Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance
Page 1
Sherri’s Christian romances:
Fried Chicken and Gravy available in audio
Sticky Notes – available in audio
A Wife and a River – fishing romance
The Piano Girl – for ages 7 to 107
A special thank you to the following people for their help and encouragement: my writing coach, Randy Ingermanson—author of Fiction for Dummies, women’s fiction writer, Patty Slack, editor, Jeanne Leach, and final editor Kristi Weber.
This is a work of fiction, all characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is completely coincidental.
Fried Chicken and Gravy:
Christian Romances LLC – www.christianromances.com
Text copyright © 2014 Sherri Schoenborn Murray
All rights reserved.
Cover photos by Clari Noel Photography
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
RECIPES
DEDICATION:
To my husband, Dave, who in spite of my never-ending questions regarding auto repair, maintained his sense of humor and sanity. “What’s a coil wire again?” And my mom, Ethel, for her unfailing love and support.
CHAPTER 1
Ridgefield, Washington - 1978
Up ahead, an unpleasant image blurred in the heat. Missy Stuart leaned toward the dash and frowned. Parked alongside the two lane country road sat an older white Chevy station wagon with the hood propped up. A young man wearing a powder-blue leisure suit leaned against the driver’s side door. She gripped the steering wheel and told herself, “Look straight ahead.” The last thing she had time to do was stop in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave to help some city slicker.
With her foot steady on the gas pedal, Missy peered out the corner of her eye as she drove past the man. Maybe he’d gone to Ridgefield High or knew Daddy. Maybe he’d recognize her forest green ’63 Dodge pickup truck. Nope, she’d never seen the fellow before in her life. She celebrated by turning on the radio and taking a sip of orange soda.
Acres of apple trees lined the right-hand side of the road while on her left, miles of knee-high green potato plants complimented the summer blue sky. She felt a bit antsy, if not elated. In the four years she’d possessed a driver’s license, it was the first time she’d broken her father’s number one rule: always stop for stranded motorists. If for some reason Daddy did hear about her driving by the city slicker, she had the perfect excuse—ice cream. Enclosed in a white freezer bag, a carton of Neapolitan ice cream sat on the floor next to two gallons of milk.
“Sure is a hot afternoon, folks,” the KGW disc jockey said. “Remember not to leave the kiddos in the car and drink plenty of H2O.”
She finished drinking the bottle of soda and tried to dismiss the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Someone else will help him.
Someone else probably wouldn’t have tools, cold bottles of pop or a bleeding heart. Missy patted the wheel. It was still a couple of miles before she’d see their Big John’s Auto Repair sign propped up in the blackberry vines. If she did go back and help the fellow, hopefully, she’d still have time to run back into town to Penny’s Beauty Parlor.
She hung a left into a gravel turn-out area near a U-pick dahlia farm. With her foot on the brake, she reached across the bench seat to open the glove compartment. Tucked inside was the glossy advertisement for Wella Balsam Shampoo. For the hundredth time, she studied the picture of Farrah Fawcett and her big bouncy curls. In comparison, Missy’s old ponytail made her blonde hair look flat against her head. Maybe tonight after she had big hair, Gary would finally notice that Douglas’s baby sister was all grown up.
No vehicles were behind her when she slowly drove near the two-door station wagon. With its wide chrome grille, hooded headlights, and Chevy tailfins, the body style was a classic; it just needed a new coat of paint.
Empty-handed, the dark-haired young man stood near the engine. He’d even taken off his sport coat. Imagine that; the fellow had a brain.
“Need a hand?” With her foot on the brake, Missy leaned out her open window.
“That’d be great.” He nodded.
She made a U-turn in the middle of the two lane road and parked in the grass behind the wagon. Stranded motorists will remember your help—always give them a card. She recalled Daddy’s advice and slid a Big John’s Auto Repair card in the bib pocket of her overalls. Next she grabbed a bottle of orange soda from the eight-pack on the floor, and popped the lid with the can opener on her key ring.
As she approached the rear of his car, she noted his bumper sticker was just a white background with the bold outline of a fish. He was probably a fishing fool like Daddy. When the fellow wasn’t wearing a suit, he probably wore a fishing vest and rubber boots.
The young man stood staring at the small block V8 engine. Hmmm . . . She’d expected it to be an inline six cylinder. The compartment looked like somebody had poured muddy water over everything and let it dry; not a good sign.
“Here.” Stopping beside him, Missy held out the bottle of soda.
“Thank you.” He took it. “You’re a lifesaver. I’m thinking it’s out of water. Usually that’s why folks break down on hot days like today.”
“Did a red light come on the dash?” She tucked a long hair behind one ear.
“No, not that I remember.”
She waited for him to finish taking a sip. “Was the temp gauge pegged at H?”
“No, I remember looking at it right after it came to a lurching stop.”
“Then it’s not overheating.”
Over her shoulder, she studied the fellow’s lean, summer-tanned face. With his dark hair, hazel eyes, and cleft chin, he looked like a young Jerry Lewis.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like—”
“A hundred times. Except I’m not funny.”
She chuckled to herself about his polyester suit and wondered if he did imitations—crossed his eyes and jutted out his top teeth or walked with his knees together while his feet were shoulder-width apart.
“Is it a private joke?”
She shrugged. In a dorky kind of way, he was cute.
“What’re the symptoms?” She returned her attention to the engine.
“It’s not gas, still has a third of a tank.”
“What kind o
f sound was it making?”
“Uh, it was rattling for a couple miles and then it just stopped.”
“Just stopped.” She strummed her lower lip. “Let’s pull a coil wire off and see if you’ve got spark.”
“Huh?”
“Coil wire.”
Red crept into his face, and he leaned forward and poked at a plug wire.
Jerry Boy knew zip about engines.
On the driver’s side, she reached in and unplugged the coil wire from the top of the distributor cap. “You don’t happen to have a screwdriver?”
“No.”
“A motorist should always carry tools—especially a guy.”
“What do you recommend?”
He had the dumb didn’t-know-a-thing look down to a T, but his voice was octaves too low. “With a vehicle as old as yours . . .” She frowned, looking at the engine. “Jumper cables, extra quarts of oil, hose clamps, a tow strap ... I could go on, Jerry.” She started toward her truck.
“Robert. My name’s Robert,” he called after her.
Young, able-bodied men who know little about engines, Missy recalled her father’s sentiments, will pay the price. She lifted her red toolbox from behind the bench seat. Maybe it was the heat, but she felt testy. She shouldn’t have stopped. The ice cream had softened. The milk had warmed. Her hair was straight, and she didn’t know what she was making for dinner.
She set her toolbox in the gravel near the wagon’s front bumper. Sweat beaded on the young man’s forehead and on her own. It was a peach-canning, sticky kind of hot.
“Get behind the wheel and turn the key, but only when I tell you. And . . .” She made sure he had complete eye contact with her. “If you turn the key before I tell you, you could electrocute me.”
The whites of his eyes became more prominent as he stared at her. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.” She rummaged through her toolbox. “Cars run on air, fuel and spark. We’re trying to determine if you have spark because you already said you have fuel.”
She stuck the screwdriver in the coil wire plug and looked for the closest piece of bare metal on the engine.
“Turn it over,” she bellowed.
As soon as he turned the key, a pretty blue spark arched. They definitely had spark.
A half hour passed, and even though she was working under the shade of the hood, the temp felt over a hundred. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her arm. “It’s either a fuel pump, or fuel filter problem.”
“Maybe you can give me a lift into Ridgefield—cute little town—immediately over the ridge.” He set an elbow on top of the open passenger door. “I know quite a few folks there.”
“I said it’s either a fuel pump or fuel filter problem.”
“Oh . . . sounds like you’re figuring it out.” He glanced at his watch.
“I’m trying . . . give me a couple more minutes before we get my tow strap.” She glanced toward her truck and wondered what melted Neapolitan would taste like if she re-froze it.
“Tow strap.” He chuckled.
She waited for him to make some crack about her being a roadside angel while she traced the fuel line from the carburetor to the fuel pump to find the inline fuel filter.
He cleared his throat. “I’m Robert Schoening. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He closed the passenger door, and stopped beside the front tire.
“Missy.” Now was not the time for small talk. She was just about to find the El Dorado. This city slicker needed something to do. “Behind the seat of my truck, on the driver’s side, there’s an umbrella. I could use a little more shade.”
A couple of minutes later he stood beside her holding Mama’s faded purple umbrella. The shade buffered twenty degrees off the back of her neck.
“I moved your perishables out of the sun, but your ice cream’s history. Sorry about that.”
The Neapolitan would have helped save tonight’s dinner. She sighed.
“I appreciate you trying to figure it out as I’m new in sales, and it’s strictly commission...” His voice trailed off.
Sales. She should have known from his polyester suit that he was a salesman. He probably sold Bibles. He had that clean-cut look and way-too-nice way about him. The boxes in the back of his wagon must be full of them. Turning toward the ditch, she blew into the filter inlet and wiped the gas off her mouth.
“Here’s your culprit.”
“How do you know?” He’d angled the umbrella so he was also in the shade.
“Can’t blow through it.” Missy glanced at the pocket of his polyester shirt. “Is that a Bic pen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I borrow it?”
“Sure.” He handed it to her. With the pointed blade of her pocketknife, Missy popped off the plastic end cap, and handed him back the blue ink cartridge.
“Gee, thanks.” He eyed the skinny cartridge.
“This is the part I need.” She scribed through the middle of the pen body, and snapped the clear shell in half.
“For what?”
“A makeshift fuel line.” Missy connected the hoses with the Bic pen body and tightened the clamps with a screwdriver. “Start it again, and I’ll check for leaks.”
“You’re kidding! If this works...” He slid behind the wheel. First turn, nothing. Second turn, nothing.
“Keep trying,” she bellowed and pumped the throttle linkage until she saw fuel. On the third try, the engine sputtered to life. She heard exuberant chuckling before she dropped the hood. “The Bic filter’s not going to last long.” She paused near his door. “It’s a temporary fix.”
“I have a five o’clock appointment with a potential client in Woodland. I may just make it.” He grinned.
“What time is it?” Penny’s Beauty Parlor closed at five.
“It’s . . .” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Twenty minutes to five.”
“Crab.” Daddy’s favorite, not-so-bad word escaped her. It was too late now for big hair—she’d never make it to Penny’s.
He frowned, probably at her choice of words.
He definitely sold Bibles.
“Here, let me pay you something.” He held a five-dollar bill out the window.
“Nawh... that’s your life savings.”
“At least let me carry your tool box back to your truck.” He turned like he was going to lift the door handle.
“No, you need to get going.”
He nodded, looking down the open road. “Thanks for stopping, Miss. You were an answer to prayer.”
He was indeed one of those door-to-door Bible salesmen. She wouldn’t give him Daddy’s card. Daddy hated solicitors. “Uh, in case you have any more trouble... there’s an auto repair shop a couple miles up the road.” She nodded north, the same direction in which he was headed.
“Thank you. That’s good to know.” He waited until she was clear of his car before he drove onto the paved road.
A Bible salesman who looked like Jerry Lewis, she chuckled to herself as she swung open her driver’s side door. Wait until Daddy hears about this. In the side mirror, she glimpsed her reflection. Though brief, she’d spotted something odd. She pushed the door closed, and peered closer. An orange soda mustache sat perched above her upper lip.
“Crab.” It had been there the entire time.
CHAPTER 2
Supper was ready. Using the wall phone in the kitchen, Missy dialed the shop number. The line was busy. She’d tell Daddy in person that it was time to eat, in sign language if she had to.
When she was halfway to the shop, she heard Gary Baker’s loud muffler rev up their gravel drive. Her older brother, Douglas, had taken the weekday off from work for the two to go fishing. She slowed her gait as the primer gray El Camino eased up beside her.
“Hey, Missy, what’s fer dinner?” Gary rested a deeply tanned forearm on top of the steering wheel.
“Nothing special.” She smiled.
“Tuesday’s supposed to b
e the best night of the week.” Douglas leaned forward in the bench seat. “You just got groceries.”
She returned her attention to Gary’s eyes. In the sunlight, gold highlights danced in their onyx depths. “Catch any?”
“It was too hot for fishing. Doug helped me out on a tile job today.”
She didn’t understand. They’d left early this morning clutching fishing rods.
“Don’t tell Dad.” Douglas looked at her.
Was he thinking about becoming a roofer, giving up his share of the family business? That would only leave her, and Daddy would be so disappointed.
“You staying for supper?” she asked Gary. Little did he know, her world revolved around Tuesdays and his staying for supper.
“Might as well.” He shrugged.
“Just to warn you, it’s nothing special. I got stuck helping a broken-down salesman on the way home.” Missy rolled her eyes. “Inline fuel filter problem. Ate up all my cooking time.”
“What’s for dinner then?” Douglas moaned.
“Meat and potatoes.” She strode toward the office. He’d only moan louder if she told him the exact menu. For the second evening in a row, they were having fried venison and mashed potatoes.
The office was situated on the left side of their four-bay shop. Seated behind his large, gray metal desk, Daddy hung up the phone. At six-foot-seven, 320 pounds, he was often referred to as an intimidating man. Lucky for her, she took after their mama’s side—petite with birdie bones.
“Dinner’s done.”
“Did you burn it?” Daddy’s blue eyes narrowed.
“No.”
“Then why do you look so fired up?”
“I’m not, but next Tuesday when I go to town...”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m going to get my hair cut.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I may be gone more than half the day.”
“Okay.” Daddy nodded. “But pick up a fryer. Been a long time since we’ve had fried chicken.”
Did he think she was made of time? Fried chicken was for women who wore aprons and spent all day in the kitchen. Fried chicken. The thought made her mouth water. Compared to tonight’s dinner, fried chicken was a dream.