by Rachel Coker
Chapter 6
I watched Mrs. Greene out of the corner of my eye as I rolled out the dough for the cherry tarts. She dropped floured chicken into the frying pan, oblivious of the grease splattering on her clean apron.
“You know”—I cleared my throat—”I never thought I’d be here cooking in your kitchen.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you here.” She grinned and went back to flipping chicken.
I nodded. “I just always thought … well, you’re the preacher’s wife. And I was never really sure what to think of you. Because …” I blushed. “Well, Mama says there’s such a thing as being too honest.”
Mrs. Greene laughed, a full, hearty sound. “Well, my mama told me differently. Never be afraid to say what’s on your mind. Be kind, be polite, but be honest.” She rubbed her forehead, leaving a greasy black streak. “Lies are always ugly, and there is nothing you can do to make any beauty out of them. But you can take something honest—imperfect, maybe, but still honest—and make something wonderfully beautiful.”
Something tickled in my chest. I grinned. “Well, I used to think you were strange and overly perfect, but now I think you’re nice.”
Mrs. Greene nodded. “And I used to think you and your brother were odd and mischievous and darling, and I still think you are odd and mischievous and darling.”
“Thanks.” My flour-covered hands pressed out the dough, rolling it into small tart shells. “You should drop by our stand tomorrow. Cliff and I are selling peach pies every Saturday to make enough money to build a rocket.”
“Really? Why a rocket?”
I placed the cherries over the cream cheese–based filling I’d already spooned into the tart shells. The summer heat always brought out the fruity sweetness, and my mouth was already watering. “Cliff wants to be the first person on Jupiter.”
“He sounds like quite the boy.”
“He is. He’s smart and funny and sweet.” My face glowed. “He can be really strange and obnoxious sometimes, but I really love him.”
“He’s lucky to have you as a sister.”
I looked up from the dough and smiled. “He’s my best friend.”
“Ah.” Something sparked in Mrs. Greene’s eyes. She looked down and flipped the chicken out of the pan onto a plate to dry. “Tim and I want children. I think I’d like to have a daughter and son just like you two.”
I squirmed. It felt so weird to hear the esteemed Pastor Timothy Greene referred to so casually. In our home, his name was always synonymous with warnings and punishments. As in, Remember what Pastor Greene said last Sunday …
“Well, I have an older sister too. Juli. She hasn’t been to church very many times, so I’m not sure if you’d know her.”
“The girl with blue hair?”
“Well, it’s not always blue. Normally, it’s a golden brown.”
“Interesting.” Mrs. Greene eyed my hair. “Your hair has such reddish tones.”
I nodded. “Mama was a blonde; Dad was a redhead. Juli just got to split the difference.”
“I see.” Another piece of chicken sizzled as it landed in the frying pan. “And what’s your sister like?”
For some reason, the words to describe Juli escaped my mind. I didn’t really think of the way she was now—shabby, wild, and reckless. I could only think of her three years earlier. That Juli was lovely and clean and sparkling.
“Juli has always been very beautiful. She’s much prettier than me. In the summer, her hair turns light brown with blonde streaks. It’s beyond lovely.” Pink and gold evening sunlight streamed into the room. I pinched the crusts of the tarts. “She has a beautiful singing voice, and she used to love country music. Johnny Cash was her favorite because she thought he was not only talented, but also really dreamy looking.”
Mrs. Greene nodded. “Tim has a few of his albums.”
“I think we still have some of my sister’s in a box somewhere.” My forehead scrunched up. “Anyway, Juli liked to sing along, and we all enjoyed it. She used to say she was going to be a singer when she grew up. Maybe she still will. I don’t really know her anymore.”
Mrs. Greene glanced at me. She wiped her hands off on her apron and leaned against the counter. “Now, I’m going to ask you to be honest, Scarlett. What is your sister like lately?”
I lowered my eyes. “Different,” I muttered.
She nodded, waiting for me to go on. When I remained silent, she pulled a picnic basket out of the cupboard. “Well, people change. Not just some people. Everyone. You either change for the better or for the worse.” She held up the basket. “Do you think this will be big enough?”
I nodded and began placing the already-baked batch of cherry tarts into the basket.
“Your sister is at a very impressionable age right now. And so are you. These are the years that determine what kind of person you are going to be.” She shut the lid of the basket and tapped her fingers on the rim. “Just something to think about.”
My fingers fiddled with the ties of my apron. “How old are you?” My face immediately flushed. It was such a rude question. Mama would beat me with a spoon if she was here. And yet I didn’t take it back. I really wanted to know.
She laughed in surprise. “Twenty-seven. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “It’s just hard to imagine grown-ups ever being sixteen.”
A soft wind blew in from the open window, lifting the stray hairs from Mrs. Greene’s beehive. She smiled. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember being sixteen.” She sighed and leaned against the sink, tapping a wooden spoon to her cheek. “Let’s see, when I was sixteen, I was carefree and wild too. I had long blonde hair that stretched to my waist. I keep it a bit shorter now.” She touched her piled-up hair. “Tim likes it long, but it gets in my way sometimes.”
I watched her green eyes dance. How could I have ever thought she was lifeless and dull?
She bit her lip. “I was awfully bad and wild. I think I said that already.” She shrugged. “I might have never changed if I hadn’t met Tim.” A smile pulled at her lips. “He was a student at the local seminary. His father was good friends with the pastor of our church. So when Tim came to town, my parents offered our house to him for the first year of his classes.”
“And you fell in love.”
Mrs. Greene’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, not at first. At first, I hated him. He was so pious and polite and good all the time. I had a serious beau, anyway. I was rarely at home. But that winter I caught the flu and was on my back for two weeks. Tim offered to read to me in the evenings. I think that’s what I first fell in love with—the way he read. His voice is so rich and … well, you’ve heard it at church, obviously.” She blushed.
I nodded. “He does have a nice voice.”
“Right. Anyway, Tim sometimes read out of the Bible. For the first time, I heard about sin and God and our need for repentance. God brought all kinds of sins to my mind. Times I’d been disobedient or rebellious toward my family and others. It all sank in—how far from Him I was and how there was no chance for forgiveness apart from His grace. I mean, I’d heard it in church, but I guess things just stick with you more when you’re flat on your back.” She laughed.
“Whatever the reason was, I know now that sickness was from God, because that winter I turned from my sins and trusted Christ for salvation. And I also fell in love with Tim. We married four years later, when I was twenty.” She twisted the ring on her finger.
I rubbed a flour-coated hand across my cheek. Dough covered my apron. “That was a nice story.”
Mrs. Greene glanced at the clock. “Yes, but we’re running late. Thanks for helping me with that second batch of tarts for me and Tim. I’ll get those in the oven once you’ve gone home.” She pulled off her apron. “Come on, let’s get these delivered to the shut-ins, and we can come back for Mildred later.”
With a firm hand, I knocked on Frank’s door and stepped back. No answer. Mildred squawked, squirming in my arms. I glanced at Mrs.
Greene. “Maybe they’re not home.”
She shrugged. “Try again.”
I had just lifted my hand for the second knock when the door flew open.
Mrs. Leggett stood in the doorway staring at me and my risen hand. Her blonde hair was long and rumpled, and a cigarette hung from her lips.
I lowered my hand to my side and tried not to stare at her nose.
Mrs. Leggett had a reputation like no other in the county, all because of one Christmas vacation. In December of 1967, she went to visit her sister in New York and came back with a different nose. The new nose was long and thin—much different from the short, bumpy one she had before. I’d heard Mama say it was a new type of surgery, but I couldn’t recall anyone actually mentioning it to Mrs. Leggett herself. And so we children were instructed to simply not look at her nose.
It was really, really hard.
“Well, darling, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Leggett lifted the cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. She glanced at the chicken in my arms but was clearly unfazed. I wondered if wild animals were constantly finding their way to her doorstep.
“I’d like to see Frank, if you don’t mind. I have a gift for him.”
Mrs. Leggett’s eyebrows rose. She straightened, looking again at Mildred. “A gift? Oh, how lovely. Do come in, darling. Make yourself at home.”
She opened the door and led us in. I stood in the foyer, holding the squirming chicken and trying not to mess up anything. Everything was white. The ceilings, the furniture, the linens. Except for one black wall, standing out starkly against the general whiteness of the living room. There was a whole lot of crystal everywhere. Great potential for a chicken-related disaster.
Mrs. Greene was clearly bothered by the possibility of danger. She pulled off her pristine white gloves. “My, what a lovely home. You have great taste in decorating.”
Mrs. Leggett shrugged, one of the sleeves of her silk robe sliding off her shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Why, might I ask, did you decide to paint that wall black?”
Mrs. Leggett took another puff of her cigarette. “Why not?”
I stepped around a chair into a small cleared area. “Why is this spot empty?”
“Oh, this is my cha-cha corner.” Mrs. Leggett brightened and placed her cigarette on top of the television. “Watch, darling.” She leaned over and flipped on an old record. Swinging music filled the room. “Step back, please.”
I walked around a pristine white sofa and watched her from a window seat. She began to sway her hips, dancing back and forth. She threw back her head and began moving her arms, screeching, “Chicoooo! Cha-cha-cha!”
Someone bounded down the stairs, and then Frank was standing in the doorway of the parlor with a look of horror on his face. “Mother!”
“Oh, Frank, darling, would you turn up that record?” Mrs. Leggett shook her hips and let out another shout. “Ha!”
Frank’s eyes swept over the room and widened when they fell on me. His face turned red. “Mother,” he groaned, reaching forward to turn off the music. “Please.”
I glanced at Mrs. Greene. She held a hand up to her lips, clearly holding back a smile. I fought a grin of my own. “Here, Frank.” I held up the chicken. “This is Mildred.”
Frank switched on the light in the bomb shelter and looked around. “Gee, I don’t know where to put her.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I could build a small attachment on the side to use as a coop. What does she eat? Corn?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Here, let me see her.” Frank reached out and took the hen, cradling it in his arms. At first Mildred protested, ruffling her feathers, but under Frank’s soothing hands, she soon settled down. “She’s got a pretty coloring. Nice feathers, strong talons.” Frank glanced at me accusatorily. “And you were going to eat her.”
“Well, actually the shut-ins were going to eat her.”
“Right.” Frank gave me a lopsided grin and began settling hay in a corner of the shelter. His tanned hands smoothed out the rough bed before he set Mildred on top of it. “This’ll have to do until I can build that coop.” He frowned. “I hope she doesn’t keep the other animals up at night.”
“She won’t. She’s good, I know.”
We stepped out as Frank closed the door behind us. Up on the hill, his house stood proud and bright. Mrs. Leggett and Mrs. Greene were visible in the big window. Mrs. Leggett obviously had the cha-cha music back on, because she was showing her guest how to shake her hips with great enthusiasm.
Frank groaned and leaned against the shed. “My mother is very embarrassing.” He waved a hand at the window.
I shrugged. “Everyone has their peculiarities. My mom slathers lotion on everything. You can tell where she’s been by the residue left on doorknobs.” I chuckled and nudged him. “And you? You’ll probably grow up to be the male equivalent of the eccentric cat lady.” I began to laugh.
Frank laughed—that full, rumbling laugh that turned his face from a simple ray into the glowing sun. He shook his head at me. “And your house will be so confused with different baking smells that your children will constantly be grossed out.”
“I suppose so.” I slid against the shed and settled on the dirt, watching the women dancing from the window.
Frank settled beside me. “Has anyone ever told you that your laugh is infectious?”
My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“When you laugh, it makes me want to laugh too. I don’t know why, but it does.”
“Huh.” I drew my knees up to my chest. “Now that’s something I never knew about myself. Cliff’s never mentioned it. He talks a lot about my birthmark but never my laugh.”
“Oh, you mean this?” Frank’s hand brushed my cheek.
“Yeah.” I touched the small indent in the corner of my mouth. A little larger than a dimple. A bit smaller than a scar. It was just a little dent. Hardly noticeable, really. At least, no one outside of my family had ever mentioned it to me. Until now.
“My mother would say that means you were kissed by an angel. When you were born, I mean.”
“Really?” I smiled softly. My chest felt all tight and fluttery under his gaze. What could a boy like this possibly see in Juli?
“Yeah.” He grinned back.
I lowered my eyes, wrapping a strand of hair around my finger.
“Scarlett!”
I looked up to see Mrs. Greene standing on the top of the hill. “Come on!” she shouted. “I told your mom I’d have you home by seven! It’s almost eight!”
“Coming!” I stood and brushed off my jeans. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Frank nodded. “Right. At the peach stand. Make sure Cliff’s got his sign ready.”
“I will. Okay, well, good-bye.” I smiled and ran up the hill toward Mrs. Greene. I can’t wait until tomorrow.
Chapter 7
You cannot be serious.”
I tore my eyes away from the sign to glare at Cliff. He stood proudly in his freshly washed shirt and trousers, his hair slicked back with an unnecessary amount of gel. He gave me a smug smile and wrapped an arm around his sign. The smell of fresh paint still lingered in the air. “Don’t you like it?”
“Cliff!” I threw up a hand, exasperated. “It’s in Spanish!”
¡Pasteles de melocotón en venta!! the sign read, in sprawling blue letters. A large painting of a peach sat in the bottom corner, while a sun graced the top.
This is weird. Even for Cliff, this is really weird.
My head was beginning to hurt. I rubbed my forehead and prepared to turn on my heel. As I did so, I saw Cliff’s brows had knotted.
“Is something wrong, Scarlett?”
I rolled my eyes. “How did you even know how to spell peaches in Spanish?”
He shrugged. “From the Spanish translation dictionary you gave me for Christmas.”
Drat. He had begged me for that dictionary. Then he’d walked around the house
spewing out Spanish words for weeks.
“There’s only one solution.” I stepped back and rubbed my neck. “You’re going to have to repaint it—and fast.” I shot him a look. “In English.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Cliff paint as I arranged the pies on the stand. The warm, tangy peach scent tickled my nose. Oh, they smell so good. And they look so nice. I couldn’t help but feel especially proud of the presentation. The crust was perfectly flaky, the peaches perfectly gooey. It had been worth staying up late to get them all made.
“Yum!” a deep voice grumbled. Dad sauntered out of the side door, wearing a large smile on his face. He wrapped an arm around me and took a big whiff. “Did you make an extra pie for your old man?”
“No, but if you’d like one, they’re only two dollars apiece.” I scrunched up my nose and beamed at him.
Dad rubbed his stomach and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “I personally know how good my Scarlett is at cooking, so I’m going to buy two.”
He reached into the pockets of his faded jeans and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill. “I believe that will be four dollars and a tip. That makes …” He looked down and held up the bill. “Well, I believe that’s five dollars exactly!”
Cliff whooped and snatched the money, doing a little victory dance. “Five dollars!”
Dad’s eyes twinkled as he watched Cliff dance. Then he turned to me and winked before grabbing two pies and walking back up the driveway toward the house. The screen door slammed behind him.
“Hey, Cliff, how’s that sign coming?”
Cliff held up the sign. Peach Pies for Sale. Two dollars each.
“Perfect.” Stepping back, I looked over the table. Once again, perfect. “Okay, now all we have to do is wait.”
The sun was hazy and warm overhead, making my head swarm. The Georgia heat was intoxicating. I was grateful for the umbrella Frank had set up over the stand.
Cliff lay on his back in the grass and closed his eyes with a wide smile on his face. I itched to join him. No, I’d better stay right here. A customer might come any minute.
