The Cherry Cola Book Club (10 page)

As if staged perfectly by a theater prop crew, the doorbell rang, and Miss Voncille knew that her potential suitor was right on time. She drew in a hopeful, romantic breath and struck a graceful pose. An imaginary photographer would be capturing her at her best and bravest in that moment. After that, the sequence would be a simple one: She and Locke would have something to eat and drink while chatting amiably with the others; then seriously discuss the merits of Harper Lee's work; and finally Locke would escort her to her cozy cottage as usual. Only this time, she would not shrink like a wallflower from her intentions—

Locke Linwood's voice crashed in on her reverie from the other side of the front door. “Miss Voncille?!” He pushed the doorbell again. “Miss Voncille?!”

“Coming!” she called out, shutting the bottom drawer and rushing out of her bedroom like a teenager on her first date. “I'll be right there!”

From the moment she opened the door, she knew something about Locke had changed, and it wasn't just the single red rose he presented to her right off the bat. “For you, my dear lady,” he told her, handing it over with the suggestion of a bow.

“My goodness, Locke!” she exclaimed, taking it and holding it briefly beneath her nose. “You've never brought me flowers before!”

“I still haven't,” he said. “This is only one flower. But there could be more where that came from. I think you're getting sweeter every day.”

Miss Voncille found herself blushing, and for a few moments she just stood there with her mind a perfect blank. Then she recovered nicely. “Well, I'm honestly trying not to be such a diva anymore. But where are my manners? Come on in, and I'll put this little beauty in a vase. And you can carry the biscuits out to your car for me. Let's head to the kitchen, shall we?”

After she had put the rose in water and pointed out the foil-covered baking sheet full of biscuits that she had prepared, Miss Voncille retrieved an unopened jar of her green pepper jelly and dropped it into her shimmering, emerald green clutch. “Good. It just fits, and the color is a perfect match. I guess that's everything.”

“Not quite,” Locke said, momentarily putting the biscuits down on the breakfast table and nervously clearing his throat. “I've come to an important decision, and I wanted you to know about it before we headed off to the library.”

“I'm intrigued. First a rose, now an important decision.”

“Yes, well, I just wanted to say that I think I've finally come to my senses. I haven't let any woman inside my residence on Perry Street since Pamela's wake two years ago. But I know she didn't want the house kept like a museum. So this demeanor of mine has had nothing to do with you. It's all been due to my ridiculous defenses. As if keeping the whole world out could bring Pamela back to me. I have faith that she's gone on to better things.” He paused for a big chest full of air. “So, if it's all right with you, I'd like to invite you back to my house after this to-do at the library is over, and we can have a nip of sherry . . . or something.”

Miss Voncille could not suppress her laughter, a captivating mixture of delight and surprise. “Forgive me,” she managed as she eventually regained control. “You're probably getting the wrong impression. I couldn't be more flattered by what you've just said to me. I've always been a big believer in great minds thinking alike.”

Locke looked reassured. “Well, as long as you weren't laughing
at
me
. . .
”

“Not even close, believe me. All sorts of images were swirling around my head when you extended your generous invitation to me. Sachets, potpourri, scented handkerchiefs. Don't ask me to explain, just understand that I'll be thrilled to extend our evening together. Meanwhile, we need to get these biscuits and jelly to the library and put this party on the front burner.”

 

Maura Beth was feeling on top of the world as she surveyed her busy lobby. As with the first meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club a month earlier, the food was going over well, and everyone seemed to be getting along. It also appeared that Miss Voncille and Locke Linwood had chosen to keep largely to themselves, looking as if they were plotting something in a far corner of the room. While the others were either sitting or standing to savor what was on their plates, Stout Fella was living up to his billing and gobbling up his generous servings at what seemed to be a record pace.

“Who woudda thought corn and peppers would go this good together?” he was saying in between hurried bites of Connie's salad.

Becca gave him a skeptical frown. “For heaven's sake, Justin, I've been serving you Niblets for years. Same thing basically.”

“Oh, yeah, you're right. But it's got something else in it.”

Connie stepped up quickly. “It's the herbs. I put dill and rosemary in it. Gives it a little extra zing.”

Stout Fella kept right on chowing down as if he were in a competitive eating contest. “Whatever it is, it's mighty good. I'll have another helping, I do believe.”

For her part, Maura Beth kept right on circulating to engage her guests. Even Councilman Sparks seemed to be in a fairly sociable mood as she caught up with him near the Academy Award poster of Gregory Peck.

“Very warm, fuzzy shindig, Miz Mayhew. Maybe even award-winning,” he told her while pointing to the blow-up. “Your numbers are growing slightly, I see. Emphasis on the slightly. By the way, who's the young lady over by the punch bowl?”

“Oh, that's one of my front desk clerks, Renette Posey. She's also my girl Friday when I need her to be. I didn't ask her to, but she seems to have taken over the ladling duties. She's probably a little nervous, being the youngster here tonight.”

“Very sweet girl,” he added, looking her over from a distance. “I see you've also gotten the wives to collar their husbands this time out. I never thought Justin Brachle would have the time to darken the doors of this library. He's the all-time wheeler-dealer of Cherico, and we're thankful he works his realty magic so well.”

Maura Beth cocked her head. “As in lots more taxes to collect from wealthy homeowners?”

“Precisely.”

“But not enough to keep the library open?”

Councilman Sparks gave her one of his most conspiratorial winks. “Don't worry, Miz Mayhew. I fully intend not to underestimate you. That's why I'm here tonight. By the way, I've been meaning to ask you: What shade do you officially call that red hair of yours? It's very unusual—even stunning, if I do say so myself.”

“Oh! Well, I guess auburn would be the most traditional way of describing it,” she answered, completely caught off guard. “An ex-boyfriend of mine at LSU once told me that I had a head full of good bourbon whiskey, but that always made me sound like the ultimate party girl, which I wasn't.”

He wagged his eyebrows and smiled. “I've been noticing the way your hair changes in different kinds of light.”

“Yes, it does do that.”

“It looks one way in the sun and another way under the fluorescents.”

Maura Beth decided to say nothing and nod her head.

“My wife's hair is brunette. It always looks the same everywhere.”

They had reached an awkward pause, and Maura Beth decided she'd had enough. “Maybe you should get a job out at Cherico Tresses, Councilman. I think your comments would be much more appropriate there. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue to make the rounds.”

She walked away without looking back, approaching the McShays and the Brachles. They were in the midst of friendly banter, and it was Connie who was holding forth at the moment. “. . . and I just love the way the light plays off the lake at certain times of the day, particularly around sunset. I could hardly pull myself away this evening.” She gave Becca one of her nudges. “We must have you and Justin out for dinner soon around that time so you can see for yourself. I'll try and persuade Douglas to go out in
The Verdict
and catch some fish for us.”

“Oh, we'd love to, wouldn't we, Stout Fella?” Becca replied.

He quickly swallowed the last of the corn and pepper salad he was chewing and nodded his head obediently, while Douglas flashed a sarcastic smile at his wife.

Maura Beth glanced at the front desk clock and decided to make an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we'll begin our discussion in about fifteen more minutes. Meanwhile, please continue to enjoy this wonderful spread and each other's company.”

“I intend to try a piece of your sheet cake next, Miz Mayhew,” Stout Fella explained, stepping up and wiping the edges of his mouth with a napkin. “It looks mighty tempting from here, and Becca raved about it last time she came. Of course, everybody's dish was worth the price of admission. But after my cake, I'm afraid I'll have to make my manners to all you good folks and leave. I have some pressing business to attend to over at The Twinkle. But don't worry, Becca's staying for all this book bid'ness, and I'll be back to pick her up later. And don't let me forget to say again that all a' y'all are fantastic cooks. This was just delicious.”

Maura Beth and the others offered up their group thanks and then watched him practically inhale his cake a few moments later. Finally, after guzzling a cup of punch and giving Becca's cheek a perfunctory peck, he headed toward the front door, dialing his cell phone all along the way.

“Isn't he incorrigible?!” Becca exclaimed to Maura Beth and Connie after he'd left. “Never even allows himself time to digest his food. He's the most driven person I've ever known in my life!”

“Connie told me about you nicknaming him Stout Fella,” Douglas put in, “but I didn't really get it until he came over and shook hands with me when we first walked in. I did recognize him, of course, but I'm afraid it was a shock all the same. No offense, Becca.”

“Oh, none taken. It is what it is. I just don't know what to do about it. He's completely turned up his nose at my new recipes. ‘Fix it like you always do,' he complains. ‘Stop taking things out. Make it taste like it used to.' I'm afraid he hasn't downsized an ounce.”

On that note, Maura Beth decided to put an end to her kibitzing and get the literary portion of The Cherry Cola Book Club under way. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we put away our plates, freshen up if we need to, and then delve into some Pulitzer Prize–winning prose?”

 

Maura Beth stood behind the podium ready to tackle the major theme of the evening: namely, “Was
To Kill a Mockingbird
one of the catalysts for the 1964 Civil Rights Act?” She did not, however, intend to open with such a ponderous question. She would lead up to it gradually, soliciting opinions from the members about the consequences of racism described in the novel. She expected the discussion would be far more substantial than the lightweight diversion that was Scarlett versus Melanie of a month ago. Her unspoken motto was: “Start simple, then step it up.”

Instead, Councilman Sparks stole the floor right out from under her again. “If I might, Miz Mayhew,” he began, “I'd like to pose a question here at the outset to all you good people—but particularly the men.” He did not wait for her to acknowledge his request, pressing on like the polished politician he was. “I've been giving this a great deal of thought. Don't you feel that Atticus Finch is unrealistic as a character and a father? For instance, he's raising Jem and Scout by himself and always gives them the right advice and never seems to make any mistakes. He has the moral high ground on everything. I don't know any men like that, do you? Where are the typical male foibles? In fact, he has none.”

It took every ounce of Maura Beth's restraint to keep from saying out loud: “I can see why Atticus Finch would be alien to a man like yourself.” Instead, she gathered herself and asked for reactions from the others.

Becca was the first to respond. “I wish my Stout Fella was much more like Atticus Finch, even if the character is unrealistic. Justin knows his business and gets things done, but he doesn't leave much time for anything else. For instance, he hasn't made time to slow down and think about us having a family, and we've been married ten years now. If we have children eventually—and I do want to—do I think Justin will be an Atticus Finch? No way. I don't think men are like that in real life. So I suppose Councilman Sparks has a valid point.”

Douglas, who had been fidgeting in his chair a bit, entered the discussion with a slight scowl. “Now, wait just a minute here. I'll admit we men aren't perfect. Neither are our women. But I always took care of my family. I love my wife and daughter and granddaughter. You don't have to be an Atticus Finch to do what you're supposed to do—or the right thing, as the case may be. Have you thought that maybe Atticus Finch is written that way to make us strive to be better men—and lawyers, for that matter?”

“Speaking of which,” Councilman Sparks said, “don't you think the law profession has taken a turn for the worse since they allowed billboard and television advertising? Hasn't it cheapened everything?”

Douglas bristled, speaking up quickly. “I don't advertise, Mr. Sparks. Never will.”

“But you do admit the existence of high-profile ambulance chasers?”

“Is that what we're here to discuss?” Douglas pointed out, struggling for control.

And then Locke Linwood spoke up while holding Miss Voncille's hand. “I'm not qualified to answer questions about lawyers, but getting back to the subject of the perfection of men, I can tell you for a fact that my Pamela had no complaints about me as a husband. Yes, we both made plenty of mistakes, but we hung in there and raised a family together. I don't know how much more you could ask of any man.”