Talk of the Town Read online

  “Humph!” Louise exclaimed, crossing her arms. “That young man is a bit full of himself, don’t you think?”

  “I believe he was raised in a very privileged atmosphere,” Jane said diplomatically. “I don’t think he meant to be offensive, although I grant you that he does come across that way occasionally.”

  “Occasionally?” Louise sniffed. “I hope I don’t see much of him while he’s here—Wendell!” Louise moved across the kitchen with surprising speed. “You get down from there right now.”

  Jane looked around just in time to see Wendell quickly remove himself from her chair, where he’d apparently been surveying the remains of her breakfast.

  “One more minute and he’d have been munching on your bacon,” Louise said.

  “Thank you.” Jane smiled sweetly at her sister. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you move that fast, Louise.”

  “I rarely have the need to move that fast,” Louise countered. She glanced down at the cat, who had moved to the floor but still was eyeing the table in an intense and hopeful way. “Scat,” she ordered him. “If you can’t use good manners, you can’t be in the kitchen.”

  “He’s a cat,” Jane said laughing. “First of all, I don’t think he understands English, and second, scavenging for food is instinctive. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “And he didn’t cause any,” Louise said, adding darkly, “this time.”

  The ringing of the bell that signaled someone at the front desk interrupted further conversation.

  “Would you please get that?” Jane said. “I’ll finish cleaning up these breakfast dishes.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” said Louise. She straightened her skirt. “Am I presentable?”

  Jane inspected her briefly. “You look lovely, the very picture of a prosperous innkeeper.”

  Louise chuckled as she started toward the front of the house. “Someone had better call the bank. I do believe they forgot to inform me that I’m prospering.”

  Louise could hear Jane laughing as she walked through the hallway toward the reception desk tucked beneath the stairs.

  “Welcome to Grace Chapel Inn. I’m Louise Howard,” she said to the middle-aged man with a briefcase who stood waiting at the desk.

  “Hello. I’m Lyle Jervis. I need a room for the next two nights. Do you have anything open?”

  “We do.” Louise took his information, ran his credit card and chose a key from the drawer while she explained their breakfast schedule and check-out hours. “May I ask how you found us, Mr. Jervis?” The sisters always tried to ask the guests that question so that they could determine where their advertising dollars were best spent.

  “I found you online,” he told her. “I would have called in advance except that my travel schedule is not always predictable, and I wasn’t sure when or how long I might be here.”

  She led the way upstairs and showed Mr. Jervis into the Garden Room, then returned to the kitchen.

  “Was that another guest?” Jane asked.

  “Yes. He’s on a business trip and will be here for two nights.”

  “Great.” Jane glanced at the clock. “Goodness, I’d better grab my jacket. It’s almost time to meet Maxwell.”

  Chapter Three

  As Jane and Maxwell walked into the heart of Acorn Hill, two men approached them. Jane waved a hand as she recognized Ronald Simpson and Henry Ley. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Hello, Jane. Are you t-taking a break from the kitchen?” Henry Ley asked.

  “Just a short one. Henry, Ronald, I’d like you to meet Maxwell Vandermitton, a guest at the inn. Maxwell, Henry Ley and Ronald Simpson.”

  “Gentlemen. It’s a pleasure.” There was a flurry of handshaking.

  “Our pleasure also,” Henry said. “If you are in need of any spiritual guidance wh-while you are staying in Acorn Hill, I would be happy to visit w-with you.”

  “Henry is the Associate Pastor at Grace Chapel,” Jane said.

  “Thank you,” Maxwell said politely, “but I am not religious.”

  Henry smiled. “You don’t have to be re-religious to be in need of spiritual guidance.”

  Ronald chuckled, and his brown eyes twinkled. “So what brings you to Acorn Hill, son?”

  Maxwell’s eyebrows rose slightly, and Jane suspected he was a bit taken aback at being addressed as “son,” but his response was cordial.

  “I am doing a research project,” he told the men. “Acorn Hill seems like a quiet, pleasant place to write my paper. I’ll be here for about a month.”

  “I’m giving him the grand tour of Acorn Hill,” Jane said.

  “Well, you’ll have to come down to the Coffee Shop and have a piece of pie with us a few times while you’re here. June Carter, the owner of the Coffee Shop, makes terrific pies every day,” Ronald told him. He winked. “And I manage to get in there for a piece nearly as often.”

  “In fact,” Henry added, “when you and Jane finish your tour, join us at the Coffee Shop. That’s w-where we’re headed now.”

  “Thank you for the invitation.” Maxwell sounded sincere as he said, “I would enjoy that a great deal.”

  “Jane,” Ronald said, “have you heard that Sylvia has the flu?”

  Jane was dismayed. Sylvia Songer was the owner of a small shop, Sylvia’s Buttons, and one of Jane’s close friends. “Oh no! She was supposed to go to Lancaster to a quilt sale today. She’ll be so disappointed to miss it.”

  Ronald nodded. “The shop’s closed until further notice.”

  “Oh, that’s just terrible. I’ll have to take her a meal,” Jane said. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  As the two men resumed walking, Jane said to Maxwell, “If you want to get to know local folks, you really should drop by the Coffee Shop. People come and go all day long, and a lot of folks stop in almost every day.” She grimaced. “Although most of them are in a significantly older age bracket than you are.”

  Maxwell nodded. “That won’t bother me. I find older people fascinating. Even when I was small, I preferred the company of adults. I suppose that’s a result of being an only child.”

  The pair took a short tour of Acorn Hill’s main streets and shops. Jane stopped at the Good Apple Bakery and introduced him to Clarissa Cottrell, who was just beginning to clean up from her early morning baking spree.

  “Clarissa makes amazing pastries,” she told him.

  Maxwell smiled. “Tomorrow I shall have to sample your baked goods,” he said. “Today I have already promised to meet for pie at the Coffee Shop.”

  “That doesn’t offend me, young man,” Clarissa said briskly. “I’m as crazy about June’s pie as everyone else in this town.”

  Walking south across Acorn Avenue from Hill Street, Jane directed her guest down Berry Lane. She pointed out Time for Tea, owned by Wilhelm Wood, before moving on to Nine Lives Bookstore. Viola Reed, the proprietress, popped up from behind the counter when the bell over the shop door signaled their entrance.

  “Hello, Jane,” she said jovially. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Jane replied. “Viola, I’d like to introduce you to one of our guests, Maxwell Vandermitton. Maxwell, Viola Reed, the owner of Nine Lives. If you need anything to read while you’re in town, Viola is your woman.”

  Maxwell smiled charmingly. “It’s truly a pleasure,” he told her. “Ever since I was quite young, my favorite pastime has been reading. My father used to get quite angry with me for disappearing when it was time for my riding or tennis lessons. He never did figure out that I was right under his nose in the coat closet, reading with a flashlight.”

  Viola laughed. “Ah, a man after my own heart. There’s something delicious about reading when one knows there are odious tasks to be done.”

  “Exactly.” Maxwell beamed.

  “Jane, I’m glad you’re here,” Viola said. “That Eastern European cookbook you ordered has finally come in.”

  “Wonderful! I am dying to try some of the reci
pes. The book got excellent reviews in The Innkeeper’s Journal.”

  “I expect to be provided with samples of your culinary efforts,” Viola pronounced.

  Jane grinned. “I’ll add you to the official guinea pig list.”

  Maxwell threw Jane a puzzled glance. “The guinea pig list?” His eyes widened as he looked askance at the book Jane was holding. “There are recipes using guinea pigs in that book?”

  Jane began to laugh. She actually could see him backing away. “No, no. I only meant that I would let Viola sample my test batches.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Maxwell’s face reddened.

  Jane turned back to Viola and changed the topic. “Ronald told me Sylvia has the flu.”

  “Yes, I heard,” Viola responded. “Florence told Nancy Colwin, and when I went to the bakery to pick up a muffin this morning, Clarissa told me. I’m planning to take Sylvia chicken and stuffing tomorrow.”

  After another few minutes of conversation, Jane concluded her purchase and accompanied Maxwell to the door. They barely had turned the corner onto Chapel Road when Maxwell said, “How did Clarissa know about your friend Sylvia? I thought Viola said the first person, Florence, told somebody named Nancy…?”

  “Florence Simpson,” Jane told him. “Ronald’s wife. Florence told Nancy Colwin. And Nancy bakes for Clarissa at the Good Apple.”

  “Ah! Mystery solved.” They were approaching the intersection with Hill Street now. “News surely does travel fast in Acorn Hill. I must admit, I find this passing of information simply fascinating.”

  “I suppose it is,” Jane admitted, “as long as you aren’t the one being talked about.”

  He nodded soberly. “Very true.” He glanced around. “Is there a local newspaper? I thought I might learn a bit more by reading it on a regular basis.”

  Jane nodded. “Yes, it’s called the Acorn Nutshell. But it’s only published once a week, on Wednesdays.”

  “Once a week?” Maxwell looked stricken. “But what happens if something interesting or exciting happens on Thursday? People have to wait a whole week to find out about it?”

  Jane laughed out loud. “Not in this town. As you’ve seen, the gossip mill is very efficient in Acorn Hill. If I stubbed my toe at breakfast, everyone in town would know it by the end of the day.”

  “I see.”

  Jane said, “Do you have any other questions?”

  “I didn’t see any parks,” Maxwell said. “Are there recreational facilities around?”

  “There is a park. And there’s a rec area near the elementary school. Fairy Lane is a good place for a country walk. It’s about a mile north of the inn and there’s a lovely path around Fairy Pond.”

  “Ah. A pond. That sounds restful.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Jane assured him. “I wish I had time to show it to you, but I must go home and get to work. If you’d like to explore the town a little more, it’s hard to get lost in Acorn Hill. But if you do lose your way, just ask anyone you meet and they’ll point you in the direction of the inn.”

  “Thank you for the tour, Jane.” Maxwell paused at the entrance to the Coffee Shop. “I also have work to do but I believe I’ll take Ronald and Henry up on their invitation first. I really must sample this pie everyone raves about.”

  “Her blackberry pie is one of my favorites—it’s practically a work of art.”

  Just then the door of the Coffee Shop opened and Hope Collins, the waitress, stuck out her head. “Good morning, Jane. Did you hear Sylvia has the flu?”

  Jane knew she would laugh if she looked at Maxwell. “Good morning, Hope,” she said to the waitress. “I did hear that, thank you. Hope, this is Maxwell Vandermitton. Maxwell, Hope Collins.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Hope said as she held the door open for him to enter. “Are you staying at the inn?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there for the next few weeks.”

  “Weeks? Goodness, I guess we’ll be getting to see a lot of you then.” She turned to Jane. “Are you coming in? June has blackberry pie today.”

  Jane grinned. “You know me too well, but I’m afraid that I have to get back to the inn. Maxwell is going to join Ronald and Henry. Make sure he gets a great piece of pie.”

  Hope smiled. “That’s an easy request to fill.” She turned to Maxwell. “Today we have blackberry, blueberry, key lime and shoofly pie, and strawberry shortcake, which isn’t pie, but it’s still one of June’s most popular desserts.”

  Maxwell shook his head. “I can see I’m going to have a tough choice.”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Jane said, grinning as the two parted ways. “I’ll see you back at the inn.”

  Alice did not work at the hospital on Tuesday. In the middle of the afternoon, she carried several bags and a large box into the dining room. The ANGELs, a church group of middle-school girls that she led, had decided to put on a prom for seniors. With Alice’s assistance, they had contacted a nearby nursing home and arranged to host a dance for the residents in the facility’s recreation room.

  Most of the residents used canes, walkers or wheelchairs, and the dancing they’d do would be mostly from their seats, but the ANGELs knew that the older people would enjoy a special night. The girls were very excited about dressing up and were looking forward to seeing smiles on the faces of the residents at the nursing home. At their next meeting, they would be making paper corsages out of colored tissue and pipe cleaners, decorating invitations and baking cookies for the event. Alice’s initial task was to organize their supplies, and she went about it efficiently, laying out all her purchases on the table before beginning to sort them by project.

  “Good afternoon, Alice.” Maxwell stopped in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” Alice responded. “Are you enjoying our little town?”

  “Very much.” He nodded, and Alice suspected the tepid enthusiasm that he showed was as much excitement as he ever allowed himself. “I visited the Coffee Shop for lunch today. One meets all kinds of fascinating characters there.”

  Alice had to chuckle. “That’s certainly true. Jane told me she introduced you to a few folks yesterday. Whom did you meet today?”

  “Well, there was Zach Colwin—I have not yet met his wife Nancy although I know she works at the Good Apple Bakery. And I was joined by an older lady who was quite entertaining. Can you guess who?”

  Alice was bewildered. Acorn Hill was small, but not that small. “May I have a clue?”

  Maxwell smiled slyly. “Red hair.”

  “Oh! You met our aunt, Ethel Buckley, didn’t you?” Alice began to laugh. “That clue was a dead giveaway. Aunt Ethel has been using that hair color for years. It’s called Titian Dreams. It’s hard to miss, isn’t it?”

  Maxwell nodded. “It is, indeed. I doubt I’ll have any trouble remembering who she is.”

  Maxwell stared at her incredulously. “It’s amazing.”

  “Oh, not really.” Alice shrugged. “By the time you’ve been here another week, you’ll have most of the ins and outs of residents in Acorn Hill down pat.” She rose from her seat. “Excuse me for a moment. I think I left my scissors in the library.”

  As she walked out of the dining room, Maxwell trailed after her. “So I understand you have lived in this town all your life.”

  Alice laughed. “I have lived in this house all my life, except for when I attended college. I imagine that seems strange to you.”

  “A bit.” He stepped into the library behind her. “I began attending boarding school when I was eight years old. I haven’t lived at home since then.”

  Alice was sincerely shocked. She stopped and turned around. “Ever?”

  Maxwell shook his head. “I did have holidays, of course, but those were rarely more than a week long. In the summers I usually went to camp when I was younger. Then during my college years I traveled in Europe: Austria, Hungary, France, Germany, Poland, Italy, Portugal, the U.K… . I even went to Russia on a kids’ tour when I was younger.”

 
“Russia! How fascinating. What impressed you the most?”

  “That’s an easy one—Lenin’s tomb.” He laughed. “I was ten years old on that trip and I thought a moldering, decades-dead body had to be the most enthralling thing ever.”

  Alice chuckled. “Oh yes. I know some ten-year-old boys who would be equally fascinated by that.” She crossed the room and found her scissors lying on her father’s desk. “Aha! Just what I was looking for.”

  Maxwell was looking around the library with interest. “This room has a certain charm.”

  “It was my father’s study before he passed away. He used fountain pens all his life. My Aunt Ethel, whom you’ve met, gave him this lovely box for the special pens in his collection. And these vases are collectibles called Depression glass. Are you familiar with it?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m afraid my art education consisted largely of studies of the Old Masters.”

  Alice laughed. “These are a bit newer than that. Depression glass was made, as the name implies, before, during and just after the Great Depression. There were many patterns. Single pieces were sometimes packed in cereal boxes as premiums. People collected their favorite patterns and colors.” She picked up one of the green glass vases. “This pattern also was made in yellow and pink. It is formally known as ‘Cameo’ and often is referred to as ‘Ballerina.’”

  “For obvious reasons.” Maxwell peered at the tiny dancers in the glass’s motif as Alice pointed them out.

  “It’s my favorite pattern,” Alice told him. “Not only because of the pattern but because I like the shape of the dishes in this set. There are all kinds and shapes of Depression glass, simple and elaborate.”

  “How interesting.”

  He didn’t sound as if he thought it was very interesting, Alice thought. Although in fairness, she knew she probably could talk anyone to sleep once she got started discussing the collection.

  “How did you get interested in Depression glass?” Maxwell asked her.

  “My mother. She loved socializing and having parties, and part of her pleasure in hostessing was the opportunity to create a certain look with table settings and decorations. She had an entire luncheon set in a pink Depression glass pattern called Cherry Blossom, and every spring she held a tea party for the ladies she played canasta with. She would cut pink peonies and set a stunning table with the pink glass and all the ladies would dress in pink. Half the fun for her was the collecting, though. I can recall going to auctions and flea markets with her when I was small. She always had an eye for bargains.” She smiled at the fond memories.