Annie rolled her eyes, but a smile hovered around her lips. “Now that you mention it, Leathan reminds me a little of Stella.”
Alice looked sideways at her friend until they both started giggling. After catching her breath, she said, “To anyone else, you would sound absolutely crazy, but I get it.” She sighed and looked out at the sea, as Annie had earlier. “I’d love for us to discover the story behind the sporran and ferrules. Is there anything else we can do besides look through Charlie’s journals?”
“I haven’t thought of anything else yet,” Annie answered. “Maybe someone else will come up with an idea at the next club meeting.”
Alice nodded. “Sometimes a little distance helps to see a challenge from a different slant.”
“Speaking of challenge, I wonder how Gwen is surviving her bank weekend.” Annie opened the journal in her hand. “The next meeting promises to be filled with stories.”
“Hopefully, it’ll be filled with some successful brainstorming too.” Alice followed her friend’s example and turned to the first page of the 1981 journal. “Although I think we can cut Gwen a little slack if her brain is numb.”
“Agreed.” Annie checked the time on her watch. “Let’s read for an hour, and then I’ll make us some dinner—maybe some pasta salad with my garden veggies and grilled chicken.”
Alice’s eyes brightened. “Sounds delicious.” She lowered her eyes to the book in her hands. “I’m glad I forgave you for losing touch. Who knew you’d turn out to be such a good cook?”
“Right back at you, Muffin Maven,” Annie said, smirking, before settling her concentration back to the last month of 1980. The banter put aside, the two women managed to skim through the rest of the journals through 1985. Though they found many amusing stories of wayward animals and curious people, they did not find any Gunns or Roses.
Alice plunked the 1985 journal onto the top of the stack. “How much further should we read?”
“There’s only a few more left,” answered Annie. “Grandpa was pretty much retired by 1990, although he was always helping out whoever needed it, according to Gram’s letters.” She stretched her arms overhead and arched her back. “I’ll glance through them later, before bed. I need a break from reading for a while. Want to help me snap some green beans for dinner?”
Alice stood up, gathering the stack of journals in her arms. “Sure. I’ll put these back in the library first. Should I grab the last of the journals for you while I’m there?”
“That would be great. Thanks!” After picking up the two empty glasses, Annie followed her friend into the house. “Just put them on the table in the hall. I’ll get the beans ready for snapping.” Once inside, the women parted for different rooms of the house, but they were soon reunited in the kitchen with a bowl of fresh green beans between them.
Alice glanced over at the harvest basket, piled with green cucumbers three to four inches long, on the counter next to the sink. “Did you pick all those cukes this morning?”
Annie snapped the ends off the bean in her hand. “Yes, I did. And there’s more from yesterday morning in the mudroom. If I don’t do something soon, I’m going to run out of room!”
“Sounds like pickling time to me,” Alice hinted, as she picked up a bean. Boots padded into the room and crouched next to her water dish for a drink.
“You’ll be happy to know it’s on my to-do list for tomorrow.” Annie gestured at a bowl of garlic bulbs sitting in the center of the table. “As you can probably tell from all the garlic, I’m starting with dill. Then I’ll try bread-and-butter pickles. But I have some bad news.”
Alice tossed a snapped bean onto the growing pile and raised an eyebrow.
“Reading over Gram’s recipes, I realized my pickles won’t be ready for the Labor Day picnic.” Annie frowned at the bean in her hand. “Not by a long shot.”
Alice thumped her hand down on the table. “I totally forgot about that! They have to sit and soak in all the tasty flavors, right? Just make sure you put some jars aside for next year.”
“Do you mind waiting for a couple months before receiving your pay for helping me in the garden?”
Her friend sighed with an air of martyrdom. “If I must.” She reached over to finger one of the bulbs of garlic. “It’ll be worth it, if you follow Betsy’s method to the letter. Over the years I ate a truckload of her pickles, and never once did I bite into a mushy one.”
“From what I read in Gram’s notes, the key is soaking the cucumbers in an ice bath for at least two hours as well as starting with firm cucumbers.” Annie nodded at the harvest basket. “Those feel just right to me. What do you think?”