That got my attention. As my mother and I carried boxes to the truck, I asked her if it was a long hike from her place to the co-op.
“Not at all, sug. Anytime I need to refill my spiritual well I take the path through the back woods leadin’ right up the mountain. The co-op folks are lovely. We trade things fairly regular. I’ll read their cards in exchange for goat’s milk soap or one of their cute hemp shoppin’ bags. Mighty strong, those bags. Can hold two bunches of bananas and three bottles of my leadin’ man, Mr. Jim Beam.”
I slid a heavy box onto the truck bed and wiped my slick forehead with my shirtsleeve. “And Marlette lived among these people?” I couldn’t picture him coexisting with a bunch of goat farmers and weavers. He seemed too much of a recluse to enjoy the constant company I imagined would be prevalent at the Red Fox Mountain Co-op.
My mother shook her head. “No, honey. Word has it he had some run-down cabin near the creek. I don’t know where, but I have a feelin’ you’re gonna find out.”
Ignoring her twinkling eyes, I handed Trey the last of the boxes and settled onto the Chevy’s bench seat with a weary sigh. Despite my fatigue, I watched my house recede in the rearview mirror with a stirring of hope. Sandwiched between my son and my mother, I knew that my little family could make it over this bump in the road. As my mother began singing along to Patsy Cline, Trey did his best to suppress a smile over her off-key notes. Suddenly, I was aware this was one of those moments when I should count my blessings, so as we left Dunston behind, that’s exactly what I did.
This burst of optimism carried me all the way to Inspiration Valley, but when we passed the sign announcing the town limits, I realized that I needed to be at Novel Idea by nine the next morning. I didn’t have a car, I hadn’t finished reading my quota of query letters, and I’d have to spend Monday night meeting with both a real estate agent and the school board. Afterward, I’d have to haul more of my belongings to the shed behind my mother’s house.
“Cheer up,” my mother said, sensing my shift in mood. “Least your life’s more excitin’ now. Shoot, I know ladies in the old folks’ home who’ve got more goin’ on than you’ve had for the last twenty years. Now you’ve got a mystery to unravel, a fascinatin’ new job, and good-lookin’ men droppin’ from the sky like cherry blossoms in April. And don’t argue, because I have a clear sense that you’re workin’ alongside a few fine specimens.”
I considered her words as we bounced along the narrow gravel lane leading to her house. She lived in a refurbished tobacco barn three miles outside of town. Painted cardinal red, the fa?ade was Shaker plain, but the inside more than made up for the exterior’s simplicity.
To say that my mother was a pack rat was an understatement. Her definition of decorating was to bring home any object that she deemed interesting and to find a place for it somewhere. Anywhere. Her kitchen, for example, closely resembled the interior of a T.G.I. Friday’s. Rusty signs, painted placards, framed movie posters, flags, pennants, and photographs all vied for space on the lavender walls. She even had an illuminated exit sign affixed to the ceiling and a working traffic signal perched on top of a massive open-shelf pine cupboard. I could only imagine what a real estate agent would say upon entering this room.
It was in this chaotic space that Althea met with her clients. She sat them down at the farm table, brewed a fresh pot of coffee or tea, and served them a slice of fresh-baked chocolate banana bread. I was convinced that my mother had a long list of clients because of her banana bread. If there was anything magical about my mother, it was that bread.
She’d been making it as long as I could remember. Some of my earliest memories were of being hypnotized by her graceful movements in the kitchen baking this bread. Using slightly overripe bananas and chunks of rich chocolate, she folded them into the batter with such infinite gentleness, singing a soft lullaby all the while, that I used to fall asleep before the pan reached the oven.
While the bread baked, the entire house would be redolent with the scent of buttery dough, bananas, and chocolate. It was Althea’s secret weapon, for no client could keep quiet about even their most intimate desires as they nibbled her bread and sipped her strong brew. While they savored each bite, Althea laid out their cards, already aware of what they wanted to hear.
I wasn’t impervious to the smell, either. As soon as the three of us stepped into the kitchen, it settled around me like a shawl. I inhaled gratefully and noticed that Trey did as well.
Dropping my purse into a chair, I turned to my mother. “Let’s walk up Red Fox Mountain right now.”
Trey checked his watch and groaned, “It’s almost dinnertime.”
“Don’t worry, sweet boy. We’ll eat at the co-op. Grab that case of beer outta my fridge and we’ll make ourselves a trade for a fine vegetarian feast.”