High Cotton

by Debby Mayne

  What amazes me about these girls is their ability to argue one minute and then turn around and act like they never said a cross word to each other. They clearly don’t hold grudges, but I’m not sure if that’s only between the two of them or how they are with everyone. I don’t plan to test them.

  “You’re the best cook ever,” Sara says one night over a spaghetti dinner I prepared from a jar. “Can you give me the recipe?”

  “I won’t tell Mama you said that.” Sally takes another bite and sighs. “But I agree that it’s the best I’ve ever had. This is delicious.”

  When I tell them how simple it is to cook, they seem astonished. Sara shakes her head. “If we knew how easy it was, we wouldn’t have eaten out so much.” She twirls some noodles around her fork and holds it in midair. “We would have had this at least every other night.”

  Flattery is a great motivator for me. “What would you girls like tomorrow night?”

  They exchange a glance and shrug in unison. “Surprise us.”

  “Okay.” I finish eating my spaghetti and stand. “Have y’all decided what to do about the family reunion?” I look back and forth between them. “You’re both going, right?”

  “Yeah.” Sally makes a face. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  They nod. “What are you bringing?”

  “I’m bringing deviled eggs, but I haven’t decided what else yet.” Since I have yet to taste a single thing prepared by them in the kitchen, I assume they’re not bringing anything, so I don’t even ask.

  “We’re bringing pies,” Sara pipes up.

  “Pies?” Now I’m surprised. “What kind?”

  Sally shoots Sara a warning glance, but Sara ignores her. “Whatever they have when we go to the bakery.”

  “Well . . .” I think back to the last reunion. “I imagine there’ll be plenty of pecan pies and maybe an apple pie or two. Why don’t y’all do peach or maybe even chocolate?”

  “Chocolate!” Sara’s eyes sparkle. “I didn’t even think of that.”

  “And you know what? You don’t even have to go to the bakery. I can teach y’all how to make a chocolate pie that’ll knock everyone’s socks off.”

  Sara shakes her head. “We’re not very good in the kitchen.”

  “You don’t have to be. My recipe is so easy, you can be the worst cook in the world and it’ll still come out perfect.”

  Again, they look at each other and then at me. “Okay,” Sally says. “When can we do it?”

  “How about we clean up this mess, go to the store for the ingredients, and make it tonight? It’ll be a trial run.”

  “Can we eat some tonight?”

  “I don’t see why not. After we stick it in the fridge, it only takes about an hour to set.”

  “Then let’s get this place cleaned up.”

  Both girls hop up out of their chairs and start clearing the dishes away. I’ve never seen them so excited about cleaning anything—especially the kitchen. Now I know how to get them to do it.

  An hour later, we’re back home with all of the ingredients laid out on the counter. “I can’t believe you use pudding mix,” Sally says. “That seems like cheating.”

  I widen my eyes and give her a mock warning look. “No one else has to know, okay?”

  Sara does a lip-zip with her fingers across her lips. “I’ll never tell.”

  I show them what to do and let them assemble everything. After they pour the pudding mix into the graham-cracker crust, Sally sticks it in the fridge.

  She straightens up and stares at the refrigerator door. “If this turns out good, I’ll be making chocolate pie every night.”

  “And you’ll get fat,” Sara says.

  “Correction: we’ll get fat. I know you, and if there’s a chocolate pie in the house, you won’t stop eating until it’s gone.”

  I can’t help but smile at the playfulness of these girls. Now I know that when I lighten up around them, I might actually enjoy our time together.

  My phone rings. When I see that it’s Elliot, I take it to my room and answer.

  “So how’s everything with you?” he asks.

  I tell him all about the condo sale and purchase and how the twins are living with me now. He laughs at some of the things I tell him, like how they seem too young to be successful business tycoons who are about to purchase their own condo.

  “How old were you when you bought your first place?” he asks.

  “Early twenties.”

  “I was a little older.” He pauses. “I’d been married about five years before we bought the house of my ex’s dreams. We could barely afford it. I thought that would make her happy, but apparently there’s no pleasing someone like her.”

  A sense of dread washes over me. I’m not sure he’ll ever get over talking about his ex. I listen to him rant for another few seconds.

  Finally, he stops himself. “I am so sorry, Shay. You’re just so easy to talk to, I forgot myself.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  “You said you’d have coffee with me sometime. Are you still up for that?”

  “Sure.” I try to tamp down my excitement. “When?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  Foster has tried his best to be attentive ever since our bowling fiasco a few days ago. Our team won, but one of the other ladies couldn’t accept the win without making a dig about my bowling stance. She was loud, too, which only made it worse because everyone at the bowling alley could hear her. And then Foster joined in on the laughter. I cried all the way home, and that quieted him down.

  Now that he realizes I’m not made of Teflon, he’s trying his derndest to be nice. And for the most part, he’s succeeding with only an occasional slip-up.

  So I take advantage of his guilty conscience and let him know it’s time we go out someplace nice for dinner. He hates dressing up, but after a tad more prodding, he finally nods and asks where I want to go.

  I lift an eyebrow and give him one of my looks. “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “I’ll take you out to eat anywhere your little heart desires.”

  “I want to go to Stephen’s.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Stephen’s? That place’ll cost me an arm and a leg.”

  “No,” I say slowly. “Just an arm. I won’t order the lobster.”

  “I don’t think we need to go there.”

  “But you said—” I sigh. “Oh, never mind. I should have known you didn’t mean it when you said we could go anywhere I wanted to.”

  “Why would you want to go to a place where the prices are sky high?”

  “Because the food’s good, and the service makes me feel special.”

  “Your cookin’ is just as good as theirs. There’s no point in making the owner rich when we can eat fancy food here. I’ll even throw a towel over my arm and pretend to be your waiter.” He turns around and picks up the outdoor magazine he dropped on the table a couple of days ago.

  Now I’ve had it. “Foster, I want . . .” I swallow hard.

  He picks up one of his hunting magazines and starts thumbing through the pages as though I’m not even there. I stare at him in disbelief, clearing my throat and making little sounds to get his attention, but he doesn’t even look at me.

  “Don’t you even care what I want?” I hear the frantic screech in my voice, but at this point, I don’t care.

  He lowers the magazine and looks at me with concern. “What do you want, Missy?”

  “I think we need to see a counselor.”

  “What?”

  I raise my voice. “A marriage counselor.”

  “Why on earth would we need a marriage counselor?”

  “Because I’m not happy, and something around here has to change.”

  His chin drops, and I fully expect him to make noise. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs. “I suppose it’s about time I take you out someplace nice. You’re probably getting sick and tired of fast food,
and you do work mighty hard around here.” He flinches. “Maybe we should go to that fancy restaurant.”

  Ya think? I don’t say that, but it’s obvious enough to me and should be to him. After all, he knows it’s been years since we’ve gone to a restaurant where they don’t have paper napkins in a metal container on the table.

  “But I still think we should see a—”

  He holds up his hands. “Let’s discuss that counselor thing later. Right now I want to talk about eatin’ at that fancy restaurant.”

  I know this is his way of avoiding something he has no intention of doing, let alone talking about. So he has chosen the lesser of what he considers two evils, and that means we’ll go to Stephen’s. And that’s fine for now. But I’m not letting go of the counseling idea. There is no doubt in my mind that we need it.

  I give him a slow nod. “Okay.”

  “Then I reckon we’ll need to make reservations.”

  “Absolutely,” I agree. “You have to do that at Stephen’s.”

  Since I know he’ll forget to call for reservations, I do it. The only times they have available for the next couple of weeks are early evening, which is fine with me. In fact, I don’t care what time our reservations are as long as we can go.

  On the afternoon of Foster’s and my date, I lay his suit, shirt, and tie on the bed. I polish the shoes he only wears to weddings and funerals and put them where he’ll see them when he first walks in.

  Then I take a long, leisurely bubble bath. By the time Foster gets home, I’m out of the tub and putting on my makeup.

  “Why’re you puttin’ on all that war paint? It’s not like I don’t know what your face looks like au naturale.”

  I puff some powder over my nose as I look at him in the mirror. I lift my chin and raise my voice to make sure he gets the point. “It’s for everyone else. I want them to think you have a pretty wife.”

  He gives me one of those heart-stopping grins I remember from when I first fell in love with him, then he wraps his arms around me. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, Missy. I know I have the prettiest wife in all of Mississippi.”

  In spite of the fact that we’ve been married for more than twenty years, and I’ve been frustrated as all get-out lately, my insides get all squishy. Before I have a chance to turn around and give him a kiss, he lets go and mumbles something about having to put on his monkey suit.

  “You look so handsome in a suit, Foster. I’ll feel like the princess out with her prince tonight.”

  “Are you gonna wear that tight red dress? Last time you had it on, you complained the whole night.”

  I shake my head. “No, I have something special to wear.” I grin and wiggle my eyebrows as he holds my gaze in the mirror. “I think you’ll be happy.”

  He takes a shower while I finish applying my makeup. After he gets out, he walks over to his suit, stares at it for a moment, then starts putting it on. By the time he has his shoes laced, I’m standing by the closet wearing my brand-new red dress and some shoes that kill my feet but make my legs look shapely.

  The instant he notices me, his jaw goes slack and his eyes bug out. A grin creeps across his face, and he extends his arms toward me. “C’mere, Missy, and give your man a kiss.”

  I shake my head. “Not now, big boy. I don’t want to mess up my face. It took me almost a half hour to get it like I want it.”

  “Then let’s go get this thing over with so we can come back here and mess up your face.”

  Most women would probably get upset with his attitude, but I’m used to it. The most important thing is that he has finally listened, and he’s taking me someplace nice for dinner.

  The maître d’ gives me a long look of approval, and I have to force myself not to grin like an idiot. It’s been such a long time since a man—any man, besides my husband a little while ago—has looked at me like that.

  Foster possessively puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me away from the maître d’ stand. As we’re waiting to be seated, he leans over and whispers, “You look beautiful, sweetheart, but I don’t like those other men gawking at you.”

  “Foster, you know you have absolutely nothing to worry about. I’m married to you, and I’ll stay that way.”

  He smiles at me with open admiration. “That’s what I like to hear. I was beginning to wonder.”

  As soon as we sit down, I take a sip of water and open my menu. I almost choke on the water when I see how much they’re charging for tiny little steaks. Maybe Foster was right. I clear my throat and do my best to regain my composure.

  Foster contorts his mouth. “Looks like the prices are a little higher than I thought.”

  “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “Not a chance,” he says. “I’m in the mood to be treated like royalty, and I reckon if that’s what I want, I’ll have to pay a pretty penny for it.”

  We both order the most basic—and cheapest—chicken dish they have on the menu, knowing it’ll be better than the most expensive chicken anywhere else. I have no doubt it will probably be a very long time before we’re able to return, so I vow to savor every bite and enjoy the experience as much as possible.

  To my delight, Foster seems content and downright pleasant throughout the meal. He gives me all of his attention and compliments me on some of the things I’ve done recently.

  “You’ve been a good mama and wife,” he says. “I don’t know how you do it, day in and day out.” He shakes his head. “When you decided to go work at the senior center, I thought you’d lost your mind, and to be honest with you, I thought you might not have enough time to keep up with all the things you do at home.”

  I resist the urge to comment. Sometimes I think the same thing, but I do enjoy having my little job and the regular paycheck, small as it is.

  “But you never skip a beat. You’re an amazing woman, Missy, and I want you to know how much I appreciate everything about you.”

  Whoa. Who is this man, and what did he do with my husband?

  “I mean it,” he continues. “I know I don’t say this often enough, but you’re the best wife a man could ever ask for.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I—”

  He holds up his hands to stop me. “Wait. I’m not finished.” He takes a sip of his water and sets the glass back on the table. “I want to apologize for not getting all excited about you winning the chili contest.”

  “I didn’t think you heard me.”

  “I didn’t.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “Some of the guys at work told me about it.”

  One of the servers approaches from behind Foster and speaks softly. “Would you like—”

  Foster keeps talking as though he can’t hear the server. I narrow my eyes and nod in the direction of the server. Foster glances over his shoulder.

  “Oh, did you need something?” Foster asks.

  “Did you not hear him come up behind you?”

  My husband slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t hear a thing. In fact, I had no idea he was there until you nodded.”

  Then it dawns on me. My husband isn’t ignoring me. He can’t hear me.

  “No, absolutely not.” I close my eyes and shake my head. I’ve shown as much patience as I can manage. But no more. “Why can’t they be out of the condo before the closing? I want to do a walk-through before I sign the papers, and you know how hard that is with someone’s junk in the way.”

  And I’m talking major junk that has been collected over the years. The first time I saw the place, they had their stuff in a storage unit, but the second time, they’d brought it all back into the condo, and it was a huge mess, with boxes stacked to the ceiling.

  “It’s a personal thing.” Conrad clears his throat. “Something to do with her health. A female problem, I think. It’s taking longer than they expected to get everything in order.”

  “Like what?” I’ve made the most of living with the twins, and I can honestly say it’s been fun—but only because I have assumed that it�
��s for a limited time. “I’ve never heard of the sellers moving out after the closing.” Frustration makes my stomach hurt. “A week or two after closing?”

  “It happens sometimes.” He sniffles and makes a few more sounds with his throat, letting me know how uncomfortable he is discussing this. “Let me talk to them and see if there’s anything else we can do.”

  “Fine. Let me know as soon as possible. I want to move in right after I sign.”

  After we hang up, I lean back in my office chair and think about the conversation. I’m due to close on my new condo in a few days, so I’ve made arrangements for movers to take all of my furniture, and I have my personal items already boxed up. I can tell that even the twins are eager to have me out of there.

  One of the vendors calls and interrupts my thoughts, which is a good thing. If it weren’t for my job, I don’t know what I’d do. It’s the one thing in my life that is at least somewhat predictable. Even the problems are typically the same ones over and over, so I’m well rehearsed in dealing with them. I get bored, but at least I know what I’m doing in that environment.

  The remainder of the afternoon is filled with dealing with warehouse issues, handling shipping problems, and soothing sales reps’ anxiety. These are tough times, even for the grocery business, so a lot of what I do involves hand-holding and counseling.

  At the end of the day, I head to the condo that I used to call home but now see as an insane asylum. Both twins’ cars are in the driveway, but I’m happy to see that they’ve left the garage for me. We’ve already closed on the place, so if they want, they can justify taking the garage away from me. I have no room to complain.

  I walk into the living room and see one of them in my favorite chair and the other sitting on the couch, both their feet on the coffee table, papers strewn everywhere, talking about their business. I’ve always been a neatnik, so I have to stifle a low growl.

  “You look miserable, Shay.” Sally stands and gestures toward the chair. “Why don’t you take a load off and I’ll fix you some tea?”

  I force a smile. “That’s really sweet of you, but even tea won’t help me now.”