Kimberly Stuart (9 page)

“Evening, BJ,” Mac said, leaning out to shake the trooper's hand. I tuned back into Richard's voice.

“Listen, Sadie, I can't chat long but I wanted you to know I've booked reservations at Deseo for when you're back in March. I thought I'd call ten or so of our closest friends and we'd celebrate your prison break together.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said, a lightness filling my chest. “Richard, you have no idea how thrilled I am to be coming home.” I could smell Deseo's famous
paella
even in Mac's Armor All-ed truck.

“It's a date then,” Richard said. “I'll call you later, love. I'm almost to the city. We have rehearsal at seven.”

“With whom?” I asked. Rehearsal with anyone familiar with the cultural importance of MoMA sounded exquisite.

“I'm conducting Dvorak's ‘New World' and the Sibelius violin concerto this weekend at Carnegie. Moscow Symphony Orchestra is here on tour and Maestro Igor is down with the flu, poor gangly thing. I got the call last night.”

“Richard, that's fantastic!” I exclaimed. “What a compliment!”

“I know, I know.” Richard couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. “I'm pleased. They might have called sixteen people before they got to me, but at least I was on the list to begin with.”

“Congratulations,” I said warmly. “I'm so happy for you.”

“Thank you, darling. I'll call later and tell you how it went.”

He hung up and I snapped the phone shut.

Mac rolled up the window as BJ retreated back to his patrol car. “Richard landed a huge conducting job this weekend,” I said aloud. “I'm thrilled for him.” I turned to Mac. “It'd be like you getting the chance to, say, treat the president's dog.”

Mac let his head roll to the side slowly. He looked at me with bored amusement. “The president's dog is senile and nearly dead. But,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders like a question mark, “if the president needed help birthing his prize heifer, well, then.” His grin made something jump in my stomach. “I'd be just the man.” He pulled the truck slowly onto the shoulder and turned us back toward town.

“What are you doing? Aren't we going home?” I hadn't intended it, but my voice did rise sharply with my question. I watched
Law and Order
, people. I knew not to let the perp bring you to a second location. Of course, this particular perp had been shuttling me back and forth to work for weeks, but still.

“Road's closed up ahead. A semi lost control and is blocking the highway.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” I said, exasperated. “This is just one more reason people are meant to live in more populated areas. In New York, for example, we have more than one route home.” I sighed.

“You'll be happy to know no one was hurt.”

I cleared my throat. “That's good to hear.” I shifted in my seat.
I
can
think of others, I
can
think of others,
I thought. That blasted Golden Rule was such an annoyance. “So where are we headed?”

Mac turned into one of the many empty parking spaces along Main Street. “Dinner. A man's got to eat, even in a snowstorm.” He pulled the key from the ignition. “Want to join me?”

I looked ahead of us. A warmly lit café beckoned. I tried not to think of the processed cheese, flavorless meat, and iceberg lettuce that awaited me. We were in the middle of a natural disaster, after all.

“Fine,” I said, and waited for Mac to open my door.

Local Flavor

A balding man in an apron looked up from his position behind the grill. “Seat yourself, Mac,” he called.

“Thanks, Harv.” Mac removed his ball cap and turned to me. “Booth in the middle all right?” he asked.

I led the way to the center of a wall of red vinyl booths. Mac hung his cap on a hook perched on the side of our booth. We scooted into seats opposite each other.

“How's it going, Don?” Mac nodded to a man in a nearby table. “Weather cold enough for you?”

Don shook his head. “You know this ain't cold, Mac Hartley. Snowy, yes. A tad inconvenient, maybe. But cold hasn't even knocked on the door.” He joined Mac in hearty laughter and turned back to an impossibly large cheeseburger. If Don had asked my opinion, I would have corrected him on both the cold and his choice of nutrition. He had to be weighing in at three bills and yet the artery clogging continued.

“We have some uncharacteristic silence at this table,” Mac said, eyebrows raised over his menu. He slid a plastic booklet with a printed cover over to me:
Harvey's Café, Where Friends Meet to Greet and Eat.

“I'm taking in the ambience,” I said, opening my menu. “I'm surprised so many people are out and about.”

Mac surveyed the busy dining room. “We're a hearty people, Ms. Maddox.” His eyes were nothing but ornery. “You'd probably feel more comfortable in this weather too, if you could stop wearing shoes to break your neck in.”

I sighed. “While I'm indebted to your fashion savvy, Mac, I'd prefer a recommendation on what to order.” I ran my finger down the list of Harvey's offerings. “I'm seeing an abundance of pork products.”

Mac nodded. “Chops are good. Burgers are good. Chicken-fried steak is good.”

“Which is it? A chicken or a steak?”

Mac looked confused. “It's a steak. Fried like a chicken.” He licked his lips. “Harvey makes a good gravy … Sounds good tonight.” He slapped his menu shut and grinned at me. “Why are you wrinkling your nose?”

“I'm still dealing with the fried chicken steak issue.”

Mac looked up. “Hey, there. How are you?”

I looked up to see the waitress who'd slapped a couple waters on the table. Mallory Knight met my gaze with wide eyes.

“Ms. Maddox. Hi.” She shifted on her feet.

Mac shook his head at me. “You
are
famous, aren't you? And I thought it was all hype.”

I shot him a look and was entirely distressed to find him attractive, even as he smirked. I turned quickly back to Mallory. “I didn't know you worked here.”

“I didn't know you knew this place existed.” She took out her order pad and a pen. “Besides, student assistantships don't really pay a whole lot.”

Which is justice
, I thought,
since you don't do squat.

“Mac Hartley,” he said, reaching forward to shake Mallory's hand. “I'm Ms. Maddox's private chauffeur.”

Mallory's eyebrows shot up. “Are you serious?”

“He most certainly is not,” I said, huffy. “Well, he
is
in a sense, but not the way he's making it sound.”

Mac winked at our impressionable young waitress. “It's exactly as it sounds, my dear. You appear to know Ms. Sadie well enough to have a good idea of her expectations.”

Mallory smiled at Mac and put one hand on her hip. “I do, in fact. She has very, very high expectations.” She glanced at me. The sass was back home on her face.

All I need,
I thought. Obnoxious and More Obnoxious ganging up on me. I smiled like the gracious Queen Mother. “Speaking of high expectations, I've heard great things about your menu.”

Mallory became all business. “Are you ready to order, then?”

“I'll have the pork chop,” I said. “If Harvey has a history of overcooking, please encourage him to under- rather than over-. For the sides, I'll have steamed vegetables, no salt, and the homemade roll. Do you have iced tea?”

Mallory was scribbling furiously on her notepad. “Only in the summer,” she said, not looking up.

“Then I'll have hot tea with two lemon slices on the side.”

“Got all that?” Mac asked, shaking his head at Mallory.

“I sure hope so.” She jerked her head at me. “You know about the
expectations
.”

“I like this girl,” Mac said, ignoring the daggers I sent his way. “Mallory, I'd just like a chicken-fried steak, if you will. Sides of Harvey's famous applesauce and the rolls for dipping. Large chocolate milk with my dinner and coffee after the meal.”

“Thanks,” Mallory said, tucking the notepad into her apron.

She retreated to the kitchen window and Mac smiled at me. “Don't be grumpy.”

I crossed my arms. “I'm not.”

“Yes, you are,” he said as if he'd pronounced the sky blue. “You take yourself too seriously.”

“There you go again,” I said, exasperation pouring out of my voice. “Why do you assume the right of telling me about my inner thought life? First, I don't like people taking care of me and now I'm too serious with myself?”

Mac watched me for a moment. “So, am I right?”

“And besides.” I lowered my voice. “You don't know her.” I narrowed my eyes toward Mallory, who was dressing salads behind a counter. “She seems sweet as sugar right now, but the girl has an issue with authority.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding slowly. “You see yourself in her.”

“You are insane,” I sputtered. “I'm taking a walk.” I started to stand, disgusted I'd been coerced into having dinner with that man.

“Now, hold on a minute,” Mac said, laying a warm and calloused hand on mine. “Sit down, you crazy woman. You're not going for a walk in a snowstorm. Sit down, now. Come on.”

I sat slowly and didn't withdraw my hand, which could, in retrospect, be seen as a sign of weakness.

“Listen,” he said, returning his hand to his side of the table. “I didn't mean to offend you. Just rile you up a bit.” Blue eyes sparkled as he took a draw of water. “But I'm not sure you're used to people riling you up.”

“Not like that,” I said, wishing I could give in to my lower lip's desire to jut into a satisfying pout. “Most people save their comments to share with other musicians behind my back.”

“Ouch,” he said. He leaned back and dangled one arm along the booth behind him.

I shrugged, trying not to notice how nice he looked in a worn old button-down.
Pull yourself together,
I thought, and concentrated on sipping the tea Mallory had set down in front of me. The storm must have been knocking a few loose, for surely Mac had not provoked the change in my heart rate.

We chatted a bit about less threatening things, like the Hartley kids (Mac adored them), the weather (I despised it), and Jayne's pies (shared awe). Mallory approached our table with two plates piled high with food. She set mine down first.

“Pork chop, done to a perfect 160 degrees,” she said, “and chicken-fried steak with extra gravy, because Harvey knew you'd want it.”

“Good man,” Mac said.

“Can I get you two anything else?” Mallory was watching me closely, eyes darting between my eyes and my plate. Had she spit on the chop or something?

“I don't think so, thank you,” I said and Mallory took her leave.

“Shall I say grace?” Mac asked, then looked a bit uncomfortable. “Or I could pray silently.”

“Let me guess.” I tilted my face to one side. “People from New York are godless atheists who think religion is, at best, provincial and at worst, destroying everything from the environment to presidential politics.”

Mac looked sheepish. “I'll pray, then.” He bowed his head. He waited a moment and then spoke quietly. “Heavenly Father, thank you for this dinner and for your continued provision for us. Please bless the food to our bodies so that we might serve you better. Thank you for Sadie, Lord, and for her willingness to share a meal with me. Bless her with a new sense of your love for her during the time she stays with us in Maplewood. Amen.”

I swallowed a lump rising in my throat. Mac took a sip of water but I thought I could see blush creeping into his cheeks. I smiled. “Thank you, Mac. I can't remember the last time someone blessed me.”

He busied himself with his napkin and cleared his throat. I steeled myself for a retort, but he said only, “You're welcome.” Then, fork in one hand and knife in the other, he flashed a huge grin. “Shall we?”

“I don't understand it,” I said for the second time. We were crawling through the dark and snow toward the Hartley farm, bellies full and bodies warm in the heated truck. “Of course I've had pork chops before, but they didn't taste like
that
.”

Mac allowed a smile around his toothpick but kept his eyes on the road.

“And all he used was salt and pepper. No mango coulis, no cilantro-lime marinade … Just salt and pepper.” I shook my head, more annoyed than pleased. How much money had I spent during my lifetime on bad pork? And how was it that a town with no working stoplights could instruct me on the finer points of meat preparation?

Mac turned the window defroster up a notch. “I'm glad you liked it, but that Mallory was downright excited.”

“She really was,” I said, marveling at the second miracle of the evening. “It was as if she took the pork personally. She
smiled
at me on the way out. And it was a real smile, not one of those saccharine ones she usually comes up with.”

“It was a good meal,” Mac said, and I nodded to my window in assent.

We rode the rest of the way in silence, listening to a deep-voiced man on the radio sing about his favorite beer while Mac tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed along.

Snow Day

The next day Moravia cancelled classes. Cal shook his head in disbelief, sure the college had never before closed its doors on account of weather, not during his lifetime, at least. Drew stayed home from school and ran around the house for the first hour crowing about his good fortune. Joel joined in on the crowing though all he would miss that day was a trip to town for groceries. Emmalie looked at me from her high chair, masticating slices of banana placed on her tray with great vigor.

“Emmy,” I said to her through the steam rising from my teacup. “You and your mother will need each other for solace in this house.” I shook my head. “I shudder to think of the marked increase of testosterone levels over the years.”

Jayne laughed and took a sip of orange juice. “Can you imagine junior high?” She rose from the table and kissed Emmy on one of her fat cheeks. “We girls will just need to stick together, right, sweet pea?”

Emmy gurgled through her banana, sending a chunk of it sliding down her bib. I felt proud that the sight didn't make me want to vomit. Maplewood had already been a growth experience, had it not?

“What will you do today, Sadie?” Jayne started in with the paper towel facial she gave Emmy each morning after breakfast.

“I need to practice.” I drained the rest of my tea. “My chamber concert in New York is two weeks away and I have to clean up the Handel.” I rinsed out the cup by the sink and dried my hands on a red-checked towel.

“We'll leave you alone, then,” Jayne said. “I'll do my best to keep the boys quiet. Maybe send them outside to build a snow fort.”

I waved away her worry. “When I practice, not even a jackhammer can distract me. Your boys will be fine.”

Look at me,
I thought as I ascended the stairs to the second floor.
Little Miss Accommodating.
I smiled to myself, smug with my ability to live as the Romans did. Up in the attic, I began vocalizing, starting with simple humming up and down from tonic to dominant. I stretched, I walked, I blew air through my lips like a tired horn player. I even did two sets of ten jumping jacks to get my heart pumping and my body awake. I was forever reminding my students at Moravia that singing was a physical activity. One's entire being had to be engaged because the body
was
the instrument. My favorite voice teacher in undergrad had kept a small trampoline under her baby grand. If my singing was lethargic, my tone uninspired, my breath support desperate, Ms. Groves would haul out the trampoline and watch with a poker face while I jumped. When she was satisfied, I'd hop back off the tramp and sing. Inevitably, my body felt the singer's cherished paradox of being grounded and free at the same time. I didn't have a trampoline in my office at Moravia, but jumping jacks worked and once the weather cooperated, I'd order laps around the quad.

My pitch pipe gave me an F, and I was soon immersed in the Handel. The ornamentation of the second section of the piece had been giving me trouble so I took my time revisiting how I wanted those phrases to sound. During a lull, while I reconsidered a series of breath marks, I heard insistent whispering behind the door at the foot of the stairs.

“But Mommy, why are you sitting on the floor?”

“Shhh!
I'm listening.” Jayne's whisper voice was much more convincing than Drew's.

“Listening to what?” he said in an impatient stage whisper.

“ShhhHHH!”
Jayne said. “I'm listening to Miss Sadie sing.”

“What song is she singing?” Drew said.

Joel piped in. “Is it from VeggieTales?”

“Drew, honey,” Jayne said, betraying in her voice her feeling that Drew wasn't such a honey at that moment. “I don't want Miss Sadie to hear us because she's working, so—”

I had crept downstairs and opened the door slowly as she spoke. Jayne looked up, the baby on her lap and both boys standing before her. They looked up at me with solemn eyes, certain of their impending doom at the hands of their mother.

“I'm so sorry,” Jayne said, hoisting to her feet, Emmy swaying and clinging to her mom's neck. Jayne tucked a strand of blonde past her reddened cheek. “I was just discussing with the boys how we didn't want to bother you.” She shot them a look that made their chins droop.

“Well, I'm here now, so let's try a different approach.” I turned to the boys. “Drew and Joel, would you and the girls like to join me upstairs for a short concert?”

Drew snapped his head to attention. “Like with drums?”

Jayne nudged him. “No drums, buddy. Miss Sadie is going to sing for us.” She barely waited for me to clear the first stair before jumping in line behind me. The baby squealed as Jayne ascended to the top. The boys straggled along behind, disappointed like so many others that I couldn't accompany myself on drums or electric guitar.

Jayne gathered her children around her, the boys on either side and the baby on her lap.

“Welcome to Hartley Concert Hall,” I said in my soap-opera-star voice. “My name is Sadie Maddox and I will be your entertainment for the next few minutes. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the music.”

This was where the orchestra should have launched into a sweeping overture, but my resources were limited. I played a lone E on the pitch pipe and began.

The Hartleys were a good audience, at least for the first sixteen measures. Jayne's eyes shone, her back straight as a pin as she watched my every move. The baby bounced up and down and clapped her chubby paws. Drew sat with his skinny legs crossed, slumped with chin in hands and appearing to be comfortable in his pretzel shape as only young children can be. He exhibited the Hartley male eye gene: bottomless blue, wide and watchful. Joel stared at me with the same eyes, only he covered both ears. Full volume classical singing at close range could make a person's eardrums tremble like a brittle November leaf. I was the first to admit that and took no offense at Joel's efforts to drown me out.

Even with their good intentions, however, my audience, only one of whom rose above four feet in height, got weary of the Handel before I reached the second theme. So I capped it off and accepted their applause. Emmalie hadn't stopped clapping from start to finish but the boys took their opportunity to grace me with effusive accolades, including dog sounds and armpit farts. Jayne chastised them as best she could without stopping her own applause.

“That was beautiful,” she said, eyes shining. “I've never heard anything like it in my life.” She pulled her sweatshirt sleeve over her hand and used it to dab at her eyes. “I mean, we have some CDs of yours, and Cal got me one with Kathleen Battle for my birthday one year, but in person …” she trailed off, shaking her head. She took a deep breath and smiled shakily. “Would you mind singing one more?”

“I'd love to,” I said.
Perhaps Avi was right about this move,
I thought. These people were far more appreciative than any roomful of music snobs back East. At least the culturally poor and needy remembered to say thank you.

As a contrast to the perpetual motion of the Handel, I sang a haunting lullaby by Schumann for the second piece. I kept it in the German, as translating it to English would have been like telling an editor at
Bon Appétit
to dip his sushi in ketchup. Some things are meant to stay true to their original form.

Jayne swayed lightly with Emmy on her lap. The baby plugged in her thumb and hummed a monotone line along with my own. Drew lay down on the hardwood and appeared to be counting the overhead beams. Joel said loudly during the second verse, “But Mom, does she know any VeggieTales songs?”

I finished the piece and received another round of arm flatulence and wild clapping. Jayne stood with Emmy and threw her free arm around my neck. “Thank you,” she said into my hair. “I feel like I've seen the best of New York in my own house.” She pulled away and started herding the boys toward the stairs.

“Jayne,” I said, “wait just a moment, will you?” I raised my eyebrows and looked at the boys.

“Drew and Joel,” Jayne said, still looking at me. “Go on downstairs and get out your Lincoln Logs. I'll be down in a minute.”

The boys raced for the stairs. “Be careful,” Jayne warned as, without care for broken bones, they plummeted down the steep attic staircase. She shuddered as they reached the bottom without incident.

I sat down on the chair by the window and crossed my legs. “Jayne, what are you doing the second weekend in March?”

She looked confused but answered obediently. “
Um
, the usual, I guess.” She searched the ceiling for her plans. “Make a pancake breakfast for the kids, do some errands in town, make lunch, make dinner, clean the house. I think there might be a potluck after church Sunday.” She looked at me and shrugged. “All that glamour packed into two short days. Can you believe it?” The baby started to fuss and Jayne put her down on the floor. Emmy got up on all fours and crawled directly to the bathroom. Jayne hurried ahead to shut the door. I'd been warned of Emmy's new interest in toilet fishing.

“Come with me to New York.”

Jayne stopped with her hand on the bathroom doorknob. She looked at it a moment and then raised her gaze to meet mine. “New York? With you?”

I nodded. “Sure. Cal can take care of the kids for a couple days, can't he?” I wasn't entirely sure this was true but I did my best to sound confident. Lord knew I would run from the room screaming like a little girl if someone asked me to do such a thing.

Jayne bit her bottom lip, looking every bit as uncertain as I felt. She sucked in her breath. “I don't think so, actually. I would fear for their survival.”

“What about a nanny? Can you hire someone?”

Jayne looked at me as if I'd abruptly switched to speaking Cantonese.

I tried a different approach. “What about Cal and Mac together? Certainly two intelligent men can take on three children who don't even know their times tables.”

“You want me to come to New York City with you? A weekend in New York City?”

This wasn't supposed to be so difficult. “Yes,” I spoke slowly and clearly. “As my guest. You'll only need money for a cheesy souvenir from Empire State.”
I can afford it,
I thought. It wasn't as if I'd been a spendthrift out here in the boonies. Other than a modest monthly check made out to the Hartleys, I'd had very few expenses. I could feel the goodwill inside me soaring to new heights. Maybe I was becoming a nice person.

Jayne seemed to emerge out of the cloud. “I'll figure it out. Yes,” she said, smiling suddenly, giddily. “I've only ever been to Chicago once in college. And to Branson for our honeymoon.” She hurried over and hugged me fiercely. “I'll go. Thank you, Sadie.”

I thought she might start crying so I stood. “It's my pleasure,” I said. “Now leave me alone so I can get back to work.”

Jayne scooped up the baby and went flying down stairs, not a whole lot more safely than the boys, and she was carrying a child to boot. I began the second movement of the Mozart and smiled to myself.
Watch out, New York,
I thought.
Jayne Hartley is in the market for a snow globe.