'Til Grits Do Us Part (12 page)

I could imagine her now, bent over her stacks of bills and gripping her hair-sprayed 'do in a posture of desperation.

“And how's Mama gonna get along without the checks I send her? She don't got nothin' else. Pop left me all this seed money for a business, and I shore as anything don't wanna let him down. God rest him.” The Adam's apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “That's why I'm askin' for your help. I'll pay ya. Shiloh, you got a good head for logos and stuff. Make me a good one. Help me come up with some new layout design for the room or colors or something.”

He raised his palms. “I'll do whatever it takes to keep this place goin'. I'll take out a loan. Mortgage the house. Whatever. It means a lot to me.”

I lifted my head briefly to catch Adam's gaze, recalling his former landscaping business cards and flyers we'd worked so hard to design and print. His brand-new catchy logo, now slapped on the side of somebody else's truck.

“Adam. You're the plant guy.”

“I was the plant guy.” Adam gave a half smile.

“Naw. You
are
the plant guy. Gabe Castle's great, that fella who bought your business, but you're the brains behind it all. See, here's where I need ya. We're supposed to be The Green Tree, but I don't see much green in here except a couple a ugly ferns and a fake tree. Can you help me without breaking my bank?”

“I'm on it.” Adam nodded firmly.

“Recipes. I need new dishes. Catchy dishes. Appetizers and entrées that'll draw people in and won't bankrupt me.” He tapped his chin. “Maybe Asian. Noodles and rice are cheap. If you get my drift.”

“And light on the meat. Gotcha.”

“Atta girl. You're definitely my gal for Asian stuff, Shiloh.” He crossed his arms. “You and that sushi of yours.”

“Me? I can't cook worth anything, Jerry. All I can do is eat.”

I turned my frosted wine glass around, remembering the burned biscuits and half-cooked deviled eggs from my first attempts at cooking Southern food.

“Well, you've been to all these snazzy places I ain't set foot in.” Jerry closed his folder. “Tell me their secrets. And by next month, because that's when
Fine Dining
is coming to do a review, and what they say'll make or break us.” He lowered his voice. “If it ain't good, and I mean real good, you might be kissin' The Green Tree good-bye.”

The image of an empty storefront lot flitted through my mind. A S
OLD
sign pasted over the door, and a L
EROY'S
G
UNS
& A
MMO
placard in its place.

Oh. My.

“Jerry. I'm not a professional.” I let go of my wine glass. “As much as I'd like to help, you'd probably be better off with somebody who knows what she's doing. I'm just a Yankee in the wrong place.”

“Oh no. You're in the right place.” Jerry's smile finally reached all the way to the crinkled corners of his eyes. “And I don't want a professional. I like your work, Shiloh. I've seen it. And I'm willing to pay. It might not be much, but it'll help with those weddin' bills, won't it?” Jerry slapped Adam's shoulder.

I gazed into the candle flame again, thinking.

Thinking about second chances. Chances to do now, here, on this earth, what I wished I could have done with Mom. While my heart still beat. While time still trickled, grain after measured grain, into the hourglass.

Only now it was too late for Mom. Too late for me to take back the hateful words I'd flung at her or to swallow my wounded pride and take her hand, forming a bridge even our cold and painful past couldn't shake.

But maybe it wasn't too late to help Jerry.

I leaned forward and shook my head. “No, Jerry. I'm sorry.”

Jerry's face fell, but he smiled anyway. “That's fine. I know you're busy.”

“I mean, no, not as a paid consultant,” I heard myself say, raising my eyes to Adam's blue ones, which gleamed back at me across the honey-dim table. “I'll do it as a friend.”

“What? Of course we're friends, Shiloh.” Jerry squinted in confusion.

“I mean for free.” I had to close my eyes when I said the words, feeling the sting of pain that flashed briefly. I
needed
money. Needed more income. Bills screamed at me one after another—water bills and car-repair bills and electric bills. And how on earth were Adam and I supposed to pay for anything remotely resembling a wedding? Unless we had it at the local Tastee Freez and threw fries at the reception?

And now I'd just given myself one more crazy thing to do on top of everything else—selling the house, figuring out where that crazy rose bouquet came from, and sorting through Mom's medical stuff.

But when I opened my eyes again, Adam smiled back proudly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. Nodding in agreement.

Even the candle seemed to bob its golden head, bright and cheerful. An incandescent
yes
.

“Aw, no.” Jerry leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “That ain't what I meant.”

“I know, but let me do this. You were a good boss to me. The best I've ever had.”

The words struck him blank, as if I'd thrown my glass of sparkling cider in his face. “Me? Sorry, what'd ya say?”

“You were the best boss I've ever had.” My face fell sober, imagining the line of men and women who'd hired me over the years for—admittedly—more upscale jobs than waiting tables.

“Shiloh. You worked for the
New York Times
.”

“And my boss was the Wicked Witch of the West. Or North, I should say. We put salt in her coffee.” I leaned forward. “Jerry, you gave Trinity money when she needed it, and you sent me home and worked my shifts yourself when I needed sleep. Trinity already told us you've put tonight's meal on the house, and you're paying for our wedding rehearsal dinner here at The Green Tree. No. This time I'll do something for you.”

And I know you live in a broken-down house with no car, so don't argue with me
.

“Wait a second.” I shook my finger at him. “On the other hand, you posted that ridiculous cow picture of me back there by the register. I saw it. Maybe I'll reconsider.”

“Oh, you saw that?” He chuckled. “Well, ya oughtta reconsider.” Jerry's eyes had misted behind his round wire glasses, making him look less redneck restaurant owner and more tenderhearted poet.

“It's done. When do you want us to come over and start going over ideas?”

“I'll…uh…just go get my Day-Timer.” He stumbled off the chair as if in shock.

“Wait. Just one thing.” I pointed to the vase, about to ask.

But Jerry's brain apparently moved faster than my mouth. “Hey, wait a second.” He leaned over the table, face creased in bewilderment. “Where'd my chrysanthemums go? Did Trinity put 'em somewhere?”

“I really don't know what to make of it.” Adam shook his head as we cut into appetizer sweet potato fries with our forks, crisp and piping hot. “If Jerry didn't put the rose there, who did? Somebody in the back maybe?” He aimed an accusatory look toward the double doors.

“Like Flash the cook?” I imagined him there at the deep fryer, laughing and showing his missing tooth. An apron wrapped around his stick-skinny middle. “I don't think so. He always treated me respectfully. A perfect gentleman.”

I reached for the creamy, spicy dipping sauce. “And I don't know the dishwashers anymore. It's a restaurant, Adam. Anybody could come in here right off the street, and nobody would notice.”

I'd stuck the rose vase on an empty table, and it grinned at me among the scraped plates and disheveled napkins. “But I don't want to talk about roses anymore.” I turned my chair away from the vase. “And I don't want to talk about Mom either. Let's enjoy tonight, for five minutes. Please.”

Adam laced his fingers through mine, eyes bright from across the white tablecloth. “You did the right thing with Jerry, Shiloh. I'm proud of you. And that's why I wanted to bring you here to The Green Tree.”

“Because the restaurant's in trouble?”

“No, I didn't know that. Jerry just said he wanted to talk to us about something.” Adam took a sip of his cider. “But I know you have a lot of memories here, and I wanted to give you some good news.”

“Really?” I speared a crunchy orange wedge of sweet potato fry with my fork and swirled it in the sauce. “Tell me. I could use some.”

Adam seemed to be holding back a smile, reaching across the table to brush a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“What's the good news? You shot a deer?” I grinned in jest and shook the sauce off my fry, sorting through slightly more realistic possibilities. A raise? A new job offer? Something about the college engineering course he'd start in the fall?

“It's not deer season yet, Shiloh.” Adam chuckled. “No. Better than that.”

“What then?”

When he told me, I let go of my fork and sweet potato fry, dropping it all coated with sauce right down the front of my shirt.

R
o-chan! I've been trying to call you for days! Where've you been?” Kyoko Morikoshi hollered into the Bluetooth as my Honda swished past sunny fields, headed to work at
The Leader
office.

A bit later than usual, I might add, because Kevin kept me up all night writing up a house fire.

“Where've I been? Cow tipping,” I replied, accelerating over a gentle rise in the narrow two-lane road. Frilly tufts of creamy white Queen Anne's Lace rippled in the summer breeze as I mentally sifted through my shopping schedule with Becky: price wedding dresses and cakes, choose colors for the bridesmaids' dresses, and, oh, look for wedding flowers. Even though the mere thought of fragrant petals turned me off.

All of this while returning pointless calls from Rask Florist, where nobody could tell me anything. Brandy finally told me she'd mixed up the dates and Tammy wouldn't be back for another week.

Argh.

“You've been cow tipping? Very funny.” Kyoko snorted. “And that picture I got from Becky better be a joke, hear me?”

I'm toast. I'm really and truly toast
. “Actually I've discovered cows don't really sleep standing up,” I managed, attempting bright nonchalance. And pointedly avoiding her question. “Tim says it's an urban myth, and I'd have to agree.”

I heard Kyoko suck in her breath and decide if I was joking. “You're making this up,” she snapped, but I could tell I'd worried her. “Aren't you?”

I laughed, and Kyoko relaxed.

“Partially.”

Her sigh of relief stopped abruptly. “Ro,” she moaned. “What am I going to do with you? You're becoming a hayseed the longer you stay there in Virginia! I can feel it!”

I didn't know which was funnier—Kyoko's nickname for me, made from the first syllable of my name butchered in Japanese plus the honorific
-chan
that declared me honorable—or her contempt for all things redneck and backward.

Well, not
all
things, technically. I think last year's visit to my house changed her mind a bit, although she'd never admit it now.

“I still don't do grits, pig's feet, or squirrel,” I reminded her. “Some things never change.”

“Yeah, well, they'd better not.” Kyoko sounded grumpy. I could imagine her black-lined eyes glaring as she held her glittery cell phone. Shoulder-length, shiny, mushroom-shaped black hair, dyed a burgundy-reddish shade (if her most recent Facebook and Azuki photos told the truth) with some new pink streaks. Eyebrow piercing and nose ring glinting in the light. Black suit jacket to cover her tattoos, or at least make dress code for the Associated Press office.

“You working now, Kyoko?”

“Are you crazy? It's 10 p.m. here. I never take work home. I've been in Okinawa doing a few last stories before I go.”

“Go?”

“You know. Leave Japan.”

Yep. She was really leaving. For Japanese-American Kyoko, all the bowing and mouth-covering and incessant apologies went against her…well, crabby grain. Angry music pounded in the background, as if in agreement.

“I left you a ton of happy-birthday messages though,” said Kyoko, thankfully turning down the music. “Did you get them?”

“I did. Thanks.” I smiled, wishing Kyoko would move close by so we could eat
tonkatsu
fried pork with chopsticks again. Me giving her a hard time about her smoking and horrible music, and Kyoko ranting about cowboy hats and gun racks. “And your birthday's coming up soon, isn't it?”

“Two weeks after yours, babe. The same day as Kaine here at the office. Statistically, the odds are greater that two people will actually share the same birthday than not. Know why? Because…”

And she launched into her birthday-statistics speech. Goodness knows I'd heard it enough times. At least she hadn't started talking about the '80s. When she started, then we were usually up all night.