'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  Adam. I closed my eyes, remembering the feel of his fingers through mine.

  Jerry pointed at me. “Now git that chin up, and go get your paycheck. It’s at the register.” And he disappeared into the kitchen, the double doors swinging closed behind him.

  “G’won.” Becky gave me a push, smiling through her tears. “You heard the man. Git.”

  I slipped behind the register counter and dug through stacks of neatly ordered receipts and register tapes. Accounting ledgers and vouchers. Not finding anything resembling a paycheck. I bent down and dug through the cabinets, coming up with nothing but extra menus and a stray peppermint.

  “Hey, Shiloh. You lookin’ for yer check?” Flash the cook leaned over the counter, the white apron tied around his scrawny middle, wet and stained with grease. “It’s back in Jer’s office. Jest g’won in and git it.”

  “You’re sure?” I stood up.

  “Yep. Jer’s awful forgetful these days. Lot on his mind, I reckon.” He clapped my shoulder affectionately, his sideways grin showing a missing tooth. “And worried sick about ya. We all are.”

  Becky waited at the register, checking her watch and trying to call Adam while I followed Flash back through the kitchen doors. From across the kitchen I saw Jerry on his back in a puddle of water, reaching up with a wrench and twisting at a copper pipe, grunting with effort. Reaching into a bucket piled with plumbing supplies.

  “G’won. I’ll go he’p Jer.” Flash cracked open the office door—a glorified closet, really—and I ducked inside. I flipped on the bare overhead bulb and gingerly moved some papers around on his desk, feeling like a crook as I sorted through somebody else’s things.

  The desk bulged with books—recipe and cooking books—and under them Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, and a collection of classical Japanese poems. I smiled, lifting them to look through the stacks of documents underneath.

  And out of one of the books fell a crumpled note.

  “I love you, my dearest,” it read in scratchy red ink. “How can I count the ways? I think of you over and over, throughout my longest days, and watch the minutes to see you again.”

  Chapter 33

  I snatched up my paycheck and fled out of the office, finding the dining room empty. Becky’d probably gone to the bathroom or something. But I didn’t wait. I threw open the glass doors to the street, stumbling against the side of the building as I fled headlong away from The Green Tree.

  “Becky!” I gasped into my cell phone as her voice mail picked up. “Where are you? You’ve got to get out of there! Now!”

  I scrambled between two crumbly brick buildings and bent over in the back alley, my stomach churning. Crouching to my knees and trying not to heave.

  Thinking of Jerry. Of those beautiful trees and noodle plates, and his hand on my arm.

  My cell phone rang, and I snatched it up.

  “Shah-loh? Where the blazes are ya?” Becky chirped, her words high-pitched in irritation.

  “I’m a block behind The Green Tree. Come get me, Becky. Please.”

  In the background I heard Jerry’s anxious voice, but I snapped the cell phone off and waited, shaking, until Becky’s sedan screeched around the corner.

  “Yankee, I outta clobber you good!” she shouted angrily from the car, flinging open the passenger door. “Why, you up an’ ran outta there Like…”

  She stopped short when she saw my tear-streaked cheeks. “What happened?” Becky rolled her head into her hand and muttered under her breath. “Lands, woman, yer gonna give me a heart attack!”

  She pulled back into the street, hazard lights blinking, while I clumsily shut the door and choked back a sob.

  Becky shook me till my teeth rattled. “Speak, woman, or I’m goin’ to the police!” She glared. “An’ ain’t gonna be no Shane Pendergrass there ta he’p ya out.”

  “Not the police!” I choked. “Not yet! I just can’t. Go to the bank. Please. And then I’ll figure out what to do.”

  “What to do about what?”

  “About Jerry.”

  Becky ran over a curb and careened back into the street with a screech. “You think…you think Jerry’s… ?”

  “Odysseus. Yes.”

  To my surprise, Becky’s face glowed with furious color. “Now, hold on one cotton-pickin’ minute!” she shouted, her eyes flashing. “You done gone too far this time, Shah-loh Jacobs! Jerry ain’t been nothin’ but nice ta any of us! You’re jest stressed is all. Not that I blame ya. But you gotta cut out all this Jerry nonsense before ya—”

  “Pull over.”

  “What? I ain’t gonna pull over for no—”

  “Pull over!” I shouted, and Becky jerked the car into a gas station. She threw it into PARK, seething.

  And I shoved my cell phone at her.

  I watched as she flipped through the photos I’d snapped, one by startling one: red card envelopes and red ribbons. A Japanese kanji writing guide for foreigners. A glossy volume on Japanese culture.

  “Your eyes are like stars,” he’d written on a scrap of notebook paper in red, several words scratched out. “Shining their beautiful warmth to my soul. I can’t wait for the day when we can be together….”

  Some little abstract doodles of hearts, Japanese kanji, a piece of sushi—and…an eye. A woman’s eye, with long lashes.

  And a thick, brown, leather-bound volume labeled Paradise Lost in block script.

  Like a sick Dali painting, Becky’s angry face morphed into disbelief, then hurt, then a puddle of tears. Her hands shook on the cell phone.

  “Copper shavings.” I could barely speak. “Jerry was fixing copper pipes just now.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Becky said, wiping her face. “I don’t care what ya say! Somebody planted everything. Cain’t be Jerry! No way under the sun he’d—”

  “He collects stamps. And there’s one missing on the page of the year Amanda was born.” I pointed to an empty yellowish square in a dark blue album. “The double-heart stamp. It’s gone.”

  Even Becky startled into silence.

  “But…that Odysseus fella kept talkin’ about broken hearts,” she finally said, fumbling for a tissue. “What’s that hafta do with Jerry?”

  “I left him.”

  “You never dated him, Shah-loh! Ya only worked there.” She raised an eyebrow. “ ’Less I was mistaken about them long hours.”

  “Of course not, Becky!” I smacked her. “But maybe…in his mind it meant something else.”

  I slumped back in the seat. “I mean, taste-testing recipes in a kitchen full of servers and cooks hardly seems like a romantic tryst, but…” I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm. “Jerry lied to me just now.”

  “Jest now? Shoot, he ain’t even here!”

  “No. In the restaurant,” I snapped. “He said he’d never met Amanda Cummings.”

  “Well, maybe he didn’t!”

  “Amanda worked at The Green Tree as a waitress before it was The Green Tree. I researched.” I blew my nose. “It was called The Red Barn back then, and it sold country-style fare. Macaroni and cheese. Salty country ham. Green beans. That sort of thing.”

  Becky slapped her own cheek in disbelief. “No, Shah-loh. Please tell me yer kiddin’. Jerry owned The Red Barn? I mean…”

  “Jerry Farmer in the flesh. And his first restaurant venture.”

  “Mebbe he got too busy to remember all the names?” She started to tear up again. “I mean, I bet he had lotsa servers, an’…”

  “Three. It was a small place.”

  Becky sank back in her seat, speechless. “But…but wasn’t the anonymous painter left-handed? And bald, yer mama said?”

  “Jerry’s left-handed, Becky. And he’s whacked his hair off to the skin more than once—enough to be confused with a bald guy. So either my purse snatcher’s unrelated, or Jerry set him up. And one more thing.” I clicked the phone off, sniffling back tears. “Jerry’s related to Shane Pendergrass. Which is why Mom was afraid to go to the police. And p
robably why Shane called in sick just now—to help Jerry out.”

  “Lands, if this world ain’t one gigantic mess.” Becky pulled jerkily back into the street, swerving around a rogue squirrel. Her driving wasn’t great on a normal day, but now I hugged the armrest as if my life depended on it. “I better git ya to the bank and the courthouse first before Adam tans my hide.”

  Tan my hide. Another one of those Southern expressions I needed to write down. The only hide, in fact, about to be tanned was probably Jerry’s. And maybe Shane’s, too.

  But instead of feeling satisfaction, I felt awful all the way through. Responsible, even. Guilty. Sick.

  “Hold on. Somebody’s calling.” I reached for my phone then narrowed my eyes at the voice. “Well, well. Shane Pendergrass. Hope you’re feeling better,” I minced, my words cold.

  “Yeah, kinda, but…listen. Can ya come by the station?” His sober tone held a mix of nerves and dread that unsettled me.

  “Come by the station? Think again, buddy.”

  Becky pulled into the bank parking lot and parked. Badly. Half in a parking space and tire rammed into the curb, her eyes round as Japanese teacups.

  “It’s Adam, Shiloh,” Shane said in almost a whisper. “We…uh…found his truck on the side of the road. Seems like he was headin’ out to your place in Churchville from Stuarts Draft.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “I don’t believe you. This is one of your tricks, isn’t it?” My voice rose. “To make me come out to some empty parking lot again? Well, forget it. He already texted me saying he was fine.”

  Shane paused, speechless. Just as Becky’s phone buzzed with a text message. She jerked her keys out of the ignition and answered, gasping back a scream.

  “It’s from Adam’s parents!” she managed, clapping a hand over her mouth. Turning to me with horrified eyes. “They’re all worked up and tryin’ to reach ya.”

  “Shane?” I gasped into the phone. “What did you say about Adam? Where is he?”

  “We…dunno,” Shane replied, sounding shaken. “That’s what I was trying to tell ya. He’s gone. Nobody knows where he went.”

  I squeezed into a ball on the seat in a fetal position, rocking back and forth. Becky jerked open my car door and wedged herself onto the edge of the seat. She held me tight, sobbing into my hair.

  I clung to her arm, wishing I’d never gotten up this morning. Never seen a red rose. And never set foot in stupid Staunton, Virginia, where all my dreams died like flies stuck to fly paper. One by horrible one.

  “C’mon, Shah-loh,” Becky sniffled, obviously trying to pull us together. “Think with me. We gotta cash that check so you can have some money on ya, ’cause you need ta leave town pronto.” She wiped her face and steadied her breath.

  “But the courthouse!” I bawled, not moving. “I promised!”

  Becky’s eyes spilled over. “Pray, Shah-loh. Pray hard. And come with me. Ain’t no time to argue.”

  My watch read six minutes after eight when I pushed open the glass doors to Planters Bank. The teller waved me up to the counter, and I stood there in blank stupefaction until Becky pushed me ahead. “Cash it,” Becky finally said for me.

  The teller took my check and raised an eyebrow at the amount. “All of it?”

  What did she mean, “All of it?” I pulled the check back and felt my heart leap into my throat at the amount: five thousand dollars.

  My mouth turned to cotton, and I just stood there, staring down at the check. “Why did Jerry give me so much?” I faltered. “Generosity? Or…or some kind of sick bribe?”

  “Ask questions later. Jest cash a thousand and put the rest in the bank,” said Becky. “Here. Gimme a deposit slip.” She reached over my shoulder and helped me fill it out.

  I signed, and the teller counted out some bills into my hand. Becky finally took them for me and stuffed them into my purse then guided me toward the exit.

  A hand brushed mine, reaching for the door handle at the same time I did.

  I jerked my bleary eyes up, surprised to see none other than Ray Floyd, looking at me like he’d seen a ghost. His face pale and clammy.

  “Shiloh?” he said in surprise. “You’re—you’re here?”

  “Sure I’m here. I bank here,” I replied a little tartly, despising pretty much everybody in my vicinity. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Washington?”

  “I came back to talk to you.” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Because I’ve figured out who’s stalking us. I’ve got evidence.”

  Becky narrowed her eyes. “Who are ya, and whaddaya want? ’Cause she’s in a hurry.”

  Ray stuck out a hand and shook hers. “Ray Floyd. I’ll be quick.But Shiloh, could I speak to you a second? You’re not safe. I know what he’s planning next.”

  “Who?” I pushed through the door and into the misty morning and spun around to face Ray. “Jerry Farmer? Do you think he took Adam?” Adam’s name brought fresh tears to my eyes.

  Ray came through the door beside me and stopped in midstride, giving me a startled nod.

  I grabbed Ray’s arm. “Help me, Ray! Do you know where he might have taken Adam? Is Shane in on this, too?”

  Ray started to speak again then glanced around and motioned me away from the entrance. Finger to his lips. “I’ll tell you everything I know. But hurry.”

  He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward his car, unlocking it with a chirping sound.

  “Wait. That one?” I stopped so suddenly Becky rammed into the back of me. “I thought you had a burgundy Volvo.”

  “I’ve got two cars. What’s the big deal?” He gave me a push. “Hurry, Shiloh! There isn’t time!”

  “That’s a Mercury.” I took a step back. “A dark silver color.”

  Ray’s eyes turned hard, and he grabbed my arm again. Rougher this time. And he pulled me away from Becky. “We have a lot to talk about, you and I. And we’ll start with that fiancé of yours. Adam, I think his name is, right?”

  “What about Adam?” I cried, trying to free my arm. And I realized, in a flash of horror, that Ray hadn’t released me. He was dragging me. Toward his car.

  I started to pound on his back. “Let me go, Ray! What are you doing?”

  Becky screamed. Ray broke into a run, throwing his other arm under my throat in a kind of headlock and yanking me along. Exactly the way my purse snatcher had done in Waynesboro.

  I bit his arm and pounded his face with my free hand, trying to knock off his glasses, but he moved too fast for me. Bending my head down with crushing force.

  “No! You’re not leaving again!” he hollered.

  I punched him in the stomach as hard as I could, but the arm across my throat cut off more oxygen than I’d expected. I gasped for breath, wrenching his fingers as I tried to breathe.

  “Stop him!” Becky shrieked, tackling Ray from behind like a football player and smacking him hard across the head with her purse. He temporarily loosened his grip, but only long enough to shove me into the driver’s side of his Mercury sedan, banging my head on the side. The dull-colored car that had skulked outside Adam’s house.

  “I’ll shoot!” he yelled, firing a very real and very loud gun, shattering glass in a nearby car. Becky and I both screamed.

  I kicked and punched, prying his arm away from my throat just enough to see Ray dodge Becky’s purse, which she flung at him with full force.

  That square jaw. Those thick shoulders and full lips. Long, thin nose. Mom’s drawing. It was him. Ray Floyd.

  “He’s got a gun!” I shouted to Becky. “Stay back! Call the police!”

  But my words were lost in the slam of the driver’s side door as Ray threw his keys in the ignition and hit the automatic door locks, practically sitting on me. I yelled in pain and lunged for the passenger’s side door, but couldn’t reach with that oaf on my leg.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Ray hollered, grabbing my arm as I swung at him. He stormed right over a concrete parking lot divider, hitting it with such a lou
d bang I thought he’d shot me. Then he squealed out of the parking lot, the force throwing me against the dashboard and then against the window, smacking my head.

  When the stars disappeared from my vision, I saw the floorboard of the car covered in dark red roses.

  “You’re Odysseus!” I cried, grabbing a handful of roses and flinging them at his face.

  “And you’re my angel,” he said in a strange, quivery voice, pointing his gun at me. “And this time you won’t get away.”

  Chapter 34

  I’m not your angel!” I braced myself as he slammed over a concrete divider and into the oncoming lane, horns blaring. He turned at the last minute, skidding down a road that led out of town. “And where’s Adam? What have you done with him?”

  He was accelerating faster than I could keep up with, speedometer rising. I reached for the door, but I couldn’t jump out now at these speeds.

  “You’re my angel, all right!” Ray shouted, shoving the gun closer. He trembled, wild-eyed. Beads of sweat trickled down his pallid brow. I warned myself to watch it, or he might shoot me. He’d come that unglued.

  Keep calm, I told myself, forcing my racing pulse to slow, and remembering—on a supersonic level—Becky’s “treat-a-man-nice” advice in the flower shop. I figured it applied to lunatics as well. Keep quiet, be gentle, and help him calm down. You’ll have a better chance if you can get him thinking straight. Then catch him off guard.

  “Could you please put the gun away?” I asked, holding the seat with both hands as he lurched over a pothole. We were heading farther away from buildings and into some rural side streets, and nothing looked familiar. I tried desperately to memorize our turns.

  Ray didn’t answer. He glanced over at me with wide eyes, his thick, curly hair disheveled like a madman’s.

  “Please, Ray? I’m scared. Please put the gun away.” Remind him that you’re human, police always advised victims. That you’re a person, and that you have feelings.

  “Becky’s probably worried sick about me by now, and…”

  The gun wavered just an inch, and then he shoved it back in my face again, touching my cheek. “I’m not stupid! You’ll run, just like you did last time! You ruined my life!”