6
Back in the Saddle Again
Miss 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 . . .”
Maura Beth and Connie exchanged expectant glances, and Maura Beth finally said, “You’ve come this far, Miss Voncille. Follow through. What is it you wanted to tell us?”
“It’s my relationship with Locke Linwood,” she began, staring at her hands at first. Then she looked up and caught Maura Beth’s gaze. “It’s been so long since . . . well, you know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”
Maura Beth reached over and patted her hand with a generous smile. “Since you’ve been with a man?”
Miss Voncille exhaled and briefly averted her eyes. “You librarians have good instincts. But, yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with both of you. Frank and I were intimate, but that was way back in 1967. It seemed so easy then. All you heard from the media was how free love was supposed to be, I mean. What a lie! I think love is the dearest thing in the world—in the old-fashioned business sense of that word. What a price you end up paying for it whether you get to keep it or lose it! But now here it is another century. How do I . . . get back in the saddle again after all this time? How do I . . . free myself?”
“Connie, you’re the married woman among us,” Maura Beth said. “Do you want to take this?”
Connie looked briefly uncomfortable but soon drew herself up and patted her big hair—the latter gesture a sure sign that she was ready to tackle anything. “Well, the first thing I’d have to ask you, Miss Voncille, is how far your relationship with Mr. Linwood has progressed. Could you share that with us?”
“It’s been very gentlemanly on his part so far, if you catch my drift,” she explained. “I’m always ready to go out when he arrives. He has reservations at The Twinkle or somewhere else for us, and we talk politely over our dinner and wine. Later, when he walks me to my door, there’s a gentle kiss on the cheek, and there are moments when it seems like something more should happen. But . . . it stops there. Or to be perfectly honest, I stop it there.”
“Then you’ve never asked him in—for a nightcap, as they say?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I—well, something tugs at me, and I end up thinking it would be disloyal to Frank.”
Connie grew pensive, touching an index finger to her lips. “And have you ever ended up at his house?”
“Oh, he says he’s not comfortable with that yet. But he insists he is trying his best to accept another woman being in the rooms he shared with his Pamela.”
“Well, he is a fairly recent widower,” Maura Beth put in. “Maybe it’s easier for him to hold on to his memories of his wife and settle for something platonic with you. And maybe that’s what he thinks you want—your memories of Frank and a gentlemanly escort.”
Miss Voncille looked overwhelmed, putting her fingers to her temples. “Yes, I think you ladies must be right. Neither one of us has been willing to . . . saddle up.”
“Do you think you could ever muster up the courage to let Mr. Linwood in for the . . . shank of the evening?” Connie proposed.
“That’s such a colorful way of putting it,” Miss Voncille replied, clearly amused. “Reminds me of a big, juicy leg of lamb.” Then she grew more resolute, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe if I worked hard at it, I could try to let go. I keep a picture of Frank by the nightstand. It was taken just before he left for Vietnam. You can see the determination in his face, in the way his jaw was set, in the way he refused to smile and still looked contented with where he was about to go and what he was about to do. It’s intriguing the way the camera can sometimes capture your soul on film. But in any case, I suppose I should remove it if I invite Locke into my emerald green bedroom . . . and he actually accepts.”
“I would if I were in your shoes,” Connie offered. “If it gets that far, you need to give the man at least a fighting chance to compete with all those perfect romantic memories of yours.”
“And you don’t necessarily have to go out of your way to explain the significance of all the potted palms, either,” Maura Beth added. “Just go ahead and let him think you’ve gone a little mad. Lots of women have decorating fetishes. For instance, I’ve gone a bit crazy in my little apartment with a dozen shades of purple. But in any case, it’s better than having Mr. Linwood be reminded of Frank everywhere he turns. It could definitely put a damper on things.”
Miss Voncille clasped her hands together with an excitement in her voice that made her sound and seem much younger than her years. “Having girlfriends to talk to after all these years is so much fun. So much better than walking around this empty house talking to my palms while I water them. Therefore, I’ve decided to try and saddle up after our big Mockingbird to-do at the library is over.”
“How brave of you!” Connie exclaimed. “And I’m so glad we could help out.” Then she turned her head to the side, frowning in contemplation. “Ladies, I’ve just thought of something brilliant. Why should you be the only one with an escort at these literary outings, Miss Voncille? I need to get Douglas out of that damned boat of his and doing something interesting with me for a change. After all, this is my hard-earned retirement, too. So, I’m going to insist that he come to the Mockingbird potluck and book review. If he refuses to go along with such a simple and reasonable request, then I’ll refuse to clean his unending stringers of fish. Now that’ll put the fear of God in him!”
“Sounds good to me!” Miss Voncille replied. “And you know what else would be lots of fun? Getting Becca to bring her Stout Fella to the meeting. I think we’d all like to meet him since we’ve heard so much about him. Maura Beth, this would be a surefire way to grow our numbers!”
“Yes, it would,” she answered, smiling broadly. “And growing our numbers is the most important thing we can do with this little club of ours. In fact, it’s crucial. I only wish I had someone to bring.”
Connie then gave Maura Beth one of her famous friendly nudges. “Oh, don’t worry. Mr. Right will come along when you least expect it. I met Douglas at a charity auction, and we were bidding for the same piece of antique furniture. Well, he had quite a bankroll from being a successful trial lawyer, so he outbid me and I lost the sideboard. But it was only a temporary defeat because I liked the fact that he had the good taste to spend his money on such fine things. I thought he just might be a keeper, so I snared him in my web, and when I unraveled that big cocoon, the sideboard tumbled out with him, of course. It’s sitting in our dining room out at the lake right this minute, and every time I use it for entertaining, I’m reminded of the crusty old adage, ‘To the victor belongs the spoils.’ ”
“Then it’s all decided,” Maura Beth said. “I’ll call up Becca and tell her to work on her Stout Fella, Connie will work on Douglas, and Miss Voncille, you’ll show up with Locke Linwood in tow as usual.”
Miss Voncille was almost giggling. “Oh, I’m so excited. I never thought I’d let myself feel this way again, and here I am actually considering inviting Locke into my jungle lair. But more as soft, sweet Melanie.”
“Men like to think of themselves as the hunters in the game of love,” Connie added, lifting her chin with an air of superiority. “But more often than not, it’s we women who do the trapping.”