'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “Shiloh. You worked for the New York Times.”

  “And my boss was the Wicked Witch of the West. Or North, I should say. We put salt in her coffee.” I leaned forward. “Jerry, you gave Trinity money when she needed it, and you sent me home and worked my shifts yourself when I needed sleep. Trinity already told us you’ve put tonight’s meal on the house, and you’re paying for our wedding rehearsal dinner here at The Green Tree. No. This time I’ll do something for you.”

  And I know you live in a broken-down house with no car, so don’t argue with me.

  “Wait a second.” I shook my finger at him. “On the other hand, you posted that ridiculous cow picture of me back there by the register. I saw it. Maybe I’ll reconsider.”

  “Oh, you saw that?” He chuckled. “Well, ya oughtta reconsider.” Jerry’s eyes had misted behind his round wire glasses, making him look less redneck restaurant owner and more tenderhearted poet.

  “It’s done. When do you want us to come over and start going over ideas?”

  “I’ll…uh…just go get my Day-Timer.” He stumbled off the chair as if in shock.

  “Wait. Just one thing.” I pointed to the vase, about to ask.

  But Jerry’s brain apparently moved faster than my mouth. “Hey, wait a second.” He leaned over the table, face creased in bewilderment. “Where’d my chrysanthemums go? Did Trinity put ’em somewhere?”

  “I really don’t know what to make of it.” Adam shook his head as we cut into appetizer sweet potato fries with our forks, crisp and piping hot. “If Jerry didn’t put the rose there, who did? Somebody in the back maybe?” He aimed an accusatory look toward the double doors.

  “Like Flash the cook?” I imagined him there at the deep fryer, laughing and showing his missing tooth. An apron wrapped around his stick-skinny middle. “I don’t think so. He always treated me respectfully. A perfect gentleman.”

  I reached for the creamy, spicy dipping sauce. “And I don’t know the dishwashers anymore. It’s a restaurant, Adam. Anybody could come in here right off the street, and nobody would notice.”

  I’d stuck the rose vase on an empty table, and it grinned at me among the scraped plates and disheveled napkins. “But I don’t want to talk about roses anymore.” I turned my chair away from the vase. “And I don’t want to talk about Mom either. Let’s enjoy tonight, for five minutes. Please.”

  Adam laced his fingers through mine, eyes bright from across the white tablecloth. “You did the right thing with Jerry, Shiloh. I’m proud of you. And that’s why I wanted to bring you here to The Green Tree.”

  “Because the restaurant’s in trouble?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. Jerry just said he wanted to talk to us about something.” Adam took a sip of his cider. “But I know you have a lot of memories here, and I wanted to give you some good news.”

  “Really?” I speared a crunchy orange wedge of sweet potato fry with my fork and swirled it in the sauce. “Tell me. I could use some.”

  Adam seemed to be holding back a smile, reaching across the table to brush a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “What’s the good news? You shot a deer?” I grinned in jest and shook the sauce off my fry, sorting through slightly more realistic possibilities. A raise? A new job offer? Something about the college engineering course he’d start in the fall?

  “It’s not deer season yet, Shiloh.” Adam chuckled. “No. Better than that.”

  “What then?”

  When he told me, I let go of my fork and sweet potato fry, dropping it all coated with sauce right down the front of my shirt.

  Chapter 8

  Ro-chan! I’ve been trying to call you for days! Where’ve you been?” Kyoko Morikoshi hollered into the Bluetooth as my Honda swished past sunny fields, headed to work at The Leader office.

  A bit later than usual, I might add, because Kevin kept me up all night writing up a house fire.

  “Where’ve I been? Cow tipping,” I replied, accelerating over a gentle rise in the narrow two-lane road. Frilly tufts of creamy white Queen Anne’s Lace rippled in the summer breeze as I mentally sifted through my shopping schedule with Becky: price wedding dresses and cakes, choose colors for the bridesmaids’ dresses, and, oh, look for wedding flowers. Even though the mere thought of fragrant petals turned me off.

  All of this while returning pointless calls from Rask Florist, where nobody could tell me anything. Brandy finally told me she’d mixed up the dates and Tammy wouldn’t be back for another week.

  Argh.

  “You’ve been cow tipping? Very funny.” Kyoko snorted. “And that picture I got from Becky better be a joke, hear me?”

  I’m toast. I’m really and truly toast. “Actually I’ve discovered cows don’t really sleep standing up,” I managed, attempting bright nonchalance. And pointedly avoiding her question. “Tim says it’s an urban myth, and I’d have to agree.”

  I heard Kyoko suck in her breath and decide if I was joking. “You’re making this up,” she snapped, but I could tell I’d worried her. “Aren’t you?”

  I laughed, and Kyoko relaxed.

  “Partially.”

  Her sigh of relief stopped abruptly. “Ro,” she moaned. “What am I going to do with you? You’re becoming a hayseed the longer you stay there in Virginia! I can feel it!”

  I didn’t know which was funnier—Kyoko’s nickname for me, made from the first syllable of my name butchered in Japanese plus the honorific -chan that declared me honorable—or her contempt for all things redneck and backward.

  Well, not all things, technically. I think last year’s visit to my house changed her mind a bit, although she’d never admit it now.

  “I still don’t do grits, pig’s feet, or squirrel,” I reminded her. “Some things never change.”

  “Yeah, well, they’d better not.” Kyoko sounded grumpy. I could imagine her black-lined eyes glaring as she held her glittery cell phone. Shoulder-length, shiny, mushroom-shaped black hair, dyed a burgundy-reddish shade (if her most recent Facebook and Azuki photos told the truth) with some new pink streaks. Eyebrow piercing and nose ring glinting in the light. Black suit jacket to cover her tattoos, or at least make dress code for the Associated Press office.

  “You working now, Kyoko?”

  “Are you crazy? It’s 10 p.m. here. I never take work home. I’ve been in Okinawa doing a few last stories before I go.”

  “Go?”

  “You know. Leave Japan.”

  Yep. She was really leaving. For Japanese-American Kyoko, all the bowing and mouth-covering and incessant apologies went against her…well, crabby grain. Angry music pounded in the background, as if in agreement.

  “I left you a ton of happy-birthday messages though,” said Kyoko, thankfully turning down the music. “Did you get them?”

  “I did. Thanks.” I smiled, wishing Kyoko would move close by so we could eat tonkatsu fried pork with chopsticks again. Me giving her a hard time about her smoking and horrible music, and Kyoko ranting about cowboy hats and gun racks. “And your birthday’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

  “Two weeks after yours, babe. The same day as Kaine here at the office. Statistically, the odds are greater that two people will actually share the same birthday than not. Know why? Because…”

  And she launched into her birthday-statistics speech. Goodness knows I’d heard it enough times. At least she hadn’t started talking about the ’80s. When she started, then we were usually up all night.

  Amanda. We shared the same birthday. Different years, of course, but both June twelfth. Goose bumps tingled on my arm.

  “I’ve got some black sugar from Okinawa to mail you, too,” Kyoko said, interrupting my thoughts. “It was either that or raw goat soup, but I figured US customs might not be so happy with that one.”

  “Wonder if Jerry’d like that soup recipe for The Green Tree?” I joked, but my mind had already slipped back into “Amanda” territory. I pressed my lips together, trying to carefully phrase my next ques
tion. “You didn’t leave any messages on Adam’s phone, did you, Kyoko? Maybe…for my birthday?”

  “Me? No. What would I have to ask him about, shipping rates? Seeing how he’s at UPS now?” She paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s been getting a bunch of…um…weird calls. Somebody asking for him and wanting to know when he’ll be home. Hang ups. That sort of thing.”

  “Eliza Harrison?”

  I flinched at the name of a girl Adam had grown up with. And whom his parents had, many years before, hoped he’d marry.

  “No. A man. Not sounding too friendly.”

  “Then why did you ask me if I called him, Ro?” Kyoko bellowed. “I might be chunky and scary and chop my hair off, but I’m not a guy.”

  “I didn’t mean that! And stop calling yourself chunky. You look great.” I drove over a very dead road-killed possum, trying not to look. “I sort of hoped you were the one calling him. A joke or something, since you have so many…shall we say…’unusual’ skills. Computer hacking and so forth.”

  “Well, I didn’t call him. Although I can start, if you like. I’ve got this great new voice on my computer that does Marvin the Martian in Japanese.”

  I chuckled. “Well, thanks for the birthday messages anyway. My birthday would have been better though without Clarence’s dumb rumors.”

  “Who?”

  “Clarence. The weirdo mail guy at work that Meg swears used to be a CIA agent or something. Nobody knows much about him, except he loves to stir up stories about everybody. This time he made all these insinuations about my car being parked in The Leader parking lot last Friday until late, since Adam drove me to dinner.”

  “Oh, that Clarence. The one who convinced the whole staff you were pregnant a while back.”

  “That’s him. The creep.” I pushed the accelerator harder, feeling the transmission complain again.

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “Not what?”

  “Pregnant.”

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” I roared, angrily flipping the visor out of the way. “Of course not! If you think for one second I—”

  I broke off, hot-faced and furious, at Kyoko’s loud guffaws.

  “I’m kidding, Ro! That farmer of yours seems pretty straightlaced to me. He probably hasn’t even kissed you yet.”

  “Shut up.” I’d never, ever said that to Kyoko. But she deserved it.

  Especially since he actually…hadn’t.

  I fidgeted with my seat belt, suddenly uneasy. Remembering how near Adam and I had come to kissing so many times, his eyes dark and brilliant and his breath warm on my cheek. But every time his lips came too close to mine, he pulled away.

  Cautious, yes. Respectful, definitely.

  And…. odd. Just a little. Frustrating, too.

  I asked him once, albeit indirectly, and he fumbled with his truck keys, nearly dropping them down a storm drain—and promptly changed the subject. But not before I saw his face flush ever so slightly, uncomfortable red next to sandy-blond hair.

  Kyoko snickered. “Chill, babe. This is payback for all those nasty pork rinds you sent me last year.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” A corner of my mouth quirked up in a guilty smile. “I remember that.”

  “They make nice packing peanuts. Wait till you get your next care package, bucko.”

  Kyoko’d probably left her apartment window open because I heard the cawing of a crow. A Japanese crow—I’d seen Virginia turkeys on display in the grocer’s case smaller than the crows in Tokyo—and its haunting sound made me suck in my breath. Remembering.

  “Kyoko, you’re lucky you still live in Japan. I wish I did. Most of the time.” I rolled up the car window so I could hear better, blotting out fragrant morning scents of verdant earth and wild daisies, sun-warmed grass and damp leaves. And then I heard it low and soft through my Bluetooth: a wisp of summery cicada chants coming from Kyoko’s end of the line, tapering off for the night. Different from the Southern whispers in the trees. Musical. Metallic. Distinctive.

  “Well, you’d still be here in Japan if you hadn’t gotten caught copying that dumb story.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “But I also wouldn’t have Adam.”

  “Good point. He’s a keeper, I guess, even if he does drive a pickup truck.” Kyoko yawned, a dead giveaway that she was about to pounce again. “So how old is he again? Sixteen? Seventeen? I forget.”

  Flaming color clawed its way up my neck. “He’s twenty-three, Kyoko. Almost twenty-four.” I pressed on the gas. “Hey, you’re the one who said age didn’t really matter.”

  “It doesn’t.” She chuckled. “I might be practically twenty-seven, but yesterday I met this little fresh-scrubbed Marine recruit from the base, and if things were different, I’d—”

  “Stop it!” I shrieked, turning up the radio as loud as it would go. “I am NOT hearing this!”

  “Don’t worry. He had a girlfriend already.” Kyoko sighed, and I slowly turned down the volume. Some goofy advertising for pickup truck KC lights, which I hoped she didn’t hear. “Anyway, that farmer of yours is all right. I met him, remember? At least he doesn’t crochet clothes for his anime comic dolls like one of my last dates.”

  I forgot my next sentence.

  “It’s true. Well, I’m leaving Japan soon anyway.” Kyoko’s voice came harsh and strident in my ears, as if she’d dumped a bowl of hot ramen noodle soup in my lap. “Although honorably, unlike you. I bought my tickets yesterday.”

  I silenced, remembering our strolls through Tokyo sidewalks, golden ginkgo leaves falling in a yellow shower all around us. And soon Kyoko would leave Japan, severing my last link to the country I loved.

  No more postcards. No more stinky packages of seaweed rice crackers and dried fish.

  And once Kyoko moved off to her next post, no more of the Japan-Kyoko memories I held so close to my heart.

  “You’re really leaving?” I managed, biting my lip.

  “Yep. I’ve done my time here, and I’m ready to move on.” Kyoko paused. “Don’t cry or anything, okay? I told you months ago.”

  She didn’t get my new and unexpected displays of emotion. After all, I hadn’t cried since I was seven, the day my dad walked out the door. Until Virginia. Until last year.

  “Won’t you miss Japan, Kyoko?”

  “No, I love separating my trash into six different piles, hanging up my milk cartons to dry with little clips, and memorizing which day of the week burnables, nonburnables, cans, glass, and bottles go out,” she retorted, a sarcastic bite in her voice. “I may be environmentally conscious, Ro, but I swear even Greenpeace would go nuts if they spent three years here. They’d start screaming and chucking stuff out windows. Dumping Styrofoam in Tokyo Bay.”

  I laughed, but it faded quickly. “But the subways! Mount Fuji, and noodle shops, and—”

  “I can’t wait to buy clothes in normal sizes either,” Kyoko blabbered on, not appearing to hear me. “Not little dainty things my two-year-old niece could wear. I have to buy clothes in the ‘jumbo’ section here!”

  “Come on. There must be something you’ll miss from Japan.”

  “Let me think…the traffic jams? Driving on the left? Oh, sorry. That would be you.”

  “It takes a while once you come back to the States,” I shot back. “Don’t think you’re going to do any better.”

  “Please. They wouldn’t even notice it in San Fran, the way everybody drives on the freeway. I once saw a guy going backward at seventy miles per hour—and he passed me, too!”

  “Well, I love Japan. I always will, I guess.” I clicked on my turn signal at an empty intersection. “Come visit me during hunting season when people skin deer carcasses in their backyards, and pacifist Japan might start looking pretty good. You’ll beg Dave for a transfer back.”

  “Whoa. Deer carcasses? Do you have any pictures?”

  “Huh?”

  “For my redneck collection. I could make a great screen saver out of that. May
be hack it into somebody’s computer at the office.” She sucked in an excited breath. “Hey, can you get me a mounted deer head? What a great conversation starter on life and death! Or no—just death.” Kyoko snickered.

  “Ugh. Please.” I waved my hand. “No death talk.” Not after I’d spent another hour sorting through Amanda’s file, trying to understand this case that wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Listen,” I began, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I rounded a smooth curve, sloped lines of the mountains appearing through a thicket of oaks and pines. “Do you think there’s any chance a woman who disappeared twelve years ago could still be alive?”

  “Twelve years? That’s a stretch. Why?”

  “I’m just curious about a local crime story. She just vanished. No trace.”

  “Did she get anonymous flowers beforehand?”

  I jerked the steering wheel, swerving so much my tire bumped against the grassy shoulder, jarring my teeth.

  “I just read a novel where the serial killer starts by sending the women flowers—you know, funeral flowers. Lilies and stuff. And then when he sends the ribboned wreath, it’s time to—”

  “Cut it out!” I screeched, sorry I’d asked. I guided the car back onto the asphalt with a soft bump. Fingers shaking on the steering wheel. “Forget it. Let’s talk about something else. Like Adam’s good news.”

  Kyoko chuckled. “Why do you think I called, Ro?”

  “To congratulate me?” A muddy truck passed me, going too fast, and I waited for the whine of the engine to fade. “Adam found a buyer for my house, Kyoko! His uncle’s going to buy it. It’s a miracle.” I exhaled, watching the green pastures and ribbon of asphalt spin past me, reviving my Japan-sad spirits. “By the end of July—just in time for our wedding in August. He got a job transfer with a company here in Staunton and wants to move in right away.”

  “I heard. That’s fantastic, Ro. Really.”

  “And he’s paying the full asking price! Do you know how rare that is? That’s way more than that last offer.”

  “You deserve it.” Her voice turned tender. “I’ll even miss that silly screen door on your front porch.”