Southern Fried Blues (The Officers' Ex-Wives Club)

by Jamie Farrell

  He thought that was a safe question too, since Anna was outside gathering trash, but Kaci smacked him again. “Don’t you play games with her, you hear me?”

  Well, tarnation. “She looking for number two?” If that was the case, he’d make himself scarce quick. Anna was some fun when she loosened up, but like Mamie said, he had some choices when it came to his biscuits.

  “It’s not what she’s looking for that has me worried. It’s what she’s not looking for but still needs.”

  Jackson looked to Lance for a translation, but his buddy gave a shrug. Man-speak for I don’t talk woman. You got her going. You figure it out.

  Jackson took another bite of pie and waited.

  Kaci checked Anna’s progress through the window, then hopped her backside onto the counter Lance had cleared. “Her ex didn’t treat her the way a man should.”

  Now that was clearer, but still not straight enough. “He hit her?”

  “Pshaw. Anna wouldn’t have stood for that.”

  “Cheat on her?”

  “Nope.”

  Well what else was there? “Didn’t let her have new clothes and get her hair done?”

  “No, sugar, he didn’t love her.”

  Lance shook his head like Miss Flo and Mamie did whenever Miss Ophelia started yapping about her boyfriends leaving the toilet seat up.

  It was always love, wasn’t it?

  Man could work his rear end off, treat his woman right, respect her, give her everything she ever asked for, but if she decided she didn’t love him anymore, then he was done for.

  Jackson never had made up his mind if his daddy was lucky he’d passed on before he figured out Momma was in love with his best friend, or if his life would’ve changed enough that he wouldn’t have been on that road that night. If he would’ve moved out, stopped for dinner on his way home instead of heading for Momma’s cooking, anything to put him on a different street or milliseconds to one side or another of his drive home.

  Mamie said a person’s time was a person’s time, and God would’ve gotten him anyway, but Jackson still wondered.

  Still, Jackson was glad he wasn’t in a lifestyle that lent itself to settling down. Nobody to please but himself and Radish, and if he got run over by a truck tomorrow, nobody left waiting for the news that he wasn’t coming home.

  Except Radish.

  Poor pup.

  He polished off his last bite. “Good pie. Y’all recycle?”

  He didn’t avoid Anna and her picking up on purpose. It was more of an on-purpose-accidental thing she was out in the backyard while he cleaned the living room. He should’ve been thinking about getting home to let Radish out, but his brain kept puzzling over why sane folks bothered with love. His daddy and Lance and Kaci included.

  He reckoned Mamie might be able to explain it to him, what with her writing all those books about love, but he made a point of not using the L-word in front of her.

  Didn’t take him too long to put the living room to rights, so he went in to help dry dishes. The ladies were outside talking. Anna was laughing. The sound made something in his chest go all soft.

  “Appreciate the help,” Lance said. He handed over the last of the grill tools for drying. “Know what’s good for you, you’ll knock off before the girls get back in.”

  Right smart guy, Lance was. Would’ve made a good wingman except for the settling down part.

  “Pass on my thanks to Kaci,” Jackson said.

  But Lance got a grin a guy didn’t usually like to see on his wingman. “Anna’s gonna want your address.”

  “Just a trick to get her to play.”

  That chuckle didn’t go so good on a wingman either. “Girl likes to settle her bets.”

  Smart thing to do was walk away and not look back. But a few minutes later, walking past her Civic, Jackson tucked his number and address under her wipers anyway.

  He’d never met a woman who’d pay that bet. Wasn’t fair, and they all knew it.

  Still, she’d had a look.

  And she’d offered to write his momma a thank-you once upon a time.

  Might be some perfection in this after all. Didn’t much matter to his kitchen one way or another if she paid up, but he liked watching her try to figure what to make of him.

  Wouldn’t mind seeing if he could figure out what to make of her.

  PAYING UP ON A BET wasn’t usually so nerve-racking. There was nothing personal about forks and knives and mixing bowls, so why did the idea of organizing Jackson’s kitchen feel so intimate? She wouldn’t be rummaging through his underwear drawer or his toolbox.

  There went that pesky heart again. She hadn’t had an adrenaline rush like this around a guy since, well, the first time she saw Neil. And all she’d done was think about Jackson’s tools.

  And underwear.

  Damn heart. This was only a dumb bet with a goofy guy who was friends with her friends, and that muscle in her chest could stay out of it. This was practice flirting.

  Nothing real.

  She adjusted her left hand on the wheel so it was at exactly ten, in line with her right hand’s two o’clock, and felt marginally better. She’d organize his kitchen, keep out of his more personal belongings, and scurry back home before she got any more ideas.

  This was practice, and he was military. She had plans. Get her degree, combine that with her experience at RMC to find a good job back home, buy a cute little cottage, adopt a couple of kids, and live happily ever after.

  That pang of regret that she couldn’t have her first choice in life would probably always be there, but she’d make the most of her life yet.

  Jackson lived in a yellow-sided, two-story house in an older but still respectable neighborhood a mile or so from her old home. An ancient Chevy truck sat in the driveway. The rear window featured two decals, an Alabama logo and Calvin peeing on a Ford logo.

  Her heart gave another thump at the shadow passing in front of the door.

  She wanted to give it a thump right back.

  Instead, she climbed out of her car, armed with her purse, label maker inside, and headed up the driveway to the curved walkway.

  She took the wooden stairs to the wide porch, then rang the doorbell. It echoed softly inside the house. She heard a muffled bark. A green lawn chair sat off to the side next to an upside-down moving box with a bottle of Bud in the middle of concentric water rings.

  The door clicked open. Her heart ka-thudded a couple of times at the sight of another old Alabama T-shirt and board shorts. She didn’t want to know what it would do if she looked high enough to see if he’d shaved this morning.

  Novelty, she told herself. She faked a bright, sunny smile, and risked a look at those dark-lashed eyes. “Good morning.”

  Jackson stared at her for half a second like he couldn’t figure out why she’d be at his house, but then he gave her a pained smile.

  And it was too late to pretend she was looking for directions.

  An old spaniel poked her nose into Anna’s hand. Anna gave her head a little scratch, and she wagged her tail. “Well, hi, there, you sweet thing.” Anna knelt to gather her composure and love on the dog, who ate it up like she’d never had a belly scratch in her life. “Is this a bad time?”

  Jackson’s relaxed grin came back in full force. “Well shucks, Anna Grace, you’re starting to give Yankees a good name. Didn’t think you’d pay up.”

  The way he said her name made her feel all warm and Southern inside. “Just Anna’s fine. If you didn’t want me to come, you wouldn’t have left your address. Your momma not up for the job?”

  He coughed into his hand. No mistaking the laugh lines around his eyes. “Right sure it’d make her keel over with a heart attack.”

  No mistaking the unrepentant grin he sent her either. The one that said I’d rather have you here than her anyway.

  Or so Anna hoped.

  She gave the dog a final love pat and stood. She could do this. She could handle being a single woman with a single m
an in his house with his dog. Doing domestic things. With no commitment.

  Just… doing something. “Then it’s your lucky day. Or your momma’s lucky day.”

  “You sure you got the time today? Don’t want to keep you from your studying.”

  Some of her glow dimmed. “You’re not afraid of my label maker, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. Just offering to be a gentleman.”

  She pinned him with her best oh, please look.

  He did that coughing thing again, but this time, he stepped back and held the door open for her. “C’mon in then.”

  A tinny rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama” erupted from his pocket. His shoulders twitched, but he led her through the house as if he didn’t hear it.

  She followed him through a small foyer and into a living room that made her palms itch. She fought to keep walking behind him, his dog at her heels, as she took stock of the mess. More paperbacks than she would’ve expected leaned in haphazard stacks about the room amid toppled piles of action-adventure and military DVDs. Two pressed-wood bookcases stood at odd angles beyond a staircase, their shelves propped up against the wall. The wide-screen television was dark. Anna would’ve bet her label maker it was hooked up and tweaked perfectly for the room though. Mismatched orange and navy throw pillows decorated an L-shaped tan sofa. Jackson’s phone continued to sing, but he didn’t reach for it.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  He shrugged and turned the corner. “If it’s important, they’ll call back.”

  Anna followed him into the kitchen and instantly felt another zing at the glorious disaster.

  They would be here for hours.

  His phone stopped ringing. He tucked his arms over his chest and stood wide-legged in the space between the kitchen and the breakfast area. “Haven’t had much time to do anything with it.”

  The room looked like a giant had picked it up, shook out the cabinets and drawers, then put the house on spin cycle. The counters and floor were heaped with pots, dry goods, assorted tools, and a bronze armadillo.

  Wait. A bronze armadillo? Nope, not going to ask.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jackson watching her. Her heart tripped. The taste of tart strawberries flooded her mouth. “Rent or buy?”

  His eyes crinkled. “We getting personal, Anna Grace?”

  “Just Anna’s fine.” She pulled her label maker out. “Temporary or permanent?”

  He sucked his cheeks in, but his eyes were still laughing. “Rent.”

  “See, now, wasn’t that easy? Any preference on what goes where?”

  “Nah. Figure you know more about kitchens than I do. But don’t be taking off with my armadillo. I’ve been guarding that from you Northern types for years.”

  “Don’t worry. Your armadillo’s safe from me.”

  Her cheeks went hot, but like last night, he ignored the accidental innuendo.

  “Sweet Home Alabama” erupted from his pocket again. He gave a sigh and stepped toward the living room. “’Scuse me a minute, Anna Grace.”

  “Just Ann—never mind.”

  He disappeared around the corner with a chuckle.

  The kitchen felt bigger without him in it. Anna studied the room’s layout. Pots and pans would go in the cabinets by the stove. Pantry items near the fridge. Silverware, plates, and cups closer to the dining area. She’d fill everything else in where it fit. She turned her label maker on, listening to the easy cadence of Jackson’s speech. She couldn’t make out his words, but his voice sounded strained.

  Was that even possible?

  Paws clicked across the wood floor. The dog plodded into the dining area, then plopped on her haunches. She sniffed in Anna’s direction, her chocolate eyes soft and lovable. “Such a sweet thing,” Anna murmured.

  Jackson appeared in the doorway. He gave the dog’s ears an affectionate rub. “I got some stuff going on, so I gotta get going,” he said to Anna. “You okay here?”

  Get going? He was leaving her alone to put away his kitchen? Was she okay here? No, you dumb redneck, I thought the stupid bet was a ploy to hang out with me. She floundered for her fake happy face. Bad enough she’d misunderstood his intentions and thought all the teasing meant he liked her. She would be mortified if he realized it too.

  “Sure,” she said. “Absolutely. I’ve organized a kitchen or two. I think I can handle this one. Besides, you’d be in my way if you stayed.” Or make her like him more.

  She was so bad at this.

  He dug a set of keys out of a heap on the counter. “Got a couple of pizzas in the freezer. You know how to use the oven?”

  Was that guy-speak for So, can you cook? I’ll be back for lunch at noon. “Frozen pizzas. Right. I’m on to you. The bet didn’t include a hot meal.”

  Bad move. Now she had to watch that killer smile again. “A hot meal. I like those stakes. Might could be up for a redneck golf game when I get home Monday.”

  Monday. He wasn’t leaving because of the phone call. He’d planned to go all along. “Sorry, I have plans Monday.” If planning not to see him counted as having plans. “You want me to lock up when I’m done?”

  “That’d be right decent of you.” He tapped his leg. The dog went to his side. “Don’t be messing up your whole day here if you got other stuff to do. Appreciate the help. You’re a peach, Anna Grace.”

  She twitched but kept smiling. “My pleasure.”

  He took the dog out the front door, and then she was alone in a near-stranger’s kitchen, doing his damn momma’s work. He was a thoughtless, ignorant redneck who flirted and teased and asked girls out to dinner so he could get a clean house or a hot meal.

  She stormed around the kitchen. She should put his silverware in the drawer near the stove, far, far away from the dining area. That’s what she should do.

  But then he might think she was mad about his leaving.

  Or worse, that she was too dumb to organize a kitchen. Wouldn’t that be the redneck calling the Yankee a hick?

  At least things were straightforward with her label maker. It might’ve been made in China, but they understood each other perfectly.

  “YOU TRIED DAISY’S biscuits yet?” Miss Flo asked Jackson Sunday afternoon.

  They sat at a rented table on the lawn behind Russ’s Confederate mausoleum. Louisa and her girlfriends squealed and giggled and gossiped two tables down. Jackson’s head ached like his stomach had after he’d sampled Miss Flo’s granddaughter’s biscuits this morning.

  “Light and fluffy,” Jackson said.

  Miss Flo beamed. “She’s coming bowling with us tonight if you got a notion to hide out from all the fireworks.”

  “Now you hold on there, Flo,” Mamie said. “You know Gertie asked if Jackson could sit with Scarlett at the show already, and Ophelia claimed his other side for Cletus’s great-niece.”

  Jackson spotted his momma carrying out a couple of pies. He leapt to his feet.

  All unhurried and manly and graceful-like, of course. “’Scuse me, ladies, looks like Momma needs some help.”

  She didn’t, of course, but Jackson had been over in the desert and missed sweet potato pie last Christmas.

  “Bring us back a couple pieces,” Mamie said.

  “But make mine small.” Miss Flo adjusted her librarian glasses over a saggy pout. “Doctor says I have to watch my girlish figure.”

  “Looking good to me, Miss Flo.”

  And while the ladies tittered away, Jackson went off hunting some sweet potato pie.

  But five minutes later, when he’d finished delivering the ladies their after-fried-chicken desserts, he sat down to enjoy his first sweet potato pie in over a year and a half, and found it wasn’t the right mix of sweet and potato.

  Maybe it was the conversation.

  “Is Daisy the one with the mole?” Louisa was asking. She’d joined the ladies when her girlfriends went off in search of refills. Looked like Momma and Russ would be hosting a sorority party at the mausoleum
tonight. Jackson said another silent thanks for Mamie’s couch. He’d logged a lot of hours on it already this summer.

  “No, no, sugarplum, that’s Scarlett,” Mamie said.

  “Daisy’s the one with the” —Miss Ophelia shot Jackson a look and dipped her voice to funeral parlor soft while rubbing her upper lip— “hormone imbalance.”

  A chorus of “Ooohhs,” accompanied a round of heart blessings.

  Jackson shoveled another bite of pie in his mouth.

  It was the crust, he decided. Not as flaky as he remembered.

  A creeping sensation went down his back, like he was being watched by a rabid armadillo.

  Wasn’t Momma’s crust that’d ever been so flaky.

  It was Anna Grace’s.

  “Pie okay, sugarplum?” Mamie asked. “You look like you swallowed a frog.”

  Pie was great.

  But it wasn’t that apple stuff he’d had two nights ago. “Pales in comparison to the company,” he told Mamie with as much of a charming grin as he could muster when he was getting ideas about sneaking out of Louisa’s post-birthday breakfast tomorrow to head on back to Georgia for some apple pie for breakfast.

  He hoped leaving Anna Grace in his kitchen hadn’t screwed up his chances of getting some more of that pie.

  He eyed Mamie. She eyed him right back.

  Hoped she didn’t figure out he’d left a lady alone in his house to put his kitchen together. He’d been raised better than that.

  But the way Anna Grace had salivated at the mess, he reckoned it would’ve been right cold of him to tell her to come back another day. He’d lay odds the girl had more issues than her ex-husband not loving her.

  Wasn’t ready to lay odds more of that apple pie would be worth it though.

  Still, he’d take apple pie over Daisy’s and Scarlett’s biscuits.

  He broke eye contact with Mamie and turned to his baby sister. Her eyes were crawling with an afternoon hangover, but she was grinning big, Daddy’s dimple popping out, telling Miss Ophelia about that engine Russ had arranged for her. “Smells like french fries,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe the guys that attracts. Not the kind I’d give my biscuits to, don’t you worry, Mamie.”