Mary Quite Contrary by Amelia Smarts

Chapter Thirteen

From that point forward, Mary found little joy in the restaurant. She struggled through every task. Before learning that her food tasted terrible, she would cook and clean with the kind of efficiency and competence that only came with experience, but now, she fretted over every dish. She cried over her mixing bowls as she stirred ingredients together that she’d always assumed added a good flavor to the meals.

When she looked over the double doors at the customers in the dining room, she saw their expressions in a new light. She saw every grimace and laugh as proof that they hated their meal and were joking amongst themselves about it. Never had Mary felt so useless, and her thoughts ran wild. Even if she stopped managing the restaurant, what kind of wife and mother would she be if she couldn’t even cook?

How she felt wasn’t Ben’s fault, she knew that. But she couldn’t bear to see him again, knowing he was in on the big joke with everyone else in town. Was there anything more laughable than a cook who couldn’t cook? She was deficient at the very thing she was supposed to be good at. And the very foundation of her relationship with Ben made her shudder. It turned out she was merely a job to him, someone he was obliged to look after and protect, and she wondered just how much his attention to her had been out of duty.

She was musing about this early one morning, when the front door to her restaurant burst open and her good friend Victoria rushed toward her, tears streaming down her face.

Mary stood from the table where she was folding napkins and stared with confusion as Victoria ran and threw her arms around her.

Shocked, Mary hugged her back. Victoria had never been one to show emotion, especially not distress, and Mary couldn’t imagine what had happened to cause such a reaction from her.

“Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Victoria released Mary and swiped the backs of her hands below her eyes, smearing the tears around her cheeks. “It’s Frank. He’s gone. Something terrible must have happened to him. He didn’t show up at the schoolhouse this morning, and it’s just not like him to skip out on work.”

Mary’s heart sank. She didn’t know Victoria’s beau, Frank, all that well, but she knew he was not the kind to shirk his work. If he’d disappeared, something was wrong. “Have you told the marshal?”

Victoria sniffled and nodded. “He and Deputy Gray are already searching for him. I don’t know what could have happened. He left my place late last night intent on going straight back to his boardinghouse. But he never made it there.”

Mary frowned. It was strange news, both because Frank had disappeared and because Victoria had been entertaining a beau very late. Neither sounded like normal occurrences from what she knew about them both. “I’m sure he’ll be found soon. I’ll help you search.”

Mary and Victoria searched Main Street and branched out from there. They talked to everyone on the street and knocked on doors, inquiring about whether anyone had seen the schoolmaster.

At one point, Ben arrived at the livery at the same time as Mary. He tipped his hat to her and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Appleton,” in an awkward, formal way that would have been funny in any other circumstance. He’d only just the other day bent her over his desk and licked his way up her slit, so it was incongruous to now greet her so formally. But perhaps Ben didn’t know how to approach the shift in their relationship any more than she did.

Mary replied with a curt hello but could not meet his eyes. In a horrible way, Frank’s disappearance was a relief to Mary’s tortured mind. She was no longer focused on herself and her inability to cook, but she still couldn’t help but think about Ben every moment. She remembered every look he’d casted her way. She thought about every touch, every word, and every smile exchanged between them, and her heart ached with loss and longing, even as she couldn’t bear the thought of meeting his eyes.

Frank was found forty-two hours later. After leaving Victoria’s place, he’d walked to an empty house to fetch supplies and had fallen into a dried well. He’d broken his foot in the fall, and since his other leg was lame from a previous horse-riding injury, he’d been unable to pull himself out. He could have easily died before being discovered in the remote pit, but Victoria’s persistent search efforts paid off, and she herself had been the one to find him.

It took Frank some time to heal, and Victoria told Mary that he was convalescing at her place. Mary thought to herself how much Victoria had changed. Victoria had never truly cared for a man like she did Frank, and his needs had caused an unexpected nurturing side to appear in her. It was for that reason that Mary assumed all was well between Frank and Victoria, and that they were well on their way to getting hitched.

That was why it perplexed her that Victoria didn’t seem any happier than before. It wasn’t completely shocking, since Victoria had always kept a poker face. Still, Mary would have thought there would be some sign of joy—a perkiness to her step, a louder laugh, something. Rather, Victoria seemed as morose as ever.

Frank, too, seemed anything but happy and in love. On one afternoon, Mary waited for him to arrive at the restaurant. Earlier he’d arranged to pick up his supper from her. After hearing a knock, Mary opened the back door and handed Frank a large paper bag dotted with grease stains. “I placed a few extra rolls in there for you, Mr. Bassett,” she said. She wiped her hands on her apron and enjoyed the breeze from outside. It was a cool afternoon, though the sun shone bright. It dawned on her that winter was nearly upon them, and if Frank had fallen into the well later in the fall or during a norther wind, he likely would have become hypothermic before being rescued. She was relieved for Frank, and also for her friend. It would have been tragic for Victoria to endure the heartbreak of losing a man she cared so much about.

Frank took the bag from her. “Thank you, Miss Appleton.” He made no move to leave. He shifted in what looked like great discomfort from his healed foot to his cane supporting his lame leg. He cleared his throat. “I can see you’re busy, so I don’t want to keep you, but can I ask…” His voice trailed off.

“Ask what, Mr. Bassett? Are you alright? Please sit.” There was a bench against the back wall of the restaurant, which she had specifically placed there so Frank could sit while he waited for his suppers. The bench would be appreciated by her other customers too, she reckoned, and why not make the man’s life a little easier?

“Thank you kindly.” He sat on the bench and fiddled with the Stetson in his hands. “I wanted to ask, since you’re good friends with Victoria. How is she doing? Is she well and happy?”

Mary was shocked by his question. So much was implied in his words, not least of which was that he had little to do with Victoria since healing and moving back to the boardinghouse. Mary had assumed the two lovebirds to be closer than ever since Frank’s harrowing experience. It wasn’t her business, but she wanted to know what had happened.

“Victoria will never admit to being unwell, Mr. Bassett. She’s too proud for that. By all appearances, she is fine. Her business is thriving, and her schedule is the same. She attends church. She visits me. In general, she seems more social than before you came to town, but I suspect there is a sadness about her these days. Your question reveals to me why, since you’re clearly absent from her life now. When you kept her company, you made her happier than I’d ever seen her.”

Frank visibly winced as though she’d just slapped him. “I don’t want her to be sad. I would give my right arm for her to be happy.”

Mary’s heart went out to him. He clearly cared for Victoria, and she knew Victoria cared for him, so why were they apart? One thing she knew for sure was that her friend should be made aware of Frank’s feelings. “You should be telling Victoria that you wish her to be happy, not me, don’t you suppose?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, though he didn’t appear convinced that he should. “If you see her, tell her… Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man she needed.”

Mary wanted to ask him to clarify, but he stood and walked away, leaning heavily on his cane with each step. She watched his retreat, trying to discern the meaning of his words. From what he’d confessed, she thought it unlikely that Victoria had rejected him. It seemed probable that pride was keeping Frank from committing himself to the woman he loved, and that was a terrible shame indeed.

***

Mary slogged through each day, harshly telling herself she was in charge of this restaurant, at least until her parents returned, and she had to at least try to be a success. Customers still flocked to the dining area, eagerly expecting a hot meal, and she found herself wondering why, since they could surely get better-tasting food elsewhere.

After a particularly busy evening, Mary wiped the tables down. The last of the customers walked out, and Mary was about to lock up, when the man who was always on her mind, Deputy Benjamin Gray, appeared. He was holding a large burlap sack.

“How are you, Mary?” Ben asked, his voice low and serious.

Mary dropped the washrag and stood upright to face him. She could feel her face heating up and her insides turning to mush, just at the look and sound of him. He appeared taller than ever, and his expression was stern. It had been more than a week since they had spoken, though he’d made several attempts in that time, always with a solicitous smile and kind word. This time, however, there was nothing polite about his demeanor. If anything, he looked annoyed, and Mary found herself unable to treat him with practiced indifference.

“I… I’m alright,” she stammered. “You?”

“I’ve been better. Like back when you and I were talking—I was better then. Back when I had a bullet wound in my shoulder and you laid beside me.” His voice lowered to a growl. “I was happier then too.”

Mary dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Are you?” he asked, raising his voice. “About what?”

“I don’t know.”

He dropped the mysterious burlap sack on a table. “Wrong answer. Should I tell you what you should be sorry for?”

The nerve of this man, she thought to herself. Dominance oozed out of him, so much that he even believed himself entitled to determine how she should apologize. “Only if I can tell you what you should be sorry for.”

“I would like nothing more,” he countered. “Please tell me where I went wrong.”

“You should be sorry that you paid attention to me under false pretenses. Visiting me here at the restaurant was a job you had to do. You didn’t show me attention because of the pleasure of my company.”

“Balderdash and poppycock. Anything else?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes. It’s utter nonsense, and you know it. I was given the task of watching out for you, and the first time I made your acquaintance it became more than a job. I think I’ve made that obvious by my actions.”

“So you won’t apologize for courting me under false pretenses?”

“I will not, since it’s not true. What else?”

Now she was irritated. Of course he would think the breakdown in their relationship was all her fault. She crossed her arms in front of her and turned to look at something imaginary on the wall. How could she explain the humiliation she felt about what he’d told her? He’d criticized the very way she made a living, and she couldn’t get past it. She bit her lip and tried to think of the words to explain, aware that he was glaring at her the entire time.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said finally, sounding sincere though his voice was still stern.

“It makes no difference,” she said, mortified to find that her nose was burning, a sign she was moments away from bursting into tears.

“I realize now I shouldn’t have said anything if I had no good solution to offer. That’s why I’m here now. I think I may be able to help.”

In spite of herself, she was curious when he untied the drawstrings of the burlap sack and pulled out a tin cup. “This is a measuring device I had the blacksmith make,” he said, placing it on the table. He withdrew another tin, a smaller one, and placed it next to the first one. “As is this. The bigger one is one cup, the smaller one is one-fourth of a cup, and this,” he pulled out another, “is one-third of a cup.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Let me show you what else I have.” He placed different sizes of spoons in a neat row on the table. “The biggest one is a tablespoon, the next is a teaspoon, and the smallest is one-eighth of a teaspoon.”

Mary stared at the tinnery, baffled over their meaning.

“I borrowed a book from the marshal’s daughter, Sadie,” he explained. “It was written by Fannie Farmer from Boston, and it’s about cooking. More than that. It’s about the science of cooking. I think you would like this book.” He pulled it out from his burlap sack and opened it to the first page. Mary was still standing a fair distance away. He crooked his finger, beckoning her to him.

She walked over and looked down at the open page, where he was pointing to the heading at the top—Cookery. He pointed to the paragraph below, and Mary silently read it.

Cookery means the knowledge of Medea and of Helen and of the Queen of Sheba. It means the knowledge of all herbs and fruits and balms and spices, and all that is healing and sweet in the fields and groves and savory in meats. It means carefulness and inventiveness and willingness and readiness of appliances. It means the economy of your grandmothers and the science of the modern chemist. It means much testing and no wasting. It means English thoroughness and French art and Arabian hospitality; and, in fine, it means that you are to be perfectly and always, ladies—loaf givers. –Ruskin

Mary found herself smiling. It was a beautiful way to describe her occupation. It tapped into the magic of it, and she wanted to read the rest. “Can I borrow this book when you’re done?”

“I can do better than that for you, darlin’,” he said, sounding pleased. “I ordered a new copy for you. Sadie said you can keep this one until yours arrives from Boston. I think it might help you with cooking and baking. When you read it, you’ll notice Farmer doesn’t say ‘add a pinch of salt’ to whatever you’re cooking. She says ‘add an eighth of a teaspoon of salt.’” He picked up the smallest tin spoon. “This is an eighth of a teaspoon. Each ingredient is given precise measurements, ensuring that a dish tastes exactly the same every time you cook it.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Something small and sharp was welling up inside of her. It was almost painful, but as she flipped silently through the pages of the book, the feeling bubbled up and grew less sharp and more pleasurable. She realized it was hope she was feeling. This could very well be the solution to her cooking problems. “This was nice of you,” she said softly. “It must have been expensive to buy this book. You shouldn’t have.”

“What I shouldn’t have done is allow this nonsense from you to go on as long as it did.”

She looked up to find Ben scowling at her. He felt very near, and she gulped, feeling guilty for no discernible reason. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve kept me at arm’s length ever since that day we went shooting, and all I want to do is hold you close. I know you want the same.”

He was right. If she was honest with herself, she missed Ben terribly.

“Did Victoria tell you that Frank is no longer speaking to her?” Ben asked. “I don’t care for your friend Victoria much, but it’s clear she loves the fellow. That man’s pride and shame have hardened his heart.”

“I… I don’t know much about it. I only know what Frank said. He said he was sorry he couldn’t be the man Victoria needed.”

“Ha,” Ben scoffed. “Here she is, wanting to be with him, not caring one iota that he is flawed, and he won’t let her. Remind you of anyone?”

Mary slowly shook her head, trying to understand Ben’s point.

“Me! She should remind you of me,” he said, raising his voice. “That’s what I’m trying to do, but your pride has made you reject me.”

The correlation he was making became clear to her. She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t mean to reject you, Ben.”

“What do you call running away after I confessed my love for you?”

Guilt pricked at her heart. She felt guilty recalling how she’d left him in the dust. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. She forced herself to look in his eyes, and when she read pain and anger there, her remorse doubled. “I didn’t think about how it would hurt you. I thought only of how hurt I was by what you told me… about how the food doesn’t taste good here. That’s the thing I try to do well every day. It’s like you’re in on a big joke with the rest of the town.”

His eyes softened. “I understand, but it’s not like that. No one sees your restaurant as a joke, least of all me. The longer I live here, the more I understand. The people here are good. The town was scourged by malaria, and those who survived gained compassion and more appreciation for human life. It’s why the marshal cared about the welfare of an orphaned thief like Willow. It’s why the board gave a crippled man like Frank a chance at being a schoolteacher, when before they only hired women. It’s why the marshal shrugged and said ‘no biggie’ when I told him my injured arm has limited my ability to shoot fast.” He cupped her chin and looked deeply in her eyes. “And it’s why everyone loves to stop by Mary’s Restaurant. You’ve made it a warm, safe haven in a town of pain. You’re one of them. A survivor. No one would laugh at a survivor.”

Mary’s eyes brimmed over, and tears ran down her face. His words touched her, and there was a strong ring of truth to them. He bent down and kissed the tears off of each cheek. “And now it’s going to be a safe haven with the best food in the county.”

She drew a deep breath. Her heart was so full it hurt. “Thank you, Ben. I don’t know what else to say except thank you.”

“You could say you’re sorry for running away from me.”

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, before connecting her lips with his.

He kissed her back. “And you could say you’ll marry me.”

She smiled, overwhelmed by the depth of his love for her. “I don’t deserve your devotion,” she said, “but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll love you every day.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”