by Liz Talley
“Martha and Ted, this is Sal’s sister, Frances,” Clem said, ignoring any discussion of his exploits, which were really non-exploits. Jeez, sleep with a few single gals and suddenly he was the town man whore. “She’s gonna help Sal decorate his new joint.”
“Oh, you a fashion designer or somethin’?” Ted asked, unwinding the line wrapped around his fishing pole.
“No,” Frances said, sounding confused for a moment. “I have a degree in marketing and restaurant management. My family runs several restaurants in New York City.”
“I don’t know how people live there,” Ted said, squinting into the sun. “Everyone there in such a goll-darn hurry. I went one time when I had to go up to New Jersey to get training. You remember that, mama?”
“Yep. I was jealous as a snake. I wanted to see those soldiers at that toy store and all the pretty window displays. But then when he come home and told me about all that traffic and blowing horns and how fancy that hotel was, well, I knew that wasn’t no place for me. I’ll just stick to going up to Gatlinburg and Dollywood, thank you very much,” Martha said, settling into the camp chair Ted had set up for her.
Over the next half hour, Ted and Martha regaled him and Frances with tales about their grandbabies, the cat that liked to sleep with their rooster T-Boy, and the upcoming county fair and ensuing jelly contest, which Martha planned to win with her mayhaw-mint jelly. Frances cast many side glances at the boisterous couple, and several times she smiled, but mostly she listened to the two native Morning Glory residents. Which was a step in the right direction for understanding why he’d reacted so strongly to her design ideas. No one in Morning Glory would add bitters to their cocktails or expect marbled bathrooms. Simple people. Simple things.
“So let me ask you something, Martha.” Frances set her fishing pole aside. “What’s your favorite restaurant?”
Martha made a moue of her lips and thought a few seconds. “Well, Ted and me don’t eat out too much. Sometimes we go to Dean’s Diner and get their open-faced roast beef. It’s pretty good. And Ted likes Lucky Palace’s lo mein. But I guess my favorite is when we go to the Denny’s in Jackson. I love their chicken-fried steak.”
“Denny’s?” Frances repeated, disbelief shading her words.
“Oh Lord, yes. If you ain’t never had their chicken-fried steak, you’re missing out. You ought to get Clem to take you.”
Frances nodded. “I should. But Clem and I have a business arrangement. Nothing else.”
“Looked to me like he was doin’ good business when we pulled up,” Ted said.
Clem looked over at Frances and grinned. “Hey, I’m a business-minded man.”
Frances didn’t smile. Instead, she walked over to her fancy leather bag, pulled out hand sanitizer, and squirted enough to sterilize an operating room into her hand. Then she pulled out a small notepad and scribbled something with a silver-plated pen. Quickly sliding the notebook back into place, she looked at him. “You ready, Mr. Aiken?”
“Clem,” he said, finding some amusement in her attempt to prove Ted wrong.
She merely arched an eyebrow.
“Guess I’m gonna have to get going, y’all. The boss is tapping her flip-flop.”
Frances stopped tapping her foot and shook her head. “This has been the most interesting day of my life.”
Martha laughed. “Honey, we may be country as a bunch of turnips, but we’re entertaining. That’s for damn sure.”
Clem said good-bye, enjoying when both Ted and Martha pulled Frances into a hug when she tried to shake their hands, and headed back to his truck. Seconds later, Frances climbed up into the cab.
“So how’d you enjoy fishin,’ city girl?” he asked, turning the key and getting a kick of satisfaction when the engine roared.
“Don’t kiss me again.”
Clem glanced over. “Why not? Thought it was a pretty good kiss myself.”
“I’m not in the market for what you’re selling. This is business. Besides, I don’t want everyone in town talking about me … and you.”
Clem shifted into gear and started bumping down the dusty country road. Around him, the pasture split into two green swaths, and several lazy cows looked on, chewing cud and swatting flies. The sight pleased him as it always did. “Too late for that, darlin.’”
Frances had slept badly, so that was her excuse for dropping the rubbery chicken on the floor of Ida Mae’s kitchen. She blamed it all on Clem and that stupid kiss the day before. And the worm. She had some posttraumatic fishing guilt thing going because of that worm.
“Aw, baby, that’s no bother. We just gonna wash it off and reflour it,” Ida Mae said, plucking up the thigh and turning on the faucet. She waggled the raw chicken under the stream.
“I’m sorry, Ida Mae. I’m normally good in the kitchen.”
“Don’t worry, baby. This ain’t nothing we can’t fix.”
Ida Mae Robinson was Clem’s neighbor. She stood all of five foot tall and wore a flour-sack apron and an old-fashioned shirtwaist dress. Her dark coffee skin was a map of wrinkles and lines, but her step was spry, her energy abundant. Her mission was clear—teach Frances how to fry chicken.
Clem lazed against the counter, watching them with his too-pretty brown eyes, occasionally snitching a bread-and-butter pickle from a dish on the opposite counter. He’d showed up that morning wearing a pair of old jeans, a shirt he’d cut the arms out of, and cowboy boots. She’d waltzed past him in a sundress and told him he was trying too hard.
The man had merely laughed like he knew it. “Just trying to live up to any fantasy you’ve ever had about a cowboy, darlin.’”
“You’re not a cowboy.”
“I’ve milked a cow … and I’ve ridden plenty of horses,” he said, opening the door of his jacked-up truck for her. She couldn’t remember a man, outside of a doorman, ever opening a car door for her. Her inner feminist balked. Wasn’t like she didn’t have two hands. Still, there was something nice about the old-fashioned gesture. So she hadn’t said anything smart-ass and instead enjoyed the drive to a cluster of fifties-style farmhouses replete with sun-weary gardens out back. Ida Mae’s house was dove gray with a wide front porch. Sunny flower beds lined the walk, and a chicken coop sat in the shade under a big pecan tree.
“Now, here’s what we gotta do. Take those pieces and drag them through the egg mixture. Then the flour mixture. We already got our oil hot,” Ida Mae said, demonstrating with a chicken wing.
Frances had never been one for the kitchen. Sal had always loved to cook, but she liked to run the front. With her talent for bookkeeping combined with a good business acumen, her father had been content for Frances to order supplies, pay bills, and haggle with distributors. She excelled at spying potential problems, finding the best-priced quality ingredients, and overseeing repairs. So Frances didn’t understand why her father, Big Donnie, didn’t trust her when it came to the new deli. She suspected part of it was his disappointment in Sal abandoning the great family plan of all the sons running the family business. Frances resented her father for not wanting to listen to her ideas to make the deli more upscale to meet the needs of the sophisticated theatre crowd. His refusal to hand the newest Mama Mello’s restaurant over to her had hurt.
Now she didn’t know what to do. Her father had sent Vinnie to manage the deli and brought Frances back to the flagship restaurant in Little Italy.
“You look cute in that apron.” Clem filched another gherkin.
“Thank you, son,” Ida Mae said with a cackle.
“You’re welcome.” Clem didn’t miss a beat.
Frances refocused on the task at hand. Several pops of oil landed on her arms, convincing her that frying chicken was serious business. After she’d coated the chicken and gently slipped the pieces into the oil, she washed and dried her hands on the flour-sack towel Ida Mae kept tied to a drawer handle.
“Now we gonna turn this down a bit so it don’t burn. Then when it’s almost ready, we’ll hitch it up so it’s
good and crispy,” Ida Mae said, shooing Frances out of the way. “You young folks take some of that sweet tea and go on out and pick some tomatoes. I’m gonna heat up these purple-hull peas and make some cornbread. I’ll call y’all in when it’s ready.”
“Are you sure?” Frances asked.
“Positive. Oh, and Clem, why don’t you gather the eggs too. I ain’t got around to it this morning. Basket’s on the porch. Watch out for the rooster. He’ll spur you if he gets a chance.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clem said, pulling open the back door. He waited while Frances arched an eyebrow. “Ladies first.”
“Oh,” she said, untying her apron and draping it over the ladder-back chair next to the dinette table. “I’m getting too accustomed to you Southern men opening doors for me. I’m going to be in trouble when I go back to New York.”
“Maybe you can open doors for men. Start a new trend in New York City.” Clem seemed in an awful good mood today. He’d cracked jokes and sang off-key all the way to Ida Mae’s house.
The day was hot, but a breeze stirred enough to make it tolerable.
“You ever fetched eggs from under a chicken?” Clem asked, sliding her a grin. The fool smiled so much it ought to be illegal. Secretly though, she liked it. He made her feel lighter. Happy.
“It can’t be worse than killing a worm.” She picked up the basket and went down the concrete steps. Wash hung on the line beside the well-worn path to the chicken coop. A rooster sat on an old stump, and the chickens were nowhere in sight.
“Probably not.” Clem eyed the rooster.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing I like less than chickens,” he said, making a face.
“You’re scared of chickens?” Frances laughed, feeling a little uneasy herself. She had an idea of how to gather eggs from a book she’d read as a child, but the thought of reaching under a hen to obtain them was creepy.
“Don’t tell anyone. It will destroy my reputation as a dude.”
Frances chuckled, swinging the basket, wondering what her friends would say if they could see her wearing flip-flops and a sundress. Not to mention “moseying” beside Big Country on her way to gather eggs. They would pee their pants laughing at Frances’s version of Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid.
“I’ll watch the rooster, you get the eggs,” Clem said, unhooking the gate.
“No way. I’m a city girl, remember?”
“It’s easy. Reach underneath them. Get in. Get out. Unless you really don’t want to learn how to be a country girl?”
“Look, this has nothing to do with my brother’s restaurant, so I’m not taking the bait.” She jabbed the basket toward him. “I’ll watch the rooster.”
Clem jerked the basket from her hand. “Fine.”
They both entered the coop, and Clem tiptoed to the henhouse. Frances stared at the rooster, who kept nervously shifting, looking like a very funky chicken. She heard Clem talking to the hens. In fact, the man sounded like he was seducing them with honeyed words with all the “Easy now, sugar” and “That’s a sweet girl.” Even though Frances was scared as hell of the fidgety rooster, she couldn’t help giving a chuckle at the endearments.
Clem emerged, looking sweaty and relieved. “Good night, I feel like I should buy ’em all a steak dinner.”
Just as he uttered those words, the rooster took offense and flew at them, talons or whatever roosters had fully bared.
Frances screamed and pushed Clem in front of her. The man knocked the rooster aside and then tugged her out of the coop, slamming the door and dropping the hook into the latch. Breathing hard, he studied the enraged rooster and set the basket on the ground.
“Crap, that’s one angry chicken,” he said, shaking his head.
“Maybe you should have bought him the steak dinner.” Frances huffed, trying to catch her breath.
“You know I just saved your life again, right?” Clem said, a gleam in his eye. “I should get something for that.”
“Ha.” Frances poked him in the chest. “Just business, remember?”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him. Because she wasn’t used to wearing flip-flops, she easily slid toward him. “Nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure, honey.”
His hand had snaked around her waist, and his expression was determined … and in his eyes was something she longed to see again, though she knew it was a bad idea.
“Clem, save your sweet words. I’m not a chicken,” she said, the protest dying in her voice.
Because God help her, she wanted to kiss him again.
And again.
And quite possibly again.
“You sure aren’t. But thing is, Frannie, I can’t stop thinking about you. About this pointed little chin”—he gave it a soft pinch—“these beautiful lips”—he bussed a soft kiss against her mouth—“that I want to kiss again and again …”
So he did.
And Frances let him. In fact, she wrapped her arms around him and met him halfway. Because at that moment, standing by a chicken coop with the Mississippi sunlight warming her shoulders, she wanted Clemson Aiken like she’d never wanted a man.
Even though it was a very stupid idea.
His hands felt perfect inching up her back, the callused thumb pads making chill bumps travel down her arms.
One of them groaned, she wasn’t sure who, because she’d entered a world where there was only this big, hard man and her. Need gnawed at her, and all she could think about was how he’d look without that grungy T-shirt. He’d be tan from all that fishing, and she already knew his stomach was flat.
She slid a hand to the hem of his shirt, sighing as her fingers hit the grooves of his abs. The man had a six-pack. Thank you, sweet—
“Frannie,” Clem whispered against her lips. “I want to shuck you outta that dress, baby, but we’re in Miss Ida Mae’s yard.”
Frances pulled back, the hand she’d had on his torso falling to her side. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Clem stroked the side of her face. “Ain’t nothing wrong with what we’re doin.’”
“Yes, there is. I don’t do casual relationships, Clem. I don’t. Lord, I just broke up with Michael a few months ago.”
“Then I’m the perfect man. What’s it going to hurt? Not like you’re staying here.”
Frances shook her head and tried to rein in the libido that was doing a cheer at the thought of no-strings-attached fun with the best-looking thing in Morning Glory. A little voice whispered, He’s right. What would it hurt?
“No, this is crazy,” she said, drowning out the inner voice with cold, hard reason. She shook her head and patted down any stray wisps of hair. “I have Sal to think about. You said the town will be talking. I don’t want everyone thinking Sal has a whore for a sister. We have to stop kissing … and touching.”
At that moment, Ida Mae called out, “Come and get it.”
“We’ll talk later. We still have tomatoes to fetch,” Clem said, picking up the basket of eggs at his feet and heading toward the fenced-in garden on the other side of the yard. Frances followed, trying not to admire his backside and the breadth of those manly shoulders. Damn, but a man looked good in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a ripped up T-shirt. Screw Wall Street brokers in their expensive suits. Country boys were obviously her secret fantasy.
Five minutes later they returned to Ida Mae’s kitchen with fat, sun-warmed tomatoes and the multicolored, speckled eggs. Sitting on the old-fashioned dinette was a feast. A plate of fried chicken reigned over the bowl of peas, platter of butter-drenched field corn, and a pan of golden cornbread. Ida Mae made short work of slicing and salting the tomatoes and serving up heaping bowls of turnip greens.
Frances reached for her fork, but Clem bowing his head and reaching for her hand stopped her. Ida Mae sat down and took Clem’s hand. Then she started praying. Frances ducked her head, cracking an eye at Clem, who had a smile playing at his lips.
Ida Mae said “Amen” loudly and then unfold
ed her paper napkin and tucked it in her lap. “Here you are, Frances. Try some of my sweet tea. Or if you want some Kool-Aid, I got that too. Keep it for my grandbabies.”
“Tea is fine,” Frances said as Ida Mae poured the tea into a large jelly jar and handed it to her. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
“You’re welcome. Friends are always welcome at my table. Ol’ Clem comes two or three times a week, and I have to say I enjoy his company. And he’s real good about bringing in my groceries and taking out my trash.”
“Really?” Frances said, sliding a smile at Clem. The man surprised her at every turn. He might be infuriatingly arrogant and too much of a flirt, but he took care of his neighbors. “Guess having a big strong guy around is handy.”
“Ain’t it? So, do you have a big strong man in New York City?” Ida Mae asked, not so subtly angling for her relationship status.
“Nope. I do it myself. I am woman, hear me roar,” Frances said with a laugh.
Ida Mae smiled. “Well, baby, I can do it too, but why would I want to?”
Indeed. The older lady’s question was a good one. It was one Frances had struggled with over the years. She had absolute confidence in herself when it came to anything from running the deli to managing handsy guys at the bar. That wasn’t the issue. After splitting with Michael, Frances had convinced herself she was fine being a single, independent woman. But did she want to be?
She wasn’t sure.
Of much of anything in her life.
And that pissed her off. She’d carefully planned everything. She’d gain practical experience working for her family business. She’d go to school, get degrees, and marry Michael Manguno. Then she’d manage one of the Mama Mello’s restaurants. They’d buy a loft in the Village because Michael would be making lots of money as a trader and she’d be doing pretty good herself. It was supposed to work out, but it hadn’t.