Читать книгу A FLOCK OF SPARROWS - Helen Foster Reed - Страница 4

ONE INVALUABLE LESSON I’ve learned in the last seven years is that things don’t always fall perfectly into place, no matter how hard you work or will it. Life has its ebbs and flows just like the powerful ocean’s tide, and come a riptide, the flow has a way of sweeping us off balance. It certainly did me. After thirty-six years of marriage, at the very moment I thought my feet had become buried deep enough into the sandy depths of stability to weather almost anything, my husband Charlie died.

I still remember the instant I found his lifeless body. I collapsed from the shock and abruptness of it, as if our land had incomprehensively turned into an ocean, and I had been sucked deep under water like bait grabbed by a single-minded predator starved to feed. I imagined that’s what drowning must feel like, that inability to breathe, the sensation that my lungs were filling with water. Instincts and panic quickly took over; and, after using my cell phone to call 9-1-1, I went to work trying to save him. My eyes, my fifty-four-year-old mind that had absorbed years of experience, knew he was gone; yet my heart, suddenly flooded with almost teenage-like, unconditional love, wouldn’t accept reality. That’s the memory that continues to haunt me. I still miss him so. I’m missing him even more now at sixty-one, as the storm of the century is surging into Texas, bringing God only knew what trouble and danger with it.

It is strange, though, that I’m thinking as if I were a New Englander, a person of the sea. In my youth, I was a romantic and dreamer, an arm-chair adventurer thanks to voracious reading. I also fell in love with the dramatic art of the Wyeths, especially N.C.’s action-driven book illustrations, to the point that sometimes I yearn for the ocean. I guess my mother was right; she’d told me more than once when you’re born under an astrological water sign—in our case, Cancer—you instinctively react and relate with metaphors about water, even if you’re a native of land-locked Northeast Texas.

Full disclosure: We are barely five-hundred feet above sea level here, and the region is richly saturated with rivers, creeks, springs, ponds, and lakes, making this a perfect place to at least benefit from some of nature’s subtler liquid vibrations. Interestingly, Mother and I came into this world with earth moons in our birth charts, therefore, we’re also prone to love home and stability—and we married men born into the farming and ranching life, as we had been, which cinched the deal. We were and are East Texans for life.

Oddly enough, as much as I’m intrigued by such trivia, I almost never read my horoscope. However, like all of the old timers who have farmed land or raised livestock, I pay attention to lunar and planetary cycles, and know when it’s a good time to plant, to dehorn animals, mate stock for the easiest birthing, and the rest. On this late November morning, the TV meteorologist’s report served as confirmation a storm is coming and it is going to be bad. My favorite online website confirmed several of the planets are in water and air signs, indicating the atmosphere contained way too much liquid energy, and it was going to be propelled by a stronger wind than usual.

So far the breeze was from the west, light and mild, although I could tell that a shift was at hand. Soon there would be dramatic changes. Before noon a howling wind from the north would send temperatures plummeting over thirty degrees. Wind-driven snow, and perhaps ice, would be blasting through the trees, especially our more fragile pines, with the force of a hurricane making landfall. No one would go unscathed. As a widow still fending for herself on this big property, I had work to do.

When the phone rang, I had a gut hunch as to who the caller was even before the first jingle ended. Maggie Lamar and I had been friends for nearly six decades and seldom a morning went by that we didn’t talk. Our agenda would be single-minded today.

Without wasting time on any greeting, she began, “Retta, have you seen the latest weather report on TV?”

“You know there’s nothing else on our local channels. Do you have your bag packed?” I asked. “Considering how the power goes out on your side of town during the mildest thunderstorm, you’ll be better off here.”

My place was less than ten miles outside of the city limits of Martin’s Mill, but I wasn’t fully reliant on electricity the way the townspeople were. While the house was lit and warmed by electricity, the cook stove and hot-water heater used propane gas; plus, we had a lovely large fireplace designed in the old-fashioned way to cook a pot of beans or stew like the early pioneers would do it. There was also another fireplace upstairs in the master bedroom.

“I’m a step ahead of you. That’s why I also invited Sybil,” Maggie replied. “Since she lives only two streets over from me, she’s bound to lose power, too. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I told her, glad she’d already thought of that. After changes in their lives, they’d moved into such a nice, new development; however, the city hadn’t yet done the major upgrades in utilities to support the growing residential area. “The more the merrier. We’ll have such a good time, we’ll put adult slumber parties on everyone’s bucket list.”

After a slight pause, Maggie said, “Well, you might not say that when I tell you the rest.”

My mind went on full alert, and my insides did an unnatural something that left me feeling queasy—an all-too-familiar reaction whenever Maggie allowed any pause in a conversation. I just knew she was about to drop a bombshell.

“Oh, Maggie, what have you done now?”

“Dana Bennett and Carly Kirkland are coming, too,” she blurted out.

“You can’t be serious?” My abrupt reaction had me instantly cringing. “Well, Dana, of course. The poor thing is nearly eight months pregnant. But Carly? You can’t stand her.”

“Things just sort of . . . evolved.” Maggie sounded part apologetic and part disgusted. “With all of us being in the same neighborhood now, there’s no way Sybil would leave Dana behind. If you ask me, she’s still dealing with empty-nest syndrome—like she doesn’t get her fill of kids at school. Problem is, in the last few months our sweet mother-to-be has befriended that blond alley cat, and Dana said she’s not coming unless we invite Carly, as well. Thank goodness Dana agreed to extend the offer herself. I would have needed a shot of tequila to pull off sounding believable if I’d been forced to call Carly at eight o’clock in the morning.”

Although I wasn’t the least bit thrilled with this development, and had no time to figure out how it was supposed to work, I took a deep breath and said as agreeably as I could, “Then we’ll have to make the best of it for Dana’s sake. The question is, can you play nice for the duration of this storm?”

Between widowhood and aging, I was becoming too frank for my own good. On the other hand, Maggie had a lethal ability to turn simple conversation into a martial art. Under those circumstances, I would be concerned for the welfare of any guest under my roof, whether I’d intended to invite them or not.

“Why, Loretta Brown Cole—you know perfectly well that I can be the Southern version of Miss Manners if the situation seriously calls for it.”

Even though she managed to sound convincingly wounded, I let my silence speak for itself.

“Whatever. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

I was still shaking my head when I replaced the receiver onto the phone’s cradle. The five of us would make an unlikely group. Granted, we were all widows, part of that grimly singular club no one wants to join; however, we were from vastly divergent backgrounds, and our ages were equally different, ranging from the enviable thirties to the sixty-somethings. Maggie and I fall into that latter, depressing category. I don’t care what aging actresses claim in magazine interviews, as publishers insist on air-brushed photos to suggest sixty is the new forty. And forget that fine-wine metaphor about how we’re getting better every day. I say we’re more like a couple of mature grapes that are moments away from withering on the vine.

Yes, we go back a long way, and she still refers to me by my maiden name, especially when making a pointed remark. I suspect Brown suits my appearance and personality at times. I’m simply not the peacock she is. While my dark-blond hair hasn’t thinned, as it has for some my age, I do well to remember to use mascara and lipstick, if I’m expecting company or going somewhere. Then again, maybe Maggie is the one with the problem. She’s been married so many times, she’s finally admitting to occasionally having trouble remembering her latest surname. It could be my maiden name acts as some kind of psychological tether to keep connected to her inner core.

Maggie had been my matron of honor when I married Charlie. My given name is Loretta, but Charlie started calling me Retta in kindergarten. It was years before he shared that he’d done that because of a chipped upper tooth that cut his tongue whenever he tried to say my full name. Charlie was a character, and the hardest working man, but about as romantic as Valentine’s candy on February 15. And so, repetition being the source of as many burdens as benefits, the nickname stuck, and that’s how most who know me address me to this day.

Charlie and I had a good life here where we raised a son and daughter, along with several thousand beef cattle, and ten times that in hay bales. Hay and a few head of cattle are what I mostly limit myself to these days, since the kids are grown and have moved away to raise their families, and pursue careers and interests of their own.

Anyone involved with farming or ranching understands it’s not an eight, or even ten hour-a-day job. We are the people who arrive late to weddings because of a calf’s breech birth, and miss funerals for some other animal infirmity. Charlie and I had been looking forward to downsizing for a second time, and maybe taking a trip or two. Having never ventured more than a few hundred miles from Martin’s Mill, I had always dreamed of going to Cape Cod. But before we could set our plans in motion, he died in a horrible accident.

He’d been hauling large, round bales of hay up an incline in a draw, when the tractor suddenly rolled over, killing him instantly. I don’t know what possessed him to attempt the shortcut—he knew better than to gamble with an unwieldy load even on flat land. It triggered countless sleepless nights as I struggled with the “why?” of his abrupt loss, as so many had before me. What I’ve ultimately come to understand is how, in questioning the command in “Selah” we surrender to a demonic mockery of “amen.”

Maggie had been great to lend emotional support, having been through sudden loss more than once. It was only last year when I found myself reciprocating again when her fourth husband, Hollis Lamar, died after an unusually short battle with prostate cancer. But then Hollis had been as stubborn about going to the doctor as Maggie was proactive. His death hit her hard, since their sixteen-year marriage had been her longest and happiest relationship.

At fifty, Sybil Sides is a little farther behind us in age. Three years ago, she and Elvin had just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary when he passed from complications associated with emphysema. Charlie had met Elvin years ago following recommendations that Elvin was something of a shaman with anything mechanical. Upon learning that, Charlie had used his services routinely when finding himself out of his depth for one repair or another. I met Sybil one Sunday afternoon when Elvin brought her along, responding to Charlie’s phone call for an emergency. While the men wrestled with the broken piece of equipment, Sybil and I got acquainted over one of our great, mutual loves—cooking—and we’ve been friends ever since.

The saddest story of all is that of forty-year-old Dana Bennett, who had replaced me as the pianist at our Methodist church. Her husband, Jesse, had committed suicide seven months ago upon learning the bank was about to foreclose on their restaurant. There were other complications—Jesse had been a veteran—but most important was that Dana had discovered she was pregnant only hours before his death. She’d been waiting to share the news until evening when they would be alone.

As for Carly Kirkland, I was fast concluding that her presence might well prove more threatening than the storm. At thirty-two, she was the youngest and most recent widow among us. Her husband, Walter, had died only three months ago. Walter and his first wife, Doris, had been lifelong friends with the Lamars and us. Doris was killed in a car accident early last year, which left Walter inconsolable. Or so we thought. What a shock we all experienced when, a mere six months later, he announced that he had married a woman more than thirty years his junior! There was another lesson in how life was nothing if not a graduate course in trying to make sense out of the inconceivable.

Walter had been the poster boy for logic, conservatism, and gravitas. Once a teller at First State Bank of Martin’s Mill, he’d worked his way up to becoming president by learning the business inside and out, and eventually being invited to buy bank stock along the way. Having managed the rest of his money equally well, by the time of his death, he’d amassed what Webster might define as “honest wealth.” That only added to the frenzy of small-town gossip that went as viral as any YouTube sensation—especially when it was discovered that he had died of a heart attack in bed with his youthful bride.

Maggie bore a particular disdain for “the little gold digger,” despite her own somewhat blemished past. While she had suffered in relationships with men who proved dishonest with her, it could also be argued that Maggie had done some social climbing, and deserved what she got. How she and Carly—never mind the five of us—were going to survive this storm under one roof without causing our own environmental calamity was now my problem. Hardly what I’d envisioned when I first extended my invitation.

Accepting that I had much more prepping to do, I headed upstairs. Deep in thought, the ringing phone startled me. Backtracking to the table at the base of the stairs I reached for the remote. “Did you forget something else?”

“Retta?”

Not taking the time to check Caller ID, I thought Maggie wanted to say something more. Upon recognizing the attractive male voice, I smiled with delight.

“Sam! For a second, I thought you were Maggie again. How are you? Is it snowing there yet?” Although Sam Archer had been coming to Martin’s Mill for almost a year now, he lived and conducted his business in Fort Worth.

“It’s a photographer’s dream, but the road conditions are deteriorating fast. I don’t believe it’s wise even at this stage to risk making the two-hour trip to East Texas. Will you be okay?”

“Not to worry,” I said, relieved with his decision. Having lost Charlie the way I did, I wasn’t up for another exercise in reckless bravado by someone I cared about. “It hasn’t started to come down here yet, but as it turns out, I’ll have a full house. Maggie is coming, and bringing a few others.”

“Really? So why don’t you sound as upbeat as you usually do when you two are about to visit?”

“One of my guests got invited in a round-about way. Carly. Sweet Walter’s widow,” I added after he failed to respond.

“Ah, now I remember. Are you girls ever going to give her a break?”

While I could hear the amusement in his voice, I couldn’t deny it irked that his impulse was to defend Carly, not Maggie. Regardless of my own reservations about Maggie’s ability to behave, women’s logic allowed me to defend my friend—in as much as I could.

“Excuse me, you never met him, and I’ve known him longer than Carly’s been on the planet.” In fact, while Sam didn’t need to know this, there were those who wagered that Walter would ask me out, although I was relieved that he never did. “All I’m saying is if the storm keeps us shut in for very long, tempers are bound to get hotter than last summer’s prairie fires.” Sam had become such a close friend that I’d shared most of the back story about who was who and what was what, in Martin’s Mill—not that I expected him to remember all of it. But right now I needed a slight reassurance that he recalled at least fifty-percent.

With a sigh, he replied, “Then I don’t envy you the predicament.”

“Any words of wisdom?”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, but try to remember that Carly slept with the man. Maggie didn’t, and neither did you.”

“Sam!”

“You’ll make the best of it, Retta. You always do.”

Although I appreciated that he saw me as honest and resilient, I found myself wishing he was a bit more protective if not sympathetic. Another surprise, considering the push-pull of my feelings for him. Was my subconscious finally yielding to pull?

“We all have our limits,” I said, doing my best not to grumble. Not sure I succeeded, I cleared my throat. “What are you going to do? I hope you’ll play it safe and not even attempt to get to the gallery?”

Sam was also known as the artist Gray Archer and his home was close to KD Gallery located in the historic Stockyards District of Cowtown where most of his paintings were sold. Nevertheless, traveling even a few miles could be treacherous in icy conditions.

“I came downtown before this all started, but I’ve been able to book a room at the Stockyards Hotel, just across the street. They have a back-up generator in case the area loses power. That said, I just can’t believe my bad luck.”

“You’re calling a four-star hotel with room service ‘bad luck?’”

“Not that. Missing the opportunity to be the one snowed in with you is the problem.”

The caressing tone in his voice sent a lovely tingle through me, something I hadn’t felt in so long, I hugged myself with my free arm to hold onto the sensation for as long as possible. “It is nice to be wanted.”

“Would you mind saying that to my face when I finally make it over there again? I’d be more than grateful to prove it.”

This was the most direct he’d been since he’d tried to do more than kiss me on the cheek. Unfortunately, his timing couldn’t be worse. “Stop flirting with me, Archer. I have guests to prepare for.”

“At least tell me that you’ll be thinking of me once in a while?”

“You know I will,” I said softly, then added a quick, “See you soon,” and hung up before I had second thoughts over my divulgence. Things were building between us; however, this was not the time to dwell on whether or not I was ready for what he wanted.

As I went through the house, my thoughts stayed on the first time I met Sam. Since Charlie’s death I had been managing the place by myself, and that often meant tedious repairs. I’d been struggling with replacing worn-out fence wire along the oil-top road when a red, vintage Dodge pickup pulled up beside me. Sam had since put it into storage, because it tended to get him far more attention than he wanted. These days he drove a much newer black Club Cab Dodge, which allowed him to blend in quite well with the locals.

On that morning, his tan-colored Stetson was also well-worn like a cattleman’s, as was his denim shirt and jeans. I could tell from beneath the brim of his hat that his mustache and sideburns had once been a rich, dark brown, but everything was turning gray. He was tanned, which told me he spent a good deal of time outdoors. But his skin wasn’t leathery, and he only had smile wrinkles around his eyes and firm mouth. If I’d never seen him again, I wouldn’t have forgotten his eyes, how they could switch from being soul-searching to evoking mischief before you could blink. So mesmerized was I that it would be two visits before I would remember their color: a shade of rich mahogany, speckled with shards of flint.

Left feeling self-conscious in the presence of someone who seemed so comfortable in his own skin, I let him speak first.

“Mornin’,” he’d said. “I’m Sam Archer. I’m staying at the Carter House Bed-and-Breakfast and I’m a painter. The owner there said that I should come see you.”

“Because?”

In seconds, I’d mentally slam dunked owner-proprietor Lillian Carter into an imagined sludge pond. We were members of the same church and talked enough that she had to have known I would hire someone local if I’d needed a handyman, not some stranger, even if it appeared that he needed the work. Agitation made me even hotter, and I began fanning myself with my straw western hat, despite knowing it made me look even less attractive, what with my damp shoulder-length hair plastered to my head and neck.

“Because,” Sam replied, as if he’d had all the time in the world, “she was impressively eloquent about how this is where I would find what I was looking for.”

“Well, I’m sorry she wasted your time,” I’d said, growing more impatient by the second. Forced to squint, which had to be doing wonders for the crepey skin around my blue eyes, I quickly replaced my hat knowing that without it I looked as worn as his old pickup truck. I hadn’t even taken the time to put my hair in a ponytail that morning, let alone a braid. “As you can see, I do my own upkeep around here, and I’ve already completed my painting chores for the year.”

To my amazement, he’d thrown back his head and laughed heartily. As vibrant as the sound had been, I immediately bristled, convinced that I was dealing with yet another man seeing me as a helpless woman. As the saying goes, Charlie had been hardly cold in the ground when several in town had approached me about buying or leasing our property, some even going so far as to ask, “What use will you have for it now that he’s gone?” Incredible. They’d all seemed to have experienced some collective memory lapse forgetting that I’d been born on this land, and had worked alongside my father, and then with my husband our entire married life. What’s more, I was as capable as most men when it came to maintenance and basic repairs.

Just as I’d opened my mouth to give this intruder a piece of my mind, he held up his hand in that universal gesture of requesting patience. I found some by reaching for the near-empty thermos at my feet. I hoped it had enough cool water left in it so when he did let me speak, my voice didn’t sound like a crow’s. I had read that in Europe they used to refer to an annoyed woman as, “Sounding like a fish wife.”

“I’m not that kind of painter,” Sam offered almost gently. “Although I’m not against such labor when it’s needed back at my own place.”

It was a miracle that I didn’t choke on that last swallow of water. And, while it was still cool, my face burned with embarrassment. That must have showed even with my wide-brim straw hat casting my face in shadow because he abruptly leaned across the seat and extended his hand. From my vast readings, I knew he’d just committed a social error in that I clearly remembered by Emily Post standards, it was for a woman to decide whether to shake a man’s hand or not. But I so wanted this moment over, I tore off my leather glove and reciprocated with my firm, if clammy, grasp.

“How about we start over?” he’d continued, his gaze searching. “I’m Sam and I was looking forward to meeting you, and seeing this beautiful countryside I’d heard so much about.”

He was all easygoing charm and reassurance, and by evening we were sharing a bottle of cabernet on my recently repainted porch. Sam proved to be one of the most fascinating men I’d ever met. Soon, he even convinced me to rent him the guesthouse attached to the stables to use when he was in the area. He sweetened the temptation by giving me one of his first landscape paintings of my property. We kept our agreement as quiet as possible knowing what a surge of gossip it would have spawned around town—something I didn’t need any more than he wanted the celebrity ogling. It wasn’t like me to consent to such an arrangement with someone I barely knew, but I am a person who trusts her instincts and believes she reads people fairly well, and those attributes told me it would be okay. My decision was soon supported by facts after I checked him out a bit.

A web search confirmed that Sam was far more than a painter. Yes, he was a renowned western artist whose work commanded incredible prices, but first he’d been a respected surgeon—a pediatric cardiologist. Not only that, he was equally famous for his philanthropy, including being responsible for a new wing at Cook Children’s Hospital in Fort Worth, which I later learned is where he’d done most of his surgeries. That alone left me speechless and humbled for days afterward.

Fast forward from last spring, now we were rushing into an extra early winter given it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. Sam had not only become a good and dear friend; he was fast becoming an important part of my life. I knew he would leave a huge emptiness if he stopped coming to East Texas. But he wanted more, so much more that I was growing overly warm again just thinking about our last conversation.

“Get out of my head for now,” I pleaded, as I hurried to the main floor bathroom to be sure there were enough towels and toiletries for my guests. Otherwise, I knew when Maggie arrived, she would take one look at me and jump to the conclusion Sam and I had indulged in more than a little verbal flirtation.

When I was through with inside preparations, I pulled on my jacket to go to the stable. I’d already put extra hay out for the cattle, but my four horses needed to be fed and watered. Next I brought more dry wood inside, carrying some upstairs to the fireplace in the master bedroom. I’d almost returned to the bottom of the stairs when I heard the front door open.

“Yoo-hoo . . . Retta?” Maggie’s first-soprano voice echoed throughout the house. “We’re here.”

“Perfect timing . . . now that the chores are all done,” I sang back at her. Maggie would know I was teasing, just as she knew not to bother with knocking or ringing the doorbell before entering.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Maggie pursed her lips to send a kiss my way as she limped toward the kitchen bearing what looked and sounded like quite the liquor supply. “This system has my bunions killing me. I can’t wait to get out of these gorgeous but hideously tight boots.”

There was only a few months difference in our ages; however, we were polar opposites when it came to fashion and style. Her hair—currently in a short, chic do—changed length and color more often than the seasons, and some of her clothing choices left me wondering if she sometimes dressed in the dark? Nevertheless, there was no denying Maggie still had whatever “it” was and, even at her age, managed to look sexy. Today, she was wearing a pair of snug-fitting jeans and some sort of orange sherbet-colored, shaggy-haired jacket over a navy blue wool tunic.

I raised my eyebrows at the jacket. “What had to die so you could wear that thing?”

“Nothing, smarty,” she said over her shoulder. “Highland sheep are sheared.”

“Sheep, huh? I would have put money on it being musk ox.”

“Witch.”

Fighting back a grin, I called after her, “I had no idea they came in that color!”

Behind her came Dana, her warm smile diluted by the sadness in her brown eyes. She was a pretty, petite woman, with dark hair cut gamin-short that framed an oval, photogenic face with an enviable complexion. Her pregnant belly protruded far beyond a well-worn suede jacket that perfectly matched her hair.

“Thank you, Retta. It’s so good of you to let us come stay with you.”

The way she carefully leaned over to set her canvas tote by the entryway table gave me concern. “None of us need to be alone during a storm, particularly one promising such unpredictable conditions. How are you feeling, dear? It looks like your back is giving you all kinds of trouble.”

“Then I’m perfect for a woman who’s six weeks away from delivery. The doctor claims we’re both doing fine, although last week one of his repeat patients told me in the reception area that he doesn’t always wait until closing time to start mixing martinis, so I’m not sure how much faith to put in his vision, let alone his medical prowess.”

I hugged her gently. “Well, if it’s any reassurance, you look as lovely as ever.”

Carly entered with some hesitation. Her long hair resembled strands of golden wheat and appeared as naturally straight. Her hot-pink cashmere turtleneck sweater and skinny jeans perfectly accentuated a Hollywood starlet’s figure. A black leather jacket with matching knee-high boots, and Chanel handbag with the iconic overlapping C emblem on the front completed the ensemble. Her outfit probably cost more than all of my living room furniture; however, I stopped speculating when I saw the white little dog she had tucked against her. It had to be a toy something or other, since it wasn’t much bigger than the palm of her hand. I struggled to repress a wince as I thought of my cow dog, Rosie, who, since Charlie’s death had been my only housemate. Even though she’s been good to never actually kill one, Rosie’s favorite pastime tends to be chasing after rabbits and squirrels. That had me hoping she wouldn’t mistake the little fur ball for a cottontail.

“Carly,” I said, with a more formal smile. “Welcome.”

“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Cole,” she said in a soft and melodious Marilyn Monroe-type voice. “Your house is beautiful and I loved driving up that tree-lined driveway.”

“Thank you. But you’ll have to call me Retta like everyone else. It’s only fair given that we’ll be sharing somewhat close quarters and all.”

She looked at me as though I’d spoken to her in a foreign tongue, which left me wondering if she thought I meant for us to share the convertible couch? Barely able to suppress my sigh of exasperation at Maggie for getting us into this mess, I waved Carly in, eager to receive my last guest. Seeing the load that she carried, I quickly reached out to help.

“Sybil, good heavens! Are you planning to cook a church supper while you’re here?”

Allowing me to only take the handled sack tilting dangerously, she continued to the kitchen bearing the other grocery bags. “Hardly, but I do intend to put some weight on you skinny white girls.”

Back in the 1960s, Sybil Sides’ mother had been one of the few blacks allowed inside the country club at Martin’s Mill, and that was because she worked in the kitchen. Miss Imogene had been admired for many of her dishes, especially her delicious cornbread muffins. Sybil inherited her mother’s culinary skills, as well as her recipes, and continued to love any opportunity to cook—especially in my sunny and welcoming cream-on-cream kitchen.

“Girl, I don’t need any help packing on the pounds, but I sure won’t refuse anything you prepare,” I assured her.

“How about red beans and ham hocks with a side of cornbread for supper?” Sybil asked, immediately starting to unpack her bounty. “That new market out by the highway had some pretty strawberries shipped in fresh from the Rio Grande Valley. Since the berries are out of season, the price was as high as the fur on a wary feral cat’s back, but look. Didn’t they make a tempting pie?” She smiled proudly as she opened the lid on the plastic case.

I couldn’t keep from groaning. “Sybil, that smells divine, but all I can see is three pounds heading for each of my thighs.”

Grinning, Sybil added, “I also soaked the beans overnight because I’d planned to make them anyway, so it won’t take them long to cook. If you’ll let me use one of your big pots, I’ll get them started. They’ll be ready to eat in a couple of hours.”

“The pots are right in this cabinet,” I said, pointing to the island. “Use anything you need. As usual, mi casa, su casa, oh, talented one. Help yourself. Only I’d feel like a better hostess if you’d get out of your jacket first.”

Laughing at her own eagerness, Sybil did unbutton her eggplant-purple, quilted jacket, leaving her in a comfy charcoal gray sweat suit. A pretty lavender knit scarf dressed it up, but I held my hand out for it and the coat.

“Give it here and I’ll hang it up in the coat closet next to my office. Ladies, whenever you’ve warmed up and are ready, please feel free to do the same. There are plenty of hangers.”

No one followed me, and I returned to find them praising my kitchen. One thing I’d insisted on when Charlie and I got around to our final renovating of this old farmhouse was vastly improving the place where I spent so much time. Back then I’d daydreamed of big family dinners, once the kids were grown and had their own children—or at least grand holidays with a house full of people. But my offspring had ideas of their own, which has taken Jamie, Mallory and daughter, Kimberly, to Houston, while Rachel, Paul and their children are in Virginia. The last time the house had this many people in it was for the reception that followed Charlie’s funeral.

“Just looking at this abundance is making my stomach growl,” Maggie said. She had put her jacket over the back of one of the bar stools, and had started to help Sybil unpack.

Carly ventured as far as the kitchen doorway and asked hesitantly, “Would you mind cooking a small portion of the beans without any meat?”

Most of us in the South had been taught to cook by our mothers, which meant we fried virtually everything in lard—unless it was smoked or barbecued. In time, we learned to make some healthier adjustments; however, the mere idea of not making beans with ham hocks had us all going still and staring at Carly in disbelief. Mercy, what next? Banana pudding without vanilla wafers?

It was Maggie who opened her mouth to challenge her, but Carly beat her to it, continuing with a slight shrug, “I’m a vegetarian.”

One of those death-knell silences followed. The last time any of us had heard of a vegetarian in these parts had to be in our school history books. Deprivation had been a forced issue during the Civil War—after the Yankees ransacked every farm in their path, confiscating any and all livestock for their troops. The idea of a woman born and raised here being a willing vegetarian was . . . well, it just wasn’t southern!