by Rhett DeVane
“Better not.” She snuggled into his chest, content.
“Wanda Jean?”
“Hmm?”
“You given any thought on what you’re going to do with your place in town once we’re married?”
She sat up straight so that she could face him. “I don’t want to sell it, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Up to you. I just asked, is all.”
“That little house isn’t much, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever had that I could call my own. Can you understand?”
Pinky stroked her hair, and she settled back into the curve of his arms. “Perfectly. I just hoped you’d want to live out here. I can’t cotton much to living cooped up in town, but I reckon I’ll manage if that’s where you are.”
“I want to live out here, too, Pinky. I’ve never been as happy as I am out here with you. Way I figure, I can always find a renter.”
The Day-glow orange Post-it note attached to the front page of the National Informant read: Boss man, I spotted this at the stop-n-rob on the corner when I gassed up the company van. Thought you might like to see it. Simpy.
Will Cooke punched the intercom button on his phone with such force, the base slid backwards and upended a pottery jar filled with pens and pencils.
“Yes, sir?” his assistant’s voice responded.
“Locate Trisha Truman. Ask her to come to my office immediately.” He cursed under his breath as he retrieved the pencils that had rolled onto the floor.
Will forced himself to deep breathe. Anger would accomplish little, save sending inordinate amounts of harmful chemicals racing to his overburdened heart muscle.
A tap sounded on the office door, and Trisha Truman’s bleached blonde head peeked around the threshold. “You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down.”
Trisha cocked her head to one side. “Is that an order or an invitation, Will?”
He swallowed the bile collecting like the pooled grease from yesterday’s cheap burger. “Please.”
Trisha’s scarlet lips eased into a seductive smile. “That’s more like it.”
She eased into the leather wing back chair in front of his desk, slowly crossed her long legs, and began to swing a sandaled foot in lazy circles.
Will snatched the gossip rag news magazine from his desk, discarded Simpy’s note from the color-printed front page, and held the periodical toward Trisha. “Have any comment on this?”
She glanced briefly at the bold headlines and allowed her eyes to rest on the picture underneath. A smug expression of satisfaction played across her features. “Imagine that! The woman in that photo looks amazingly like our own British newsperson. Well, what do you know? It is!”
Will clenched and felt several small grains of enamel give way on the top of one of his molars. Given a few more years and the ensuing stress, his dentist would regard him as easy money in the bank. “You don’t have a thing to say about why Mary Elizabeth’s picture is splayed all over the front of a trash rag like this?”
Trisha studied her manicure and picked idly at a hangnail. “I saw it earlier. Interesting article. Liars get what’s coming to them in the end, I suppose.”
“Mary Elizabeth is—”
“Oh, c’mon, Will,” she interrupted. “We all know now that she’s a fake. Her real name’s Karen Fletcher and she’s a low-rent redneck from North Florida, for God’s sake.”
Will felt his ears grow warm with rising anger. “Her life’s now fodder for the press, thanks to you.”
“Me?” She batted her eyelashes. “Why, Will!”
“I know you went to her hometown and lied to dig up dirt, Trisha. I’m sure you were the one who went public with the knowledge.”
“So what if I did? I didn’t do a thing wrong—just unearthed her dirty little conniving lies.”
Will suppressed the urge to grab the nearest object and hurl it across the desk. “You ferreted the information from somewhere, Trisha. My guess is the confidential employee files.”
“Who says where I came by it? Could’ve been most anywhere. The Internet is a wonderful tool for investigative reporting.”
“Is that what you’re calling it?”
“I knew you wouldn’t appreciate the level of my skill, Will. That’s why I chose to go over your head. There will be a piece in the Atlanta paper tomorrow.” Her lips pursed together into a tight red knot.
Will pushed back from his desk. “I want you out of here immediately!”
Trisha’s expression froze. “Wait . . . you’re firing me?”
“Bet your ass I’m firing you! Not only did you use confidential information for personal gain, but—”
“You can’t prove that.”
He snorted. “I suppose I can’t. But let me tell you something—any person who would be so ruthless and full of her own puffed-up importance to do such a dastardly thing to a coworker who has done nothing to warrant such ire—God, you make me sick! Now, thanks to you, she has to deal with the ogre of breast cancer and face the damned press to boot!”
“I didn’t invent my life like she did.” Trisha rose. “You can’t fire me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He flipped open a thick brown folder. “Oh, I have plenty to back me up. Written complaints from coworkers about—” he referred to the top sheet “—blatant sexual overtures.” Will continued, picking documents at random. “Repeated absences from duties without proper, hell, without any notice.” Another: “Excessive personal computer use on company time.”
Trisha offered no reply except a fierce expression.
“Most of the men here have approached me about your behavior. The flipping men! That doesn’t hold a penlight to what the females think about you: Gossip-mongering. Instigator. Snitch. Petty thief.” Will took a deep breath. “Each and every one of these, I have discussed with you, and they’re documented. Not that talking it over made a piss-ant’s pot of good.”
Trisha tilted her head and offered a thin smile that didn’t make it past her lips. “All of them are just jealous of my obvious virtues. You of all people should know I deserve to be in front of the cameras, not skulking behind the scenes. Okay, so I’m out sometimes. I have health issues. You fire me and I’ll have an attorney here before you can take my name off the payroll. I repeat, you cannot fire me.”
Will slammed his hand down on the desk, sending papers flying. “I can and I will! Clean out your desk and get the hell out of my station!” His nostrils flared. “I’m calling security and telling them to expect your keys at the door.”
Trisha Truman glared at him, her lips set in a grim line. She shoved the chair across the plank floor, leaving deep gouges in the wood. “You will live to regret this.”
“The only thing I regret, Trisha, is ever bringing you on board.”
On her way out, she slammed the door so hard, one of the framed leadership awards crashed to the floor and sent glass shards scudding in all directions.
As Will fought to calm his breathing, an idea occurred to him. He laughed out loud, imagining his lips sweeping into curlicues at either end, much like the Grinch in his favorite Christmas video. He flipped his cell phone open and located the number.
He might not be able to ultimately save Karen’s career, but there might be a way to keep her on payroll and salvage something in the end.
“I have Piddie Longman’s chicken ’n’ dumplin’ recipe, and I have been known to break down and make it for special occasions. A lady from one of our sister churches over in Tallahassee gave me this easy recipe, and I can whip it up really fast when I get to missing my friend and her cooking. Also, it’s easy to prepare for just one person, with a little left over for later. It’s fooled many folks into thinking I slaved to make it!”
Elvina Houston
Elvina Houston’s
Cheatin’ Chicken ’n’ Dumplin’s
One 14-ounce can of chicken broth
½ cup water
One 10 ¾ oz. can cream of chicken soup, undiluted
Two hard-boiled eggs, diced
Five 10-inch flour tortillas
Salt and pepper to taste
Two to three boneless chicken breasts
In a pot, combine the broth and water. Add chicken breasts and cook until chicken is tender. Remove from pot, cut into cubes, and return to pot. Bring broth back to a boil. Cut tortillas, first into halves, then into long two-inch strips. Drop strips into the boiling broth and allow them to cook on high for about three or four minutes. Reduce heat to simmer. Add in the can of cream of chicken soup and the diced eggs. Add a little salt and pepper to taste.
Cover pot and allow it to simmer on very low heat for about twenty minutes, or until most of the moisture has been absorbed by the tortilla strips. Serve warm.
Note: frozen, diced chicken can be used to save time. Just add to broth at the beginning so it can thaw as the broth heats.
Chapter Eighteen
D. J. Peterson parked in the paved circular drive in front of the brick ranch-style house and double-checked the address. He sat in silence for a moment to collect his wildly racing thoughts. He owned no frame of reference for interaction with a fiancée who he knew under a false identity, not to mention one who was facing down breast cancer.
“What the hell.” He snatched the keys from the ignition.
A petite middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brown hair answered the door after the first ring. D. J. stood face to face with a shorter, dark-haired, more mature version of his beloved Mary Elizabeth Kensington.
“You must be Donald. My husband called and said you were on your way.” Evelyn extended her hand. “I’m her mother, Evelyn Fletcher. I know this must be a bit much to take in all at once.”
“Yes.”
“I realize you must have many questions for my daughter.” Evelyn hesitated. “I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel right now. But Karen’s quite ill, and she’s fighting with all she has. Please, please, don’t be too harsh on her. I’m sure there will come a time later on when the two of you can hash things out.”
“Is Mary—Karen—expecting me?”
“Yes. She’s in the garden room with her brother Byron. He’s down from Ohio.”
Evelyn touched his arm. “She’s having the surgery soon. We’re all trying our level best to stay positive for her sake, Donald.”
“I understand. May I see her now?”
She escorted him through the kitchen to the porch. Byron stood when D. J. and his mother entered the room.
“Donald, this is my son, Byron Fletcher. Byron, this is Donald Peterson from Atlanta.”
The two men shook hands. D. J. allowed his eyes to rest on his fiancée. The pale, winsome creature huddled on the porch swing bore little resemblance to the vibrant woman he had made love with two months prior.
“Byron, let’s you and I go in the kitchen and leave them to visit.”
“You okay, Sissy?” Byron touched her shoulder gently.
She nodded to her brother, then offered a weak smile to D. J. “Hello, Donald.”
“May I?” He motioned to the wicker arm chair adjacent to the swing.
“Please.” Her gaze followed his movements.
“At least you didn’t mock me by donning the fake accent,” he said with a wry smile.
Karen pulled on a stray strand of wig hair. “That would seem a bit unnecessary since you know who I really am.”
“Hmm.”
Entire epistles of words tumbled around inside awaiting exit, and D. J. struggled to whip them into some semblance of order.
Karen studied her hands. “Did Trisha Truman tell you about me?”
“No, your father did.”
“So, how did you . . . ?”
“Find you? Wasn’t easy. You didn’t leave behind a wealth of clues.” He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, extracted a folded piece of stationery, and handed it to her. “I got the address off this. It was next to your computer.” He purposely failed to admit to the month-long meticulous room-by-room search of her condominium.
“Oh. I meant to send this back. There was a gold pendant with it from my mother.”
“I left it behind in the box.”
“I see.”
D. J. snapped the band on his watch. The silence hung like wet drapery between them.
“How are things at Georgia Metro?”
D. J. shrugged. “Same ole. Folks are beginning to wonder where you are.”
“Suppose so.”
“The kitties?”
“Fine. They miss you. Brat boy has finally stopped trying to ruin every pair of shoes I own, and as to the fat cat, she loves me because I can operate the can opener.”
Karen offered a slight smile. “You know I appreciate you taking such good care of them.”
“Mary E—Karen—Jeez, I don’t even know what I should call you.”
D. J. ducked his head and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I thought of a million things to say to you on the way over here. Now, I just can’t come up with any. I guess I’m about as dumbfounded as a man could ever be.”
“I can see why you would feel that way.”
D. J. turned slightly to face her. “I am truly sorry for what you’re going through.”
“The cancer?” Karen gave a slight laugh. “It’s nothing compared to watching my life fall to ruins.”
He leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees. “Just answer one thing for me, please. How long have you known?”
“I found out the day before Valentine’s.”
“So, it wasn’t just my proposal that upset you that night.”
She started to reach out to touch his face, then drew back. “No. That was a pleasant and wonderful surprise. One I shall never forget.”
His lips drew into a thin line. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Karen slowly exhaled. “It’s complicated, Donald. It has to do with fear and a whole gamut of emotions I haven’t even figured out as yet. I just couldn’t.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “But you could return home to a family you ditched years ago? What about this makes any sense at all?”
“I don’t expect you to understand. It had to do with facing all the lies in my life. I needed to come home if I was going to stand a chance of healing myself. I’m so screwed up, Donald.”
“So . . . you and I? Guess it didn’t mean a thing to you.”
Karen closed her eyes to stem the flood of threatening tears. “I’ve loved you from the start. This isn’t about us.” She worked the diamond engagement ring from her finger. “Here.”
“Don’t want it anymore?”
Moisture welled in her eyes. “That’s really not for me to say.”
He studied the play of light within the facets of the brilliant gemstone a moment before handing it back to her. “Keep it.”
Karen’s mouth parted slightly.
D. J. glanced away. “I’m not sure of anything at this moment. I need to mull things over for a bit.”
A single tear slipped from her eyes and she brushed it aside.
He released a heavy sigh. “How are you, really?”
She shrugged. “Tired. Nauseated. Depressed. Bald. That about sums it up.”
“Surgery’s when?”
“After my final chemo treatment. If all checks out with my blood work, Dr. Keegan will do a lumpectomy . . . if he can.”
“And afterwards?”
Karen frowned. “Radiation, for sure. Maybe two more rounds of chemo. All depends on the lymph nodes. If they’re clear, more chemo won’t be necessary.”
“I see.”
The rhythmic sound of an antique wall clock peppered the silence, ticking off seconds of borrowed time.
D. J. drummed his fingers on his knee. “You planning on returning to Atlanta?”
“I don’t know, Donald.”
D.J swallowed the lump of sadness threatening to strangle him. “I guess . . . I should be going.”
He rose, turned to
ward the door, then spun slowly around and leaned down to place a soft kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry about the kitties. I’ll take care of things at home.”
D. J. slipped quietly through the house to the front entrance. His composure hovered dangerously close to shattering. The last thing he needed was interaction with the family. He forced his mind to go blank for a couple of hours until he left the secondary roads for the interstate heading north.
As soon as the cruise control engaged and the engine settled into an even hum, D. J. Peterson sobbed as if his soul had cracked in two.
“My mother-in-law made these biscuits for ‘special occasions’ and Piddie Davis Longman could come up with more reasons for a special occasion than you could imagine. The original recipe called for lard. I have modified this for modern tastes and use vegetable shortening instead. I make these every week. They are bestsellers.”
Joe Fletcher,
owner and chef,
Borrowed Thyme Bakery and Eatery
The Davis Family Sweet Potato Biscuits
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons white sugar
1 teaspoon salt
2 Tablespoons shortening
¾ cup mashed sweet potatoes, mixed with 1 Tablespoon of brown sugar and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon.
¼ cup milk
1 teaspoon cinnamon and 2 Tablespoons white sugar. Mixed together.
Preheat oven to 400º.
In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, baking powder, 2 teaspoons of sugar, and salt. Cut in the shortening until the pieces of shortening are the size of a pea, or smaller. Mix in the mashed sweet potatoes and milk to make a soft dough.
Turn out the dough onto a floured surface. Roll or pat out to a ½ inch thickness. Using a biscuit cutter or drinking glass, cut into circles. Place the biscuits 1 inch apart on a greased baking sheet. Dust the tops lightly with the cinnamon/sugar mixture.
Bake for 12 to 15 minutes until golden brown.
