cups of cream on medium-high speed to soft peak, then spoon into a large bowl and refrigerate.
In the same mixer bowl, whip the remaining two cups of cream along with the sugar and the vanilla to soft peak. Fold into the already-whipped cream along with the chopped Oreos.
Slice the cake in half horizontally, creating two layers. Place the bottom layer on a serving plate and spread with one-third of the whipped cream and Oreo mixture. Top with the second cake layer and use the remaining whipped cream and Oreo mixture to frost the top and sides of the cake.
Chill the frosted cake for two hours before slicing to allow cookies to soften. (If transporting, carry the cake in an insulated shipping box with a frozen chill pack beneath the serving plate.)
ELEVEN
“You know,” Jean said the next morning from inside Brooklyn’s garage. “You should think about wearing cobwebs in your hair more often. It’s a very fetching look. A bit like St. Birgitta’s cap.”
“Thanks,” Brooklyn said, not sure she wanted to look like the founder of the Bridgettine nuns. Reaching up, she brushed away the mess, praying she didn’t find spiders. Though she had no one to blame but herself if she did. She was the one who’d let the arachnids have their way.
After a cloudy Friday night, Saturday had turned out bright and gorgeous, a perfect day to antique shop in Gruene, or read a book in the backyard hammock, or drive through the Hill Country with the windows down. Doing so on a Harley would’ve been even better. The sun shining, the wind whooshing by, the scents of cedar and juniper and pine in the air . . .
Instead she was cleaning out her garage. Or at least continuing the chore that would take a month’s worth of weekends. She’d already donated most of Artie’s smaller tools she had no use for, many going to Keller Construction via the Second Baptist Church earlier in the week.
Before listing the larger saws and drills and whatevers in the Hope Springs Courant, however, she’d invited Jean to take photos for her sons and anyone she thought might have use for the items. Photos involved moving things to where she could shoot them from all sides.
After two years of the pieces sitting untouched, there were a lot of cobwebs, and too many dust bunnies to count, and so much dirt Brooklyn wanted to hang her head in shame. Artie had kept the garage as clean as a firehouse; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d swept it.
Jean walked around what Brooklyn thought was some sort of grinder. It was on a stand and together the pieces weighed what felt like a ton, and though she was certain Artie had used it, she had no idea what for. Sharpening knives or lawn-mower blades? Was that a thing one did?
“If either Jeffrey or Paul are interested in any of these items,” Jean said, “you will take their money. I won’t let you give away a single nail. Artie no doubt paid a handsome sum for whatever in the world everything in here is.”
“I’m glad I’m not the only one clueless, though not knowing makes me feel like I should’ve been more involved in what he was doing,” Brooklyn said, suppressing the sense of guilt that had taken root this morning when she’d opened the garage door and watched the day’s sunlight hit the corners.
“Now, Brooklyn. Did Artie know what to do with every gadget in your sewing room?” Jean asked, not even waiting for an answer. “Of course he didn’t. This was his domain. That’s yours. I’m not saying he couldn’t sew on a button. I’m quite sure he could. And if he’d had need to fill a bobbin he would’ve learned. Just like if you’d ever had a need to do something with this,” she said, gesturing toward the grinder, “you would’ve done the same.”
Leave it to Jean to use logic against Brooklyn’s misgivings. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’ve lived long enough and well enough to teach even that Justin Beaver a thing or two.”
Brooklyn smiled, letting the mistake, which knowing Jean might very well have been on purpose, stand. And then she was stopped from saying anything else by the rumble of a motorcycle engine coming close.
Jean heard it, too, cocking her head and grinning broadly. “I believe you may have a visitor on the way.”
That, or she was hearing the same phantom Harley Callum had imagined last Saturday night.