Southern Charmed

by Melanie Jacobson

  Chapter 7

  I couldn’t remember it being so hard to sit in the middle row during sacrament meeting before. I couldn’t pay attention to Cecily Moore in the best of circumstances because her nerves made her giggle. And today was not a “best circumstance” since I needed eighty percent of my brain capacity and all my willpower to keep from turning to stare at Max on the last row. The back of my neck had itched from the second he’d taken his seat after blessing the sacrament. The one time I’d turned to look at him, he’d been watching me with a thoughtful expression. He’d smiled when he’d caught my eye, and I’d smiled back but turned around quickly before I’d blushed.

  I mumbled my way through the closing hymn and counted it as another blessing that it wasn’t my month to conduct Relief Society. I was off my game, although I had a better grip on myself once we pulled out the accordion wall and shut Max on the other side.

  When class ended, the click of the wall opening again made my stomach flip. So stupid. There was no reason to be nervous about a planning meeting with Max. Get it together, Lila. Get. It. Together.

  Max didn’t rush over, and Hailey caught me for a few minutes, full of more wedding details and several messages to pass along to Mom about flowers. By the time she let go of me to join the rest of the wedding belles for some gabbing and note comparing, my stomach had twisted into a stupid knot. The stupidest knot. Why, stomach? Why? What do you have to be nervous about? Nothing, stupid stomach. Nothing.

  Max was listening to a conversation about March Madness brackets, but even though it didn’t seem like he was contributing to it, he still didn’t excuse himself to come talk to me. I hitched my church bag over my shoulder and walked over. “Hey, Max,” I said, during a lull.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Still have time for some conference planning?”

  Surprise crossed his face, then a smile. “Your mom didn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’m coming to your house for dinner again tonight. I figured we could talk it over there.”

  I didn’t know what to say next. But since I wasn’t about to bad-mouth Mom, I smiled back. “Sounds good. See you for dinner.”

  I drove straight home and headed for the kitchen. She stood behind the counter, a pile of chopped vegetables beside her, and I dropped my bag and glared.

  “I guess you heard we’ve got company coming.” She didn’t even have the grace to sound guilty.

  “Stop, Mom. I don’t want to date him.”

  “I think you do want to date him. I know your type, Lila. He’s it.”

  “My type is a guy who wants to buy a house in this neighborhood and see the same faces at church every Sunday for the rest of our lives. Max is not that guy.”

  “You don’t know what he wants.”

  “Yes, I do, because he told me after you tried to throw him at me last week. He’s leaving town as soon as he gets another assignment.”

  “Then he doesn’t know what he wants.”

  “He’s very clear about it.”

  Instead of getting flustered, Mom sliced another onion, calm as could be. She wasn’t listening. “I mean it, Mom. I’m done investing time and energy in relationships with guys who don’t want to stick around.”

  “You act like they’re loving and leaving you, but every last one of them has wanted to take you with them. I love you like my own daughter, but you are half the problem in those relationships.”

  “Ha ha. And I know that. Which is why I’m not going to contribute to the problem anymore. I’m not breaking hearts, and I’m not getting my heart broken. It’s a solid plan, so no more Max for Sunday dinner after tonight.”

  She finally set the knife down. “You want to live with me forever, sugar?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She smiled. “No, you don’t. Don’t put your life on hold because you’re worrying about me.”

  I slid into one of the kitchen chairs. “Would you really want me to date one of these guys if it meant I’d end up in Montana? Or Arizona? Or New York?” I said, thinking about my conversation with Max on the pier.

  She didn’t say anything, but her knife flew over the onion, the rhythm speaking louder than words. No, she didn’t want to see me go.

  “I’ll get changed and come down and help.” I stopped and sniffed the air. “Gumbo, Mom?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I haven’t made one for a long time.”

  I let it go and climbed up to my room, dithering over what to wear like an idiot. But I had my pride. I may not want to go out with him, but that wasn’t a reason not to look good. I settled on a pair of leggings with a geometric print and a long cream sweater, a thin one warm enough for a spring night in case Mom tried to make dinner more romantic by moving it outside again. I wouldn’t put it past her to make us eat by candlelight.

  She’d been a relentless optimist until Daddy had died. I would have been happy to see her optimism come back if it didn’t center on a future for Max and me.

  I checked myself in the mirror. I looked good, and I immediately pulled the outfit off and grabbed my most broken-in jeans and LSU T-shirt. I wouldn’t let her fall into the trap of false hopes. I couldn’t make it any plainer that I wasn’t interested in impressing Max than to walk downstairs in my grubbies. I pulled my hair into a sloppy topknot and padded barefoot back down to the kitchen to help her cook.

  She frowned at me. “I told him to come over at five. You’re going to have to change again in twenty minutes.”

  “I’m not changing.”

  “You’re a hot mess.”

  “I’m comfortable.”

  “What’s he going to think when he sees you looking like this?”

  I stared at her, waiting for it to click.

  She went after the vegetables when she figured it out.

  “The gumbo is already cooking,” I said, realizing what was wrong with this picture. “What are you chopping now?”

  “Bridger told me today that Coleman isn’t eating well. I told Bridger I’d bring dinner tomorrow, but I’m going to Casey’s again, so I’m putting something together now.”

  “Oh, that’s sad. How are they doing?” Coleman Lewis’s wife, Debbie, had died right before Thanksgiving from cancer. She’d been pretty young, about Mom’s age. Of their four kids, only Bridger, a high school senior, was still living at home. Their second daughter, Phoebe, was a year younger than me, and she was living over in Walker, so she helped out when she could, but she had a two-year-old and was pregnant with her second, so it was hard for her to keep an eye on her dad like she wanted to. She’d begged the ward to step in, and they had tried, but Coleman had been insistent that he was fine. Mom taught Bridger in Sunday School, so sometimes she wiggled the truth out of him and brought over a few meals for them to eat throughout the week.

  “I don’t know how they’re doing, exactly. They both have that zombie walk. You know how it is.”

  I hugged her before I dug out a second cutting board. Now that I’d lived with grief, witnessed Mom slog her way through it, seen each of my brothers handle it—or not—in their own way, I knew the zombie walk. Some people reacted to grief by working through it, keeping themselves busy, insisting they were fine and that they liked the work, whether it was a job or a calling or both. That had been me. Some people disconnected from the world around them, shuffling through the motions so they seemed all right, but if you took a closer look, it was obvious their minds and spirits were off somewhere else. That was Mom. Before Max showed up last week, the only thing that had roused her were Brady’s weekly missionary e-mails.

  “What are we making?” I asked.

  “Casseroles. I’ve got a tray of enchiladas in the freezer, and now I’m doing a King Ranch and a poppy seed chicken. This is the last of the veggies, but you can chop the chicken. It’s in the oven.”

  I pulled it out and laid the breasts on the cutting board so I could cut them into bite-sized pieces. “Better let these cool. What else can I do?�
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  “Throw a cobbler together for dessert?”

  I went straight to the pantry for the peaches she’d canned last summer. I loved cooking, and I understood why she made so many meals for ward members. She missed cooking for Daddy and the boys. I did too. She’d taught me to make huge spreads with love in every detail.

  I gathered the few ingredients for the simple cobbler; when it was dripping with as much butter as this one took, you didn’t need fancy, just cholesterol meds. I measured and mixed while I told her about my new calling with Max.

  “Planning the conference? That’s kind of short notice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I already have a ton of ideas. That’s the easy part. Trying to find available venues will be the headache. I did some legwork on this yesterday, but it’s going to be a pain.”

  We brainstormed ideas, the cobbler coming together as we talked, until the doorbell signaled that Max had arrived.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and get that?” Mom said. “I’ve got chicken hands.” She grabbed a piece of chicken from the cutting board to make her words true.

  I shook my head but rinsed my hands and answered the door.

  “Hey,” I said, trying not to stare. He’d changed into a black V-neck sweater and gray jeans. The black made his eyes more intense, and I blinked at him. He blinked back, and I cursed myself for dressing like I was about to clean out the garage. Then I cursed myself again for caring what he thought. But only Bible curses.

  “Smells amazing,” he said.

  “Seafood gumbo. My mom is spoiling you.”

  “She will never have a more appreciative audience.” He followed me to the kitchen. “Hey, Sister Guidry.”

  “Hey, Max. Good to see you. I’m finishing up a casserole for later this week, so I’m sorry I can’t hug you, but come say hello anyway.” She paused and tilted her head.

  Confusion crossed Max’s face.

  “Give her sugar, Max. Between this and the gumbo, it means she’s practically adopted you. Drop a kiss right there,” I said, tapping my cheek.

  His face lit up in delight, and he hurried to kiss her upturned cheek.

  Mom went back to chopping and issuing orders. “Pop the cobbler in the oven, Lila Mae. Max, move every dish you see on the stove to the table, would you, darlin’?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yeah, adopted,” I murmured to him as he passed me coming from the stove on the way to get the rice.

  Five minutes later, we were all seated, and Mom had already gotten more out of Max about his job than I had in our entire walk the week before. She had a way of making everyone talk.

  “What does an operations manager do, exactly?” she asked. “That sounds like one of those jobs like consultant that can mean just about anything.”

  He laughed. “Sometimes my job feels like it covers everything, but I guess that’s why I like it. You know Taggart is an energy company, right?”

  Mom nodded. “Right. Oil business.”

  “That’s mostly what it’s been, but about eight years ago, they expanded their clean-energy efforts. I’m pretty interested in that field, so I interviewed with them and got hired.”

  “But what do you do with them, exactly? Walk around with a clipboard taking notes and . . . what?” she pressed.

  He hesitated. “You really want to know about this? It might sound boring to anyone else.”

  “I really do,” she said. Listening was one of her super powers. I was glad since I was curious in spite of myself.

  “Right now we’re trying to figure out how to maximize solar energy in rainy climates like Louisiana,” he said. “My job is to monitor the operations side of things, so it basically means I’m constantly trying to streamline the processes to get the most out of the work our people do. I have to watch everything from how they clock in and out to the materials we order for our solar cells to the way our researchers gather and compile data, constantly watching the whole process to make sure every step of it is as efficient as possible. Aren’t you sorry you asked?”

  “No, I am not,” Mom said, patting the back of his hand. “What do you plan to do with all of this efficiency experience?”

  “Operations is a really good place to start when you want to climb through the executive ranks,” he said. “I want to be running a boardroom of a major corporation by forty.”

  Mom sighed. “You remind me of Jim. He was a go-getter too.”

  All through dinner, she kept him talking, and Max looked like he enjoyed the grilling. By the time he finished his third bowl of gumbo, Mom’s questions had led him to entertain us with a string of mishaps from his mission and give us a comprehensive overview of his final project at Wharton.

  When Mom stood to collect our empty bowls, Max’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I spent all that time talking about myself. My mom would be so embarrassed.”

  I burst out laughing. “Don’t worry about it. It’s called the Hattie Effect. It freaks the elders out the first time she does it to one of them too.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mom said, not sounding particularly upset. “There’s nothing wrong with being a good listener.”

  “You’re right, but you’re a devious interrogator, and you should apologize,” I said.

  “Lila Mae, say you’re sorry right now,” Mom demanded, laughing.

  “For telling the truth? No, ma’am. Now let me help you clear the table.”

  Max climbed to his feet too, and we all took the plates to the sink. Mom handed him a rag to wipe down the counters while she and I put the leftovers away, including three days’ worth of gumbo for Max to take home.

  “I guess y’all need to work out all your conference details,” Mom said as she placed Max’s leftovers inside a paper grocery sack. “I’m going to work on my magnolia, but holler if you need me.” She gave each of our arms a squeeze before she headed into the living room.

  “She’s working on her magnolia in the living room? Like bonsai?” Max asked.

  “No, like embroidery.”

  “Ah. So, hey, now that you know more than you could ever want to know about my job, will you tell me about yours? Is it hard?”

  “So hard, but I love it. The bad thing about teachers is that we won’t shut up about our jobs once we get started, so I better not even get going. Let me grab my conference binder, and we can jump in. Is the table okay?”

  He glanced out the window. “Do binders have to be involved? Because if not, I think we should have this planning meeting on the pier.”

  I pointed to myself. “Teacher, remember? Of course there has to be a binder. But only because it works better for me to organize this visually instead of in computer folders.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “Any time I have to do something with our supply chain, I have a million software options, but nothing makes it click like working it out with pencil and paper.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Hang on.” A minute later, I was back with the binder I’d fished from my church bag after ignoring Mom’s hopeful “How’s it going?” look as I’d passed the living room.

  “Do you have any hard-and-fast ideas about this conference?” I asked as I took the seat across from him.

  “Let’s start with your ideas.”

  “I’ve been to a few of these now”—heck, I was probably the stake record holder for number of YSA conferences attended—“and the main draw is time to socialize. So I think we plan a marquee event for Saturday night, pick a theme that ties into it, build in plenty of chances to mingle, including a service project, sprinkle in some awesome speakers, and that’s it. We’ve got a conference.”

  “What’s an example of tying a theme to a marquee event?”

  “I went out to Central yesterday to look at this elderly guy’s property. Brother Samuelson. He’s in the Pride ward with my aunt, and he’s independent enough to live alone but hasn’t been able to keep his place up too well. He’s got about five acres, and the priesthood does regular service proje
cts there, so the land’s in okay shape, but they mainly do the regular upkeep, like mowing. Other things have gotten kind of run-down. Like he has this barn there, a good-sized one, and it’s structurally sound, but it needs paint and a good interior cleaning and some purging.”

  I flipped to a preliminary conference outline I’d roughed out the previous night after touring Brother Samuelson’s place. “My aunt Casey thinks his adult children would love to come over and supervise a Friday service project where we help him whip the barn back into shape. Then we could talk to the Denham Springs Stake Relief Society and have them decorate it on Saturday while we’re in workshops for a barn dance that night. Service project and dance venue all in one, come up with some scriptural farm-sounding theme about harvesting, and boom, done. Shouldn’t be hard.”

  Max skimmed the list. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

  “Why don’t we divide up tasks? I can put you in touch with Brother Samuelson’s oldest son to talk about muscle and equipment and which jobs everyone can do.”

  He gave me the “slow down” hands. “I meant it’s a good place to start for ideas, but we should talk about other options too.”

  Great. He was going to take his cochair job seriously instead of taking orders? There’s nothing like someone else trying to actually do their job to get in the way of you doing yours. “Options like what?” How long did I have to let him brainstorm before I navigated us back to the perfectly integrated barn plan?

  “I think we should look at going with something less . . .” He trailed off. He must have realized there was no inoffensive way to finish his sentence.

  “Less what?”

  He shrugged. “Obvious.”

  It was an irritating assessment after I’d spent three hours scoping it out yesterday. “What do you want instead? Enchantment under the sea and tying it into fishers of men or something?”