by R. R. Banks
“You want me to join you?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said, taking one of the chairs. “That’s why you came over, isn’t it?”
“I came over to check on you, and so you would know that someone was thinking about you today,” I said. “I wouldn’t presume to think that you’d invite me to eat with you.”
She looked at me like I had spoken a different language to her and gestured at the chair.
“Sit down,” she said. “Like I said, I’d probably cook this much even without someone coming over, but that doesn’t mean that it’s good for me to try to eat it all myself. My appetite is something that I’ve never had to worry about, and I’m a bit concerned that this whole eating for two thing is going to have dire consequences for my waistline. You know, beyond just the whole bump thing that’s going to happen.”
I laughed and shook my head, holding out my plate to accept the slabs of turkey that she was offering me.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re beautiful.”
Oh, shit. Did I just say that?
Rue was staring at me over the turkey and I tried to avoid her gaze as I reached for the spoon in the mashed potatoes.
“Where’s Flora today?” she asked, obviously trying to cover up my comment.
“She, too, has taken ill,” I said, though the tone of my voice expressed just how much I actually believed that Flora was suffering from anything more than a temper tantrum.
“Oh, really?” she asked. “That’s a shame.”
“Mmmmm,” I said.
By now my plate had more on it than I had eaten in about a week, but I was excited to dig into it. I finished with a drizzle of the gravy that I had watched Rue make and picked up my fork. I took a bite, groaning at the flavors that filled my mouth. I had piled so much together that I wasn’t even sure what it was that I was tasting, but it was unlike anything that I had ever tasted.
“This is incredible,” I said when I swallowed my fifth bite.
“I’m glad you like it,” Rue said. “Most of these were my Grammyma’s recipes.”
“Grammyma?” I asked.
“My grandmother,” I said. “This was her house. It was actually her parents’ before her. I grew up here.”
“You did?” I asked.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” she asked.
“It’s just…” I tried to come up with the right words. “I just don’t see you as part of this.”
Rue narrowed her eyes at me.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Meeting you in the city I could see an intelligence and sophistication about you that just doesn’t seem to fit in around here.”
“Excuse me?” she asked.
The happiness that I had been feeling started to fade as I realized that I had offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to…can we just kind of move past what I said?”
She glared at me for a few seconds and then took another towering bite of the food on her plate. I felt my muscles relax.
By the time we finished eating, I felt like I was going to burst, but when she offered me a slice of fresh sweet potato pie I knew that I couldn’t resist. We walked into the living room and settled onto one of the worn old couches that nearly filled the space. Rue curled her legs under herself and settled her plate of pie on her knees, smiling as she took a bite.
“This was always one of my favorite things that my Grammyma made during the holidays,” she told me.
I took a bite and nodded.
“It’s delicious,” I said.
We ate in silence for a few moments and then she looked at me as if she wanted to say something, then shook her head slightly and looked back down at her pie.
“What?” I asked. “Did you want to say something?”
She looked at me again, her expression saying that she was thinking about something. She shook her head again.
“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t.”
“What?” I asked. “Go ahead. What did you want to say?”
Rue took another bite of her pie.
“Why aren’t you and Flora married?”
Chapter Thirteen
Rue
Richard didn’t respond as aggressively as I would have thought that he would have. I actually didn’t know what to expect when I asked the question, but the quiet, contemplative look that he got didn’t seem to fit. I hadn’t really intended to ask that question. It wasn’t any of my business and one of the things that my Grammyma always taught me was that you should mind your own biscuits. At that moment, however, considering I could be carrying Richard’s biscuit around in my oven I figured that I had a little bit more leeway in learning about him than I might with just any other person.
“Um,” he said, his fork swirling around in the whipped cream on his plate. “I don’t really know.”
“Do you want to marry her?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at him sharply. He seemed just as surprised at himself for giving the answer that I was for hearing it. He stumbled over himself for a few seconds, his eyes flickering from the pie to my face and back to the pie a few times.
“Why don’t you know?” I asked.
I’m already this deep. I might as well just keep on digging.
Richard sighed, and I felt like he had been holding that sigh in for far longer than just the few seconds since I asked the question.
“Have you ever felt like you don’t know where a big part of your life went? Like you woke up and your life has happened, and you didn’t really have any part of it? And now you’re just kind of there and you don’t know what you’re supposed to do about it?”
Well, that’s not the type of answer that I thought I was going to get.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I didn’t think you would.” He sighed again. “Flora and I have always known each other. Literally. Always. Our families have known each other for years and I was only a few years old when she was born, so I don’t remember a time without her. It has always just kind of been assumed that we would end up together. I didn’t really think about it much when I was younger. Even though we were expected to be together, nobody really thought much of us dating other people as long as we went to social occasions together and knew that eventually we would pair off exclusively. Before I knew it, though, that happened. Suddenly her mother was talking wedding venues and our fathers were discussing the ways that our merger would benefit their companies.”
“Merger?” I asked.
“And you can see the type of romance that characterizes our relationship.”
“So why do you go along with it?” I asked. “If you don’t want to be with her, why are you? And why are you trying to have a child with her?”
“We’ve been together for so long that I can’t really imagine anything else. She understands my lifestyle. She understands my culture. She knows that my work is the primary focus of my life right now so she’s not the type of woman who expects me to be at home at a certain time every night or to be able to take the weekends off to spend fixing up the house.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that you spend a lot of time fixing up your house,” I said.
“That’s true,” he said. “But you know what I mean. Flora understands the type of marriage that I would be able to handle and that is expected of both of us. That takes pressure off and I guess I’m comfortable with that idea.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a marriage,” I said.
“I guess it wouldn’t to someone who’s never seen it. But it’s what we know.”
“If you don’t even have time for a wife, why do you want a child? Babies are a lot of work and you can’t just tell them that you aren’t going to be home or that you can’t spend time with them. Well, I suppose you could, but that wouldn’t make you a very good father, and then what would the point be of even having a baby?”
“It’s going to be d
ifferent when the baby gets here,” he said. “I’ve already committed to cutting down on my work and spending more time together as a family. I’ve wanted a baby for a long time. I want a family and for a chance to be a dedicated father. I know that now is the right time to have a child.”
“But if that’s so perfect for you, why haven’t you done it? Wouldn’t it make sense to just go ahead and get married before you have a child?”
“I’ve asked myself the same thing.”
“And have you answered yourself yet?”
He shook his head.
“I guess not.”
I stood and took his empty pie plate from him to carry them into the kitchen.
“Would you want to take a walk?” I asked. “Try to work off some of this Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Gearing up for Thanksgiving supper and Christmas dessert?” he asked.
I laughed.
“Exactly. It’s just something that my grandmother and father and I used to do every Thanksgiving. We’d walk around and visit with the neighbors that might be outside. If we’re lucky we’ll get a chance to see some people putting out their Christmas decorations. The Christmas bowls are something that nobody should miss.”
“The Christmas bowls?”
Richard’s voice followed me upstairs to where I was changing into warmer clothes and doing my level best to get my hair under control. How is it that I have seen this man only a handful of times and two of them involved me looking like the hottest of the hot messes. I should have at least put on clothes rather than yoga pants and an old sweatshirt. It was Thanksgiving, after all. Didn’t people usually look fancy for the holiday? The fanciest my family ever got was my papa putting on his best ugly Christmas sweater by the end of dessert. I squeezed into my skinny jeans, knowing full well that if the baby had stuck I wasn’t going to be able to wear them again within the next few weeks. I wanted to give them a fond farewell while I still had the chance. Dropping a thick sweater over my head, I tucked into my favorite ugly moccasins and headed back downstairs.
Richard was standing by the door with his jacket folded over his arm and smiled at me as I walked down the stairs toward him. I felt a flicker of the sense that this was more than just two people walking off their sweet potato pie, but I pushed the thought away. I couldn’t let my mind go there. That dream had been plenty, and I couldn’t let myself even entertain the thought of any more. Richard followed me out of the house and paused at the front door. I had gone down the first two steps before noticing that he wasn’t following me. I turned and looked at him.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Aren’t you going to lock the door?” he asked.
“We’re just going for a walk,” I said.
He looked at the door.
“You’re not going to lock it?”
“Richard, you aren’t in the city anymore. Half the people in Whiskey Hollow don’t even have keys to their houses. The last time that there was a break-in here it was Jeb Montaigne, he was drunk, and he had wandered into the old barn at the Galloway farm thinking that it was his grandpa’s house. They found him cuddling with a tractor fast asleep.”
“That’s not exactly the crime of the century.”
“No.”
He relented and came down the stairs. We started through the Hollow, the cool air of the afternoon spiraling around us and bringing with it the distinctive smells of outdoor-fried turkeys, pies, and dressing.
“Hi, there, Rue!”
I heard Cletus’s voice before I saw him running toward me through his yard. When I did catch sight of him I saw that he was carrying two ears of corn, freshly grilled and dripping with butter. He held them out to Richard and me.
“Hi, Cletus,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I took one of the ears of corn. “Thank you. I’ll have your pumpkin muffins for you this evening. You come on by and get them for breakfast tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that.”
I bit down into the corn and looked at Richard, who was still staring at the ear that Cletus was holding out to him.
“Richard, this is Cletus. Nobody makes better corn than he does.”
Richard shook his head.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Richard said. “I’m so full I don’t think I could eat another bite.”
Cletus looked hurt and I felt a flicker of embarrassment.
“Alright,” Cletus said. “Well, you two have a nice walk. Rue, I’ll be seeing you later.”
I nodded at Cletus, told him to bring my best to his family, and we continued on.
“You don’t like corn?” I asked.
“It’s not that,” Richard said. “I said I was full.”
“Yeah, you said it. That doesn’t mean that I believe you for a second. I lived in the city and worked in the corporate world for long enough to be able to recognize diplomatic bullshit when I hear it.”
Richard looked surprised, but I didn’t really care. I was back in the Hollow and that meant that I was rapidly shedding the polish that I had piled on to try to fit in better when I relocated. It might not be something that I was always proud of, but it was who I was, and I wasn’t going to hide it, especially in situations when it seemed so appropriate.
“I’m just not used to strangers running out of their homes and handing me food,” he said.
There was a distinct tone of derision in his voice and I felt myself bristle.
“He’s only a stranger to you,” I said. “I’ve known Cletus my entire life and I can’t even tell you how many ears of that corn he’s brought me.”
“I’m sorry,” Richard said. “I didn’t handle that properly.”
We kept going and soon Richard pointed out a house to the side.
“Looks like we’re lucky,” he said. “Christmas decorations. Of course, they look like they’re up all year long, so I don’t know if they really count. That does make getting a jump on your festivities easier.”
I knew he was trying to be funny, but I didn’t find any humor in the comment. I was feeling more and more judged the further that we went, and I didn’t like the feeling. I found my feet moving faster as we kept going, as if I was trying to get the walk over with sooner. We made the wide turn that would bring us through a loop leading back to my house and I saw Sue Ellen up ahead. She was sitting on the front porch like she did every Thanksgiving, churning butter.
“Hi, Sue Ellen!” I called up to her.
She looked up, wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, and smiled at me as she waved.
“Hi, Rue! Are you having a happy Thanksgiving?”
“I am,” I said. “You?”
“Sure am. When are your fruitcakes going to be ready?”
“Next week. I’ll have one by to you.”
“Thank you. It’s good to have you home.”
I waved, and we continued on.
“Fruitcake?” Richard asked, sounding dumbfounded.
I nodded.
“Yes. I make them every year. I start them in October and they soak in brandy until after Thanksgiving.”
“You seriously give people fruitcake? I knew that you must have run away from here because you didn’t like the people, but I didn’t think that you hated them that much.”
He chuckled, but I didn’t find the crack amusing.
“I don’t hate these people,” I said. “Where do you get off saying something like that?”
“You’re the one who told me that you got out of here as fast as you could, and now I see why. Why don’t you let me get you another apartment in the city? It will be much more comfortable for you.”
“I don’t want another apartment in the city,” I said. “If I wanted an apartment in the city, I would have kept the one that I already had. I moved out here for a reason, and I don’t need your approval.”
“Well, you kind of do. If you are pregnant, I do expect a say in your lifestyle, so I can make sure that you’re taking care of my child properly.”
“You might get
to tell me what I should and shouldn’t eat or drink, and you might be able to make me go to some ridiculous medical center that you splashed out on because you’re just too good to use the hospitals that other people do, but you can’t tell me where to live.”
“I’m sorry, Rue,” Richard said, looking around. “But seriously. That woman was churning butter. Churning butter. Aren’t there stores in this place?”
“This place?” I asked. “Do you seriously have your head that far up your ass? Yes, Sue Ellen was churning butter. She does it every year, just like her mother did, her grandmother did, her great-grandmother did, and her great-great-grandmother did. Using that churn. She treats it and preserves it just like they did. Then she molds it and sells it to people Christmas shopping. It’s a family tradition and there are many people in these parts who look forward to her butter every year. As for Cletus’s corn, I would think that someone who was raised in as much of a society-obsessed glass bubble as you were would have some concept of etiquette and manners. He grew that corn himself. He harvested it, probably within the last two days. And he grilled it. He wasn’t just offering you a road snack. That was a piece of him, a piece of the hospitality that you don’t seem to care about in the least. The least you could have done was take it from him. This place might have a total net worth that is equal to your monthly earnings and we might not have the same lofty standards of living that you do, but at least we care about each other and don’t go around hurting people because we think it’s funny, or we think we’re better than everyone else. Whether you like it or not, Richard, this is my home. Now, I’m going to go back to my house, clean up, and watch movies. Alone. Happy Thanksgiving.” I took a few steps toward the house and then whirled around to face him again. “And I’ll have you know that my fruitcake is fucking delicious.”
I stalked back to the house not even caring if he was following me, hoping that he wasn’t. I didn’t want to see his face. I felt angry and disgusted, but more than that, I felt an unexpected, and possibly unwarranted, sense of disappointment. I didn’t know what I should have expected. He was a spoiled, entitled man with wealth completely beyond even my wildest dreams. It wasn’t so far of a leap to imagine that he was going to be conceited, arrogant, and self-righteous as well. Seeing it, though, had been painful. I thought, somehow, that he was going to be different. I thought that there was something about him that made him unlike the other wealthy men I had encountered in my career.