“Nola Mae? Is that you?” The sound of my mama’s southern drawl cut through my thoughts. “Come on inside. We’re waitin’ supper for you.”
“Coming, Mama!” Inside I found my parents sitting at the table, three red-and-white-checked place mats already set with plates and silverware. In the center of the table rested a large platter of chicken fried steak, flanked on either side by a bowl of greens and a nearly overflowing gravy boat. Mama was pouring from a sweating pitcher of iced tea. I leaned in and gave Daddy a quick peck on the cheek, inhaling his familiar scent of spent cigars and perhaps a touch of Peach Jack whiskey, before settling into my spot. “Looks good, Mama.” Of course, if Mama made it, it was good. For as long as I could remember, people had been talking about my mother’s skill as a cook. In fact, it was her famous peach preserve recipe that inspired and made Peachy Keen the success it was today.
“How’d things go at the shop, hon?” she asked.
“Busy. I’m going to need to make a few more batches of preserves if I’m going to cover my online orders and the extra business in the shop. Chutney’s selling well, too.”
“It’s the cooler weather,” Mama commented. “Ladies are making more pork roasts. Y’all know how well peach chutney goes with pork.”
I nodded, casting a glance toward my father. “You’re quiet this evening, Daddy. Everything going okay?”
He grumbled, but didn’t bother looking up from his plate.
“Never mind him,” Mama said, reaching again for the tea pitcher and topping off her glass. “He’s had a bad day.”
I put down my fork. “What happened? Something with the orchards?”
“No, nothing like that,” Daddy said, pushing his own food around his plate. “A problem with Snyder’s.”
“Snyder’s Fruit Stand? I don’t understand. What’s going on?” The Snyders ran one of the largest produce stands in the county. A couple seasons back, Daddy negotiated a sweet deal with Jack Snyder—he gave Daddy a higher percent of profit than we’d normally get at other stands on all the bushels of fresh peaches we could provide. In exchange, the Snyders’ stand got the best of our crop. It was an exclusive deal and we were his only supplier, which meant a sure-thing market for our highest quality peaches, plus we didn’t have to pack and ship. Which saved even more money. Rumor had it that Jack hoped to open other stands in nearby counties as well, though so far it was just a rumor.
From across the table, Mama let out a long sigh. “Raymond, is it really necessary to talk business at the dinner table?”
Daddy waved her off. “Seems Clem Rogers stole the contract out from under our noses. Snyder said Clem offered a better deal—ten percent less retail than we’ve been getting. I’m not even sure how Clem can afford to do business that way.”
“I don’t either. Sounds like he deliberately undercut you.”
Daddy shoved his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Clem Rogers bears a grudge.”
“For what? What ever happened between the two of you anyway?” I asked.
Mama and Daddy exchanged a quick look, but offered no explanation. I sighed. For as long as I could remember there had been contention between Clem Rogers and my father. And most of it coming from Clem, in my opinion. Once, he cut off our water supply by diverting the small branch of the Ocmulgee River that ran through our property and provided our irrigation water. Thank goodness my brother, Ray, a local attorney, was able to talk some sense into the man, but not before some of our trees were damaged. Then there was the time Clem ousted Daddy for the coveted role of General Lee in the local Civil War reenactment. Didn’t think Daddy would ever survive that disappointment! He did so love to ride into battle on Traveller, the horse, and scream the rebel yell. Now this thing with Snyder’s Fruit Stand. Just one more of Clem’s dirty deeds.
“Did you try talking to Snyder again? To change his mind?” Mama was asking.
“Yes, but he wasn’t around by then. But I couldn’t let it rest, so I stopped in at Clem’s. Just got back from his place a while ago. We had a few words. None of them good, I’m afraid.”
She shook her head. “I just can’t figure that man. So bitter. And to think you’ve been supporting him in his race for mayor.”
Daddy shrugged. “Who should I support? Some city slicker with big ideas?”
“You’re not being very nice, Raymond,” Mama admonished. “Margie Price may not be from this area, but she’s a very nice woman. Why, I was just at her place yesterday for afternoon tea and it was quite pleasant.”
Daddy placed his elbows up on the table and waved his fork as he spoke. “All I’m saying, Della, is that Clem’s a farmer, like us. We want someone in office who’ll protect farmers’ interests. I don’t think your friend Margie is the best man . . . woman for the job.”
“Yeah, but what about our interests?” I wanted to know. “Clem’s definitely not supporting us. Sounds like he wants to put us out of business.”
“It’s just one small fraction of our distribution list, Nola. It’s not like it’s going to hurt us all that much. Besides, there’s other fresh fruit markets out there. I’ll get another deal going with one of them.” He sighed and started pushing his chair back from the table.
“Where are you going?” Mama demanded. “Sit back down and eat something.” She glanced over our plates. “Both of you need to eat. All this good food’s going to waste.”
Daddy stood and looked back. “Sorry, dear. ’Fraid I don’t have much of an appetite right now. I’m going to look over some paperwork in my den for a while. Call me when it’s time to leave for the meeting.” I watched as he retreated to the safe haven of his den—a place where he stored his worries, right along with a full box of cigars and a bottle of Peach Jack. I imagined he was going in there now to relieve some of this latest stress with a quick tip of a shot glass.
I turned back to my own plate, speared a piece of meat and slid it through a smudge of gravy before popping it into my mouth. Guess we all have our special ways to mollify stress. Daddy’s was partaking in liberations, while I preferred to drown my worries with gravy, grits or any other southern delish Mama cooked up. “The gravy is perfect tonight, Mama. And there’s a little kick to the chicken fried steak. Did you do something different?”
She smiled with pleasure at the compliment. “Added a little Cajun spice to the flour.”
“Well, I love it.” I was about to spear another piece when we heard the sound of sirens coming down the road.
“What in the . . .” Mama popped out of her seat and ran out to the porch. I followed on her heels, the screen door slapping shut behind us. “Sounds like fire trucks,” she said, scanning the horizon. We couldn’t see the main road from our house, so there was no telling which direction the trucks were heading. “I don’t see any smoke, do you?”
The screen door screeched open again as Daddy joined us. “See anything?”
The early-evening sun was quickly setting, making it difficult to see much of anything. “No,” I answered, still searching. Then I spotted it. A small plume of black smoke rising above the peach orchards. “There! I see it,” I cried, pointing north.
For a few seconds, we all stood frozen, staring at the cloud of smoke in silence, before Daddy jumped into action. “Looks like it’s coming from Clem Rogers’s land. Come on, let’s go.”
I held on tight as our farm truck roared down the gravel drive and turned out onto the main road, dust and pebbles flying out from under the wheels. “You don’t suppose it’s Clem’s house, do you?” Mama asked, her brows furrowed with worry. The Rogers had settled in this area even before the Harpers, and their home, built in the early 1800s, had survived the Civil War. “What a shame if that beautiful, old home caught fire.”
“Let’s just hope no one’s hurt,” Daddy said, taking a wild turn off the main road onto the country lane that ran between our proper
ties.
“Maybe he’s just burning off some old wood scraps, cleaning up the place,” I said, hopefully. But as we neared Clem’s land, those hopes were dashed by the bright red and orange flames licking the air like a hungry lizard. Thankfully, they weren’t coming from Clem’s house, but his barn.
Mama’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no! What a shame. Looks like the whole barn will be lost.”
We got out of the truck and squinted through the smoky air. I watched the water from the firefighters’ hoses as it arched across the sky in a seemingly futile effort to quell the angry flames engulfing the structure. Next to me, Mama was pointing and saying something, but her soft voice was drowned out by the popping and crackling of burning wood and the roar of the oxygen-hungry fire. Not that it mattered. Because the only thing I could hear were the words playing over and over in my own mind. The very words I’d heard one of the Crawford sisters say earlier that day when she referred to tonight’s debate—a real barn burner.
Chapter 2
Southern Girl Secret #060: There are only two reasons someone new comes into your life: They’re either gonna be a blessin’ or a lesson.
“Where’s Clem?” I asked, my eyes wandering to the front of the house, where Clem’s truck was parked next to the small crowd of onlookers who were starting to gather in the front yard. The local law, Sheriff Maudy Payne and her deputy, Travis Hines, were busy keeping the order. Frances Simms was also there, buzzing around, snapping pictures and interviewing bystanders. My eyes darted back to the parked truck, but I didn’t see Clem anywhere, and a horrible thought occurred. “Clem’s truck is here. You don’t suppose—”
“Naw,” Daddy said. “When I left him this afternoon, he said he was heading into town. He wanted to get to the courthouse early to check on things before the big meeting.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good. He must have taken his car.” Like most farmers in the area, Clem drove a half-ton, four-wheel-drive pickup truck. But he’d also recently purchased some type of fancy new car. Not that I’d seen him driving it. But I’d heard enough talk around town to know it was something expensive. Really expensive. That’s the thing about Cays Mill. Stuff like that gets noticed. Heck, just a couple months ago, Mama had a new couch delivered from the furniture store over in Perry. Before the delivery guys could even plunk it in the front room, there was a knock on the door. It was Betty Lou Nix from the church. Just passing by, of course. Mama, who’s ever so house proud and never put off by unexpected visitors, kindly invited her in and served her iced tea right there in the front room on her new davenport. By that very afternoon, word was out that the Harpers had bought a new piece of furniture. As crazy as it sounds, that new couch of ours quickly became talk of the town.
“I’m sure that’s it,” Mama said. “He probably wanted to impress everyone with that new car of his.” She turned her palm up and glanced at the watch she always wore turned to the inside of her wrist. “It’s already close to six. Poor man. He probably has no idea that he’s even lost his barn. At least we know he doesn’t have any animals that might be trapped inside.”
Next to her, Daddy and I nodded. That was true. Clem had never kept animals—not even an old barn cat to keep him company. Which was kind of odd, considering most of the farms I knew included a cat or two, a dog or even a few chickens. Suddenly, the sound of spitting gravel caused us to look over our shoulders. A shiny new black sedan was speeding down the drive. “There’s Clem now,” my father said, but stopped short when the car screeched to a halt and a young woman jumped out and started running for the house.
“That’s not Clem,” Mama said. “It’s his niece, Tessa.” We watched as a young man climbed out of the passenger side of the car and ran into the house after the girl. Mama stood a little straighter. “Something’s wrong. Come with me, Nola.”
We started across the yard, but just as we were about to reach the house, the young couple came outside, wide-eyed and frantic looking. “What is it, Tessa?” Mama asked as soon as we reached their side. “Where’s your uncle?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Harper. He’s not in the house.” Her lips trembled as she wrapped her arms around her midsection, her eyes wandering toward the burning barn. I followed her gaze, noticing the firemen had abandoned their efforts and turned off the hoses. A couple of loud popping noises sounded as pieces of the roof fell to the ground, sending bursts of red embers high into the air.
“He never showed up at the courthouse,” the young man said.
“And we were expecting him over an hour ago,” Tessa added.
We were still trying to digest this bit of news when Daddy caught up to us. “What’s going on? Where’s Clem?”
Mama reached over and grasped his arm. Her voice, barely a whisper, was hard to hear over the crackling of the fire. “No one knows. He’s not in the house. And these kids are saying that he didn’t show up at the courthouse, either.”
I could see the muscles in Daddy’s jaw stiffen. He looked directly at the young girl. “He didn’t show up for the meeting?”
She shook her head and swallowed hard; a small tear escaped the edge of her eye before she broke into a full sob. The young man stepped forward and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder as we turned our gazes toward the fire just as the last bit of roof gave way. With one final whoosh, the whole structure collapsed.
* * *
“I’m telling ya, Ginny, it was horrible. Just horrible.” I shook my head, my cold hands tightening around a steaming mug of morning coffee. Though the chill I felt had nothing to do with the cooler November weather and everything to do with the turmoil I felt inside. “It’s the not knowing that’s so difficult,” I told her. It was late and well after dark by the time the fire chief declared the burned-out barn safe enough for a search. But the lack of light, and lingering smoke and ash, made the search nearly impossible. Sometime around midnight, the chief sent the men home with orders to continue at daybreak.
“At least they didn’t find him last night. That’s a positive sign, right?” Ginny remarked as she hovered nearby, wiping invisible stains from the counter. “Maybe Clem wasn’t even in the barn,” she said, tossing aside her rag and reaching under the counter for another coffee mug. “Could be that there’s some other explanation for his disappearance.” She filled her cup with black coffee and tipped the pot my way.
“No, thanks,” I muttered, briefly moving my hand over the cup’s rim. I continued, “It just seems strange that he didn’t show up for the town hall meeting last night.”
Ginny pulled a couple packets of sugar out of her pocket and emptied them into her coffee. “It is strange. Especially since that town meeting was all he talked about yesterday.”
“He was in here yesterday?”
She stirred and nodded. “Yeah. Came in for coffee yesterday morning. Sat right over there with that bunch.” She thumbed toward a couple tables in the back of the diner where a group of older fellows sat, their heads bent in conversation. Speculating about Clem, I supposed. Ginny continued, “They’re local farmers. Come in nearly every mornin’ in the off season.” She leaned in and whispered, “Moochers is what they are. They take up two of my best tables and all they ever order is coffee.”
As if on cue, one of them held his mug up in the air. “Can we get some refills over here, Ginny?”
“In a minute, fellas. I’m takin’ a break. Anyway,” she continued, still leaning forward, “Clem’s been a regular lately. Trying to earn votes, probably. Yesterday he was really on fire about something. Had the boys all riled up. Supposedly he found out something about Margie. Something that was going to sway votes. He planned to bring it up during their debate.”
“Do you know what it was?” I’d already heard the same thing from the Crawford sisters the day before, but I was wondering if Ginny might have heard something more.
“Nope.” She shook her head, red curls bounc
ing off her full cheeks. “He wouldn’t say anything more. It was like he wanted to build up suspense. It worked, too. Half the town was talkin’ about it all afternoon.”
“How much longer ya gonna be on break, Ginny?” one of the guys yelled out as he tipped his cup upside down. “We’re dry as dust over here.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Ginny muttered under her breath, snatching the pot from under the coffeemaker and stomping over to their table. “Here y’all go. Help yourselves, why don’t you?” she said, plopping the pot down in the middle of the table. A little sloshed out the spout, but she didn’t bother to wipe it up.
As she started back to the counter, the diner door opened and a middle-aged man wearing a nylon jogging suit and white sneakers walked into the diner. First thing I noticed about him was his wavy, dark hair. Unlike some men his age, he had a lot of it. A lot. But its fullness served to balance his strong jaw and wide shoulders. “Well, hello there, Mr. Whitaker,” Ginny beamed.
“John, please,” he said, heading for one of the booths along the far side of the diner.
“Certainly . . . uh, John.” Ginny’s cheeks brightened. “You’re not eating breakfast at the inn this morning?” she asked, patting down the back of her hair.
The man settled into the booth and cleared his throat. “Afraid not. Ms. Price is busy this morning.”
“Oh, I see.” She removed an order pad from her apron and snatched the ballpoint pen from behind her ear. “Well, what can I get for you?”
“Hey, why’s he getting special treatment?” one of the guys ribbed.
Ginny shot him a murderous look. “Hush up, Randy.” Turning back to John, she smiled. “We’re runnin’ a breakfast special this mornin’: two eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and coffee. Grits, too, of course.”
War and Peach Page 2
