Milky Way

Britt leaned down to hug her again and felt the old woman’s surprisingly strong response before she pushed her away and turned her concentration back to the television. When Britt paused at the door to wave, Inger had the bag of Linder balls in her lap.

She found an earnest game of gin rummy in progress in Martha Bauer’s room. The tiny, fragile woman was propped up against her pillows, her white hair in a neat braid coronet atop her head, her bony shoulders adorned with a soft blue bed jacket.

“Brittany!” Martha’s deep voice was slightly fractured with age. From the bank of pillows, her bright blue eyes smiled behind wire-rimmed bifocals. She patted the side of her bed for Britt to join her, then returned to the serious business of winning the hand. She tilted her head slightly backward to focus on the spread of cards she held. She considered for a moment, then placed everything in her hand in threes and fours on the swivel tray serving as a card table. “Gin!” she said with satisfaction.

Martha’s round, gray-haired opponent occupied a room down the hall but visited Martha regularly to play cards and cadge treats. Britt knew her simply as Lavinia.

Lavinia looked at her full hand of cards, then down at the table in disgust. “I don’t know why I drag my arthritic carcass all the way over here just to get beaten day after day. How much am I in your debt now?”

“Ah...” Martha consulted the score sheet. “Nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars.”

“You cheat!” Lavinia accused with a smile. “If it wasn’t for the food your granddaughter brings—” she winked at Britt “—I wouldn’t come back.”

She stood laboriously, and Britt went around the bed to help her untangle herself from the chair and position herself within the protective rails of her walker. Someone in Lavinia’s family had made a colorful little calico pouch that snapped on the side of the walker, and Britt stuffed a bag full of soft cookies she and the children had made into it.

“Bless you,” Lavinia said, leaning heavily on one hand to put the other arm around Britt in a hug. Then she started for the door, moving surely, but at a snail’s pace. “Here I go,” she said. “Like a turtle with her tail on fire. Out of my way. Watch my dust. That’s not an explosion you hear, it’s me, breaking the sound barrier. Hi, ho, Silver! Awayyyy...” Her voice trailed after her as she made her way down the hall.

Britt and Martha giggled.

“How are you today, Grandma?” Britt asked, settling herself on the edge of the bed again. “Do you really cheat?”

“Of course. She’s a better player—it’s the only way I can win.” She looked more pleased with herself than apologetic. Then she tilted back her head to study Britt through the lower half of her bifocals. “How are you? You look more like your mother every day. Except for the circles under your eyes.”

Britt delved into the bag she’d brought. “Well, I’m no spring chicken anymore, you know.”

“Thirty-two. Still a baby.”

“Thirty-three,” Britt corrected, handing her the current supermarket tabloids. “Here’s your Globe, Inquirer, Star, Shalimar, and a small piece of cheesecake.”

Martha frowned at her playfully. “Small piece?”

“Got to watch that waistline.” Britt put the cheesecake on her tray, pulled off the plastic wrap, then poured a cup of milky coffee from a thermos she’d brought.

Martha rolled a bite of cheesecake on her tongue and made an appreciative sound. Then she pointed at the cake with her fork. “You know, my mother used to love rich things. Torte with custard filling and meringue. And she made the most beautiful lattice crust you ever saw.”

This was a story Martha loved to tell, so Britt smiled encouragingly and listened patiently as time rolled away and the old woman focused with misting blue eyes on her childhood. “’Course, she was only ten years old when her family came here from Germany, so she remembered life there very clearly. She was scandalized when stores started carrying cake mix in a box. She and our neighbor, Mrs. Olson, made a pact never to bake anything that was prepackaged.”

“Hi, Martha!” An enthusiastic voice interrupted the old woman’s reminiscences. “That’s right, isn’t it? I’m trying to learn names today.”

Martha looked up with a bright smile, and Britt turned as a woman she guessed to be somewhere around her own age walked into the room. She was plump and red-haired, and was wearing the pale green uniform of the Worthington House staff. She spoke deliberately and with the childlike need to please of the developmentally disabled.

Martha beckoned her closer. “That’s right, Freddie. You’re doing very well. Come and meet my most favorite person in the whole world.”

Britt stood and Freddie came forward shyly.

“Freddie, this is Britt Hansen, my granddaughter,” she said, “Britt, this is Freddie Houser. Dr. Phelps just hired her a few days ago and she’s fitting right in. She helps me with my bath.”

Freddie beamed at the praise.

Britt offered her hand. “I’m happy to meet you, Freddie. I’m glad to know you’re taking such good care of Grandma.”

“I work very hard,” Freddie assured her. “And I try to do everything just the way Mrs. Finklebaum showed me.”

“Freddie?” One of the other aides appeared in the doorway. With a wave and a smile for Britt and Martha, she asked Freddie, “Can you come and help me with Mrs. Norgaard?”

“Okay.” Before she left, Freddie whispered to Britt conspiratorially, “I’ll take special care of Martha, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Freddie.”

As the aides disappeared down the hall, Martha shook her head sadly, pulling Britt closer. “Poor Freddie,” she said quietly. “She lived at home until her mother died. Lavinia told me Phyllis had been diagnosed as terminally ill, but lately had been in a kind of remission. Then, suddenly, she just died without warning. Now Freddie’s all alone. Dr. Phelps hired her to help out around here and she’s trying so hard.” She sighed. “Imagine being not quite up to snuff and having nobody.”

“That would be tough,” Britt commiserated. “Well, she really seems to like you, so you keep encouraging her. Now finish that cheesecake so I can take the plate with me.”

Martha tucked back into the treat with fervor. “My mother used to make something kind of like this. Though she never liked using cow’s milk. She always wanted a goat, so that we could have goat’s milk, but my father raised dairy cows and was horrified at the idea. She insisted goat’s milk was healthier and tasted better. He said it tasted like—” She stopped abruptly and grinned. “I won’t tell you what he said it tasted like. She tried to tell him goat’s milk could be delicious if the goat ate the right things, and that it was easier to digest. Often, people who are allergic to dairy products can still drink goat’s milk. But he wouldn’t hear of it and she never did get a goat.”

“I had goat’s milk a couple of times in college,” Britt said, trying to remember the circumstances. “We were on a health kick, I think, to get in bikini shape by the summer. We’d been impressed in class with how low in fat and...”

Something clanged in her brain.

Goat’s milk. Lower in fat than cow’s milk. Snob appeal. Gimmick!

Martha ate and chatted while Britt’s heart began to pound and her brain ticked over with the idea. At the moment, yogurt was the ordinary consumer’s fair-haired child. Goat’s milk yogurt would probably bring them running. No. Would it? Would they go for it? Of course. All she had to do was think it through carefully and find the right approach.

She had to make some. Now. Today.

* * *

A BLOND EYEBROW went up disbelievingly. “You’re going to make what?”

“Goat’s milk yogurt,” Britt repeated, taking her friend and neighbor, Judy Lowery, by the wrist and dragging her across the yard toward the pen where she kept three Alpine goats.

“You’ve got to be joking. You ever tasted the stuff?” Judy was a writer who kept the goats for company. She was a newcomer to the Tyler area and a cynic, but a wonderful friend.

“I’m going to scope it out in detail at the library, but my grandmother says goat’s milk can be delicious if they’re properly fed. Can I rent one of your goats for a couple of days? Long enough to get milk and make yogurt and try a few recipes?”

Judy, half a head taller than Britt, put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and said gravely, “Why don’t you come inside and lie down? I’ve seen this coming. You’ve blown a fuse. I knew this was—”

“Go ahead and scoff,” Britt said, undaunted by her attitude, “but I’m going to produce a yogurt that’s lower in fat and calories than anything currently on the market. And I’m going to make a bundle.”

Judy folded her arms. “Why don’t you just find a rich man and remarry? You’ve still got it, you know. Tight body, great hair, unconscious sex appeal. Why put yourself through this?”

This time Britt took Judy’s arms and gave her a shake. She’d thought about her idea in the car all the way over here and it just felt right. “Judy, I’ve spent my life living everyone else’s dream. I came home from college to take over the farm when my dad had a heart attack. I worked beside Jimmy toward his plan of what Lakeside Farm should be. This dream is mine. I’m going to save the farm with the hottest damned food product on the market.”

Judy shifted her weight and cleared her throat. “Britt,” she said, “as a dream, goat’s milk yogurt kind of lacks the cosmic quality.”

Britt swatted her arm. “This is going to work. Can I rent a goat or not?”

“No,” Judy replied, “but you can borrow one. Take your pick.”

“Which one’s your best milker?”

“Mildred.” Judy pointed to the doe in the middle, which was tan with white-and-black markings on her face and hindquarters. She was angular with prominent hipbones, thin thighs and a long, lean neck and body. Britt knew the uninitiated might consider her underfed, but a good dairy goat was neither fat nor meaty. Mildred looked like a good prospect.

Britt stretched a hand toward her and all three goats edged forward to nip at her fingers and sleeve. She patted Mildred between the stumps of her horns.

“Okay, Milly,” she said. “You and I are going to take the world by storm.”

Though Britt was pleased with Mildred, Mildred didn’t appear to be thrilled with Britt. She complained loudly as the two women lifted her into the back of the truck. Britt raised the tailgate and locked it. Mildred looked at her with sad, accusing yellow eyes.

Britt patted her flank. “It’s just for a couple of days, Milly. You’ll have fun.” Britt walked around the truck to the driver’s side, then turned to hug Judy. “Wish me luck. If this works, it could be the end of my problems.”

Judy smiled skeptically. “Don’t be silly. This is life, Brittany. Problems never end, they just rest between eruptions.”

“How’s the book coming?”

“So-so. I think it needs more violence, but I’m not very good at that. I hate to hurt anyone I create.”

“I’ll lend you my kids,” Britt said, grinning at her little play on words. “Fair exchange. They do violence to one another without a second thought or hint of remorse. Would that help?”

Judy smiled blandly. “Thanks awfully, but I’ll pass. Let me know how it goes.”

Britt waved out the window as she headed home.

Her mind glutted with ideas, she tried to make herself relax and take it one slow and careful step at a time. First, she’d make Mildred comfortable. Then she’d see that she had just the right things to eat to produce the perfect milk for her recipe. Then she would make the recipe work.

Everything would come together; she just felt it would.

Britt pulled into her drive, noticing the young spring green on the tips of everything, then turned into the yard.

She was just beginning to relax when she saw the red Explorer parked behind her station wagon. Her heart gave an involuntary and rather violent lurch. Jake Marshack was back.

CHAPTER FOUR

HE WAS SITTING on the top step of the porch, Daffodil beside him, licking his ear. The dog gave one loud bark and went running toward the truck. Jake got up more slowly and wandered down the steps while Britt came around the truck, eyeing him suspiciously.

She was as pretty as he remembered. After breakfast that morning, as he’d gone around on his self-appointed chores, he’d been plagued with a vivid memory of her, pink-cheeked and clear-eyed, insisting that Marge order his omelet. He’d finally concluded that she couldn’t be as beautiful as he remembered. He was simply flattering himself because she’d come so wholeheartedly to his defense.

But he could see now that his memory had been sharp and true. She’d torn out the braid at some point since he’d seen her this morning, and her gold hair hung loose and a little wild in the early-afternoon wind. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright, though he noticed a bluish bruised effect under them. That hurt him in a way he didn’t entirely understand and couldn’t have explained.

She stopped halfway across the yard as he came toward her. “Mr. Marshack,” she said coolly. “What is it now?”

He fought an overwhelming urge to take her in his arms, carry her into the house and put her somewhere where she could rest undisturbed for a week. Instead, he moved past her to the truck and examined the goat, his hands in his suit pants pockets. “New transportation for Matt so he can keep his paper route?” he asked.

She fought a smile, then gave in. “No, he’ll get by on my old bike. Actually, the goat’s part of my plan to ruin your plan.”

“My plan?”

“To make me sell.”

It wasn’t his plan, it was someone else’s higher up the chain of command. But he didn’t want to talk about that.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he said.

Her heart skipped a beat as she looked into his quiet brown eyes. She’d seen them over and over in her mind last night, then this morning after their meeting in the diner. There was a message in them she was afraid to read.

She dipped her head in mock apology. “My mistake. Why are you here?”

“Actually,” he said, gently taking her arm and leading her toward the porch, “it’s part of my plan to ruin your plan.”

“I’m getting confused,” she admitted. Then she noticed the bike leaning against the porch railing. It was a shiny new Huffy with a water bottle, a carry-bag attached to the frame and other options she couldn’t even identify. She gasped at the beauty of it, smiled instinctively at the way she knew Matt would react to it. Then, when she’d had time to think, she frowned.

“I thought I explained—”

“You did,” he said appeasingly, “and I understand and appreciate all your parental concerns. But the fact remains that your son wasn’t completely at fault, and it bothered me all night. If you insist, he can pay me five dollars a month or something until it’s paid off.”

She looked at the spiffy top-of-the-line model with all the extras. “It would take him until he’s twenty-one.”

“Hardly.”

“Mr. Marshack. I don’t think...” she began halfheartedly, hating to deprive Matt of this beautiful bike, but knowing in her heart he’d be careless with it again and she’d never be able to come close to replacing it.

But the yellow school bus at the end of the lane expelled her children, and the dog ran to greet them. They were halfway to the house when their attention homed in on the bike. Matt shouted and started to run, the others following quickly behind, the dog weaving in and out of them in suicidal patterns. From the truck, Mildred complained loudly. Unnoticed by the other children, the goat brought Renee to a dead stop. At the sight of it she veered toward the truck.

Matt skidded to a halt at the porch steps, Christy and David flanking him breathlessly, all sets of eyes on the bike.

Britt watched Matt’s face as his gaze caressed every shiny inch of it. He looked up at her, obviously afraid to draw any conclusions about what the bike’s presence meant.

“Hi, Mom,” he said. Then, apparently deciding his best behavior was called for in this uncertain situation, he extended his hand to their guest. “Mr. Marshack. Nice to see you again.”

Britt melted as Jake shook hands with her son. Even knowing Matt had probably realized displaying good manners could only be to his benefit, it was such a deep-down, genuine pleasure to find that he’d absorbed something she’d taught him. She put an arm around him and squeezed.

“Mr. Marshack thinks the two of you should make a deal about the bike.”

Joy flashed in Matt’s eyes. He turned to Jake, and took the nobility just a little further. “It was all my fault,” he said. “You’d never have seen my bike in your mirror. You aren’t responsible.” For good measure, he glanced at his mother. “Mom’s got a thing about responsibility.”

Jake nodded gravely, lifted the bike by the handlebars and seat from its leaning position against the steps and steadied it in front of Matt. “She’s absolutely right. And most mistakes we have to pay for, but with some we deserve a break. I figure we can split the cost. You can pay me back for your half at five bucks a month. And you don’t have to start until after the summer trip you’re saving for.”

Matt turned to his mother, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Wow!” Christy breathed.

“Boy,” David said, his voice filled with awe as he stared at the bike. “Are you lucky!”

“Hop on,” Jake said. “Make sure everything works before I leave.”

Matt watched Britt’s eyes for the firm refusal he seemed to feel sure was coming.

She nodded. “You are lucky,” she said, “to have had your bike run over by someone so understanding and so generous.”

Matt smiled from ear to ear as he threw a leg over the bike. It was the first free, open smile she’d seen on his face in a year. He started to thank Jake and couldn’t. He tried three different times, but the words refused to string together with any kind of coherence.

“Go,” Jake said finally. “Be careful at first, though, just to make sure everything’s all right.”

They all watched as he did a careful circuit of the yard, then a faster, more complicated one. Then Matt shouted gleefully and headed down the drive to the road. “I’m gonna do the loop!” he called. “Be right back.”

Christy and David ran to the fence to watch him.

“The loop?” Jake asked.

“A road around the woods that leads back here.” She looked up into his brown eyes and saw satisfaction there. Making her son happy had made him happy. It was difficult to remain angry with him under those circumstances. “Thank you, Mr. Marshack. He hasn’t been this thrilled about anything since...well, in a long time.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said. “And I have something else to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

Before he could reply, there was a squeal from Renee, who was hanging from the side of the pickup. Mildred had a mouthful of her hair.

With an exasperated groan, Britt ran to the truck. Renee dangled helplessly, giggling and shrieking. Jake supported her while Britt tried to ease her hair from Mildred’s mouth. The goat nibbled at Britt’s hand as she pulled gently.

Finally freed, Renee turned into Jake’s arms, wrapping hers around his neck. “Hi,” she said warmly, making no effort to get down. “You’re back.”

“Yes.” She looked like her mother, he thought, with something in her smile that tugged at him the way Britt’s did. There was openness in it, and a touching need.

“Did you bring the goat?”

“No, your mom did.”

“How come?”

“Because we’re going to make yogurt from Mildred’s milk,” Britt explained, stepping around a mud puddle. Taking Mildred’s lead in one hand and opening the tailgate with the other, she added, “And use it in my cheesecake.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll be lower in calories.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s less butterfat in goat’s milk.”

“Why?”

Jake admired Britt’s patient answers to Renee’s favorite question. But she was distracted now by Mildred’s refusal to come to the back of the truck. Apparently deciding that the neglect of the past few moments didn’t bode well for a stay of any duration in this place, Mildred refused to budge.

Britt climbed lightly into the truck and, putting a shoulder to Mildred’s rear, pushed until she reached the rear edge. “Mr. Marshack,” she said breathlessly, “would you grab her collar so she doesn’t back away while I jump out?”

Jake put Renee down and complied. The goat looked at him with resentful amber eyes. Britt leaped down and wrapped her arms around Mildred’s four legs. Mildred baaed unhappily.

Jake put a halting hand on Britt’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Surprised by his tone and a little annoyed with his interference, she replied over her shoulder, “Lifting her down. Get out of the way.”

“You’ll hurt yourself,” he said, pulling off his suit coat.

Holding Mildred’s collar, Britt straightened and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Marshack, I carry fifty-pound bags of grain, heavy bales of hay, even Renee....”

Ignoring her, Jake pushed her aside, wrapped his arms around the goat and lifted. Mildred stood quietly in his arms long enough to give him a false sense of security, then began to struggle wildly as he lowered her to the ground. He held fast, afraid a sudden drop might break a spindly leg.

Determined to break free, Mildred pitched forward. Jake overbalanced and they landed together in a shallow but messy mud puddle.

Britt caught Mildred’s tether before she could prance away and handed it to Renee, who was giggling uproariously. Then she hunkered down beside Jake and considered him, elbows on her knees. Holding back the laughter was choking her.

“I could have done that,” she said, “And without getting muddy.”

The impulse to yank Britt down beside him was overwhelming. Had Renee not been standing there, he might have done it. Mud squished through his clothes and he felt splashes of it on his face.

“You’re walking a fine line, Mrs. Hansen,” he warned quietly, fighting his own urge to laugh. “A sympathetic hand up would be appreciated.”

She straightened to her feet and offered her hand, still biting her bottom lip. “I told you I was perfectly capable of—”

“What can I say?” he groaned, taking her hand and using it only for balance as he pushed himself to his feet. “I was born and bred in Chicago—as a gentleman, I might add. I had this foolish, chivalrous notion that a woman shouldn’t have to lift a goat.”

“Farm women aren’t like city women,” she said, grimacing as she examined the mud covering most of the back of his elegant suit. “You’re a mess, Mr. Marshack. You’d better come inside.”

He stopped as she tried to lead him toward the house.

“Considering I’ve humiliated myself on your behalf,” he said, “do you think you could call me Jake?”

She let her laughter loose then, looping her arm in his. He was forced to laugh with her and allowed himself to be guided up the drive to the porch steps and into the familiar kitchen.

“Keep Mildred company for a few minutes,” Britt called to Renee. “I’ll be right back.”

The other three children piled into the house after them as Jake followed Britt through the kitchen to a dark hallway, then up the back stairs toward a long line of bedrooms.

“The bike’s cool, Mr. Marshack!” Matt reported from the bottom of the stairs. “The thumb-shifters are radical, and the brakes really work.” Then he seemed to notice the condition of Jake’s clothes. “What happened?”

“I was trying to help your mother with the goat,” Jake said. “I didn’t do very well.”

Matt frowned at Britt. “Yeah, I saw it. What’s it for, anyway? Renee says you’re gonna cook it.”

“No,” Britt called over her shoulder, stopping at the doorway to her bedroom. “I’m going to cook with the milk the goat gives us. I’m trying a new recipe for goat’s milk yogurt.”