Mae tried to focus on the beer. “Oh, come on,” she said as Patrick, with a flourish, set a fourth can in front of her. Seriously, they were all boys together? And she was just supposed to be okay with this?
“I should drink this whole thing without stopping, then burp and crush the can on my head, right?” Mae took a sip. It did taste good. “Then can I join your little men’s club?”
“Just belated bonding,” Kenneth said, kicking his feet up on a nearby plastic container. “If we had been invited to your wedding, we would have already completed these little rituals.”
Mae flushed. As embarrassed as she had been about Merinac and everything that went with it, she was now equally ashamed of having denied it, and with that shame, the anger and fear over Jay’s job came crashing back. “Well, we’re here now,” she finally said, tightly, and there was a silence as they drank their beer until she couldn’t take it any longer and turned to Jay. “So, you seriously quit your fucking job?”
“I did,” Jay said. “And then I got on a plane, because it did not seem like something to text about.”
Mae wanted to be cool, but she couldn’t manage it. She set the beer down, hard. “Your job, Jay? I just basically lost my job, and you quit yours? What are we doing for health insurance? How are we going to pay our rent?”
Kenneth burst out laughing. “Your rent, Mae? You just announced that you were moving here, taking over the family business with Jay as your wingman. Your rent?”
Yes, that was the plan. But not without lining things up, not without getting everything organized and moving bank accounts and maybe taking vacation time or even asking his company for a sabbatical. Not without a backup plan.
“Not like that! Not just, I quit! What if you want to go back? What if it doesn’t work out? What if one of us gets sick, or the kids—I wanted to get everything worked out first, I—” Now that she was trying to talk about this, she couldn’t breathe. She had not realized how much she was relying on Jay for a stable income—which she was never, ever supposed to do—and now he had burned all their bridges. She wasn’t ready to depend on nothing but Mimi’s again. She took a huge breath in and out and burst into frustrated, angry tears.
Jay got up quickly, knocking his chair over, and held her by the shoulders, then pulled her into his arms. “Mae,” he said, then more loudly: “Mae. It’s okay, Mae. I’m sorry. I gave notice, it’s true, but it’s not like I stood up on a table in the cafeteria and told them all to go to hell. I could probably go back someday, if I wanted to. It’s okay. And we have the rent. And I can COBRA the health insurance, and we have savings, and it’s okay.”
She couldn’t help it. Her shoulders shook, and all she could do was pull in deep, shuddering sobs against his chest. “Okay,” she said, and sobbed again. “Okay.”
Part of her knew she was being ridiculous. This was her idea—but what Jay didn’t seem to get is that while Mae did jump into things, she always knew where the net was. Jay had just ripped down her net.
Kenneth tapped her on the shoulder, but she couldn’t face him, and instead nodded against Jay’s chest. “Mae,” he said, “you are not your mother. And Jay, who I do not know very well but I note is still standing here after cleaning out the most disgusting stove I have ever seen, is not your father. And you are okay for money.”
Mae felt Jay nodding. “More than okay, Mae,” Jay said. “I wouldn’t have done this if we weren’t okay. You know we’re okay.”
Were they okay? They had two little kids, no jobs, and nothing but Mimi’s to hold on to. She took a deep breath, this time without sobbing, and wiped her face across Jay’s shirt for the second time that day. It was dirtier now. “Yeah,” she said. “I do know. I do.”
Jay put a hand under her chin and brought her face up to his. “I thought this was what you wanted,” he said.
Mae laughed, one sobbing, gulping laugh. “It is. I think. I don’t know what I want, I guess.”
“Then want this,” Jay said. “Because you’ve got it. We’ve got it.”
“Okay. I’m sorry.” Another breath. Mae let a tiny smile cross her face. “And you’re in, right?”
Jay crushed her back into his chest. “I’m in,” he said. “I get some things I want, though. I don’t know what they are yet. But you owe me.”
“I owe you,” she repeated, then wriggled free, holding his hand. “I’m okay now. But don’t do that again. I don’t like surprises.”
All three men laughed, and Mae laughed too, this time without the tears.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I don’t mean to surprise you, really. You just don’t keep up.” She shook herself. Enough, enough. Jay had definitely unnerved her, but he was right. They’d be okay. She took another deep breath.
“Time to tackle Mom.” Mae looked at Patrick and Kenneth, who had produced two more beers from somewhere and were lounging in their chairs. “Well? Are you just going to let me do this by myself? Because weird as it may seem, my mother generally prefers to take anyone else’s advice over mine.”
Kenneth got up, followed by Patrick. “Your mother likes me,” Patrick said. “Does she like Jay?”
“We haven’t spent much time together,” Jay said. “She will, though. I’m likable.”
Mae considered her approach. Jay’s logic tactics and all that stuff about unique opportunities had worked on Nancy, but for Barbara—she reached for Jay’s hand. “Don’t push her,” she said. “Just follow my lead, okay?”
“Lead on,” he said.
* * *
×
Barbara narrowed her eyes when they all trooped into the Mimi’s kitchen and spoke only to Mae. “You here to work tonight?”
That was it, then? After the whole afternoon, and finding the Mimi’s recipe at Frannie’s, and everything? Not for the first time, Mae marveled at her mother. Nobody hid their feelings so deeply or so well. She wanted to go give her a hug, but that wasn’t what Barbara wanted right now, and she knew it. If back to business was better, back to business it would be.
“Actually, Mom, I’m here because I have an idea.” Mae sat down on a kitchen stool herself and tried to look casual, while Kenneth, Patrick, and Jay struggled to find a place that was out of Andy’s and Barbara’s way as they prepped for the night’s service.
Andy raised his eyebrows. “The last Moore sister to walk in here with an idea dragged us all into Food Wars, and that one isn’t finished yet.”
“Mine’s better,” said Mae, and came right out with it. “We’re going to win tomorrow. But I found out tonight that Frannie’s doesn’t even care very much. Amanda doesn’t want to make Frannie’s bigger, she just thought she did, and Nancy doesn’t want to run Frannie’s alone, or even at all, really. She just did it because Frank died. And now—they both think Frannie’s owes Mimi’s. So”—this was the big play—“I think we should run it.”
Barbara set down the raw chicken she was holding on the cutting board with a thunk and turned to face her daughter. “Run—Frannie’s?”
“Run it like Frannie and Mimi would. Take it back to basics, do all the food fresh. Nancy could still run the waitstaff and all the seating; we don’t do that. But the food”—she raised her eyebrows at Andy—“no more frozen stuff. Just Andy’s best, in both places. Partners.”
Partners. That was the part her mother would get hung up on, unless—
“I don’t need partners,” Barbara said, turning back to the counter.
Damn. “Mom,” she said, and hesitated. But there was no one to bail her out, no one who knew her mother like she did, which was kind of the point. “Mom, we get Amanda back. And Gus and Frankie. And Frannie’s is part of the family. We owe her. She didn’t want it to happen like this. We owe Mimi. It’s our recipe, Mom. Nancy might sell Frannie’s or hire someone we don’t like—I just feel like we need to bring it all back together.”
Barbara thunke
d into the chicken with her cleaver. “I don’t want anyone else in my kitchen,” she said.
“Hey,” said Andy.
“Anyone but Andy. And you. No Pogociellos. Well—”
Mae waited.
“Maybe Gus. And Frankie.”
And Mae knew it was just a matter of talking from here.
AMANDA
Amanda awoke to Mae shaking her shoulder gently. “Amanda. Amanda. Wake up. We need you.”
For just a heartbeat, she was in her old bed, in her old room, a teenager again with her big sister making sure she was on time for school. Then she sat up abruptly off the hard floor of Frannie’s and grabbed the sweatshirt she had been using as a pillow.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”
“You fell asleep hours ago,” said Mae.
While Andy and Nancy and Jay were debating the frozen stuff on the Frannie’s menu. Yes. Oh man, how could anyone care so much about mozzarella sticks?
She looked around. Gus was asleep too, with his head down on a table. Mae followed her gaze. “Frankie’s out in the car,” she said. “We’re all going to go home, get some sleep before we spring this on Sabrina.” She gave a cheerful wave to the camera still running in the corner. “But first we need you. Come on.”
Amanda got up—oof, she was too old to sleep on the floor—tossed the sweatshirt onto the bar, and followed her sister out into the warm night. Propped up on chairs in the parking lot was the sign that had replaced her drawing at Mimi’s, and Amanda stopped and stared at her sister. Why would she want to see that? She didn’t care if they had all made up, that still hurt, and the sight of Andy and Kenneth next to it didn’t help.
Mae gave her a little push. “You’re looking at the back,” she said. “I know. I’m sorry. But come on. This is good.”
That sign—MIMI’S, SINCE 1886—was the part that was facing down, leaning on the chairs. Reluctantly, she walked around. The front was blank, just white paint covering the boards that together formed the square.
“There,” said Mae happily. “We need you to make the new sign.”
Kenneth gestured to the ground, where he had spread out Sharpies, a fat pencil, black and red paint, and a few brushes, along with a pad of paper and smaller pencils. “I didn’t know how you like to work,” he said.
How she liked to work. Amanda looked from one face to another, all smiling at her. Andy, too. She felt a huge rush of joy. Her work. And to have them set up a place for her to do it—she could have hugged them all. Instead, she turned to the blank sign in what she hoped was a professional way, although she knew she was beaming. “What do you want on it? ‘Mimi’s’?” They had never talked about that. How would Nancy feel, if the Frannie’s name got washed away? She wasn’t even sure how she felt. Amanda knew what it was like, being the youngest. Frannie should get her due. She hesitated over the Sharpies, looking at Mae, who grinned.
“Of course not,” she said. “New start, new name.” She pointed to the sign. “Introducing ‘The Chicken Sisters.’”
Amanda swung around to face her sister. “Mae—that’s perfect.”
And Mae knew it, too. “The Chicken Sisters, established 1886. Because Mimi’s started it, and Frannie’s kept it going.” She was beaming. “We worked it all out. While you were snoring.”
Amanda ignored that. The Chicken Sisters. She loved it, and she grabbed hold of Mae’s hand and squeezed. Mae squeezed back, hard. “I know, I know,” she said. “But business! Can you do it?”
Of course she could do it. She pulled her hand away, still smiling. Fine. Hugs later, if that was the way Mae wanted it. She picked up the pad. The lettering was easy, but what were they—Chicken Frannie and Chicken Mimi—what were they doing? High fiving? That would be hard at this level of detail. Wings around each other, maybe. She sat down on the ground, staring down at the blank page, and looked up to find them all watching her. She waved them away. “You can’t stand here,” she said. “I have to think about it. Go.”
Mae and Kenneth did, but Andy lingered, and when she looked up he had his back to her, contemplating the blank sign. “I was hoping to see you draw it,” he said. “I’ve always wished I could draw.”
“Everybody says that,” said Amanda. It was easier to talk to him while looking down at her pencil, and so she sketched in a beak pointing jubilantly into the air. “You probably could. Even with some talent, you still have to learn. I think anybody could learn at least enough to draw a little.”
Andy, too, seemed to find it easier to talk while looking at something else. Either that or he was really interested in the way paint covered wood grain. “Maybe you could teach me.”
“Oh,” said Amanda quickly, “I’m crap at—” Just in time, she looked up and saw that Andy was fidgeting nervously, tapping his fingers against his leg, and caught herself. That was not the right answer. Because that was not really the question. “I mean, maybe,” she said. “Or we could sit together and you could just try. For fun. Sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Andy said, then: “Amanda, I’m sorry about the recipe thing. I should have known you wouldn’t do that. But I haven’t always been a very good judge of people. I’m sorry.”
Amanda put down her pencil and met his eyes. He didn’t look confident or cocky at all, just like someone who really was sorry. Who wanted another chance. “Yeah,” she said. “I get that. Let’s just start over, okay? Plus, if that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t all be here. So I can’t exactly be mad.”
“I’m just a tool of fate,” he said. “But I wish it hadn’t complicated things.”
Amanda shrugged. She wasn’t ready to do this now, wasn’t sure if she wanted there to be anything to complicate. She had a fresh surface, good tools, chickens to draw, and she wanted to focus on that. “It’s okay,” she said. Then, as nicely as she could, “I’m going to concentrate on this now, if that’s okay.”
He hung there, shifting his weight from side to side, until she stopped, put down her pencil, and held out her hand to him. “Everything’s always complicated,” she offered, and he took her hand, and it was the same feeling as when he had touched the back of her neck, running all the way through her. She didn’t know that she wanted that feeling, but it was there. He squeezed a little, then let go, and with a little boost of confidence, she waved him away. “Go on,” she said. “I’m working.”
* * *
×
A few short hours later, they were all gathered outside the front door of the Inn—Amanda, Andy, Mae and Jay, Gus and Frankie, Nancy, Barbara, even Aida. Jessa had Madison by one hand and Ryder on her hip, Madison wildly blowing kisses at them all. Kenneth ushered them grandly in, while Patrick stood just inside, soundlessly clapping. They all faced each other for a minute with a sense of suppressed laughter.
“Shhh,” Mae said, as Andy let out what could best be called a giggle.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t help it.”
“Come on,” said Mae. “Before she sees we’re all together.”
Mae turned and grabbed Amanda’s hand, letting Jay fade to the back, and the two of them, with Nancy and Barbara close behind, strode right into the dining room. Mae’s feet were loud on the Inn’s old wooden floors, and Amanda looked down and saw that she was wearing a pair of gorgeously embroidered cowboy boots.
Sabrina leapt up when they came in and rushed toward them—they were late; she must have been waiting—then stopped short, staring at them. Then, just as Mae had hoped, Sabrina gestured to a camera, which swung toward them.
“Where do you want us, Sabrina?” Mae spoke with an ease Amanda envied as much as the boots. They had agreed that Amanda would do the talking for the big reveal, and Mae had refused to allow her to write something out. “Know the three things you want to say,” Mae had insisted. “Hold three fingers in your pocket if you need to. Say each one, end your sentences, then stop.”
That last point, Amanda knew instantly, was exactly the piece of advice she needed to hang on to. Say what I want to say. Then stop. If she could have done that for the past week she would be so much better off. Although—she glanced back at Andy and found his eyes on her—her way hadn’t been quite the disaster she had thought it was. This wasn’t anywhere close to what she had thought she wanted when she sent that first e-mail to Food Wars. And yet somehow it was.
Sabrina ushered them up to the fireplace end of the room, where the three chefs were settling in behind a table. “I was thinking Mimi’s here, and Frannie’s here,” she said, pointing, then stepping back out of the scene.
Without even a glance at any of her co-conspirators, Mae released Amanda’s hand, walked to the side Sabrina had gestured to for Mimi’s, put a hand on her hips, and turned. “Nah,” she said. “Come on up here, everybody.” The rest of them scrambled around the Inn’s rearranged dining tables and joined her. “We’re good all here on the same side, Sabrina,” said Mae, and a wicked grin crossed her face.
Sabrina surveyed them. “You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
“Nope.”
Unexpectedly, then, Sabrina flipped at the waist, fluffed her hair, then grabbed a mirror from a table to the side and looked herself over critically before turning back to face them. “Okay,” she said. “As long as it makes good television.” She shifted, took up a central position right next to Mae and in front of the group, and then gazed into the camera, morphing, before their eyes, into the warm, friendly host of Food Wars.
“Hello again! We’re back here today for the final moments in the Fried Chicken Food War, where two century-old institutions have been facing off in a battle for who can claim the title for the best, most authentic fried chicken the little town of Merinac, Kansas, has to offer—and maybe the best fried chicken in the state of Kansas. Little Mimi’s, which started as a chicken shack serving passengers on the railroad line, still serves nothing but chicken, biscuits, salad, and French fries. Frannie’s, which grew from a coal-mining hangout to a full-service restaurant, has a bigger menu, a bigger dining room, and a bigger reputation. Midway through the competition, we had a big surprise—the restaurants, which were started by a pair of sisters in the 1880s, use what amounts to the same recipe—prepared differently and served differently, but all made with the same ingredients. So it all comes down to this: who does it better?”
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