“Oh, no. You’re not roping me into this.”
Neither my best friend from high school nor my oldest enemy paid a bit of attention. The friend, Darlene Uberman, widened her big cornflower-blue eyes at me as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. True to form, Ronnie North pursed her thin lips and glowered.
We were sharing a table in Harriet’s, a popular café on North Main Street in Lenape Hollow, New York, the small, rural village where all three of us were born nearly seventy years ago. There is no Harriet. The place is owned and operated by Ada Patel, a New Jersey native who drifted into town a couple of years ago and set herself up in the business of dispensing coffee and pastries in the morning and soup and sandwich combos from noon until two. She also makes a mean French fry. I popped one into my mouth in a futile attempt to show that I was done talking about the project Darlene and Ronnie had lured me to Harriet’s to discuss. It was Friday the thirteenth. I’m not normally a superstitious person, but I should have known better than to accept their invitation.
“C’mon, Mikki,” Darlene wheedled. “You’re the perfect person to tackle this.”
“I already have a full-time job,” I reminded her, “not to mention a cat who goes into a decline if I don’t spend the majority of my free time at home.”
Since late last year, I’ve been self-employed as a freelance editor . . . a “book doctor” if you will. After I was widowed, although it had been some fifty years since I last lived in New York State, I moved back to my old home town in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. Why? Because the house I grew up in came on the market. On impulse, perhaps overwhelmed by nostalgia, but more likely due to temporary insanity, since New York is an even more expensive state to retire to than Maine, I bought it. The next thing I knew I was faced with a host of necessary but pricey repairs and had to come up with a way to pay for them. Since my retirement income from decades of teaching junior high English wouldn’t stretch that far, I set up shop as “Michelle Lincoln, The Write Right Wright.”
My business is not a hobby that can be set aside at will. Even though the most pressing of the renovations were completed last fall, I still need the income to pay for upkeep and one or two additional home-improvement projects that can’t be put off much longer.
“Where’s your civic pride?” Everything about Ronnie—her tone of voice, her superior attitude, her narrowed eyes—was geared to taunt. “Don’t you want the quasquibicentennial to be a success?”
“Did you practice saying that in front of a mirror?”
I was inordinately pleased to have a comeback, even if it wasn’t exactly a zinger. In high school, when Ronnie was the bane of my existence, I had a tendency to shrink into myself or scuttle away rather than stand up to her bullying. An hour or two too late, I’d come up with the perfect response to whatever rude thing she’d said to me.
Quasquibicentennial? That’s the name given to a 225th anniversary celebration, in this case the anniversary of the arrival of the first settlers in what is now the village of Lenape Hollow. I know how to pronounce the word inside my head, but I’m not about to attempt it out loud. It’s right up there with Worcestershire sauce on my list of tongue twisters to avoid.
When Ronnie reached for her water glass and took a sip, looking miffed, I suspected I’d hit the nail on the head with that crack about the mirror. Right in character, I thought. It’s all about image with Ronnie.
The contact lenses she wears to compensate for being nearsighted also brighten the color of rather plain brown eyes and it’s glaringly obvious that she’s had more than one facelift. She can afford it, which makes it hard to understand why she doesn’t spring for a better dye job. Her hair, which at our age should be gray like mine or a fluffy white mop like Darlene’s, is still the unrelieved black of her youth.
Each to their own, I guess. I choose to be proud of my age. I was never a great beauty, and five minutes after dressing in my best, my clothes tend to look like I’ve slept in them, but I lucked out in the gene pool. Although I was a brunette when I was younger, my hair is now that shade of gray that appears blond in some lights. Though I say it that shouldn’t, it doesn’t look half bad on me, and it complements my pale, relatively unlined skin and light blue eyes.
I let the silence stretch, concentrating on my grilled cheese sandwich. I chewed slowly, happy to let Ronnie stew. Yes, it was petty of me to enjoy having her at a disadvantage, but I didn’t feel a bit guilty about it. She tormented me throughout my vulnerable teen years. She deserved a little payback.
Across the table from me, Darlene was struggling not to laugh. She knew exactly what I was thinking. She also knew that I wouldn’t turn down their request just to spite Ronnie. It remained to be seen if my other objections would hold up.
To avoid locking eyes with either of them, I shifted my attention to what was going on around us. Inside the café, Ada was waiting on a foursome of local businessmen. A young woman sat alone in a corner reading a book. A middle-aged couple occupied one of the tables for two, engaged in an intense conversation. Delicious smells filled the air—the ever-present aroma of fresh ground coffee mingled with scents from all my favorite comfort foods. I try to eat sensibly. I do. But I have a weakness for homemade pastries and deep-fried potatoes and innumerable other things that are bad for me.
I’d finished my sandwich and my fries. To quell the impulse to order seconds, I concentrated on the view through the plate glass window beside me. Although it was a sunny and pleasant afternoon in mid-July, there wasn’t much to see. The sidewalk was empty and even though Main Street is the main route through downtown Lenape Hollow, only a few vehicles passed by.
Directly across the street from Harriet’s is the Lenape Hollow Police Station, a relatively new addition to the landscape. As I stared at the front entrance, Detective Jonathan Hazlett emerged and headed for his car. He glanced toward the café, recognized me at our table beside the window, and lifted a hand in greeting. I returned the wave and added a smile. How could I not? The man is seriously good-looking. If I were forty years younger . . .
Squelching that thought, I turned back to my companions. Darlene, a frown emphasizing the lines chronic pain had etched in her face, was just polishing off her turkey club. Studiously ignoring me, Ronnie rummaged through her designer handbag.
I repressed a sigh. That dig about civic pride had stung. For months I’d been trying, bit by bit, to become more active in the life of the community. I wanted to do my part, but there were limits. I’d be a fool to let myself be talked into taking on more than I could reasonably manage.
“I’m willing to proofread and edit,” I said, “but someone else will have to handle any rewrites.”
“How hard can doing a few updates be?” Ronnie asked. “It isn’t as if you have to create an entirely new script for the pageant. The one that was performed for the bicentennial just needs a little tweaking.”
Hah! I’d heard similar logic in the past. It invariably meant Give up all your free time for the foreseeable future. True, I hadn’t seen the actual text, but the mere fact that it dated from the early 1990s was enough to set off warning bells. Back then, the Internet was still a new phenomenon. Home computers existed, but they were oversize and expensive. Were there laptops? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think so. There were definitely no tablets or smartphones.
“Do you have a copy of the script with you?” I asked.
Ronnie and Darlene exchanged a look.
“There’s only one,” Darlene admitted. “It’s kept in the archives at the historical society.”
“Let me guess—typewritten?”
“Hey, it could be worse.” Darlene’s eyes twinkled, giving her the look of a mischievous elf. “This is the original, with black ink on nice white bond paper. You should be grateful it isn’t a carbon copy or a photocopy or . . .” She lowered her voice to a sepulchral whisper. “Mimeographed!”
I repressed a shudder.
Ronnie looked disgusted with both of us. “This isn’t a joking matter, Darlene. We must move forward on this project without delay. We have a script, Mikki. It isn’t as if you’d be starting from scratch.”
And if I believe that, I bet you have a nice bridge in Brooklyn you’d like to sell me.
I kept this sarcastic response to myself. All I said aloud was, “Have either of you read it?”
“Gilbert—that’s Gilbert Baxter, director of the historical society—summarized the content for us at last night’s meeting of the board. Aside from a few instances where the text needs to be adjusted for political correctness, he didn’t seem to think there was much that requires changing. History is history, after all.”
“Political correctness,” I repeated, feeling my heart sink to my toes. “That’s the literary equivalent of a field full of land mines.” And another excellent reason to decline the honor they wanted to bestow upon me.
Ronnie fiddled impatiently with the slim leather wallet she’d pulled out of her purse. “It’s no big deal. Just a few places where references to savages and Indians should be changed to Native Americans.”
“Oh, that’s rich. Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t all our high school teams still called the Indians?”
The logo is the profile of a chief in a war bonnet. Can you say stereotype? That portrayal isn’t even accurate for this part of the country. As far as I know, the Lenni Lenape and other East Coast tribes never wore war bonnets.
“That’s neither here nor there,” Ronnie said in a snippy tone of voice. “What’s important to remember is that the quasquibicentennial is Lenape Hollow’s opportunity to take advantage of the resurgence of tourism in Sullivan County. The village board of trustees and the town council both support the decision of the board of directors of the historical society to produce the historical reenactment of our founding.”
She went on, giving a little lecture on our duty to give back to the community and blah, blah, blah. I listened with only half an ear to this familiar refrain. Ever since Lenape Hollow lost its bid to become the site of Sullivan County’s new casino, everyone and his brother has been coming up with schemes to lure some of the new crop of tourists our way. Once upon a time, resort hotels were the key to prosperity throughout the area, at least during the summer months. Lenape Hollow was desperate to bring back the good old days. They called it “revitalizing” the town.
“In addition to the pageant, there will be a parade and other events,” Darlene chimed in when Ronnie paused for breath. “People will see that Lenape Hollow is coming back to life and that it’s a good place to live, to work, to play—”
She broke off when I rolled my eyes at her. “Do you really think there’s going to be much crossover between gamblers and history buffs?”
“Would it kill you to pay a visit to the archives and take a look at the manuscript?” Ronnie demanded.
“Maybe it really doesn’t need much work,” Darlene coaxed. “You can’t tell until you take a look at it.”
Ada chose that moment to bring our bill. Ronnie snatched it up, although she did so with a sour look on her face. After a quick review of the charges, she handed over a credit card.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Ada said. “You should do it, Mikki. Who else are they going to find who can whip a script into shape at this late date? The big day is less than a month away.”
I glanced at Darlene for confirmation.
She shrugged. “August eleventh. We lucked out though. One of the other board members is the guy who directs the junior class play at the high school every year. He’s volunteered to take over that end of things. He says he needs two weeks for rehearsals, so you’ll have nearly that long to doctor the script.”
“So, no pressure, right? Just drop everything and get busy?”
“Two days’ work, max.”
I didn’t believe that for a minute, but I could feel myself weakening. Let’s face it. It’s nice to be needed, and I did want the quasquibicentennial to be a success.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, “but I’m not making any promises.”
“I don’t know what there is to think about. Either you’re up to the task or you’re not.” Snatching her receipt from Ada, Ronnie got to her feet in such a flurry of movement that a whiff of her pungent perfume eddied my way.
I wrinkled my nose. I’ve never cared for Emeraude.
“We do need to have your decision soon,” Darlene said in a tentative voice. “Tomorrow?”
Ronnie gave a disdainful sniff. “Your sister would already have convinced Mikki to agree. I don’t know why I thought you would be any help.”
With that parting shot, she left the café. In silence, Darlene and I watched through the window as she got into her obscenely expensive Rolls-Royce and drove away.
“I used to wonder why she didn’t employ a chauffeur,” Darlene said, “but then I remembered how much she likes to be in control. Put someone else in the driver’s seat? Never!”
It was a nice stab at distraction, but I heard the unsteadiness in Darlene’s voice.
“Why did she bring up your sister?”
“That was just Ronnie being Ronnie.” But Darlene didn’t meet my eyes. “She likes to issue challenges.”
That much was certainly true. Ronnie wanted me to rise to the bait and prove I could handle the job. It followed that she’d try to motivate Darlene by turning this into a competition between her and her older sister.
I had almost forgotten that Darlene had a sister, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember her name. I did recall that she was five or six years our senior and had been a cheerleader. When she was a senior and Darlene and I were still in junior high, she’d wanted nothing to do with either of us.
Darlene reached for her cane as she eased herself out of her chair. So far, this had been one of her good days. On the not-so-good days she used a walker. On the bad ones, she alternated between a wheelchair and a scooter. Near-crippling arthritis all too frequently drained her energy. It had forced her to take early retirement from her job as head librarian at the Lenape Hollow Memorial Library, but she’d refused to become housebound. She served with Ronnie on the historical society’s board of directors and belonged to two or three other local groups as well.
I collected my shoulder bag from the empty chair on my side of the table, but I wasn’t ready to let the subject drop. “If your sister is so devoted to the historical society, why isn’t she working on this project?”
“Judy has moved on.” Darlene’s words were clipped. Briefly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she sent me an apologetic look. “It’s a long story, and not one I want to get into right now. Besides, I really need to head home. Who knows what trouble the puppy has gotten into since I’ve been gone?”
At the mention of this newest member of her family, she got a goofy pet-lover look on her face. Her longtime companion, an elderly schnauzer named Edmund, had gone to his reward a few months earlier. It had taken a while for Darlene and her husband, Frank, to talk themselves into adopting another dog, but ever since they’d taken the plunge, she’d been like a mom with a newborn. There were at least two dozen pictures of Simon on her phone, and she’d made me look at every one of them while we were waiting for Ronnie to join us at Harriet’s.
“You really have to come by and be introduced,” Darlene said as we left the café. “How about tomorrow morning?”
“I can see right through your devious plot, you know. The puppy is just an excuse to get me over to your house so you can badger me into tackling a full-scale revision of that manuscript.”
“Maybe. Does nine work for you? I’ll make one of my famous brown-sugar-topped coffee cakes.”
My mouth was already watering but I waited until we reached her van to answer, standing by the open passenger-side window while she settled herself in the driver’s seat. “Yes to the coffee cake and the dog.”
“And the pageant?”
“That’s still a maybe. Ask me again tomorrow.”
Walking home from Harriet’s, I took the scenic route. Nowhere in Lenape Hollow is all that far from anywhere else in the village, but the hills will kill you if you aren’t in shape. I’m no spring chicken, but aside from my need to wear hearing aids and glasses, I don’t have much that’s wrong with me. Even so, I was winded and unflatteringly sweaty by the time I started up my short and blessedly flat driveway.
“Hey, Mikki!” my next-door neighbor called out as she trotted down her porch steps. With the athletic stride of a long-distance runner, she headed for the station wagon parked across the street, car keys at the ready.
“Hi, Cindy.” I had to look up to talk to her. Our front lawns dip down on either side of my driveway and I was standing in the valley between the two. “Going to pick up the kids?”
“Nope.” With a toss of her ginger curls she stopped to grin at me. “They’re with my mother. You are looking at the newest employee of Fast Foods.”
“Congrats. I think.”
Contrary to what the name implies, Fast Foods is a small local grocery chain. In March, they opened a store at a new location just outside the village limits but still within the town.
I should probably explain that Lenape Hollow the town consists of one village, also named Lenape Hollow, and six hamlets: Lenape Falls, Muthig Corners, Lakeville, Steen-rod Springs, Dutch Flats, and Feldman. The latter was created when, as the site of the world-renowned but now defunct Feldman’s Catskill Resort Hotel, it was awarded its own post office.
“It’s only part-time,” Cindy said, “but it will help pay the bills. And it will get me out of the house.”
I couldn’t help but smile back at her. Cindy Fry is one of the most upbeat, enthusiastic, buoyant people I’ve ever met. There are times when just watching her with her three boisterous young children wears me out. Then again, she’s more than forty years younger than I am. At her age, I had boundless energy too.
By the time she drove away, I’d gone up the three steps cut into the side of my lawn and was halfway along the paved path that runs the width of the front porch. Ahead of me was the chest-high picket fence that separates my property from my other next-door neighbors. I wasn’t surprised to see movement through the wooden slats. Marie O’Day loves her garden and spends almost as many hours a week tending it as she does working at O’Day Antiques, the family business. When I got closer, I could see that two people were hard at work. Marie had roped her husband into helping with the weeding.
I don’t have much of a green thumb and I can’t identify most flowers, let alone tell one floral scent from another, but I appreciated the fragrance wafting my way on a gentle breeze. There have always been flowers on that side of my house. Back in the 1950s and ’60s, when Cora Cavendish lived there, she even managed to coax a magnolia tree into flourishing. That’s a real feat this far north. I can remember collecting the petals that fell into our yard and holding them up to my nose to inhale that delicious smell. The tree is long gone, but thanks to Marie there are still plenty of gorgeous, colorful, fragrant blooms to enjoy.
Just as I started to mount my porch stairs, two heads popped up on the O’Day side of the barrier, staring at me with disconcerting intensity through identical pairs of oversize sunglasses. My steps faltered, but only for an instant. I thought I knew what was coming, and since I finally had an answer the O’Days would like, I plunged into the conversational pool before either of them could get a word out.
“Good news,” I announced. “The trees are coming down next week.”
The people who lived in my house before I bought it had let a virtual forest spring up in the backyard. I wasn’t sure which of the previous owners had planted so many trees, mostly evergreens and ash with a few maples and birches mixed in, but this mini-forest had been allowed to flourish unchecked for decades. The O’Days rightfully saw it as a fire hazard, as well as a potential breeding ground for the ticks that cause Lyme disease. The growth was also unsightly, since no one had bothered to prune or cut back the underbrush.
While I’d known from the moment I moved in that I’d have to do something about all those trees, I’d had to have much-needed repairs on the house completed before I could even think about tackling the backyard. I’d also . . .
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