Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  CHAPTER 10

  Due to a sales meeting, Robert didn’t reach home until half past nine. The glow from the front porch lamp reminded him that his mother had hosted the last lesson of Elderly Angels for this group at their home that evening. Everyone had already gone home as no extra cars were parked in the drive. Robert took off his shoes in the garage before entering the mudroom. The vacuum roared in the living room. On the nights they had company, vacuum cleaning was always the last chore Mom tackled before heading to bed.

  As he made his way through the kitchen, Robert wondered what cooking topic his mother had demonstrated tonight, and if there were any leftovers. He opened the fridge.

  His mother was the epitome of a perfectionist. Every label faced outward. Bottles of salad dressing were in a uniform line. A fresh cut lemon and a box of baking soda perfumed the interior. The white shelves sparkled.

  Saran Wrap covered a sliced ham. He opened a Tupperware lid, and found three deviled eggs. He set the ham and eggs on the counter and pulled a plate from the cupboard. In the hallway, his mother turned off the deafening machine.

  “How was your evening?” she asked.

  “Good. We went over sales for the month. Al’s pleased with how I’m progressing.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Is Dad in bed?”

  “He went upstairs with a book a while ago.”

  She rolled the vacuum to the entry closet. While he enjoyed his second bite of ham, he heard the soft patter of her slippers as she stepped from carpet to linoleum. His mother wore a long, lace trimmed apron, one of her own creations, over a floral print skirt and white blouse.

  “How did your party go?” he asked, taking a seat at the round oak dining table in the nook.

  She pulled out the spindle-back wooden chair next to him and sighed. “I’m tired, but it was fun. I timed the ham to come out of the oven right before the ladies arrived. I showed them how to slice it. And I explained how if you cook a ham on Sunday, it can feed your family for a week, especially if you use the bone for soup.”

  No doubt Big John loved ham. Too bad Missy hadn’t been here tonight.

  “I think there’s a chance Big John will attend our church this Sunday. He’s very intent on getting Missy into Elderly Angels.”

  “Missy?” His mother’s eyes widened and a soft smile lit her lips.

  “Yes.” Over the last couple weeks, he’d talked about Big John and Missy several times with his folks during dinner.

  “I’ve been praying for them.” She sighed. “I spoke with Bertha and Peg and told them that her father wanted to sign her up for our class, and well, honey... there’s been a misfortunate misunderstanding.”

  He braced himself. Whatever she was about to tell him, it wasn’t good news.

  “I wasn’t informed that Elderly Angels is only for married ladies.” She waved her hand. “I’ve always handled the hostess side, not the registration.”

  “Hmm.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “When I told Big John that the class was full, he wanted me to ask if the group could make an exception. You see, Missy’s mama died when she was ten, and then two years later she lost her grandmother. No other woman’s taken Missy under her wing since.”

  “Awh . . . my heart just aches for her.” His mother sighed. “Peg might budge, but not Bertha.”

  “If they ate one meal at the Stuarts’ home, they’d make an exception.” Robert questioned how Big John would handle the news.

  “Mom, please do me a huge favor?” He met her gaze. “Ask the ladies one more time?”

  “I’ll see both of them at the seniors’ luncheon on Saturday. I’ll ask them then.”

  Lord, please help Bertha to budge. As he whispered the brief prayer, he pictured a mama penguin protecting her baby. Bertha’s baby was Elderly Angels.

  His mom softly patted his hand. “You won’t believe who called this afternoon... Pauline. I left a sticky note on your mirror upstairs.”

  “Oh.” He nodded thoughtfully. Occasionally his ex-girlfriend, Pauline, would call and let him know what she was up to. Last he’d heard, she was staying with her grandparents in Baker, Oregon.

  “She said she has some good news.”

  He smiled. Good news for Pauline meant she’d met her soul mate.

  “So you think Big John and Missy may actually come to church on account of Elderly Angels?” His mother’s smile returned.

  “Yes. That’s what you need to tell Bertha and Peg. Your class alone may get them to church. Missy’s cooking is a huge motivator.”

  “And you won’t be home tomorrow night for dinner. Is that right?”

  “Yes. While you and Dad are enjoying dinner tomorrow night, remember to pray for the Stuarts’ situation.”

  “Sounds like the Lord’s put you in the middle of a beehive.”

  “It’s been interesting.”

  “Remember,” his mother patted his hand, “where there’s bees, there’s often honey.”

  CHAPTER 11

  As Robert strode toward Big John’s office, he passed Missy on her way to the house. “Aren’t you a glutton for punishment?” was her matter-of-fact greeting.

  He stopped mid-stride. He’d had a good day, closed two sales and set an appointment for two others. If for some providential reason he was able to extract an order from Big John, it would more than make up for the pain of putting up with his daughter.

  “How are you, Missy?” He tried to be pleasant. The shop’s metal roof reflected the late afternoon heat and made the driveway a warming tray. In the direct sunlight, her eyes were a surprising shade of blue.

  “If for some reason Daddy fills an order with you, you’ll only be his rep ‘til Baker’s back.” Lifting her hand, Missy shaded her eyes.

  “He’s unhappy with the service he’s received from Standard, especially lately.

  “He and Baker are like brothers.” For emphasis, she lifted two crossed fingers. “Went to high school together, threw shot put together. Daddy’s been his best man two times.”

  He nodded; he knew they’d been close. “In this light, your eyes are as blue as my mother’s cornflowers.” As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have.

  “Wrong girl, Jerry.”

  “It was an observation, nothing more.” He should have known that anything that bordered on a compliment she’d misread. He continued to the office.

  No one was inside. In the garage, a radio blared half static and half Bee Gees. He set his catalog on John’s desk and meandered into the first bay past a shiny blue Chevelle. In the second bay, wearing a welder’s helmet, Douglas bent forward under the hood of a two-wheel-drive pickup. His welding torch sounded like a small rocket. In the third bay, John leaned against a fender pad while he worked on the engine of a four-door sedan.

  Robert stopped near the front bumper and waited in between welding blasts for an opening.

  “Hand me that wrench.” John nabbed the first opportunity. Without looking at Robert, he held out his large greasy hand.

  A pile of tools lay on the grimy cement floor near John’s feet. Robert picked up the wrench and handed it to him.

  Nearby, Douglas flipped back his helmet visor, observing his work.

  “You should replace the battery every four years or fifty thousand miles, but Paul Reynolds is a tight wad,” John said. “I told him a bad battery wears on your starter and alternator.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the wrench to the floor.

  “You fish?” he asked Robert.

  “I have.”

  “I’m taking the boat out tomorrow. You’re welcome to come as long as you don’t bring that catalog of yours.”

  A fishing trip was a positive step, one he couldn’t afford to pass up. Maybe over the course of the day, they could address the little cooking class issue.

  “Do you want me to meet you here?”

  “Yes. Six-thirty. We’ll stop on the way and get you a salmon steelhead tag, unless you already have one.”

  �
�I don’t.”

  “That’s all you have to worry about bringing. I’ll have Missy pack a lunch.”

  Robert nodded. “Six-thirty.”

  “Yep. Go in the house and tell Missy to set an extra plate, and we’re low on thirty weight oil. You don’t happen to have any in the back of your wagon, Bobby Boy?”

  “Robert, and yes, I do.”

  Walking toward the house, Robert couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

  What a day!

  He knocked on the screen door as he opened it and knocked again on the open main door as he stepped into the entry. A globe light littered with dead bugs hung above his head, and to his right stood an accordion-style closet door.

  “Missy,” he called out her name.

  “What?” Chef knife in hand, Missy strolled to the kitchen doorway.

  “Your father wanted me to let you know to set another plate for dinner.”

  “Who’s coming?” She glanced past him toward the driveway.

  “I am.” Because of his triumphant sale, he felt bulletproof.

  “I don’t think I made enough slop for company.” She returned to whatever she’d been chopping.

  On a nearby wood cutting board sat half a head of cabbage. The site dashed any hopes he’d had of making it through another one of Missy’s meals. It was the one food that made him gag. After several episodes with cabbage while growing up, his siblings realized it wasn’t an act. He had a true involuntary gag reflux reaction to the cruciferous vegetable.

  “Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll eat much.”

  He strode to his wagon, slung the handle of his leather briefcase over his shoulder, and carried two cases of thirty weight oil into John’s office.

  Seated at his desk, Big John looked up from his clipboard. “How was Missy?”

  “She doesn’t think she’s made enough slop for company.”

  John chuckled. “She reminds me of Goliath, a Chihuahua that my mother-in-law used to have. Lots of attitude for a little dog.”

  “Does she take after her mother?”

  For a moment, John’s mouth hung half open as he caught his breath. “Her mama was itty bitty too, but unfortunately Missy got her attitude from me. Wonder what she means by slop tonight?”

  “Probably some kind of mutiny stew.”

  John let out a bellowing laugh. “I sure like having you around, Bobby Boy.”

  The phone rang twice before John leaned forward to answer it. “Big John’s Auto Repair. How may I help you?” He tidied paperwork on his desk. “Hi, Jean. You don’t sound like yourself, doll.”

  Robert sat in the customer chair and set his briefcase on his lap.

  “The last time I saw Rick, I told him he really messed up.” John shook his head. “No, and I don’t want to.”

  Robert pulled out his paperwork and pen, and tried to not listen too much to the conversation at hand.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the man is no longer my friend.”

  Robert shook his head slightly.

  “We used to be best friends, but I’m not siding with him.” John reached for his back scratcher. His forearm bobbed as he ran it up and down his spine. “The man has no decency and you’re a saint. Martha’s fine, and there’s hope for Missy’s cooking. Drop by some evening, any evening and have dinner with us. We’ll play Yahtzee like the old days. Okay. Good-bye.” He hung up and sighed.

  “Rick Baker’s ex-wife?” Robert asked.

  “Yes. It’s been over a year and a half, and Jean is still hurting. She helped raise his kids, and the same month he paid the last of the alimony from his first marriage, the louse cheats on her.”

  “Wow! That’s too bad.” Robert shook his head. Rick Baker did not sound like a man of integrity.

  “This was the second—maybe third—time I’ve told her to drop by.”

  “Next time, be specific.”

  “What was that?” John narrowed his steel blue eyes.

  “Come over for dinner... tonight. Be specific, or it won’t happen.”

  The wrinkle lines deepened in John’s broad forehead before he nodded.

  “I need to finish up the Chevelle.” John rose from his chair. “We may as well get in a short lesson before Missy calls us in for slop.”

  Robert set his paperwork aside, and followed him into the first bay.

  “This here is more important than paperwork.” Under the hood of the vehicle, John unscrewed a spark plug before holding it toward the Trouble light. “You don’t ever want your spark plugs to look like this.” He turned his wrist to give Robert a 360 degree view. “Black is bad. Means it’s loaded with oil. Looks to me like it needs a ring job.”

  Robert nodded. “What’s a ring job?”

  “Well, we possibly may need to rebuild the whole top end. Pistons, rings, refresh the valves. That’s a four-to eight-hour lesson.”

  “How often should a spark plug be changed?”

  “Every ten to twenty thousand miles.” John wiped his hands on a blue shop rag, and listened intently as a loud, beat-up, primer-gray El Camino drove into the driveway. An extension ladder was strapped to the top of the cab and hung out the back of the tailgate. The driver turned the vehicle sharply toward the house, and then looking in his side mirror, backed up to the front of the second bay. A loathsome sound popped from the muffler before the engine was cut.

  The fellow who’d stayed for dinner the other night got out and slammed the driver’s side door behind him.

  “You have an exhaust leak,” John said. “Knew it was you soon as you entered the drive. For twenty dollars an hour plus parts, I can almost make you respectable again.”

  Hmm . . . Robert thought. The other night, John had quoted him twenty-five dollars an hour.

  “Douglas said it’s not serious, and I have better places to spend my money right now.”

  “It’s seriously annoying,” John said.

  Gary’s back right bumper sticker read: Roofers like it hot. That’s why the fellow was so tan. Dressed in high-top basketball shoes, faded gym shorts, and a shop rag T-shirt, he looked fresh off the job.

  “Hey, did you figure out where your old man’s been?” John asked.

  “Mexico.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s he doing in Mexico?”

  “What isn’t he doing?” Gary glanced in the garage. “Doug around?”

  “No. Knowing him, he’s singing in the shower to his soap on a rope. Go tell Missy to set another plate for supper.”

  “Thanks. I’m starved.”

  John chuckled and meandered back to the shade of the garage. “Gary is Rick Baker’s boy. He’s the fellow who ended up taking Missy to her senior prom. No one else asked her. Lucky for me, she looked like a little kid ‘til she was seventeen.”

  The office phone rang.

  “Can you get that for me?” John wiped his hands on a shop rag.

  “Yeah.” Robert strode toward the office and picked it up after the third ring. “Big John’s Auto Repair, this is Robert. How may I help you?”

  “Tell my dad the slop’s done.”

  “Okay. Thank you. We’ll be right in.” It was no wonder no one asked her to the prom. If his mom found a way to get Missy into the class, hopefully, they’d discuss phone etiquette while they looked at recipes.

  “That was probably Missy,” John said, as Robert approached the Chevelle.

  “Yes, slop’s done.”

  “So your guess is Mutiny Stew?” John turned off the Trouble light that hung above the engine.

  “All I saw was a big knife and a cabbage.”

  “Shoot, that means stir-fry.”

  Robert couldn’t agree with him more.

  As they exited the garage, Robert noted another sticker on the bumper of Gary’s El Camino. It read Make Love not War. The fellow was fairly outspoken about his beliefs.

  “Now, what night of the week are Missy’s future cooking classes?”

  “Uh .
. . the Elderly Angels group meets every Thursday night.” A knot tightened in the pit of his stomach.

  “Too bad they aren’t on Monday nights. Start the week off right.”

  When they entered the kitchen, Gary was already seated at the table. Robert waited in line at the sink while John hummed and washed his hands.

  Missy strolled into the kitchen. Instead of the ponytail, she wore her long blonde hair down; the coveralls were replaced by a pair of cut-offs and a pale yellow tank top. She was a waif of a thing and far more appealing in girl clothes than he ever would have foreseen. He averted his gaze toward the window. She must have changed as soon as she’d heard Gary’s muffler in their gravel drive.

  Robert glanced over his shoulder at her while he washed up. Pink stained the apples of her cheeks as she stood at the stove and lifted the lid of a large skillet. Her transformation from coveralls to Cover girl was a tad shocking. Stop staring, he told himself, or you’ll get caught by Gary or John or worse yet... Missy.

  He took a seat at the table next to Gary, who—with his arm slung over the back of the chair—took a lengthy gander at Missy. His gaze started at her bare feet and rose up her slim calves. Robert averted his gaze to the middle of the table. Missy liked Gary. She’d climbed out of her coveralls and brushed her hair on account of Gary. Maybe even put on a little mascara for him, too.

  The bathroom door clicked open down the hall. Wearing a white undershirt, a pair of Levi’s, and a lopsided grin, Douglas sat down at the table.

  “When’d you show up?” he asked, looking at Gary.

  “A while go. Your old man invited me for dinner.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Some kind of stir-fry.” Gary shrugged.

  “Grab the bottle of ketchup for me, will ya?”

  Tipping back the chair that Missy usually sat in, Gary opened the fridge, grabbed the bottle, and slid it in front of Douglas’ plate—all in one smooth motion.

  “Isn’t anything special tonight,” Missy said, “Just threw together some leftovers.” She tossed a hot pad with a large burn mark on it to the center of the table and set on top of it a hefty skillet filled with a menagerie of shapes but not very many colors. Next, she set a saucepan of rice on another burnt hot pad and sat down in a folding chair at the end of the table nearest the sink.