it was your dad’s cooking.” I laughed in spite of myself, and it occurred to me that even if he was dating someone else, it was nice being his friend.
We all chatted for a bit, and then Dr. Taylor led us to the kitchen and took several large pans out of the oven. He’d made lasagna and garlic bread with a thick layer of melted cheese oozing over the top. A salad appeared from the fridge, and we settled down to eat.
It was scrumptious, and I’d have been tempted to take seconds if Greg, seated to my left, hadn’t whispered to be sure to save room for dessert.
On top of being a good cook, Dr. Taylor is a great host. He has a knack for making guests feel comfortable and including everyone in the conversation. It popped into my head that some woman would be pretty lucky if he ever married again. But then, it wasn’t that long since his wife had died, so he probably wasn’t ready yet.
I’d drifted a bit from what was being said, engrossed in chewing the crusty-soft bread that seemed to melt in my mouth, and almost missed something important. It was such a passing remark that it was a few seconds before its meaning hit me, and even then I wasn’t sure of what I’d heard. I leaned over to Greg.
“Did your dad just say you worked the last two nights?”
“That was my exciting weekend all right,” he nodded. “Pumping gas and washing windshields. Why, are you jealous that your life isn’t thrilling like mine?”
“But I thought …” I didn’t finish the sentence, realizing that saying anything about his date with Amber would make it look like I cared. He must have been called in to work at the last minute and had to cancel. That pleased me, even though they had probably already rescheduled for another time.
“You thought what?”
“I just didn’t know you worked on Friday evenings,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound too lame. The truth was, his schedule changed all the time, so my remark was pretty flimsy.
“I do sometimes,” he stood to take our empty plates to the sink, “though I usually have either Friday or Saturday night off. But the Brodericks were away part of this weekend, so Amber and I worked all the shifts. They came back last night, or I’d have pulled another double today like I did yesterday.”
“Amber is working at the gas station?” I could hardly believe it. Mostly, I felt this huge burst of happiness. Her comment to him hadn’t had anything to do with a date! She was talking about seeing him at work. That also explained why she’d laughed when he told her to wear her best outfit.
“She’s paying her room and board that way.”
“I thought the Brodericks were her relatives.”
“They are, but she doesn’t want to freeload. The only way she was willing to come here was if they agreed she’d support herself by working for them.”
I wanted to ask him why she was staying with them in the first place but didn’t like to seem nosy. Maybe he’d let something slip about it later.
Dinner was over with soon, and Greg and I did the dishes. When we were finished we went to the book-filled den and sat chatting while the adults visited in the sitting room. It seemed that the evening passed faster than any I can remember, and it was with real reluctance that I got up to leave when Mom called me. Funny how I’d dreaded going there and then hated to leave.
We all thanked Greg’s dad for the great dinner and the adults did their usual last-minute conversation thing in the doorway as we prepared to leave. I felt a stab of disappointment because Greg hadn’t come along to say good night.
Then he appeared, coming through the kitchen, hiding something behind his back. When he reached the group congregated in the doorway he drew his hand around and held it out to me.
My mouth fell open as I saw that he was holding two carnations, one pink and one white.
“These should make up the rest of a dozen,” he said softly, slipping them into my hand.