by Rae Davies
Patsy was a little surprised at her own nerve. She was sure it was as close as anyone had ever come to out-and-out telling Marcia no one was fooled by her little act. Maybe if someone had done it earlier, she’d be spending more time thinking about her marriage and less arranging Bruce’s stock.
Ruthann brushed past Marcia. “You’re in early,” she said.
“Not much, ten minutes or so.” Patsy followed her into the break room. It was a plain room decorated with cheap stackable plastic chairs and an old table that had been recycled from the KFC before their remodel, eight years earlier. Not much of a romantic rendezvous spot. Although Patsy had to admit she’d had warm feelings about the place since Will stood in front of the snack machine with two Hostess Pies cradled in his hands. Hard not to think of a place as romantic after that. She ran her hand over the top of the table.
“You think Bruce and Marcia use this for the horizontal hump?”
Ruthann looked at her with a horrified stare that gave way to a giggle. “You are terrible.”
Patsy pulled out a chair and sat down, but kept her arms off the table. Her multiple jobs had kept her too busy. She hadn’t seen Ruthann since church. “So, what happened with Randy’s momma?”
Ruthann shoved her timecard into the machine and slid into a chair across from Patsy. “Nothing. She was sweet as marmalade.”
“She ask you about anything?”
“No, but she did pin Will in a corner for a while.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Something about some property her dad owns. I got the feeling Will was interested in buying it.”
This was surprising. Will didn’t exactly strike Patsy as the farmer type.
“What kind of land? Near the river or something?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. It’s near Henning. There’s not much there but fields that I know of.”
Henning. Tilde had been driving out to Henning a lot lately. Interesting, but not pertinent to the current problem.
“How about Randy, she say anything about him?”
Ruthann dug a compact out of her purse and checked her lipstick. “That’s about all she talked about. She bragged on him nonstop. It was like she was trying to sell me on him or something. She’s never done that before.”
Patsy grinned. “Great. I think the first part of our plan is underway. Now we can start on the second. The only problem is, I haven’t figured out the best way to handle it.”
Ruthann snapped her compact shut. “If Randy’s momma was the problem, and now she isn’t, why do we need to work on anything else? Why can’t I just go after Randy?”
“Because sooner or later, his momma’s going to realize some of what we fed her wasn’t one hundred percent fat-free. When that happens, she’s liable to turn on you faster than a barn cat on a field mouse, and you need to know Randy’s going to stick by you.”
Ruthann let out a deep sigh. “All right. You’ve been right so far, but I don’t want to wait too long. If we don’t have a plan by Daisy Daze, I may just jump him.”
Patsy knew the feeling. If she wasn’t out of Daisy Creek by that time, she’d probably lose all will power and launch herself at Will too.
Shaking her head at her own weakness, she replied, “Fair enough.” She picked up her timecard and punched in. “Let’s go scan ourselves some peas.”
o0o
Will looked over at Ralph, who rode with his head hanging out the passenger window, tongue lolling. In general, Ralph took life pretty seriously. It was nice to see him relaxed and almost dog-like. A cloud of dust signaled another car approaching. Will hugged the right side of the dirt road, giving the other vehicle plenty of leeway.
Tilde’s van popped over the horizon. Will rolled down his window and waved his arm. Crunching gravel signaled she had seen him.
She cranked down her window and poked her head out. “Where you headed, kid?”
“Going to see Randy Jensen’s grandfather. I was talking to Randy’s mother, and she said he was interested in selling.”
“That so? I didn’t really figure him to be interested. Things must be tough all over.”
Ralph abandoned his window to investigate who Will was talking to. Will absently rubbed his head. “Certainly seems that way. I never dreamed so many people would be desperate to sell.”
Tilde flipped down her visor and applied a coat of lipstick. “There’ll be more. Word’s just now getting out that the rumors are true, that someone’s interested in buying up all this.” She motioned with the gold tube. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll own half of Daisy Creek County.”
“I don’t think it will come to that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Folks can be pretty impatient when it comes to making cash.”
That was certainly true. Richard Parks called Will daily about his plans. Pretty soon Will would have to call him back.
Will said, “I appreciate you helping me with all this.”
“No need to thank me. I’m glad to have something to do besides haunt estate sales and farm auctions.”
“Thanks for talking Patsy into making baskets too. I had no idea she was so talented.”
“Runs in the family.” Tilde laughed. “The good looks too.” She snapped her visor up. “Mom’s hoping it gets her mind off leaving Daisy Creek. I don’t hold out much hope for that, but I figure it can’t hurt none.”
A truck pulling a trailer with two four-wheelers crested the hill.
“I better get moving. I’ll stop by later this week with some more things for the site.”
Will watched Tilde disappear in a cloud of red dust. So Granny wanted Patsy to stay. Not surprising. From the way Patsy acted, though, it would take a lot more than a few baskets to keep her in Daisy Creek. Will just wished he knew what.
Chapter 16
Patsy arranged rolls of oak strips, flat reed, and fabric into stacks on the back porch. It looked like she had everything: a pan for soaking, tape measure, scissors, pencil, and a beginner plan for Will to follow. She’d found a plan online for a miniature tobacco basket. She was going to show him some of the baskets she was working on, but thought he’d probably like to work on something of his own too. It was always more rewarding to do something yourself.
“Patsalee, get in here and start the pies frying. They’ll need time to cool before we can eat ‘em.”
Granny was pulling out all the stops: fried catfish, hushpuppies, green beans with bacon, and, Patsy’s all-time favorite, fried apple pies. The way Granny’d fussed all afternoon, you’d have thought Billy Graham was coming to call.
Of course, Patsy had done her share of fussing too. She couldn’t help it.
Patsy anchored the basket plans down with the scissors and headed inside. A knock on the door sent Pugnacious into a fit, barking and hopping on stiff legs.
“Look at her. She acts like she could take out ‘Stone Cold’ Steve Austin, Triple H, and the Undertaker all at once.” Granny laughed. “Better let the boy in before she knocks down the door.”
Patsy followed her genteel pet to the front.
On the other side, Will stood waiting, a bouquet of daisies in one hand, a WWE cookbook in the other. Ralph sat at his feet, one of the petite baskets from the site gripped in his mouth. Dog biscuits poked out the top.
Will shifted from one Dockers-clad foot to the other. “Your grandmother said Ralph was invited too. I hope you don’t mind.”
He looked awkward, out of place, and sexy as sin. Patsy bit her lower lip.
“Don’t ask me. Ask Pugnacious,” she replied as lightly as she could.
The pug surged forward, but stopped short when she saw the basket Ralph gently laid at her feet.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Patsy said.
“What?” Will looked up from the flowers.
“Your dog. How did you get him to deliver those cookies without eating them?”
Will shrugged. “It’s just who he is. He’d like to eat one just as much as the next dog,
but he knows his job is to deliver them, so he does.”
Patsy’s less-mannered beast snuffled over and began chomping down the treats. For once, she was happy Pugnacious was being her usual pig-mannered self. It gave Patsy something to do besides stare at Will. “Pugnacious, leave some for Ralph.” She tugged the pug’s collar and grabbed a few of the dog biscuits.
Ralph watched, eyes alert, until Patsy tossed the treats in the air. He delicately snagged one and nosed the others into a manageable pile. Pugnacious whined and pulled, but Patsy maintained her grip on her collar.
“You have plenty. Eat those.” Patsy pushed her dog toward the remaining treats and threw Ralph an apologetic look. “Sorry.” Looking back at Will, she said, “I really admire how you’ve trained him. I wish I could teach Pugnacious half his manners.” She sounded polite and distant. A passerby would never guess they’d been twisting naked in his sheets just days earlier. The company manners were getting on Patsy’s nerves. She longed for a little less civility and a lot more heat.
“Don’t admire me. It’s just who he is.” Will brushed his fingers along his dog’s back. “There was a book that came out a few years ago. According to it, every dog has a song to sing. Taking care of things, doing the right thing is Ralph’s.”
Patsy looked down at Pugnacious. “I hate to think what Pugnacious is singing,” she joked. She could barely concentrate on the conversation. Seeing Will up close and personal was proving harder than she’d imagined.
He knelt to scratch the pug on the top of her head. For the first time ever, Patsy was jealous of her dog.
“There’s nothing wrong with her song,” he said. “She’s sure of herself and loves life. You don’t see that kind of self-acceptance too often, in people or dogs. Right, girl?”
He made it sound so right, relaxing and rolling with what life threw at you, but Patsy couldn’t believe that. Couldn’t trust that being herself would be enough to secure her happiness.
After snarfing down the last cookie bit, the pug let out a belch.
Patsy grimaced. Obviously, self-acceptance wasn’t such a great goal.
“Oh, here.” Will held out the bouquet of daisies.
A lump formed in Patsy’s throat.
“I’m sorry if you’d have preferred something else, but your mother said you liked daisies, and they just seemed right.”
There was something vulnerable about his explanation, and Patsy realized she’d been staring. She couldn’t remember anyone buying her flowers before, except maybe a corsage for prom. Even though Will and she had agreed to simple friendship, something about him standing there holding out those daisies made her go all soft and mushy, a feeling past the physical attraction she was fighting.
He began to lower his arm.
“I love them,” she blurted, reaching out to grab the bouquet. “Uh, thank you.” She couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say, just stood there staring at him.
He stared back for a second, then opened his mouth as if to speak.
“You inviting the boy in?” Granny hobbled to the doorway separating the dining and living rooms. “I need you to fry those pies.”
Will and Patsy exchanged guilty glances.
After stepping inside, Will asked, “Fried pies?”
Happy the moment had passed, Patsy grinned. “I told Granny you were into eating healthy. She’s not much on Gardenburgers either, but she planned a well-balanced meal: fish, vegetables, and fruit for dessert.”
“It sounds delicious, Mrs. Jackson.” He followed Patsy and Granny into the kitchen.
Patsy pulled out the biggest iron skillet and poured in a few inches of oil.
“Why don’t you use the Crisco, sis?” Granny fussed at her from the kitchen table.
“I’m doing this.” Patsy motioned to Will. “Hand me that platter of pies.”
Will watched as Patsy carefully slid the pies into the bubbling oil.
“I didn’t know you could fry a pie.” His tone indicated he didn’t know why you would either.
“Just like McDonald’s,” Patsy replied.
Granny snorted. “Them things are the sorriest excuse for a fried pie I ever ate.” She gave Will a conspiratorial look. “The secret is in the crust. You gotta make it a little tougher than normal, so it won’t get soggy.”
Will nodded sagely.
“Tell him your secret,” Patsy said.
“Ain’t no secret. Folks just don’t appreciate staples.” Granny leaned forward. “Lard.”
Will’s eyes widened.
“Nothing makes a piecrust like lard. It’s good for you too. I been eating lard for over seventy years, and look at me.” Granny thumped her cane on the ground. “I’m going strong.”
Patsy hid her smile as she flipped the pies.
During dinner, Will was his usual charming self. Granny preened at his compliments and bullied him into eating seconds of everything. Patsy suspected he’d never eaten this much fat at one sitting. He didn’t complain though, and seemed to genuinely enjoy the pies.
He used a fork and knife to cut off a bite. “These are great,” he said.
Patsy giggled. “Not like that. You have to use your hands—see?” She picked up her pie and bit off a chunk.
“You leave the boy alone, sis. If he wants to eat it with a fork, that’s fine by me.” Granny bit into her own pie.
Will dropped his fork and picked up the pastry. Holding it out, he examined it.
“What?” Patsy asked.
“I was just thinking, you made these from scratch?”
“Of course.”
“Well, they look kind of like a Hostess pie, don’t you think?”
Patsy nodded.
“You ever try making one with pudding?”
Granny dropped her napkin over her plate. “A fried pudding pie? Son, that sounds about as tasty as snails on toast.” She shook her head. “And people say folks from the Ozarks eat strange.”
When they were done with dessert, Will presented Granny with the cookbook he had brought, and Patsy sent her into the living room to watch TV.
“You worked all day. We can clean up.”
“Don’t you be making that boy clean up. He’s our guest.”
With Granny settled in her chair and with the WWE blaring, Patsy and Will cleaned off the table.
“Where’s the dishwasher?” Will stood in the center of the floor, balancing a stack of dirty plates.
“You’re looking at her, unless you want to volunteer. Scrape those dishes first.” Patsy nodded to the trashcan.
“How do you live without a dishwasher?” Will slid his load onto the countertop and began dumping scraps into the trash.
Patsy laughed. “It’s not like air, you know.”
“Might as well be. If my mom or sister had to hand wash a dish, they’d be petitioning the president.”
“For what, their God-given right to kitchen appliances?” Patsy slid a plate into the sudsy water. “You’re exaggerating. Plenty of people don’t have dishwashers.”
“Nobody I know.”
“Granny and I don’t, and what about your house? It didn’t have a dishwasher, did it?”
“There was some kind of ancient roll-around thing, but Mrs. Jensen had it replaced with a built-in.”
“Here, dry.” She shoved a dishtowel into his hand. “Well, I know plenty of people who don’t have dishwashers, or microwaves, or, brace yourself, Internet connections.”
Will staggered back in a fake heart attack. “Say it isn’t true.”
Patsy giggled. “Just dry.” While he performed his assigned task, Patsy watched him out of the corner of her eye. This evening had been so perfect, cozy.
Will with Patsy’s family was like peanut butter with jelly—from completely different beginnings, but perfection when blended.
After cleaning up, they joined the dogs on the back porch.
“What’s all this?” Will picked up the roll of oak strips.
“You said you wanted to lea
rn basket weaving.”
“I do, but I didn’t think—”
“You don’t have to think, at least not this time. Just follow the plan, and do what I tell you. You think you can handle that?” Patsy shoved the metal pan into his hands. “Now get some water.” She gave him a playful frown.
While Will wandered over to the spigot, Patsy fussed over the basket materials, smoothing out the plans and double-checking to make sure nothing had grown legs and wandered off—or been snarfed by a pug in search of a chew toy.
“What kind of basket are we making?” Will asked over the sound of running water.
“You mean, you’re making. I’m just supervising.”
“You have one bossy mistress, don’t you, Pugnacious.” Will knelt down, letting the pug slurp from the pan.
“Don’t let her do that.” Patsy threw up her hands.
Will scratched the little dog behind her ear and pushed her toward Ralph. “Go tree something. Your mistress is going to teach me a thing or two.”
“Put the pan down and grab that roll of reed.” Patsy pointed to the other side of the wide, round table.
“This?” Will held up a bundle of sea grass.
Shaking her head, Patsy again motioned to the reed.
After he handed it to her, she said, “Now you have to measure and cut it into strips. The plan says thirteen-and-a-half inches long, but you can do whatever you like.” She bent over the table, studying the tape measure.
Will leaned in close, sniffing her hair. “You still smell good.”
Patsy pushed her hair behind her ears. “It’s grease from dinner. You could fry a dishrag and it’d be appetizing.”
“Are you saying you’re appetizing?” His tone was light, but his words caused something to flutter in Patsy’s stomach.
She wasn’t going to play. The evening had been going so well. Sexual innuendo would just land them back at the same point—Patsy wanted out of Daisy Creek, Will didn’t.
Flipping the reed over, she said, “See how one side is rougher than the other? You want the rough side to face up in the basket.”
“Interesting.” Will ran his finger down the length of reed and continued on, traveling up her arm. “You have a scar here.” He traced a white patch of skin on her forearm. Again, his voice held only light curiosity, but his touch changed the flutter to a thump.
