She nodded again. What could be the difference between putting money in the drawer for plate lunches or for ribs, or drawing beer or Cokes?
The place was as rough inside as out. Décor was old car and truck license plates from every state and year, funny sayings painted on rough boards and hung with baling wire, and rusty tools that she couldn’t even identify. Buckets of peanuts were in the middle of the tables, and the shells crunched under her feet as she walked across the wood floor. Booths lined the north and south walls and were full of people laughing, talking, and eating barbecue or tossing shells as they waited on their orders. Bright lights flashed from a jukebox, and country music echoed off the walls.
“We sell ribs and brisket. Prices are up there.” John pointed to the menu above the counter, items stenciled in block letters. “Both come with an order of fries and a chunk of Texas toast to dip up the barbecue sauce. My buddy, Jamie, was supposed to send his niece to work tonight. My regular waitress can’t work on Wednesdays and Saturdays. That’s why I thought you were my new waitress. Prices are also listed right here.” He tapped a menu taped to the counter beside the cash register.
Toby Keith’s voice came through the jukebox with “Beer for My Horses,” and a group of women formed a line dance in the middle of the floor, their stomping boots and shuffling feet creating even more noise. Every so often they’d yell, “Bull…shit,” and slap their butts.
She’d barely gotten settled in behind the cash register when the song ended and thirsty dancers lined up in front of the bar.
“Two Coors,” the first one said.
The handles were marked Coors, Budweiser, Miller, and Busch instead of Coke, Dr Pepper, and Sprite, but it worked the same way. She filled two mugs, took their money, made change, and looked up at the next person in line.
“Six Buds.”
She grabbed three mugs, filled them, set them on the counter, filled three more, rang up the amount, made change, and turned to look at the next one in line.
“You’ll do fine.” John went back to the kitchen.
At midnight, he pulled the plug on the jukebox, announced that they were closed, and the last four people left. He locked the door and opened the bulging cash register, handed her two twenties and a ten, and drew up two beers.
“Might as well sit down and have a drink before you go home. You took to it like you knew what you were doin’.”
She shook her head and followed him to a booth. “I’ve worked with a cash register and ran a machine like that, only it wasn’t beer. Not much difference.”
He set the beers on the table and pushed one over to her.
It was better than the champagne she and Ethan had the night he proposed and a helluva lot better than Trixie’s whiskey.
John waved a hand in front of her face. “Hello!”
“What?”
“I was talking to you.”
“I’m sorry. My mind was off in la-la land.”
“Interested in working a couple of nights a week? Any tips are yours to keep. And I pay minimum wage. It ain’t much, but it’ll help out while you are in college. You are twenty-one, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “And then some.”
“Long as the law don’t come down on me, I don’t care if you are twenty-one, one day, and one hour, darlin’. I only need someone on Wednesday and Saturday, though.”
“I’m free those two nights,” Cathy said. Funny how things worked out, wasn’t it?
“So do you want Cathy or Catherine embroidered on your work shirts? That fancy shirt and those high-dollar-looking slacks are classy, but I’d rather you wore jeans or denim shorts and a company shirt to work in. You’ll mess up a lot of good clothes if you don’t.”
“Cathy is what I want on my shirts,” she explained. “One is enough since I’ll only be here twice a week.”
“Finish your beer and I’ll walk you out to your car. You’ll be late for classes if you oversleep.”
Her car was the only one left in the parking lot. One streetlamp dimly lit the parking lot and the smell of smoking ribs and brisket still floated around in the hot night air.
“That Lumina belong to you?” John pointed.
“It does now. It was my mother’s and I inherited it when she died. Twelve years old and only 20,000 miles on it,” Cathy said.
“I used to have one of those. Loved that car. Had plenty of leg room, got good mileage. I told the dealer when I traded it in that they quit making them because they were too damned good. Nothing ever went wrong with them,” John drawled.
His deep Texas drawl went with the romantic hero in her imagination. Candy Parker should take a research trip to Luella and eat John’s barbecue. She’d have a whole new hero, and a setting like the Rib Joint would make a new book sell like hotcakes.
Why didn’t his wife help out at the restaurant? Could be that she was his regular waitress and they couldn’t find a sitter on Wednesday and Saturday nights for their kids, or that she was a nurse who worked the night shift.
He opened the car door for her and said, “You might want to lock the doors. I get all kinds out here and I’d sure hate to see a car in this good of shape messed up.”
“I will do that from now on. Thank you for the job,” she said. “I’ll see you Saturday. What time?”
“I open at six. If you could be here then, I’d appreciate it. Close at midnight every night. I live behind the joint in a trailer house. Maggie Rose is waiting for me, so good night, Cathy, and I’m glad you took the job.”
“I’ll be here when you open,” she said.
It was all surreal. Had she really broken up with Ethan? Shouldn’t she be crying? Had she really gone to work at a glorified beer joint?
Chapter 11
Good food.
Good friend.
Jack had it all right in front of him.
But Marty was worried about something. Her mind wasn’t on the tray she’d brought out to him from the leftovers of the buffet bar. And it wasn’t on restoring the Caddy all over again, either.
“Okay, honey. What’s on your mind? You poutin’ because I’m moving away from next door?”
“Well, there is that, but I’m worried about Cathy, Jack. You know that we’re total opposites and yet I feel it when she’s in trouble or hurting.”
“One completes the other?” He crumbled cornbread into the greens and tasted them, then added pepper vinegar, tasted again, and really settled into his supper.
“That’s exactly right. She’s as nice as Jesus. Honest to God, she is. And it just comes natural. I’m her opposite. I say what I think and to hell with feelings. And the thing I’m worried about is that I don’t feel anything horrible down in my gut. It’s at peace for the first time since she got engaged to Ethan,” Marty said.
“Maybe she’s come to her senses,” he said.
“I hope so.” She sighed.
“That sigh says something is wrong,” Jack said.
“It’s Trixie. She’s not quite herself. Do you think she knows about the vote shit?”
“She was asking me about it,” Jack said honestly. “I was able to steer her away from it, but I wouldn’t be surprised that she’s gotten downwind of some gossip.”
“Dammit!”
***
Cathy pulled into the driveway and took a deep breath before she even went into the house. Marty and Trixie had stood beside her, tried to get her to see the light, and she’d fought them the whole way. They deserved to know that they had been right all along.
Trixie had a beer and a plate of fried catfish in front of her. “What took you so long to get home? I’ve been worried.”
“But Mamma, look at the clock. It’s only twelve thirty and that means I’m making curfew.” Cathy pulled a Diet Coke from the fridge. She hadn’t eaten since lunch and the fish looked good. She sat down beside Trixie and picked up a piece from her plate.
“That’s all you get. Warm up your own fish. You could have called,” Trixie said.
Marty pushed through the door and joined them at the table. “Okay, talk.”
Jack was right behind her. He set his tray with empty bowls and plates on the countertop, got a beer from the refrigerator, and looked up. “Anyone else?”
“I had one already,” Cathy said.
“In Ethan’s house? He has something like beer in that house?” Marty asked.
“No, at the Rib Joint.”
Trixie sniffed the air. “Is that what I smell? You and Ethan went to the Rib Joint. Was he drunk? I didn’t think he’d ever go to a place like that. I figured he’d have to be in a wine and white tablecloth joint.”
Marty leaned against the cabinet. “You smell like barbecue and beer, sister.”
“Nice change, isn’t it?”
That’s when Trixie noticed Cathy’s left hand and squealed, “Look, Marty, no ring!”
“Well, hot damn and halle-damn-lujah! Get on with the story, sister. Now I know it’s got a happy ending.”
Cathy started at the beginning when she had to ring the doorbell twice and ended with, “And Anna Ruth was there in the parlor with her Aunt Annabel the whole time. Ethan was more worried about their feelings than mine, and he would not tell me that he loves me. I feel like I’m back in high school, coming home in the evenings to tell y’all the details of my life.”
Marty laid a hand on Cathy’s shoulder. “Is this just the calm before the storm? Are you going to fall apart?”
Cathy shook her head.
“I heard the good news!” Agnes burst in the back door dressed in a bright red sweatsuit, red house shoes, and red hair sticking up like a worn-out mop that dried sitting on the back porch.
“What good news?” Marty asked. “Did you hear something about me being out with a sexy cowboy?”
“Hell, Marty, you’ve been to bed with half the cowboys in the state of Texas. And I know you’ve been out in the garage with Jack all night. I just got a phone call from Liddy Jo who heard it from Beulah who got it from Annabel who was at the Prescotts’ tonight that Cathy gave the ring back to Ethan because of that damned pre-dump. I told you I called it the right thing, didn’t I? It made you dump him, didn’t it? Make me some of that stuff Trixie is eating. I’m ready to celebrate.”
“Aunt Agnes! I might have broken his heart,” Cathy said.
“I don’t give a shit! At least yours won’t get broken.” She bent down and peered into Cathy’s eyes. “Nope, I don’t see a broken heart. I see relief. What made you finally change your mind?”
“Guess I figured out that I’m a beans and greens and fried chicken girl, not a prime rib and red wine lady.” Cathy’s perfectly arched eyebrows knit together into one line. “Does that make me a horrible person? Oh my God!”
“Well, if that don’t sound just like Marty takin’ the Lord’s name in vain,” Agnes said.
“What brought on the OMG?” Trixie asked.
“The cake! That blasted cake! I’ll have to cancel it and I already paid her for the thing and I broke the engagement and she’s Violet’s friend and she’s in the club and it’s going to be a nightmare!”
Agnes reached for the phone hanging on the wall and punched in several numbers. “Sorry, Annabel, did I wake you? No, well, that’s real good. Cathy and I want to cancel that cake order since there ain’t going to be a weddin’.”
A long pause.
“You can write her a check back, minus ten percent for your trouble,” Agnes finally said.
Another long pause.
“Okay, then she’s paid for the damn cake, so make it, and if you skimp on one of those morning glories, we’ll tell all over the county that you did a lousy job. On the day the wedding was supposed to have been taking place at the Baptist church, I want it delivered to the Christian church across the road from Clawdy’s.”
Agnes pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows into a solid line across narrowed eyes. “I don’t give a flying rat’s ass, Annabel. My niece paid a thousand damn dollars for a cake. We’ll feed it to the congregation over at Darla Jean’s or we’ll sell tickets for people to run and jump in the middle of it like on one of them damn television shows. It’s our cake. Cathy paid for it and we want the damn thing. First Saturday in December, two o’clock. There better be a cake there or I’ll make sure your business does a nosedive.”
She hung up the phone with a loud bang. “Stupid woman thinks she’s going to keep your money and not produce a cake. She’s crazy as hell. I’ll freeze the whole damn thing in portions and take pieces of it to committee meetings before she does a dumb fool stunt like that. Who in their right mind puts morning glories on a wedding cake anyway?”
“Morning glories on a wedding cake? Aren’t you supposed to use roses?” Jack asked.
“Or something exotic like calla lilies,” Marty said.
“Don’t have to worry about it now, do we? Darla Jean’s congregation is going to have red velvet cake with sugar morning glories for refreshments the first Sunday in December.” Agnes grinned.
***
Following the heart was Darla Jean’s sermon topic that Sunday morning. It had come to her when she’d talked to Beulah. Poor woman had been distraught over her son buying a house when someday he’d inherit the one she lived in. Darla Jean had quoted scripture about a man following his heart. She had assured Beulah that God was probably using Jack to complete his will and that wonderful things would come to pass because Jack had his own house. They’d had a moment of prayer, and before Darla Jean left, Beulah was already talking about asking the club to host a housewarming for Jack.
The congregation was sparse with only thirty people sitting in front of her. Marty, Cathy, and Trixie sat on the back pew. Jack had slipped in right after the hymns and edged his way in beside Trixie. Darla Jean didn’t care if there were ten people or a thousand sitting in the pews, if they were poor or rich, or if they were clean or slightly dusty. She just hoped that she was preaching to listening hearts.
Cathy listened intently. She didn’t suppose God would approve of her reading material, but she didn’t feel a bit guilty. It was the e-reader that had finally given her the courage to take that ring off. If a man couldn’t make her pant as much as words, then he couldn’t be the right man. Listening to the heart was tough when a woman’s biological clock impaired her hearing. She’d wanted a husband and a baby, but after thinking about it, she hadn’t loved Ethan any more than he’d loved her. They were both marrying for all the wrong reasons and her heart had been trying to make her understand that for a long time.
Marty had a heavy heart that morning. She just knew that Trixie had found out about the vote. She needed to tell her why she’d voted that way, but she’d promised her mother it would stay a secret.
Oh, don’t be silly. I just didn’t want Agnes to know. You can tell Trixie if it means keeping your friendship right. Besides, she’ll help you protect the secret. I trust her.
Marty stole a glance over her shoulder. Claudia Andrews was not sitting on the seat behind her, but she could have sworn that was her mother’s voice whispering in her ear.
Trixie had never seen Jack at the Christian church before that day. He might not have a choice about moving out when his mamma found out. Beulah, along with Agnes and Violet, were dyed-in-the-wool Baptists. Nothing could ever make them switch churches. It had been hard on Agnes when Marty and Cathy started going to Darla Jean’s church. It would come nigh onto giving Beulah a Texas-sized stroke.
Trixie tuned everything out so she could hear her heart, but it wasn’t saying anything. Evidently, it was happy with things just the way they were.
***
Angels straight from heaven’s open portals would tremble at the thought of stealing Agnes’s seat on the fourth pew on the east side of the Baptist church in Cadillac. Her grandmother sat in that pew in the days when it was the only church in the area. That was back when there was no town but just a wide spot in the road with a Baptist church and a few farmho
uses. Her mother sat in it back when the town was Cornwall, and now it was Agnes’s spot. Even though it didn’t have her name written on a brass plate, nobody ever had the nerve to sit in it, not even when she was absent. It was as much a part of Agnes as her DNA and red hair.
The first hymn had already begun when Violet and Ethan paraded down the center aisle and sat in front of Agnes. Leave it to Violet to wear a swishy red, white, and blue striped dress with a big flowing skirt and a wide belt around her thick middle. The dress looked like it had been made of leftovers from a circus tent, and wide belts didn’t look good on anyone but a runway model. What in the hell was she thinking? She might as well have made a poster board that said Vote for my prissy-assed son Ethan and stood in front of the congregation while the preacher sermonized.
The Good Samaritan was what the preacher talked about after the hymn. He flipped open his Bible to the parable and read the whole thing and then began to preach, saying that we should love our neighbors even with their faults and always offer a helping hand.
That preacher could pucker up and kiss Agnes’s naturally born white ass if he was preaching to her about being nice to Violet Prescott. It wasn’t happening; not in this life or the one to come. Agnes wouldn’t piss on the woman if she was on fire. Violet had been a dagger in her side since they were teenagers. She’d pushed the blade deeper and deeper with her power and money, and then when she was forty years old and had Ethan, she’d stabbed it all the way to the hilt with her honey-coated arsenic remarks about how sorry she was that poor Agnes could never have a darling baby like her Ethan.
Agnes was not feeling one bit of the Good Samaritan attitude when services ended. And she couldn’t even get away from Violet with the traffic jam at the end of the pews. The narrow aisle between the pews and the outer edge of the church was as congested as the center aisle so there was no escape there, either. She tiptoed forward to get a better view of just who was causing the holdup.
Beulah Landry had plugged up the whole line and was weeping on the preacher’s shoulder as he patted her back. She was probably having some kind of major breakdown about Jack going to Darla Jean’s church. Agnes had seen him all dressed up and walking that way that morning and figured Beulah would have a stroke over it, especially coming on the heels of him buying a house. Great God Almighty, the man was past thirty! It was time for him to have his own house. But Beulah could have waited until everyone had a turn at shaking the preacher’s hand before she started carrying on like that.
The Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society Jubilee Page 15
