That should do nicely, she thought, adding nuts to her shopping list. Three kinds of pie: mince, apple, and pumpkin, followed by nuts. It was her favorite part of the meal: that second cup of coffee and the leisurely cracking and dissection of walnuts, pecans, almonds, and filberts. Not hazelnuts—good, old-fashioned filberts—and grapes from the centerpiece.
She put down her pencil and studied the menu. So much for something new, she chuckled to herself. It was the same Thanksgiving dinner she served every year—the dinner her mother had made, the same dinner she remembered eating as a little girl perched on a slippery telephone book at her grandmother’s long linen-covered table.
* * *
At the IGA, Lucy pulled the Subaru into her favorite parking spot and grabbed her coupon wallet and list. She loved grocery shopping; she saw it as a weekly challenge. Getting the most she could for her 120 dollars. To her way of thinking, there was nothing more satisfying than finding a buy-one-get-one-free special and matching it up with a coupon that she could double—or even triple using one of her precious triple coupons—if the deal was sweet enough.
Reminding herself to buy some extra canned goods for the high school food drive, she reached for a cart and tugged it loose from the others. Whirling around, she almost bumped into Franny Small.
“Sorry, Franny. I didn’t see you,” she apologized.
“No harm done,” said Franny, reaching for a cart.
Franny looked remarkably good these days, thought Lucy. The tightly permed gray curls were gone. She now had a sleek frosted do and had replaced her pink plastic glasses with contact lenses. Also gone was the faded pink raincoat she’d worn for years; today she was wearing a sporty golf jacket.
“How’s business?” asked Lucy as they pushed their carts into the produce section. Franny had recently landed a contract with a major department store for the hardware jewelry she designed.
“I’ve got more orders than I can handle,” said Franny. “I’ve got a catalog company that wants ten thousand pieces but I can’t find enough pieceworkers. I’m supposed to meet with some community development people from up north next week. I’m hoping I can get them interested in setting up a home industry program with me.” She reached for a bag of carrots. “It’s kind of frustrating, you know. I’ve got so many ideas.”
“It’s marvelous—what you’ve done for the local economy,” said Lucy. “The unemployment rate is under ten percent for the first time I can remember.”
“It could go even lower if we get that new casino they’re talking about,” said Franny. “That’ll provide a lot of jobs, not to mention a terrific marketing opportunity for my jewelry. I’m already working up some Indian designs.”
So the word was already out, thought Lucy, speculating that the Metinnicuts were carefully leaking news of the casino, hoping to build grass roots support through a word-of-mouth campaign. “You’re in favor of the casino? I thought you were a Methodist,” teased Lucy.
“I am a Methodist,” said Franny. “And I’d never dream of gambling myself. But other people don’t see anything wrong with it. The Catholics have bingo, don’t they? Who am I to tell other people what they can and can’t do?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy, adding a bag of apples to her cart. “Somehow it just doesn’t seem right.”
“You’ve got to change with the times,” said Franny, checking her watch. “I’ve got to run. If I don’t see you before then, have a happy holiday.”
“Thanks. Same to you,” said Lucy, watching as Franny flew down the aisle, headed for the dairy section. She wasn’t through in the produce section, not by a long shot. She still needed potatoes, at least ten pounds, and fruit for lunches, not to mention a holiday centerpiece. And those nuts—where did they hide them?
* * *
Almost an hour later, Lucy pushed her heavily laden cart up to the checkout, where she got in line behind Rachel Goodman. The cashier, Dot Kirwan, was busy ringing up another customer, a sixtyish woman with her gray hair cut in a neat sporty style.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” said the woman. “Did you see the paper this week?”
Lucy pricked up her ears.
“You mean that dog? Kadjo?” asked Dot. “I think he deserved a second chance.”
“Not the dog. What that reporter wrote about my Bud! Honestly, the man dozes off for a few minutes and she makes it sound like he sleeps through all the meetings or something. It’s outrageous. I don’t know how they can print lies like that.”
“It’s not a lie,” Lucy found herself saying. The three other women all turned to face her. “I’ve been covering those meetings for years, and I have to tell you Bud sleeps through all of them.”
Mrs. Collier wouldn’t hear it. She was so angry that the little wattles under her chin were quivering. “You’re Lucy Stone?”
“I am.” Lucy braced herself for the attack.
“Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Writing trash like that! And don’t think for one minute that I won’t be complaining to the publisher.”
Taking her bundle from Dot, Mrs. Collier plopped it in her cart and sailed out through the automatic door.
Standing in her place in line, Lucy felt rather sick.
“Well, I guess she told you,” observed Dot.
“Don’t give it a second thought, Lucy,” said Rachel. “It’s about time the truth was known.” She glanced at Lucy’s overflowing cart. “Is Toby coming home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yup. With his roommate, Matthew. What about Richie?”
Richie, Rachel’s son, had graduated from Tinker’s Cove High School with Toby and was a freshman at Harvard.
“He’s staying in Cambridge. He says it’s a good opportunity to catch up on his work.” Rachel furrowed her brow. “I think he feels a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s a big adjustment,” said Lucy.
