How Sweet It Is (18 page)

A
t Southern Treats, a little coffee shop beside the railroad tracks, I meet the elderly owner, who introduces herself as Mrs. Dixie. She is dressed in black with a string of milky pearls swaying from her narrow neck.

I have been to Heaven’s Railway, the bookstore, and Yum Yum, the Chinese restaurant, to ask if I may display a few of my brochures. The employees behind the counters at both places said the exact same thing: “I don’t think that would be a problem.” Then they took a dozen brochures, smiled, and continued to wait on customers. I hoped my brochures ended up somewhere where customers could see them, but I did suspect that they very well could end up in the trash bin behind each location.

Mrs. Dixie holds one of the Southern Treats menus toward me until she realizes that I’m not there for coffee and pie. Standing at the front entrance of the store by windows framed in pecan-colored curtains, she opens my cake brochure. She studies it as I watch three patrons inside the tiny shop sip on cappuccino in delicate white cups.

Adjusting her glasses, she looks me over. “So you make cakes?”

“Yes.” I attempt to stand straight.

“That’s all?”

“For now,” I say.

She flips the brochure over, removes her glasses, then looks at me. “Cakes.” She has an impish voice, a cross between the squeal of a piglet and the cry of a calf.

“Yes.”

“Do you make pies?”

“No.”

“Hmmm.” She flips her glasses back on and turns the brochure over once more.

“I mean, I can. I have. I studied at the Atlanta School of San Sebastian.”

Apparently, she is not impressed by where I went to school.

So much for Sally’s theory that Atlanta is looked upon as the New York City of the South. “Hmmm.” She twists her necklace in her fingers. “I like pie.”

“Oh, I do, too.” I say this using my gushing tone. Immediately, I feel foolish.

“Chocolate.” She raises her eyes to look at me. “That’s my favorite.”

But of course. It’s my least. “Oh.”

“I don’t eat cake.”

I nod.

“Now, my mother made a chocolate cake I ate growing up.”

I’m not sure how to comment so I just stand there.

“I didn’t like it, though.”

I want to go home.

“I sell cake here.”

“Yes.” I shift from one foot to the other.

“I just don’t eat it.”

I force a smile.

“What kind of pie do you like?”

“Peach.”

“Peach? Hmmmmm. You’re from Georgia.”

I hope she doesn’t say anything corny like I’m a Georgia peach. Or ask if I have seen the huge peach that stands tall near Interstate 85 outside of Gaffney, South Carolina.

“Atlanta? I went there once to hear the symphony at the Woodruff Arts Center. Magnificent music.” She smiles broadly as my stomach spins like Lucas’s car did the night he crashed into that very place. I would have taken a comment about a Georgia peach over the one she just gave me. She resumes her reading; I take wispy breaths.

Without looking up, she says, “It’s a beautiful arts center.”

Yes, it used to be to me, too.

Carefully, she fingers my brochure like she’s pushing a pie crust into a pan. “How many did you bring?”

“Brochures? I have hundreds.”

Waving at the rack by the front door she says, “Put fifty of them there.”

She walks away, back toward the coffee-sipping customers and over toward the kitchen.

I gulp. It takes me a while to know what to do. I head outside, open my trunk, and grab a handful of brochures. That looks to be about fifty. I carry them inside. She’s nowhere to be seen. I place the brochures in the rack right under postcards for rental property, brochures for Grandfather Mountain, and neon-pink flyers for a weight-loss program.

A train’s slowing wheels sound in the near distance. For a moment, I consider jumping aboard and going someplace where life is easy. My next thought is that God’s hand should be able to hold me anywhere. Even here in this small town. And, according to Grandpa Ernest, if you have God’s hand to hold, what more could you want or need?

Inside my Jeep, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I close my eyes to pray. Right now in this little mountain town, it feels as though God is closer than He’s ever been to me—except for maybe my childhood on the farm. I ask God to make people pick up the cake brochures and decide to buy cakes from me. Dozens of orders each week—that’s what I want.

Then I think to myself that this sounds a little selfish.

I wonder if God would agree.

Opening my eyes, I watch the train heading into the station. I pause and view its shiny colors and see the steam rising from its smokestack or whatever the chimney of a train is called. I feel a tender bond with my father even though he is miles away. There is something about trains that make him happy, especially locomotives. Maybe it is their ability to travel with ease through the valleys and peaks of the land; perhaps they make us hope that our lives can be lived on course, following a track that will take us to wherever we are scheduled to go.

Again, I lower my head, focus on the dusty dashboard, and then let my eyes close. I feel a little uncomfortable, yet natural, all at the same time.

“Help me know how to teach these kids.” I wait, nod. That seems right. Then I think of the fruits of the Spirit listed on the kitchen door at The Center. “And please… show me patience.”

I open my eyes, finished, and place my key in the ignition. Before starting my Jeep, I close my eyes one more time. “Patience, especially for Darren. Help me reach him. Make him not be so bitter,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like a waitress with a request for the short-order cook. “Please.” I make the word sound as soft as I can, as though I want God to realize that I can be grateful in spite of my frustration.

twenty-six

E
ach time my cell phone rings, I answer with anticipation that it will be someone in town who has picked up my brochure and wants to order a cake. I imagine a baking-challenged mother with a daughter who is getting ready to turn sixteen finding my brochure as she exits Southern Treats. “I can ask this woman Deena to make the cake,” she says to the coworker she has just shared a pot of tea with. Her voice contains relief that comes when one realizes she doesn’t have to bake. I’ve heard that voice in my own mother many times. I see this coworker, nodding and adding, as she peers at my brochure, “Wow, what a beautiful cake. I’ll have to order one for our anniversary next month.”

Instead of cake orders, Jeannie calls to say that Sally told her I’m doing well. I assume Sally’s visit brought her to that conclusion. It’s a good thing Sally isn’t able to read my mind, for I’m still thinking about Lucas and his new girlfriend far too often.

When my phone rings again, I’ve just dumped ingredients into my blender to make salsa.

Mom asks if I still have a supply of vitamins. She tells me she has been taking Omega-3 supplements in addition to her usual vitamins and it’s doing wonders for her.

“What kind of wonders?” I ask as I stare at my KitchenAid blender filled with canned tomatoes.

“I can finish a crossword puzzle in half the time.”

I picture her sitting straight—no slouching for her—in the den, working on a puzzle from her book, Dad seated in his navy recliner watching a Braves game, a can of diet Coke in his hand.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

I miss y’all, I miss Atlanta, I want to go home. I think all of that, but only say, “I’m doing really well. Teaching is great.” The surprising thing is that she believes me. Then I tell her how wonderful Regena Lorraine is. I wait for her response.

All she comes up with is, “Oh? Well, that’s nice.”

I want to say that Mom needs to quit talking through her nose about people, especially my aunt. I feel like getting on a soapbox and shouting, “She needs people! She misses her dad. She’s normal! And isn’t she part of our family?”

Just as I am thinking this, Mom says, “Deena, I’m glad you have someone to look after you.”

She is the queen of mixed messages, this Mom of mine.

After we say our good-byes, I turn the KitchenAid to the blend setting and watch it go to work on mixing tomatoes, cilantro, garlic cloves, minced onion, and lime juice. There is something amazing and invaluable about a kitchen tool that can do so much good in such a short amount of time. Chef B once said he’s in love with the blender, and I can understand why.

Earlier this week, I told the kids that for our next lesson we would use the blender to make salsa. Their eyes grew wide. “Salsa? In a blender?”

“The blender is one of the most versatile apparatuses,” I said, and immediately was overcome with a yearning to be in Chef B’s presence. “You can make soups with it, too, and smoothies.”

“Soup in a blender?” Bubba squinted up at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Let’s make smoothies,” said Rainy.

“I hate smoothies,” piped out Joy. “I had an avocado one and it was nasty.”

“Why’d you choose that kind?” said Bobby.

“It’s all they had.”

“Girl, you need to expand your horizons,” said Bobby. “Right, Miss Livingston?”

I smiled because when the kids had complained last week about making a broccoli casserole, I told them they needed to get out of their McDonald’s and Burger King mode and try something different. “Expand your horizons,” I’d said as I stood beside the church stove.

“What the heck?” said Bubba.

“It means,” I said slowly and with all the precision my voice could deliver, “you need to open yourself up to try foods that you normally might not. Be adventurous.”

The kids looked at each other, frowned. Darren continued with his masterpiece, his pen silently moving across the page.

Now I want to test the recipe before I teach it to the class. I don’t want any failures. I’ve already taken my homemade chips out of the oven. I cut flour tortillas into triangles, coated them with olive oil and a little garlic salt, then baked them for fifteen minutes at 375 degrees.

Chips and salsa—that should make the kids happy. Isn’t that supposed to be food kids these days enjoy?

I finger my cell phone, wishing for another call, this time for a cake order. I can’t take the waiting. I wonder how my aunt is and decide to call her.

“Hi, Shug. Do you need me for something?” she asks when she answers.

“No, no.” I hope we’re on terms where I can call her just because. I try to recall if she ever told me not to call her. One woman in my church in Atlanta gave birth to triplets and set the rule that she accepted no calls after eight. Surely, my aunt hasn’t adopted this standard, has she? Hesitantly, I say, “I just wanted to see how you are.”

Her voice becomes warmer. “Thank you for letting me sit and remember in the cabin the other day.” To someone else I hear her say in an excited tone, “I think it’s Professor Plum in the conservatory, or is it the billiard room? With…” There’s a pause. I wonder if she’s still on the other end, and then I hear, “The lead pipe!” Her excitement bounds like Giovanni when he’s found a squirrel to chase. “I know it has to be the lead pipe.” To me, “Thank you, Shug.” The other voices in the background muffle hers until I hear her tell the group, “No, no. This is my final observation. I’m changing it to Mrs. White in the billiard room with the lead pipe.”

Clearly, she’s busy, so I tell her I hope her guess is correct.

“Thanks, Shug. You know I love to win.” I bet she’s smiling.

When we hang up, I turn my attention to the salsa, which looks and smells enticing. I pour some of the chunky mixture— just the right consistency for scooping up with chips—into a white bowl, dip a tortilla into it, and eat. Adding a little more salt and a dash of pepper, I taste again. Perfect, I think. The cilantro tastes so fresh. Chef B told us, “Always use lots of cilantro. It keeps the taste so flavor.” The entire class smiled at that.

I sit on the couch, turn on the TV with the remote, and find a program to watch. By the time the show ends, I’ve finished the salsa and chips, and have no idea what the story was about. My mind has gone down memory lane again. My skin itches, and I once again feel an overwhelming sense of stupidity for having trusted a man who took advantage of my devotion and spontaneous kisses.

When the front door opens and I hear, “Deirdre, I’m here to frost,” I’m a bit perplexed, but very grateful that the voice doesn’t belong to Lucas.

Jonas rushes into the living room as I turn off the TV with the remote.

“Jonas, what a surprise!” I’m glad I’m not in my pajamas or just out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, scars showing. I hope it’s not obvious to Jonas that I was thinking about Lucas.

“No surprise, Deirdre,” he says as he faces me with his hands in his jeans pockets. “You said I was to come over to frost.” His smile spreads across his face, like the morning sun in a summer sky.

Up until this point, Jonas and I have communicated well. I suppose that couldn’t last forever. “Jonas, I said you’d have to come over to frost the cakes for the bake sale.” I recall telling him just days ago that he could come over to help me prepare for the event.

He nods. “I am here.”