by Rhett DeVane
Hattie nodded. “That any of us think we are in control in the first place is laughable.”
“So, can I hire you as my Reiki therapist?”
“No.”
“Still can’t forgive me?”
“You can’t hire me. I’ll do it for free because you’re family.”
“I’d never expect that, Hattie. Business is business, and it’s money for you.”
“Listen, Mama and Daddy left Bobby and me well set in that respect. I don’t actually have to work. I choose to. I want to do this for you. Otherwise, I’d feel helpless, standing by watching from the sidelines. When do you want to start?”
“Tomorrow too soon?”
“Works for me. I’ll double-check my massage schedule, but I believe the morning’s free. Why don’t we set up here on the porch around ten? I’m worthless before I have a couple of cups of coffee. Since I stopped working full time, I ease into the day. I can have Holston take Sarah to his office at the Triple C so we’ll have peace and quiet.”
Karen glanced around. “Out here? In the open?”
Hattie chuckled. “Reiki translates to universal life force energy. I’ve been attuned to the energy, and serve as a conduit. This is accomplished by laying hands on various energy centers of the receiver’s body, Karen. You don’t need to be undressed. All you’ll experience is gentle warmth and an overall sense of well-being. You won’t flash the world. Besides, it’s spring, the perfect temperature, and the birds are singing up a storm. I think it would be a life-affirming place to do healing work.”
“Okay, then.” Karen stood. “I’d better shove off. Daddy promised blueberry pancakes for brunch. Want to grab the kids and join me?”
“I’d best not. I look like who-shot-Sam. I haven’t even had a shower yet. Motherhood will do that for a girl.”
“Still, it seems to agree with you.”
Hattie jumped up. “Wait here a minute.” She disappeared into the house and returned with a small jewelry case.
“I want you to have this—for good luck.”
Karen opened the box to find a delicate daisy lapel pin. “How beautiful!”
“Daisies were Piddie’s favorite flower, so this always reminds me of her. It was given to me by Ruth Hornsby, the adopted Chinese daughter of our friends from Tallahassee. It was my talisman during a really hard time in my life.”
“I’m touched, Hattie. Thank you.”
Hattie embraced her cousin. “I’m right here if you need to talk to someone who understands all the emotions that go along with cancer.”
“Some day, you’ll have to tell me about your ordeal.”
“Sure. But for now, we need to focus on getting you through to the other side.”
“Mama says this recipe’s been passed around so many times, she doesn’t even know who deserves credit. She makes it every family get-together and for the dinners at the church. It is so hard for me to maintain my figure!”
Ladonna O’Donnell, local beauty queen and model
Mama O’Donnell’s Chocolate Pound Cake
1 cup butter
½ cup Crisco shortening
3 cups white sugar
5 eggs
½ teaspoon baking powder (sift before measuring)
½ cup cocoa (sift before measuring)
1 ¼ cup milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 cups cake flour (sift before measuring)
Cream butter, shortening, vanilla and sugar together. Add eggs, one a time, beating well between each. Combine flour, cocoa, and baking powder. Sift three times.
Add dry mixture alternately with milk to creamed butter mixture. Mix well. Pour into a greased and floured 10-inch tube pan.
Bake in a 325º oven for 1 hour and 30 minutes. Do not open oven door during baking time. Cool in pan or on wire rack. When cake has completely cooled, frost if desired.
To make frosting:(optional)
In a saucepan, combine one stick butter or margarine, softened, 6 Tablespoons buttermilk, and 1 Tablespoon cocoa. Bring to a boil, then remove from heat. Stir in one box of powdered sugar (sifted) and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. Add 1 cup chopped nuts. Beat until desired consistency.
Chapter Eight
“Augh! You little shit!”
D. J. leapt from the couch in his fiancée’s townhouse, spilling a tall glass of iced water on the Oriental rug. He hurled a decorative pillow toward the foyer where Taizer hovered over a pair of leather Sperry Topsiders. He raced to the hall—too late.
“That’s the second pair in less than a week!” he yelled. “One more and I swear your little striped butt is going back to the shelter!”
The expensive deck shoes rested in a moat of cat urine.
“Why can’t you piss in her shoes? She’s the one that took off and left us. I feed you, pet you, even sleep over a few times each week to keep you and your fat-ass sister happy, and this is the thanks I get?”
After drying as much moisture as possible from the expensive Oriental rug, D. J. sprayed the shoes and tile with cleaning solution. Enzymatic action against odor the label lied. He knew the brutal truth; nothing short of napalm could extinguish the stench of cat urine. He had three pairs of ruined shoes to prove it. Not only was love deaf, dumb, and blind, it also rendered one’s nasal passages inoperative.
The cell phone in his jacket pocket trilled, and he rushed to the living room to retrieve it.
“Hello, luv. How are my babies?” the cool British voice asked.
D. J. pitched the saturated cleaning cloth into a plastic bag and deposited it into the trash compactor. “Why not . . . ‘How are you, D. J.? I miss you, D. J.! I’m racing home to you as fast as my little car will take me, D. J.!’”
“Donald. You’re yelling.”
He huffed. “Sorry, Mary E. You caught me in the middle of choking the life out of your little boy.”
“Really, Donald. Can he be as dreadful as all that?”
“Tequila’s beginning to tolerate me. She slept on my chest most of last night. But the little hellion, Taizer . . . ”
“He’s just a baby.”
“Right. I’ll try to bear that in mind the next time he uses urine warfare. Let’s not talk anymore about your cats. They are fine. I am the beleaguered one in this scenario. When are you coming home?”
“That’s why I called. Seems it’ll be awhile before I can return.”
“A week? Two weeks? What?”
“At least a couple of months, maybe more.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Don’t be cross, Donald. If you don’t want to care for the cats, I’ll arrange to board them.”
He clenched his teeth. “No, no. I’ll do it, damn it.”
“You should call Bonnie for a massage. You sound dreadfully tense.”
D. J. closed his eyes. “I miss you Mary E. Don’t you miss me at all?” he said, instantly loathing the pitiful teenage-crush tone in his voice.
The line was silent for a moment before she replied. “Of course, darling. Really must go now. Ring you later. Toodles!”
D. J. stared at the compact phone as if it held the answers. “I’ve got to find out what the hell’s going on with her,” he muttered.
“Yeowl!” Tequila twirled in circles around his ankles, and he leaned down to scratch behind her ears. “At least you’re on my side, oh one of great girth.”
The rotund Persian waddled to her bowl and cried piteously until he relinquished and poured out a cup of dry cat food.
“You women are all alike. Show a guy the slightest hint of affection, and here he comes, ready to do your bidding.”
Tequila regarded him briefly with large golden eyes before turning full attention to dining.
The editing room at Georgia Metro Public Broadcasting—a dark, cramped labyrinth of computer equipment and insistently blinking monitors—reminded D. J. of a Lear jet cockpit. The primary inhabitants, Jason “Simpy” Simpson and Preston “Perch” Pershing, slipped like trained moles betw
een the assorted workstations.
“Morning, Simpy!” D. J. called from the threshold. Like other Georgia Metro employees, he harbored great respect for the dedicated video crew and hovered just outside the door until granted entrance.
Simpy peered over the black plastic rims of nerdy glasses. “C’mon in, Deej. Coffee’s on in the back if you want.”
“Whatsup?” Simpy asked as D. J. flopped into a wheeled chair to his left. “Figured you’d taken a little vacation with the queen mum once membership drive week was done.”
“Nope. I’m hanging around here. Same old.”
“Haven’t seen her highness around lately. She blast off for the homeland?”
D. J. shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know where she is? That bites.”
“All she told me is that she’s dealing with some family matters.”
“Hmm.” Simpy stabbed at the computer keyboard.
“You work with Mary Elizabeth a lot, don’t you?”
“I usually get the honors, right. She and Perch butt heads till someone comes up bloody. But hey, if you think I’ve got some inside scoop on the Ice Queen, think again. All business, all the time. No idle chit-chat.” Simpy worked as he talked, his hand gliding easily between the computer mouse and keyboard. “Not that I mind it, really. I don’t much like getting all caught up in private affairs while I’m taping. Too messy.”
D. J. sipped his coffee. “Jeez, how long’s this coffee been brewing?”
“Put it on fresh at two this morning. Can’t be that bad by now.”
“Dunno how you keep the hours you do, Simpy. Do you ever sleep?”
“I can go for a couple of days at a time. Then, I fall out. Been that way since college.” Simpy studied D. J. for a moment. “You even heard from the princess?”
“Couple of times since she left.”
“Some people don’t like Mary Elizabeth. Not me. She may be frosty, but she’s a professional to the end.” He gestured toward a small Lucite award plaque. “Got her to thank for that.”
“For the documentary on aging last year. It was quite good.”
“I didn’t shoot the first few clips. Perch ended up working on that. I was out with sinus surgery for a couple of weeks. But the missus insisted on taking me along to Florida with her. That was a trip!”
Simpy leaned back and laughed. “You should have seen it, Deej. Tables of food for days! Folks were real friendly. Made sure we ate right alongside them after the majority of the interviews were over.”
“It was some kind of family reunion, right?”
“Nope. Hundredth birthday party for the coolest little old lady I’ve ever met.” He shook his head. “The whole thing weirded Mary Elizabeth out, though.”
“How so?”
“Dunno how to describe it, actually. She was . . . edgy . . . the whole time we were there, glancing around like she expected something to happen. I’ve never seen her so ruffled. Then, she insisted we leave early, immediately after we ate. The family had a video presentation, kind of a this-is-your-life thing, planned. Mary Elizabeth was hell-bent for leather that we vacate. I would have liked to have seen it. Amateur videos are a riot.”
“Odd.”
“Yeah. I asked her about it later, but she never gave me a clear answer. Didn’t say more than two words to me in the van coming back, either.”
D. J. stood to leave. “Thanks for the delightful coffee, Simpy. Good talking to you.”
“Sure thing, Deej. Drop by anytime. I’m always freakin’ here.”
Executive director Wilton “Will” Cooke’s spacious office was a direct contrast to the camera crew’s high-tech lair. D. J. often kidded his friend that he could be the male counterpart to Martha Stewart. In the five years he had known Will, D. J. had never seen so much as a paper clip out of place. The compulsively labeled designer bins left no room for competition.
“Morning, Big Will!” D. J. called.
“Five pounds less of Big Will, thank you very much.” The director patted his distended stomach. Slovenly housekeeping wasn’t his sin, but gluttony was.
“Sugar Busters diet still working for you, then?”
“Yes sah! Fifteen pounds to go before I allow myself even a bite of sugar.”
“For your own good, stay out of the staff lounge. Janice brought in a homemade German chocolate cake.”
Will closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, no.”
D. J. smiled. “Don’t fret. I’ll eat your share.”
“Such a friend I’ve got. One should be so lucky. By the way, great job on the membership drive. Economy in the can like it’s been since nine-eleven, I thought we’d be struggling this spring for sure.”
“Might work to our advantage. Folks stay home when times are uncertain—watch TV, read books.”
“Hmm. Speaking of not staying home, have you heard from our own little English rose?”
D. J. flopped onto a leather arm chair. “Spoke with her briefly last night. She called to check on the cats and let me know it’ll be a couple of months before her return.”
“About the same information she relayed to me before she left. Not that she doesn’t have tons of leave time. The woman never takes a day off. She out of the country?”
“I don’t actually know.”
Will grinned. “She’s got you by the short hairs, eh?”
“What few I have left she hasn’t snatched out.”
Will shook his head. “Terrible thing—love.”
D. J. fidgeted with his watchband. “You wouldn’t happen to have the address and phone numbers for her cousins here in the states, would you?”
Will frowned. “You know me better than to ask that.”
“Sorry. Lost my mind for a brief moment.”
“I can’t divulge an employee’s private records. Especially not Mary Elizabeth Kensington’s. She’d grind my bones and serve me with high tea!”
“True.”
Will’s face brightened. “Still, you do have access to the princess’s private chambers.”
“You suggesting I snoop around her townhouse?”
“Not at all. But if you happen to bump into an address book or the like as you are searching for a pen to jot a note with . . . well . . . ”
“Mind if I take a couple of hours away from the office?”
“No skin off my teeth. You pulled so many overtime hours in the last few weeks, I’ll be doing good to pay you off by this time next year.”
D. J. jumped up and headed for the door. “Thanks for the brilliant suggestion.”
“That’s why I make the big bucks.”
D. J. chuckled. “Yeah. You, me and Dan Rather.”
In the parking lot, D. J. ducked behind a broadcast van in a vain attempt to avoid Trisha Truman, office manager for GMPBS.
“There you are!” The stiff-haired blonde rushed to intercept him. “I’ve been searching high and low for you.”
A thick cloying cloud of cologne accosted his nose. The few sensors not terminally damaged by Taizer’s urine attacks screamed for relief. “You found me. I’m just heading out.”
Not to be easily brushed aside, Trisha oozed into his path. “Haven’t seen your beloved around lately. Her leave of absence just seems to stretch to infinity.” Her plum-red, collagen-inflated lips reminded D. J. of the butt end of a baboon. “She’s out of town on family matters.”
“Hmm.” She touched a talon fingernail to her chin. “I didn’t know she had a family.”
D. J. edged away. “Been nice chatting with you, Trisha. I really have to get going.”
She stepped closer into his personal space buffer zone than comfortable. “You must be starved for company. Why don’t you come over to my condo, and we’ll throw some steaks on the grill? Nice bottle of wine. Get to know each other.” Trisha swiveled her hips seductively.
“I am engaged—in case you have forgotten.”
She threw her hands into the air in an expansive gesture. “Just
trying to be friendly with a hard-laboring coworker in a time of need.”
“Find another charity, Trisha.” D. J. brushed past her.
“Have yourself a good day, sweetie, you hear?” Trisha called out in a throaty voice.
“My mother is an amazing cook. The one thing I associate with comfort is her chocolate chip cookies. I remember this one time when I was, oh, eleven or twelve—Miz Nana Heron’s piano recital. I so thoroughly screwed up my recital piece—froze right in the middle, my fingers just hanging there over the keys. Man, was I mortified! All of my friends and their whole families were there to witness my failing. Finally, I got up and ran back to my seat. I didn’t cry until I got home. Then, Mama brought out her big bowl and we made cookies together. She was never one to bring junk food home, you see. So cookies were special. And you knew she was making them just for you. She let me lick the bowl after we put the cookie sheet into the oven. By that time, I was so caught up in the delight of warm melted chocolate chip goodness, the agony of my humiliation faded away. Not too long ago, we were all together in my kitchen making that same recipe: me, my mama, and my twin girls. It was one of those times you try to freeze in memory to savor later.”
Carol Burns
Chapter Nine
Joe Fletcher wiped his brow with the hem of his Borrowed Thyme chef’s jacket, and then refilled the coffee mugs for newly-appointed chief of police Rich Burns and his wife. The Saturday morning sweet potato biscuit rush had subsided.
“This is a treat, Carol,” Joe remarked, “I don’t often get to see such a pretty face at Rich’s table.”
“It’s a treat for me, too. Rich’s been bragging so on your cooking, I had to come try it for myself. He’s put on ten pounds because of your biscuits!”
Joe laughed. “Don’t blame it all on me. I have it on good authority he spends a good deal of time down at the Madhatter’s Sweet Shop, too.”
