Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  Her shoulders felt weak. Jerry Boy couldn’t possibly be right.

  “Just because of my big hair?” Her voice cracked.

  “Yes.”

  “Men aren’t really so simple, are they?” She’d meant to ask Douglas, but here she was asking Robert instead.

  “Unfortunately, some men are.”

  “But not you.” It would be unChristian of him to be so human, wouldn’t it? With his strong convictions, Robert would only like a girl with big hair if she went to church and believed the way he did.

  “No, not me.”

  “You don’t know Gary,” Missy said. “When I was sixteen, I was still asking him to sign my yearbook. He wrote: you’re awful darn cute for being related to Douglas. That was it. In four years, not much else has happened. Cutting my hair was kind of the final straw, you know, before I give up on him.”

  “Four years.” Robert nodded, started the engine and looking in his rearview mirror, waited for an old beater truck to pass.

  Earlier at the dinner table, Robert had defended her while Gary had laughed. Robert had also told her Trudy Tibbits was married. For some reason, Gary hadn’t— probably because he didn’t want her to get her hopes up. Robert had strong beliefs that he plastered on his bumper, while Gary drove around town with a bumper sticker that read Roofers like it hot.

  “Kill it,” Missy said, a little too firmly.

  Without looking at her, Robert killed the engine and leaned back in the bench seat.

  “You are quite the woman, Missy.”

  She didn’t know if he meant it in a positive or a negative way; but again for some reason they were words that Missy wanted to write down and remember. Jerry Boy was acting almost mad at her. Why? She didn’t understand anything that was going on, except that her hair was big and it was about to change her life.

  “How can you be so sure about Gary?” She sighed.

  “He looked at you last week, and he looked at you tonight. You didn’t see him, but your dad and I did. After tonight, you won’t have to worry about his bumper stickers.”

  Could he possibly be right? It was strange to think that for so many years, Gary couldn’t see past her ponytail. She was still the same person. Maybe a little prettier to look at, but she was still the same person.

  “I know you don’t believe, but I want to pray for you, Missy.” Robert looked across the cab at her.

  “Me . . . ?” She laughed.

  “Gary’s not a Christian. He’s not the type of man your father would want you to be alone in a car with—is he?”

  She’d been alone in a car plenty of times with Gary, just never with big hair before.

  “Daddy will be fine after Gary changes his bumper stickers.”

  Robert shook his head. “Is it all right with you if I pray?”

  “Sure.” The corner of her mouth twitched, and she lowered her head.

  He reached across the bench seat, gripped her hand in his and bowed his head.

  The first time she’d officially parked with a guy and it was to pray.

  “Our dear, heavenly Father, as you know, a lot is going on in the Stuarts’ household. Be with the situation, and be with Missy as the evening unfolds.”

  Robert’s voice changed when he prayed. It was strong and full of reverence. Was that the right word?

  “Help her to see what you want her to. If Gary is the man who you’ve destined her to be with, I pray that he will come to know you as his Lord and Savior first, and that he will love Missy in a godly way. In your Son’s name we pray, Amen.”

  His prayer was like a puzzle. Only certain pieces made sense, but she latched onto one specific piece . . . help her to see what you want her to. As Robert eased the car onto the road and continued driving, Missy remembered another piece of his prayer… the man that you’ve destined her to be with.

  What a thought—like there was a plan in place—that God himself was a matchmaker, that maybe he was just a bit like Daddy.

  Around nine forty-five they pulled into the gravel drive, late for her family to be up on a work night. In the station wagon’s headlights, Gary’s El Camino came into view. He was still here. She dug her fingernails deep into the palm of her left hand and tried to imagine the look on Gary’s face when he saw her. She glanced across the cab at Robert as he shifted into park and turned off the engine.

  Could Gary’s response even compare to Robert’s?

  “Thank you for taking me,” she said as he reached for the door handle. “Your sister and mom were nice, and your home is nice; and though I haven’t always been nice to you, Robert,” she swallowed, “you’ve always been kind to me.”

  He frowned. “Are you trying to make me feel better about the cake?”

  “No, I’m a little nervous about facing Gary, that’s all.”

  Robert slid out of his side of the car. Maybe after her comment, he’d think about opening her door; but instead, he headed straight for the house. She opened her own door and slammed it behind her. Halfway to the house, Robert stopped for some reason and waited for her.

  “It hasn’t been my experience that you’re sweet when you’re nervous.”

  After his strange comment, he strode like an athlete to the screen door. With his sport coat off, his wiry built frame looked athletic. Why was he mad at her? She’d finally been sweet to him.

  Missy wasn’t about to go parade her big hair in the living room. With a butter knife, she cut the frosted chocolate cabbage cake and dished square pieces onto plates.

  “Who wants ice cream with their cake?” she asked from the kitchen.

  Four “I do’s” echoed from the living room.

  Because it was cabbage, she had to offset it with ice cream. Too bad she hadn’t planned ahead. Vanilla ice cream should be considered a staple; she only had the carton of melted Neapolitan that she’d refrozen the day she met Robert.

  Small pieces of chocolate cake teamed with large scoops of tie-dyed-looking pink, brown, and white ice cream and dessert didn’t look so bad. She studied her reflection in the window above the sink. Something about the style softened her round face. Nobody had voiced it yet, but maybe, just maybe, she looked a little bit like Miss Wella Balsam herself.

  “Dessert’s done,” she said, loudly. Her heart pounded in her chest. Feeling a little jumpy in the tummy, she sat down at the end of the table.

  “Just bring it in here, doll,” Daddy said.

  “I thought we could eat at the table.”

  “Nawh, I’m too relaxed.”

  The moment of truth nudged before her. She carried Daddy’s plate into the living room. He was crashed in the recliner, his eyes half closed.

  “What flavor ice cream is it?” He eyeballed the scoop on his plate.

  She glanced across the room. Robert sat on the couch to the left of Gary. He watched her while Gary hadn’t taken his eyes off of the TV.

  “It’s Neapolitan.”

  “I thought Neo . . . politan was striped,” Daddy said.

  “This is the carton I had in the truck the day Robert was broken down alongside the road. It was ninety-four-degrees out, and it completely melted, and then I refroze it.”

  “Looks blurred.” Daddy sat up. “You got that Bic filter fixed yet, Robert?” Daddy’s eyes narrowed as he studied Missy’s hair.

  “No, not yet. My next commission check, I’ll have you fix it.”

  “You look pretty. Maybe a little too pretty,” Daddy whispered.

  When she glanced at the couch, all three men, Robert, Gary and Douglas were staring at her. It was difficult to zero in on Gary’s reaction.

  She returned to the kitchen for the other plates.

  “Get mine, Gary,” Douglas said.

  With her back to the living room doorway, she picked up two more plates and, with a racing heart, glimpsed Gary’s reflection in the window before she turned to face him.

  “Wow, Missy.” Gary leaned against the stove, crossed his arms, and smiled his lazy, heart-pounding smile.


  In what felt like an out-of-body experience, she waited for his full reaction.

  “Turn around.” He motioned with one hand.

  “No.” She didn’t want to pirouette.

  He tilted his head to one side, looking at her profile.

  “Wow.”

  Chewing on her lower lip, she waited for adjectives that would calm her heart. Words she’d heard Douglas and Gary describe cute girls on television: looo-king good, bunny, fab, hot, whoa mama. Yet one word in particular teased her ears . . . beautiful.

  “Wow! Don’t tell me it’s on account of the dweeb in there”—he nodded to the living room—“that you finally look like this.” His gaze dropped a little too low before he lifted it to her eyes.

  His thoughts were undeserved and unkind.

  “That wasn’t very nice, Gary.”

  “Doug’s not sure, but it’s me you’ve always liked, isn’t it?”

  The hair that launched a thousand ships. Hair was far more important than she’d ever given it credit.

  “Wow, Missy, if you’d looked like this at the prom, I never would have gotten you home before midnight.”

  “Eleven.”

  “Now, be good,” Martha said.

  “Gary, you’ve taken long enough,” Daddy said from his recliner.

  “Missy . . .” Gary moved in for the kill, but she kept the dessert plates between them. One in each hand.

  This was it? This was their stolen minute of courtship? And all he had to say was wow and dweeb?

  “Here.” She handed him the plates.

  “Wow, Missy. I can’t believe how . . . wow.”

  “That’s enough, Gary,” Daddy said. “You don’t want me to get out of this chair.”

  Her cheeks felt warm as she picked up the two remaining plates, and strode past Gary into the living room. Seated on the other side of the sofa, Robert’s gaze locked on hers as she approached.

  “I finely grated the cabbage,” she whispered, handing him a plate.

  “Thank you.”

  Across the room from Gary, she sat down in the stiff, padded armchair—which was always the last choice. The cake was drier than it should have been, probably because cabbage has less moisture content than zucchini, but thanks to the two cups of sugar the flavor was good.

  “Ain’t the best cake I ever had.” Resting his elbow on the recliner arm, Daddy dangled his fork above his plate. “But it definitely ain’t the worse.”

  “Best cabbage I’ve ever had,” Robert said.

  She almost felt forgiven.

  “The worse cake I’ve ever had was that three layer sliding lemon thing you made, remember?” Daddy glanced across the room at her. “Looked like a squashed top hat.”

  “I remember,” Douglas said. “Gary, remember when you slid your piece in the garbage when Missy wasn’t looking?”

  Missy remembered.

  “You know, Missy, this cake isn’t half bad.” Gary winked her direction.

  “The lemon slider was for my birthday. You must have been ten, eleven,” Daddy looked at the ceiling.

  How could she have forgotten the first time she was solely in charge of Daddy’s birthday cake? The sugar in the frosting had tasted gritty. She never did figure out what all went wrong.

  Everyone in the room hushed as the commercial for Ginsu Knives came on. The announcer said, “Cuts through a nail, tin can and radiator hose, and still cuts a tomato paper thin.”

  “After Missy finishes the church cooking classes, I’m going to get her a set of those.” Daddy renewed his promise.

  “Wonder if they’re any good for scraping off bumper stickers,” Douglas said.

  Missy stared at the television cabinet.

  A heavy silence followed.

  “They’d scratch the paint and bumper,” Daddy said.

  “Somebody told me you put a blow dryer on high and take an old credit card and the sticker will scrape off,” Gary said.

  Missy’s breathing became shallow as she tried to not miss a word.

  “Someone else told you to spray the sticker with WD40 and peel it off,” Daddy said.

  What was Daddy thinking? If Gary did remove or change his bumper sticker, was that enough? Was it really enough?

  “Best cabbage I’ve ever had,” Robert said, standing up. He rounded the corner of the coffee table, and headed toward the kitchen. From there he’d be leaving.

  She at least owed him a thank you. Missy rose and picked up Gary’s and Douglas’ dishes off the coffee table and waited for Daddy to take his last bite before she took his plate. In the kitchen, Robert rinsed his plate at the sink. He glanced up and saw her reflection in the window. She set the dishes on the counter to his left. He proceeded to rinse them as well.

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  She sighed and opened the dishwasher and slid the plates and silverware inside.

  When she closed the machine and turned, they were standing less than two dessert plates apart.

  For some reason, Robert glanced toward the living room.

  For some reason, Martha was quiet.

  “Don’t forget about Elderly Angels on Thursday,” he whispered.

  “I’ll have to make dinner before I leave.” She glanced to the second button down on his shirt and back to his hazel eyes. “That’s such a pain.”

  For a moment she waited, maybe hoped he’d tell her again that she looked beautiful. But he didn’t.

  “Thank you for driving me to your folks.” Oddly enough, she didn’t mind standing so close to Robert. Maybe there was a little spark. For some reason, she almost wanted to step closer.

  “Now, be good,” Martha said.

  “I, uh, I should be going.” He stepped away and, glancing back at her, moved toward the doorway to the living room. “Thanks for inviting me tonight, Big John,” he said. He nodded toward Douglas and Gary. “Good night.”

  Missy felt funny about his leaving. How quiet he was. Was he happy for her? Couldn’t he say he was happy for her? She was about to get what she’d wanted for a long time. Gary was talking about removing his bumper stickers and Gary was saying, “Wow.”

  Jerry Boy could at least pretend to be happy for her.

  Robert paused in the doorway to the entry and turned to regard her.

  “Good luck, Missy.” He almost smiled.

  For some reason, she wanted to throw something at him. She searched the counters and saw only a dishtowel.

  The screen door closed quietly behind him. Didn’t bounce like it did behind Daddy, Douglas and Gary. No, because Jerry Boy was different.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Bobby, I’m reading the Book of John.” Missy overheard Daddy talking to Robert on the phone. She paused in the doorway from the shop, and wiped her grease-stained hands on a rag. “I’ve been taking little bites of it because I want to understand it, and there’s so much to understand. In chapter three, Jesus says to be born anew one must be born of water and the spirit or he cannot enter the kingdom of God.” Daddy scrunched up his forehead and nodded. “I thought I was born again when I accepted Christ as my Savior, so is this referring to baptism?”

  “A step of faith.” Daddy said, nodding. “A step of obedience.”

  Missy leaned heavily against the doorway molding. Whatever they were talking about it all sounded Greek to her. Her gaze followed a fly about the office. Was Jerry Boy coming to dinner tonight? Was he bringing in product? Who had called whom?

  “Gary may be stopping by,” Douglas said. He was in the first bay, seated in the passenger side of a bright green Dodge Challenger with white tape stripes.

  “Oh . . .” She walked closer to the sports car and stopped near the front hubcap on the passenger side. “What do you think about Gary?” she asked.

  The glove box hung open as Douglas replaced fuses.

  “I mean what do you really think?”

  “It ain’t about what I think.” Douglas glanced up at her. “When you ge
t dolled up like last night, you’re as pretty as any local girl. So don’t jump on account of one fella looking your direction, especially if he don’t shine your bells.”

  Something sounded funny about shine your bells, but it was late in the afternoon, and she didn’t have the mental energy to figure it out.

  “Thanks, Doug.” She glanced toward the office. Daddy was still on the phone. “Why aren’t you roofing today?”

  Douglas tossed his sandy-blond hair out of his face.

  “You think it’s hot in here in the summer; try working on top of a black roof when it’s a hundred degrees outside.”

  Maybe he’d got roofing out of his system.

  “Working here ain’t so bad,” he mumbled.

  She smiled.

  About an hour later as Missy sat in Daddy’s swivel chair, a red-and-white Chevrolet Corvette Roadster pulled in the gravel drive and parked in front of the office area. A middle-aged man in a dark, tailored suit slammed the driver’s door and marched inside the office. He looked like a salesman, except he wasn’t carrying a briefcase or a catalog of any kind.

  “How may I help you?” Missy remained seated behind the desk.

  “I’d like to speak with Big John.” The man set his hands on his hips and looked through the window into the first bay where Douglas stood welding under the hood of the Dodge Challenger. Sparks flew in every direction.

  “Are you in sales?” It was a routine question that she’d learned to ask.

  “Yes, furniture.”

  “Who should I say is here?”

  “Tell Big John that Chuck Heiner would like to speak with him.”

  “Are you Betty’s son?”

  “Yes.” He turned and looked down his sharp nose at her.

  “We were lucky she came in that day. She would’ve had to pay for roadside assistance—maybe a tow bill—if the radiator had been put off much longer.”

  “Are you the one responsible for baiting and switching her?”

  “It wasn’t a bait and switch.”

  “I’d like to speak with the owner, young lady.”

  Missy rose from Daddy’s chair, and on her way through the garage, wondered how a sweet, little, old lady like Betty could have a son like Chuck Heiner. Disgruntled customers could prove to be a problem. In the past, before Daddy became a Christian, he was renowned for antics that bordered on theatrical—lifting tires with his pinkie and imploding oil cans with one hand. And once, when an irate customer wouldn’t pay, Daddy lifted the rear end of his four-wheel-drive truck so he couldn’t leave.