But I weren’t saying nothing of the sort to Buddy. That farmer’s market, it was buzzing like an oven timer. “So what if all these people cain’t decide for themself whether to buy some of my jam? What the hell we doing here?”
Buddy patted my knee, and, I ain’t lying, it gave me the shivers like that warm air’d turned snowy. Buddy, I knew he found me right amusing. I’ll admit it: I tried entertainin’ him just to see him grinning like a dad whose Boy Scout won the pinewood derby.
“So, look,” he said, like I ain’t said nothing, “speaking of free will, I hear you’ve got a choice to make.”
I cocked my head. “Choice?”
“The cookbook,” he said, counting out five dollars change.
I winked at the man he handed it to. “I’m telling you, you toss that kohlrabi in a little olive oil and bake it in the oven and it will change your life.”
That Khaki, she knew how to get right what she wanted, that was for damn sure. Buddy turned his attention back to me and said, “I’m sorry, I mean, I know being from around here, people like me and you, we get these kinds of opportunities all the time. But I’m not sure I’d let this one slide by.”
“Ha ha,” I said. “I know people like me don’t get these kinds of opportunities. But it’s real scary, you know?”
Buddy shook his head. “The dark is scary. Bugs is scary. Drunk mommas and daddies wasting away and ex-boyfriends trying to kill you is scary.” He piled five turnips into a green paper basket and said, “Writing a cookbook ain’t scary, darlin’.”
I know he called everyone darlin’. But, oh my Lord, it was like my name getting called at the church raffle. My cheeks was getting right red, so I fanned myself and said, “Sure is hot out here today.”
“If you want to be cool, be a writer.” Buddy winked at me and turned and got to talking about sprayin’ with a regular, who was smelling a bunch of dill. “Graham, he’d never let his kids play around in a field all full a’ chemicals. So you don’t never have to worry about that with us.”
Outta the corner of my eye, I saw a little boy, ’round Alex’s age, lookin’ on a big old pile of Coke crates. I knew that Alex would be crawling up them things faster than you could whistle Dixie, so, without even looking around for a momma, I started running right at him. Sure enough, he got up that first crate, and the second one he was holdin’ got to falling right as I grabbed him. He laughed, not knowing that he was damn near to being a bloodstain on the concrete. His momma, she came running up in her long dress and three-inch wedges. Who wears that to the farmer’s market I ain’t sure, but them Raleigh women came to get vegetables looking like they were ready for a night on the town. Not like in Kinston where everybody wore their sneakers and looked like they had some dang sense.
“Oh my gosh, Jack!” That momma was ’bout as blond as Marlene. She got to running best she could in them shoes. I put Jack back on the ground, and his momma said, all them bracelets she were wearing tinkling, “Thank you so much. I turned my back for one second.”
“Oh, it ain’t no big deal,” I said. “I’ve gotta lot of nieces and nephews, so I’m always looking out for kids.”
It were damn near like an ingrown toenail calling you my niece. It took my breath away hard. You weren’t gonna be calling me “momma” in a few months. I wanted to cry, but, instead, I got right mad.
“You’re gonna be a really great momma one day,” Buddy said when I got back to the table.
I looked at him like I’d sooner sell my organs on the black market.
“What?” He was looking all confused.
“I ain’t never gonna have any more youngens,” I said firmly.
“Why the hell not?”
That was the stupidest damn thing he’d ever asked me. “It wouldn’t be fair to Carolina.”
Buddy shook his head and turned to ring up a customer. “Have you tried any of Jodi’s famous jam?” Buddy asked a woman so thin it were real clear she ain’t never had sugar.
Just like I was thinking, she shook her head and said, “I don’t eat jam.”
Buddy weren’t the kind to give up easy. “What about sauerkraut? It’s the best in North Carolina, and there’s one jar left that’s got your name on it.”
She got all excited and her tennis dress was just a-quivering. “I love sauerkraut! I’ll take it.”
Didn’t nobody at this market ever ask how much nothing cost. I smiled at her, said, “Thank you,” and she shocked the livin’ daylights out of me by saying, “I’ve heard from my friends that you are an amazing canner.”
I shifted my eyes from her pretty face, all shiny and groomed, and said, “I don’t know there’s much to be good at or not.” My accent was getting more backwoods and country talking to her with her city, fancy Southern.
“Oh, yes there is,” she said, her ponytail just a-bobbin’. I couldn’t figure she knew much ’bout nothing besides getting her nails done. “My friends and I are starting to grow our own gardens, and some things are so plentiful that we don’t know what to do with it all. Do you think you could come by sometime and give us some advice?” She got all nervous. “I mean, um, we’d pay you of course,” she stuttered.
I was more flattered than a girl on a tenth date with a confirmed bachelor. “Well, actually, if you check back with me, I’m gonna have a cookbook coming out real soon that’s got all my best secrets in it.”
Buddy was shellin’ some peanuts for a little girl with a big bow in her hair, but our eyes met all the same. Later, he said, “For someone who was so unsure about changing her life, that sentence sure did slide right out.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t have no choice. My neurons made me do it.”
Khaki
EMERGING VOICES
I know how I feel about most things without much thought. Velvet, no. Linen, yes. Burgundy, no. Gray, yes. Plaid, no. Animal print, yes. Even those things that I haven’t formed an immediate, snap opinion about, I’m able to wrap my brain around pretty well.
The one gap in that imagination is that, as much as I try to put myself in one’s shoes, I can’t imagine how a father must feel about his children. I know it’s not the same as a mother, but I can’t pinpoint what the feeling might be precisely.
Sitting across the table from Graham at Chef and the Farmer that night, our favorite, farm-to-table restaurant in Kinston, Graham gave me some insight, reminding me that this house full of little feet and emerging voices was what he had always dreamed of too. Amid the hustle and bustle of the Thursday night crowd, many of whom had come from out of town to enjoy Chef Vivian’s award-winning creations, I said, “I’m so glad that you get to have a child of your own.”
His face contorted like I had just told him I had been screwing his best farmhand for our entire marriage. He snorted and said, “It must be true that pregnancy makes you nutty.”
I stopped my fork, full of the most magnificently flavored, bone-in pork chop you’ll ever eat—from Daddy’s farm, thank you very much—right before it got to my mouth. “What does that mean?”
“Khaki,” he protested. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten because it’s our date night, but I already have two children of my own.”
It was the single greatest thing that man has ever said to me. And he has said a lot of things that sit prettier than the top tier of a wedding cake.
He squeezed my hand across the table, taking a sip of the Weeping Willow Wit from right across the street at Mother Earth Brewing and said, “But I have to admit that feeling little kicks in your belly and having a baby know my voice before she’s even born is awesome.”
“She?”
He nodded. “It’s a girl for sure.”
I didn’t bother to argue. I had known Alex was a boy, so why couldn’t Graham know that this baby was a girl? I smiled, thinking of how much Graham adored you. He was amazing with Alex, of course. They threw balls and r
ode around on the tractor and wrestled on the floor and ate hot dogs and got dirty. If you hadn’t known the whole story, you would never have been able to tell that Graham hadn’t always been Alex’s dad.
But the way he looked at you was something different entirely. It damn near broke that big teddy bear heart when you cried, and you felt the same way about him. You had this special baby smile that only crossed your lips when your daddy came in the room.
Lying in bed that night after a divine dinner, I had to force myself to stop daydreaming about my beautiful girls in their giant hair bows and focus on the recipes Jodi wanted me to edit because we were going to have a big weekend. Charlie, my best friend from childhood, and her husband, Greg, were coming from California to meet you. I had told Charlie a million times not to bring anything for you, but, secretly, I was hoping for a wrapped-to-perfection treat from Jacadi.
I was holding my breath and that envelope full of large index cards Jodi had written each recipe on. I was too nervous to even open them.
I set it beside me again, its weight sinking into the plush down like a horse in quicksand, and sighed.
“What’s the problem, babydoll?”
“I’m just wondering what the hell I was thinking. I mean, I can’t even imagine the amount of editing I’m going to have to do to even get Jodi’s stuff ready for Patrick to look at it.”
Graham laid his open Sportfishing Magazine on the fluffy comforter and said, “No way. Jodi is super smart. She was always at the top of her class.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, but the way she talks . . . I can’t even imagine how she writes.”
Graham shrugged and said, “Well, no time like the present to find out.”
Now, I know I’m from the South. But I’d consider myself at least a quarter New Yorker, which means I’m maybe not fully jaded, but pretty jaded nonetheless. It takes a lot to shock me. And my mouth was just hanging there wide open like I was having my teeth cleaned. That girl, who couldn’t seem to get was and were straight in a single thing she said, had managed to write: This isn’t a book about Michelin stars or master sommeliers or four diamonds. It isn’t a book for swanky nights out with high heels and cashmere. This is a book about real living. It’s about the best things—fresh-picked food, laughter around a table of love, and learning everything you need to know at your grandmother’s knee in her kitchen. The faster the world seems to spin and the more hectic things become, the more we long for a return to those simple values. There’s always time to slow down for a good, home-cooked meal—especially if your cupboard and freezer are full of the finest ingredients the earth has to offer. This is the stuff of life. The way memories are made. And it can be all yours—as easy as pie.
I set the paper on the bed, removed my glasses, rubbed my eyes, put my glasses back on, and read again. Then I looked over at Graham. “She nailed it. I mean, she absolutely writes like she was born to do it.”
Graham winked at me and turned back to his fishing article. “Yup. Just ’cause we talk wrong don’t mean we don’t know what’s right.”
I pored over her recipes that night, laughing and wiping a tear over the little anecdotes that accompanied each one. And it made me realize how strong Jodi was, how she took a life ripe with strife and struggle and chose to remember the good moments. She had made those lemons into lemonade. And I knew that my instinct had been right. I didn’t blame Patrick for not wanting to present this based on a proposal alone. But I was pretty sure this work was going to blow him away.
I must have fallen asleep somewhere in the jam section because the next morning I awoke to the sound of voices flooding the kitchen. I looked over at the clock, confused, and realized it was almost noon. I could have killed Graham for not waking me. I brushed my teeth and tiptoed carefully down the stairs. Those first few months I’m pregnant I’m like a momma bird with her egg. I’m so afraid that if I sit wrong or stand wrong or move wrong, the baby is going to fall right out of the nest.
I squealed when I saw Charlie holding you and Greg sitting on the floor with Alex, playing with a dump truck that he must have brought from California. Charlie, looking quite unlike the law firm partner she was, was clad in a pair of Umbro shorts that she must have had since high school, her light brown hair in a messy ponytail, looking like she hadn’t seen the sun in a decade. Greg, on the other hand, was deeply tanned, his ear-length hair held back with sunglasses, in jeans and a slim-cut dress shirt that made you know he spent quite a bit of time in the gym. I was always stunned, when I saw them in real life, by what an odd-looking pair they made.
Charlie looked at the clock. Then, without saying a word to me, she looked at Greg and said, “Oh, good Lord in heaven above.”
“What?” Greg asked, confused.
“Khaki is pregnant again.”
“How do you know?” I protested.
“Well, it is noon, Khak,” Graham said.
I smiled demurely. “A fifth Jacobs will be joining the family very shortly.”
Charlie rolled her eyes and Greg winked at her and said, “Well then, I guess it is a good thing that we’re moving back here. Someone is going to have to help you take care of all these children.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and peered at Charlie. “Wait. What?”
Charlie smiled. “My firm wants to open a Raleigh office, and Greg thought open fields and riverbanks could be new painting inspiration—for a few years at least. We’re moving back to Kinston, and I’m going to commute to Raleigh a couple of times a week.”
Forgetting completely about my pregnancy and my fear that the baby would roll right out, I leapt to throw my arms around Charlie’s neck.
“It gets better,” Graham said.
I gasped. “You’re having a baby!”
Charlie cringed. “He said better, Khaki, not apocalyptic.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Why would it be so bad for you to be pregnant? I think you’d be a great mother.”
Charlie crossed her arms. “I know you think it would be so great for me. You’ve made your point. But not everyone has to be exactly like you to be happy.”
I shifted my body language to say that that was true, and she understood. “I didn’t say I wanted you to be pregnant,” I amended. “In fact, I’m kind of glad you’re not, because then you wouldn’t get to be my kids’ cool, fun aunt Charlie because you’d be too busy.”
“Speaking of.” Charlie smiled and reached behind the island to produce a Jacadi box.
“Yay!” I squealed, and Graham said, “Are you ever going to let them tell you the best part?”
“The Jacadi isn’t the best part?”
I turned to Greg, and he shook his head.
“You know how Momma has been wanting to downsize ever since Daddy died,” Graham said, “and since I built this place for us and we won’t take it off her hands she has been pouting?”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“Yes!” Charlie shouted back. “We’re buying Mrs. Jacobs’s house!”
I turned to Greg. “Are you okay with all this? I mean, do you feel like you’ve been kidnapped by aliens who are forcing you to inhabit Venus?”
The South was a bit of a different planet, when you got right down to it. Greg just shrugged in his cool, California surfer way, pushing his long hair out of his eyes and said, “I’m all about life experiences.”
I turned back to Charlie and could feel myself salivating like Pauline’s fresh-baked cheese biscuits were about to come out of the oven. “Anything you want to ask me?”
“Of course, Khaki. Would you be so kind as to assist us in getting the new place looking straight?”
I clapped and jumped up and down and gave Graham a big kiss. “I know, babydoll,” he said. “You’ve been wanting to clear that place out for two decades.”
Graham’s mom could have borderline been on one of those shows about hoarders
. She lived in this grand, gorgeous home with the widest hand-carved moldings you’ve ever seen, door casings that would make you cry, and a free-hanging staircase that would take your breath away. And she had every square inch so crammed with hideous knickknacks and furniture that you could barely breathe, much less take in the incredible display of architecture around you.
“Actually,” Charlie amended. “Could you do it however you want and send me the bill?”
I nodded and patted her on the shoulder. “You know you don’t even have to ask.”
Charlie trying to decorate a home like Graham’s momma’s was like Shaq trying to comfortably drive a Prius. Furthermore, she couldn’t have cared less if the place had folding chairs and empty cardboard boxes for a coffee table. As long as she had her comfortable mattress and a sofa to curl up on and watch Downton Abbey, life was good.
I put on my happiest face, smiled down at you and Alex, and said, “Hey, Char, can I talk to you for a minute in the living room?”
“Khaki . . .” Graham started. “I told you everything is fine. You worry too much.”
I pinned on an enthusiastic grin. “You don’t even know what I’m talking to her about, Graham.” But he did know. And he’d known me about two decades too long not to know my lying face.
Charlie studied my face and said, “Is everything okay?”
I sat down on the couch and she followed suit, tucking her feet up underneath her.
“It’s fine,” I said, still sort of lying, having been unable to sleep well ever since my conversation with Mother about Jodi getting you back. “I know you’re the best at what you do, but I just want to make sure . . . I mean, I know you wouldn’t make a mistake, but I guess I just worry . . .”
Dear Carolina Page 17
