Seasons of Her Life (59 page)

Conrad Malas looked like a skinny Santa Clause with his curly hair and beard so fine and silky, the color of iridescent pearls. She motioned him to one of the rocking chairs near the fire. She had an impulse to reach out and touch his beard.

“I used to be heavier,” Malas said as if reading her mind. His faded blue eyes twinkled. “People constantly mistook me for the famous gentleman. Thank you for seeing me.” He accepted a cup of coffee. “My wife would have loved a room like this. She's in a nursing home in Atlantic City. Her mind is gone, though her doctors tell me she has the heart of a twenty-year-old.” His puzzled, faraway expression said he didn't understand how that could be.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Malas. Would you like us to send cookies to the nursing home? We can, you know.”

“Lord love a duck, no, that's not why I'm here, Mrs. Blue. I came here to offer you something. This,” he said, extending the waxy bag to Ruby.

“Brownies?”

“I made them myself at six o'clock this morning. My wife and I operated a bakery in Atlantic City for forty years. I had to put it up for sale in order to keep my wife ... comfortable. It was just a small bakery, what you might call a mom-and-pop operation. My two sons helped us. They have families and needed more money than I could pay them and still take care of my wife. They work for Nabisco now,” he said tartly.

Ruby bit into the brownie. Normally, she didn't taste anything a stranger brought to the office. So many people came over the years with cookies and cakes for her and Dixie to sample. All of them wanted their products test-marketed. Ruby had always politely declined with the explanation that Mrs. Sugar was strictly a three-cookie operation. She finished the brownie and looked into the bag for another to give Olga. She wished Dixie were here. “Mr. Malas, this is delicious,” Ruby said sincerely.

“Thank you, Mrs. Blue. In the bottom of the bag is a cookie. Please, taste it.”

Ruby withdrew a small oatmeal raisin cookie and bit into it. Her eyebrows shot upward in stunned surprise. “This is a Mrs. Sugar cookie!”

. “Yes, in a manner of speaking, it is. But in Atlantic City we call them Mr. Malas's Cookies. Both my wife's mother and my own made those cookies for us in the Ukraine when we were little children. When we came here to America, we wanted to be Americans, so we changed our name, but we wanted to retain something of our homeland, so we started up our little bakery.” “My father changed our name, too,” Ruby said thoughtfully as she tried to anticipate where the conversation was going. “What is it you want me to do for you, Mr. Malas?” “I would like to sell you my brownie recipe. I talked it over with my two sons and they agreed. Mama ... Mama, she would approve if she was thinking clearly.” “I'm sure she would,” Ruby murmured.

Mr. Malas waited, his bright eyes twinkling.

Ruby smiled. “Mr. Malas, how would you like to bake me a batch of these brownies here in our test kitchen?”

“I'd like that very much. By a batch do you mean a dozen or twelve dozen?”

“How about six dozen?”

“Six dozen it is,” the old gentleman said as he followed her from the room.

“Well, here it is,” Ruby said pointing to a gleaming, white kitchen. She hesitated a moment before she opened the door. “Mr. Malas, why did you come to me?”

“Because I didn't want to go to those other cookie people. They make dry, hard cookies and then put them in cellophane bags. Then they put them in a box. My sons work for Nabisco. I don't think they make brownies. They would put so many preservatives in them they wouldn't be fit to eat. I can't pronounce the ingredients. If I can't pronounce it I don't want to eat it. Other people shouldn't eat it either,” he said spiritedly.

“I hear you,” Ruby grinned. Damn, he really did look like Santa Claus. She said so. He laughed in delight.

“I'm ready,” Mr. Malas said.

“Then I guess you should get started. I have to go back to the office so you'll be alone here. As a matter of fact, I have to come back here to make some phone calls. Tell me,” she said, looking over her shoulder, certain she was going to see eight prancing reindeer following her, “are you available to go into New York? When the brownies are done, of course. I'll send you in a company car, and my driver will wait and bring you back here. My attorney will be prepared to make you an offer.”

“I understand, and yes, I can make the trip, but I must call the nursing home and tell them I won't be there today. I don't like this kitchen,” Mr. Malas said, looking around at the antiseptically white room.

Ruby smiled. “I don't like it, either, but the health codes say it must be sterile. All the supplies are fresh, stocked daily before the start of business. I'll turn on the oven for you. Don't worry about cleaning up, we have people who do that. See that buzzer, just press it when you're ready to come back to my office. I'm sorry, but when the kitchen is in operation, the door locks automatically. Will that be a problem for you, Mr. Malas?”

“Not at all, little lady.”

Ruby's heart went out to the old man as he handed her his shabby topcoat. She swallowed past the lump in her throat when she saw the neatly darned elbows of his cardigan. Mrs. Malas must have been a superior needlewoman. The seat of his pants, she noticed, was as shiny as his bulky-toed shoes.

“You must wear this ... this wraparound coat and hat,” Ruby said, pointing to the items in a drawer beside the sink. “Health codes,” she muttered. “Mr. Malas, how much do you want for your recipe?”

The old man's shoulders slumped. He threw his hands in the air. Ruby smiled.

“It will be a fair offer, Mr. Malas.”

The two attorneys thought her offer was too fair. “A half million dollars,” Alan squawked. “You're out of your mind,” Marty shouted.

“You're probably right, both of you. Let's just look at it as my good deed for the decade. Listen, I'm not a fool. Mr. Malas's two sons work for Nabisco. If I'd turned him down, he would eventually have gone there. Who knows? They might have offered him more. I don't want to take that chance. I want the recipe. He has it with him. I want all the family members to sign an agreement that they are giving up all rights to the recipe.”

“We're lawyers,” Alan said testily.

“Right.” Ruby laughed. “Sorry, I didn't mean to tell you how to do things. I just bake cookies.”

 

Ruby curled up in the chair near the fire that Olga had replenished while she, Ruby, had walked Conrad Malas to the car. She called the nursing home, left Mr. Malas's message, then dialed Silas Ridgely. She presented the morning's happenings. He squawked louder than both attorneys. “This is not good business sense. First you hand over a small fortune to your husband to buy Jet Skis, and now this. You aren't even sure you will ever use this recipe. I really don't see the point. And before you can ask, I'm booked on a six o'clock flight out of Kennedy. I've already called your husband, who has promised to meet me at the airport. He said he liked the way I do things and that my personal touch won't go unnoticed, whatever that means. Ruby, this is not a good financial move for you,” he said sternly.

“Only time will tell. Listen, I want you to apprise Mr. Malas of the tax laws. Make sure he understands, Silas, that if he takes all the money at one time, he will be paying out a great deal to the government. Give him a payment schedule of some kind out of an escrow account in his name. Make it all clear to him, Silas. Oh, one more thing: think of me curled up here by the fire when you step off that plane in Hawaii and some pretty girl throws a lei around your neck. Bye, Silas.”

Ruby poured still another cup of coffee even though her hands were shaking from the six cups she'd consumed earlier. Thank God, the pot was finished. Dixie should have been here for this. Where was she?

Every nerve in Ruby's body was twitching when she picked up the phone to dial the Sinclaire house. She let the phone ring twenty times before she hung up. Where could Dixie be? Then a thought struck her. Maybe Dixie wasn't at home recuperating after all. She called the travel agent the company used for corporate travel. She identified herself and said, “I'm calling to see if Mrs. Sinclaire picked up her ticket. It seems the secretary forgot.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Blue, Mrs. Sinclaire picked it up Friday afternoon. She was booked for an early flight this morning. I think it was for seven
A.M.
I can check if you'd like.”

“No, that's not necessary, as long as she picked it up. What I need to know is, is it an open-ended ticket?”

“Yes, it was. Direct to Rochester, Minnesota, and the return was open. Is there a problem, Mrs. Blue?”

Ruby laughed ruefully. Rochester, home of the Mayo Clinic. “It looks like I may have to join her. I'll call for my reservation as soon as my plans are firm. Thank you, Joan.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Blue.”

Dixie was finally going to get her operation. Why else would she be going to Minnesota? They'd discussed it for hours while they watched over Hugo. Still, it would have been nice if Dixie had told her she was going through with it now. Ruby felt a lump settle in her throat. She hoped it was a success. Dixie would do what was right for Dixie. Ruby wouldn't call her. That would only upset her. Ruby dozed, her half-sleep filled with Calvin. An hour or so more and he would call. Then she would go home and have a solitary dinner, just the way Calvin would do. It wasn't fair. They should be together.

Ruby was jarred from her fragile sleep by a knock on her door. She felt groggy when she opened it to Conrad Malas, who was beaming from ear to ear.

“What can I say?” The old man fretted.

“Nothing, Mr. Malas. I only bought what someone else would have bought from you. I believe Nabisco would have given you the same amount.”

Malas shook his head. “They are too big, too impersonal. They would have packaged it in a dry old box, filled the recipe with preservatives and things I can't pronounce. It wouldn't be the same. My Inga would like you, Mrs. Blue. She would understand all this. My Inga was always better at the business than I was. I just know how to bake.”

Ruby pretended not to see the faded eyes fill with tears.

“The lawyers explained everything to you?”

“Oh, yes, and other man, too. The lawyer said if you ever decide to market the brownies, I would get one and a half percent. I told them that wasn't necessary, but they said it was. They said it might never happen, but if it did, and Inga and I are gone, my two sons will receive the money.”

“That's right, Mr. Malas. It's fair.”

“More than fair. Tomorrow I will tell this to my Inga, and maybe ... there will be a little spark, a glimmer that she understands. Sometimes that happens.”

“I hope so. It's snowing again, are you sure you want to go all the way to Atlantic City? The roads aren't good at this time of the day.”

“The nice man who drove me to the city had two of your people put the chains on my tires. I'll be just fine. Thank you for everything,” Malas said formally.

“Come along, Mr. Malas. I'll walk you to the door.”

When Ruby returned to the apartment, the receptionist buzzed to say a Paul Farano had called.

“What did he want? Did he leave a message?” Then she remembered Paul Farano was Calvin's alias. “Did he say he would call back?”

“No, Mrs. Blue, he didn't.”

“Did he ask me to return his call?”

“No, Mrs. Blue, he didn't. I'll be leaving now myself, unless you want me to stay longer.”

“Good night, Maria.”

“Good night, Mrs. Blue.”

Ruby felt her spirits sag. There would be no call from Calvin now unless he called her at home, which she thought unlikely. She brightened when she remembered her promise to write. That's what she would do this evening after dinner. She'd build a fire, curl up on the sofa, and write a long letter to Calvin. Her spirits lifted almost immediately. Outside, with the snow falling, Ruby realized she was more than content. She was almost happy.

 

After dinner, Ruby showered and got comfortable for the evening. Then she walked back to the kitchen to call the Mayo Clinic. She couldn't bear not knowing how Dixie was. She said she was Dixie's sister and wanted an update on her sister's condition.

The young voice on the other end of the phone informed her that Mrs. Sinclaire had gone through preliminary testing. Tomorrow the doctors would decide if they would operate on Wednesday. “Would you care to leave a message for your sister?” the young voice asked.

“No, no message. My sister wants to go through this alone, so we all promised not to bother her with calls.”

“Some patients are like that,” the young voice said cheerfully. “If you want to call back tomorrow, ask for me, Dawn Baker, and I'll be glad to give you an update.”

“Thank you, Miss Baker. I'll do that.”

“I have the early shift.”

Ruby didn't know if she felt better or worse after the call. The blank paper stared up at her. How was she going to write a letter to Calvin when Dixie was on her mind like this? Dixie was about to go through a serious operation. Somebody should be there, somebody who cared. But maybe Calvin would know what to do. Maybe that's what she should write to him about.

Ruby's pen literally flew over the lined paper. Writing about Dixie was easy. Occasionally a tear dropped, puckering the yellow paper. She didn't care. Calvin would understand.

At nine o'clock, when she had sealed the letter in an envelope, the phone rang. An operator told her she had a person-to-person collect call from Paul Farano. Ruby blinked.
Collect. Person to person.
She felt a surge of something she couldn't identify. She accepted the call as she sent the blank envelope sailing across the coffee table.