Boxed In(47)
“Would that folk be Cecil or you?”
“Probably both, actually, but me in particular.” Annie drew in a deep breath of sea air before continuing. “I had a bizarre experience after the club meeting, and Ian happened to see me while I was still upset.” She told Alice the story of Gwen and John in full detail as rose hips plopped into their buckets at a steady rate. They moved to another bush when red hips grew scarce on the first bush.
Alice listened intently, not interjecting comments or questions as she often did. When Annie had brought the story to an end, Alice continued to pick the seed pods in silence for a few minutes. Then she paused in her reaching and plucking to look Annie in the eyes.
“Now I’m really puzzled,” she said. “Last night, after I left your house, one of my hostesses called and begged me to meet her at the diner to bring her more catalogs. She insisted it couldn’t wait until today. If it means more sales, I’ll sacrifice, you know. When I was walking back to my car from the diner, I saw Gwen. We chatted for a few minutes, mostly about how helpful the people at Abbe Museum have been. But she wouldn’t let me weasel out of her what Kezi had said about my design before the meeting. I teased her a little, saying that even though she was making me wait, I was not going to make her wait to hear your news. Then I told her about Clara Stewart and the year on the bottom of the poem. Her only reaction was, ‘Oh.’ That’s it. I noticed Gwen’s face go pale, and then she mumbled something about needing to go. Off she went like the town was burning down again.” Alice shook her head and resumed picking.
“It certainly goes against the usual way information flows through our community,” said Annie. “You told Gwen last night about Clara Stewart, and yet no one else mentioned it at the meeting before I said something. Peggy didn’t even know!”
“Peggy had already left for the night, or I would have told her,” Alice confessed. “Whatever the reason for all this strangeness, hurray for Ian for whisking you away for a change of scenery. Whale watching will fascinate you, unless you get seasick easily. Uh, you don’t, do you?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Annie. “Wayne took me on a cruise for our twentieth anniversary, and I didn’t have any trouble. But the Butler boat could fit in the cruise ship’s swimming pools, so I really don’t know how my stomach will react to being on a smaller boat on the Gulf of Maine.”
“If you start to feel nauseous when the boat dips down waves and tilts back up them, make sure you keep your eyes on the horizon. It will help. Hey, how full do our buckets need to be?” Alice tilted her bucket far enough so Annie could see the amount of hips it held.
“I’m starting with a small batch, about six jars, so I need three cups of juice. Between the two of us, we have enough, I think. I won’t know until I put the boiled hips through the jelly bag. If not, I’ll have to come pick more in the morning.” Daylight was quickly fading.
“Want some help? You have a lot of trimming to do,” said Alice.
Annie was thankful for the twilight, the shifting colors hiding the small change of color to her face as she was reminded of her last conversation that involved knives.
“I’d love some help. I’ll even feed you dinner while the hips simmer. Then the juice can strain overnight.” The two friends took their buckets into the house to carry on Betsy Holden’s sweet tradition.
16
First thing in the morning Annie checked the amount of juice the jelly bag had produced overnight. In autumn, before daylight savings time ended, Annie generally rose before the sun did. Alice shuddered at Annie’s penchant for early rising, but Annie knew that, compared to the large community of fishermen in the area, she was a late sleeper. Even so, she still needed to flip on the kitchen lights when she made her way downstairs. One of Gram’s sturdy pans sat on the kitchen counter with the metal tripod frame attached to the rim, holding the jelly bag firmly over it. At first glance it appeared the hips she and Alice had trimmed and boiled last night were sufficient for the juice needed, but the measuring cup would tell the full story.
Annie set her coffee to brew and pulled a quart-size measuring cup from a cabinet. Taking the jelly bag off the frame, she set both things in the sink. She poured the juice from the pan into the large cup, relieved to see it reach past the three-cup mark. As Annie admired the colorful juice, Boots padded into the kitchen, sat down about a foot from her and stared.
“Don’t look at me like that, Bootsie. If Gram were here, she’d have done the same thing.” Annie had closed the door to the kitchen to ensure the rose-hip mixture would not be sampled during the night. “I made sure you still had your water.” She reached down to pet the top of the cat’s head on her way to bring the water dish back from the hallway right outside the kitchen door. After rinsing the dish and filling it with fresh water, Annie replenished Boots’s food dish, and the cat settled down to eat.