A Taste of Dixie

by Suzanne D. Williams

  She looked toward Pastor Harris. Her place was cluttered, mostly with books. Stacks sat on every available surface, from a pair of end tables on either side of the couch, to a coffee table, and a bookshelf. The furniture was older and well used, but clean. A large Oriental rug stretched across the wooden floors.

  “You’re out late,” Pastor Harris said.

  Harlowe’s hesitation flamed Lottie’s cheeks. It was her fault they’d gotten into this mess ... and all because she was afraid of a mouse.

  “Lottie and I were out for a late dinner,” Harlowe replied. “Mom wanted time alone, I think.”

  She moved her gaze to his. Gratitude washed over her. He’d avoided the truth and her possible embarrassment. She shouldn’t be surprised.

  “Your mom is a great lady ... perceptive.”

  A strange answer, meaning what? Then again, two plus two equals four, and here was a handsome bachelor spending day and night with a young female.

  Pastor Harris changed the subject, or appeared to. “Far be it for me to take the place of dinner for two. But if you haven’t eaten, I have an enormous pot of chili prepared. I’m glad for the company and can run you home afterward. You can see to your truck in the morning.”

  “We wouldn’t want to get in the way,” Lottie said.

  “Nonsense.” Pastor Harris’s eyes lit on Lottie’s again. “God guided your footsteps to my door ... even if it was only to provide me with a little conversation.”

  “Then let me help you set the table ... something.”

  But Pastor Harris shook her head. “You’re my guests.” She turned her back. “Make yourself comfortable while I take care of things.”

  She moved from the room, and, at her exit, Harlowe stepped close. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Don’t be. You couldn’t control the deer ... and it’s fortunate we were nearby. It’s so cold! I can’t imagine walking further.” She paused. “I guess I’ll get used to it.”

  Harlowe apparently interpreted that the way she’d intended.

  “You sure you want to hang around?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “It’s only going to get colder.”

  Having decided to stay while headed in this direction, his question raised her doubts. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Harlowe’s gaze reflected hers. Pastor Harris didn’t give him a chance to respond.

  “Food’s ready.” She ambled back in the room. “Follow me ... and I apologize that I don’t have a larger table. We’ll be cozy, but that’ll make for better conversation.”

  They exited the living room and followed a short hallway into a kitchen-dining area. It was quaint and exactly what you’d expect to find from a woman living alone in Montana. Golden wood cabinets wrapped around two walls with older appliances, circa the 1990s. There were more books and a collection of pottery on display.

  “Sit, I’ll fill you a bowl.” Pastor Harris moved to the stove, lowering a ladle into an enormous cookpot.

  Harlowe pulled out her chair, and Lottie took a seat. But gripping the seat back, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath spreading down her neck.

  “Stay,” he said. He straightened and pulled out a chair opposite her.

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  Pastor Harris returned with a filled bowl in either hand. “I don’t expect you to crow about my cooking abilities, but I like to think it’s tasty.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Lottie replied, her gaze never leaving Harlowe’s face.

  CHAPTER 5

  Pastor Harris pushed her empty bowl aside and leaned back in her chair, the rolled sleeves of her shirt, riding up to her elbows. She’d braided her hair, the end dangling over one shoulder. “You sure you’re full?”

  Harlowe shoved his own bowl forward. “Yes, and it was great. Thank you so much.”

  “Stuffed,” Lottie said. She blotted her lips with a paper napkin.

  He stared, as he’d been doing a lot since she’d arrived, but this time, noticed little details: the way her hair curled at the temples, the trio of freckles at the base of her nose, the peculiar way she tipped her chin when she was thinking. Thinking about what? Him asking her to stay? It hadn’t occurred to him she’d need to know the answer until she’d framed the question. She’d come here to escape whatever happened at home, and his only thought had been that she needed time to decide. Then she’d said she couldn’t possibly return, a statement that should have awakened him. Yet, it hadn’t. He hadn’t thought once about her needing acceptance.

  “I was thinking about your dad, Hoyle ...” Pastor Harris began.

  The sorrow that his remembrance always gave Lottie fitted on her face once more. He understood that; he missed his dad every day, and she clearly struggled with the loss of hers.

  “A good memory,” Pastor Harris reassured her. “The last time I saw him, he couldn’t talk about his daughter enough. ‘My Lottie’ this. ‘My Lottie’ that. I could see how proud he was of you.”

  A thought that was meant to reassure her, instead, from the look on Lottie’s face, brought pain. Pastor Harris noticed. She leaned forward, laying her hand atop Lottie’s arm. “Nothing changes how much he loved you.”

  Lottie didn’t reply, though Harlowe thought that remark helped.

  “My dad always told me the hardest person to forgive is yourself,” he said.

  Pastor Harris looked up, and a slow smile spread. “Your dad was a rare gem. Would that we had more men like him ... faithful, honorable ...”

  He heard the hitch in Lottie’s breathing, and, impulsive, Harlowe stood. “Why don’t we go to the living room? We could play checkers.”

  Pastor Harris pushed to her feet. “That’s a good idea. I’ll clean up this mess ... and if you want to call your mom and let her know what happened, the phone is on the table.”

  Harlowe nodded and nudged Lottie to her feet, steering her from the kitchen and across the hall. He wrapped her to him inside the doorway. “I’m sorry ... but you know, no one’s judging you.”

  “I’m judging myself,” she replied. “One minute, I forget about it, and the next it comes rushing back ... and she’s a pastor, for goodness sake! What is a girl like me doing here?”

  “Hey ...” Harlowe pushed to an arm’s length. He cupped her chin and raised it. “Don’t do that. I like you ... a lot. I asked you to stay, and I meant it. I wasn’t simply being nice. I was being male.”

  A jittery laugh escaped, and she fell against him. “Be yourself ... The man your dad is proud of.”

  His eyes burned with unshed tears. “That goes both directions,” he replied. “Once you figure that out, the other incident won’t bother you anymore.”

  She said nothing, but turning his gaze, Harlowe spotted Pastor Harris’s shadow in the hall.

  “How’d you know she was so good at checkers?” Lottie sat back, hands raised. “I can’t win.”

  Harlowe chuckled, a rich sound that curled tight around her in a perfect embrace. Pastor Harris set about putting the checkerboard up, sweeping the pieces into a box.

  She paused and looked up. “We’ve played before, church functions and the like.”

  Of course, and she should have considered it. A yawn stretched Lottie’s lips wide.

  “It’s late,” Pastor Harris said. “Why don’t you take my truck? I can call Timmy and have the tow here in the morning. Return it to me then.”

  Lottie shot Harlowe a querulous look.

  “Timmy owns the only tow truck in town, and Pastor Harris knows the home number of almost everyone in the community,” he explained.

  Again, she should have thought of that and nodded, chagrined.

  Harlowe’s eyes met Pastor Harris’s again. “If you’re sure?”

  The older woman nodded. “Positive. No need for me to crowd the truck.” She stood. “Let me find my keys.”

  Seated in the cab, her breaths blowing frosty air, Lottie wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed. Harlowe turned on the heat, and they sa
t while the engine warmed; then, after a glance at her, he shifted into reverse. Nothing was said on the way home. He slowed briefly when passing his truck.

  His mom met them at the door.

  “I have good news,” she said. “I caught the mouse, so they’ll be no more trouble over that.”

  Meaning what? Was that a remonstrance or reassurance? Lottie released the thought. She was glad the mouse was disposed of, regardless.

  Mrs. Chapmen looked from one to the other. “I suggest we all turn in and get some shut eye.”

  Again, that sounded like it held dual meanings, but neither she nor Harlowe protested. He mumbled a few words about returning Pastor Harris’s truck in the morning, and they parted in the hall.

  She fell asleep quickly and awoke to sunlight and noises from the kitchen. After a brief stop in the restroom, she padded across the house and found Mrs. Chapman pouring batter into a heated skillet.

  The older woman glanced over her shoulder. “Good morning. Making us some flapjacks.”

  “Morning. That sounds good.”

  She seated herself, leaning back, and let time and hunger make her more alert. Mrs. Chapman flipped the fluffy pancakes into a plate, one after another, toting them to the table with butter and a pot of maple syrup.

  “Harlowe’s out?” Lottie asked.

  His mom sat, her breaths escaping in a puff. “Since before dawn.”

  She slid her an empty plate and gathered another beneath her nose. “Help yourself.”

  Lottie placed two pancakes on her plate, slathering them with butter. Mrs. Chapman followed suit. She drizzled the syrup on top, but paused before taking a bite. “Guess you had a good evening.”

  Last night’s unplanned visit with Pastor Harris unfolded in Lottie’s thoughts, the good parts tempering the uncertain ones.

  “She’s very nice ... and the chili was good. I couldn’t beat her at checkers though.”

  Mrs. Chapman laughed and forked a bite of her breakfast to her lips. Lottie took one as well.

  “No, I expect you couldn’t. She competed in checkers championships in her youth.”

  “Really?”

  Mrs. Chapman nodded. “Matilda and I go way back ... back before I met Harlowe’s father.”

  At mention of Mr. Chapman, Lottie set her fork down, and the older woman reached out and patted the back of her hand. “The loss never goes away, but breathing gets easier.”

  She’d learned that, yet still it’d brought her here, in part. This thought must’ve also reached Mrs. Chapman. Harlowe’s mother took another bite, and the quiet of the house hummed loud.

  “I’m not one to pry,” she said, after a time, “but I suspect you’ve told Harlowe some about what happened. He’s like his dad; he will never tell a soul. Many times, his father would say so-and-so shared something personal with him. He’d never breathe a word of it to me, but I used to ask him why so many people felt obligated to talk like that. I think, though, looking back, it was the grace he gave. He wouldn’t judge them for their mistakes, however big or small.”

  Harlowe hadn’t judged her. Was it out of grace? Or, as he’d joked, was there more to it than that? Did he feel something for her? She’d thought he did, but what if he was simply being like his father?

  “He’s been kind,” she replied, taking another bite.

  Mrs. Chapman chewed her breakfast, and a minute passed. But it seemed awkward, and Lottie searched for the strength to ease things somehow.

  “I messed up big,” she blurted.

  Mrs. Chapman wiped her lips and lowered her hands to the table.

  “And running away didn’t help ... I mean, it did ... in-in a way. It’s safe here. But the rest of it, the shame tagged along. I’m embarrassed by how I behaved, embarrassed I brought it all to you.”

  “We are able to overlook it,” Mrs. Chapman replied. She took a breath. “The girl I see is the same one your father bragged about, no different. You don’t think he saw your flaws? I see Harlowe’s aplenty. I mean, I love my son, but he isn’t perfect. For one thing, he’s been single too long. I know this lifestyle lends itself to that, but I thought by now I’d have grandchildren.”

  She gave a huff, and Lottie heard her own shallow laugh leak out.

  “He’s too reserved,” Mrs. Chapman added. “Many times, I have urged him to introduce himself to a woman, but he held back ... and they don’t tend to stay here long.”

  “I like him that way,” Lottie replied.

  Mrs. Chapman smiled. An instant later, her expression softened. “Point is, your dad forgave you when you threw a tantrum or rebelled because his love for you was so much greater. He understood what that kind of love that is ...” She leaned forward and flattened her palm in the center of Lottie’s chest. “That it came from right here, in his heart, where it mattered. I imagine you’ve sat in church, you’ve heard the sermons, but the greatest understanding of love happens when you most need it. It meets you right where you’re at. You could have known that in Atlanta, but I’m glad you’ve learned it with us.”

  For Harlowe’s sake. Lottie’s throat tightened. She poked at her food and forced a bite down. Running away was wrong, but it’d brought her close to something much greater.

  “He’s in the barn,” Mrs. Chapman said.

  Lottie sat up taller. “He ... he is? I thought he’d gone to get the truck.”

  She smiled. “He did that hours ago.” She jerked her chin toward the door. “Go.”

  Unashamed of her exuberance, Lottie leapt to her feet. She glanced down at the messy table and the remains of her food. “I promise to help with supper.”

  Mrs. Chapman chuckled and flapped one hand at her. Without waiting another second, Lottie retrieved her coat and boots, hastily put on both, and ran out the door.

  Harlowe patted the side of the cow, and the animal shifted over. Her calf, now about four months old, skittered out from behind. Another cow, standing feet away, released a nervous moo. Contentment washed through him.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  Lottie’s voice brought his head up and a smile to his face. His heart thumped hard. “Nothing. But I was thinking he should be moved into the other field. He needs to assert some independence and stop clinging to mama’s skirts.”

  Her responding giggle, stretched his smile that much wider. “What? You can’t picture a cow in a dress?” Turning his footsteps, he ambled toward the fence. “Seeing you is like kissing the wind.”

  At the word “kissing”, Lottie’s cheeks colored. He wasn’t sure if that was embarrassment or guilt, though. She’d kissed whoever she’d had the affair with ... if you could even call it that. She’d said she hadn’t slept with the guy, and he had to trust her, though thinking of her with another man made him ten shades hotter. Why? He didn’t know who it was, would never know who, and she’d left the guy behind. If only that stopped him from reacting.

  He dusted the tip of one finger down her nose. “You want to come in?”

  Her gaze widened. “With the cows?”

  “You were in with the cows before.”

  She seemed to think about that, and he pointed up. “Climb over,” he said. “I’ll get you.”

  Fitting one boot on the bottom slat, she grasped the top rail and worked her way up. She swung one leg over, and Harlowe stretched for her, grasping her waist and lifting her to the ground. He didn’t let go.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  They stood in place, for a moment, then she looked past him at the cows.

  “They’re bigger than I expected ... you know, on foot. And smellier.”

  He laughed and took her hand, leading her deeper into the field. The animals parted, kicking up clods of mud. A shaft of winter sunlight dappled the ground up ahead.

  “I never knew there was more to caring for cows than seeing they got fed.”

  “And that’s a job in itself. In the winter, it means tossing out lots of hay, especially after the snows hit. But I
have to see to their overall health as well. Cows get sick like people. I make sure they’re warm enough, keep track of their numbers, watch for predators. There are bears and mountain lions to consider. Wolves.”

  She shivered, her other hand rising to grasp his arm.

  “In the warmer months, there’s less done feed-wise, but more work moving them around. And, of course, the roundup. Cows are money.”

  “You know a lot about cows.”

  He laughed and turned his steps in a certain direction. “I want to show you something.”

  Leaving the cows behind, they struck out toward the tree line. He ducked between the branches, circling one large pine. He grasped her shoulders and angled her toward the trunk.

  “What are those marks?”

  “Well, here’s where I spin a story about cowboys and Indians.”

  Lottie twisted her face upward.

  Harlowe grinned. “Not true. But I used to come out here and pretend a lot. They’re actually my height when I was ten, twelve, and fifteen.” He pointed to each. “My dad carved them.”

  Stretching one finger out, she ran it over the indentations. “What would you tell that boy if you could?”

  He tilted his gaze. “To treasure each moment he had because nothing’s forever, and that works both ways. To forget the bad times because they’re temporary.”

  “Are they?”

  He looked down at her, and she looked up again.

  “Things only stay bad if you think of them that way. My dad died, and I miss him. But he gave me so much, and I’ll get to see him again one day in a better place. I have my mom. I have you.”

  She folded her lip between her teeth and turned in place. He lowered his head, drawing close to hers. The urge to kiss her choked him. He swallowed it, seeing hesitancy in her. He never wanted her to think of him like she thought of the other guy.

  “There’s one thing I really want to do,” he said, his voice deep. “But a small voice inside says you’re not ready. Besides, I think we ought to know who we are first.”