“Did you find Betsy’s pickle recipes in her recipe box?” asked Alice. She closed her eyes. “Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking of them! Labor Day just wasn’t official without Betsy’s pickles at the picnic.” Like Annie, Alice still missed Betsy Holden terribly. After her marriage to the charming but chronically unfaithful John MacFarlane had crumbled to pieces, and she had moved into the carriage house next to Grey Gables, Annie’s grandmother had been a steady source of love and wisdom for the younger woman.
Annie eyed the plant she was harvesting for any wayward bugs like the copper-colored Asiatic Garden Beetle or for any holes gnawed into the leaves. “Yes, I found it. If I don’t manage to kill the pickling cucumbers or mess up the recipe, I’ll be sure to put a jar or two aside for Labor Day. Of course, I have to send some down to LeeAnn and her family.” Annie smiled, thinking of LeeAnn and her husband Herb Sorensen and their darling twin children, John and Joanna. Pleased to see that the plant showed no signs of insect invasion, she reminded Alice to be on the lookout as well.
“If today is any indication, you’ll have enough cucumbers for an army of pickle jars,” Alice declared, peering over at the abundant cucumber plants as she dropped a handful of the beans into the harvest basket. “Maybe even enough to pay your field help in pickles.”
Annie moved to the next plant and settled into a rhythm of support, pinch, support, pinch. “If my field hand continues to show up to help, I’m sure it can be arranged. I don’t want to keep you from your own work, though.” A self-employed consultant for Divine Décor, a home-decor company, and Princessa, a jewelry company, for many years, Alice worked hard in her business, and Annie kept herself mindful of not intruding on her friend’s work hours.
“That’s not likely to be an issue,” Alice assured Annie. “August is usually my semi-vacation month anyway—the calm before autumn and the Christmas rush. Besides, who doesn’t want to spend more hours outdoors in this weather?”
Annie released another handful of beans on top of the mound already crowding one side of the basket. “This Texas transplant has fallen in love with August in Maine. In Texas, August is even more brutal than July. A cool front might plunge the temperature all the way down to 91 degrees. It’s not a month for comfortable outdoor activity.” She squatted down by the last of the bean plants. “Do you have any plans for fun during your semi-vacation?”
“Not yet,” Alice answered as she peered at the undersides of leaves to check for signs of insects. “Want to tag along if I come up with anything interesting?”
One last bean separated from its stem and rested in Annie’s hand. “Sure, as long as it doesn’t involve leaving town for more than a day or two. The garden is beginning to produce too well to neglect it now.” Emptying her hands once more, she turned toward the cucumbers. “Now, it’s on to the cucumbers.”
“You know, if the cucumbers pickle well, you can branch out to pickling other things—crab apples, peaches, beets, peppers,” Alice suggested, as she picked from the insect-free bean plant. “I’m particularly fond of pickled peaches, just in case you’re wondering.”
Annie raised an eyebrow. “Do you see any peach trees here? Or crab apple?”
“There are a couple of farms not too far from here that have pick-your-own days in August.” A dreamy look came over Alice’s face. “So delicious!”
“You might want to wait and see if my pickling skills are up to par before turning me loose on peaches.” Annie moved the harvest basket closer to the cucumber plants and started at the end of a row, looking for cucumbers that were dark green and firm, with the spiny points smoothed out somewhat but not yet flat. Mushy pickles would definitely not do justice to Gram’s recipe.
Alice carried her last handful of beans over to the basket. “Well, your success at duplicating Betsy’s rose hip jelly recipe gives me hope for the pickling.” She turned her attention to the second row of cucumber vines. Spotting a perfect candidate, she freed it from the vine. The two friends picked in silence for a while, thoroughly content in their chore as the pleasant breeze softened the warm sunshine.
Alice looked down at the small mound of cucumbers beside her, and making a pouch with her oversized T-shirt, filled it with the vegetables to carry to the basket. “This was one of Betsy’s baskets, wasn’t it? It looks familiar, though it’s been a few years since I’ve seen it.”
Glancing at the basket and the bounty her friend had helped her pick, Annie answered, “Yes, I brought it down from the attic earlier, knowing it would be useful if the garden continues to thrive.” She paused. “It wasn’t the only thing I brought down.” Annie paused again, a mischievous light dancing into her eyes.