The Calamity Café (11 page)

Naturally, my mind wandered as the man droned on. If Lou Lou was so devoted to Pete, why had he been afraid to tell her what was going on with his life? That he had a girlfriend, that he wanted to get married, that he wanted to buy a truck and go into business for himself? Granted, Lou Lou might not have agreed with all—or any—of Pete's decisions, but they were his choices to make. A forty-year-old man who was still frightened of his mother? What was up with that? Had he been afraid he'd hurt her feelings? Had he been scared she'd write him out of her will? Had he used Lou Lou as an excuse
to avoid growing up and having any responsibilities until life—or Chris Anne—had backed him against a wall?

I glanced over at Pete. He was staring at the floor between his shoes. Beside me, Chris Anne fanned herself with a tissue and patted Pete on the back. I merely hoped the service was almost
over.

A
fter the service, I met up with Mom, Aunt Bess, and Jackie in the lobby. I explained that I was going to come and sit with them but that Chris Anne had held on to me for dear life.

“That's all right,” said Mom. “We'll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

“What're you making?” Aunt Bess asked.

“We haven't decided yet, Granny,” said Jackie. “We'll get right on that.”

“See that you do.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sheriff Billings. He was looking straight at me. I nodded in lieu of a better greeting, and he nodded back.

Deputy Hall was behind the sheriff. “Ms. Flowers.”

“Deputy.”

It felt strange and uncomfortable addressing Ryan that way. Then again, it felt strange and uncomfortable to refer
to the deputy as “Ryan,” even in my own head. But there was some sort of spark between us. He knew it, and I knew it. And yet, I hadn't been ruled out as a suspect in Lou Lou's murder, so we'd better just dump a bucket of water on that spark and forget about it for the time being.

“Amy?”

Jackie's voice drew me out of my reverie.

“Want to meet at your place and decide what to make for lunch tomorrow?” she asked.

“Sounds good,” I said.

“I'll run home and change, and I'll see you in about forty-five minutes.”

I nodded, my eyes trailing Deputy Hall as he stepped out into the blinding sunlight.

“He
is
a handsome one,” Mom murmured in my ear.

“Who?”

She gave me the “oh, please” look, took Aunt Bess's arm, and left.

*   *   *

B
y the time Jackie had arrived, I had out the laptop and was looking at Aunt Bess's Pinterest board
Things I'd Love to Eat but Won't Fix
. I looked up at my cousin and shook my head.

“Aunt Bess
does
realize that there are food categories besides desserts, doesn't she?”

“I'm not so sure that she does. Have you made any decisions about what we're going to make?”

“I've narrowed it down. You can make the final choices.” I turned the laptop so Jackie could see the screen. “Oven-fried catfish, stuffed shells, or country ham with redeye gravy.”

“Let's go with the ham,” she said. “I figure the funeral has her in a nostalgic mood thinking of everybody from Winter Garden that she used to know. Maybe the ham and gravy will give her the warm fuzzies.”

“All right. We can make biscuits, grits, and maybe a bacon-cheddar quiche to go with it. What do you think?”

“Sounds good. And we can't forget that lemon pie.”

“That'll do it.” I smiled. “Unless she's changed her mind about the pie.”

Jackie took her phone from her purse, called Aunt Bess, and confirmed that she did want a lemon pie.

“Now that we have our menu, should we head to the grocery store?” I asked.

“In a minute. First I want you to tell me what the deal was with Chris Anne. She was practically glued to you at the funeral. It's not like you two are friends or anything.”

“We met up in the bathroom. I was having a fit of nerves, and she came in. She wasn't feeling well.”

“Why wasn't she feeling well?”

I looked away. Jackie wasn't only my cousin. Being a year older than me, she'd been my best friend all my life. “I promised I wouldn't say anything to anyone.”

“You know I won't tell anybody else.” She paused. “Wait . . . in the bathroom not feeling well. Oh my gosh! She's pregnant?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to. Does Pete know?”

“If Chris Anne has any special news to share with Pete, I imagine she'll talk with him about it sometime today. Maybe she hopes to cheer him up . . . if whatever she has to tell him is happy news.”

Jackie rolled her eyes. “Okay. Come off it. You didn't
tell me anything, so let's talk straight. Does she think Pete will be happy about her being pregnant?”

“She seemed to think so. And I hope he will be.”

“I hope so too. But with all his talk about getting his trucking business started and Chris Anne being his partner . . . he might've preferred to wait a little while before having a family.”

“That's true. I hadn't thought of that.”

“Well, let's make a list of the ingredients we'll need and get to the store. We don't have time to worry about Pete and Chris Anne right now,” she said.

*   *   *

T
o save us some time on Sunday, I'd gone ahead and made the lemon pie when I'd returned home from the store on Saturday. Now it was in a baker's box in the passenger seat of my car as I drove up to “the big house.” The house was close enough that I usually walked when I visited, but I couldn't have carried the pie and the groceries without inevitably dropping something, so today I drove.

Mom heard me coming and opened the door. “Need any help with the groceries?”

“No, but if you'll get this pie, I can bring in all the groceries in one trip.”

She took the pie, and I managed to stack the plastic bags onto my arms and muscle them into the kitchen.

I heard Aunt Bess hurrying into the kitchen like a little girl on Christmas morning. “What're we having?”

“Ham and redeye gravy, a bacon-and-cheddar quiche, biscuits, grits, and—by special request—a lemon pie.”

She licked her lips. “Um-mmmm!”

“Where's Jackie?” Mom asked.

“I haven't talked with her this morning, but she should be here soon. I'll get started on the biscuits.”

As I mixed up the ingredients for the biscuits, Mom and Aunt Bess sat down at the kitchen table to drink coffee and watch me work. I'd come by my culinary skills from Nana. Mom didn't like to cook. She did it when she had to, but she certainly didn't enjoy it. Same with Aunt Bess.

“That was a nice service yesterday,” Aunt Bess said.

“I thought it was kinda sad.” I mixed the dough with my hands. “The preacher didn't even know Lou Lou.”

“Course he didn't! How else were they gonna get him to say nice things about her?”

“Aunt Bess!” Mom scolded.

“Now, Jenna, the truth'll stand when the world's on fire.”

I hid my smile as I turned my dough out onto the floured board. “Were all of Lou Lou's people ornery, Aunt Bess?”

“Her daddy wasn't too awful bad. And he was nice-looking too. It was a shame Lou Lou and Pete turned out so homely.”

“So Lou Holman was a nice man?” I prompted.

“I don't know that I'd call him nice, but he wasn't as bad as his daddy and his uncle,” she said. “One time when I was young, I heard that Lou's daddy, Bo, and his uncle Grady had gone over to North Carolina and robbed a bank. That was along about the time that Lou was building the Joint.”

I froze, doughy hands in the air. “Did you just say that Lou Lou's granddaddy robbed a bank?”

“That's what I heard. It was over in Boone or
somewhere. But it might've just been a tale, honey. They weren't ever arrested, and I never heard tell of anybody finding the money they were supposed to have stolen. Maybe somebody just made it all up.”

I washed the dough off my hands and got the rolling pin. “Why would somebody make up a story like that?”

“Aw, you know how things get started. They didn't have television or Internet. Plus, Grady and Bo—Lou's daddy—were as crooked as a dog's hind leg and twice as dirty. It wasn't hard to imagine them going across the border, robbing a bank, and hightailing it back home.”

“Didn't the North Carolina police investigate the matter?” Mom asked.

“Of course, they did—at least, that's what I heard—but since they couldn't find the money and the men had worn masks while robbing the bank, the police couldn't prove the Holmans did any wrong.”

Jackie was breathless when she rushed into the kitchen. “Sorry I'm late. I overslept.”

“You've done missed out on a wild tale,” I said.

“And I ain't repeating it.” Aunt Bess gave a resolute nod.

Jackie merely rolled her eyes. “Granny tells lots of wild tales. What do you need me to do?”

“You can start frying the ham while I finish getting the biscuits ready to go into the oven.”

“I grew up hearing wild tales,” said Aunt Bess. “I'm just passing on the oral history of my people.”

Mom laughed. “Whether they're true or not isn't the point.”

Aunt Bess huffed. “Do you always believe what those people on television tell you? Or are they just telling you what they're paid to say?”

“Well, I think that depends,” said Mom. “If they're telling me to buy XYZ shampoo because it's the best thing on the market, I'm going to be suspicious. But if they're telling me someone's hair fell out after using XYZ shampoo, then I'm going to think twice before I use the stuff.”

“Either way, you're being swayed by the television. I was swayed by my parents, my grandparents, my aunts, and my uncles.”

Jackie and I shared a glance. Aunt Bess had a point. But I knew that those old tales handed down from generation to generation could also become like that old game of telephone, where one person whispers something into someone's ear who then whispers it to someone else and by the time the story gets back to the originator, there's seldom much resemblance to that initial report.

By the time we were finishing lunch, all thoughts of wild tales had been replaced by the yumminess of lemon pie.

“Your meringue is always so good, Amy,” said Mom.

“Yeah. Around here, nobody makes good meringue.” Aunt Bess cut her eyes toward Mom. “What's your secret?”

“Well, for a cream pie like this, I make a Swiss meringue rather than a common meringue,” I said.

“That's it, Jenna,” said Aunt Bess. “Amy's meringue is uncommon. She does it like they do in Switzerland.” Aunt Bess then nodded at me as if she, the Swiss, and I had it all figured out.

*   *   *

L
ater that afternoon, I was in the fancy room reading a small-business magazine when Roger dropped in. I took him to the kitchen. The fancy room wasn't Roger's
style, and I figured he'd want a glass of tea or a cup of coffee while we talked.

I was right. He wanted a cup of coffee and the last of the preacher cookies.

“I've got an idea.” He brought out his yellow legal pad. “What would you think of this? We do away with the office completely. In its place, we build a screened-in porch with picnic tables. Patrons could enjoy the space most of three seasons out of the year.” As he talked, he was drawing the café and how it would look with the screened-in side porch.

“I think that's a terrific idea! I love it.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I smiled. “You're a genius.”

“Oh, I
know
that. I just thought this way, you wouldn't have to go into Lou Lou's office again. We can completely demolish it and turn it into something new. And the something new adds value and an additional aesthetic to the café.”

“Brilliant. Thank you.”

“That's what you're paying me the big bucks for.” He popped the last bite of a preacher cookie into his mouth.

“Have you . . . have you looked at the office?”

He nodded, swallowed, and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “The cleaning crew spent hours in there yesterday. I went by before heading over here to make sure we won't have any trouble tearing out the office.”

“Wh-what does it look like?”

“You'd never know what happened in there. The place is spotless.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Here's the thing, though. You have to decide what you're going
to do with all the stuff still in that office. Do you want any of the furniture?”

“No. I don't want anything from that office. I don't need any reminders.”

“That's what I figured. But we need to do something with it. Does Pete want it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'll call him and ask him.”

“He really needs to sort through the documents to see if there's anything important there. But, if he doesn't, we can simply take them to the recycling center. I can call and see if Goodwill or the Salvation Army would take the furniture if Pete doesn't want it. Find out today, and let me know in the morning.”

“All right, I will. What time should we be there tomorrow?”

“Daylight,” said Roger. “If you want to reopen the café in a month, we're going to have to put in a lot of hours.”

“Fine by me. I'll bring sausage biscuits for everybody.”

“They'd appreciate that.” He finished off his coffee, stood, and patted my shoulder. “The Down South Café is going to be beautiful, Flowerpot.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

I
put off calling Pete for as long as I could. He'd only buried his mother yesterday, and now here I was calling to ask if he'd like to go through the things in her office. I knew he'd said earlier that he'd gotten what he'd needed from Lou Lou's office; but I thought that maybe after the finality of her death had set in, he'd reconsider.

I finally dialed the Holman home at around nine
o'clock that night. The phone rang three times, and I was getting ready to hang up when Pete answered.

“Hello.” His voice sounded flat and empty.

“Pete, hi. It's Amy. How are you?”

“I'm getting by. How are you?”

“I'm all right. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you something. As you know, I'm renovating the café. The builders are going to take out your momma's office.”

“Well, that's fine, Amy. Do whatever you want to do. It's yours now.”

“Um . . . thanks . . . but I thought you might want to go through the contents of the office,” I said. “You know . . . the furniture, the filing cabinet, the knickknacks . . . just to see if there's anything there you might want to save.”