Capture the Wind for Me (8 page)

By 3:00 I'd fallen into a mild state of panic. Making pie crust was hard! The first batch felt like rubber when I tried to roll it out. I threw the whole mess into the trash and started over. The second batch of crust still seemed tough, but it would have to do. I floured a cutting board and rolled and rolled for the bottom of the cobbler, then cut the remains into thick strips for the top. The peaches were bubbling in a pan. I had to assemble the dessert and pop it in the oven right away so it would be done in time to slide the meat in at 4:30. The kitchen looked like a train wreck—flour on the counter, over my apron, on the floor. I brushed hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand and feverishly assembled the cobbler. I yanked open the oven door, leaving white fingerprints on the handle, and shoved the pan inside.

That's when it occurred to me that I hadn't allowed time to fix myself up before supper. I could hardly serve a dignified meal with flour in my hair. I'd planned on cleaning up the kitchen too. The rest of the house already shone.

Well, I'd just have to decide—kitchen or me.

I took a deep breath and checked the time. I should call Clarissa home. She'd have to put her things away, take a bath. Which I had no time to oversee.

I washed dough off my hands and dialed Della's number. She huffily told me that Clarissa had gone over to Alma Sue's.

“Why'd she go there?” I demanded, piling pans and utensils into the sink.

“Why does she always go to Alma Sue's? To eat candy, that's why.”

Oh, great.

For some reason God places a flaw in even the most adorable of creatures. To this day, Clarissa's is her love for candy. She's learned to curb her desires, I'm happy to report. But back then no matter what plans she might hold in her pretty little head, dangle any sugary concoction before her, and they'd melt away like ice on a hot brick.

“I
hate
Alma Sue,” Della burst out. “She steals Clarissa away from me all the time.”

“Sorry, Della. Clarissa shouldn't have gone.”

“I told Mama. She said, ‘Don't worry. When the candy's gone, she'll be back.'”

Ouch. Bad enough I knew my sister's weakness, but to hear a neighbor peg her so well. The thought incensed me. Just wait till Clarissa got home. Didn't she find it even the tiniest bit demeaning that she allowed herself to be enticed away from her most loyal friend week after week?

“When she comes back, Della, send her home, okay? We're having company for supper, and she needs to get cleaned up.”

Clarissa dragged in at 4:25, sticky-cheeked and frowning. I took one irritable look at her and declared she was headed for the bathtub. She balked, saying her stomach didn't feel so hot. “Wonder why,” I retorted. “How much candy did you eat?”

“Don't be mad at me, Jackie.” Her face crumpled.

Brother. I hauled her to the bathtub and turned on the faucets. Behind schedule or not, I couldn't let her do that herself. Our hot water could scald in no time flat. She lay down on the floor, holding her belly. As the water ran, I coaxed her out of her clothes. She climbed into the tub, and I rubbed her forehead, like stroking a kitten.

I really can't blame the burnt cobbler on Clarissa. Truth is, I'd forgotten to set the timer. Back in the kitchen, as I languished over the sight of blackened crust, I realized I hadn't put the pork in the oven. I shoved the meat in and banged the door shut.

Well, fine. We'd have ice cream for dessert.

I started in on the glaze. Stir and stir, don't let it burn. Then the rice. I wondered how Clarissa was doing in the tub. The kitchen clock happily ticked past 5:00. That's the last I remember checking it.

Clarissa crept out to the kitchen and lay down on the hard floor near the table, holding her stomach. No doubt so I could have an unobstructed view of her suffering. I moved her to the family room couch, letting Winnie into the house to keep her company. I dawdled over my sister for a moment, making sad faces at her discomfort, covered her with a blanket, and gave her some medicine. Then rushed back to the kitchen. Stirred the glaze, watched the rice. Slowly, the burnt smell from the cobbler faded, replaced with the scents of the meat, bread, and orange sauce.

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Crary, home from the softball game, saying their team had won, 3–2. But Daddy had asked her to tell me they'd be delayed getting home thanks to Robert's fighting with a player on the opposing team.

“Robert, in a
fight?”
I couldn't imagine my mellow brother fighting about anything.

“I just don't know what got into 'em,” she declared. Anyhow, Daddy wouldn't bring Robert home until he'd made up with the boy from Albertsville and apologized to the boy's father, to boot, Mrs. Crary continued. And when they did get home, I'd better have some ice ready for Robert's bruised cheek. “It'll swell sure as you're livin'.”

I hung up the phone, dazed.

When I heard the garage door open, I was just about to trash the cobbler. Daddy strode in, grim-faced, Robert trailing him with the same expression. My brother's left eye was purpling, his cheek already swollen.

I wanted to strangle him. “You picked a fine day to take up fightin'.”

“Now, don't start in, Jackie.” Daddy's voice sounded tight. He jerked open a drawer for a plastic bag and began filling it with ice.

“Fine, then, I don't have time anyway. I'm tryin' to get supper on the table, the cobbler burnt, and Clarissa's got a stomachache 'cause she ate too much candy at Alma Sue's.”

Daddy's shoulders dropped. If I hadn't been thinking of myself so much, I might have realized how anxious he felt, Katherine soon to arrive on our doorstep, and the household falling apart.

“Here,” he commanded Robert, handing him the ice bag, “put this on your cheek for five minutes, then go take a shower.”

Robert sulked down the hall, and Clarissa called for Daddy. He went in to commiserate with her. I whirled about, trying to clean up the worst of the flour, telling myself I'd just have to keep Katherine out of the kitchen. And somewhere in that process, the orange glaze started bubbling, which it wasn't supposed to do. Seeing how thick it turned, I madly peeled an extra orange—the one I'd planned to use for garnish—and squeezed the juice into the pan. Then I took it off the burner. By the time I remembered to rescue the broccoli casserole from the oven, its onion topping resembled the crust on my cobbler. For the second time that afternoon, a burning smell seeped through the kitchen. The meat looked done. I turned off the oven.

The bread machine dinged. I opened it to take out the loaf.
Please, God, let one thing be right.
Flat as a pancake. I could only gape, arguing with it in my head.
Why didn't you rise, what's the matter with you, stupid machine?
Until it hit me that I'd forgotten to add yeast.

“Aaah!” I stood in the middle of the kitchen, digging fingers into my scalp.

“Everything all right in there?” Daddy called.

“Nothin's right! This is a total disaster!”

And then, in the next five seconds, Daddy said he'd be in to help; Clarissa protested; Robert rounded the corner from the hall, half his face bulbous and his nose wrinkling at the burnt smell; the doorbell rang; and Winnie pounded toward the entryway, barking her fool head off.

chapter 9

K
atherine May King swept across our threshold, chin high and a stunning smile on her lips. If she smelled burned food, she didn't let on. “Hello!” she cried, as if entering our presence defined the most anticipated moment of her life. She wore navy blue pants and a white ribbed top, somehow splendid in their simplicity. A slim golden bracelet shone on her arm as she reached for my hand. “Jackie, thank you so much for having me.”

I took her hand briefly, willing the surprise not to show on my face. For a moment, my dislike of her wavered. She had so easily recognized me as hostess, the one in charge of the home. “You're welcome,” I replied a little stiffly.

Katherine's sleek black hair brushed her cheeks as she bent to pet Winnie, who welcomed her with wiggling stubby tail. “Well, hello there,” Katherine cooed. She straightened and laid a hand on Daddy's arm. “Hello, Bobby.”

The way she touched him, said his name. My fingers curled into the front of my dirty apron.

Robert sauntered into the entryway to smile lopsidedly at Katherine, then dropped his gaze to the floor.

“Oh, what
happened
to you, Robert?” Katherine tipped up his chin to get a better look, concern on her brow. I fully expected Robert to do what he normally would—mumble something unintelligible and turn aside. Instead, he raised his eyes and considered her for a moment. She waited him out.

“Got into a fight after the game.”

“That I can see.” Her tone sounded dry. “But why?”

Lots of luck,
I thought. I doubted Daddy had even gotten an answer to that question.

Shame flicked across my brother's forehead. Then he shrugged. “He called Bradleyville a dirty name.”

My eyes bugged. I flicked a look at Daddy, who apparently thought the moment so monumental that he dared not move.

“Ah.” Katherine nodded sagely. She pulled her fingers away from Robert's chin. “I take it you beat his team.”

“Uh-huh.”

She gave him a knowing look. “No wonder he felt small.”

I watched the amazing insight smooth my brother's features. He made no response. But his shoulders squared, and he abandoned attempts to hide his battered face.

Katherine turned to me with an unassuming smile, as if she hadn't just orchestrated a minor miracle. “The house smells wonderful. Your daddy said you've been cooking since last night.”

I blinked at news of such betrayal. It hadn't occurred to me that Daddy would spoil my veneer of insouciant chef. “I've just learned to space out my work so that everything gets done on time,” I said coolly. “Would you please excuse me now? I need to finish getting things ready.”

I turned and took my leave. The silence fairly echoed behind me. I pictured Daddy and Katherine exchanging adult glances and hoped I was wrong. I could not bear to think that they saw right through me.

In the kitchen, I leaned against a counter and took a deep breath. I had to salvage what I could of my ruinous efforts. Time no longer mattered. If we didn't eat until 7:00, so be it.

From the family room drifted the sounds of Katherine greeting Clarissa, who still languished on the couch. After her flawless performance with Robert, I could only imagine the encore she'd saved for my sister. For all I knew she already sat on the couch, Clarissa bundled and breathing like a contented bunny on her lap.

I threw a wooden spoon into the sink none too gently.

A good dose of resolve can make up for lack of experience, especially when you're feeling as cantankerous as I was. In the next half hour, I climbed to a whole new level of skills. First, I peeled the burnt crust off the cobbler and discovered the fruit in the middle to be perfectly fine. I spooned the usable portion into five bowls and set them aside. When dessert time came, I'd add a spoon of ice cream and a dollop of whipped cream, and no one would be the wiser. But what to do with the telltale glass pan? I certainly had no time to clean it. Frantically, I looked around, then shoved it into a cabinet.

Next, I ditched the blackened onion topping from the broccoli, then took a taste. None the worse for wear, though no longer hot. Well, I'd nuke it.

The bread tasted good but was hard and looked like it had been run over by a truck. I stared at it, willing it to tell me what to do. The idea drifted into my head like a cool breeze on a sizzling day. Wasn't expectation often three-quarters of the problem? With some force, I sliced the loaf into small pieces of “homemade herb crackers.”

To the orange mixture I added a bit of cream for thinning. No longer a glaze, but it proved an intriguingly flavored sauce.

Katherine materialized from the family room. “May I help?” she asked.

“No,” I said a little too forcefully. “Thank you.” I continued working, the competent homemaker preparing for the guest. She left without a word. I heard her voice, then Clarissa giggled. My, hadn't my sister recovered in a hurry.

Little left to do but fill the glasses and set out salads. When that was done, I bustled into my room to brush my hair and check my face. I'd wanted to put on a little makeup, but no time for that now.

By 6:40 we sat at the dining room table.

Daddy said a fervent prayer, thanking God for Katherine's presence. The way Robert smiled at her afterward made me feel sorry I'd placed her on his side of the table. Clarissa ogled her as well. And Daddy looked . . . I couldn't put my finger on the word. And then felt sorry when I did.

Expectant.

The whole family had obviously gone crazy. Even Winnie forgot how to act. She trotted up to the table and nudged Katherine's arm with her long nose, begging for a pat.

“Winnie!” I said sharply. “We're eating. Go lie down.”

Winnie had something in common with Clarissa. They both couldn't hide an emotion if their lives depended on it. Winnie's ears went back and her head hung. She turned away with a doggy sigh and dragged herself theatrically from the room. A few seconds later, we heard her flop upon her bed near the laundry room.

“Oh, how cute,” Katherine exclaimed. “She knows just what you said.”

I managed a little smile, inordinately pleased that our dog had displayed her awareness of who was boss in the house.

My meal turned out amazingly well. Katherine voiced her pleasure over every dish without sounding placating. That threw me, I can tell you. I'd have had a much easier time disliking her if she'd oohed and aahed with abandonment. Instead, she asked me questions, one competent chef to another. How long had I cooked the orange sauce? Was that mushroom soup she tasted in the broccoli casserole? And which herbs were in the crackers?