“Oh,” James said, as he mulled it over. Dinner and drinks would definitely mean staying overnight and he would have to see if the building inspector could meet him earlier. Surely that wouldn’t be a problem.
“Sure, Narland – I could do dinner instead. What did you have in mind?”
“My treat, but I thought we could do one of the new restaurants over on Clinch Avenue? It’s right around the corner from where your store will be opening, and would be a great chance for you to mix and mingle with your target audience. What do ya say, meet at The Hamilton, six-thirty?”
James was no fool. It was also a chance for Narland to be seen waltzing around downtown with a celebrity chef.
“Sure, Hamilton at six-thirty it is,” James said.
“Perfect,” Narland said. “My wife just loves the cocktails there, Terri will be thrilled to meet you.”
James scowled at the dash. He sensed he had just been checkmated, and he resented it. But he couldn’t risk upsetting his newest well-connected ally either. After all, his feature story had yet to be written and until the ink was dry on the paper, Narland could kill his feature in an instant.
“I look forward to meeting her, and you as well,” he mustered.
“Outstanding! Speaking of Terri, I wondered if I might ask a favor,” Narland pushed. “Her brother-in-law, Billy Dalton has a crop of pumpkins he needs to wholesale a.s.a.p. and I wondered if you might be interested in buying the lot?”
James was fuming. The lot? He could give two farts about Billy Dalton, whoever he was. What was he supposed to do with all those pumpkins?
“Ah, well I, I’m not sure we have—”
Narland cut him off again. “He’d give you a good discount on ‘em. And I thought maybe you could use them for decorations in the restaurant and with the store. He’s got some hay bales too, big nice square ones that could go along with it. Would make for a real good photo op you know? Especially to pair with your feature. Plus, those pumpkins will stay good well through Halloween, all the way up to Thanksgiving. I know my wife would sure appreciate it, Billy’s struggling and could really use the sale.”
James gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather squeaked. This was bribery. Highway robbery. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, if he wanted to secure a feature with The Knoxville Herald.
“Narland, I’ll tell you what. We’d love to have those pumpkins. How does Friday sound?” he said through clenched teeth, trying to force a smile into his voice.
“Friday would be perfect. I’ll let Billy know, and he and his boys’ll come by probably late afternoon. I really do appreciate this. See you in a bit,” Narland said, and the line clicked off.
James hadn’t realized he’d started to pick up speed, his foot involuntarily channeling his foul mood and mashing down on the accelerator. He was getting angrier by the second, and yelled to no one.
The universe responded, as it is wont to do, after all – God doesn’t like ugly – and gave James something to truly yell at. He crested a hill and nearly rear-ended a tractor hauling an enormous hay shredder.
6
The shredder was a leviathan. It trundled down the road at just over twenty-miles-per-hour, and hogged seventy-five percent of the highway as it went. James leaned hard on the horn. If the large man occupying the enclosed tractor cab heard him, he gave no indication of it, and kept plugging right along.
After several rounds of honking produced no results, James took to flashing the tractor with his brights, as well as honking.
Nothing.
James shifted to another tactic, and tried as much as possible to tailgate it, which is a difficult thing to do to an industrial-sized shredder with rows of sharp spikes hanging off the back, like a steel-hewn porcupine. James continued to flash his lights, honk and swerve back and forth on the road behind the shredder like a lunatic.
The man in the cab stuck his left hand out of the window and gave James a one-fingered salute. And with that, James McGill lost his mind.
James slowed to a crawl and let the shredder gain about thirty yards on him. The road was flat enough for a stretch that he could see there were no cars glimmering in the distance. Then he floored it and swerved left, dropped two tires off the pavement and sent up a cloud of dust and grass in a last ditch effort to blow past the shredder on the left. He almost had it.
Almost.
What happened next is still up for debate.
To hear James tell it, the man in the tractor swerved left as he tried to pass him, and clipped both the right front and rear tires as James hurtled past – successfully slicing them both open and causing a massive blowout. Which promptly sent James sailing left into a ditch.
The man driving the tractor swore James lost control of his truck when he went off-pavement, and as a result, clipped him. And that blame rested solely with James, in his own stupid volition to attempt to pass a shredder.
Regardless of whatever version was true, James McGill’s brand new shiny black truck no longer shone. And instead, rested on its rims in a Tennessee ditch at a nasty 45-degree angle.
7
Sometime in between Danae’s arrival and departure, I would have sworn in an open court that the apple crates had multiplied – and a localized bout of global warming had occurred right in our kitchen.
I was absolutely dumbstruck at this walking festival of hell that had just trit-trotted into our lives this morning. The happy sweeps of color from Roth’s drawings were at stark odds with the crushing sense of doom that settled across my shoulders like a weighted blanket.
“Tina, what am I going to do?” A potent mix of anger, disbelief and panic coursed through my veins like fire.
Tina sighed and sank down on the barstool next to me. “Flower. You know I can’t fully answer that question,” she said.
I loved her nickname for me. I also knew she strategically used it to soften tough news, or to help calm me down.
“I just really thought James meant it, when he said he was going to help this week. I feel like such an idiot.”
Tina leaned into me and put her arm around my shoulders. “Trusting someone does not make you an idiot, love.”
She was a solid decade older than me, and while it was true I’d hired her largely because of her personality, she’d also quickly morphed into the older sister and mother I never had growing up. I knew I filled a hole in her life too. Her only child was living on the West Coast, and still trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up. Maybe we all were.
“I wish James had never published that first book,” I muttered, trying hard to fight tears.
She took a deep breath and squeezed my shoulder before she let me go. “Well, what’s done is done.”
I shook my head, still in disbelief and snatched an apple off the countertop to start peeling it.
A phone chirp pinged into the silence.
“Yours or mine?” Tina asked.
It pinged again, the sharp ding of a small hammer tapping a bell. “That’s mine,” I said, trying to remember the last place I’d my phone down. Three more pings rippled through the kitchen before I found it under a dishtowel.
“Speak of the devil.” I said, waving my phone at Tina.
“And he shall appear?” she grinned, finishing my sentence.
“You have got to be freaking kidding me,” I snapped.
James: Sorry ‘bout the short notice, change of plans – have to stay in Knoxville at least overnight, incident with the truck – flat tires. Had to get it towed.
‘Don’t you mean Nashville?’
“Molly, you’re going to break the phone screen clutching it that tight!” Tina said, pointing to my hands.
“Guess who conveniently has flat tires and has to stay in Knoxville overnight?”
Tina leaned on the countertop shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
I tilted my phone and showed her the message. The stupid thing pinged again in my hands, vibrating with succes
sive messages.
“Oh,” I said. Several pictures popped up on my screen. The first, showed James’s truck, nose-down in a ditch. Then tires. Then the right side of his truck. Both tires on the right side were completely flat, and the entire passenger side was scratched from the front fender down to the tailgate. Maybe he ran into a guardrail?
‘What happened?’
‘Long story short, a guy on a tractor swerved into me. I’m ok, it’s just the truck.’
I scrunched my face at the news as I read the message aloud to Tina. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Why would a tractor be on the interstate?”
Tina drummed her fingertips on the steel countertop, forehead creased in thought. The missing link dawned on us both at the same time.
He was never going to Nashville at all that morning.
8
The rest of the week slipped by in a frenzied blur. Tina successfully had coached me into calling Fred Roth’s office, having me pretend I was speaking on behalf of James to verify some of the design details. Since he was out doing book signings that week, of course. Fred had been more than happy to talk about the project, and was looking forward to the end of October when the sale was supposed to go through. Once it did, he could get started on the full build-out specs and blueprints.
Fresh on the heels of that news, we’d spent the first half of the week alternating between gritted teeth, and sweat and tears, as we slogged our way through the apple crates. Tina went down to the restaurant to pick up a few bottles of wine, and unilaterally declared that – if we had a snowball’s chance of scheming up a way for the deal to fall through on James’s new store – wine was a must.
I didn’t disagree with her and was happy to have her stay the week with me.
She explained that Himself had gone on a health kick, and refused to keep any temptation in the house. “He’s trying to be cutesy about it too,” Tina had scoffed as she took a big swig of a tasty Central-California Sauv Blanc the color of pale honey. “And he’s been trying to guilt trip me into abstaining too, saying it’s nothing but fret and regret.”
I was still furious at the whole situation, but Tina was right. The wine helped.
“We about had a knock-out, drag-down fight when he tried to throw my fags out,” she said, as we finished the last jars of apple preserves.
I nearly choked on a mouthful of wine laughing.
“Nearly a full carton too that I’d just picked up at the Costco. And did I tell you he had the cheek to buy me a vape pen?” she said in absolute disgust. “What a foul stupid thing. And to think, he actually got mad when I used it to dig gunk out of the garbage disposal.”
By Friday morning, Tina and I were both exhausted and I was glad today’s most pressing task only involved putting labels and ribbons on the pretty cut-glass jars we’d used to make the apple preserves this year.
I came downstairs to coffee brewing, and Tina getting ready to make French toast. A bottle of Jameson was uncapped, as was the Baileys Irish Cream.
“Good morning sunshine,” she said, as she whipped a bowls of eggs into a frothy mixture before adding a cupful of milk and a dash of vanilla. The griddle steamed as she eased four slices of egg-soaked bread onto it.
She grinned as she poured a stream of Baileys into her coffee mug. “Would you like an Irish coffee? A boring coffee? Or a mimosa?”
“Let’s go mimosa for now,” I said, scooching onto a barstool. My shoulders ached. My back ached. Muscles I didn’t even know I had ached. I rolled my shoulders, willing my body to relax.
“Mimosa for now it is,” Tina said, giving me a generous pour of sparkling wine before adding an orange juice floater. The griddle beeped and my mouth watered as Tina presented my plate with a flourish. We sighed as we sat down to a well-earned breakfast together.
“James is supposed to be back today?” Tina asked, drizzling syrup across her toast, then passing it to me.
I nodded, savoring the delicious fluffy concoction Tina had made. “This is so good,” I said, and pointed my fork at the plate. “Vanilla, milk – eggs of course, but what else?” I rolled the bite around in my mouth trying to place the flavors.
Tina cut her eyes to the bottle of Baileys and winked.
“Really?”
“Yep,” she said, proudly. “And a little condensed milk too. One of the dishes I wanted to try out for the new menu if you liked it.”
“We could sell only this and still have a line out the door.”
She took a long sip of her coffee and smiled. “I thought if we wanted to do baked cinnamon apples with it, or other fruit – maybe that could be an option too,” and speared the last bite on her plate.
“I love it,” I said, and carried our plates to the sink. I sprayed the last of the syrup off and had just put the plates in the dishwasher when I heard it.
A guttural sound that reminded me a bit of a suped-up diesel truck rolled up the driveway along with the unmistakable pop of tires crunching on gravel.
“What on earth?” I said, and followed Tina toward the kitchen windows, as she peered through our red-checkered curtains.
“Flower. You might want a pull of Jameson before you take a look at this.”
9
My stomach felt like it dropped a dozen floors and fell straight into my shoes. I glanced at the Jameson, but decided against it.
“Is it Danae?” I asked, cautiously creeping toward the windows. An overwhelming sense of dread grew with each slow step I took.
“Not unless she just grew some magnificent sideburns,” Tina snickered.
I joined Tina at the windows. But never in a million years would I have correctly guessed what had just come into view.
At first glance, I thought the gleaming silver truck now ensconced in our driveway might be a film crew. It was a little smaller than an RV, and more closely resembled an Airstream trailer, only boxy and squared. Then one of the most handsome men I had ever seen came around from the back of the truck. He was tall, hair neatly trimmed, square and sturdy-looking. Like a carpenter you might see working in a hardware store. Tina and I watched him, as he unlocked a few sets of panels near the bottom sideboards.
The stranger glanced up toward the windows, but didn’t fully turn to make eye contact with us. He knew he was being observed, and the grin on his face indicated he seemed to be enjoying it.
He freed one more latch, then turned a large black lever on the side of the truck. A muffled pneumatic hiss sent a large silver panel skyward, and revealed a deli-style counter hidden behind it. In large, neon lettering – it also revealed that this particular tenement on wheels, was a food truck. Pies to be exact.
A fluffy black cat clamored out of the truck to join the stranger. It nosed a few circles around his ankles, then sat calmly beside his owner, erect and apparently waiting for something. The stranger proudly put his hands on his hips like a super hero, before waving to us and sporting what seemed to be his trademark grin.
“What on earth?” Tina and I said, in near unison, before bursting into laughter.
“Somebody really named a food truck that?” Tina hooted. “Look at him out there, grinning like the village idiot. Proud as punch he is,” she snorted, attempting derision, but laughter getting the better of her.
“He’s a vendor, he has to be,” I said, laughing. We grabbed jackets at the door, and met the stranger outside.
“Morning ladies!” the stranger whooped.
“Morning to you,” I said.
He scooped up the chubby cat and cradled it in the crook of one arm as he waved proudly toward his truck. “May I introduce you two fine ladies … to YIPPEE PIE YAY,” he said, pausing as if here were announcing the first place winner of a beauty pageant.
We couldn’t help it. Tina and I burst into laughter.
The stranger eased the inky-black cat onto the truck’s ordering window. The cat gave him several content tail swishes, then hopped down into the truck and out of sight.
“Oh! I have sam
ples,” he said, and opened the rear loading doors, and stepped up into the truck, leaving the doors swung wide open. The sounds of silverware and glass clinking drew Tina and me toward the back of the truck.
“Would you look at that,” Tina whispered, as we peered inside. We were both in a bit of awe.
This was not only a food truck; it was a little home on wheels.
Every possible square inch of space had been cleverly transformed and made useful in some way. Shelves and storage nooks lined the walls. The rear of the truck offered a small set of living quarters, complete with a foldaway table and small bed latched upright to the walls. A privacy curtain was tucked neatly into a filigreed hook mounted on a wall, and it appeared the curtain could be drawn to separate the kitchen and serving counter from the living area. Two raised skylights bathed the interior in natural light, as well as giving the illusion of increased space.
Altogether it was a very organized affair.
We watched as the stranger flitted around the small kitchen with ease, opening and closing a warming oven with the speed and grace of someone truly in their element. He noticed Tina and I watching and seemed thrilled.
He unhooked the little folding table, swinging it neatly into place then set down a tray containing several small glass jars. These Mason jars were short, about a quarter of the height of a regular jar, each tied with lovely ribbon.
“Could I interest you fine ladies in a sample or two?” he grinned, waving us inside the truck.
The unmistakable scent of warm, buttery crusts baking invited us over, like a treasured friend wrapping you in a warm quilt. Hesitation quickly gave way to curiosity. We stepped into the fragrant small space. It smelled like stepping into a little bakery.
“That’s pie?” Tina said uncertainly, as she peered at the short Mason jars dotting the serving tray.
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 125
