Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  A sound at the hallway door made the air stop in her lungs. She felt her eyes go wide, knowing that Paulette would never tap on the frame that way. And neither would Regan or any of their other friends. Lucy scooted backward, awkwardly shuffling along the ground, like a kitchen postulant making a backward pilgrimage on her knees. It took several more seconds to stand up and turn around. She put a hand to her forehead, feeling the sheen of sweat and the strands of her hair frizzing in the humidity.

  Jem stood in the doorway. A pulse pounded in her throat. To him, this moment probably wasn’t any different from the last times they’d met. For her, it was the first time she’d seen him since she understood her own heart, that no matter how much time passed, she would always be in love with him.

  His light tan suit and matching vest were perfectly pressed, and the white shirt underneath was crisp and fresh. He was holding a small potted plant. Lucy raised her eyes slowly, finally meeting his gaze. He wasn’t smiling. It seemed the memory of their easy banter in the garden with Zeke was long gone.

  Jem looked around the kitchen, along the counters filled with produce and at the stoves crowded with bubbling pots. “I didn’t realize you were cooking tonight.”

  “Neither did I. Paulette had a small problem with her original menu.” Lucy waved a hand toward the garbage, where the charred remains of the lamb pockets were visible.

  His lips tugged up in the barest version of a smile. “And you volunteered to help out.”

  “Not exactly.” She smoothed the old apron over her hips. “Can I get you some sweet tea? Paulette is getting ready. You could wait in the living room until she comes down.”

  The smile disappeared. “Do you need help?”

  “Oh, no. Just throwing stuff in pots. Not hard at all.” Her gaze darted at the old clock on the wall. It wasn’t hard but it would take time.

  He stepped into the kitchen, set the plant on the table, slipped off his jacket, and set it on the back of a chair. He started to roll up his shirtsleeves. “I’m sure you could use another pair of hands.”

  Lucy said nothing. That was just what she’d been praying for, but maybe she should have been a little more specific as to which people she wanted in the kitchen.

  He indicated the plant. It had a pale teal ribbon around it. “Hostess gift. I’m sure I should have brought a bottle of wine, but I was thinking about what you said in the garden.”

  She waited, unsure of what he’d brought her. It looked a bit like clover, with small yellow flowers.

  “You probably already have peanuts,” he said.

  “Actually, we don’t. They don’t grow well in the heavy clay.” It was pity. Peanuts were one of the best sustainable living crops.

  Instead of being disappointed, Jem smiled. “Those are probably the Runner or Spanish peanuts. They both need sandy soil. This is a Tennessee Red Valencia, specially bred for the soil we have here.”

  “Really?” Lucy’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t ever looked for another variety because she’d heard that peanuts didn’t grow without a lot of work and soil cultivation. Neither she nor Zeke had the time to prepare a raised bed. But maybe they could grow a small crop of these. “That’s a wonderful gift, thank you.”

  He nodded, posture relaxing the tiniest bit, as if he’d been worried about his gift. As he washed up at the sink, she noted how tan his skin seemed, the dusting of blond hair and how his forearms were muscled. The vest and the white shirt reminded her of men in old black-and-white photographs. For a moment she felt as if she were looking at a man from another era, long ago. When they were teens, he’d been tall, but sort of scrawny. He was a man now, practically a stranger. That she still loved him made no sense, but she couldn’t force her heart to shut him out.

  Lucy pointed to the pile of cucumbers. “I was going to slice those with some Vidalia sweet onions and—”

  “Add white vinegar, salt and pepper?” He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, positioning the garbage bin between his knees. Grabbing a cucumber, he started peeling with long, swift movements. “My mama makes that dish every summer.”

  Lucy watched him for a moment, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu at the scene. Jem had never sat in her kitchen and certainly never peeled vegetables for dinner, but something about this moment was familiar.

  She dried off the small red potatoes and brought them to the cutting board. “How is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.” Maybe it was too personal of a question.

  “Doing fine. Loves Birmingham.” He placed a skinned cucumber on the counter and reached for another. He looked up at her and seemed unsure about what to say next. “I was sorry to hear your mama passed away. I know you were close.”

  Lucy nodded, chopping a red potato in half, then quarters. “Thank you. One moment she was frying some bacon for breakfast, singing ‘In That Great Gettin’ Up Mornin’,’ and the next she was dead.” Lucy knew she sounded harsh, but she didn’t think she could bear his pity right now. He would never be anything less than truly sympathetic, but she wished he would make it easier for her to keep her heart at a distance.

  “That must have been real tough on everybody. Is that why you came home? To help your family adjust?”

  She focused on her chopping, not wanting to explain, but not sure how to avoid the question.

  “You can’t convince me you flunked out,” he said.

  She snorted. “No, there was no flunking out.” She scooped the pile of potato quarters onto a foil-lined pan and drizzled on swaths of olive oil. “It didn’t take long before there wasn’t the financial ability to pay for the tuition.”

  “But you could have gotten a scholarship, right?”

  She sprinkled sea salt over the pan and popped it into an oven. She turned to look him in the eye and said, “My daddy refused to fill out the paperwork. He didn’t want to turn in his tax statements, he didn’t want to show his income and he certainly didn’t want anyone to know his daughter was on a scholarship.”

  Jem’s face had gone hard. “So he let people think you had to leave for academic reasons.”

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. It was completely unfair, she had to agree, but nothing could be done about it now.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” He stood up and seemed much taller than she remembered. Maybe it was the close quarters, or how his eyes had gone dark with emotion.

  “Of course it does.” She shrugged. “What could I do?”

  He stared at her, as if trying to decide whether she was serious. “You could have become independent, tried to get in by yourself on a scholarship, something.” His voice had risen and he ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up straight in the front.

  “And where would I go in the summer? What about Christmas?” She crossed her arms. It was easy for Jem to play the what-if game now. At the age of nineteen, she had broken her own heart and lost her mama in the same year. Lucy hadn’t been thinking about declaring her independence. She had just been trying to survive.

  “You could have made new friends. They would have become your family.”

  She shook her head. “Nobody becomes your family. It doesn’t work that way. You’re born into a family, and you’ll be part of it until you die.”

  Something flickered behind his eyes. He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Lucy turned back to the stove, checking the pots and fighting to regain her footing. Why did chopping vegetables have to turn into a deeply emotional review of choices made ten years ago? She felt tired, as if she’d run too far, too fast.

  “What next?” His tone was subdued, and when she glanced at his face, the animation was gone from his eyes. He was carefully polite now, like any other summer-evening dinner guest helping out in the kitchen.

  She swallowed back a wave of pain. She didn’t want to talk about the past, but wor
king side by side with Jem without saying anything meaningful was worse than fighting. “I’ve got to boil the macaroni and get the cheese grated.”

  “Macaroni and cheese, roasted red potatoes, cucumber salad, sweet corn . . .” He ticked them off one by one, his mouth turning up in a smile. “This is quite a feast.”

  “Don’t forget green beans, blackberry cobbler, heirloom tomatoes. Paulette won’t be happy because it’s not fancy food, but it’s better than raw-salmon mousse.” Lucy couldn’t help but mirror his smile as he took in her words. Maybe the way to a man’s heart truly was through his stomach. It seemed as if their disagreement was forgotten the moment he focused on the cooking. “We’ve only got about half an hour left. I’ll put the green beans and corn in now. If you’ll grate the cheese, that would be a big help.”

  Jem had his head in the refrigerator before she was done speaking. She put the grater on the counter and took out the cast-iron skillets.

  He glanced over and asked, “Cornbread or biscuits?”

  Her throat went tight. She’d been thinking that cornbread would be easiest, but now that the moment was here, she couldn’t imagine making that dish in front of Jem.

  “You know I like cornbread. Preferably with cracklins.” He gave her the barest hint of a wink.

  Lucy thought her heart would pound out of her chest. Was he flirting with her? He couldn’t be. Could he? She cleared her throat. “I was thinking of biscuits.”

  He nodded. “That sounds good, too.”

  They worked in silence for a while. Lucy gathered the mustard, paprika and pepper for the macaroni and cheese. Her thoughts were tripping over each other, filling her with confusion and the barest hint of hope. That garden-party nightmare from so many years ago was one of the defining moments in their relationship. Her family had snubbed him, and she had failed to stand by him, physically and figuratively. Only days later she was telling him good-bye and that it would never work out between them. She had been persuaded to believe that they were from two different worlds and their love was doomed from the start, all because of a social misstep in a foil-covered pan. The cracklin’ cornbread memory was irredeemably painful for both of them. Wasn’t it?

  If Jem could laugh about that cornbread episode, then maybe he didn’t hate her after all. She was afraid to hope that what lived in her memory as one of the lowest moments of her life, flawed with prejudice and failure, wasn’t the same for him. She took a breath, wondering if now was the right moment to tell him she was sorry, that she regretted that moment with all her heart. Maybe it was possible that he could forgive. Maybe he already had and all she needed was to say the words before he told he was past that horrible night.

  “I’m looking forward to your presentation next week,” he said.

  Lucy let out a breath. Sadly, the Civil War was a much safer subject between the two of them. “It certainly brings out the history buffs. I don’t like speaking in front of a crowd, but I do enjoy meeting the people who collect the paraphernalia as a hobby. You probably know more about battlefield medical care than I do.”

  He started to slice the large yellow heirloom tomatoes, layering them carefully on a platter. “Not really. I suppose I know a bit about it because of the reenactments, but I won’t be able to tell you the difference between the metacarpal knife and the amputation scalpel unless they’re the same instruments we use today.”

  The idea of having to actually use those tools on a patient in any era made her stomach turn. She watched him slide the sharp kitchen knife through the tomatoes, gently but confidently. She wondered what training he’d had in surgery and how much he’d had to work with cadavers, then wished she hadn’t thought about it. She shivered even though the kitchen was sweltering. “You always did have a strong constitution.”

  He shrugged. “For medical procedures, sure. But everyone has a weak spot.”

  She dropped vegetable shortening into a bowl full of biscuit ingredients and said nothing. She wondered what his was, then was irritated at herself for wondering. She supposed her real weak spot was Jem. Life would be as steady and dependable as it could be, but as soon as he appeared, she felt as if she were sitting on an emotional time bomb. For every moment he was near her, she felt it tick-tick-ticking away until just the wrong word or a playful wink sent her into a tailspin.

  “Do you know a lot of the reenactors?” he asked.

  “Sure. A great group of guys. It’s a source of pride that they’re as historically accurate as possible. Jimmy Hewitt made his own uniform last year and his ego got taken down a peg or two. He sewed a black cord on the side of his trousers instead of a flat black ribbon. He was careful to make sure the hem and cuffs of his captain’s uniform were orange for an artilleryman, but the horsehair plume on his hat was red.”

  Jem raised an eyebrow.

  “For his rank, the plume should match the cuffs,” she explained. “So, poor Jimmy had the hat of a colonel, the coat of a captain and the trousers of a major general. They kept asking him how many men he had to rob to make one outfit.”

  Jem chuckled and Lucy dropped her eyes to the bowl. He was a good-looking man on an ordinary day. He’d been blessed with all the traits of the classically handsome, but when he laughed, everything changed. The lines around his eyes, the way his smile wasn’t a bit halfhearted, and the indents on either side of his mouth that weren’t quite dimples, it made her want to weep.

  She mixed the dough, forcing herself to take deep breaths. “Could you hand me the milk?”

  He reached into the fridge and passed her the jug. “Civil War buffs are more dedicated to the costumes than any other group, I think.”

  “Maybe so, but my cousin is getting married next month and having a Jane Austen reception. We’ll all be dressed in those high-waisted gowns. My aunt says we’ll look like we’re wearing potato sacks.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be beautiful. . . .”

  She shot a look at his face and handed back the milk jug. He said it so easily that either he was throwing her an empty compliment or he really did think she would look nice. She wished she knew his “tells,” the little movements that betrayed his true feelings. She’d known them once, long ago.

  “As for me, I’ll be standing around in a Mr. Darcy outfit.”

  Shock went through Lucy, and for a moment she couldn’t find the words. “You’re going to be in Rebecca’s wedding?”

  Jem nodded. “Tom was a friend of mine in high school.”

  “Tom, Rebecca’s fiancé? Was your friend in high school?” She knew she was repeating him, but none of this made sense.

  “He works in Miami now, and his girlfriend is from DC, but she teaches at Midlands. They thought they’d—”

  “Meet in the middle.” Lucy finished for him, almost to herself. They would be witnessing the marriage of a couple who had overcome everything they hadn’t. “I’ll be a bridesmaid.”

  “And I’ll be a groomsman.” He glanced at her face, his blue eyes shadowed, then looked over her shoulder at someplace on the wall. His brows were drawn together. “Small towns. You know what they say.”

  She wasn’t sure what they said, but she knew that it was just her luck that Jem would be in the wedding party.

  “What about this?” He held up a bundle of fresh parsley.

  She nodded, trying to refocus on the dinner. “Maybe use the kitchen shears. I was going to add them to the potatoes when they came out of the oven. And then you could cut the sage, too. I thought I’d fry some in a pan with butter for the corn.”

  Dusting the cutting board with flour, she turned out the dough and started to knead it. He reached across her for the shears and she took a step back, but not quickly enough. He smelled clean, with just a hint of cologne. She cleared her throat and wondered how she smelled. Probably like garlic and dirt from the garden, if she was lucky. The steam from the pots was coating the kitchen surfaces, and
she knew she must be a sweaty mess.

  Seconds later, she realized he was awkwardly cutting the parsley, shears held in his right hand. “Wait, there’s another pair.” She indicated the drawer with one dough-covered hand.

  “These are fine.”

  “I know, but Mrs. Hardy is left-handed, too.”

  He looked up, surprised. She wondered if his expression was because the Crawford family cook was a southpaw or because he thought she’d forgotten that he was left-handed. He pulled out the left-handed shears. “Better.” He flashed a smile.

  “I told Mrs. Hardy that left-handers are more likely to be artists or musicians. She said she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid and couldn’t draw a circle to save her life. I think she might have been exaggerating.”

  There was that laugh again. Lucy was caught between reveling in the sound and wishing with all her heart he wouldn’t make it. “I think that’s a myth. I’m as scientifically oriented as they come.”

  “But you’re also creative.” She kneaded the dough a few times and decided it was ready to roll out.

  “How so?” He seemed honestly confused.

  “You don’t . . . I thought . . .” She half turned, one hand cupping a bit of flour. “You used to love open-mike night at Gary’s.”

  “Oh, well, spoken poetry is different. Everybody likes that.”

  “No, they don’t.” She hoped her tone was offhand. She didn’t dare look him in the face. They had met there, in a dark room filled with a small group of people glorying in the power and beauty of words. “Not here.”

  “Did you know when they had the national poetry-slam competition in Boston the tickets sold for hundreds of dollars and the stadium was filled to capacity?” He scooped the parsley into a bowl and reached for the sage. “We had to camp out in line for two days just to make sure we got tickets.”

  Lucy searched through the drawer for the biscuit cutter. He hadn’t camped out in line alone. He’d been with friends. Maybe a girlfriend. Her throat went tight. She hadn’t been to a poetry slam since he’d left. Her friends had invited her to open-mike night at Cantab Lounge when she was at Harvard, but she couldn’t bear to go.