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

by Jamie Farrell

  “You are truly sickening.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  Jules plunked the highlighter into the small space reserved for the staple remover. The marker clattered to the floor. She dropped her gaze. “Brad wants counseling. He’s—well, frankly, I think some fucked-up version of Rodney’s ghost came to pay him a visit, and now he’s found Buddha or some shit like that.”

  “Brad’s good for you, Jules.”

  Jules shoved her shoulder. “Shut up, Pollyanna.”

  “The Brad you married? He’s good for you. You should do it.”

  “I know.”

  “You should do it for him too.”

  Jules scrambled off the desk. She grabbed the highlighter, then plopped it back in its place.

  Not just in the highlighter container, but between the yellow and pink highlighters, so it was as close to rainbow order as possible.

  Anna put a hand to her throat. “Ohmigod, Jules, I think I might cry.”

  Jules smacked her shoulder again, but she was smiling when she left Anna’s cube.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  She’d learned the ways of her new home, but she had yet to master them. And that was the critical difference.

  —The Temptress of Pecan Lane, by Mae Daniels

  THE DAY AFTER Thanksgiving, Anna’s phone woke her at o-dark-early. She fumbled for it, heart clenching in her chest, and had a double-panic when she saw her sister’s cell number. She answered it in a rush. “Beth?”

  “Hey, Anna-banana.”

  Anna heard bells and a mass of voices in the background. She blew out a breath and draped a hand over her chest while her pulse fluttered back to normal.

  “Mom and I are in Nordstrom, and we saw the cutest reindeer sweatshirt,” Beth said. “What size are you wearing these days?”

  “Happy Black Friday, sweetheart,” her mom called through the phone.

  The thundering in Anna’s heart slowed to a trot. “I don’t need a reindeer sweatshirt.”

  “But you know how much the boys love to give you sweatshirts for Christmas!”

  She didn’t have to be there to know Beth was muffling her snickers in the sleeve of whatever gaudy sweatshirt their mother had picked.

  Anna sighed. “My blender broke last week. Maybe they could get me a new one instead. I could tell them I was gonna make me up some squirrel soup with it.”

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by the bells and the crush of other shopping noises.

  “Mom says you sound Southern,” Beth said.

  “I—crap.”

  “Somebody’s been spending too much time with her boyfriend,” Beth said in the singsong voice she used on her younger patients.

  It would’ve been in her family’s best interest for her to deny the boyfriend part. To let them think this was a crazy post-divorce fling. To prepare them for when she and Jackson split ways.

  Because it would happen.

  Eventually. When he got orders.

  Even though it’d hurt like tearing off a Band-Aid.

  Or maybe like being run over by a herd of rabid elephants on steroids. But she’d survive. Because that was what she did. She survived.

  “How’s work?” Beth asked.

  Okay, she eeked by. But she did it on her own, and that was what counted. “Busy. Haven’t seen much of anyone between getting ready for finals and working some overtime. But Kaci and Lance put on a nice Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. How was the Vaughns’ annual snow-blow extravaganza?”

  While Anna considered getting out of bed, Beth launched into a story about her in-laws’ traditional Thanksgiving snowmobile run, and the danger in which they put her poor fourteen-year-old baby boy by letting him ride along.

  But Jackson wouldn’t be here for several hours—heaven forbid she be allowed to drive two hours to his family’s house by herself—and she’d stayed up studying after getting home from Kaci and Lance’s.

  For her first post-divorce holiday, it hadn’t been bad. Kaci could, in fact, cook a decent turkey, and the homemade macaroni and cheese had been unbelievable.

  She’d missed her own family though.

  “Maybe you want to go snowmobiling at Christmas?” Beth said.

  Anna stared at her dark ceiling. She’d never gone before. Neil thought it was too dangerous.

  Jackson probably would too, but he’d trust her to make up her own mind.

  “Anna? You still awake?”

  “Yeah. Kind of. Snowmobiling sounds fun.”

  “Great. I’ll tell Tony’s parents to save a run for us girls. When are you leaving for your football game?”

  “Around noon.”

  “Well, get some studying done. I cannot wait to hear about this guy’s family.”

  Something suspiciously similar to nerves rolled Anna’s stomach into an icy ball of fear. “I’m a little afraid of his mother,” Anna said. “Despite what you might think, I’m pretty sure I don’t talk Southern enough for her.”

  Beth laughed. “Think of all the fun you’ll have telling me everything afterward.”

  Yep. Fun. As long as she could concentrate on having fun, and not worrying whether she was wearing the wrong color shirt, or saying the wrong thing, or being too Yankee, or accidentally insulting anyone, it would be a blast.

  TURNED OUT THE THEORY of Jackson’s taking Anna Grace home to meet his family and the reality of it were two different kinds of fried chicken.

  The theory had thick, crunchy skin and a juicy inside, a high meat-to-bone ratio. She was a special friend and his sister liked her enough to invite her to a football game that set him on the outs with his whole family every year.

  The reality was a mite bit moldy. He hadn’t been able to brush his teeth long or hard enough this morning to get the taste of dread out of his mouth.

  Momma had had that look yesterday. Louisa had an entirely different one, as she’d spent three-quarters of the turkey dinner talking about Just Anna this and Just Anna that.

  Every time Louisa said Anna’s name, Momma ground her teeth. She kept her smile fixed and her tone pleasant as honey, but Jackson still heard the grating teeth.

  It’d been so bad poor Radish had tucked her stub of a tail between her legs and hid in the mud room until Jackson brought her leftovers.

  So when Jackson pulled up to Anna’s apartment half an hour early Friday morning, he thought maybe hanging out here all weekend was a better plan.

  When he’d take a woman over being in the stadium for the Iron Bowl, he knew he was in trouble.

  Especially since he’d told Mamie he might bring Anna by for bowling after dinner.

  Big trouble. Big, big trouble.

  But Anna opened her door, looking sleepy and stressed out and happy to see him, and he’d never been so glad for trouble. “Anna Grace, you look like you need a break.”

  She grabbed a fistful of his third favorite Bama T–shirt—the first two packed away for the both of them tomorrow—and hauled him inside. He went right along, grinning as big as his old spaniel in a field of squirrels.

  When they finally hit the road, Jackson was feeling a lot less stressed. Anna was wearing one of his favorite smiles—the kind she used only when she looked at him. But even when she looked away, when her brain might’ve taken her to thoughts of homework or work or her family or any number of things he hadn’t figured out yet about her, her lips tipped up like she had a secret. It made his chest feel all cozy, as though the outside world were cold and windy and snowy, but his heart was wrapped up in one of Mamie’s old quilts in front of a fire in that place he’d rented the year he spent at Minot in South Dakota.

  Wasn’t even dreading going back into the Confederate mausoleum again today, not with his spunky Yankee by his side.

  The drive flew by with her chatting about whatever popped into her head, fiddling with the radio, nodding off and wheezing out a soft snore, and jerking back awake with that cute wide-eyed panic that she might’ve missed something. Jackson almost missed the
turn off the backcountry highway to head into Auburn proper.

  He took the long way, which could’ve meant he toured every street in Auburn before heading toward the iron arches guarding the house Momma had married into. Instead, he picked one specific street between the airport and the university.

  They drew up to a split-level brick home halfway up the block. Jackson slowed the truck. Anna had gone quiet.

  Probably thought this was it.

  Should’ve been it.

  “Grew up there,” he said, flicking a finger at the old place. Had a lot of fun there too. Learned how to be a man he hoped his daddy would’ve been proud of there.

  Wasn’t sure he was doing everything right, but he was trying.

  Anna’s worry lines smoothed out. She gave him another of those secret smiles. “Looks like a nice place to grow up.” She leaned into him, her hair smelling all sweet and Annalike, and pointed. “Is that the tree you tried to fly out of?”

  Leave it to Anna Grace to remember the good ones. “That’s her.”

  “Which branch?”

  The old oak was bigger than she’d been back in the day, but the branch in question wasn’t there anymore. “See that big lump about a third of the way to the branches?”

  “Aw, it’s gone?”

  “It, ah, didn’t survive my growing up.” And he could still remember his daddy’s face when Jackson had to explain how the second-largest branch on the whole tree had happened to splinter off on a thick, lazy, stagnant July afternoon: Irritation fighting with amusement, fear of Momma’s reaction outweighing everything else. How you planning on telling your momma you broke her favorite tree? Jackson couldn’t have been older than thirteen when it happened, but he could still see his daddy standing there on the driveway, rubbing his chin, eyes twinkling, choking on something. Pollen, he’d said, but it was only one of a handful of times Jackson ever heard his daddy talk about allergies.

  Must’ve been a sight, Daddy had said.

  Jackson shifted a glance back at Anna Grace.

  His daddy would’ve gotten a kick out of that sight too.

  “This another story not fit for my delicate Yankee ears?” she teased. But the soft brush of her fingers over his hand, the way she tilted her head so her eyes went all soft, he knew what she was really asking.

  If it was his to keep, or if it was his to share.

  He gestured to the tree again. “Reckon you could say I watched too much Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote as a kid.”

  “Oh, dear.” Her cheeks split into his second-favorite kind of Anna Grace grin. Her eyebrows gave him a go on wiggle.

  He flipped his hand up and gave her fingers a squeeze. “Rigged my momma’s favorite old perfume bottle as a homemade bottle rocket. Didn’t exactly misfire, but it didn’t go where it was supposed to either.” He’d been a hell of a kid. Wonder his daddy hadn’t had a heart attack before Jackson hit his teen years. “Didn’t help I filled the whole bottle with fuel.”

  Her eyes narrowed in that amused, suspicious way she had about her whenever he told some of his more heart-attack-inducing stories. “I don’t want to know what you used as fuel, do I?”

  “I ever tell you about my momma’s family’s upstanding reputation in the moonshine industry?”

  Her lips parted, her eyes still scrunchy around the edges. “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Henry Ford should’ve hired him some rednecks. Course, then you might not have a job here, but there’s a reason they say it’s like drinking gasoline.”

  She stared at him one heartbeat longer, then tipped her head and laughed.

  Right good sound, Anna Grace laughing.

  He hoped she found the Confederate mausoleum as amusing. They couldn’t sit all afternoon parked across from what should’ve still been home, and he’d promised Momma they’d have dinner at the compound tonight.

  Had to, what with how she’d channeled General Lee when issuing the invitation.

  So eventually he pulled away from the curb, the gnawing in his gut serving as his own personal radar as to how close they were. Anna got quiet too. Looked as though she wished she had a label maker within reach, but whenever she caught him stealing a glance, she gave him a courageous smile.

  He pulled through the wrought-iron arch and onto the freshly repaved drive beneath a canopy of old oaks and magnolias. Her knee jiggled. Jackson gave it a squeeze. “Okay, Anna Grace?”

  “I don’t like being the only Yankee in a room.”

  She hadn’t seen the inside yet. “Between you and me, there’s two of us who’ve lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  The house came into view. She went so pale, he saw the shadow of the veins in her neck, and they were hopping faster than the drum of the motor in his truck. “Is there anything I should know before we go in?” she asked.

  Probably a lot, but too late now.

  Wasn’t sure he was brave enough to open up about all of it anyway. “Going chicken on me?” he teased.

  “If your momma scares you, I don’t hold out much hope for myself.”

  “She’ll lady your boots off,” Jackson said. He hit her with his best disarming smile, even though he wanted to pound his foot on the gas and get away from the negative gravitational pull of the house. “Don’t reckon you studied that Officers’ Wives Handbook to figure out how to use your silverware at dinner tonight.”

  She hitched one side of her mouth up. Looked as if she were trying to make it reach those wide doe eyes. “Get on my bad side, and I won’t wear that sweatshirt in the backseat you think I don’t know about to the game tomorrow.”

  He chuckled. “All right, Anna Grace. I’ll behave myself. And I promise, on my honor as a gentleman, to defend you and your Yankee ways against all those suspicious looks and backhanded compliments you might be walking into.”

  He pocketed his keys, then stared at the house. Three stories tall, as wide as a football field is long, white so bright he could almost see colors in it, columns holding up the overhang over the front door.

  Everything Southern grandeur was supposed to be on the outside, everything hell was supposed to be on the inside.

  Anna was watching him. He made his face blank. “Ready?”

  She put soft fingers to his cheek and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

  Never knew it could feel so good to not be alone. “Don’t you be trying that at the dinner table unless you’re looking to get on my momma’s bad side,” he said, but his voice was huskier than he meant it to be.

  “Only after I thank her for raising you to chase ants out of ladies’ cars.”

  Couldn’t help but smile at her gumption. “And don’t forget pulling ladies out of garbage cans. That one there’s my favorite.”

  “Bring that up again and no more pie for you.”

  He laughed, because he had to enjoy it while he could.

  ANNA COULDN’T DECIDE which was worse, being underdressed to meet Jackson’s momma in a house that reeked of old Southern money and elegance, or the fact that he hadn’t warned her his momma lived in a house that reeked of old Southern money and elegance.

  Jackson opened the door, a massive oak number taller than any door Anna had ever seen north of the Mason-Dixon Line. He led her inside, hand comfortably at the small of her back. She contemplated asking if she should take her shoes off, but he didn’t seem to think anything of tramping across the gleaming wood floor, so she went along through the high-ceilinged foyer and into a grand living room. Paintings of battle scenes, complete with Confederate flags, gray-uniformed officers thrusting sabers on horseback, and 1860s-style cannons, dominated the walls.

  That tingling on Anna’s scalp might’ve been a little bit of sweat.

  The couches were all dark leather with brass adornments. They were beautiful, but looked as cozy as a log in a bear’s den. Anna suspected that if she dared to sit and prop up her feet on the spotless glass coffee table, its metal legs would morph into jaws and politely chomp off her lower extremities.

 
With barely a pause, Jackson nudged her through the next doorway. The dining room table was set and ready for a meal fit to serve a king and his entourage. Or, more likely, given the blue and white table runner lined with silver stars, General Lee and his top dozen advisers. A buffet and hutch with intricately painted china stood on one wall. On another wall, a huge picture window overlooked the lush yard where Radish was happily basking in the sun. So much for that fleeting thought that maybe his momma just worked here. Beyond the yard were more woods, separating the house from any suggestion of neighbors.

  She cut a glance up at Jackson. He’d retreated into his blank mask.

  Maybe she could fake a Southern accent all weekend.

  A couple of old silver plates rattled in an ornate curio cabinet as they passed into the kitchen. At least, Anna thought it was the plates.

  It could’ve been her feet quaking in her shoes, or her bones rattling out of their sockets.

  The kitchen was brightly lit and large enough to support a whole cooking crew. The smell of money and opulence overpowered whatever was cooking on the stove. An average-height, curvy woman was chopping something green on a wooden block on the massive island in the center of the room.

  Her skin was smooth and clear, lipstick perfect, light-brown curly hair tamed in an elegant yet simple bun. The shrewdness in her light eyes and the way she held her shoulders back told Anna that this was a woman who’d experienced life and was still coming out on top.

  If Anna had had a kid who had done half what Jackson claimed, she would have wrinkles and gray hair.

  Not Jackson’s momma. She looked as though she’d gather a Confederate army of her own before she’d allow anything so plebian as age to sully her appearance.

  Anna gulped.

  Jackson let go of Anna long enough to greet his momma with a kiss to the cheek. Before he could make introductions, his momma wiped her hand on her simple white apron and then extended it to Anna. “Welcome, my dear. I’m Deb. Louisa has told me so much about you. How was your drive?”

  Her hands were smooth and warm, and her accent was softer and less pronounced than her children’s, but still there.