If only she weren't so tired. So scared.
What if her grandmother wanted nothing to do with her? Why had her mother kept her family a secret? A million things could be wrong, so many ways this could go bad.
She was alone as never before in her life. Until two years ago, there had always been her mother. They had moved often, yes, but they were a team, they were solid. As long as they'd had each other, they needed little more.
How Scarlett missed her.
In Georgia's place remained only a mystery.
Who was her mother? Why did she leave here and never say one word to Scarlett about this place, when they had always been so close? Why did Scarlett have to find out about it when she could ask no questions? Was there some reason she should stay away, too? Her mother had been footloose but not foolish.
It was only a meal. A chance to reconnoiter. She didn't have to say anything to a soul.
The road ran alongside a ribbon of water, and a little further she could see it wind through the town next to a three-story courthouse that formed one corner of the town square, most of the buildings dark and closed, only a handful of them taller than one story. It was surely the tiniest town she'd ever seen.
She rounded the corner, and one building spilled out light in welcome. Ruby's Café. Owned by one Ruby Gallagher.
The grandmother Scarlett had never known existed.
Scarlett sucked in a deep breath for courage. She'd been the new kid countless times.
But her mother had always had her back.
Nonsense. I'll be okay. I'm a grown woman. It won't matter if she can't love me.
CHAPTER TWO
"Whatever happened to Shania Twain?"
Ruby kept one eye on the hamburger she was grilling and jostled the basket of fries turning golden as she answered her waitress. "To tell the truth, Jeanette, I hadn't missed the girl until you asked." She lifted the handle and parked the fries to drain as she flipped the meat. "But when I get time, I'll be sure to worry."
Jeanette sailed right on past the sarcasm. "She married someone butt-ugly, like Loretta Lynn and her Mooney, I could swear it." She stacked plated orders up and down both arms and whisked them away to a table with the grace of a ballerina.
Ruby spared a second to watch, then shifted her gaze to the new girl, so young, wiping down a table. Brenda—if that was her real name, which Ruby severely doubted—kept her head down as she scrubbed circles on the formica surface. Her facial bruises had faded, but she moved as though her clothing hid others.
"She'll never make it as a waitress, you know that." Jeanette was back to grab a coffeepot. "Why you persist in filling your house with hard-luck cases I will never know. Oh, crap—" Jeanette was off like a shot as Brenda ignored the group of four who had just arrived.
Jeanette was right, of course, but the girl needed help. Dollars to donuts she was pregnant, and almost certainly she was on the run. Ruby understood only too well how it was to be pregnant and single, though she'd have dared the devil himself to raise a hand to her back then.
She had space enough, didn't she? She would have rattled around in the old two-story monstrosity that had belonged to her great-aunt, but it made a fine boarding house. She didn't mind a bit sharing it with those less fortunate. And hadn't another lost soul named Henry turned out to be aces at bussing tables and helping with cleanup?
"We're gonna run out of the coconut cream pie. Chocolate's already down to one piece," Jeanette muttered. "That table's gonna order it, I just know, and then Ian will be flat out of luck if he shows up."
Ruby stemmed a sigh. She did not have it in her to make one single more pie each morning. "Ian McLaren doesn't show up once a week, at that. He's too busy trying to keep his daddy from realizing that they're all but losing the ranch."
Jeanette's expression turned wistful. "The man works too hard, and his daddy doesn't appreciate what Ian gives up."
Jeanette wasn't exactly unbiased where Ian was concerned. She'd had a crush on Ian since both of them were in high school.
The bell on the door clapped against the glass again. Ruby peered over the pass-through to see if Brenda would rise to the occasion.
All the young woman did was flinch and turn away.
A single woman entered, petite, mounds of curly black hair and clothes that screamed City. For a second, that hair took her back. Georgia's hair had been like that, a lush profusion of midnight curls falling past her shoulders.
Would she ever quit missing her child? And wasn't she the fool for still holding out hope?
The woman glanced around the room, and Ruby tried to see it through her eyes: red vinyl booths, unmatched dinette tables and chairs, counter stools that creaked in protest as they spun.
Ruby couldn't be worrying about that. She returned her attention to the grilled cheese that was just the right golden, the shrimp basket ready to plate.
"Jeanette?"
A big sigh. "I'm on it."
Jeanette would complain, yes, but Ruby knew she would take care of everything without supervision.
Meanwhile she had folks to feed.
* * *
"Whatcha want to drink, hon?" The tall blond waitress set down a basket with biscuits in it.
Scarlett scanned the menu in vain for anything that wasn't fried. "Um, iced tea?"
"Sweet or unsweetened?"
Sweet tea. Scarlett and her mother had lived in various parts of North Carolina for a couple of years, Atlanta for one. She hadn't had sweet tea since. "Sweet."
"Know what you want? Like to hear about the special?"
"Sure." Though Scarlett had little hope for it.
Just then a grizzled cowboy walked past her booth and popped the waitress on the behind. Scarlett's eyes went wide, and she stiffened.
The waitress just laughed and dimpled. "Harley Sykes, what would your wife say?"
"Shirley ain't here, now is she?"
The waitress's head cocked at a flirty angle. "You just get along now. Nothing here for you, hound dog."
He slapped one hand on his chest. "You're breakin' my heart, Jeanette. Draggin' it right through the dust."
"I'd hate to have to break your head if that hand strays again." But she was grinning as he left.
Men. A hot rush of loathing suffused Scarlett. "You don't have to put up with that, you know."
The waitress he'd called Jeanette turned around. "What?"
"Him. He has no right to treat you like that."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Oh, hon, Harley is harmless. He just likes to flirt a little. Shirley would peel the hide off him, and furthermore, he's all talk. He loves that woman to distraction. So, like I was saying, the special is meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy and a salad or green beans. Hold your horses, Melba," she said, looking past Scarlett. "I'll get your coffee in a second. Take your time, hon. I'll bring your tea." And with that, she was off, leaving Scarlett still sorting out who she was talking to.
The salad was probably iceberg lettuce with one wedge of cardboard tomato, the green beans likely turned to mush by hours of cooking. Scarlett could nearly weep over the thought of the culinary wasteland she'd entered.
She shouldn't expect more, however. The interior was worn, though its Fifties diner look possessed a shabby charm. She had landed square in small-town America, complete with red vinyl booths, an odd assortment of tubular aluminum tables and chairs, the spring-loaded stainless steel napkin holders and even small jukeboxes in the booths. The walls sported historical photographs that appeared to be of this town in earlier incarnations. She was dying to peruse them to see if the faces of the bearded men and women in long dresses bore any resemblance to her own, but every table and booth was filled with patrons.
Nothing was new here, but even as a stranger, she felt the warmth. She cast a quick glance back toward the kitchen, wondering if her grandmother was around, but she couldn't see past the high ledge. Then hunger got the better of her, and she reached for one of the biscuits, disdaining to top i
t with the little pack of margarine spread, the very sight of which made her shudder. She popped a corner in her mouth.
The flavor hit. Faintly sweet, nearly falling apart, and possibly the best bread she'd tasted in forever. Simple, filling—Scarlett barely stopped herself from gobbling and consoled herself with the notion that if the meal were inedible, she could happily dine on these.
"Here you go." An old-style curvy diner glass was set on the table before her, a battered iced tea spoon sticking out of the top. "Where you from, hon?" But Jeanette wasn't looking at her, she was frowning toward a younger woman whose head was down, refusing eye contact with those she served. "I swear to goodness, Ruby, you have gone too far this time," she muttered. "Brenda—" she called out but had to repeat herself. The girl's head jerked around, terror taking over her features. "Your order's ready. Can't you hear the bell?"
"Is she here?" Scarlett asked. "Ruby, I mean."
"You know her?"
"No—that is, I just...I heard about the place a few towns back."
"Really? Well, I'm not surprised. Folks come from all around to eat Ruby's cooking. Not that she has any business working as hard as she does at her age." She gestured with the coffee pot in her hand. "Want more biscuits, hon? Good, aren't they?"
"They're amazing. Ruby's recipe?"
A nod. "Woman gets here every morning at four to make a new batch."
"And she's been here all day?"
"Sure has. Kitchen's closed for a bit before supper, but she doesn't go far. She lives nearby, anyway. Don't know what keeps her going. When I'm seventy-one, you can bet your bottom dollar I'm not gonna be on my feet."
Scarlett could only imagine. Restaurant work, in any capacity, was murder on legs and feet and backs and to be doing it at seventy-one...
"You still need more time?"
Scarlett snapped from her musing. "I'll try the special. With green beans," she added, though once she would have sneered at it, as would her trendy clientele. Meat loaf was stepchild cuisine, comfort food that no restaurateur with any pride would think of serving.
But she wasn't in New York anymore. And she could use some comfort.
When her meal arrived, Scarlett studied it with an expert's eye. Humble white pottery, old and scarred. Silverware that barely qualified for the term. The meat loaf was thick and steaming, and surprisingly smelled quite good. Mashed potatoes, a huge portion—real potatoes, not dehydrated flakes—topped with gravy that was thicker than she'd like but also fragrant and not lumpy. The green beans, though predictably overcooked, occupied their own little bowl, bits of onion and bacon swimming in the juices with them.
The first bite explained why the place was crowded with more bodies than the town looked big enough to hold. Plain fare it might be, but every bite met the definition of comfort food. True home cooking. Scarlett stopped for a second, realizing that it was made by a grandmother's hands.
Her grandmother's hands. A grandmother was a luxury she'd envied others. The closest she'd ever come to family besides her mother was an absentee father she'd never met. All Georgia would say about him was that Scarlett was the only worthwhile thing to come from a six-week marriage in Florida one sweltering summer.
Whoever Scarlett's father had been besides some stranger whose last name was Ross, Georgia had more than made up for his lack of interest. Georgia's love had surrounded Scarlett every hour of her life—but why would she have wanted to deny that other family existed?
Don't think anymore. Just eat. You still have to find a place to stay tonight. Long drive ahead.
Scarlett glanced once more toward the kitchen. For a second she thought she glimpsed the top of a head with black hair, but surely Ruby's would be gray by now.
The cowed waitress dropped a plate just then. The skinny blonde, Jeanette, rolled her eyes and shook her head. A young man in his twenties hurried over to help pick up the pieces.
Then out of the kitchen came a woman built so much like Scarlett herself—black hair included—that all Scarlett could do was stare with hungry eyes as the older woman soothed the girl, held off the skinny blonde with a glare and patted the boy's shoulder, all while scanning the room and indicating without a word that people should just go on with their business.
When Scarlett continued to stare, safe in the assumed anonymity she was so used to in New York where eye contact was a mortal sin, the older woman's gaze moved over her and past—then whipped back to her.
For a second, for several, Scarlett held her breath, wondering what the woman who might be her grandmother saw. Could she tell the relationship? The woman's hair wasn't curly like Scarlett's and her mother's, but it was black like theirs. Georgia had been statuesque and curvy, but this woman was small like Scarlett, though she didn't resemble a prepubescent boy the way Scarlett did.
When the girl began to cry, the older woman's attention snapped away like a rubber band. As she led the girl back into the kitchen, Scarlett felt the loss herself.
Come back, she wanted to say. Or let me come in.
But they were strangers, and Scarlett didn't know why. Until she understood what had made Georgia leave and never return, why she'd never spoken a word about this place or this woman, she would bide her time. The café was busy—no time for a family reunion even if she received a welcome, which she wasn't counting on.
Besides, she didn't like the idea of meeting her grandmother under a cloud of disgrace. Maybe her grandmother wouldn't believe in her innocence, either. She had to think about how to approach this woman, and fatigue was pulling at her. She had miles to drive before she could rest.
But she wanted just one more glimpse of the woman who, however much she'd doubted it up until the last few minutes, seemed very likely to be her grandmother.
Maybe she would have dessert.
* * *
Two amazing cups of coffee and one mouth-watering piece of coconut cream pie later, Scarlett finally stirred herself to go. The day had been long, and she was weary. The fifty miles back to a motel seemed like four hundred.
And she was more aware than ever that she was lonely. Fear and humiliation had propelled her out of Manhattan, and she'd welcomed how the days of driving had soothed her ragged emotions and given her a chance to breathe. Beyond the threat that had sent her running, she'd been surprised at the relief of escaping not only the hounding of the press but the pressure cooker of the constant striving for visibility in a city that lived and died by fame and glory.
But tonight, watching the good-natured teasing, even the petty bickering between the tall, skinny Jeanette and the spunky small woman who'd only poked her head from the kitchen once more, Scarlett was painfully aware that she had no one. Really no one, not even the staffs at various restaurants she'd tried to make into a family to substitute for her own. Her life had been a constant pulling up of roots, that and work and more work. The longest she'd been in one place before Manhattan had been to attend culinary school—but even then, she'd traveled to Paris for an internship.
She recognized the dynamic at Ruby's—these people were the kind of clan often found in the restaurant world, a cadre made up of individuals who worked long hours under killer stress and constant demand, trying to satisfy one of life's most basic needs: sustenance. Yet what she was witnessing was more, somehow, and all she could credit was the size of the town. Every dining establishment with any success had its regulars, but in the city the ties began and ended at the front door, for the most part.
Tonight she'd seen people who'd known one another's fathers and grandfathers, childhood companions whose kids were now growing up together, from what she'd overheard. For Scarlett, who'd seldom attended the same school two years in a row, the concept was nearly beyond imagination.
"Want me to top that off, hon?"
Scarlett came to herself suddenly and realized that around her, the sounds of closing down for the night could be heard. "Oh—no, sorry. I—I'll go. How much is it?"
Sympathetic gray eyes met hers. "You never sai
d where you were from."
"Here and there." Scarlett grabbed her purse and stood.
"Where you headed?"
A part of Scarlett wanted to bristle. Strangers didn't ask those questions where she'd been. They didn't meet your eyes or extend sympathy with theirs. "I'm not sure," she surprised herself by responding.
A faint frown. "It's getting late. Where did you plan to stay?"
Scarlett couldn't help casting a quick glance toward the kitchen, toward the sound of the older woman's voice. What had she thought would happen when she found her grandmother? Why hadn't she at least introduced herself?
In her life of constant moving, there were two main ways of dealing with being the new kid in school. One was to be good at forming connections quickly; the other was to sit back and—knowing you'd move again soon—not even try. Scarlett had always chosen the latter, and she did so now. "I'll be stopping in Fredericksburg. I'd better get underway."
She picked up the paper ticket and nearly gasped at the price. The bill for a full meal and dessert wouldn't have covered the smallest appetizer at her last place. Quickly she calculated a generous tip, then doubled it for hogging the booth all night. She wasn't flush with extra money, but she knew how hard waitressing was. She'd done her share. "Would you please tell the cook that the meal was wonderful?" She took a deep breath and forced herself to ask, "Was that her, Ruby, the small woman with the black hair?"
"That's her, in the flesh. Want to tell her yourself?" Jeanette turned as if to summon Ruby.
Scarlett was shocked to feel her eyes fill. Quickly she turned her head away. "No—I, uh, I really have to go." Scarlett began to walk to the door.
"You come back anytime, you hear?" the waitress called. "Breakfast here will really stick to your ribs, and you look like you could use some feeding up."
Scarlett felt the woman's eyes boring into her back as she slipped outside. She wanted, more than she could say, to try that breakfast. Longed to meet the only family she had left in the world.
Texas Roots: The Gallaghers of Sweetgrass Springs Page 2
