by Rachel Hauck
“Now, I’m not sure about this.” Luke reached into the car and pulled out two Publix grocery bags. “But I couldn’t shake this urge in my spirit to buy fixings for banana bread.”
Joy peeked into the bag. Chocolate and peanut butter chips. Brown sugar. Cinnamon. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Vanilla. Buttermilk. “Everything but the bananas,” she whispered.
Luke stretched inside the Spit Fire and brought out a final bag. “Several bunches of just-brown-enough. In case the first batch doesn’t go well.”
“Oh, Luke.” She collapsed against him, the bags swinging from her hands. His hands felt good tracing the long line of her spine. When she finally glanced up, he held her face in his hands.
“I love you. You need to know that. I love you.”
A trail of tears ran down her cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”
Mama and Annie-Rae came out as Luke bent for a final kiss and their last good-bye was full of commotion and conversation. A bright place to be.
As Luke motored away, Joy stood in the driveway with bags in hand, the ardor of his love filling up her heart.
Thirty-three
Making banana bread was easy. It had to be. Annie-Rae had the ingredients mixed in a bowl all by herself the other day. Surely Joy could conquer bananas, sugar, flour, and eggs. Mash, mash, swirl, swirl. Pour in bowl. Bake at three-seventy-five. Easy.
Lining up the banana bread fixings, Joy eyed them from the center of the kitchen, hands on her hips, approaching the task as if she faced the opposing team’s big hitter.
This was just unsanctified fear. “Daddy,” Joy pressed her palms together. “I know you loved me. You didn’t mean to ignore me.” Her heart fluttered under the power of truth.
Flipping to the marked page in Daddy’s recipe book, Joy wedged the top corners under the flour and sugar canisters, smoothed her hand over the paper, and squinted at Daddy’s handwriting.
Banana Bread. For my Joy.
For a long moment she read the words over and over. For my Joy. Truth sank into the cracks created by the lie. Shifting her stance, Joy drew a long, strong breath, clearing her soul of all guilt. She’d been the other player in her relationship with Daddy, not really wanting to know him, see the truth about him.
Never did she have to wonder where he was at night. She knew. Always knew. In the kitchen or in his attic office. Only she chose to see him as absent.
“Daddy, I’m sorry.” No tears or painful sorrow. Just an honest, cleansing confession. She startled when her phone pinged from the kitchen table. Luke’s message appeared on the screen.
U can do it.
How do u know?
B cause u whipped me with ur fastball 15x.
Please tell me ur still here.
Getting gas. At hiwy. I still love u.
Still don’t deserve u.
Joy waited to see if he would respond, then on impulse, ran to the living room window, imagining him turning into the driveway and parking in the dappled sunlight cascading through the trees.
But he didn’t. With a sigh, she returned to the kitchen, yanking her worn Bama ball cap from the hook by the sliding door. It was time. Game on.
Tugging the hat onto her head with the bill in the back, Joy jigged around the kitchen. Might as well have fun with this. She smiled her TV smile and faced a pretend camera.
“Hi everyone, Joy Ballard here, and today I am making my father’s fabulous banana bread. All by myself. Yes, all by myself. I’m going to make Charles Ballard proud.” Joy snatched up the first banana and started to peel. “Cooking, baking, seemed like impossible tasks to me, but now I know my heart beats with the same blood of a truly devoted foodie gastronome. Don’t you love that word, gastronome? It’s like Old World sophisticated meets third-grade snickering. Can’t you see a couple of kids on the school playground going, ‘She said gastronome. Hehe.’” Joy plopped the banana into the bowl with a rising sense of peace and pleasure. “First, we’re going to mash up three ripe bananas. Then stir in the eggs and vanilla . . .”
I DID IT! 4 tries.
So proud. Knew u had it in u.
Wish u were here for the 1st bite.
Luke,
I saw on the news it’s sleeting in Portland. Ha! I’d send you some long undies but Walmart is still selling beach gear here. Want a float ring? I hope you’re warm. How’s Roth House?
After two weeks at home, Lyric is back in school. Thank goodness. The family is saved. Either she went back to school or the rest of us were moving into a hotel.
Otherwise, she’s doing well, hobbling around on her crutches, dealing with the pain, which has eased up. The accident has made her a mini celebrity. The boys felt so guilty for shoving her out of the cab to the bed of the truck, they dote on her a bit.
Even Parker humbled and apologized to me and Mama, brought Lyric flowers. So he’s graduated from scum of the earth to just dirtbag.
Haven’t made any decisions about what’s next for me. Kind of enjoying not knowing, leaping out, aiming for the hand of God. Such an odd sensation. But thrilling.
God is good. God is love.
Missing you,
Joy
P.S. Made so much banana bread, Mama banned it until Thanksgiving. Sheesh, first she wants me to cook, and now . . .
Joy, short note to say I’m thinking of you daily. Roth House is swamped. We are going nonstop from the time we open until we close. I won’t see the end of eighteen-hour days for a while.
Still loving you,
Luke
“Any word from Sawyer and Mindy?” Joy asked, entering Mama’s room and curling up next to her on the bed, dipping into the Cheetos bag.
“He did call, Joy. Talked to Lyric last night when you went to Elle’s.”
Joy sat up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want to get you all stirred up. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Mama, it’s a huge deal.” Joy rolled off the bed. “What did he say? What did they talk about?”
“See, this is why I didn’t tell you. You’re getting all worked up.”
“You bet I am.” Joy paced along the width of the footboard. “He doesn’t call, doesn’t e-mail or make contact, then finally, after she’s out of the hospital for two weeks.” She came back to Mama’s side of the bed. “I’m thinking of suing for custody.”
“Oh, Joy.” Mama closed her novel and tossed it to the nightstand. “No, you’re not. Those kids belong with Sawyer and Mindy. He sounded good when I talked to him. Settled, confident. I think maybe they’re getting their act together.”
“Act is right.”
“You know those girls belong with their parents. It’s what they want. It’s the reason for the sadness in Annie-Rae’s eyes. Do you realize she never mentions them, Joy? Does that seem right to you? She and Lyric love Saw and Mindy. And they love the girls.” Mama popped her palm in front of Joy. “I know what you’re going to say, so just button it.”
Joy lowered Mama’s hand. “Loving them is not the problem. Sending them off to Saw and Mindy’s Viva Las Vegas world is the problem. You want the girls living in Sin City? Look at the trouble Lyric found right here in Beaufort, with you and me watching, plus half the town. What will happen to her and Annie-Rae if they go to Vegas? No,” Joy waved her hands, “they are better here with us. I just learned how to bake banana bread. I can teach Annie-Rae, pass on Daddy’s recipe. We’re their family, Mama. We’re home.”
“Speaking of family.” Mama plumped a pillow behind her back. “I have something to tell you. But first, there will be no suing. If Sawyer and Mindy want the girls, they’ll have them. You can still teach them to make banana bread.”
Joy reclined on the second pillow, stretching out, staring at the ceiling. “I’m worried for nothing, right? Why would they show up now when Lyric needs so much care? That would cramp their style.” Disaster avoided.
“I want you to know . . .” Mama hesitated. Joy glanced over at
her, thinking she looked so young and pretty.
“Are you blushing?”
“Am I?” Mama pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I’m going on . . . well, I’ve been asked . . . mercy.” Mama fanned her face with her fingers. “I feel like I’m the daughter and you’re the mother.”
“Really.” Joy sat up. “Is this where I get to tell you how I walked to school uphill both ways and never had a TV or record player until I was married?”
“A date.” Mama rushed Joy with her words. “I’m going on a date. There, I said it.”
“A date?” Joy sat up, squared her shoulders. “Really? With who?”
“Baxter McMullens. And I don’t want to hear another word.”
Mama reached for her book and started turning pages.
“The Baxter McMullens? The one who owns half the lowcountry?”
“Is there another?”
“Holy shamoly, Mama. How’d you meet him?” Baxter McMullens was the great grandson of Irish immigrants with a compulsion for hard work and a keen ability to make money.
“The shop.” Mama lowered her book to her lap, her countenance changing with the glow of a girlish blush. “He’d heard of me. Can you believe that, Joy? So he called about his vintage Jag. We got to talking on the phone, hit it off, so when he came in, it was like seeing an old friend. Today he asked me to dinner.”
“Like dinner-dinner. Or dinn-er.”
“The kind with linen tablecloths and candlelight.” Mama ducked behind a shy smile. “He’s handsome, makes me feel young, and I like him.”
“Mama, fifty-six is young. It’s prime time, baby.” Joy flopped onto her back again and drummed her belly with her hands. “Look at the Ballard women now. Growing up, going on dates, making banana bread.”
“Speaking of growing up . . . Joy, give that Luke a chance. He’s a fine man, Joy. Don’t think you’ll do better.”
“He can cook. We know that much.” And kiss. Mm, he was a fine kisser. Not that she had many to compare him to, but the way he made her feel was proof enough.
“Listen, I know you.” Mama popped Joy’s arm with her book. “You get all stubborn and cling to an idea until you’ve wrung the life out of it. Or it’s wrung the life out of you. But don’t make him wait long, Joy. If you love him, go to Portland.”
“It’s cold in Portland.”
“It won’t be if you marry Luke.” Mama pinched back her smile as she returned to the pages of her book.
“Mama!” Heat crept from Joy’s cheeks all the way to her toes. “Luke and I are talking . . . he understands the girls need me. You need—”
“Nothing. I don’t need you that much, Joy. We love you and you’re good company, but don’t you dare hide behind me and the girls.”
“I’m not hiding. If I cling to things until I can’t cling anymore, then I’m more likely to do whatever is in front of me. I’m not doing that this time. I like Luke a lot, but I don’t know if I love him enough to hightail it up to Portland.” Joy crawled off the bed. “I have a rare opportunity to wait on God. I literally have nothing. It’s good, Mama. It feels really good.”
“I’m happy for you then,” Mama said. “And are you happy for me? Going out with Baxter?”
“More than happy.” Joy angled down and kissed her mama’s flushed cheeks. “Daddy wasn’t always easy, was he?”
“Oh no, but he was a good man and I loved him.” Mama’s grip tightened around Joy’s hand. “He really loved you, Joy. I never doubted his devotion to me or you kids.”
“I think I’m finally figuring that out, learning to speak his language. Food.”
“In which he was quite fluent. And don’t worry about Saw and Mindy, Joy. It’s going to be fine.”
“As long as they stay in Vegas, all will be well.”
Thirty-four
Joy, Lyric, and Annie-Rae stared out over the backyard, through the screen porch.
“I think she’s gone crazy.” Lyric leaned on her crutches, scanning the landscape.
“Poor Granny.” Annie-Rae pressed her face to the screen.
The entire backyard was gone, tilled up, with its red dirt bottom facing heavenward. Having gone down to Savannah for the afternoon with the girls, shopping, easing Lyric’s weekend restlessness, Joy came home to this.
“Maybe Granny didn’t do this.” It was the only logical explanation. Mama didn’t do it. Joy tugged her phone from her pocket and snapped a picture for Luke.
Pray. Backyard. Red dirt. Yard war escalates. We may be refugees soon.
In the past few days, texting became the rhythm of their relationship. Luke answered when he had a break in the kitchen. Two days ago a conversation lasted all day. Then yesterday he’d sent her a picture of his newest dish, something-or-other with fish. She pictured back her dinner. A bowl of Cocoa Pebbles.
Fish and cereal, a match made in heaven.
Joy dialed Mama, but when she didn’t answer, she left a message.
“Just to warn you, someone stole our backyard. Could be Miss Dolly retaliating.”
“Miss Dolly.” Annie gasped. “Could she be this mean?”
“Granny planted wax flowers in her yard, Annie-Rae.” Lyric hobbled toward the sliding glass. “I’m going inside. My leg is starting to hurt.”
“I’ll help you, Lyric.” Annie-Rae lent Lyric her small, steady shoulder.
As she held the door, Joy noticed a mason jar on the table with dark, wriggly things in it. Lifting the jar, she peered inside. Oh . . . she dropped the jar to the table. It was full of mean-looking worms slithering together.
A motor whined from the side of the house. Joy cocked her head to listen. The sound came closer. When Joy stepped off the porch, Mama, freewheeling a backhoe, grinding the gears, halting and starting, nearly ran her over.
“What are you doing?” Joy’s flip-flops sank into the moist soil as she scurried after the yellow and black machine. “Did you do this to our beautiful yard?”
When Mama inched to a stop, Joy glared at her, leaning with one hand against the machine. “Explain, please, or I’m calling the authorities. Was this you or Dolly?”
Mama lifted her goggles. Joy rolled her eyes. “Armyworms. Eating up the whole yard. Can’t have it. Next spring, the garden club is having a contest for the most beautiful lawn.” Mama leaned toward Joy, whispering. “And I’m going to win. Putting in golf course grass.”
“So you backhoed the yard? What happened to the wonder of pesticides?” Realizing she stood in the armyworm-infested dirt, Joy lifted her right foot, then her left.
“Oh, I’m spraying and fertilizing, putting in a sprinkler system. Then I’m carpeting the whole yard with zoysia.” Mama hopped off the backhoe and swept her hands across the plane of the yard. “You’ll be able to putt a golf ball on our grass.”
“I’m in a Bill Murray movie.” The clap of a car door echoed over the house. Joy quizzed Mama with a glance. “Your date’s not tonight, is it?”
“Noooo.” Mama tugged off her gloves and started around the side of the house. “Tomorrow night. Saturday.”
At the end of her sentence, the breeze carried high-pitched, excited voices. Squeals. Mama. Daddy. Joy hurried with Mama to the front yard, slowing, her heart sinking when she glimpsed the girls return their parents’ embrace. So they finally came. Sawyer and Mindy.
Mama hurried forward, arms wide. “Well, look at you two. All the way from Las Vegas.”
Luke sat in the parking lot with his collar flipped up around his neck, the engine of his Spit Fire idling, chilly air seeping through the weak spots in his convertible top.
He glanced at the name and number on the card in his gloved hand. Emily Carmen, Andover College. Culinary Arts.
Luke pressed the clutch and shifted into drive, tossing the card onto the seat. Whatever made him think he could teach? Like he had time to teach. Even if he was qualified. He was a high school dropout. Dyslexic. His own system of reading and understanding didn’t translate into everyday life.
&nb
sp; How could he inspire young men and women to achieve when he was a quitter? He’d only offered to help Joy learn to cook because she needed him. Or rather, he needed her.
His phone pinged as he eased the car to a stop.
R u in the building?
Not yet.
Don’t make me come up there.
Then I’m never going in.
Luuuukkeee, go in!!
All right already.
Y r u being such a chicken?
Asked the banana bread queen?
Whatever. Hey, Sawyer and Mindy showed up.
Wow, that’s good right?
I guess. U should see the buy-off gifts.
I bet. Wanna talk?
No! Go in. Become a great chef teacher person.
LOL. I’ll put that down on the official application.
Luke shifted into reverse, fired into a parking spot, and cut the engine. Walking backward toward the building, he snapped his picture and forwarded it to Joy.
I’m going in.
Yay! Bout time. Praying 4 u.
She’d waited long enough. With the girls tucked in bed and the evening rolling toward midnight, Joy paced the back porch, listening to Mama’s easy chatter.
The entire evening, with Upper Crust Pizza and ice cream, was all so casual, as if Sawyer and Mindy were long-lost cousins home from an exotic world tour.
Actually, they looked the same. Sawyer still wore his hair short and tight. His jeans were the kind he’d worn every year since high school.
Mindy had lost a few pounds, but otherwise she looked the same. The ends of her dark hair brushed her jawline, and her oceangreen eyes, nestled deep under perfect eyebrows, observed the world from her smooth, fresh face.
“Rosie, you should see our house.” Mindy reached for Sawyer’s hand. “It’s fabulous. Four bedrooms, three baths, pool, game room, fenced yard. A mother-in-law suite. The girls are going to love it.”
“Love it? Mindy, how do you know?” Joy whirled around to confront her brother and sister-in-law. She’d had enough of playing nice. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You’ve been absent for over a year. And silent. Until you called Lyric the other night, Sawyer, when was the last time you called your daughters? You didn’t even call Lyric on her birthday. How do you know what they’re going to love?”
