The Cherry Cola Book Club (4 page)

“I'm so sorry about Frank,” Maura Beth said, shaking her head slowly.

Miss Voncille brushed away a few cookie crumbs from the palm of her hand with her napkin. “Sometimes, just when I think I'm really over him, something like this bubbles up to remind me I'm not. I mean, like making up a lie about someone skinning armadillos for a living. Of course, those Crumpton sisters have truly annoyed me beyond belief over the years. Mamie, in particular, has managed to make it very clear that my having to earn a living as a schoolteacher practically made me a peasant in her eyes. For that reason alone, I think she had my rude nonsense coming to her. Maybe that will help you understand what I did this evening a little better.”

“Just between the two of us,” Maura Beth confided, leaning in, “there have been times when Mamie Crumpton has walked into the library and treated me like a servant—ordering me to get a book off the shelf for her without so much as a ‘thank you' later.”

Miss Voncille started nodding compulsively. “That's Mamie in a nutshell—emphasis on the ‘nut.' As far as I can tell, all that money of hers has insulated her from the hard knocks most of us receive in life—such as what happened to me and Frank.”

“Well, I haven't experienced your level of pain,” Maura Beth said, her voice wavering a bit. “But these lost loves are tough. I got jilted at LSU by a South Louisiana boy named El-phage Alphonse Broussard, Jr. We dated for three years, and I was convinced Al was going to ask me to marry him. Once, he even joked about having a gigantic wedding ceremony on the fifty-yard line of Tiger Stadium with Mike the Tiger in his cage roaring his approval right next to us. Instead, he suddenly made a big deal out of whether or not I'd convert to Catholicism before the ceremony. When I said no, he broke things off very abruptly. It made me suspect there was someone else waiting in the wings, and he was just using that as an excuse. He'd been so indifferent on the subject of religion before. Why, he didn't even like putting on a costume and going to Mardi Gras parades to catch beads and doubloons, which is a complete betrayal of the culture down there. Believe me, college kids live for it. And . . . I've been a little skittish ever since.”

“But you haven't remained missing in action like I have, I hope?”

“Oh, my girlfriend, Periwinkle Lattimore, keeps an eye out for me when someone she thinks I might be interested in wanders into The Twinkle. She even takes pictures with her cell phone on the sly and sends them to me. The problem is, we don't exactly have the same taste in men. After all, she's almost forty, and I'll be thirty in two years.”

Miss Voncille arched her eyebrows and managed a wry smile. “You say that as if you don't have most of your life ahead of you—although I will admit the pickings are slim here in Cherico.”

Maura Beth felt the tension that had filled the room earlier quickly draining away now, and she decided to resume pursuit of her original mission. “Unfortunately, you're right. By the way, I'd like to know what you thought of my Cherico Page Turners. Maybe you could join us? You've probably spotted the sign-up sheet by the front desk. I was thinking that with all these tempers flaring in ‘Who's Who?' maybe you could give genealogy a rest for a while and try something a little different while everyone cools off.”

Miss Voncille closed her eyes for a brief second trying to remember. “Books and potluck? Was that the gist of it?”

“Essentially. But we thought we would concentrate on Southern female writers in the beginning and maybe bond with each other in the process.”

“I don't know if that sort of gaggle would work out for me. I'm used to running the entire show.”

“Then what about this?” Maura Beth continued, not willing to let her wiggle off the hook so easily. “Weren't you intrigued by what Mr. Linwood said to you? I mean, the part about asking you out. I'm sure it took us both by surprise.”

“At last . . . we get around to that.” Miss Voncille let the statement just sit there for a while before moving on. “The truth is, I'm flattered. I had no idea he was thinking along those lines. He was always a man of few words, holding his wife's hand the way he did and letting her do all the talking. As for myself, I've blocked out contemplating male companionship over the years. That's what lack of closure will do for you.”

“It's very fortuitous that you've brought up the concept of closure,” Maura Beth explained, deciding not to beat around the bush any longer. “Even if I mean closure in an entirely different context.” Then she told Miss Voncille everything she had also shared with Connie McShay about the disquieting ultimatum from the City Council. “I realize you have other options besides holding your meetings here, but I wanted you to know what could possibly happen in just a few short months. Does Cherico really want to be without a library?”

Miss Voncille looked and sounded distressed. “I've never cared for the current crop over there at City Hall. Actually, the only one that matters is our very own banana republic hotshot, Durden Sparks. You're originally from Louisiana, aren't you?”

Maura Beth said she was.

“Well, Durden fits the Huey Long model of governance from down your way. Or maybe he's more like Edwin Edwards was with those flashy good looks. I taught Durden in junior high, and he was so conceited and full of himself the way he'd stand up in front of his fellow history students and give an oral report that sounded like he was being nominated for President of the United States at a political convention. It was all I could do to keep from giving him an ‘A' in Demagoguery. These days, of course, I can name you scores of silly women who vote for him time after time just because he makes them fantasize and swoon. Not me. My Frank wasn't all that handsome, but he was brave and he stood for something. That's my definition of a man.”

“Well, then, there's your incentive. Why don't you sign up and show Councilman Sparks and his cronies that they just can't do whatever they please?” Maura Beth continued, proceeding full speed ahead now. “And not only that, since you're a woman who likes to take charge, why don't you consider inviting Locke Linwood to accompany you to the first meeting? He's already surprised you. Maybe you could surprise him.”

Maura Beth saw she had struck a responsive chord when Miss Voncille actually seemed to be blushing. “Very well, then. You've convinced me. I'll become an official Cherico Page Turner.” Then she suddenly turned thoughtful. “As for Mr. Linwood . . . I don't want to rush into that one. I think he's looking for a different version of me. I'll have to sleep on it.” The next second she was glancing at her watch and rolling her eyes. “It feels like it ought to be later than it is, but then, I ran everybody off tonight, didn't I? It was definitely not my most successful lecture, I can assure you.”

Maura Beth reached over and patted her hand warmly. “Oh, I don't know. First, I have to thank you for joining my little club. And then, I think you and I got to know each other a lot better after all this time. Locke Linwood hasn't really gone anywhere, and I'm willing to bet the Crumpton sisters will come back into the fold with a little diplomacy on your part.”

“Got a delicious recipe for crow?” Miss Voncille quipped, gathering up her notes and photos and tucking them into the folder she'd brought along.

“Come on,” Maura Beth replied, chuckling as she dangled her impressive collection of keys before them. “We'll sign you up and then close down together.”

It was just past nine when Maura Beth walked through the door of her cozy one-bedroom apartment on Clover Street and collapsed on the rust-colored living room sofa her parents had shipped to her three Christmases ago from their hometown of Covington, Louisiana.
It'll go with your hair when you sit on it,
her mother had written on the card that had accompanied it.

Actually, it
was
a pretty close match. Auburn, whiskey, or rust—those were the adjectives that had been used most often by the admirers of Maura Beth's hair. But she herself had thought, rather playfully at times, that her mother's sentiments weren't particularly grammatical. Which was she supposed to sit on—the sofa or her hair?

Whatever the case, she sometimes enjoyed entertaining herself with the question for lack of anything better to do after coming home from work. Tonight, she was happily remembering the last thing Miss Voncille had said to her as they were walking under the portico of the library into the steamy July evening air. “Your Cherico Page Turners are no longer missing in action! Miss Voncille Nettles, reporting for duty!”

They had both laughed, waved good-bye, and headed toward their cars down the street.

Back on the sofa where her hair had blended nicely into the fabric of one of the big cushions behind her, Maura Beth suddenly realized that all those cups of fruit punch had coated her throat with sugar. She needed a nice glass of ice water, so she jumped up and headed toward the fridge and the big pitcher she always kept inside on the middle shelf.

The phone rang on the way over, startling her, but she reached the crowded kitchenette counter soon enough. Whoever was on the other end of the line opened the conversation with an enthusiastic, “Guess what?”

Maura Beth immediately played along, easily recognizing Periwinkle's down-home voice. “And hello to you, too. Don't tell me. You have another picture of a person in pants for me. Or is it another set of twin cowboys passing through from Dallas on the way to become country singers in Nashville? One for you, and one for me.”

Periwinkle produced her usual hearty laugh. “Even better. Someone signed up for your book club tonight over here. She just left—in fact, we closed the place down together we had so much fun chatting. You won't believe who it is!”

“Enough guessing games,” Maura Beth said. “Just tell me.”

“Okay, here goes. It's Becca Broccoli!”

Maura Beth frowned immediately. “Who?”

“Surely you've heard of her. Becca Broccoli of radio fame? Haven't you ever listened to her show on WHYY?”

“Periwinkle, I don't listen to the radio or even watch much television,” Maura Beth said, growing slightly impatient. “I'm always curled up on my sofa reading the free galleys all the publishers send us librarians. How do you think they get the buzz going for their new writers? We're their foot soldiers in spreading the word.”

“Never mind that. This is exciting news. Becca Broccoli has a cooking and recipe show on local radio—how do you think I get some of my best ideas for The Twinkle menu? I listen to her faithfully every morning.”

Maura Beth mulled things over, still somewhat puzzled. “Cooking on the radio? Not exactly a visual medium. And what's with the name Broccoli? That can't be real, can it? Is she one of those vegans or vegetarians?”

There was the faint sound of paper rustling, and then Periwinkle explained. “I'm holding the sign-up sheet in my hand right now. I didn't know this before, but Becca's real name is Mrs. Justin B-R-A-C-H-L-E. She told me tonight over her bread pudding that since her name was pronounced like broccoli, she decided to go ahead and capitalize on it. Thus was born
The Becca Broccoli Show,
weekday mornings at seven-thirty. Don't you realize what this means for your club?”

“She can review cookbooks for us?” Maura Beth ventured, unable to resist.

“Seriously, now. Think about the publicity angle, girl. She can mention the club over the radio whenever she has a mind to. She has a huge audience. You're a bit slow on the uptake tonight!”

Maura Beth briefly debated whether to mention all the hoopla at the “Who's Who?” meeting but thought better of it. “Sorry, it's been a long day. But I've got a sign-up myself at this end. Miss Voncille Nettles of ‘Who's Who in Cherico?' is on board. So now we'll have at least four people for our organizational meeting next week. And if you could find a way to join us—”

“Like I said before,” Periwinkle interrupted, “I just don't have the time, honey. Not to read books and run the restaurant six days a week, too. Just let me hand out flyers here at The Twinkle and talk you up that way. Reading recipes is more my speed. Anyway, you got you a good one in Becca Broccoli, and who knows how many more'll eat at The Twinkle and end up in your club?”

“Thanks, Periwinkle,” Maura Beth said. “You really are my eyes and ears, even without your cell phone camera.”

 

An hour later, Maura Beth was propped up in bed against her purple pillows, smiling down at her wiggling, freshly painted, pink toenails. “You are such a girlie girl sometimes, Maura Beth,” she said out loud, pouting her lips playfully.