Grandmother came in from the garden and seemed delighted to see I had a visitor. “What news, Ben?”
“Good day, Grandmother Reeve. I—I just came to tell you that the poor parish priest’s cow died of the bloat,” Ben said.
“Perhaps he should have sprinkled his cow with stolen holy water like Farmer Dan,” Grandmother said, chuckling.
“I heard Dan tell the priest his flock had grown so fat, it was hard to repent,” Ben answered. It was clear he was trying to charm her. “The priest said his flock might become so holy they would refuse to mate. That put the fear into him.” Grandmother laughed and Ben blushed at his own joke.
It was a good joke, I thought as they continued to talk. Grandmother thought it funny. Why didn’t I? I had tried to laugh, but it came out more like a hiccup. Surely the eye was only waiting to see if I would win Best Cook.
“Ben,” I said, interrupting a lengthy speech on the fine art of growing asparagus, “would you come tomorrow to try my pies?” If only there would be a tomorrow.
He smiled. “Of course, Keturah. It is good that you are practicing your cooking for the fair.”
“Ben, what if I don’t win Best Cook?” I said.
“You must win, Keturah,” Ben said. “I am bound by tradition.”
“Yes,” his mother said, startling us both by appearing in the doorway. “Tradition.”
“Constance,” said Grandmother. “Won’t you come in?”
“I will not,” she said. “And Ben is needed at home.”
“Constance, surely you don’t believe the … the talk,” Grandmother said stiffly.
“We don’t want your fairies in our garden,” Constance said shortly. “They eat holes in the chard and make webs between the beanstalks.”
“Mother!” Ben said.
“Mother Marshall, I assure you I have had no dealings with fairies,” I said.
“No? Then is it true that it is worse than fairies, that you have had dealings with
“Mother, please. Go—I will follow shortly,” Ben said.
His mother gave me a sour look and turned to leave. When she was down the path, Ben said, “Keturah, I am bound by the Marshall tradition to marry the Best Cook, but I am also freed by it. Win Best Cook, and no one, including Mother, can nay-say it.”
He smiled a wide smile and followed his mother down the path. Though it was the handsomest of smiles, the eye continued to roll and my heart was unmoved.
Never mind. I would train my heart to love Ben and his baby-sized purple squashes. And when I won Best Cook, the eye must be still.
“Goodbye, Ben,” I called after him. “Thank you for the beautiful squash.”
For the rest of the day and on into the night, I listened to the ringing of hammers and the shouts of men as they worked on the road, and I practiced pies. Gretta and Beatrice came, and I plied them with pie. They assured me that my pies were the best in the village, but I knew they would have to be wondrous to win Best Cook. I made the pies I had dreamed of: one of fish, and one of venison; a strawberry pie, and a peach, and a plum; and one of potatoes and mushrooms and cheese—and all with a crust that almost blew away when it was cut.
That evening, as I prepared to take samplings of my pies to Cook, I watched the sun set in a green sky and plotted the story that would save my life. Gretta stitched by the fire, and Beatrice practiced her arpeggios and chatted with Grandmother.
A laurel-leaf willow tree that grew at the very edge of the forest, and had been growing beyond its bounds for some time, brushed up against the window as the evening breeze came on. One slim bough tapped with the wind.
Knowing that it was a harmless tree did not lift my heart at all. All day long our cottage seemed to hunch away from the shadow of the forest, and now that shadow encroached boldly upon it, almost touching it. Would that Grandfather were still alive and still able to take his ax to the trees that stole slowly into our little plot of land.
Then a face appeared at the window, and my heart pounded hugely in my chest, like the thump of a great empty drum, until I realized it was our cow, Bridie. She always huddled close to the house as night fell.
A knock at the door startled Bridie away.
“Who could that be?” Grandmother asked.
At the door, to my relief, was Tobias, and in his hands a small burlap bag. He was flushed and dirty, and behind him his horse was lathered.
“My lemons!” I exclaimed. “Did you get my lemons, Tobias?”
“I did,” he said. “The most beautifulest round lemons you ever saw.”
I tore the little burlap sack out of his hands. “Round? But Cook said they were ovals. Like eggs laid by the sun, she said.” Gently I eased the fruit from the sack onto the table.
Tobias grinned. I stared. Behind me everyone gathered and craned their necks to see.
“Ah,” said Gretta, “you have done it now, Tobias.”
“Yes,” Tobias said proudly.
“Tobias,” Gretta said, pinching her brother by the ear, “what color is the sun?”
“Why, it is yellow, Gretta,” said he, wincing.
“Tobias, what color is a dandelion?” she asked, tugging on Tobias’s ear.
“As yellow as the sun, Gretta,” Tobias said, grimacing.
I had not breathed one breath since I saw the fruit.
