Hens and Chickens Read online

  Lila noted his hesitation, and correctly read in his unguarded eyes the tug of war that was ensuing in his breast. She felt a large measure of gratitude toward him. Not many men would have acted as he did – most, she felt sure, would have taken advantage of her vulnerable condition.

  “Thanks for being such, such … a gentleman, Mike,” she said, regaining her composure. “It’s kind of a corny, old-fashioned word – gentleman – and nobody uses it anymore, but it suits you.” Lila refolded the blue bandana and proffered it to him with a hopeful smile.

  “Keep it,” he said, huskily. He gently pushed her hand back into her lap. “You might need it again.”

  She gave a little light-hearted laugh. “Omigod, that is so true! Thanks.”

  And then Hobart did put the truck in gear, glanced over his shoulder and pulled back out onto the tar road. Not another word needed to be said; even the guy on the white horse was satisfied.

  Chapter 13

  Maude’s Little “Suppah” Party

  In rural Maine, the supper hour (or “suppah” as it’s fondly known) is at 5 p.m., except in deep winter when the hour of repast dips in conjunction with the temperature and could be as early as 4 p.m. Supper is a small meal; on Saturday night it’s typically baked beans and corn bread; other nights “suppah” might be chicken soup or venison stew or even Saltine crackers crumbled up into a bowl of fresh milk. Historically, “dinner” was always the big meal of the day, served up at noontime (when Maine’s thousands of small dairy farmers were freed up from the twice daily chore of milking) with ham butts bigger than plates, roast chickens bursting at the seams with stuffing, and plenty of mashed potatoes, peas, hot biscuits and gravy. Food was – and still is – a central part of life for the rural Mainer, especially the family farmers, most of whom scratch out a subsistence living from the land, and, if nothing else, get to enjoy the earth’s bounty and the fruit of their labors.

  Maude Gilpin (nee Hodges) hailed from a dairy farm in Winslow (about 25 miles southwest of Sovereign) and was expertly trained in all the rigors and mysteries of a farmer’s wife, including animal husbandry, domestic economy and larder management. The only problem was—Maude Hodges didn’t marry a farmer! She had met Ralph Gilpin when he stopped by the farm one May afternoon in 1960 to sell kitchen wares (his grandfather wanting to indoctrinate Ralph well by starting him in the business as a travelling salesman), and Gilpin not only made his sale, but also, as he says, “carried off the best heifer in the pasture!”

  Financially, Maude probably had a better life in Sovereign as the wife of a shopkeeper than she would have enjoyed if she had stayed down on the farm with one of the local boys. However, she not-so-secretly hankered for the life that might have been, and attempted to fill that longing through her baking. Ingredients never being in short supply in the Gilpin household, Maude became a legend in the little community, leading the charge of every bake sale, every fund-raiser, every benefit supper in addition to stuffing her scanty household (comprised of a scrawny husband and two skinny children) with pies, cakes, cookies and homemade donuts.

  Maude, now 71, was fat, pretty, gregarious and kind-hearted. Despite her size, Maude was light of foot and loved to twirl around the oversized kitchen that Ralph had ordered remodeled especially for her, most generally when she was in the throes of cooking for friends or loved ones. She put her precious Nat King Cole 33RPMs on the ancient stereo, turned up the volume, and sang and danced her way through her recipes as happy as a schoolgirl skipping school. Maude was adored by her husband, emulated by her daughter (who was now married to a dairy farmer and lived in neighboring Thorndike) and respected by the citizens of Sovereign. Altogether, Maude Gilpin was a happy woman.

  Nowadays, nothing made Maude more jubilant than fussing over her grandson, Grayden (“Gray”) Gilpin, age 15, who (like Ralph before him) helped his grandfather out in the store and was currently living with them while his father was off fighting the war in Afghanistan. Gray’s parents were divorced, and his mother was re-married (for the second time since her divorce from Bruce Gilpin); and since both Gray and his mother were satisfied with the current living arrangements, the boy was likely to remain with his grandparents—forever, if Maude had her way, especially since his mother was not exactly the kind of role model she wanted for her grandson.

  The other venture that made Maude’s simple heart sing was meddling in the romantic affairs of young people. Ralph, who was by no means obtuse and who was also on close terms with his former employee, had dropped a hint to his wife as to the significance of this supper “date” for Mike Hobart and Lila Woodsum. Instantly, Maude’s plans for a casual pot roast “suppah” (with potatoes, onions, turnip and biscuits) ripened into a formal standing rib roast dinner, with a locally-raised piece of prime rib the size of firewood to be saddled with boiled onions and winter squash dripping with freshly-churned butter, a garden salad (with organic greens and tomatoes from her daughter’s hothouse in Thorndike), baked potatoes and gravy, yeast rolls, and the piece de resistance – a hot apple pie smothered in homemade vanilla ice cream.

  “Fill the water glasses, please, Grayden,” Maude instructed her grandson, as she expertly sliced the standing rib roast.

  “They ain’t even here yet, Maude,” said Ralph, worriedly. “Ain’t ya cuttin’ that roast a bit early?”

  “Do I go down to your store and tell you how to run things?” Maude countered, without taking her eye off her task. “I do NOT. Please, don’t tell me how to run my kitchen, dearie.”

  “It ain’t like …” Ralph began, twisting a dish towel in agitation.

  “Stop it,” said Maude, shaking the carving knife at him. “The roast has rested, and I need the juices to make the gravy. Besides, I hear Mike’s truck, now.”

  Gray, a youthful replica of his bean-pole grandfather, pushed the country curtains aside and peered out the window. “It’s Mike, Grandpa. Wow! He’s holdin’ the door for his chick, too! No wonder – she’s pretty hot!”

  “Is that any way to talk young man?” said Maude.

  “Aw, c’mon, all the guys talk like that, Grandma.”

  “Well, you’re not ‘all the guys,’ you’re my grandson. And while you’re living in this house you’ll talk like a gentleman.”

  Ralph and Gray exchanged empathetic glances, and Ralph went to the front door to welcome Mike and Lila into the living room. He took Lila’s coat and Mike’s jacket, and handed them wordlessly to the slim shadow at his heels. Gray, despite having been instructed beforehand by his grandmother to remove the guests’ coats to the bedroom, required a slight shove from Ralph to point him in the right direction and to keep him from outright ogling Lila.

  “C’mon in,” Ralph said, welcoming the Lila and Hobart into the pleasant seating area. “Maude’s cooking up a storm in the kitchen.”

  “I am NOT!” she called, from the other room. “I’m just making gravy.”

  “Smells awesome,” said Lila, glancing around the cheerful 1920s two-story house, comfortably furnished in a modern country motif. “What a lovely home,” she added.

  “It’s a 1918 Sears® manufactured home—my Grandpa bought it straight out of the Modern Home catalog,” said Ralph proudly. “It’s the Greenview Model; he paid $1,462 for it back then. Got himself quite a deal, didn’t he?”

  “This is a Sears® kit house?” asked Lila, lightly touching the walnut-colored wainscoting in obvious admiration.

  “Ralph still has the guarantee certificate that came with the house,” Hobart said, seating himself familiarly on the sofa. “I’ve seen it.” He slung one arm over the back of the couch, and patted the vacant spot next to him invitingly. Lila sank down beside him.

  “I’ll show ya,” the shopkeeper said. He approached an antique secretary, and eagerly rummaged through the top drawer. “Here – look at this!” Ralph brought an official-appearing paper certificate and handed it to Lila. “Whaddaya think of THAT?”

  Lila curiously examined the aged, green and white certif
icate. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “Look! It says, ‘Full refund if customer is not satisfied,’” she read aloud. She handed the paper back to Ralph with a smile. “Seems like your grandfather was satisfied!”

  “I should think so,” Ralph exhorted. “He had the house built 94 years ago for his bride – and now I live here with MY bride!” He returned the certificate to the drawer and perched himself on the edge of the recliner that was situated across from the couple.

  “You and Maude are newlyweds?” asked Lila, curiously, looking at Hobart for confirmation of this interesting fact.

  Gilpin guffawed, and Gray tittered.

  “I heard that!” said Maude from the kitchen.

  Lila appeared confused, and Hobart dropped his arm to squeeze her hand reassuringly. “It’s just a figure of speech,” he explained. “Ralph and Maude have been married 52 years.”

  Ralph leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper to Lila: “She’s still my bride, though.” He straightened up and raised his voice: “Didja hear that too, darlin’?”

  “I heard you, dearie! Now, bring those kids into the dining room ‘cause suppah’s on the table!”

  Maude was proud of her formal and thus rarely used dining room, which featured a rectangular solid-maple table, matching upholstered chairs, a glass-fronted hutch and serving buffet. Tonight the table, which was large enough to serve 12 comfortably, had been reduced to create a more intimate atmosphere and was laid with a floral-print linen cloth and complementing pastel napkins. Gray had polished his grandparent’s wedding silverware, and the multiple knives, forks and spoons gleamed in the soft amber light provided by eight beeswax candles that had been strategically placed for romantic efficacy on the table and throughout the square room. Crystal water glasses captured the flickering flames and they winked at one another like a field full of fireflies on a hot June night.

  “Cain’t hardly see what I’m eatin’,” complained Ralph, after the first heaping bowls of food had made the rounds.

  “Shushhh, now,” said his wife; “don’t ruin things by complaining.”

  “Pass the salt, Grandpa,” said Gray, smashing down a mountain of mashed potato.

  “When do you expect you’ll have your first eggs for sale?” asked Maude, anxious to steer the conversation into convivial territory.

  Lila perked up. “I’m getting my first 100 laying hens next week—the day before Rebecca arrives,” she answered. “Hopefully, by this time next week the hens will be settled in and we’ll be open for business!”

  Maude, who was not familiar with the finer details of The Egg Ladies, did not know who “Rebecca” was. A congenial hostess, however, she would not ask any impertinent questions. She smiled and nodded amiably. “Well, put me down for a standing order of four eggs dozen a week,” she said. “I’ll need more when the fiddleheads come in.”

  “Who’s Rebecca?” interjected Gray, hopefully. “She your daughter?”

  Lila’s eyes twinkled with youthful understanding. “Sorry, Gray, Rebecca’s my partner,” she replied. “I came up from Massachusetts a month ahead of her to get the hen pen ready for the chickens. She’s moving up on Wednesday—boy, I’ll be glad when she gets here!”

  “Your partner?!” squealed Maude, casting a horrified glance at Mike Hobart, whom she had seated deliberately next to Lila in order to facilitate his romantic endeavors.

  “Business partner,” explained Hobart, hastily. “Lila and her friend Rebecca Johnson are business partners in the The Egg Ladies.”

  Maude visibly relaxed. “More potato, Sweetie?” she said, rewarding Hobart by proffering him a bowl piled high with white fluffy Maine spuds. He took a second helping and passed the bowl over to Gray, who was eyeing the dish hungrily.

  “I don’t think I would have had the courage to move to Maine on my own, without Rebecca,” continued Lila, unconsciously setting her knife down across the edge of her plate so she could use her hands while she talked. “I’m in charge of the chickens, the hen pen and most of the marketing,” she enumerated; “and she’s in charge of everything else, which means running the household, keeping our business accounts straight, AND keeping our customers happy.”

  “It must be wonderful to have another pair of hands to help with a project like that!” said Maude. “I always wondered what it would be like to have someone help me in the kitchen, especially when I’m working on preparing all the food for a big fundraiser.”

  “Pshaw!” exclaimed Ralph. “Ya wouldn’t even let me help ya tonight!”

  “Shushhh,” said Maude. “Don’t spoil the mood!”

  “Did you find out where to get organic baby chicks yet, Lila?” asked Hobart, smoothly changing the subject.

  “I found out better than that!” Lila exclaimed. “I read the information Tom Kidd gave me and discovered that I don’t need to buy organic chicks to be certified – I just need to take possession of the chicks by the second day of their life, and then raise ‘em organically.”

  “Great!” he replied. “I’m glad Kidd was finally good for something.”

  “You’re going to sell organic eggs—that’s wonderful!” said Maude.

  “Do you think people around here will pay $4.50 a dozen for organic eggs?” Lila asked, worriedly.

  Ralph leaned forward. “Ya jest charge what ya need to charge to pay yer bills,” he instructed; “and some folks will buy, and some folks won’t. I predict my Maude will be yer best customer – and if ya got any extra eggs ya cain’t sell, I’ll take ‘em off yer hands down to the store!”

  “How manby chickbens ya gonna hab?” mumbled Gray, attempting to dispose of a pile of lettuce.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said his grandmother. “Where are your table manners tonight, young man!”

  “My goal is to have 400 laying hens on-line, year-round; just like Wendell Russell’s grandmother did,” answered Lila, speaking more to the table at-large than to Gray. Her hazel eyes glowed with the excitement. “That’s what the hen pen is designed for. I’m starting with this flock of 100, and adding 200 replacement chicks this spring, and 200 more next spring. We’ll have to make a few alterations to become organic certified, but by and large we’re keeping the operation the way it was 50 years ago!”

  “Do ya think ya might need someone to mow ya yard this summer?” asked Gray. “Cause I’m available.”

  “Ain’t ya workin’ for me this summer, young man?” asked his grandfather. “I thought that’s what I was gettin’ that old Ford back on the road for!”

  “I gotta buy gas,” retorted Gray, buttering a third yeast roll. “Plus I gotta save for college. I can work for ya AND mow on the side, Grandpa.”

  “Grayden’s a worker,” Maude said proudly to Lila. “No shillyshallying at the Mall for him, like some teenagers. More meat?”

  Lila politely declined the second helping of meat, and turned her friendly attention back to the teenager. She smiled at him across the table. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re hired, Gray. Wendell said there’s an old John Deere® riding lawn mower that comes with the place, and if you can get it going, you can use that to mow.”

  “Awesome!” exclaimed Gray, his eyes lighting up. “Hey, if that John Deere® don’t run good, Mike, can ya help me fix it up?”

  “You bet, buddy,” said Hobart, who was fond of Ralph and Maude’s grandson. “You certainly don’t want your grandfather helping you – he’s all thumbs when it comes to mechanics.”

  “I ain’t all thumbs—I’m jest particular,” muttered Ralph. “That’s why I always hire stuff done.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Hobart, winking at Gray.

  “That’s sweet of you to help Grayden, Mike,” said Maude. “Just so’s you know, I feel a batch of bread pudding coming on real soon!”

  “Hey, have ya seen Tinkerbell this year yet, Mike?” Gray asked Hobart, taking a gulp of milk.

  “Tinkerbell?!” exclaimed Lila. Her startled fork clinked against the water glass. “I KNEW t
his was a Peter Pan kind of a place! Why doesn’t it surprise me that there are fairies in Sovereign!”

  “Tinkerbell’s an albino deer,” Gray corrected, setting down his glass. “She ain’t no fairy. I saw her last summer in that big field out behind ya place. Miss Hastings was the one who named her Tinkerbell, not me!”

  “Tinkerbell is actually not an albino,” said Hobart; “but a white-colored, white tail deer. And just between you and me, Gray, Tinkerbell is actually Tinkerbeau—she’s a HE, not a doe. But don’t tell Miss Hastings. I know she’d be disappointed.”

  “A white deer!” said Lila, shaking her head in amazement. “I never knew there WAS such a thing.”

  “It’s a genetic quirk,” explained Hobart. “There’s a long history in Sovereign of a herd containing white deer. Hunters used to come from all over the United States to try and bag one. I heard of the white deer long before I went to Unity College, but I never got to see one until last year, when Tinkerbell surfaced.”

  “But don’t you people hunt deer up here, Mike?” asked Lila, worriedly.

  A look of discomfort crossed Hobart’s face. “Well, I don’t hunt anymore, but …”

  “I do!” interrupted Gray. “My Dad bought me a 12-gauge shotgun for Christmas and Grandpa said I could hunt this year.” He turned to his grandfather for confirmation. “Right, Grandpa?”

  “After ya take – and pass – that hunter’s safety course,” Ralph reminded him.

  “Don’t you worry, Sweetie,” Maude said to Lila; “nobody in Sovereign would shoot Tinkerbell. Everyone knows how fond Miss Hastings is of that white deer! And if you post your land to hunting, just like all your neighbors, the white deer will be protected from hunters from Away.”

  “Well, there’s no guarantee of that, unfortunately,” Hobart said, uneasily. “Hunters don’t have the esprit de corps they used to. Plus there’s so much posted land nowadays that many hunters can’t find a place to hunt, so they just ignore the signs and hunt where the deer are.”