The Biscuit Witch

by Deborah Smith

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I came here with a lot of baggage. I won’t let it ruin everything you’ve worked for. Or Delta’s dreams.”

  “Carrying your baggage? No problem. I’ll even help you unpack it. Delta will say the same.”

  “There’s no way to keep Eve from being told who her father is. If I took Mark’s offer, at least I’d have money to enroll her in private schools and a great college. She’d have opportunities. Maybe she wouldn’t have to pose as Mark’s happy daughter for very long. Once the media attention died down . . .”

  “Are you telling me you don’t want to stay here? Is that it?”

  “I don’t really have any choice.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, she did,” Fidgety said. “Why don’t you spare her the big break-up scene?” He pointed at me. “Go get your things. In two hours, you and the kid will be on a plane out of Asheville. End of adventure. All neat and done.”

  I ignored him and continued looking up at Doug, whose eyes showed the same pain I felt.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt. Let me go. I’m being torn apart.”

  “Tell me you don’t love me,” he ordered.

  “This isn’t about whether or not I . . .”

  “Yes, it is about that that. Love’s not just a word. It’s a promise. A bond. I need to know.”

  “Doug, don’t . . .”

  “You realize the assault charge hasn’t been dropped, yet,” Fidgety announced. He jabbed a finger at me. “We can do this the hard way, where I come back with a deputy and he arrests mama bear here, and the state takes charge of the kid, and . . .”

  I lunged at him. He’d said the magic words; had opened the door to a cage where I’d locked childhood memories of rage and despair.

  I grabbed Fidgety’s finger and wrenched it so hard I heard the joint pop. I tried to kick him in the groin next, but the other men grabbed me. I heard Doug make a sound of fury. The group tried to hold onto me and dodge his fists. I kicked one man in the knee and tripped on another’s foot, going down hard. I slammed to the ground. Blood gushed from my nose.

  “Run!” he yelled, trying to drag me to my feet. The quick thuds of several fists hitting him made him stagger.

  They’ll kill him.

  I clambered to a stand and kicked Shark Eyes in the leg.

  That’s when the cavalry arrived.

  Into the yard rumbled several big pick-up trucks from Rainbow Goddess Farm, followed by Cleo and Bubba in a minivan with a magnetized CROSSROADS CAFÉ sign on the driver’s door. Fidgety was in pain and crouched over, cupping his injured hand with the other one, but his second in command, aka Shark Eyes, grabbed me by one arm and twisted it behind me while at the same time shoving me tight against the car. I was wedged between him and it. I elbowed him in the stomach. Doug was on the ground with three men on top of him, everyone slugging.

  “Tell these crazy hillbillies to back off!” Shark Eyes yelled.

  From the corner of one eye I saw Lucy hop out of a truck and run up the front steps. She tugged the front door open and went inside.

  A gunshot split the air.

  “I’m counting to fifteen and then this crazy hillbilly is going nuts!” Bubba bellowed. He waved his pistol at the treetops.

  Two dozen women, including Macy and Alberta climbed out of the Rainbow Goddess trucks carrying enough fire power to take over a small country. Shake Eyes continued to clutch my twisted arm from behind. “We’re just helping her. She fainted and hit her nose! She agreed to come with us. Her and her kid. Don’t shoot!”

  “Too late,” Alberta said, lifting an M-16 to her shoulder and taking aim.

  Beside her, Cleo hoisted a deer rifle. She sighted down the barrel at Fidgety, who was still bent over his hand. “Say hello to Satan,” she said.

  “Don’t fire!” I yelled. “Please. Eve’s inside, and this is terrifying enough for her without a shoot-out!”

  “Mommy!” The door opened, and Eve darted out. Lucy was right behind her and made a grab, catching her around the waist. Lucy picked her up and ran past us down the steps, with Eve reaching back over Lucy’s shoulders and screaming.

  Teasel stepped out of the open doorway. He chewed his cud. He waggled his head like a cage fighter loosening up for a match. He charged.

  Release the Kraken!

  Teasel rammed sharp nubbins into the back of Shark Eyes’ knees. We went down in a heap. Doug shoved his way to us and punched Shark Eyes so hard his head snapped back.

  “Doug, don’t!” I yelled as Doug drew back a fist to smash him again.

  “I’ll kill the fecker!”

  “Daddy, stop!”

  Eve’s plea cut through the chaos.

  Eve strained toward us with only Lucy’s grip on the tail of her shirt to keep her out of the fray. Lucy was sprawled on the ground “trying not to faint while lying down,” she explained later. Still, she managed to keep Eve from squirming away. Eve’s cheeks were streaked with tears as she looked from Doug to me and back to him. “Daddy,” she repeated hoarsely. “I don’t want you to get beat up anymore. You’ll get another unicorn horn.”

  Fidgety stared at us. “Are you tellin’ us the kid’s not Mr. Mark’s daughter?”

  Silence. I looked up at Doug, who was breathing heavily and slowly unballing his fists. He had a bloody lip, one eye was swelling shut, and his knuckles were raw. The other men looked even worse.

  “Doug,” I said gruffly. I held up a hand. He reached down and took it, helped me up, and supported me with an arm around my shoulders when I wobbled. “You asked me two questions. The answers are ‘No, I don’t ever want to leave here,’ and ‘Yes, I love you.’ But I want what’s best for you as well as for Eve and me.”

  He gently wiped his fingertips across the blood beneath my nose. “I love you, too. What’s best for me is to keep my family right here where we all belong.” He sought Eve’s upturned, hopeful face. “It’s true,” he said loudly. “I’m her father. Any man who makes claims otherwise is in for a fight.”

  Teasel butted Fidgety in the fidget.

  The show must go on

  THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ is closed only four days a year: Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and Family Reunion Saturday in mid-August when three hundred Whittlespoons and related families hold a gigantic lakeside barbecue at a campsite on the Hula Mae Reservoir just north of Turtleville. Or, as Bubba described it, “Hold My Beer And Watch This Day.” Minor injuries are expected, with “minor” meaning anything that doesn’t result in a spurting artery, amputation, permanent scar, or the loss of an internal organ.

  The next day, it’s back to work.

  Since the brawl at Doug’s house occurred on an ordinary Thursday, we dabbed our wounds, escorted Fidgety and his crew to the county line, updated Gabby, told her Eve and I were moving to the Cove permanently, introduced her to Doug, relayed Jay Wakefield’s offer (she went deadly quiet and got off the phone quickly, muttering something about payback), and then we drove to the café in time for me to bake the lunch biscuits.

  Eve was pale and quiet, sitting on the steps of the kitchen porch with Lucy’s gold-and-blue scarf wrapped around her and Teasel curled up by her side. Macy conducted an informal therapy session, with Doug and me watching worriedly. Slowly the color returned to Eve’s face, and she began comfortably kicking the bottom steps, swinging her feet in an easy rhythm. She and Teasel shared some Gummy Bears.

  I knew Mark would be thrilled to tell people the rumors about Eve had been proved completely false—that her “real” father had stepped forward. I baked Mark’s name on a slip of paper in a soulless pan of unleavened bread and fed the bread to the crows out by the log-people nativity. A kind of hoodoo foodie curse.

  Did it matter that Doug was not Eve’s biological
father? Nope. Didn’t matter to Doug, not to me, and not to Eve. We explained the truth to Eve in terms a precocious five-year-old could absorb.

  “If a daddy decides not to be part of your life,” I told her, “it’s not a bad thing. In fact, it means there’s a spot open for a daddy who really loves you.”

  As she listened to us describe how she came to be born and how much I loved her and how much Doug wanted to be her daddy, she twiddled her fingers in Teasel’s wiry coat and finally said, “Okay, Mommy. Okay, Daddy. I’m a child of the universe. That’s what Macy says. Can we go pick out a Christmas tree this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” we said in unison.

  That was all she needed to hear. She grinned. Then she and Teasel went out in the yard to butt things with their heads.

  Getting baked

  NOW I WAS a Man With A Reputation in the Cove. Meaning I had made my bones. I was a made Cove Man, who took care of his woman, his child, and his goat. A Southern mountaineer.

  It’s like joining the mafia, only with more guns.

  “You know I’m a bad ass sumbitch now,” I told Tal.

  She kissed me. “I love your ass. It’s not bad at all.”

  “That kind of talk will get you a good talking to.”

  My whole fecking body hurt, but I’d never been happier in my life. We were home, home, for the night; Eve sound asleep with Teasel and the rest of the animal pack, Tal curled up on the couch in front of the fire wearing naught but a soft set of long johns she’d gotten at the Cove store. The top was clingy, and the bottoms had a trap door that barely clung to its Velcro fasteners. I approved heartily. She held a glass of Scotch against her swollen nose and smiled at me over the rim. She liked how my sweatpants fit.

  “A feast,” I said, as I set a wooden tray filled with bread, cookies, and biscuits on the coffee table. “Many thanks to yourself. Did you try to bake up every bit of flour in the house this morning?”

  She lowered the glass and studied its golden liquor for a moment, looking a bit sad. I settled beside her and pulled a quilt over our knees. “Were you trying to bake your worries away?” I asked gruffly. “To leave something for me to remember you by?”

  She nodded, getting teary. I dabbed her eyes. She took a deep breath. “Last night, when you spoke that Gaelic phrase to me. You said it was a secret. You’d tell me what it meant, later. Okay, so would you tell me, now?”

  “Tha gaol agam ort,” I repeated softly. “I love you.”

  “Tha gaol agam ort,” she whispered. “Did I say that right? I might have just vowed to do your taxes.”

  “No, you said it right. Say it again.”

  She did, her eyes gleaming. Then she kissed me gently on my bruised mouth. ’Twas highly unlikely either one of us would do more than snuggle, given our condition. On the other hand, with a little extra medication for our tense muscles . . .

  I leaned over the tray of goodies, split a warm slice of pumpkin bread in two, decorated the pieces with a generous smear of cheese, then sat back and held one out to her. “Remember what I told you about the Evers family and their special cheese?”

  Her eyes widened. She smiled.

  We might only sit up ’til dawn counting each other’s freckles, but that would be just fine.

  Gabby dodges; Lucy is on the radar

  OUR CHRISTMAS tree was spectacularly edible. Since Doug owned no ornaments, we covered it in strings of popcorn, candy canes, red bows, gingerbread men, and several strands of retro bubble lights, which were fascinating to watch after he and I shared the last of the special cheese. Teasel and the pigs ate everything off the lower branches except the lights. Eve and I redecorated the bare spots with pine cones dipped in glitter. Teasel ate a couple of those then gave up.

  Doug and I talked for hours about Free Wheeler and Jay, trying to come up with an alternate plan that might win him over. I spent a lot of time on the phone with Gabby, trying to unravel the mystery of Sam Osserman and our grandmother. Was Sam our grandfather?

  “You have to come here and see Free Wheeler,” I told her. “Whether we have a legacy here by blood or just because Grandma Nettie spent so many years working here . . . it’s a magical place. We could bring it back to life, not as a bicycle factory, but maybe as . . .”

  “I’m not working for a Wakefield,” she snapped. “Ever.”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me about the time you spent around Jay when you were both kids?”

  “No.”

  “Gabby, when you don’t tell me the truth, I smell vinegar. Right now I could pickle an entire bushel of cucumbers with the scent.”

  “Let’s just leave it at this, Baby Sister: you’re too young to remember the name of Mama’s landlord—the dickhead who cancelled her lease when she missed just one payment on the diner’s rent. His name was William Wakefield.”

  My jaw dropped. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. Jay’s greedy asshole of a father. That was the last straw. She’d lost Daddy. Then she lost the diner. It killed her. William Wakefield killed her.”

  I clamped a hand to my forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I was hoping you’d drop the whole subject.”

  “Okay, okay, we’re not doing business with a Wakefield, period. But we still have to tell Gus about the offer. Who’s going to tell him? You or me?”

  “Neither. He hates the Wakefields as much as I do.”

  “But it’s not fair to keep this secret. I’m done keeping secrets from my loved ones.”

  “He’s said a hundred times that he’s career military and not interested in anything else. What makes you think he’ll suddenly come home—to North Carolina, a place where none of us have many happy memories . . .”

  “That’s not true. Before Mama and Daddy . . .”

  “Look, you’ve found a great guy and a home you love there, so more power to you. But it’s not for me, and it’s not for Gus.”

  “I’ll tell him about the offer from Jay, regardless. I wouldn’t feel right not to. What Jay’s father did . . . we can’t blame Jay for that.”

  “Trust me, he’s no better than his daddy.”

  “What? Why do you say . . .”

  “Okay, okay. Save the talk with Gus until after Christmas, at least. You know this time of year is hard for him.”

  “All right. I agree. Look, could you please get on a plane and come here for the holidays? Just for a day or two. Meet Doug. Delta will be home by then. Come and hang out.”

  “I’ll think about it. I’ve got a lot going on. Meeting with my lawyers. Fighting the lawsuit and the bogus assault charge.”

  “Hey, that runs in the family. Did you ever find out who the mystery man is? The one who paid your bail?”

  “Gotta run, kiddo. I’ve got pickles in the boiler. Love you. Love to Eve. Love to Doug. I want to meet him soon. Et cetera. Buh bye.”

  Click.

  The pungent aroma of vinegar grew stronger. Gabby was a pickler, a lover of spices, brines, pepper sauces, gourmet salts, fine vinegars and All Things Not Sweet. She distrusted the gentle lure of sugar and believed life is a taste test where Sour trumps Sweet every time. If she lost Vin E. Garr’s, she’d have to go back to work as a sous chef for a Napa Valley hotel where hipsters complained that her seasonings irritate their nose rings.

  I sat there brooding about her evasive attitude. My phone buzzed. Gus, texting me. It had been several days since I’d sent him the photo of Lucy holding the scarf she’d picked for him. That scarf, along with the huge box of food, was winging its way to Afghanistan.

  Her photo popped up in his reply. I sucked in a breath as I read his cheerfully macho message:

  SEND THE SCARF AND THE BLONDE. I WANT HER NUMBER.

  No way would I encourage him to contact Lucy. It would be like turn
ing a well-intentioned bull loose in a very fragile china shop.

  The Spinning Rose

  THE THREE OF us had just finished a breakfast of pecan waffles and scrambled eggs. I had to admit it: Katie Dood’s free-range, TV watching hens gave premium egg love.

  Doug got up from the table and stretched. “I know Christmas is still a couple of weeks off, but . . . well, I’ve got something for Eve. It’s not really a Christmas present. It’s more of an early birthday gift. I’ll be right back.”

  As he went outside, Eve whispered to me, “My birthday’s not ’til July.”

  “Daddy likes to plan ahead.”

  I got up and held the kitchen door open.

  Doug guided the Spinning Rose inside. He’d cleaned her dusty red paint, polished her, replaced the brittle leather handgrips with rubber ones, and added brand-new modern tires plus a set of training wheels. The rose-handled umbrella was in rehab, needing more work, but the wicker basket gleamed with a fresh coat of golden varnish.

  Eve gasped. With her hands to her mouth in awe, she tiptoed to her great-grandmother’s namesake bicycle, perhaps even the very bicycle Emma Nettie had ridden herself. She touched the handlebars gently. “It has a heartbeat,” she whispered.

  Delta’s on the line

  “DELTA’S ON THE phone from New York,” Cleo said. “She wants to talk to you both.” Cleo set an aging speaker phone between us on the café’s gingham table cloth. It was mid-afternoon on a Monday, and the café was empty. In a few hours the tables would fill with a crowd of friends gathering to watch the newest installment of Skillet Stars on several large TV sets scattered around the dining rooms. Since that show was about to start taping in one hour, we were surprised that Delta called.

  Cleo tapped the phone’s faded black plastic. “This is the phone that Delta had Tom Mitternich use when Tom pretended to be Cathy’s husband so he could coach her through her physical therapy in the burn ward. This phone is sacred.” She paused. “The volume goes in and out. You’ll have to hunker close, and you may have to shout for Delta to hear you.”

  Doug and I smiled at each other over cups of tea. I was dusty with flour, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, an apron and running shoes. Doug wore sweat-stained overalls, because he’d just come from vaccinating a small herd of bison.