Chapter 4
Four
DINNER & THE brIDGE
Goldie returned from Denver and had just stepped inside the lobby of the Sparkledove Arms when she paused and looked around. “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave,” she muttered, quoting an old Eagles song.
“Miss Maraschino? I’ve got a message for you,” Maddie called. She rounded the reception counter and dug into the breast pocket of her green-and-white polka dot blouse, producing a folded-up piece of paper.
“Your publisher, Mr. Mitchell, called. He wants you to call as soon as possible. He said it didn’t matter how late.”
Goldie remembered from studying the back issues of Adventure Escape Magazine that the publisher was a man named Owen Mitchell. She took the paper and cracked a small smile. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You can use the phone over there,” Maddie said, pointing to the wooden phone booth in the corner with the accordion door. “But you’re going to need some dimes. C’mon over to the counter, dear, and I’ll get you some change.”
Goldie followed her across the lobby, but not before smelling some wonderful aromas wafting from the restaurant. She realized, except for the candy bar she’d gotten in Denver, she hadn’t eaten all day.
Maddie went behind the counter, opened the cash register, and gave her guest ten dimes. Goldie set her purse on the counter and began digging through it to reimburse Maddie with a dollar bill.
“Oh no, honey. That’s quite alright,” Maddie smiled with a wave. “Mayor Banyan’s taking care of everything.”
Goldie paused, remembering her research from earlier. “Charles Banyan?”
“Yes, he stopped by around noon looking for you,” Maddie replied. “Where were you all day?”
Goldie decided not to answer and changed subjects.
“Say, Maddie, I-I want to apologize for my strange behavior this morning. It doesn’t happen often, but I occasionally suffer from short-term memory loss.
As you might suspect, it’s pretty embarrassing when it occurs, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep quiet on the subject and be a little understanding of my condition. ”
“Mum’s the word,” Maddie agreed, putting a finger to her lips. “And if you can’t remember something, you just ask ol’ Maddie, and I’ll try to help.”
Goldie thanked her, then walked over to the phone booth, stepped inside, and shut the door.
As she did, a man appeared from a back hallway behind the counter and saw Goldie go into the phone booth.
He was in his fifties, wore a suit and tie, had a name tag that read “Dean,” and had a weathered face from years of hunting and being outside.
“That her?” he asked, leaning into Maddie quietly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” Maddie replied, slipping off her glasses and letting them hang from the silver chain around her neck. She looked toward the phone booth, then said confidentially to her co-worker, “She might have a drinking problem.”
It took Goldie a couple of moments to figure out what she was supposed to do, having never used a phone booth before or having never seen this particular type of telephone.
The phone was a rotary dial with an earpiece for listening and a horn that the user spoke into.
When she picked up the earpiece and heard a dial tone, she dropped a dime into the coin slot at the top of the phone, and an operator came on the line a few seconds later.
Goldie read the number from the paper Maddie had given her into the horn, and the operator placed the call for her.
After her boss, Owen Mitchell, answered his phone, Goldie then had to deposit two more dimes for a three-minute conversation before the two could speak.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” Mitchell began with an irritability in his voice. “I’ve been worried about you. It’s standard procedure to call once you’re on-site, Goldie. You know that. I should’ve heard from you yesterday.”
He called me Goldie, she thought. He knows my nickname. What else can I learn from him? she wondered.
“How long have I been workin’ for you?” she asked.
“What?”
“How long?”
“I dunno… two years maybe.”
“And in all that time, have I ever called in late?”
“Constantly!”
“Oh… well… sorry. You’re right. I shoulda called earlier. But I went to the Denver Library today and did some research.”
“Well, at least you’re on the job,” Mitchell said, calming down. “You met our sponsor yet?”
“Charles Banyan?” she assumed. “No. But I hear he came by the hotel today lookin’ for me?”
“Don’t put him off, Goldie. He paid for your plane, hotel, and meals at the Sparkledove Arms. He expects your full attention and a great three-thousand-word article.”
“So much for objectivity, huh?” Goldie mused, starting to piece together how things worked with the magazine.
“We’re not the New York Times Book Review,” Mitchell noted. “We’re a travel magazine where people read about idyllic faraway places we hope they’ll visit. This should be a great piece for next year’s December issue. Please, God, let the war be over by then.”
“No, not until September of ’45,” she responded unthinkingly.
“What?” Mitchell asked.
“Uh—a, a guess,” she responded quickly. “Just a guess.”
“Three more years?” her boss considered. “Geez, I hope you’re wrong.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“Don’t forget, you’re having Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with Banyan and his family.”
“I am? I-I mean, I am.”
“Okay, Goldie. I just wanted to make sure you arrived safely. Check in with me in a few days. And I do mean check in.”
“Alright, Owen. Uh, boss—Mr. Mitchell,” she stammered, not sure what to call him.
She wanted to ask him a dozen more questions.
Like, how did a young woman from the Bronx wind up working for a travel magazine in Columbus?
She supposed that’s where she lived since the concept of working remotely was decades away, but she didn’t know.
Was she married? Did she have a family? She assumed no because she was in Colorado the day before Thanksgiving, but that was just a guess.
Who was this World War II version of Goldie Maraschino?
She decided to wait and see if she could subtly extract more information from Mitchell when she checked in again.
So, she simply said goodbye, hung up, and thought: This is the weirdest day of my life. If this is even real life.
She came out of the phone booth, trying to recall how she knew World War II ended in September of 1945. I musta seen it on Band of Brothers or somewhere, she figured. It was too random a fact to remember from a high school history class.
As soon as she stepped out of the booth, the delightful smells from the restaurant beckoned to her again. It was only 4:12 in the afternoon, but she was ready for dinner.
The restaurant of the Sparkledove Arms was a cheery room with light-yellow walls and a fieldstone fireplace that hadn’t been lit yet for the dinner guests.
The twelve tables that made up the place had clean white linen tablecloths, small vases with a few dried flowers in them, and little salt and pepper shakers in the form of a pilgrim couple from the 1600s.
When Goldie entered, there were only three people in the place: a waitress, Sheriff Eli Johnson, who she had met earlier that morning, and a big, barrel-chested, bearded man in his early sixties who was sitting and chatting with the sheriff.
Seeing the officer, Goldie sighed under her breath, “Great. Andy of Mayberry.”
The officer smiled as she entered the restaurant, stopped eating, and wiped his mouth with a napkin as she approached. She felt that not going over to his table would be rude, considering how empty the place was.
“Howdy, Miss Maraschino,” he greeted. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fine,” she answered. She looked at the man sitting with him and extended her hand, not wanting to discuss her morning state of confusion. Adapt! she thought.
“Hi. Karen Maraschino from Adventure Escape Magazine.”
“Hello,” the man said, rising to shake her hand. He had calloused hands and a ruddy complexion. His thick, white hair was a little unruly, but it somehow suited his bib overalls, shirt, and work boots covered in dry mud.
“Maraschino?” he asked, “like the cherry?”
“Like the cherry,” she confirmed.
“Stu Frey. Like the cooking pan,” he joked. He noticed her gauze-wrapped left hand. “What’d you do to your hand?”
“Cut it a little earlier today,” she shrugged. “No big deal.”
“Maddie keeps a first aid kit behind the counter if you want to borrow it and change the dressing,” the sheriff offered.
“Good to know. Thanks. So, Stu, what do you do?”
“I’ve got a ranch a few miles outside of town.”
“Stu supplies all the restaurants with meat,” the lawman explained. “Steak, hamburger, roasts. Pork, too.”
“All the restaurants?” she asked, a little amused, considering the smallness of Sparkledove. “How many is that?”
“This place, Clancy’s Bar & Grill, The Pine River Inn, a bed and breakfast just south of town, and then I supply some individual families in town as well,” he replied, eyeing her overcoat. “There are pegs over there on the wall if you want to hang up your coat.”
Goldie turned to the waitress. “Is it too early for dinner?”
“No, ma’am,” the waitress replied. “The special today is meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“Then I’m hangin’ up my coat,” Goldie decided, unbuttoning it and heading toward the pegs.
“Why don’t you join Eli?” Stu suggested.
“I was in the kitchen dropping off some prime rib for tomorrow, and just sat down to say hello. Some people prefer a nice cut of beef on Thanksgiving instead of turkey. Besides, like everything else, Turkeys are scarce this year unless you’re a hunter.
” He followed her over to the wall pegs and retrieved a heavy coat with a wool collar hanging next to the sheriff’s brown suede jacket.
“You do your own processing?” Goldie asked.
“No, but I do my own deliveries afterwards,” the big man replied. He slipped on his jacket, then nodded at the sheriff. “See ya tomorrow at dinner, Eli.”