The Cherry Cola Book Club (7 page)

At one point Maura Beth had thought about blowing up balloons and tying them to the shelving here and there to add a more festive party accent. She had even gone out and bought a big bag of them with every color of the rainbow showing through the plastic. But she had backed off at the last minute, opting for the gravitas of the library instead. So much better, she had reasoned, that her literary trial balloon not be interpreted so literally.

As for the food, it was a smorgasbord of tempting aromas, colors, and appealing presentation. Becca had done an admirable job of coordinating the menu, keeping egos in check seamlessly. She herself had offered to cook up her chicken spaghetti casserole for the evening's entrée, and everyone was fine with it. Connie had been quite adamant about her contribution: “Assign me anything but fish—nothing with gills and scales, please. If I never cook another fish in my life, it will be too soon!” So the two women readily agreed that a frozen fruit salad would be in order from the McShay household. Miss Voncille thought her jalapeno cornbread would complement Becca's spaghetti and revealed that she would be bringing Locke Linwood as a guest once again; and Maura Beth's chocolate, cherry cola sheet cake in conjunction with Periwinkle's sherry custard would satisfy everyone's sweet tooth there at the end.

“I see you've taken my comment to heart, Miz Mayhew,” Councilman Sparks offered after briefly schmoozing the others and surveying the posters and buffet just past seven. He was, in fact, ridiculously overdressed for the occasion, falling just short of black tie apparel, and his cologne announced itself the second he entered the room.

Maura Beth took a sip from her plastic cup, filled to the brim with Becca's summer cola drink recipe swimming with cherries and a tart twist of lime. “And what comment would that be? I don't exactly memorize all your pronouncements.”

They walked together past the photo capture of bug-eyed Hattie McDaniel, distancing themselves a bit from the others. “I'm referring to Mammy here,” he pointed out. “Looks to me like you're just rehashing the Selznick production with this bigger than life approach. As in ‘the movie was so much better than the book.' I believe I mentioned you might end up doing that.”

Maura Beth refused to bristle, giving him the most serene of her smiles. “Ah, but I assure you, we'll be exploring uncharted territory tonight with our Scarlett versus Melanie debate—right after we've all enjoyed this delicious repast. So, shall we make our way back to the table and help ourselves? I'm about to tell everyone to dig in. We eat first, then discuss.”

At which point she did just that, and a line began to form by the stack of serving trays, paper plates, plastic silverware, and napkins next to Connie's saucers of frozen fruit salad. “I hope you don't mind the informality.” Maura Beth continued to the gathering. “I thought we could balance our trays on our laps. The Cherry Cola Book Club won't be about putting on airs.”

In fact, no one seemed to mind the balancing act once they had helped themselves and claimed their chairs, and the chatter that bubbled up between bites and sips was natural and friendly. Even Councilman Sparks was on his best behavior, concentrating on Connie with his banter; then it came to Maura Beth in a flash that the McShays were potential voters now that they had moved to Cherico permanently.

“I was thinking that the City Council ought to consider a Welcome Wagon concept,” Councilman Sparks was telling Connie at one point. “Perhaps we could convince a few civic-minded ladies to visit new residents with brochures and flowers—that sort of thing.”

Connie nodded in noncommittal fashion as she broke off a piece of jalapeno cornbread. “I'd be more interested in a chapter of Fisherman's Anonymous. You don't have one, do you?” She chuckled and then began explaining her husband's recent addiction to spending most of his time casting his line out on the lake. “I expected my Douglas would be out there now and then, but it's turned into an obsession with him. That, and tossing back a few at The Marina Bar and Grill.”

Then Becca joined the conversation with vigor. “Husbands and obsessions—no greater truth exists in the world today. Take my Stout Fella. I don't know if anyone's told you this, Connie, but my Justin single-handedly developed all those home sites out by the lake. I'm sure you bought your lot from him.”

“Don't get jealous, but I do remember a big, good-looking man,” Connie revealed.

Becca waved her off. “Believe me, anyone who built out on the lake dealt with my husband. His real-estate projects are his oxygen. All he does is eat and talk on his cell phone. Eat and e-mail people. Eat and text, eat and Tweet.”

There was polite laughter at the last comment, but Becca's demeanor remained serious. “I wish I could find the humor in it, I really do. I'm sure you all know by now that I do my cooking show weekday mornings, so I'm always in the kitchen trying out new recipes. I suppose you could make a case that I'm obsessed with food. But not the way Justin is. He eats everything I fix him and even wants to lick the spoon. He's insatiable. When we were first married, he was tall and trim—quite the athlete.” She hesitated as she blushed. “I know I shouldn't have started calling him Stout Fella, but, well, he's gained so much weight that I couldn't help it. Maybe I thought I could shame him into eating less, but he got to the point where he admitted he actually liked being referred to as Stout Fella. He said it made him feel like he was a big comic book superhero.”

Miss Voncille put down her fork and gave Becca an engaging smile. “I haven't had the chance to say this to you yet, but I would have gotten around to it eventually tonight. I've been a huge fan of your
Becca Broccoli Show
since you first came on the radio. I've copied down all your comfort food recipes, and they've turned into staples for me.” She paused for a second and put her hand on Locke Linwood's shoulder. “Why, I fixed your macaroni and cheese with bacon bits just the other evening for myself and my gentleman friend here on one of our dinner dates, didn't I?”

Locke acknowledged her remark by patting his stomach with a contented little smirk on his face. “It was so irresistible I had an extra helping, and I don't normally do that. I like to stay in shape.”

Becca rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Oh, I wish I had never invented all those rich, comfort food recipes as my main focus. It's what's really gotten Stout Fella in trouble. That, and the recent explosion of ice-cream flavors!”

“There's so much emphasis on eating smart these days,” Miss Voncille added, pausing for a thoughtful frown. “I don't want to tell you how to run your show, but maybe you could put the broccoli back in
The Becca Broccoli Show
. After all, you're in charge of the recipes.”

“You're absolutely right,” Becca replied, nodding enthusiastically. “I can change the equation if I want. I could put together some episodes that would definitely put the broccoli back and then follow through by fixing the same recipes at home for Justin and myself. Now, let me see, what should I call them? Anyone got any ideas?”

“Calorie-Conscious Comfort Food?” Miss Voncille suggested.

Becca screwed up her face and then smiled diplomatically. “Thanks, but maybe too much of a tongue twister.”

“Comfort Food without Calories?” Connie offered.

Becca laughed. “That would be outright fraud. There's no such thing.”

“Don't I know it!” Connie exclaimed.

Then Miss Voncille tried again. “Downsizing with Comfort Food?”

Becca perked up immediately. “Oh, I like that. I think it just might work. A clever play on the state of the world today. I'm indebted, Miss Voncille.”

“Oh, happy to help out. Perhaps you could keep us informed about these new episodes and let us know when the first one will be broadcast so we can all be sure and tune in. In fact, I'll be upset if I don't hear from you.”

The mutual admiration society continued throughout the rest of the meal, and not even Councilman Sparks could disturb the camaraderie that was developing among the group. Then, after everyone had raved about the sheet cake and custard and stacked their trays, it was time for the serious business of The Cherry Cola Book Club to get under way.

“By now, I'm sure all of you have had plenty of time to think about our theme tonight,” Maura Beth began, standing behind the podium. “So, who wants to be the first to tackle ‘I'm Scarlett, You're Melanie!'?”

Councilman Sparks quickly raised his hand and did not wait to be acknowledged. “I just wanted to assure everyone here that I'm definitely not in the closet, so I'm neither.”

“Your contribution to our meeting is very amusing, Councilman,” Maura Beth said, as brief, muted laughter broke out. “But now it's time for some real thought.”

“I'd like to go first, if you don't mind,” Connie said. And as there were no objections, she took the floor but remained seated. “I just wound up a long career as an ICU nurse at a hospital in Nashville. I know I went into that occupation in the first place because I felt I could do all the vital, detailed things that nursing requires. But despite all this moaning I've been doing tonight about my husband and his devotion to fishing, I really do have an empathetic personality. One of the things I did best when our daughter, Lindy, was growing up was to stroke her forehead patiently when she felt bad or had a temperature. It takes that kind of touch and tendency to be a good nurse, I believe. And that's why I think I'm a Melanie. Maybe a somewhat firmer Melanie at times. But still a Melanie.”

There was a ripple of polite applause, but Connie held up her hand like a school crossing guard shepherding children. “I had something else to add, though. There's a sequence in
Gone with the Wind
where Scarlett tries to tend to the maimed and dying soldiers at the field hospital. But she just can't stomach it, apologizes to Dr. Mead, turns on her heels, and runs away. She just doesn't have the temperament for it. Reading that passage this time around, I had a frightening vision of a high-tech Scarlett working as a nurse in a modern hospital. I envisioned her going around to all the patients that annoyed her and pulling the plug on them in one of her ongoing hissy fits. I love that expression, by the way—even though I couldn't find it in my dictionary.” She waited for the subdued chuckling to subside.

“Maybe you think I'm being too extreme in my observations about Scarlett. But remember, she told Mammy she didn't want to have any more children because of what giving birth to Bonnie Blue had done to her figure. That's not a life-affirming instinct. It's completely self-absorbed. Melanie would never be capable of that kind of behavior—at least not as written by Margaret Mitchell. So, I think you can definitely count me in Melanie's soft, sweep camp, and I'm proud to be there pulling people back from the edge.”

More polite applause followed. Then Maura Beth said, “I think we'd all agree with your analysis, Connie. Very thoughtful. So, let's score one for Melanie. Now, who wants to be next?”

It was Becca who volunteered from her seat. “I don't know about going around pulling the plug on people,” she began, “but I have to say that I'm a Scarlett. I suppose I have the sense of entitlement that she always had because she was born at Tara, but mine comes from a different source. I think I've earned mine through hard work. I don't think our culture recognizes merit enough these days. This radio personality of mine, this Becca Broccoli I've become, materialized out of nowhere. I went to bed one night, knowing I had this fifteen-minute radio show to produce after a chance meeting with the program director of WHYY at The Twinkle. We were sitting at adjacent tables, raving about the food to our waitress, and he happened to lean over and say to me, ‘I wish there was somebody in Cherico who could teach my wife how to cook like this!' And something inside just egged me on, and I flat out told him I probably could since I loved cooking. One thing led to another, and somehow we came up with the idea of my doing a radio show. Finally—something to do with my degree in communications. Anyway, the very next morning I woke up with a doable gimmick.” Becca paused for a coy giggle.

“I liked the possibilities of this character immediately, plus my married name has always been impossible for people to spell. I discovered that Becca Broccoli was a different side of me—she was the take-charge person I'd always wanted to be. Scarlett was like that from the beginning. When she wanted something or someone, such as the incredibly dull Ashley Wilkes, she went all out. What Scarlett wanted to be was mistress of Tara, but she never really achieved it. On the other hand, I wanted to be mistress of the airwaves, and now I have the most popular show on radio station WHYY, The Vibrant Voice of Greater Cherico. That last part always makes me laugh. What are we—maybe five thousand people counting any pregnant women waddling around? Oh, believe me, I know I'll never get a Grammy for being Becca Broccoli. People in the Beltway or out in Hollywood will never hear of me. I live in flyover country. But I'm still proud of what I've done. So perhaps I'm Scarlett, but with a well-adjusted, saner attitude.”

After a brief round of applause, Maura Beth put an exclamation point on Becca's testimony. “Now that's the sort of Scarlett I wouldn't be afraid of meeting up with at the top of a dark landing!”

It was Miss Voncille's monologue a few minutes later, however, that had the group riveted to their seats. “I know I started out with Scarlett's fire and headstrong personality,” she was explaining. “It was my intention to have it all—a loyal husband from a good family, however many children we decided to have, a fine house with all the trappings. You name it, I didn't see why I couldn't have it if I applied myself. That, of course, was very much the essence of Scarlett. But like Scarlett, I made a crucial error”—she broke off suddenly, putting her hand up—“give me a second, please.”