Maud's House by Sherry Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

to Leaf Peaking in the Green Mountain State
.” My road was number seventeen on the list.
    I nodded. “I’ve never seen so many crazy drivers in my life. And they’re all turning around in my drive.”
    “Reminds me of my kid’s ant farm,” Amos said.
    “I can’t believe the tourism department is rating the color of my trees.” I refilled their cups. “Why don’t they hire buses? Set up a stand? Sell T-shirts?”
    “That’s Montpelier for you,” Bartholomew said.
    “That’s the whole world,” Amos said.
    “That’s a fact,” they huffed. “Bureaucrats.” Amos and Bartholomew had no great love for government, state or federal.
    As Freda said, watching leaves was hungry business. The dinner crowd didn’t let up the entire shift. We ran out of baked potatoes first, then filet mignon and Seven-up. The list of what we didn’t have became longer than what we did have. And still the people came, from the North and the South and a bean farm in Ohio. They came and we served and the kid who calls himself the cook complained.
    “Quiche? What kind of place do they think this is? I don’t read French; I don’t cook French. What is this
pomme frites
, shit, Maud? French fries? That I can handle.”
    The special for the day was hamburger steak, mashed potatoes, and lima beans, so I was not surprised when Frank and Ella Snowden slid into a booth by the window. Hamburger steak was Frank’s favorite.
    Frank liked to sit with his back to the wall, so he could watch the door, he said. Ella always let him have his way, although, she said, she didn’t know who he expected to sneak up on them, Jesse James maybe, or some other desperado. I didn’t even bother to offer menus, just poured them two coffees and, five minutes later, plunked two specials in front of them.
    “Bon appetit.”
    “Maud,” Ella said, shaking out the paper napkin on her lap. “I’ve been wondering about this mural.”
    I sighed and leaned my hip against the booth.
    “I mean, I’ve been thinking what it needs is a nice little verse. Something typed up and hung beside it, the way they do in museums, sort of a poetic description.”
    “Ella, I haven’t agreed to paint the mural.”
    “But you must. We all know you can do it.”
    “It’s been a long time.”
    “Posh. Like riding a bicycle. Isn’t it, Frank?”
    Frank concentrated on his hamburger steak.
    “Well, it is,” Ella said. “You’ve just been a little lost the last few years what with your father dying and then George. None of us likes to see you like this, Maud. While I’m the first to admit Sheriff Odie Dorfmann is no reservoir of original thought, he had a good one this time. It was a godsend, and we’re not going to sit and let you pass it by.”
    “Who’s‘we’? You got fleas?” Frank said.
    Ella glared at him.
    I massaged my forehead. A headache with the rhythm of a jackhammer had been excavating my cranium all night. “I don’t know why everyone thinks they know what’s good for me.”
    “We care for you,” Ella said.
    “Ella, she doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want to.” Frank put down his fork. “You shouldn’t force her.”
    “I’m not
forcing
her. I would never
force
her. Maud’s like a daughter to me, Frank, and you know it.”
    Frank’s expression softened slightly. They had no children of their own. “You could write your poem even if she doesn’t paint the damn mural.”
    “But this would be my first published work, well, sort of published on a wall.”
    I touched her arm. “I really don’t think I can do it.”
    Ella removed her arm from my touch. “You used to not be so hard, Maud.”
    I glanced helplessly at Frank. He nodded at me.
    I sighed and left their table, passing Wynn and Harvey Winchester in the next booth. Harvey had five baby books piled on the table. He was so busy explaining to Wynn the importance of measuring cranium size in babies that he dipped his French fries in his drinking water instead of the ketchup;