Be Sweet (19 page)

Janni laughs. “It does my heart good to cook for you boys.”

“What? It's not like I don't eat,” Daniel says, patting his well-padded, round belly.

“I know, but it's hard to get excited about cooking for two people.”

“I'm excited when you cook for two people,” Daniel says. “Especially when one of them is me.”

Janni's chin hikes. “I'm a woman of the millennium, thank you.”

Blake stops chewing and stares at her.

“Well, I am. I've worked hard all these years, I deserve to go out and eat once in a while.”

“Yes, you do,” I agree wholeheartedly.

Everyone's attention is now fixed on me. “Well, she does. There comes a time in a woman's life when you have to stop living for every-one else and enjoy life a little.”

Daniel blinks.

Russ stares at me so long, I'm afraid there's corn bread on my face.

“It's not as though I'm a women's libber or anything,” I blubber, “It's just that—”

Russ holds his hand up. “We get it. And we agree.” He winks, and his mouth splits into a wide grin.

I'm not sure, but I think my toes are curling.

“We do?” Daniel asks, mouth gaping.

“Sure. Janni's served others all these years. There's nothing wrong with her being served once in a while.”

Janni settles back into her chair, looking completely content at this turn in the conversation.

“So you're not going to cook for us anymore?” Daniel looks as though Janni snatched his favorite flannel shirt from his drawer and took it to Goodwill.

“Most of the time I am. But once in a while I want you to take me to a candlelight dinner prepared by someone else.”

“But I love your cooking.”

“And you'll get it—now and then. But sometimes I need to be served.”

This is a liberated Janni that I have never seen before. Daniel stares at her a moment and goes back to his chili. “As long as I eat, I guess it doesn't matter where we eat.”

“Exactly,” Janni says with a snap of her head. “Besides, I love to cook. I'll still be doing plenty of it. I'm just saying once in a while, I would appreciate the option of going out. I might even sign up for cooking classes at the community college.”

“I think it's great that you want to do some things for yourself. There's nothing worse than a mom with too much time on her hands, living only for her kids,” Stephanie says.

“Aren't you going to eat any corn bread?” I ask her, pushing the plate of corn bread her way.

“I try to keep my carbs to a minimum.”

Just then all forks come to a standstill, and we stare at her as though she's a museum exhibit.

“Where are you from, Stephanie?” I venture.
Mars?

“Illinois.”

“Did you go to college there?” Just want to make sure she's dating material for my nephew—though I can't imagine anyone who doesn't like carbs fitting in with this family.

She laughs. “Yeah. Went to a community college for a couple of years, then transferred to a university. Graduated with a teaching degree.”

“What will you teach?” Janni asks.

“Physical education,” she says with a smile. “Hence, the backpack adventure.”

“That would also explain the five-mile runs and lack of carbs,” I say.
The girl has issues.

She smiles.

“Any siblings?” Daniel asks.

“No. Dad died of cancer three years ago. I love my mom, but ever since Dad died, she's been suffocating me. Things finally came to a head about a month ago, and I left. I've called her to let her know I'm okay, but I just can't go back. Not yet.”

“I'm sorry, Stephanie,” Janni says. “It's a mom thing. She's afraid of losing you, too, and yet it sounds like her fear has pushed you to the point of leaving. I'm sorry for both of you.”

Stephanie studies Janni a moment, as though she's considering the comment.

“I didn't mean to be a downer. Mom and I get along. I'm just on a quest, and she doesn't like it because she's afraid it will take me away from her.”

“It's hard when our kids grow up,” Janni says, eyes glazed.

“Could she feel threatened in other ways?” I ask.

“How do you mean?” Stephanie asks.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe she's afraid you won't come back. You'll find a life apart from her, since you're traveling.” I'm sure that's Janni's problem, the boys going off to college, empty nest. It's as though moth-ers have to find a new identity when their kids leave home.

“That could be some of it.” Stephanie twists the cloth napkin in her lap, and I figure it's time to move the discussion in a different direction.

“So, Daniel, how did we do on the syrup today?”

Daniel drops his spoon into the empty bowl in front of him and leans back in his chair. “We got about fifteen gallons.”

“That's pretty good. Too bad it takes forty gallons of sap for every gallon of syrup,” Ethan says.

“It's the nature of the beast.” Daniel tips his chair back on its hind legs.

“Just keep praying that we have nights that are cold enough and days that are mild. We're hoping to get enough to give some to the shut-ins at our church.” Janni's head whips around to me. “Without touching your stash, of course.”

I smirk. “Do you honestly think I could deprive little old ladies of their maple syrup?”

Janni gives me a pointed stare.

“Well, all right, maybe I could.” Everyone laughs, but I don't think it's funny. What kind of person denies little old ladies their syrup?

Exactly. I need professional help.

“So where did Blake and Stephanie go?” I ask when I come down the stairs after dinner cleanup to join Janni in the family room where she's filling out place cards for the anniversary party. “I heard his car pull out of the driveway.”

“They went to check on Dad,” Janni says. “Mom is out with her Red Hat ladies.”

I settle onto the rocker. “My penmanship isn't that great, but I can help with those.”

“No, that's all right. I actually enjoy it,” Janni says.

“Suit yourself.” I reach for my sketch pad and pencil.

“Did you ever ask Dad about his meeting with Gertie?” Janni's brows have slipped to their concentration position.

“No. The night I was going to bring it up, he and Mom were doing great until he pulled the knife on her.”

Janni chuckles in spite of herself and shakes her head. “Well, I'm sure it's nothing. Dad doesn't seem to be happy about retirement. Now that he's got all this extra time on his hands, he seems to be dwelling on the past.”

“Yeah, I've noticed that. 'Course, Mom's weirdness isn't helping.”

She nods.

While my pencil moves across the pad, I ask, “Do you think it's wise to encourage Blake to go out with Stephanie?” I'm probably out of line, but he is my nephew, after all.

“Oh, I don't think it hurts anything. They're just good friends.”

My mouth dangles a moment, then I snap it shut. “Have you not noticed that she's gorgeous, and he slobbers every time she walks in the room?”

Here she goes with that hyena laugh again. “Char, you are such a drama queen.”

“Janni, she doesn't eat carbs.”

“Oh, good grief, Char, you're acting as though she belongs to some kind of weird cult,” Janni says with a laugh.

“I'm telling you, today it's carbs, tomorrow tofu. You mark my words.”

“Listen, Char, Blake is a normal young man, yes, but he's not stupid. He acts the same way with other girls. He's just interested in girls, period.”

“Precisely my point.” The front elevation of a coastal home with lots of long windows takes shape as my pencil sketches along the page.

Janni walks over to pick up some stray socks and empty cups that the boys obviously left on the floor. She stops and looks over my shoulder. “Oh, I like that. What is it?”

“Just an idea for another home.”

“I love vaulted ceilings,” Janni says with a sigh before moving on to her seat. She scoots a pillow out of her way and sits down. “Anyway, don't worry about Blake. He'll be all right.”

“It's just that you know nothing about this girl.”

“I know nothing about the girls at school, either. But I do know my son, and I trust him.”

“He has hormones.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Hormones can't be trusted.”

“I know all about raging hormones. But Blake has a good head on his shoulders. You have to let it go and trust somewhere along the line.”

There she goes, hitting me with a life lesson again. “Okay, but just remember, hormones can affect good judgment, that's all I'm saying.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Well, I'm home.” Mom shoves the door closed behind her and yanks off her winter wraps to reveal a purple blouse and black pants. The sting from the night air remains on her cheeks, causing her face to match her red hat. Speaking of hats, that hat is so big the wind could have carried her to Canada.

“Well, you look chipper,” I say.

“I am. Despite the fact that my husband is trying to kill me.”

“Mom, you're not telling people that, are you? Dad's a pillar in this community, and you could really hurt his reputation,” Janni says.

“Well, if he kills me, everyone will sure know about it.”

Now I see where I get that drama-queen stuff.

“Mom, have you told anyone?”

She averts her gaze. “Not yet.” Her eyes dart to Janni. ”But I will if this keeps up.”

“Does anyone know you're staying here?”

“Yes, my friends know. They think I'm here so I can spend time with you,” she says to me.

Right. As though she would put herself out like that to spend time with me. Miss Divorcee.

“You and Dad need to go to counseling, Mom. You have to know that.” Janni is either my hero or she's stupid. The jury's still out on that one.

“I'm not going to any counseling. We've mentored half the people in this town. We won't be airing our dirty laundry to some snot-nosed kid who used to be in my Sunday-school class.”

“If you don't have something nice to say . . .”

Mom's head cuts toward me, and I see murder in her eyes.

“Well, I think I'll go to my room now.” I just couldn't live with myself if Mom went to prison because of me.

“Smart move,” she says.

Sometimes her comments make me so mad I want to steal her Depends. That would teach her to hold her tongue. 'Course, she'd have to hold something else too.

“Behave, you two,” Janni says with a yawn. “I just don't have the strength to referee.”

“It's the menopause.”

We both turn around with a start.

“What?” Janni asks, poised and armed for battle.

“You're starting menopause. I've been watching you. You're depressed. You're having hot flashes. You're irritable. You have all the signs.”

“Char says snappy things all the time, is she in menopause?”

“Hey, don't bring me into this.”

“She was born that way,” Mom says.

My gaze zips to her. “Thanks a lot, Mom.”

“Well, you're irritable, too, Mom,” Janni snaps.

“See what I mean?” Mom says with a victorious grin. “It's the menopause.”

We just can't win with our mother.

sixteen

The next evening, after a dinner of lasagna, garlic
bread, salad, and a light chocolate mousse, I rub the bump—okay, bulge—on my tummy and realize I may need to do a forty-years-in-the-wilderness journey just to get back to my previsit size.

My eyelids droop from another day of sugaring, but the thought of falling asleep after dinner would make me a prime candidate for AARP, so I tell Janni I'm going to take a walk and I'll be back.

Before I know it, I've tramped to the edge of the forest. Spotting my favorite gnarled maple, I walk over to it and run my fingers along the rough bark. I've always loved this tree. Its low, thick branches made for easy climbing when I was a kid. How many times did I hide out here when I wanted to be surrounded by nature and away from Gail and Linda's gossiping tongues?

In front of the maple, I glance at my Nike-clad feet and my short jacket, and my mind suggests the unthinkable. Well, it's unthinkable for a forty-seven-year-old. That thought alone challenges me to do it. With a sharp glance in all directions, I make sure no one is around. The last thing I need is an amateur photographer snapping a picture and plastering it on the Internet with a joke about middle-aged women—or should I say post–middle age? No, I think I'll stick with middle age.

I wedge my foot between the crook of the sturdy limb and the tree trunk. Taking a deep breath, I hold tightly to the limb and hoist myself up onto the branch with a grunt. Let me just say it was much easier when I tried this the last time—which was about, oh, I don't know, thirty-two years ago?

Scooting along the rough bark, I finally settle into a fairly comfort-able spot and look around. The air exhilarates my tired lungs. It encourages me to try the next branch up. Bracing myself just right, my arms hug tightly around the tree while my foot gropes for the next branch and lops over the side. My fingers scrape across the jagged trunk until I'm finally able to plop my derriere up on the higher branch.

My ego threatens to get the better of me. You know, that whole nearly-fifty-and-climbing-a-tree deal. A whistle calls through the night air as a freight train rumbles in the distance. Bare branches allow me a distant view of the forest. One glance at all the trees, and it's easy to see why we're tired with the syrup process. It's no easy job.

A gust of cold air whips past me and makes me cough. I've barely settled onto my branch when the snap of a twig below catches my attention.