Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,15
Jean said, straightening the rings she wore on her pinkie and index fingers. “I sew and I garden. I don’t know why I put myself through all this teasing and spraying . . . oh, who am I kidding? Of course I do. Their names are Maxine and Peggy and Pearl. It’s hard to imagine going more than a couple of weeks without hearing the latest buzz.”
“Anything good?” Brooklyn asked, smoothing her napkin and wondering what she would be doing when she reached Jean’s age, whose gossip she would want to hear, what friends she would have to replace the ones with whom she’d lost contact.
“Oh, just what they think their husbands are doing for them tomorrow for Valentine’s Day. All those surprises that don’t ever seem to surprise.” Eyes cast down, Jean lined up the cutlery just so on either side of her placeholder plate. “I never have been a fan of celebrating love with jewelry and candy and lingerie. Give me a good ol’ bottle of bourbon any day. But I’ve also been without Mr. Dial for thirteen years. And that can make a difference.”
“It can,” Brooklyn said, though even when Artie had been alive she’d much preferred the practical gifts he’d given her year-round. Potted hibiscuses to plant along the side of their garage. A brand new cherry-red stand mixer just because she’d mentioned wanting one. Once he’d given her a fountain pen and a stack of yellow legal pads, knowing how she was with notes and lists and ideas she tended to jot on scraps and leave everywhere.
But Jean was just as practical as Artie had been, and rather than dwell on her loss, or Brooklyn’s, or what might have been had death not interrupted, she reached for Brooklyn’s hand and squeezed before pushing back her chair and asking, “Should we fill our plates?” then leading the way to the room set up with chafing dishes and signage—both decorative and descriptive.
The café’s buffet of tossed salad with a selection of homemade dressings, fresh-baked hot rolls with sweet cream butter, local honey and jams, and piping-hot casseroles had Brooklyn realizing she’d skipped breakfast. Visiting Two Owls on an empty stomach was a very big, very bad mistake.
Today’s entrées were vegetable lasagna, chicken spaghetti, and stacked pork enchiladas. Brooklyn knew from previous visits that Kaylie’s father, Mitch Pepper, was the one who smoked the pork for hours before shredding it. His wife, Dolly, used a recipe handed down through generations of her family for the chicken dish. And the zucchini in the lasagna came from the Gardens on Three Wishes Road. The organic farm was owned by Kaylie’s sister-in-law, Indiana, making Two Owls truly a family affair.
Brooklyn scooped up a small serving of each and added a roll to her plate along with a pat of butter and a spoonful of peach jam. She’d come back for salad later. Maybe. If she had room after the bread and the casseroles.
On the brownie bar, along with Cow Bells’ vanilla bean and butter-brickle ice cream, was a new Ultimate Chocolate Brownie Cake and Two Owls’ Number Ten Brownie Special. That one was packed with coconut and pecans, infused with orange zest and cayenne pepper, and topped with dulce de leche. Rumor had it Kaylie had been inspired to create the flavor combination by the man who was now her husband—a local contractor named Tennessee whom everyone called Ten.
Jean dished up a small plate of chicken spaghetti, then helped herself to a brownie and a slice of cake, topping each with a scoop of vanilla bean, an unabashed fan of having dessert first. Brooklyn would’ve done the same had she not already planned to spend the afternoon with multiple brownies in front of the TV at home.
“How’s the packing going?” Jean asked, once they were seated again.
Buttering her hot roll, Brooklyn nodded. “I’m getting there. And I’m so glad I gave myself two whole semesters to do this. It’s amazing the clutter that accumulates after twelve years of living in one place.”
“Try thirty-two years,” Jean said. “Curtis and I bought that house in 1983. I don’t have enough time left in my life to go through everything I own. And I honestly don’t want to,” she added with a laugh. “So many things we didn’t need. So much money wasted. I would love to go back and do it over again.”
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Brooklyn asked, having wondered often why she and Artie had bought so many books,