“Chocolate,” she completed my thought.
“And a . . .”
“Coca-Cola,” she said, rising. “Well, come on friend. We didn’t walk all this way for nothin’. And we’re almost there.”
I stood up, feeling stronger. By golly, I was a valuable part of this community, and there was no greater responsibility than bringing a child into the world. We walked quickly to Beechum’s, entering the bakery like two determined Olympians crossing the finish line in first place. Hallelujah. I purchased a half-pound of chocolate covered peanuts and Aurrie bought a half-pound of peanut brittle. It was the pregnant equivalent to a gold medal. The first bite was more glorious than I can explain, like cotton candy at the state fair or hot chili on a cold winter’s night. Definitely comfort food. I popped my Coke and took a big swig. Life was sweet.
As we walked and munched and munched and walked, we forgot about all the grinning town folk, our demeanor and our appearance. The treats from that bakery were that good.
“Aurrie, do you think our babies will be friends?” I asked.
“Of course. They’ll be best friends, like us.”
“What if I have a girl and you have a boy, or you have a girl and I have a boy?”
Aurrie placed her arm around my shoulder. “Then they will get married and we’ll be kin.”
“Awww. Good thinking.” I reached into her bag of peanut brittle. She brought her arms down and seized the opportunity to grab a handful of my chocolate covered peanuts. Truth be known, we really didn’t care what everyone else said about us. We knew we were sassy and our bloated condition was only temporary. But just for good measure, I put a hand on my hip and swayed from side to side as we made our way. With Aurrie’s encouragement, I felt beautiful in any condition.
As I tackled the three steps that led to my front porch, I felt a small trickle of water flow down my leg. “Aurrie!” I screamed.
She glanced at my drenched flip-flops. “No more chocolate for you,” she laughed.
“It’s time! It’s time,” I shouted. “What are we supposed to do now?”
I EXHALED, STARING at my beautiful baby boy, Keith, lying on the floor atop Grandma Jackie’s hand-made blue quilt. His ear-splitting shrieks had been going on for over an hour. Aurrie sat beside me, her eyes fixed on her equally beautiful baby boy, Mack, as he howled just as loud. An onlooker would have thought it was a competition to see who could squeal the loudest, a four-month-old or a three-month-old. It was purely awful.
My new kitten, Scarlet, sat perched on the windowsill looking in from the outside. She’d barely entered the house since little Keith had made his boisterous debut.
Aurrie and I had changed Keith and Mack’s diapers, fed them, sung Patsy Cline melodies to them, rocked them and yet they still bellowed like kids on booster-shot day. And worst of all, they didn’t even seem to be tiring.
I sighed. It was almost humorous. But I noticed that Aurrie looked pale and deeply disturbed. I brushed the hair from her forehead.
“Everything’s alright, hon, they’re just exercising their little lungs.”
A tear cascaded down her cheek. “What are we supposed to do now?”
That was it. I couldn’t watch the most self-assured chick in Mossy Creek be brought down by a twelve-pounder, no matter how adorable he was. Time for Aurrie to get her groove back. I jumped up, darted to the hallway closet and located the enormous box containing my brand-spankin’ new stroller. I got the contraption open and pushed it into the family room.
Aurrie crossed her arms. “Emma, it’s November.”
I put my hands on my happy-to-be-in-denim, hips. “I don’t care if it’s thirty degrees below zero. We’re going for a walk.”
“They’ll catch colds,” she complained.
“Hogwash. They’re going to get sore throats at this rate.”
“We only have one stroller here.”
“We’ll strap them in side by side. They’ll love it and maybe, just maybe, they’ll shut up, for goodness sakes.” I watched as Aurrie brought her un-manicured hands up to cover her face. I lifted Keith first, bundled him and placed him in the stroller on his back. Then I picked up Mack and wrapped him in a flannel blanket, situated him beside Keith and belted them in snugly.
“That should do it,” I shouted over the babies, and then pointed to my sneakers. “These boots are made for walkin’. Let’s go.” I opened my hand and she cautiously placed hers inside and slowly came to her feet.
“I look horrible. I didn’t get a shower this morning. I haven’t slept in weeks and I still have ten pounds to lose.”
I pushed the stroller near the front door, put my coat on and handed Aurrie hers. “Nonsense. You’re a mama, now. You can look haggard whenever you please. It’s one of the perks of motherhood.” I shoved her arms into the coat and buttoned her up tightly. I ran to the kitchen, retrieved a bottle for Keith, placed it into my green polka-dot diaper bag and tossed it into the basket on the back of the stroller. Then I grabbed Aurrie’s well-stocked, blue-checked diaper bag and put it in the basket too. “Now open the door and help me get the dudes down the front steps.”
She did as she was told, and I marveled at how well she was taking my orders. That was a first. By the time we reached the sidewalk, the cool air had already begun to have an effect on the little ones. The intensity of their squeals dropped to a lower octave. I pulled Aurrie to my side and entwined our arms. We both gripped the stroller and giggled. “We’re off to see the wizard,” I joked.
“Lions, tigers and bears would be more like it.”
Falling into step, we glided down the street and then onto North Bigelow. The cool breeze lifted my spirits and I could tell Aurrie’s mood was improving too. Before we reached the town square, Keith and Mack were sleeping like teeny angels. Aurrie and I didn’t talk too much. The silence was refreshing and beyond golden.
When we reached Goldilocks Salon, all the women, some in curlers, others with a head of aluminum foil, rushed outside to see the precious babies. “Little pink darlin’s,” Rainey Cecil cooed, dabbling her teasing comb at the boys. She was only in her early twenties then, about our age, and it was so easy to see she wanted kids of her own. Aurrie and I beamed as Rainey and her customers raved over our adorable young-uns. And there they lay, as peaceful as newborn kittens, their little mouths closed in tender slumber. Foolin’ folks already, I concluded. Those were our boys all right. Everyone ranted about how calm and relaxed the babies were, insisting that we were definitely doing something right and that motherhood really agreed with us. My eyes met Aurrie’s and we chuckled softly.
It was then that I saw something I had never seen before. Aurrie had always been a proud woman, but at that moment she was practically overflowing with pride. I peeked down at the babies and also felt that magical satisfaction. Keith was the most spectacular thing I had ever done. I felt as if my feet had just lifted off the pavement. The adoration was simply wonderful. The boys were beautiful and I felt so honored to be sharing this moment with my best friend in the world, Aurrie.
The ladies began to worry that the chemicals on their hair might have been on a tad too long, and hurried back into the salon. Aurrie and I solemnly passed Beechum’s Bakery. “Next time we’re in town, we’ll pick up some fudge,” I said. “Right now I don’t think I can fit one more pound into these jeans.”
“Ditto, here,” Aurrie admitted.
We paced ourselves through the square and back toward home, still shoulder-to-shoulder. When we reached my house, Aurrie seemed lost in thought. “What’s up?” I asked.
She peeked at the babies as they began squirming in the stroller. “Come on, let’s get to my house. We can make it before they wake up.”
I shrugged. “Okay.” We boogied the two blocks and just as we trotted up her drive the screaming began again. “Dinner time,” I observed.
I unhooked the safety belt and lifted Keith out and Aurrie grabbed Mack. We rushed inside, turned on the TV and fed the ravenous infants.
After they finished eating, I burped Keith and Aurrie burped Mack. Then Aurrie flashed a good ol’ I’m-back-to-my-normal-self grin.
She laid a blanket on the floor and placed Mack on top. “Can you watch ’em for a minute? I’m going to make us something very special.”
“Ohhhkay,” I said. A few minutes later, I was scowling at the television and dangling rattles in front of the boys. “Be careful. I wouldn’t want your brain to explode,” Aurrie joked, as she entered the room.
I gazed up to find her carrying a tray containing two large, frozen, peach margaritas and a pile of wheat crackers.
“Yeah, baby,” I gushed.
She sat on the floor, handed me a glass and raised hers in the air. “I’d like to make a toast,” she began, “to walking with friends.”
Tilting my head, I giggled and lightly touched my glass to hers. “To walking with friends.”
MY HEART POUNDED in my ears as Aurrie and I ran to meet Chief Royden.
“Have you found Mack and Keith?” Aurrie called.
Our handsome police chief smiled and nodded toward the shadowy street behind him. Suddenly, the sound of whistling pierced the air, followed by laughter. I peered up the sidewalk and saw four dark forms—two tall, two short—approaching.
Aurrie stepped forward, her chin jutting outward, her hands on her hips. “There better be a good explanation.”
Rick and Burke came into view under a street lamp, arm-in-arm, singing the Ray Charles’ tune, Georgia, like they didn’t have a care in the world. Keith and Mack meandered a few steps behind them, each carrying a bucket.
“Hi, honey,” Rick began. “Look who I ran into.” He motioned toward Burke.
“Thank God,” I exhaled. Then my chin dropped and I crossed my arms tightly over my chest.
Without so much as a glance, Aurrie followed suit.
“Explanations,” she repeated.
Keith’s eye grew wide.’“We found so many awesome rocks, and then we stopped at Beechum’s Bakery for a snack.”
“Chocolate cupcakes,” Mack added with raised eyebrows. “And a . . .”
“Coca-Cola,” Keith finished. “That’s when we ran into our dads.”
Aurrie pointed at Burke. “Why didn’t you call me, and where on earth have y’all been?”
Burke stepped forward. “Darling, I tried to call from the pub a hundred times. The line was busy.”
“I have call-waiting,” she reminded him.
Burke glanced at Rick. “I did try to call.”
Rick nodded vigorously, gazing at me. “I tried too. Over and over. When we couldn’t get through, Burke and I decided to share a couple of beers, play some darts and catch up on world events. Plus the boys were having a lot of fun showing off their rock finds to the other customers.”
“A couple of beers,” I repeated, and pressed my lips together. “Phone trouble. You couldn’t call in, but we could call out.”
Aurrie glared at the four of them. Mack held up his bucket. “Mom, look. Don’t be mad. We found some citrines, a few crystals and an agate, one amazonite and lots of mica.”
“And some pyrite, too,” Keith added, looking at me hopefully. “All the folks in O’Day’s were impressed. Dad tried to call you. Really. The phones aren’t working.”
A telephone truck came down our street as if on cue. Chief Royden nodded to the technician driving it. The man called out his open window, “I’ll have y’all back on line in no time.” The chief smiled at us. “Glad everyone’s accounted for. You folks have a nice evening.”
“Thanks, Amos,” I said weakly.
“Yes, thank you for fetching our men and our sons,” Aurrie said, still not certain she wasn’t mad.
Amos gave the guys a look that said, “You’re on your own now,” then climbed into his patrol car and drove away.
Aurrie and I stood tall, guarding our dignity like Dobermans in a junkyard. We wanted a bit of sympathy for our hours of worry.
Rick shifted from one foot to the other. Burke inspected the stars in the sky and chewed on his lower lip. Keith and Mack stared at each other, as if communicating by mental telepathy. Scarlet walked leisurely in front of us. The only brave soul, I thought.
Then Keith and Mack squared their shoulders and stepped forward. “Listen Mom,” Keith began. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“We got some great rocks,” Mack insisted.
“And ate a few chocolates,” Keith added. He gestured toward the others. “We were just walking with friends. It’s a hobby we learned from certain wives I could name.”
Aurrie glanced at me, her Elvis lip rising and her eyes openly amused.
My shoulders slumped, but I smiled. “What are we supposed to do now?” I intoned.
We hugged our boys, our husbands and then each other.
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs, Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ
United Kingdom
Metten das (Good morning) Katie:
I’m anxious for tales of the cooking competitions you Americans seem to enjoy. You promised to tell me about the summer culinary contests in Mossy Creek. Now, do tell! My mouth is watering. Before I forget, I promised you the recipe for an English tea.
You might like to know the English custom of High Tea started in the 1700s. Back then, they had only two meals a day: breakfast and dinner. Dinner was served very late so the Duchess of Bedford invented an afternoon tea to keep her going until dinner. She invited friends to join her and it became a very pleasant custom. That’s where sandwiches started, too, but they didn’t call them that.
I’ve attached a copy of the recipe to the second sheet of my note. First, you must use fresh-cut flowers and real bone china, artfully arranged on a crisp tablecloth. Prepare a silver teapot filled with piping hot tea and scones.
The scones should be split horizontally so that no knives or forks are needed. Clotted cream and jam should be placed in some sort of lovely glass container. Though I expect you can’t find clotted cream in the States, for it’s made from unpasteurized milk. Perhaps you could ask Bubba Rice if he has a recipe for making a mock spread. Now that I think about it, the making of scones may be of interest to other Creekites. I’d be glad to send it to them on email if they’ll just address the request to my attention at your BelleBooks.com address. For those without the modern convenience just send it to P.O. Box 67, Smyrna, GA 30081 and I’ll send it along. You don’t have time, Katie and if I do it, I’ll get to know you all better.
By the way what more have you heard about Sagan Salter? I’m waiting with bated breath.
Keep in touch.
Vick
Who is trying to determine how many scones make a “mess.”
Chapter Ten
LILA and FRYZEEN
“A friend is one who knows all about you and likes you anyway.”
—Christi Mary Warner
Fryzeen Sneerly has been the queen of pickled beets in greater Mossy Creek and the rest of Bigelow County ever since Jimmy Carter retired from peanut farming to run the big fifty. Each year—from braces to engagement ring to fifteen years of wedded bliss with Lorn Spivy, my ownliest—I’ve tried my darnedest to beat that old big-haired, pickled gerkin, and still I’ve come up empty-handed. Yours truly, Lila Spivy, has been beat by the beet queen for over a quarter of a century.
This summer was supposed to be different. I was going to do me some good old-fashioned research to prove that Fryzeen was a charlatan, even if had to plant video surveillance in her trailer for the month before the contest. I didn’t care what it would cost.
That’s the
thing about being a champion pickler. Pickling is something you do in the privacy of your own home. Yes, you have to get good beets from either a neighboring farmer or grow them yourself. That’s one of the rules. I haven’t been able to prove it yet, but I’m sure Fryzeen’s been getting those organic beets from a farmer outside the county. She grows a decoy crop in her backyard every year, so I’ll have to catch her on video buying the tainted goods.
I’ve been preparing for my investigation for almost a year. I’d casually stop by Fryzeen’s place when she was out spading her garden. “Things sure are looking nice over there,” I’d say, real sweetlike. “I love the way you planted multicolored zinnias all around the edges of your garden to make everything look prettier. You know how ugly vegetables can look in your front yard?”
She’d nod, suspicious of my every good intention, I’m sure. I understood her reticence, though, since I had been the only surviving pickling competitor to continue to come in second place behind her for the past five years. Marta Jean Plunkett and Tasha Zellhart both passed on last winter in a freak ice storm. Both ladies crashed in a head-on collision with each other at the intersection of North Bigelow and Main, no less, the poor dears, leaving just me to be Fryzeen’s only real rival in Mossy Creek.
After the eighth month of drop-by visits and small talk, I finally got bold and invited Fryzeen over for a cup of coffee and homemade biscuits. No one in town can refuse coffee and my homemade anything, especially a widow with no friends and no children in the surrounding Southern states. She was reluctant, but when I wooed her with my homemade strawberry preserves, she finally agreed.
Early Wednesday morning on an August day just thirty days prior to the fair, before the sun started scorching down so hot we could’ve had a skin-fry, I wheeled out the breakfast cart to my verandah and waited for Fryzeen to arrive on her Schwinn bicycle, complete with training wheels. Imagine having a hairdo three times bigger than her head, covered in a mangy old Blue Willow-looking scarf and wearing clothes she wore before anyone was able to buy the original Charlie’s Angels woman’s designer clothes at the Wal-Mart down in Bigelow. This was the picture of Fryzeen.
Summer in Mossy Creek Page 18
