Southern Fried Sushi, page 32
“Lowell Armstrong from Titanic Farm & Real Estate. How’s the house coming, Shiloh?” I detected a note of sarcasm.
My hand quivered on the receiver. One of those astonishing, rare moments when everything in the universe lines up exactly right. If I tried, I couldn’t make this happen.
And now, for my moment in the spotlight. “Lowell, the house is ready.”
A surprised pause. “What do you mean ready? Wallpaper down, walls painted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carpet taken up, hardwood floors polished?”
“Yes.”
I heard him banging and shuffling through papers, obviously not expecting to get so far with me. He was hunting for the list. “Really? How about the … uh … leaky bathroom faucet?”
“The plumber’s coming in fifteen minutes.”
Silence.
“Well,” Lowell finally said. “Wonderful! So are you ready to put it on the market?”
“Absolutely.” I grinned at Faye. “You can start listing it anytime.”
“Good, because I have some folks who might be interested in a little place just like yours. Are you ready to show?”
“Just name the day.”
Lowell’s voice sparked with excitement. “Great, Shiloh! I’ll come over tonight and put our Titanic Farm & Real Estate sign in your front yard.”
I hung up the phone then screamed and hugged Faye. And we jumped up and down in that beautiful kitchen like two giddy high schoolers.
Chapter 40
So what happened next?” asked Jamie, gripping her tray in excitement. We dodged busboys in the busy Green Tree kitchen, waiting for two orders of roasted red pepper soup. Trinity Jackson, a tall African-American waitress, crowded next to us, listening in.
“Remember when Earl fixed my faucet and had hot cocoa with Faye and me? Well, the next Sunday evening he came by again to check the faucet. When she was there for our weekly cook-fest.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially.
“Did he know she was coming?”
“I mentioned it.” I scooted plates around on my tray to make room for the soup. “I thought it was a coincidence, but last Saturday he stopped by again.”
“When Faye was there?”
“Yep. I think he saw her car.”
Trinity bent close, trying to hear over the dishes and pans banging and the hiss of steaming pots. “You think he’s … you know, sweet on her?”
“I don’t know, but I think so.”
“Talkin’ about me again?” asked Blake loudly, smacking Trinity with his notepad. “The answer is yes.”
“No!” She smacked him back. “Not now, not ever!” But her dimples curved into a grin.
“Aw, Trinity,” he sighed, grabbing a handful of silverware and grinning, his pale blond face gleaming like a chubby moon behind glasses. “I love older women. You know that.”
“I don’t know a thing except you’re my nephew’s age,” she retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go find a freshman?”
“Never, Trinity,” he quipped, pretending to look rapturous and offering her a silverware bouquet. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending. I didn’t know. “You know I’ll always love you.”
“Get out of here!” I snapped. “We’re trying to talk!”
“Men.” Trinity laughed and rolled her eyes. She’d done some modeling, and at twenty-six was a knockout. Slim and dark-lashed with impeccable makeup. “Isn’t Blake like nineteen?” she whispered.
“I think so,” Jamie whispered back. “But you have to give him points for effort, right?”
Trinity rolled her eyes. “I guess. He’s a nice kid.”
“Faye’s older than Earl by a couple years,” I said smugly. “Doesn’t seem to deter him any.”
I grabbed the bowl of soup from Flash and gave him a thumbs-up. Gratefully accepted a couple of hot sweet-potato fries.
“Ha. Blake is Blake. I don’t care how old he is.” Trinity shoved off the counter and went to grab a pitcher of ice water. “So tell me about your lovebird friends.”
“Well, they’re not lovebirds yet. But every time I visit Earl, he’s always listening to Bible Today. That radio program with the sermons.”
“You’re kidding!” Jamie arranged salad plates carefully on her tray. “Faye loves that one, doesn’t she?”
“Exactly.” I wagged my eyebrows.
Trinity’s amber eyes sparkled. “So are you gonna set them up? I love mushy stuff. Come on, Shiloh! Let’s plan.”
I cupped the second bowl of soup from Flash and carefully set it on Jamie’s tray. “Give me some ideas then. Becky thinks we should move fast because there’s an older guy at church who’s been asking about her.”
Trinity’s face clouded. “How is Becky? She hasn’t been here in a while.”
“Not a hundred percent, but better.” I’d spent all the time I could with Becky, taking her out for ice cream and shopping. I convinced her to buy a smashing pink dress that matched her pale skin. And, of course, to get her highlights and hair done again at Crystal.
After seeing the new Becky, Tim already didn’t mind shelling out a few bucks—and I helped with the clothes. She was smiling again. I know she still hurt, but as she told me, life went on.
After I told Jerry about the newly painted kitchen, he’d given Tim and Becky dessert on the house. Even he seemed a little protective of me after what happened in Winchester. He didn’t take flak from his employees, or excuses, but he also played Papa Bear—making sure people treated us right. I liked being in his good graces.
I was still thinking about Becky when the last customer paid, and I slumped, bleary-eyed, into an empty booth to pick up stray napkins the busboy had missed.
“So you sold your house?” Trinity looked up from the booth where she was rolling silverware in cloth napkins.
Waitresses never really stop conversations. We just spread them out over several long, interrupted, noisy hours. Or occasionally, days.
But this time her words made no sense. “Huh?”
“You said there was a couple scheduled to look at your house. After your … uh … fiasco.” She gestured to my side with a fork, and I cringed. I still popped an Advil every now and then, but the swelling had gone down, and most of the time I barely felt it.
“Oh, them.” I sighed, wiping a sticky hand through mynormally obedient bangs, which straggled down into my face. “They didn’t make an offer.”
“No?” Her hand paused on the silverware. “Bad news then, huh?”
I picked at my nails, which used to shine like satin, always polished. Now I clipped them short from repeated washings and harsh chemicals. “Another hope deferred.”
Trinity wrinkled her nose. “You reading the Bible? You sound like Jamie. Or my grandma.” She rolled her eyes.
“Actually, yeah, I am. But it hasn’t sold my house yet.”
I shouldn’t have said that. It made the Bible sound like another omamori good-luck charm, when in reality it turned me on my head. Stunned me. Defied me. Half the time I wanted to chuck the whole thing out the window and read cereal boxes instead, but something glorious and wonderful stopped me.
Jesus and His crazy disciples made me alternately doubt my sanity and cry for joy. Sort of like Southerners—but without mullets and gun racks.
“You’ll sell your house.” Trinity reached out a warm hand, rings sparkling. “Hang in there. The right person will be ready soon.”
Yeah, and Chicago Tribune will recant its rejection, Carlos will apologize, and people will actually leave tips instead of change.
And possums will fly.
I squeezed Trinity’s hand and stacked the tray with dirty dishes. Yep. That’s what I got these days. People’s leftovers. Cold and crusted to the sides of sticky bowls.
I clanked everything together when Dawn tapped my shoulder, startling me.
“There’s a guy here for you.”
“What?” I lowered my tray. “For me? It’s almost nine! We’re getting ready to close.”
Trinity half rose in her seat. “Maybe it’s that cop who comes
by sometimes? He’s hot, Shiloh!”
“Nope. Not Shane.” Dawn shook her head.
“Well, come on—is he cute?” Trinity whispered impatiently, and Dawn blushed. Glanced around the corner and shrugged.
“I don’t know. Normal.”
Trinity peeked. “Hmm. Kinda,” she said, showing her dimples. “But not my type.”
“It’s not Tim? Or Tim Senior?”
After the Winchester incident, Tim Senior and Jeanette became my new best friends. Or patrons, I should say. Jeanette dropped off tons of homemade pound cake and banana pudding, and Tim Senior installed brand-new locks on my door. He checked my car and put in new brakes, all without taking a cent.
“Nope, neither of the Tims. I’ve never seen him before.”
“All right. Hold on.” I tossed my damp cloth onto the tray. “What is your type, anyway, Trinity? Short blonds who love older women?”
“Get outta here.” She sized me up. “Latinos. It’s what I tell Blake, anyway.”
“Ha. I’ve got one for you back in Japan. He’s probably free now, too.”
I hurried between the tables with my dirty tray, practically running smack into Adam Carter, sans baseball cap.
“Adam?” I was a mess—hair straggly, clothes smelling like coffee and fry oil. A two-year-old had sprayed mustard on my once-white apron.
“Hey, Shiloh. Sorry to bother you,” he said, looking anxious. “If this isn’t a good time, I …”
“No, it’s fine. We’re closed, but Jerry’ll keep it open for you.”
“No, I’m not here to eat, although the place looks nice. I need an emergency favor.”
“Sure.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Anything.” After what he and Tim did for me, I’d scrub their tennis shoes if they asked.
“My dad sort of … uh … fell off the roof, and Mom’s out of town. I need somebody to stay with Rick while I take Dad to the emergency room.”
Forget possums flying. “What?” I squealed.
“I know, it’s crazy.” Adam chuckled. “Dad wanted to fix something up there, even though we told him to call a repairman. But he’s stubborn and, well, looks like he broke his arm. We didn’t think so at first, but it’s starting to swell up, and he’s in a lot of pain.”
“Is he all right?”
“I think so, but Rick’s been having a lot of bad reactions to his new medications, and I don’t know just how long it’ll take with my dad. I tried to reach Faye and Tim and Becky, but they’re all out. Nobody answers. I’m so sorry. I’m desperate.”
“It’s no problem,” I said quickly. “I can go.”
“Todd’s there, too, so he can help you out.”
“How old is he again?”
“Eleven. A great kid. But I don’t necessarily trust Todd to manage Rick’s medications, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure.” I thought fast. “I clock out in thirty minutes. Can you wait that long?”
“You can go now.” We turned to see Jerry standing there, reaching out to clap Adam’s shoulder. “Anything we can do to help, my man. She’s all yours.”
I flushed red at his choice of words, but Adam—thankfully—didn’t seem to notice.
As the two of them chatted, I ran to the back to change clothes, flinging off my dirty apron. Short of a full shower, a splash of water on my neck and hands worked in a pinch. I sprayed something fruity to cover the food stench. Threw on jeans and brown heels. Then my delicate knit summer-weight shirt, short-sleeved, and brown velvet jacket—all of which Faye’d altered, since clothes practically fell off me now that I spent so much time on my feet. I brushed my hair and pulled it backin my little mother-of-pearl clip then tucked it up and off my sweaty neck.
The weather had been crazy lately—cold for two weeks and now hot again. I was living in the Bermuda Triangle.
“Ready!” I said breathlessly, hauling my soiled waitressing clothes in a tote bag.
“And out you go, Shiloh Phyllis Jacobs!” Jerry gave us a push. “You were gold tonight. Did I tell you that?”
Another crisis. My life was just one big crisis after another. Handing out pills seemed minor, comparatively, and besides, it had been a few weeks. I suppose I was due another one.
“Come in.” Adam ushered me through the simple foyer. He waved at his dad, who stretched out on the sofa, face pale and gray. “Dad? How ya doing?”
Cliff, as Adam introduced him, groaned and gave a wry smile. “Been better,” he managed. “Been worse. Maybe.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. Just let me show Shiloh where to find everything, and we’ll leave.”
I clutched my purse nervously as Adam led me quickly through the house, pointing out things in rapid-fire fashion: the bathroom, the kitchen, Todd (who looked up from doing his homework with a friendly smile), and two dogs, both chocolate labs. Then Rick’s room.
He knocked and opened the door a crack. “Rick? Shiloh’s here. She’ll help you with your medication and anything else you need, all right? I’ve got to take Dad.” He stuck his head in the kitchen. “Todd, homework. Okay? And help Shiloh.”
“Okay.” Todd smiled at me again from the table, tapping his pencil and swinging his feet. He looked as interested in his homework as in a cross-stitching of a sheep.
“Shiloh. Here you go.” Adam thrust a piece of paper, typed, into my surprised hands. “All of Rick’s medications in order, with times. The labels are easy to read, no guesswork. Everything else is on the paper—how many, what he needs to take them with, and so on. Here’s where we keep his medicines.” He waved at the boxes lined up on the kitchen counter. “Sorry this is so fast. I really am. I just …”
“Go!” I shoved him toward the living room. “Your dad’s waiting! Don’t worry about me.”
“Are you sure?” Adam hesitated a split second then bolted for the living room, keys jingling.
I don’t know why I said it. I was in someone else’s house with two brothers I’d barely met—and dispensing enough pharmaceuticals to kill a horse.
The front door latched, and silence fell. Todd looked up at me with expectant blue eyes. Tapped his pencil on the book again. Then pushed back his chair and came over to where I stood, still holding the paper.
Oh, God … don’t let me mess anything up!
“Rick has to take all of those,” said Todd, leaning against the counter. “He hates those two right there.” He pointed to the paper with the list of medications.
“Why? Do they taste bad?”
“Naw. I guess not. They’re capsules. But they make him feel bad sometimes. Doc says he needs ‘em though. I dunno why.” He shrugged. “I take vitamins. Mom says they’re not the same as medicine. Do you take vitamins?”
“Sometimes.” I started to say more, but the two gentle chocolate labs nosed my legs, tails wagging excitedly. They reminded me of Gordon, but a lot more aesthetically pleasing. And they smelled better, too.
“Wanna say hi to Denny and Dale? The big one’s Dale.”
We scratched behind their ears, eliciting happy whines. Denny pushed his cold nose into my hand and sat expectantly, tail thumping.
“I named ‘em after Dennis Hamlin and Dale Earnhardt.”
“Who?”
“NASCAR,” said Todd in surprise, as if everyone knew. “Number 11 and number 3. But Dale Earnhardt died, so he doesn’t race anymore.”
“No, I guess … uh … not.” I raised an eyebrow. “Let me ask you something, Todd. Does everybody around here name their dogs after NASCAR drivers?”
“Hmm … naw, not ev’rybody, I reckon. Some people name ‘em Bud and stuff. We’ve got a cat, too. Wanna see him?” And without waiting he rushed off.
“Here he is.” Todd lugged a giant (and unwilling) black tomcat, who pushed and swished his fluffy tail in a vain effort to flee.
“Did you name him after a NASCAR driver, too?”
“Naw. My mom calls him Speck.”
“That’s an awfully big speck.”
“Yeah, but he was little a long time ago.”
The cat meowed in displeasure. “All right, Todd. I’d better see Rick, don’t you think?”
Todd’s shoulders sagged. “I guess so. But then can I show you my army men? And Rick’s Purple Heart? They’re in my room.”
“How about after your homework?”
“Okay.” He reluctantly hauled Speck back to the laundry room and plopped down at the kitchen table. And I took off my too-hot jacket and gauzy scarf. Dumped my purse. Gathered my courage and knocked quietly on the door to Rick’s room.
“Rick? Can I come in? It’s Shiloh.”
“Well, hey, Shiloh. I’ve been waiting to meet ya! Come on in.”
I pushed open the door and took a step back, astonished. The room was a maze of weight benches, tables, and medical equipment, and a closed wheelchair stood next to the bed. Two prosthetic legs reclined on a table, one long and one short. Boxes of bandages, gauze, and topical medications piled in a mountain against one wall.
And there sat Rick, leaning against pillows. The curves under the sheets where his legs should have stretched were truncated, making a spiteful optical illusion. Just like the prosthetic legs—one long and one short.
I wanted to cry, flee, or say something, but I couldn’t. I tried to cover my shock, but it wasn’t fast enough.
Rick chuckled. “Adam didn’t prepare you for all this, did he?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“C’mon, Shiloh,” said Rick with a grin. “I’ve seen that look a million times. It’s no biggie. Have a seat. You’ll get used to my little scientific lab soon enough.” He patted a chair next to his bed. “Make yourself at home.”
I entered like a robot and planted myself on the seat. Wondered what on earth I should say to someone who had lost two limbs.
“Rick Carter.” He extended a hand and groaned slightly with the effort.
“Shiloh Jacobs.” I shook his hand. “I’m so sorry.” I’d just breached all disability etiquette, but it came out anyway.
“About what? This?” He rubbed his five o’clock shadow. “I know. I try to shave it, and it just keeps coming back.”
