The Victorious Opposition by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online

flat features, and a wide, friendly smile.
    “Tell you what I heard late last night at the diner,” Mort said. “There’s talk Henry Gibbon’s going to sell the general store.”
    “You didn’t even tell me that when you came home!” Mary said indignantly.
    Her husband looked shamefaced. “It must’ve slipped my mind.”
    Mary wondered if he’d saved the news so it would make a bigger splash at the gather. He liked being the center of attention. It was big—no doubt about that. She said, “Gibbon’s general store’s been in Rosenfeld for as long as I can remember.”
    “For as long as I can remember, too, pretty much,” her mother said.
    “That’s likely why he’s selling—if he
is
selling, and it’s not just talk,” Mort said. “He’s not a young man any more.”
    When Mary thought of the storekeeper, she thought of his bald head, and of the white apron he always wore over his chest and the formidable expanse of his belly. But sure enough, the little fringe of hair he had was white these days. “Won’t seem the same without him,” she said, and everybody nodded. She added, “I hope to heaven a Yank doesn’t buy him out. That’d be awful.”
    More nods. Julia hated the Americans as much as Mary did, though she wasn’t so open about it. The Marbles had no reason to love them, either, even if they hadn’t suffered so much at U.S. hands. The only Canadians Mary could think of who did love Americans were collaborators, of whom there were altogether too many.
    “Let’s go take the baskets out to the field and have our picnic,” Maude McGregor said, which was not only a good idea but changed the subject.
    Sprawled on a blanket under the warm summer sun and gnawing on a fried drumstick, Mary found it easy enough not to think about the Americans. She listened to gossip from town and from the surrounding farms. The Americans did come into that, but only briefly: a farmer’s daughter was going to marry a U.S. soldier. It wasn’t the first such marriage around Rosenfeld, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Mary did her best to pretend it wasn’t happening.
    Far easier, far more pleasant, to talk about other things. She said, “These deviled eggs you made sure are good, Ma.”
    Her husband nodded. “Can I get the recipe from you, Mother McGregor? They beat the ones we fix in the diner all hollow.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Maude McGregor said. “If other people use it, it won’t be mine any more.”
    “Of course it will,” Mort said. “It’ll just let other people enjoy what you were smart enough to figure out.”
    “He’s a smooth talker, isn’t he?” Julia murmured. Mary smiled and nodded.
    In a low, confidential voice, Mort went on, “I’m not just talking to hear myself talk, Mother McGregor. That recipe’s worth money to my father and me. If we were buying it from someone else in the business, we’d probably pay”—he screwed up his face as he figured it out—“oh, fifty dollars, easy.”
    The farm barely made ends meet for Mary’s mother. Mary doubted the Pomeroys would pay anywhere near that much for a recipe—they’d be more likely to swap one of their own—but the diner was doing well, and Mort had a generous heart. After blinking once or twice to make sure he was serious, Maude McGregor said, “When we get back to the house, I’ll write it down.” Everyone beamed.
    When they got back to the house, Mary said, “I’m going out to the barn, Mort, and get us some fresh eggs. I wonder if I remember how to get a hen off the nest.”
    “You don’t need to take the big picnic basket with you, just for some eggs,” Mort said.
    “It’s all right. I’ve got a smaller one inside,” Mary said. That display of feminine logic flummoxed her husband. He shrugged and watched her go, then turned back to her mother, who was putting the deviled-egg recipe on paper.
    In the barn, Mary quickly gathered a dozen eggs. She put them, as she’d said she would, in the