Genesis of a short story

 

A couple of days ago I bloggedabout creativity, writing, and inspiration, and I included how difficult it isfor me to write a short story unless I have some sudden creative inspiration.So I thought some of you might like to read this short story, which was inspiredby a recipe. It features Kelly O’Connell, the realtor/renovator at the centerof my Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly’s office is in Fairmount, theneighborhood adjacent to mine in Fort Worth and one brimming with authenticCraftsman houses, many of which have been preserved. Long the single mother oftwo, by the time this story takes place, Kelly is married to police officerMike Shandy. Keisha who appears in the story is her office assistant.

If you don’t know the sevenKelly O’Connell books, plus a novella, you might start with Skeleton in aDead Space. The books are all available on Amazon.

A word about the short story:My son, Colin, met his bride, Lisa, when he was managing a dive resort on GrandCayman, and Lisa came there to do underwater photography. When Colin and Lisafirst returned from the Caribbean, they lived with Lisa’s parents in SugarLand, Texas. Lisa’s mother, Torhild, was born and raised in Norway and cameto this country as a soldier’s bride at the age of seventeen. She still cookssome of the dishes she knew as a child, and Colin particularly fell in lovewith these hamburgers (and I might add, with John and Torhild, as did we all).Torhild calls them Norwegian meat cakes, but we’ve all come to use the term hamburger.

I cannot tell you why thosehamburgers inspired a short story, but they did. And it is the only time I’veever incorporated the paranormal into my writing. I hope you will be charmed byAnnalise Nelsen.

Please note that this is adraft version (I seem to be unable to attach the PDF) so there are some typos. Here’sthe story of “The Villlage Gaarden.” If you want the recipe for kjottkaker, Ithink it will be the recipe of the week in Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”blog. Happy reading.

 

 

 

 

 

TheVillage Gaarden

 

Ashort story

 

ByJudy Alter

 

TheFairmount Neighborhood was once peppered with storefront businesses, many withresidential quarters behind them for the owners. Today most of thosepicturesque buildings have been demolished, but one or two remain, nowrenovated into charming homes.

One day,on Travis Avenue between Hawthorne and Lilac streets, I found a storefront newto me—and still open. The day showed North Central Texas winter at its worst—afreezing mix of ice and sleet, wind howling. As Mike told me that morning,“Only a fool would go out on a day like this. Stay home.” I didn’t, and now Iwas hungry for hot comfort food.

Blue-and-whitecheckered curtains hung on rods three-quarters from the top of the windows, andthe words “The Village Gaarden” were stenciled in black on the window. Iwondered about the misspelling and the owners. A hand-lettered sign indicatedthat the small café would be serving from 12:00-1:00 p.m.

Old-fashionedsleigh bells, hung on a thick leather strap and looped over the inside doorhandle, sang out as I entered. There were only six tables but they gleamed asif just waxed. Small vases held flowers that looked like lilies of the valley. Blue-and-whitechina in a variety of patterns and serving dishes rested on a plate rack aroundthe room. Steamy warm air, heavy with the wonderful smell of beef cooking, envelopedme.

Asmall woman welcomed me. Short and a little wide, she had white hair pulledinto a bun at the back of her neck and curls escaping around her face,softening the severity of her hairdo. Her face was anything but severe.Brushing her hands on her apron, she held out both hands in welcome, and I tookthem gratefully.

“I amso glad to see you,” she bubbled. “I’ve been hoping you would come. I’mAnnalise Nelsen. I love to have visitors.”

Therewere no other customers, but how could she be expecting me? I managed to thankher and then asked, “You’re only open for an hour?”

Shenodded. “It’s only me, so I only open when I feel like cooking. Today I madeNorwegian hamburgers—Kjøttkaker, wecall them. You would like? With mashed potatoes and green peas?”

Ofcourse, I would like. She bustled off, while I settled myself at a table. Itested the flowers—yes, fresh, as I thought—but lilies of the valley werecertainly not in season now. In fact, you couldn’t grow them in Texas. Withinseconds Annalise appeared with a crockery mug full of fresh, strong blackcoffee.

Iasked about the flowers. “Lilies of the valley aren’t in season now.”

 “I grow,” she said. “We call them liljekonwall.”

Annaliseignored the problem of the flowers, and said, “Now, your dinner. Only oneminute. It is all ready,” and she was gone again, reappearing seconds laterwith a plate of food that looked and smelled way beyond good.

Themeat cakes, served with caramelized onion and gravy, were soft and tenderrather than chewy like a hamburger. The flavor was pure beef. I tasted thepotatoes alone first—rich with butter and whole cream. Then I dabbed a bit ofgravy on them—just as good. But the peas—they looked more like a thick greenpea soup, with dried peas that hadn’t completely lost their shape. There was noham taste. Instead, these were slightly sweet and somewhere, deep down, had abutter flavor. I savored a mouthful, while Annalise stood watching me, hands onhips.

“Youlike?”

“Ilove,” I said.

“Good.I leave you to enjoy in peace.”

Andalthough I had a thousand questions for her, she disappeared behind thecurtains again. I did eat in peace, savoring each mouthful of the hearty,soul-warming food. My feet thawed, and my disposition improved. I took out mycell phone to call Mike and tell him about the wonderful place I’d found. Icould imagine bringing the girls here and seeing Annalise hover affectionatelyover them. But my cell phone said, “No service.” I shrugged and dismissed it asdue to the weather.

Annalisecame back to ask about dessert. She had made rice pudding she told me, againsupplying the Norwegian name—risengryn.I was beyond full but then again, no one else had come in, and I was afraidshe’d be stuck with a whole lot of risen-whatever-it-was. I tried to indicateby my hands I wanted a small serving; what I got, of course, was a huge bowlthat I could not finish. Rice pudding with hints of nutmeg and vanilla andliberal amounts of currants—another thing one almost never found in Texas,unless you bought them dried.

I ateas much as I could and waited tactfully for the bill. It was well past oneo’clock, Annalise’s closing hour, and I didn’t want to detain her. Finally,calling her name softly, I headed toward those curtains. After all, she waselderly, and she might have gotten tired and nodded off. I didn’t want tostartle her.

When Igot no answer I poked my head through the curtains and found a sparkling cleankitchen—cast-iron stove, empty cast-iron skillet sitting on the top and newlyoiled, blue-and-white dishes, like those in which my meal was served, drainingin the dish rack. But no sign of Annalise and no answer to my calls.

I hadno idea what the lunch might have cost. I left a $20 bill on the table andheaded back out into the weather, but by now it didn’t seem so bad. The sleethad stopped, the sun was out, and the ice was beginning to melt. No heart forgoing back to the office and so full I was almost but not quite uncomfortable,I called Keisha in my office and said I wasn’t coming back, headed home, andtook a nap before I got the girls from school.

Atdinner that night, I picked at the hamburgers Mike had grilled. His burgerswere always great, but I was still full, and I was bursting to tell my story.As my account of lunch spilled out, almost without a pause for breath, thegirls sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When I finished, Maggie said, “Gosh, Mom,what an adventure,” and Em piped up with “I want to go there!”

Mikewas not so swayed. “Wait a minute, Kelly. I’ve never heard of this place andneither had you—and we both know every inch of this neighborhood pretty well.”Of course we did—I’m a real estate agent, and Mike, now a detective, was foryears the neighborhood patrol officer. “You found a place you’d never seen; itwas only open for one hour; there were fresh lilies of the valley on thetables—hey, I’m from Texas. I wouldn’t know them if I saw them. No menu, onedish. Your cell phone wouldn’t work, and the owner disappeared. Are you feelingokay, sweetheart?”

“Iknow it sounds strange, Mike, but drive over there yourself tomorrow. You’llsee it, and you should go for lunch.”

“Yeah,sure,” he said.

Ididn’t say any more about my adventure. Mike’s skepticism put a damper on it,and the girls were clearly puzzled.

****

Mikecalled before ten o’clock the next morning. “Kelly, I just drove the length ofTravis Avenue, and I didn’t see any storefront buildings, let alone The VillageGaarden” His voice dropped. “I don’t know what to tell you, except, sweetheart,have you thought maybe it was a dream when you had that good nap before thegirls got out of school?”

“Didyou tell any of your buddies at the police station about this?” My question washostile”

“Swear,”he said. “You tell Keisha?”

“No,”and he knew it was serious, because I tell Keisha, my office assistant, almosteverything. Had I imagined that? No, Imost definitely had not! How would I have known about kjøttkaker andliljekonwallL?

Imuttered, “I’ll be back” and slammed out of the office. But it wasn’t on TravisAvenue.  I drove nearby streets, weavingin and out of some that were only a block or two long. I saw two abandonedstore fronts but no Village Gaarden.

Backat the office, I sat in a slump until Keisha whirled around and demanded,“Okay. What’s the problem?” Keisha is young, African American, colorful, andthe most amazing person I’ve ever met—maybe beside Mike. Among other things,there’s her sixth sense.

I toldher the whole story and waited for the laughter, but it didn’t come.

“Okay,”she repeated. “We got to get to the bottom of this.  I can’t have you in this funk all the time.Worse than when you and Mike have an argument. Who’s the oldest person you knowin Fairmount?”

“Mrs.Workman,” I answered without hesitation. “She’s in her nineties, and she’slived here since she was a young bride. Still lives in the same house onJessamine.”

“Let’sgo see her.”

“Yougoing too?”

“Yep,I am. I gotta get to the bottom of this too. Your mama’s cooking is prettygood, but I could eat some of that Norwegian stuff you’re talking about.”Keisha lived with my mom off and on when there seemed to be a reason.

Icalled Mrs. Workman and asked if Keisha and I could come for a visit.

“Ofcourse, Kelly, dear. But you know I’m not going to sell my house.” No quavermarked that elderly voice. It was as strong and forthright as mine.

“Oh, Iknow, Mrs. Workman. I just want to ask about, uh, some neighborhood history.”

“Oh,my dear, I love to talk about that. You and your friend come right over. I’llput the tea kettle on.”

ThelmaWorkman used a cane when she came to answer the front door, but her handshakewas firm, and she welcomed Keisha as heartily as she did me. Clearly, she hadworked quickly, for the tea tray sat on the coffee table complete with teapot,creamer and sugar, three cups, and a plate of sliced homemade banana bread.

Please, Lord, let me be like this when I’mninety!

Wechatted casually about the bad weather, the changing neighborhood, Mrs.Workman’s Persian cat. All the while, Keisha fidgeted.

“Mrs.Workman,” I began hesitantly, “do you remember a small restaurant called TheVillage Gaarden?”

Hereyes were bright, and she was instantly on the alert. “Over on Travis Avenue? Iremember it well, because I enjoyed many good meals there. Annalise Nelsencould cook like no one else I ever met. She surely put me in the shadows.”

I alsoshot Keisha a look that said, “See? I didn’t make this up.”

Mrs.Workman continued. “That was years ago, though. In the ’40s, if I remembercorrectly. I was a young bride, and I even went there for help with cooking.She was so generous and loving—like a second mother to me. But then Annalise’shusband died, and she went back to Norway.”

“Shewent back to Norway?” I echoed. “What happened to her restaurant?”

“Herchildren sold the building, and it was demolished. Isn’t there a playground onthe site now?”

I hadseen a playground when I went back looking for the restaurant. I turned toKeisha, helplessly, but she didn’t laugh nor did she frown. She just reachedout for my hand and held it comfortingly.

Mrs.Workman persisted. “How did you even hear about that tiny restaurant, Kelly?”

“Oh, Iwas examining some old maps, and it was listed on one.” I was surprised that Icould lie so easily and quickly.

Wechatted a bit more, thanked that lovely lady for tea and delicious bananabread, and left. In the car, Keisha sighed. “I sure wish that hadn’t been adream, Kelly. Those Norwegian hamburgers, whatever you call them, soundwonderful.”

“Theywere,” I said. “I have the recipe in my purse. Annalise gave it to me. Want tocopy it?”

Iwasn’t telling Mike about that. Someday I’d make kjottkaker for him and claim I’d found the recipe on line, afterthat dream I’d had. But Annalise was real.