The All You Can Dream Buffet (12 page)

Suddenly she slowed, peering into the window of a café. “Well, I’ll be damned. Those bastards.”

“What is it?”

“My goddamned nephews are talking to Wade Markum.” She pointed toward the café. “He’s the farmer I was telling you about.”

“I don’t think you were telling me. Maybe Ginny?”

“Maybe.” She pulled over, parallel-parking the big truck as easily as if it were a smart car. With narrowed eyes, she peered over her shoulder at the window, which had a reflection of trees and sky bouncing off it, so Ruby couldn’t see what Lavender saw. Lavender tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and her mouth worked, lip in, lip out. Finally she swore again, softly. “Damn it.”

“Will it help to talk it out?”

“Wade has about a thousand acres of land catty-corner to mine. He’s been farming for forty years and wants my land, too. He’s made me some offers, but he’s not interested in the lavender, or the organic produce, or the chickens. He’ll mow it all under to make pasture for sheep and, more specifically, lambs.”

Ruby made a noise of protest.

“Portland eats a lot of lamb these days,” she said matter-of-factly. Again the lower lip, in and out. In and out. She tapped the back of her thumb on the plastic wheel. “And it’s not like I have anything against lamb, but I’ve worked my ass off to build that business, and I’m not going to stand by and let it be mowed over.”

“So what can you do?”

Lavender flung open the door. “C’mon.”

Ruby hurried to catch up as Lavender strode across the street. Ruby had to wait for a car, and then another, and then someone stopped for her. She ran across, raising a hand in thanks. As Lavender pushed the door open, she thought to turn around and look for Ruby. She waited there, every bit as wrinkled as you’d imagine an eighty-four-year-old to be but still straight, as powerful as a wizard.

Or a witch,
Ruby thought, but “wizard” sounded more powerful.

Whatever. That powerful woman moved into the room and paused by the table. “How you doing, nephews? Couldn’t wait till I was dead?”

“Lavender!” One of the men stood up. He was tall and stout, like a football player who’d turned to real estate. “We’re on our way out to the farm, as a matter of fact. We just stopped for a late breakfast and ran into Wade here.”

“Bullshit,” Lavender said.

All three men looked prosperous, in a Western-casual kind of way. Jeans paired with expensive shirts. The city men wore loafers, but the farmer wore boots that were a little muddy. Ruby felt smug being able to pick out that detail.

The farmer stood up. “Why don’t you join us, Lavender? We are talking about your farm and the potential it offers.”

Ruby’s eyebrows shot up. Bold!

Lavender crossed her arms and addressed her nephews. “I know you’re waiting for me to kick the bucket so you can hand over the farm and upgrade your mini-mansions—”

“That’s not true!”

She continued without acknowledging them. “But, as you see, I’m as hale and hearty as I’ve ever been. I’m having a party this weekend for my eighty-fifth birthday. Why don’t you all come? You can see for yourself that lavender is just as viable a product as lamb.”

“Lavender—”

“Have you met my apprentice? This is Ruby Zarlingo. She writes a famous blog called ‘The Flavor of a Blue Moon.’ You should check it out.”

Ruby lifted a hand, but Lavender was already hustling them out of the restaurant. “Bastards,” she muttered under her breath. They strode down the sidewalk, Ruby hurrying to keep up with Lavender’s long-legged stride. She finally slowed after
two blocks and peered around, as if emerging from some dream. “C’mon. Let’s get some coffee or something. A pastry, maybe?”

“Maybe some toast,” Ruby said. People who weren’t vegan often didn’t realize that pastries mostly had eggs and/or butter.

They found a different café, the Wild Wood, which was an absolutely adorable retro-looking place. The hipster waitress had black hair with short bangs and red lipstick, and she smiled as she gave them menus. “Hi, my name is Tiff. You ladies want something to drink?”

“Hot tea for me,” Ruby said.

“Coffee,” Lavender barked. She glared at the menu as if it were her nephews and the farmer.

Ruby smiled apologetically, and the server winked.

The place was magical, Ruby thought. Retro signs for Maytag washers and Hires root beer and potatoes and broccoli and cauliflower hung on the walls, and there were old-school kitchen utensils of every variety hanging from the ceiling—eggbeaters and potato mashers and spoons and spatulas. Her restaurant side was charmed. She wanted to be the owner of this place, with its Formica tables and vinyl dinette chairs in pastel colors. She’d make it a vegan restaurant, of course, with wholesome pastries and treats and breakfasts, like Sticky Fingers in D.C.

A ripple of excitement touched her. Yes, that could be so fantastic! Maybe restaurants really were her work.

The menu was fairly standard diner with an upscale feel. “This doesn’t feel like a small-town café,” she said aloud. “The other one didn’t, either, now that I think about it.”

“It’s wine country.” Lavender slapped the menu down and folded her big hands. Knots showed at some of the joints, and
brown spots speckled the skin. “Everybody thinks they’re gourmets these days. Truffle oil this and foie gras that.”

“They don’t call themselves ‘gourmets’ anymore,” Ruby said. “They’re ‘foodies.’ ”

“Right. Like us.” Her eyes unexpectedly twinkled. “There are a couple of celebrated chefs in town if you’re interested in exploring.”

Ruby lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.” It made her feel tired.

Maybe restaurants
weren’t
her work.

The server brought their drinks. Ruby ordered toast with strawberry jam and no butter. Lavender, who never seemed to stop eating, wanted a cinnamon roll.

“So those were your nephews, I gather?” Ruby asked. “And they stand to inherit?”

“That’s right. They’re not bad men, they just don’t want to run a farm, and I get that.”

“Can’t you put something in your will that will make sure the whole thing stays the way you want?”

“It is supposed to be handed down to the next family member in line.”

“That seems shortsighted. You took over in the eighties, right? By then they must have realized that times were changing, that not everyone wants to farm.”

“At the time, it was expected that my brother’s boy, Glen, would inherit. He was a devoted farmer, and he ran the place like a general, raising profits by fourteen percent in three years. But, as I told you,” Lavender’s voice cracked, and she took a sip of coffee, “my nephew died—killed in a car accident. That was when I inherited. It was god-awful.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruby said.

“He was a good man. We’d talked a lot over the years about him turning the hazelnut orchard into lavender, so I went
ahead with it after he died. His life insurance, combined with my savings, ended up paying for nearly every bloody penny of it.”

“Can you encumber it somehow? Make sure that they can’t sell it to that guy or something?”

“I have to do something,” Lavender agreed. “You and Ginny can help me brainstorm.”

Ruby leaned forward and touched Lavender’s hand. “I bet there’s a way.”

Lavender grunted, pushing away her coffee as she rubbed a fist over her diaphragm. “They gave me indigestion, the rats. Guess I’ll have to have some namby-pamby milk.”

This little cake is the first that I’ve made in my Airstream oven. It’s a cold night in the mountains, even though it’s summer, and I had to bake something to feel normal again. Not a fun day driving, my friends! I had to pull off early, thanks to wind, but it gives Willow and me a chance to have a good night’s sleep.

Halfway there!

Comments [119]

Pippin987

Stay safe, Ginny! The candle I lit for you is still burning strong.

nobodyknowsnuttin

That cake sounds like something my mom used to whip up after school. Yum!

justbake

The gang in Idaho can’t wait to meet you, Ginny! We’re preparing a big feast. Let us know if you’re running behind. There have been fires around here.

READ MORE >>>

Ginny wrote her cheerful blog sitting at the table in her trailer, peering out into a storm that flung lightning bolts like arrows. It had just sprung up, noisy and furious. Rain pounded on the roof, as loud as an entire drum company. Her hands ached from gripping the steering wheel like a vise to keep the trailer on the road as it snaked down through the mountain passes. The wind had been a plague all day.

She supposed she was due a challenge. The previous two days had been easy, despite the mountains.

There had been no rain today until just a little while ago, only that blustery, buffeting wind. She was less than sixty miles from her planned stop on the Great Salt Lake, but there had just not been another hour of driving in her. When she’d spied this truck stop perched at the end of a small town, she grabbed a spot with relief. A handful of semis were parked along one end in a wide lot, their engines rumbling in the cold afternoon.

Her simple little cake scented the air with sugar and comfort, and her empty plate attested to the fact that it had been a better-than-decent experiment. She had worried a lot about being able to bake on the road, to keep the photos going for the blog. She hadn’t known how it would be to bake in such different circumstances.

But she’d also decided the blog was hers and she made the rules. If she took photos of other people’s baked goods on the
road, it was no big deal. It wasn’t as if she was a genius of a cake baker, anyway—the appeal was her photos.

Overhead, rain pounded on the roof. Willow dozed on her foot.

It was very cozy knowing there were eggs and milk in the fridge, along with some cherries she’d picked up at a farm stand in western Colorado. The romance of the road was not exactly present at the truck stop, but that was part of the game, too, she supposed. She’d hoped to spend the night on an island in the Great Salt Lake, but now, to stay on time, she’d have to scrap that idea. She pulled out her map and spread it flat, trying to figure out her next leg.

It had been a bit optimistic to plan for four hundred miles every day. Pulling the trailer up and down the passes was a slower process than she had expected, for one thing. It was slower driving, period. Sometimes it was embarrassing to be the slowest vehicle on the road. Cars and trucks roared by her, impatience winking in their taillights.

At least they could pass like that. It was harder for Ginny, pulling the trailer, but sometimes she, too, was impatient, plodding behind a farm truck loaded with hay or an RV’er ambling down the road. This morning she’d seen a couple she met in Grand Junction, and the old man waved as she passed. She tooted her horn. It made her feel known, part of the community.

Now she plotted out her next leg, then carried a book back to her bed and propped herself up on the pillows. It was so gloomy she had to turn on a lamp, and that gave an even richer sense of coziness to the day. Willow padded down the minuscule hall and jumped up on the bed with her. Ginny buried a hand in the dog’s thick fur, propped her glasses on her nose, and began to read.

Happy. This was what happiness felt like. She hadn’t realized you could feel it when you were all alone.

She must have dozed off, because she woke up hearing music and the clink of glasses. A woman’s throaty laugh wafted through the trailer, and she could have sworn she smelled onions cooking in fat. Her stomach growled. She popped open her eyes, blinking.

There was nothing, of course. Just a dream. Willow stretched, her claws touching the far wall with a soft snick. No onions. No woman laughing.

Her stomach, however, was definitely growling.

One thing about parking at the truck stop was that she could have a hearty, hot meal that she didn’t have to cook. It was still pouring rain. Leaving Willow curled up in a deep sleep on the bed, Ginny grabbed her umbrella and dashed across the parking lot, splashing through puddles that soaked her jeans up to the knees. She dove through the glass doors of the diner and shook herself and her umbrella.