“Alice and I are widows, too,” Susan Lee told Elizabeth. “Had a terrible time adjusting, both of us. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t know what to do with the farm. Never thought things would ever work out again, and Alice had kids still in school, didn’t you, Alice?”
When Bett got to the end of the row, Elizabeth’s face was-rather stiffly-upturned. Very, very gently, Bett slathered the mixture on her mother’s face.
The women kept up a steady stream of chatter, looking vaguely like creatures from a horror movie as the mudpacks slowly dried. Bett had never really understood why Aaron came, except for the fun of the chaos and the drink of apple-cider vinegar and honey she always gave him for his arthritis, but he was keeping up his usual monologue. He dragged a chair over by her mother, who had undoubtedly never considered carrying on a conversation with anyone of the opposite sex while sporting a mudpack on her face. Aaron was an old chemistry teacher turned farmer, white-moustached and tall, and his background showed.
“See, the bees secrete an enzyme that breaks down a chemical something like hydrogen peroxide-you know, like you use on a cut. It’s a natural mild antibiotic, honey is, and it’s got a water-drawing property-precisely what it does is draw water from the bacterial cells and make them shrivel up and die. See what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Elizabeth said faintly.
“And not that there’s any cure for arthritis, but the vinegar and honey together work pretty well to reduce swelling and take away the pain. It’s a soother, inside and outside. Unpasteurized stuff only, we’re talking about here. Do you have hay fever?”
“No.”
“Well, if you did, honey’s a natural antihistamine as well.”
“That’s very nice,” Elizabeth said.
“The girls like it for a face pack.”
“I can see that.”
“Which is again because of its moisturizing properties…”
“Zach, how’re we coming?” Bett took a second and a half out for a sigh. She’d been running around like a mad thing. Zach tugged her in front of him, with both arms resting on her shoulders, a very awkward position from which to stir the kettle on the stove. Still, Bett relaxed, cradled back against his chest, inhaling that fantastic sweet and spicy smell rising from the kettle.
“I’ll be ready to strain in five or six minutes,” he told her, nuzzling his chin on the crown of her head.
For just an instant, she closed her eyes. The next instant she opened them, startled-and delighted-to hear a different tone of laughter in the noisy group behind them. She peeked around Zach. Her mother was laughing. Her mother was laughing, her mudpack cracking, the women circling around her.
Bett glanced up at Zach. His blue eyes were doing a tango, waiting to meet hers. Bett was honey from crown to toe. He couldn’t see any part of her that wasn’t sticky. He had a wayward urge to lick off the shiny spot on her cheek, but controlled himself.
“Why don’t you come over for coffee tomorrow, Elizabeth,” Susan suggested. “I’ll show you how to do that jelly roll. Takes time, I’m warning you, but it isn’t all that hard if you watch someone else do it the first time…”
Zach didn’t exactly know how their honey harvest had mushroomed over the years. Bett had learned beekeeping from a retired neighbor, and had loved it starting with the first spring, but only realized in the fall exactly how much honey there was going to be to jar and sell. Zach had poked a “bee” in Grady’s ear, suggesting that one or two women neighbors whose farm season was over might like to help her. “One or two” expanded to a wide group, all bringing their old-time recipes for mudpacks and arthritis cures and remedies for fallen arches. Bett had searched out the old English recipe for mead. The neighborhood theory seemed to be that there was no fun in having half a mess; you might as well go whole hog.
Bett, fool that she was, had encouraged them. Bett had the uncanny ability to gather people of all ages together and bring out their spirit of fun. The thought of a formal dinner party would have panicked her-she’d told Zach a thousand times she just wasn’t the type to cope with large groups of people. He let her go on thinking that.
Between the two of them, laughing, they strained the mixture in the kettle, added the yeast and poured it in the big earthenware crocks to cool. Bett disappeared from his sight then, her blond head popping up here and there during the next two hours. The mudpacks were washed off; the washer was started; one crew tackled the floor and another miraculously produced dishes for dinner. Then there were the dinner leavings to clean up.
Zach watched his wife, a very small locomotive in nonstop action. She was humming most of the time. Quick frowns were replaced by quick smiles, her face vibrantly expressive, her body lithe and free in action, totally feminine.
He loved that lady.
Bett was still humming unconsciously as she said goodbye to the last guest at the door. She loved having this gathering every year, but this year had been special. Her mother had joined in, actually joined in. She hadn’t heard Elizabeth laugh so much in well over a year. When Grady had reached out and swatted her mother’s rear end in passing, Bett had thought for a moment that her mom was going to fall over in shock, but she’d recovered. The women had fussed over her like a new hen in the flock. Elizabeth, her pants destroyed, her blouse unrecognizable, her hair flying every which way, had had a very good time.
“The women were so nice,” Elizabeth said from the doorway of Zach’s study.
Bett glanced up from the book in her hand, smiling. “They are, aren’t they, Mom?” She was so tired she could barely see straight, but the steady motion of Zach’s old rocker had soothed that weariness for an hour now. She set the book down, noting with some surprise that Elizabeth was rubbing her hands as if she were cold.
“That Susan Lee asked me over for coffee tomorrow.”
Elizabeth edged into the study, slightly nervous. Bett, perplexed, drew up her jean-clad legs and folded her arms around them. “You’re going to go?” she asked lightly.
“Yes.” Elizabeth sat on the edge of the couch, primly drew her knees together and studied the books on the shelf with an absent frown. “That Grady,” she said disgustedly. “I have never seen a more ill-tempered man. So gruff. I doubt he’s had a woman near him in thirty years.”
“He is a character,” Bett agreed.
“I told him I’d bring him a home-cooked dinner sometime.” Elizabeth adjusted the neck band of her orange blouse. “The old coot. I felt sorry for him.”
Bett nodded, curiosity and amusement reflected in her clear blue eyes. “That was nice of you.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” Elizabeth said flatly, and then sighed. “I thought I’d do up a pot roast, some of those small new potatoes, maybe an apple pie-”
Bett smothered a grin. “He’ll never recover.”
“The thing is…” Elizabeth stood up and started wringing her hands again. “Grady’s one thing. Of course I’ll take him over a dinner. Brittany, you know I’d do that for anyone. But Grady is not Aaron,” she said nervously. “And Aaron. He actually had the nerve to…”
“What?” Bett asked, perplexed.
“Ask me to dinner. Actually like a date,” Elizabeth said disgustedly. “Can you believe that? At my age? Married for twenty-five years?” She took a book from the shelves, and started leafing through it. “I think I’ll read tonight. I’m just too tired to work on my afghans.”