Snoop to Nuts (2 page)

I checked my watch. “I think the judging’s about to begin, Ethelred.” I held the watch up for the woman to see. “Shouldn’t you be getting on over there?”

Ethelred’s protruding eyes bulged. “Goodness, don’t want to be late for this one. No sir, don’t want to be late.”

And she was off as I watched her bent back move away from me. I was fuming and running things I should have said through my head when an arm slid around my waist and a familiar voice was at my ear.

“You see me get that hog, Lindy?” Hunter, red-faced and still extremely proud of himself, stood beside me. “Rope landed just where I sent it. Couldn’t have been a better throw, don’t you think?”

His straight and firm mouth bowed up into a huge grin. He still wore his uniform because he was supposed to be on duty, walking around, nodding to people, representing the Sheriff’s Department and Sheriff Higsby, who had an election coming up in the fall.

“My favorite part was when you fell on your behind.” I brushed off his arm.

“Kind of felt like rodeoing there for a while.” He laughed at himself the way he often did.

“Where’ve you been?” I pushed at his chest. “Now there’s no time for the Ferris wheel.”

“Sure there is. They didn’t pull it down. Won’t for a couple of hours.”

“I’ve gotta be over to the Culinary Arts Building for Meemaw’s last contest.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He struck his forehead with his hand. “Forgot.”

He grinned again. “So how about I buy you some fried butter instead? Hear that’s going over real good this year.” He pointed to a stand with cutouts of sticks of butter flying around the selling window.

“Yeah, and a Roto-Rooter man to clear out my arteries.”

“You’re no fun. How about Kool-Aid Pickles, or fried cheesecake.”

“I’ve got to go.”

He smiled the kind of smile I’d warned him about. The kind that made me loose in the stomach. We’d agreed not to get serious or anything “yucky,” way back when we were twelve and fourteen. The agreement still held, though once in a while wide open cracks threatened to tear down all old agreements. Like now. With that smile of his.

“I’ll see you for the judging,” he said. “I gotta walk around the beer tent one more time. Just to let the boys know I’m still on duty.” He gave me a wave and was gone, lost in the throng of happy Texans.

The familiar smells in the huge, echoing Culinary Arts Building were of sugars and roasted pecans and every spice I ever imagined existed. Standing in the wide-open doors, I took in all the women dressed in their Sunday best, and all the men, old and young, in new and old cowboy hats and worn-down boots and plaid shirts and fringed shirts. All of this was a part of a world I knew so well, with everybody smiling and gossiping and excited to be there. This was my home—Riverville and all its people. This was the place I loved most. Even while I’d been away at Texas A&M, I’d missed my town. I’d missed the pecan farm and the whispers of the tall, old trees, the smell of the Colorado River running through our property, the sweetness of the Nut House, the hot afternoons out on the porch waving to passing neighbors.

It still felt good, being a part of the farming scene again, with the November harvest and packing, the excitement of spring rains, the budding of the stately trees, my meemaw introducing a new delicacy at the Nut House. Now I had my own place in it, with an apartment over the Nut House, where I looked down on Carya Street and watched the citizens of Riverville going about their slow, hot days, and slower, warm evenings, finding time to stop and talk, ask about a sick person here, a person in need there.

I worked hard, hoping to make life easier for all of us ranchers with a strain of pecans that could withstand deep Texas drought, could fight off scab and funguses, and hold the blossoms better. All of this to take some of the misery out of the lives of the farmers and ranchers at the mercy of Mother Nature, the way my daddy, Jake Blanchard, had been at the mercy of the rains and winds and heat.

I was stopped on my way to the center of the room, where the judging tables were set up, to be congratulated by Hawley Harvey, investment banker in town and a trustee on the board of the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church. Hawley was one of those jolly, round guys who shouldn’t ever wear anything with fringe on it, like the vest he was wearing today. And, of course, the way-too-wide cowboy hat and new boots that screamed “I never saw a horse in my life.” He makes me think of Santa Claus, with his happy “ho, ho, ho”-ing. The only thing that puts me off about Hawley is that he likes to hug young women and kiss them on the cheek—big wet kisses. He leaned in for that hug—okay—but I leaned out so the kiss didn’t quite make it to my cheek, just hung in the air between us.

“Congratulations, Lindy. Heard about your big win. You ever think about investing any of those big bucks you’re going to be making, come on over to the Dallas Building any day. I’ll take good care of you. Making some serious money for folks around here, you know.” He nodded hard, though I hadn’t challenged him. “You go ask Simon George and Elder Perkins. Turn you into a millionaire, too, like I’m doin’ for the church. Yes siree. Hope you’re coming to the ground breaking for our spectacular addition.” The short man smiled ear to ear. His bright new boots almost brought him eye to eye with me, but not quite.

I assured him that Ben Fordyce, the family attorney, saw to all of our investments. But Hawley Harvey, never a man to be overshadowed, shook his head and gave a chiding tongue cluck. “Man knows his law. But I know how to protect yer nest egg. Turn it over and over until it grows like one of those weeds you botany people study.”

I politely elbowed my way past him to Miss Amelia’s table, where her Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar was set out in the large bowl still covered with a sparkling white cloth. Small paper dishes and napkins and plastic spoons were arrayed on the paper-covered table on top of Bethany’s leaves and family crests.

Miss Amelia’s steel gray hair had been carved tall by Sally Witbeck over at the New York Salon of Beauty. Meemaw had even rubbed a little color into her cheeks and had a dusty line of shadow on her eyelids. She nervously rearranged her plates and napkins, then stopped to look around the huge room as if searching for someone. Her face lit up with pleasure when she spotted me.

“Lindy, I’m so glad you’re here.” Meemaw kissed my cheek and looked deep into my eyes. “What do you think?”

She waved toward her space on the table. “You think it’s too much? Bethany wanted to bring over silver spoons but I told her it’s a rule; the judges have to use those white plastic things the fair committee provides. But you know Bethany. Doesn’t listen, like all Blanchard women. So I just said, ‘
Go ahead.’
But I took ’em off.”

“I like it, Meemaw. Looks pretty.”

“I was thinking it should have been like a Nut House logo, if I had one different from the ranch. Would’ve been a little classier, which is only right for my Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar. But you know Bethany. Gonna do what she wants to do.”

“Don’t you worry. It’s not the decoration that’ll knock the judges’ socks off.”

Miss Amelia snapped her mouth shut and looked deep into my eyes. She looked tired, which wasn’t usual for my high-speed grandmother. “Don’t you go gettin’ your hopes up, Lindy. There’s more important things in this world than winning another blue ribbon, you know.”

I grinned at her. “I don’t buy the humble act, Meemaw.”

Meemaw would normally have laughed along with me, but not today. She frowned, twisted her hands together, and gave me a look that signaled how tightly she was wound.

Ethelred Tomroy, sitting on a folding chair at the place next to Miss Amelia’s, turned her body around to face us. Ethelred looked worn out, too, maybe from all the lobbying she’d been doing for herself. “I hear tell people think Cecil Darling’s gonna take it today,” she called over. “Got something down there called spotted dick. Some kind of English pudding with pecans and a cream sauce . . .” She quieted as Mrs. Vernon Williams, Superintendent of the Culinary Arts Building and a member of the Riverville Chamber of Commerce, took her place at one end of the long judging table and raised her hands for quiet.

“As if an Englishman could make anything better than a good Texas woman,” Ethelred hissed as the festivities got under way.

Mrs. Williams, in her stylish red suit, red high heels, and helmet hair, called for the contestants to uncover their dishes.

There was a general oohing and aahing as the treats were revealed. People hurried to check out what Miss Amelia had prepared since she was always the odds-on favorite.

“Why, goodness’ sakes, what’s that called?” little Dora Jenkins, wife of the new pastor at the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church, one of today’s judges, asked, admiring the mélange of jalapeños, bell peppers, black-eyed peas, chopped pecans, and diced tomatoes, all tossed with herbs and spices.

“Heavenly Pecan Texas Caviar.” Miss Amelia smiled at the thin woman in a blue straw hat that matched her blue straw purse.

Dora looked up, wide-eyed. “Well, for goodness’ sakes. Won’t Millroy like that one, though?”

Miss Amelia looked over at Dora’s sister, Selma, standing behind her. Selma’s nervous eyes blinked and moved back and forth, from Dora to Miss Amelia, as if finding the whole business of an Agricultural Fair beyond her comprehension. The woman was dressed neatly in a pale blue summer dress that went almost to the floor, covering the one built-up shoe she wore.

“Morning, Selma,” Miss Amelia greeted Dora’s older sister. “Hope you’re well.”

“I certainly am, Miss Amelia.”

“And how’s that lovely garden of yours doing?”

“Just fine, thanks to all the nice people of the church and the help y’all been giving me.”

“We’re happy to do it, Selma. I’ll be over your way next Tuesday. My weeding day, if I remember right.”

“I hate to ask it of you, Miss Amelia. I mean, with the Nut House and all, I just don’t see how you have the energy.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Selma. I’m doing fine. Long as I got my health, nothing’s going to stop me.”

The women moved on to take a look at Ethelred’s Pecan Surprise Tomato Puff. Selma, with her one high shoe on her one short leg, dragging just a little behind the other.

Mama rushed in, a little late as usual, and a little out of breath. “Didn’t start yet, did they?” Emma asked.

“Glad you made it.”

I turned into a big hug from Bethany, who’d come up behind us with Jeffrey Coulter, our houseguest. He stood away, looking off into the distance then turning to Justin, saying something he found funny as Justin walked up with Martin Sanchez, foreman out at our ranch.

I nodded to Jeffrey. Enough of a greeting. To tell the truth, I couldn’t wait until Jeffrey Coulter went back to New York City. When Justin was in college, studying business, Jeffrey had come home with him once, for a weekend. That had been enough for me—all that snobbery and condescension, but even then Bethany had acted silly and smitten with the good-looking guy.

Watching as Bethany turned back to Jeffrey now, and directed a very coy, Southern lady wave at him, I was afraid the same thing was happening. Although I hadn’t said a word to Justin about his friend, I was getting the feeling even he was sick and tired of having the man around. Two weeks more. The guy was supposedly looking at properties for his father, a New York City investor who wanted to build a mall between Riverville and Austin. For all the properties he was inspecting, it seemed to me he was mostly underfoot, and mostly half sneering at our country ways.

“You take a look at the other entries?” Emma, her short, tousled hair held back with a green headband, leaned in to whisper. I shook my head.

“Where are the silver spoons?” Bethany’s eyes flew wide as she hunted around the table. “Somebody took my silver spoons!”

“Shh . . .” I cautioned. “Can’t have ’em out. Committee rules.”

“Oh, pooh on the committee’s rules. I know what’s tasteful and what isn’t. Plastic spoons aren’t.” She turned to smile up at Jeffrey, giving me a twist in my stomach. I hadn’t witnessed such blatant flirting since Angela Hornbeck had a crush on Hunter in seventh grade. I’d practiced raising one eyebrow for hours in the mirror, hoping to outdo Angela, who knew how to bat her eyelashes, raise her eyebrows, and flick her blond hair around—all at the same time. Good thing Angela Hornbeck moved to England after high school and married a lord or a duke or something like that and lost interest in Hunter.

Still in a huff, Bethany stepped forward to straighten a few of the family crests she’d laid out, then back to take Jeffrey by the arm and squeeze it a little, anticipating the arrival of the judges.

Suzy Queen, wife of Morton Grover, who owned the Barking Coyote Saloon, hurried over to throw her arms around Miss Amelia and give her a big smack on the cheek.

Dressed to kill in a fuchsia Spandex dress that barely covered the essentials, Suzy Q’s black hair was puffed out a foot around her head. She wore makeup enough to decorate a clutch of clowns and smiled from ear to ear at all of us. Suzy latched on to my elbow and pulled me around into a big, perfume-laden bear hug.

“Most of us are only hoping to take a white ribbon, Lindy. It’ll be a life-changing moment fer yer meemaw to win this one. Winningest woman at the fair. I’d say everybody but Ethelred’s pulling for her.”

She hurried off on high heels tall enough to tip her over at the first dip in the cement floor.

The girls stepped up next. Meemaw’s very special friends. Miranda and Melody Chauncey had been a part of Riverville since the day they were born. That was over eighty years ago now and still the twins, or “girls” as they were called, were a big part of town life. The thing was, the girls were kind of rough. At least Miranda was. She was always armed, a sidepiece at her hip and a shotgun out in their ancient truck. “Rattlers,” Miss Miranda would say and tap her gun with one of her arthritic hands while Miss Melody, more dainty and worried what people thought about them, would cluck, shake her head, and roll her eyes at us.

“Big day for you, Amelia.” Miranda nodded hard, sniffed, and looked around the large open room. Her museum-quality cowboy hat hung down her back on a string that wasn’t long for this world. She wore what she always wore—old denim pants and jacket with a plain man’s shirt under it.

Melody smiled and nodded to folks around us, then leaned back to preen a little in what was obviously a brand-new outfit with a pretty fringed skirt. She’d had her hair done, too, and flipped it up around her head with one manicured hand. She was dolled up the most I’d ever seen her, and I admired her spunk in the face of her sister’s indifference.

Ethelred, who’d been listening to all the good wishes sent Miss Amelia’s way, was on her feet now, leaning heavily against the table. “I just might have you beat, Amelia.”

She gestured toward her red dish.

“Why, bless yer heart, Ethelred.” Miss Amelia turned a sweet, almost fluttery, smile on her old friend. “I really do hope you get yourself a ribbon.”

“I’m not talkin’ just any ribbon. I’m talkin’ blue. That’s what people been sayin’ to me. Blue, ’Melia. You know what that means.”

She was interrupted by the sound of shushing as it traveled from one end of the large building to the other. The judges, clipboards in hand, stepped through the large, roll-up door at the far end, freezing everyone in place.

The girls scattered. Ethelred shuffled fast to stand at her own table, and the rest of us formed a half circle in front of Meemaw, waiting for the good news.