The Cherry Cola Book Club (14 page)

She touched her fingertips to her temples for a few seconds and then leaned in, staring him down. “More to the point, you haven't stamped the budget yet. I still have time to make the book club the talk of the town.”

He nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

“Then I choose not to shrink from my ultimate goal. Like Scarlett, I shall valiantly defend my turf.”

“You and your never-ending literary conceits!” he declared, cracking a smile. “And there's nothing I can say or do to change your mind at this time?”

“Nothing. I can't see myself putting people on hold for a living.”

He stood up slowly, the disappointment clearly showing in his face. “Well, I have to say, it's a damned shame because I think the odds favor Cherico being without a library in the very near future.”

“I'll just have to take that chance,” she said, standing up and heading for the door.

He moved energetically across the room in time to open it for her. “I guess you will. Meanwhile, for the record, I'll stop trying to louse things up at your meetings. You really don't need any help in that department from what I've seen.”

She turned back at the last second and managed to smile anyway. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

M
ilepost 327 along the Natchez Trace Parkway found Maura Beth driving across a two-lane bridge high above the Tennessee River, heading slowly northeast toward Nashville. It was now deep into the third week in September, and the first hint of fall color among the leaves of the hardwoods flanking the manicured right of way had begun to appear. Yet the green of the thick stands of pine and cedar still dominated as far as the eye could see. This impulsive escape from Cherico the morning after her showdown with Councilman Sparks was nothing short of liberating for Maura Beth, and she kept breathing in deeply as if she were sampling the bouquet of a fine wine. Occasionally, the fleeting glimpse of a deer or wild turkey at the edge of the woods or near a stone outcropping made her think she had died and gone to heaven. In a very literal sense, it reminded her that she'd had her nose in library books to the exclusion of nearly everything else far too long.

The decision to travel north by northeast for a change of venue came to her shortly after she'd returned to her apartment the evening before, collapsing on her sofa and virtually drenched in self-doubt. She had turned her back on security, which was certainly brave, but was it smart? Her first impulse was to call her parents in Covington—particularly her mother—or Periwinkle at the restaurant, or Miss Voncille wherever she could be found these days, but somehow she resisted. It wasn't so much that she was afraid of failing and going down in flames with the library. It was more that she was putting so much of herself into this ordinary little town of Cherico that had offered her a job straight out of school.

Of course, there were many other library jobs out there—some with far more responsibility, most that paid more money. But by some gradual, inexplicable process, she had gotten hooked on this particular position and this wildly diverse handful of people who had suddenly rallied to her side. They were beginning to mean more and more to her with every passing day, creating one of those alternative definitions of the word
family.
It all meant that making a big hit of The Cherry Cola Book Club was a challenge she fully intended to meet.

Then an idea flashed into her head with a clarity she could not ignore. What would be the harm in simply getting the hell out of Dodge for a day or two? She could put Renette in charge of the library, drive up to Nashville, visit with the McShays and the Brachles, and clear her head. She could run everything past all of them and even go to the hospital to bring Stout Fella another balloon bouquet, this time with something more original than “Get well soon!” to cheer him up.

So she put her doubts and fears aside, and reached Douglas at his brother's house. It did not take very long for her to wangle an invitation after summarizing all the drama that had taken place at City Hall.

“Sounds like you're living right on the edge there,” Douglas told her. “But, by all means, come on up for a visit. We'd love to have you. My brother, Paul, and his wife, Susan, are empty nesters with three bedrooms gathering dust now, so they always have room for one more these days. I'll tell Connie and Becca you're coming. I know they'll be thrilled.”

And that had sealed the deal. For Maura Beth, it was now Nashville or bust.

 

All the full-fledged, female members of The Cherry Cola Book Club except Miss Voncille were standing around Stout Fella's room on the fourth floor of Centennial Medical Center, daring him to pick a winner among all the new balloon bouquets they had blown up for him. Of course, the Magic Marker messages were the only criterion that really counted in this impromptu competition. At the moment, Stout Fella was milking it for all it was worth, and everyone looking on was amazed at his outlook and energy. Not even an AMI and subsequent balloon angioplasty had been able to keep him down for long.

Yes, it was true that his voice was not quite as strong as usual, and he had to pause now and then when he spoke, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he would recover completely just as the doctors had said he would.

“Hey . . . I'm sold on Maura Beth's . . . ‘Good Health—Check It Out!' motto because it's got that library thing of hers going for it,” he began, anchored to his bed by the tangle of lines monitoring his vital signs and the IV drips supplying his meds and nourishment.

“Thanks. And a little birdie told me you wanted to come to all my future Cherry Cola Book Club meetings once you get home,” Maura Beth put in quickly. “I'll hold you to that.”

He nodded her way and resumed, “On the other hand . . . who wouldn't like Connie's . . . ‘No More Ice Cream Islands!' for the humor alone?”

“You do know that means no more standing around the kitchen with a spoon, digging in, don't you?” Connie said.

“Got the message, loud and clear. Nevertheless . . . I'm smart enough to remember who's gonna butter my bread for me . . . or probably not even let me have bread and butter anymore. So the winner is—ta da!—my wife and keeper, Becca Broccoli, for . . . ‘I Love You, You Big Lug!' ”

Becca leaned down carefully, finding a clear route to his cheek to plant a kiss, while the others laughed and lightly applauded. Then she pulled back and took several quick bows. “Thank you, thank you, one and all. Please, enough applause. This is so unexpected. I never thought I'd win among such fierce competition. And I want to say further that it will be my next goal to turn my Justin into a Medium-Sized Lug once again.”

He smiled big and gave the entire room a naughty wink. “I promise to tow the line the best I can . . . but I just wanted to say that I'd like for everyone . . . to keep calling me Stout Fella . . . no matter how much I shape up. I keep telling Becca . . . that it makes me feel solid and sturdy. Hey, there's more than one meaning . . . to the word
stout,
you know.”

Becca was rolling her eyes now. “Yes, we know all about that. You're Stout Fella, the Superhero, able to wrap up any real-estate deal with the lightning stroke of a pen.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Now you're talking!”

“You'll just be writing a bit slower now, kiddo,” Becca reminded him. “You'll get a crash course from me in taking your time whether you're eating or buying up all the land on both sides of the Tennessee River.”

“But never fear. After you get released and we head home to Cherico, Douglas and I want to make sure you get a glimpse of the Batman Building downtown to honor your ongoing superhero status,” Connie explained. “It's really the AT&T Building, but it's got these tall twin spires and a few other contraptions on top that make it look like Batman's mask. It's not quite the landmark Ryman Auditorium is, but it's pretty close. There now, that's a good reason to do what all the doctors ask you to do.”

“To the Batmobile, Robin!” Stout Fella replied, enjoying a laugh that turned quickly into a cough, and Becca immediately gave him his water to sip. “By the way . . . where is Douglas right now? No offense to all you beautiful ladies . . . but a man likes to talk to another man now and then.”

“Oh, he's spending some time with his brother, Paul, but he'll be back to pick me up soon,” Connie said. “Anyhow, don't worry. He'll be stopping by plenty before you get released.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and a mousy female voice announced the single word, “Nutrition.” In walked a slight young woman in brown scrubs carrying a tray and smiling deferentially at everyone. “It's almost noon. Time for lunch. It's just a little something to eat—doctor's orders.”

“Yeah, but I thought I was getting that . . . through one of these drips,” Stout Fella pointed out, narrowing his eyes.

“You are, sir,” she answered, nearly in a whisper. “But your doctor wants you to try a little broth, too. And some Jell-O, if you can manage it.”

“Hey, I know I need to lose weight . . . but that sounds ridiculous!” he declared. “When do I start back on . . . meat and potatoes?”

“I'll handle him,” Becca said, noting the sheepish look on the woman's face. “Here, let me take this from you, please.” Whereupon the tray was transferred quickly, the woman scurried out, and Becca gave her husband a stern look.

“You practically scared her to death, you big bully. The poor girl was only doing her job.”

“Never mind her. Hoo, boy!” Stout Fella exclaimed. “What have I gotten myself into? From my wife's home cooking to . . . this!”

Becca ignored the remark and uncovered the plate, inhaling the steam from the broth. “I think it's chicken.”

He cut his eyes at her and smirked like a mischievous little boy. “I think
I'm
chicken.”

“For heaven's sake, don't be such a big baby. If you could watch your artery being unclogged on a TV monitor from start to finish without flinching, you can certainly slurp up a tiny bowl of bland soup. Here, I'll even feed you.” And she proceeded to do just that, while her husband made a gallery of ungainly faces even as he swallowed every spoonful guided toward his mouth.

 

It was out on the deck overlooking Paul and Susan McShay's vast backyard in the wealthy Nashville suburb of Brentwood that Maura Beth was getting ready to hold a brainstorming session about the future of the book club. That revved-up campaign she had envisioned would start here in earnest. The evening was still young and the air invigorating after a delicious menu in the formal dining room of baked chicken, smashed potatoes, and sautéed green beans that Susan had prepared for all of her guests. Now it was time to get down to business.

“I can only stay for about twenty minutes,” Becca told Maura Beth as the gathering seated themselves around a rustic picnic table with their after-dinner drinks in hand. “Stout Fella is expecting me back at the hospital around eight, of course.”

Then Douglas chimed in. “I'm going with her, and not just because she doesn't know her way around. Becca says Justin wants to shoot the breeze with me about the NFL, the college game, and other manly topics. So far, he says, they've refused to give him an injection of testosterone.”

“You'd think this was just another day at the office, and his heart crisis had never happened,” Becca said, waving Douglas off.

Maura Beth smiled as she quietly surveyed the friends she hoped would be sending her back to Cherico with a successful strategy to keep her library open. Connie, Douglas, and Becca, she had expected to consult, but the Brentwood McShays were an unexpected bonus.

“You might like to know that Susan and Paul are still in The Music City Page Turners,” Connie had told Maura Beth at the dinner table. “The three of us were almost half of the founding members, and we all know what it takes to make a success of one of these clubs. Douglas and I brought them up to date on what you're trying to do in Cherico, and they think it's fantastic.”

One thing had led to another, and by the time the dessert of chocolate mousse with whipped cream and a cherry on top was served, Susan had committed herself and her husband to the confab out on the deck later on. “That is, unless you'd rather just have your Cherry Cola people only,” she had added at the last second.

But Maura Beth had quickly reassured her. “Heavens, no! I need as much brainpower as I can round up!”

The Brentwood McShays certainly appeared to have the right credentials for offering intelligent advice. Paul was a taller, more distinguished-looking version of his brother and had recently retired from teaching psychology at Vanderbilt, while the stylish, model-thin Susan still ran her own crafts boutique at the Cool Springs Galleria south of Brentwood. The most important thing from Maura Beth's point of view, however, was that they were both fans of the printed word and would therefore be sympathetic to her cause.

“Time is growing short,” Maura Beth began, officially opening the informal meeting. “The Cherico Library's days may be numbered unless we can drastically increase interest in The Cherry Cola Book Club. And also get more people to use their library cards.” Then she offered a blow-by-blow of her most recent encounters with Councilman Sparks, but particularly his offer to take her out of the library business and appoint her his decorative gatekeeper.

“Something about that bothers me,” Connie said. “Why doesn't he just shut everything down and let you go your merry way? Or should I say unhappy way?”

Maura Beth decided to hold nothing back. “The truth is, though, I'm not really unhappy. I want to make a go of my job in Cherico because I like the place. There are probably a thousand reasons I shouldn't, but I do. As for why he hasn't shut the library down by now to cut his losses, I don't know. That continues to puzzle me. But these local politicians are a law unto themselves.”

“Would you like to have an ex-college professor's opinion?” Paul McShay offered, leaning in her general direction.

“Love to.”

“I'm only going by a handful of things that happened to me during my tenure at Vandy,” he began, after a sip of his port. “It doesn't mean that I'm right in my analysis, but what I'm about to tell you may have some merit nonetheless. There were a few young female students in my classes over the years who developed crushes on me.” He turned and gave his wife a knowing smile and wink. “And I never kept any of that from Susan. I was determined to nip these things in the bud.”

“I'm sure his nipping was effective, too,” she put in. “A wife can usually tell if her husband is fooling around.”

“Anyway, none of those young ladies ever got anywhere with me, but I got pretty good at picking up on the signals. Sometimes, they'd come up to me after class and tell me what a deep speaking voice I had and ‘why didn't I go into broadcasting' and yada, yada, yada. Or other times it was how much they liked the clothes I was wearing—mostly the sweaters and ties that they didn't know Susan had picked out for me. I always thanked them for their compliments but otherwise played dumb, of course.”