The Cherry Cola Book Club (8 page)

Sensing what Miss Voncille might be about to reveal, Maura Beth spoke up in code. “We value your privacy above everything, Miss Voncille.”

“I appreciate that,” she resumed, taking time to catch her breath. “But I'm fine. I don't intend to go into a lot of detail here. What I was about to say was that Scarlett made the crucial error of falling in love with the wrong man. Or at least thinking she was in love with him. In my case, I fell in love with a soldier who went missing in action in Vietnam. We were engaged to be married, and when he didn't come back, I found myself embracing Scarlett's rougher edges. It's hard to forget that Margaret Mitchell's first description of Scarlett on the opening page is that she
was not beautiful
. But she ultimately fell back on her strength and the more cunning aspects of her personality. What I fell back on was being a tough, no-nonsense schoolteacher, and lately I've been running ‘Who's Who in Cherico?' like a Third World dictator. I know I'd like to try and be more like Melanie, but for the time being, I have to say I'm camped deep behind the front lines in Scarlett Territory.”

This time there was no applause. For some in the room it was the first time learning of Miss Voncille's long-held secret about her lost love. Suddenly, they understood why she was the way she was, and that seemed to have inspired respectful silence with gentle smiles.

“Thank you for sharing that with us,” Maura Beth said at last. “That can't have been easy for you.”

But Miss Voncille immediately put everyone at ease by chucking Locke Linwood on the shoulder. “Life goes on, people. In fact, he's sitting right next to me in a coat and tie and a twinkle in his eye.”

Locke actually seemed to be blushing even as he smiled. “I reserve the right to remain silent.”

The laughter that followed cleared the way for Maura Beth's finale, which began with unexpected praise as she remained at the podium. “Before I give my take on this premise of mine, I'd like to thank you, ladies, for being so candid about your lives. You've held nothing of importance back in letting the rest of us know who you are. It occurs to me that maybe we've got something more than a book club going here. I hope this is just the start of our meaningful friendships.”

Aside from a skeptical expression from Councilman Sparks, Maura Beth saw nothing but approval reflected in everyone's face as she proceeded. “As for myself, I know that Melanie has always been part of my library personality. In
Gone with the Wind,
she would have been the first to help any lost soul find their way. I grew up thinking it would just be terrific to help people find the right book to read on a stormy evening or locate the perfect source for a report they were doing. As a child, I loved scouring the shelves for something fun to check out, and I can still amuse myself that way as a grown-up and the director of this library.” But her easy smile began to fade as she continued.

“There's another side to Melanie that I must mention, however. She was often naïve and a bit too trusting, and I do believe I've been guilty of that here in Cherico. I haven't always stood up for myself the way I should have. A good dose of Scarlett's determination is what I really need. Unfortunately, there are those in this community who feel that a library is a luxury for bored housewives who are too cheap to buy their own copies of best sellers at the nearest bookstore. And that's one of the milder sentiments I could conjure up for public consumption. Those people don't see the library as the educational and job-hunting resource it's always been. But at this juncture of my life, I feel that this little library—corrugated iron siding and all—is my Tara, and I intend to fight for it with every ounce of my strength. So the truth is: I'm in the midst of transforming myself from a Melanie into a Scarlett while trying to retain the best qualities of each. To my way of thinking, both characters ultimately represent what all women should strive to be. The right blend of kindness and ambition never goes out of style.”

Amidst muted but genuine applause, Councilman Sparks spoke up loudly. “My goodness, Miz Mayhew—that reminded me of the scene where Scarlett gets down on her knees in the dirt, berates a carrot, and declares that she'll ‘never go hungry again!' Why, you left not a dry eye in the house with the intensity of your monologue!”

Maura Beth, however, rose to the occasion. “Maybe it was a bit on the hammy side, but then, I was trained to be a librarian, not an actress. My milieu is shelving, not the stage. Or biographies, not Broadway.”

“Touché!” he exclaimed, actually appearing to enjoy the repartee and even blowing her a kiss.

“This was the most fun I've had in ages!” Connie added. “And that includes all those years with The Music City Page Turners up in Nashville. We never mixed our reads with our lives quite like this. It's a different approach, but I like it.”

“I have a point to make, though,” Locke Linwood put in suddenly. “The food was mighty delicious, but I think the discussion was apparently for ladies only. I mean, nobody asked me if I thought I was a Rhett or an Ashley.”

Miss Voncille gave a little gasp as she looked him in the eye. “Now, Locke, you told me you weren't even going to bother to read the book. You said I could do all the yapping, and you were just coming with me for the big spread.”

He hung his head, sounding a bit sheepish. “I lied. I'd never read it before. Never saw the movie, either. I guess I wanted to find out what all the hoopla was about.”

“Imagine that,” Miss Voncille replied, sounding pleased and surprised at the same time. “I thought everyone had seen the movie at least once. It's like admitting you've never seen
The Wizard of Oz
or heard of Judy Garland.”

“Well, Miz Mayhew?” Locke asked.

Maura Beth was puzzled. “Well, what, Mr. Linwood?”

“Aren't you going to ask me if I'm a Rhett or an Ashley, or do you have to be a woman to make these important literary connections?”

The request met with laughter throughout the room, after which Maura Beth popped the question. “Okay, by all means. Which are you, then?”

“Of course, I think of myself as a Rhett. My late wife, Pamela, always told me I was her hero.”

“You were certainly that,” Miss Voncille offered. “Anyone who ever saw the two of you together could confirm it. I saw it at every meeting of ‘Who's Who?' that you attended.”

“Does this mean that you consider yourself a bona-fide member of The Cherry Cola Book Club, Mr. Linwood?” Maura Beth said, seizing the opportunity.

“Why not?” he answered quickly. “I agree with Miz McShay over there. This is the most fun I've had in a while.”

“Wonderful, and welcome aboard officially!” Maura Beth then glanced over at the front desk clock and decided to test the waters. “I see we've been at this business of dining and discussing for an hour and fifteen minutes now. Does anyone have any other thoughts about the novel? They don't necessarily have to be related to Scarlett and Melanie.”

“I'm just curious,” Becca said. “What was the final total on that? I mean, how many Melanies and how many Scarletts did we end up with?”

Maura Beth scanned the notes she had scribbled throughout the proceedings and emerged chuckling under her breath. “It's not all that clear, actually. I have Connie down as a Melanie, Becca and Miss Voncille as Scarletts—although with reservations in my estimation—and myself as a work in progress.”

“That's hedging,” Becca insisted. “Here in the South we always take a stand. It's in the lyrics of ‘Dixie,' you know.” She began humming the tune until she got to the proper spot in the chorus and then began singing.
“ ‘. . . in Dixie Land I'll take my stand, to live and die in Dixie . . .' ”

“Point well-taken,” Maura Beth replied. “Very
Gone with the Wind,
as a matter of fact. Okay, then, I'll err on the side of Melanie for myself. Just for the time being, though. I have lots of things to accomplish before I'm thirty.”

 

“Tell me everything, girl!” Periwinkle exclaimed after her last customer had left a little past nine. She had just flipped the blue-sequined sign hanging on the front door of The Twinkle from O
PEN
to C
LOSED
. “Did anybody get tipsy on my sherry custard? It's actually happened before. Some precious little ole lady had two of 'em one night, and it took a coupla grown men to escort her out the door. Maybe I should put a customer warning on the dessert menu.”

Maura Beth laughed as they claimed a table in the middle of the room. “No, I think your custard went down smoothly. No hiccups, just raves. My ooey, gooey, chocolate, cherry cola sheet cake was a winner, too.”

Periwinkle settled in, leaning forward with her gum going a mile a minute. “Okay, enough about the food. How did the meeting go? Was Councilman Supremo there throwing off his usual sparks?”

“Oh, yes. Dressed to the nines, too. He looked like he was going to a wedding. Or maybe he was supposed to be the groom. But he behaved, for the most part. Or let's just say, I handled every curve ball he threw me. He even blew me a kiss, believe it or not. He's an odd duck, that one. Anyway, I'm here to tell you that The Cherry Cola Book Club took flight without a hitch this evening. Everyone contributed in a meaningful way, and we ended up with two Scarletts and two Melanies. Oh, and a Rhett!”

“As in Butler?”

“As in Mr. Locke Linwood demanding that I ask him if he was a Rhett or an Ashley. It was so cute, and he's now officially a member.”

Periwinkle eyed her intently. “Well, I guess you know I'm in the bunch with Scarlett branded across their foreheads. I'm too feisty to be anything else.”

“Scarlett on steroids, perhaps?”

Periwinkle drew back playfully. “Now, sweetie, I'm one of the good guys, remember?”

“Just kidding, of course. I definitely need more of your spine. Anyway, we got a lot accomplished tonight, including all the important decisions for the next meeting. Before we adjourned, we put it to a vote and decided that we'd be reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
this coming month. We'll be getting together on the evening of September 19th, as a matter of fact.” Maura Beth gave her friend a hopeful look for emphasis.

“I still don't see how I can swing it, honey,” Periwinkle insisted, reacting instantly to the unspoken appeal. “Let's put it this way. If my restaurant bid'ness is going great guns and I've got standing room only all the time, then I simply won't have the time to participate in the club. And if I have so much slack that I can loll around reading and choosing which fictional characters I most resemble, then I'm in deep . . . well, let's just be ladylike about it and settle for the term . . . financial trouble. Does that make sense?”

“Of course. But I was thinking just the other day about your restaurant and my library—particularly about how busy you are. Not to mention that long drive you make round-trip every day to and from The Twinkle. I mean, your house is halfway between Cherico and Corinth. Don't you get bored at times?”

Periwinkle shrugged. “Just part of making a living, honey.”

“What if I could spice things up a bit for you?”

“What do you suggest? Cumin, paprika, or something stronger like cayenne pepper? I've got 'em all on the shelf.”

They both laughed. Then Maura Beth said, “I was thinking that you could use our audio books to liven up your travel. Our selection is modest due to our budget, but the patrons that use them swear by them. So, what do you say? How about joining the club officially by being a good listener?”

Periwinkle was all smiles. “I think you should recruit for the Army, girl. I'm all ready to sign up under those circumstances.”

“Wonderful!” Maura Beth exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “We'll finally get you a card, and we can take it from there.”

“And how about if I send over something extra to the buffet this time? Like my aspic.”

Maura Beth cut her eyes to the side with a saucy smile. “Can't argue with that.”

“Of course, I'll keep handing out your flyers to my customers. I assume you'll be printing up a new one for the
Mockingbird
book?”

“That's the plan.”

Then Periwinkle grew serious, briefly stopping her gum and leaning in. “So do you think all this'll be enough to keep those weasels at the City Council from shutting you down?”

Maura Beth sighed plaintively. “Too early to tell. It's very hard to predict Councilman Sparks. All I can do is plug away.”

M
iss Voncille's tidy cottage on Painter Street was one of two dozen or so homes in Cherico built around the turn of the twentieth century in the Queen Anne style and had been the only thing of value she had inherited from her parents, Walker and Annis Nettles. It was graced by a small but immaculately manicured front yard featuring a mature fig tree on one side of its brick walkway and a fanciful, green ceramic birdbath on the other.

“Isn't this quaint!” Maura Beth exclaimed, as she and Connie stood in front of it early one humid August morning.

“Exactly the sort of place I would expect Miss Voncille to live,” Connie added. “Very spinster schoolteacher-ish.”

Just then Miss Voncille spotted them and flung open the front door. “You're right on time, ladies!” she called out. “Come on in. I've got coffee, hot biscuits, and green-pepper jelly waiting for you. We have about fifteen minutes to eat before Becca's show starts!”

Once inside, Maura Beth was surprised to discover a veritable jungle of potted palms set in sturdy ceramic containers. Some were enormous and obviously quite mature, their fronds spreading out like great, spraying fountains. Others were much smaller and newer, but there was hardly a nook or cranny in the front part of the house without them. Nor were they absent in Miss Voncille's bright yellow kitchen, where the three ladies eventually sat down to breakfast in a cozy little nook.

“I've got the station tuned in and everything. All I have to do is turn it on,” Miss Voncille explained, as she poured steaming coffee all around. “Please, help yourselves to biscuits. Everything's homemade, including the jelly. I grow the peppers myself in the backyard.”

After everyone had sufficiently fussed enough to fix their plates, Maura Beth began making small talk. “I just think it was so generous of you to invite us over here for Becca's first ‘Downsizing with Comfort Food' show. She called me up yesterday to tell me how pleased she was that we were all getting together to hear it. She's a bit nervous about it.”

“Oh, I know, but it's the least I could do since I put the idea in her head,” Miss Voncille said, after swallowing a bite of biscuit. “Besides, she's given me so many great cooking ideas over the years, I want to support her any way I can.”

“We all do,” Connie added. “From what she's told us, she needs every bit of help she can muster in getting her Stout Fella into shape.”

Miss Voncille took a sip of her coffee and drew herself up with great authority. “Ladies, I just love the way we're getting to know each other. I don't have to tell you that I haven't been terribly social over the years. And I don't consider pontificating about genealogy to qualify, either. That's why participating in the club is doing me so much good. It's just what I need, and I thank you again for prodding me to join, Maura Beth. So, I wanted to take the bull by the horns and explain all these potted palms in the house.”

The comment took both Maura Beth and Connie by surprise. Neither would have dreamed of bringing up the subject, but it was Maura Beth who found something to say that didn't sound insincere. “Well, if you feel it's necessary.”

“Yes, I really do. The house didn't look like this when my parents were still alive. They hated houseplants. But this is my tribute to Frank, my MIA sweetheart. He disappeared in the jungles of Vietnam, as I've explained.” She paused, smiling at all the greenery she had strategically placed around the room.

“But the last letter I got from Frank before he went missing was so full of life and his special spirit. You would never have known he was in the middle of a war. He went on and on about how beautiful and exotic all the palm trees were. The line that especially sticks with me after all these years is where he said the entire place would be a wonderful spot for tourists if everybody wasn't shooting at each other. Perhaps he was imagining what it would all look like in peacetime someday. And then he said that before he finally came back to me, he wanted me to go out and buy a bunch of potted palms to welcome him home. How could I not honor his request?”

“They're beautiful,” Maura Beth managed, not really knowing what else to say.

“They're also a form of closure for me,” Miss Voncille continued. “Since Frank was officially
MIA, I
wanted to be sure they were always here if he did ever return to me by some miracle. I take care of them year after year and replace them if they die, and all of that gives me great comfort. It may seem nutty, but that's the truth.”

“I understand. Whatever works for you,” Maura Beth said, while Connie just nodded with a smile.

“Most people who've visited me probably think I'm just a crazy old maid who went gaga for palms. Of course, I gave up worrying what other people thought about me a long time ago.”

“Well, this green-pepper jelly of yours is beyond delicious, and so are your biscuits. It all just melts in my mouth,” Connie said, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

“How gracious of you!” Miss Voncille exclaimed, her face a study in delight. “I grow the peppers, along with my basil, mint, and rosemary in my backyard plot. And you know, I may have even gotten the jelly recipe from one of Becca's shows.” She checked her watch and perked up even further. “Oh, we're just a few seconds away from the debut of the new regime. Now, ladies, you leave everything right where it is. I'll clear the table later. Let's just sit back and give Becca our undivided attention, shall we?”

Then she rose from her chair, headed over to the clunky old radio sitting on the counter, and turned it on just in time for the pre-recorded station ID:
“You're listening to WHYY, The Vibrant Voice of Greater Cherico, Mississippi!”
The theme music that Becca had chosen several years ago—a meandering, nondescript instrumental full of acoustic guitar chords—announced the beginning of yet another episode of
The Becca Broccoli Show.
After another twenty seconds or so of music, Becca's distinctive voice came through loud and clear.

“Good morning, Chericoans! I'm Becca Broccoli, and welcome once again to my little treasure trove of recipes and cooking tips, coming to you every weekday morning at seven-thirty right here on WHYY. As always, the best fifteen minutes you can spend to get you in and out of the kitchen fast to the applause of your family and friends. Today and over the next few days, however, I'm going to be doing something I've never done before, and that is, put an emphasis on more healthful recipes. We're calling it ‘Downsizing with Comfort Food.' As in ‘let's go down a size or two and still enjoy our food.' ”
Becca paused for a little chuckle.
“Yes, listeners, we're going to be putting the broccoli back in
The Becca Broccoli Show.
Not literally, of course. I don't want you to panic and throw Brussels sprouts at me. More healthful doesn't mean horrendous. Good for you doesn't mean god-awful. Believe me, we're not going to be throwing out the baby back ribs with the bathwater here. . . .”

The three ladies sitting around Miss Voncille's table laughed out loud, and Connie exclaimed, “Great start! Way to go, Becca!”

“Oh!” Maura Beth added suddenly. “What if we want to write any of this down?”

Miss Voncille shook her head emphatically and made a shushing sound. “Not to worry. Becca told me she'd bring copies of all her new recipes to our
Mockingbird
session next week.”

“. . . and you may be asking yourself what the reason for all this is. It's simply that I want my family to get good checkups when they go to the doctor. We all need to be more proactive about our health while we still enjoy our comfort food. So this morning I have for you my new version of tomatoes and okra,”
Becca was saying as the ladies concentrated on the radio broadcast once again.
“Yes, I know some of you think okra is too slimy, and you don't like its texture. But I've got a few good tips for you that'll make it easy to avoid most of that slime. My goodness, this sounds like something out of
Ghostbusters,
doesn't it? Who ya gonna call—Becca Broccoli?!”

There was more laughter from the ladies. “She's nailing this so far,” Maura Beth observed. “Although this is only the second time I've listened to her.”

“I want to see what happens when she gets to the actual recipe, though,” Connie added. “De-sliming okra is a mighty big promise. I haven't seen it done in my cooking lifetime.”

But Becca delivered within a minute or two.
“. . . and the key to cutting down on the slime is to sauté your okra quickly on very high heat. Don't let it lie around in the pan because it will end up oozing all those juices some people just don't like. Another tip: Cut your okra on the bias so that you end up with diagonal slices. That way more of the surface has contact with that high heat. Isn't it interesting how the simplest tips can make your life so much easier in the kitchen? Now, we'll be right back to talk about the versatility of tomatoes and okra for your more healthful lifestyle after this message from our sponsor. ”

As the latest deals from Harv Eucher's Pre-Owned Vehicles held no interest for the ladies, they began their chatter once again.

“I know Becca has to be telling the truth about the high heat,” Miss Voncille commented. “I practically stew my okra on simmer in the pan. But then, I don't mind the slime. I guess it's an acquired taste.”

Connie was shaking her head and wagging a finger at the same time. “I never could get my Lindy to eat it. She always claimed it made her feel like she needed to clear her throat. But my little granddaughter, Melissa, just loves to eat it in gumbo. Of course, she doesn't even know it's in there mixed up with the rice and the onions and the chicken. She's too distracted pushing her spoon around, and she says, ‘Gigi, I cain't find the gum in here!' So, I made up a cute little ditty for her, complete with cheerleader-type hand gestures—I forget the tune now—but the lyrics went: ‘Who took the gum outta the gumbo, hey? Who took the gum outta the gumbo, hey?' Oh, she danced around and went wild!”

The ladies' laughter erupted just as Harv Eucher's revved-up blather about taking advantage of once-in-a-lifetime trade-ins finally came to an end, and Becca's voice returned for some blessed relief.

“Welcome back to ‘Downsizing with Comfort Food' on
The Becca Broccoli Show.
Next, we want to talk about using tomatoes and okra as a side dish or—as I most often prefer it—as a staple ingredient in my chicken or shrimp gumbo . . . ”

“There you go!” Connie exclaimed.

“. . . and it's my suggestion that your pantry should never be without several jars of what I call my all-purpose gumbo base. Here in the middle of the summer with everything fresh and in season is when you should be putting up that gumbo mix for those cold weather evening suppers looming ahead . . .”
Becca continued.

“I'm not a canner,” Connie admitted with a smirk. “I'm from the crowd that thinks Mason jars should be used to serve up humongous cocktails. Why, it's all the rage at certain restaurants up in Nashville.”

The others nodded agreeably even as Becca rolled through her script.
“. . . and another tip for lightening up that gumbo base would be to go with about half as much butter when you sauté. Keep your garlic and your salt and pepper for that all-important seasoning. Just take the plunge and use olive oil instead. It's part of the Mediterranean diet that's becoming increasingly popular everywhere. They say a little olive oil and an occasional glass of red wine does wonders for longevity . . . and maybe even your love life. Of course, for those of you out there who are teetotalers, just go with the olive oil and skip the wine . . .”

Miss Voncille leaned in and raised an eyebrow smartly. “I wonder how these instructions about substituting olive oil will go over with the devout butter believers. I know people from church potluck suppers who think ‘Thou Shalt Use Only Butter in Everything' is the eleventh commandment.”

“My mother was one of them,” Connie added with a wink. “If she had a headache—she'd spread butter on a few aspirin and go about her business.”

The ladies couldn't seem to help themselves from that point forward. Whatever Becca said, they had an aside or witticism ready, and they were somehow able to coordinate the two seamlessly in the manner of an old-fashioned television variety show act. It wasn't criticism as much as it was a form of “dishing with the girls,” and it made the show's precious minutes fly by with plenty of laughter in the air.

“. . . so be sure and tune in tomorrow at this same time, same station for another installment of
The Becca Broccoli Show,” Becca was saying as the show's closing theme came up.

Miss Voncille headed over and shut off the radio, leaned against the counter, and folded her arms. “Well, ladies, what did you think? My opinion is that it went very well, olive oil and all.”

Both Maura Beth and Connie agreed that the show had been a success, but then Maura Beth offered up a sheepish grin. “I also think we had a very good time cutting up the way we did. There were even moments when I felt like we were schoolgirls whispering behind the teacher's back. I wonder if we would have said some of the things we said had Becca been here in person.”

“Oh, it was all in good fun,” Connie insisted. “I'm sure she wouldn't have minded. I thought Becca's program was full of wit, so it inspired us to react the same way.”

“Absolutely!” Miss Voncille exclaimed. “I'm sure that's what Becca was going for—the humor angle to win everyone over to a slightly different point of view.” Then Miss Voncille headed over and dramatically plopped herself down in her seat, putting her hands on the table. “Ladies, I have to confess something to you. Of course, I did want you here for breakfast and Becca's show, but I also had an ulterior motive. I thought maybe enjoying the show might bring us together even more than we already are, and I believe it certainly has with the way we've been laughing and talking. But there's something else I had on my mind and, well . . . it's just that . . .”