Enright Family Collection (58 page)

“You planning on walking into town for a while?” a woman asked from the other side of a table upon which tidy rows of jars of relishes and butters—pumpkin, apple, and peach—were displayed, their labels neatly printed by hand.

Zoey hesitated momentarily. “What’s in town?”

“Oh, the usual country fair stuff. Local crafts and food, games for the children.”

“Sure.” Zoey nodded. “It sounds interesting.”

“Well, then, I’d be happy to mark these
paid
for you and set them aside so’s you don’t have to cart them around with you. You can just pick them up here on your way out.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” Zoey placed the pumpkins in a basket and passed them back to the woman, who instructed her to write her name on a slip of paper, which she stuck between two of the pumpkins before placing the basket on the ground along with other baskets similarly left under the table. She tallied up the cost of pumpkins, and Zoey handed her several bills to pay for them.

Zoey wandered along, glancing at the tables of baked goods, most of which had pumpkin or apple on the small white label stuck to the clear wrapping that covered all the tempting offerings. Pumpkin bread. Apple strudel. Pumpkin muffins. Apple turnovers. Pies. Cookies. Cakes. Zoey strolled along to the last table, where she bought a tall paper cup filled with icy cold apple cider, then followed the crowd meandering toward the center of town. The road was blocked off to traffic at either end, and shoppers and sightseers alike enjoyed the atmosphere of an old-fashioned street fair. A man on stilts passed by, followed by a woman on a unicycle. At a table under an enormous oak, a young woman painted tiny flowers on the chubby cheeks of a little girl. Someone was selling balloons in the shape of pumpkins, and farther down the street, someone else offered sweatshirts emblazoned with the same cheery jack-o-lanterns that smiled from the shirts of the festival volunteers. Make shift stands along one side of the street sold water ice, Pennsylvania Dutch funnel cake, and cotton candy.

Sipping at her cider, Zoey walked the street with the crowd until she found herself back on the bridge overlooking the lake. She set her cup on top of the wall, and leaned her arms against the stone, just as she had done once before, and warmed by the afternoon sun, slid her sunglasses onto her face, and watched the activities on the lake below. Twenty or so rowboats, all manned by children who looked to be no more than ten or twelve, lined up along one side of the lake. Someone in a slightly larger boat popped a balloon, and the race toward the opposite shore began. Parents and friends shouted encouragement
from both sides of the lake as the small boats made their way—some unevenly, some with practiced skill—toward the finish line. A whoop went up when a blue boat, manned by two young girls, slid past their nearest competitors for the win.

“So, then, if you’re not Addie Kilmartin’s granddaughter, it must be the lake that brought you back,” a voice of grit and gravel said from behind her.

Zoey turned to see the old man in his straw hat who had sidled up to her. She smiled with genuine pleasure, tickled to be recognized by someone in this crowd where everyone else seemed to know each other.

“Actually, it was the pumpkins, but yes, I like the lake.” She paused, then asked, “Who’s Addie Kilmartin?”

“Was my next door neighbor.” He took the place next to her, and leaning his arms on the top of the wall, added, “Died this past spring. Her granddaughter was supposed to come along this summer and tend to selling the house, but hasn’t managed to get around to it. Wish she’d get on with it. I’m gettin’ too old to keep mowing both her grass and mine.”

“Hey, Gramps, did you see us?”

The young boy who had manned the fishing boat earlier in the week called from the boat, which bobbed up and down, so many boats making the lake a bit choppy.

“I certainly did. Could have won if you hadn’t gotten so cocky there at the end and let your cousin Jackie sail right on past you.”

The boy scowled as he rowed toward the shore.

“We’re going to get lunch now. Besides, all the rowboats have to get off the lake now for the paddleboats,” the boy called over his shoulder.

“Paddleboats?” Zoey asked. “I love paddleboats! Can you rent them here?”

“Yes, but right now, renting’s for the race only. Course it’s a two-person boat . . .”

She frowned.

“. . . but in my day, I could paddle with the best of them. Say, I don’t suppose you’d be up for a race this afternoon?”

“With you?” She grinned and nodded eagerly. “I’d love to be in a paddleboat race with you. . . . What did you say your name was?”

“Littlefield. Wallace T. Littlefield. Most people know me as Wally, or just plain Doc.”

“You’re a doctor?” She fell in step with him as he headed toward the slope leading down to the lake.

“Retired.” He grabbed her elbow gallantly as the slope became slightly steeper. “And who might you be?”

“Zoey Enright.” She paused and extended a hand, which he took with a grin.

“Zoey, eh? Used to have a maiden aunt named Zoey. Never did marry up, that one. Too independent. Thought she could do everything for herself.” He looked at her slyly from the corner of his eye. “Are you one of those too independent women who wants to do everything for herself, Zoey Enright?”

“I’m working on it.” She smiled, thinking of the plans she had made so recently for her future. “I’m definitely working on it. Now, do you prefer Wally or Doc?”

“Either one will do.”

“I like Wally,” Zoey told him. “You look like a Wally to me.”

He motioned Zoey toward the end of a small dock where several two-seater paddleboats were secured.

“Sign me up, Henry.” He handed over a ten-dollar bill to a burly flannel-shirted fellow who seemed to be in charge.

“Doc, you’re not planning on racing one of these things”

“Plannin on racing, plannin’ on winning.”

Burly Flannel Shirt opened his mouth to reply, then took a step back when Zoey, eyes twinkling with mischief, slipped her arm through Wally’s. “Ready, Wally?”

“You betcha.” Wally winked and with a frisky sidestep led Zoey to their boat, leaving his cronies behind to gape.

Once in the paddleboat, the old man burst out laughing, slapping Zoey on the back, saying, “Did you see the look on that old coot’s face? Why, Zoey, he’s still gasping for air. You’re all right, Zoey Enright. Yessir, you’re all right in my book.”

“You’ll be the talk of the town now, Wally.” She laughed and slid her feet onto the wide pedals.

“Yup. Have every widow lady and old maid for miles around sending me pies and dinner invites.” Wally laughed again, then pointed to the pedals and told her, “Now, then, let’s get down to business. You know your feet are going to get wet.”

“Not a problem,” she assured him. “This will be fun.”

“I take it you have done this before?”

“It’s been a while,” she admitted, “but last summer I rowed my brother’s rowboat a couple of times.”

“Well, this will require more leg muscle than arm or back.”

“Not a problem,” she told him. “I’ve always been a runner. I’ve got thighs like steel bands.”

“Well, then, let’s give it the best that we’ve got.”

Another boat lined up next to them. “Say there, Doc, I heard that cocky little boast of yours back there on the dock.”

“Facts are facts, Clifford. I call ’em as I see ’em. And what I see right now is me and my lady friend beating the pants off the nearest competitor.”

“Well, now, Doc, you know, Betty and I have won this race five years running.”

“Looks like the reign is over, Clifford.”

“Wouldn’t want to put a little money where that big mouth of yours is, would you?”

“I might. What did you have in mind, Cliff?”

Cliff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, the Youth Council is looking to build a new ball field.”

“I’ve heard that.” Wally nodded. “I’ve been thinking
about donating a few acres that I own on the other side of my woods.”

“And I have a few acres back of our place facing Miller’s Pond Park that I’ve been thinking might serve the purpose. Maybe the loser here gets to donate the ground for that new field.”

“Hmmm.” Wally appeared to think this over, then looked at Zoey. “Steel bands, you say?”

“Absolutely,” she assured him.

“You up to a challenge?”

“You betcha.”

“Well, then”—he turned back to Cliff—“my partner here says we can take you without breaking a sweat.”

Wally turned the steering wheel slightly to the left and headed toward the starting line. “Cliff, I’m guessing that the next time we stand on that back parcel of land of yours, someone will be shouting, ‘Play ball.’”

Zoey giggled as Dr. Wallace T. Littlefield cordially tipped his hat and paddled toward the starting line. It was clear that he—as well as Cliff and his wife—would enjoy the race, regardless of the outcome.

The starting gun was the puncturing of a large tightly filled blue balloon.

“Keep in sync with me, now, Zoey.” Wally pointed to her feet. “Here we go, with the right foot. . . .”

Paddling like frenzied ducks, Wally and Zoey’s boat shot out of the line like a bullet, headed for the red balloons strung across the water on the opposite side of the lake.

“I’m right on your tail, you old coot!” Cliff yelled from six feet behind them.

“You’ll never catch us, Clifford, there’s too much young blood in this boat.”

Wally was still laughing as they crossed the finish line five feet ahead of their closest rival, and when he helped Zoey out of the boat amid whistles and cries of “Ringer! Ringer!”

The mayor stepped up to present the blue ribbon,
saying, “Let’s hear it for Doc Littlefield and his great-great-granddaughter.”

“Very amusing”—Wally grinned—“but this here’s my date for the fete, Miss Zoey Enright.”

Wally gallantly handed the winners’ ribbon to Zoey, who on impulse leaned over and kissed him on the cheek to a round of catcalls and more whistles.

“Listen here, honey, you get the mind for a younger fella, you give me a call.” The mayor, who appeared to be well into his sixties, patted Zoey on the back as she followed Wally down the rickety pier to the edge of the lake.

“You’re a good sport, missy.” He squeezed her arm. “I’d like to buy you some lunch.”

“You’re on, Doc.”

“I hear the church”—he nodded his head to the right—“is serving their famed ham supper all day.”

“You just lead the way.”

They crossed the street and walked toward the white church Zoey had passed that first day she had driven through town. Up the long walk they ambled, toward a grove of trees under which long tables sporting red and white checked cloths spread out in clean straight lines. They were directed to their table by an ample lady with light blue hair and an apron that matched the table cloths.

“So, then, Miss Zoey Enright . . .” Wally leaned back in his seat to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “What brought you back to Brady’s Mill?”

“I wanted a pumpkin.”

“No shortage of those around here,” he agreed. “Did you find one?”

“Several,” she told him. “I left them back at the farm where they’re selling them . . . back that way.” She pointed back down past the lake.

“Brady’s Farm.” He nodded knowingly.

“And then I just followed the crowd. Everyone looked like they were having fun, so I wanted to tag along, I guess, and see what else was going on.”

“Now, if I were the nosy sort—which I’m not—I’d probably be itchin’ to ask why a girl as young and pretty as you should be so lonely. But of course, I’d never—”

“Lonely? Me?” Zoey interrupted, pointing a perfectly manicured index finger into her chest. “I’m not lonely. I have a very busy life. I have a loving family . . . lots of friends. What makes you think I’m lonely?”

“Might have something to do with the fact that you’ve spent the last, oh, what, two hours or so of a gorgeous Sunday afternoon in a strange town, in the company of an old man and a number of other people you don’t know.”

Zoey pondered a retort as another checked-apron lady set a small Styrofoam bowl of salad before her. She avoided Wally’s eyes while she dribbled pale orange French dressing—the only choice on the table—on the fresh greens, red onion, and halved cherry tomatoes.

“I wanted a pumpkin,” she repeated.

“Could have grabbed one and been gone ninety minutes ago, by my calculations.”

“It looked like a neat little town,” she told him. “The kind of town I always wanted to live in. I felt it when I drove through the other day. Then this morning, when I was thinking about pumpkins, I remembered the pumpkin party—”

“Fest. Pumpkin Fest,” he corrected her pointedly.

“Right. Pumpkin Fest,” she repeated, a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Now, is this an annual event?”

“Every year since nineteen thirty-nine,” he told her.

“No way.” She put her fork down.

“Yup. Next year will mark our sixtieth year.”

“That’s remarkable.”

He shrugged. “Don’t know ’bout that. But yup, fifty-nine years’ worth of pumpkins and cider. Course, back in the early days we didn’t sell much more than that . . . wasn’t like it is today. Seems like every year, though, something new is added.”

“What was added this year?”

“Why, you were, Zoey Enright.”

Zoey laughed, and so did he. The salad bowls were whisked away to be replaced by plates of ham, sweet potatoes, and green beans as a jolly group of six joined their table. Wally made introductions all around, and Zoey smiled at the newcomers, all old friends of the old doctor’s, as were, she guessed, ninety-five percent of those gathering in the old churchyard, waiting to be seated. After dessert—thick slices of creamy pumpkin pie—and steaming cups of pungent coffee, Zoey stood up and stretched slightly.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate so much at one time,” she told her companion, “or when I enjoyed a meal more. But I think it’s time for me to collect my pumpkins and head on home.”

“I’ll walk you back to Brady’s Farm,” Wally told her. “That is where you left your car, isn’t it?”

“Place with a weathered red barn and a windmill?”