Randy’s face was beet-red. “I’m sorry, Mary Bliss,” he said, his voice low. “You know how kids are…”
“I’ll clear the dishes off, Mama,” Erin said, jumping up too. “Jeremy will help, won’t you, buddy? You guys go out on the porch. I’ll bet that rain we had when I was driving home cooled things off.”
Outside, sitting in the rocker, watching the water drip down from the gutters, Mary Bliss laughed until her sides hurt.
She laughed so hard, Randy Bowden couldn’t get a word in edge-wise for a full five minutes.
“Oh,” she said finally, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks.”
“It’s not funny. It’s appalling,” Randy said. She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but from the tone of his voice she knew he was mortified.
“Nancye says that kind of thing in front of the boys all the time,” Randy went on. “Her language is disgusting. And we won’t even discuss her behavior, which has made her the talk of Fair Oaks.”
Now it was Mary Bliss’s turn to apologize.
“I’m sorry it’s so embarrassing for you,” she said. “I’ve had my own share of trouble lately, so I know it’s no fun being the subject of petty gossip. But still, you have to admit it’s pretty funny. Poor little Jason looking around to make sure Miz McGowan has a pot to piss in.”
She covered her mouth with her hand because she felt another fit of giggles coming on.
“It doesn’t bother you?” Randy asked.
“A little,” she admitted. “But what really bothers me is the fact that Nancye’s essentially right. It’s no use trying to hide it. I’m broke.”
“I’d heard that,” Randy said. “Do you mind talking about it? I don’t mean to pry, but you’re my neighbor, and I care what happens to you, Mary Bliss.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Mary Bliss said. “Parker must have been working on some big business deal. He liquidated all our assets, took out a balloon note on the house, even cashed in his life insurance. And then he died, before he could tell me what he was working on.”
“God,” Randy said. “I’d heard rumors around town, but I had no idea things were that bad.”
“They’re bad,” Mary Bliss said. “But I think we’ll squeak by. Charlie Weidman has been wonderful, helping with all the paperwork and things.”
“But,” Randy started.
“I think that’s all I want to say about my finances for now,” Mary Bliss said firmly. “I appreciate your concern, and I really don’t mind your knowing, but let’s just leave it at that. All right?”
“I could kill Nancye,” Randy said darkly.
“I feel the same way about Parker,” Mary Bliss said. “That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”
The front door opened. “Mama?” Erin said. “The dishes are all done. I’m going over to Jessica’s for a while.”
“This late?” Mary Bliss asked, dismayed. “It’s nearly ten.”
“I don’t have to work tomorrow,” Erin said. “And I forgot to tell you, I’m supposed to go down to Macon for an all-day soccer clinic. Coach is picking me up at eight, and we’re all spending the night down there.”
“Overnight?” Mary Bliss stood up. “I don’t remember filling out any permission slips for an overnight soccer clinic.”
“Mama!” Erin wailed. “It was way back in spring. Remember? Coach gave us our summer workout schedule, and this was on there. God. You’re such a space cadet. I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
“You never had to go on an overnight clinic before,” Mary Bliss protested. She heard a faint inner alarm go off. Part of it was money. Soccer was a ridiculously expensive sport. Every time she turned around, she was doling out money for tournament fees or shin guards or cleats or summer camps.
“This is a specialty camp. For goalies. Don’t worry. We’re staying in a college dorm down there, and everybody’s bringing food from home. Coach says it’s the cheapest camp he could find on the Internet.”
Mary Bliss was really getting tired of hearing what coach says. Since Isaac Brownlee had taken over coaching the girls’ soccer team at Fair Oaks Academy two years earlier, Mary Bliss had endured a steady diet of the gospel according to coach.
Parker loved Isaac Brownlee, of course. He loved that Brownlee took the Fair Oaks team from perennial last-place losers to state runners-up in the space of two short years.
“Look,” Erin said impatiently, “I gotta go. Don’t worry about getting up with me in the morning. I’ve got my stuff all packed. See you Friday, okay?”
“Leave me a phone number,” Mary Bliss called as the front door slammed behind her daughter.
“Soccer, huh?” Randy said, sounding wistful. “I wish Josh were interested in sports. All he wants to do is sit in his room all day and play computer games and mess with his guitar.”
“At least he’s home,” Mary Bliss said. She watched as Erin’s Honda sped down the driveway and out into the street.
“Hard to believe they’re going to be seniors,” Randy said. “After next year, they’ll be leaving home.”
“Don’t remind me,” Mary Bliss said. “The house already seems empty most of the time.”
“I’ve got three guys living with me across the street,” Randy said. “But at night, after they’re all in bed, seems like I’m the last one in the world still up.”
“I see your light some nights,” Mary Bliss said.
“You should call me.”
“I wouldn’t want to wake the boys,” Mary Bliss said. “Anyway. I’m probably not very good company nights like those.”
“You’re always good company,” Randy said. “And that’s not just fancy words. I mean it, Mary Bliss.”
“Katharine says I’m no fun anymore,” she replied. “She was bugging me today to go to the country club dance with her. Stag. It sounds hideous, doesn’t it?”
“Totally hideous. But I still have to go,” Randy said. His voice had a note of hope in it. “I’m outgoing president, you know. So there’s no way I can get out of it. If you don’t want to go stag with Katharine, maybe, you could, like, ride with me.”
“God, no.” She said it before thinking. “I don’t mean it like that,” she added quickly. “I’d love to go with you under other circumstances. You’ve been a great friend to me, since all this happened. But we both know how gossip spreads in this town. Parker’s only been dead a month, and you and Nancye…is the divorce final yet?”
“Not yet,” he said, sounding mournful. “She told the kids she’s engaged, though. Josh came home the other day and told me he went to the Braves game with his new daddy. Nancye’s lawyers are still hammering away at me. She gave up on custody of the kids, but she’s convinced there’s still some more money she can wring out of me.”
“She’s got a job, doesn’t she?”
Randy laughed. “She makes more money than me, if you want the truth of the matter. And the ‘new daddy’ is supposedly a professor at Emory.”
“You know,” Mary Bliss said, sounding surprised. “I don’t think I ever knew what Nancye does for a living. She’s got a PhD, doesn’t she?”
“You won’t believe it if I tell you,” Randy said.
“Try me.”
“She’s a sex therapist.”
Mary Bliss couldn’t control the giggles this time.
“Yeah, it always gets a big laugh at the bank too,” Randy said. “It seemed a lot funnier before all this happened.”
Mary Bliss stood up, stretched and yawned. “Guess I better go in and finish up the dishes Erin probably left me.”
He followed her inside. Mary Bliss stopped at the door of the den. “Look,” she whispered.
The television was on, playing Erin’s Aladdin video. Jeremy was curled up on the floor, inches away from the television, fast asleep.
“How precious,” Mary Bliss whispered.
Randy picked his son up, cradling him in his arms. “It’s the only way he sleeps.”
“What? On the floor?”
“In front of the television. I put him to bed, and he cries and fusses until I let him go in the den and turn on the television, and put in a Disney video. Aladdin is his favorite.”
“Really? I always thought of that as a little girl’s movie. It was Erin’s favorite too.”
“I don’t think it’s the movie he likes so much,” Randy said. “It’s Jasmine. Her voice. He told me one night, when he was nearly asleep, ‘Jasmine sounds like Mommy.’ ”
Mary Bliss sighed. “They’ll break your heart.”
41
“Mrs. McGowan? Mary Bliss McGowan?”
She didn’t recognize the man’s voice on the other end of the phone. She tensed. Bill collectors called her Mrs. McGowan. The insurance people called her Mrs. McGowan. Anytime anybody called her Mrs. McGowan lately, she’d come to expect the worst.
“Who’s speaking, please?” she asked.
“Oh, you don’t know me,” he said. His voice had a soft, southern accent. “I’m Gerran Thomas? Of Gerran’s Gourmet Cuisine? I was at the memorial service for your husband, Parker, last week. My grandmother was old Mrs. McGowan’s cook, and Nanny practically raised Parker. The Thomases and the McGowans go way back.”
“That’s nice,” Mary Bliss said, wondering when Gerran Thomas would get to the point.
“Anyhoo,” he said, “I digress. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the luncheon afterwards, so this is a little awkward for me. But I just couldn’t not call you. I’ve got a favor to ask. It’s impossible, I know, but call me crazy. Here it is. Ever since I had that chicken salad at the luncheon, I’ve been absolutely wild to find out who made it. Honestly, it’s the best chicken salad I have ever tasted. And I’ve tasted it all. I’ve had Swan Coach House. I’ve had Piedmont Driving Club, I’ve had Ansley Golf Club. And that chicken salad was the best!”
“I see,” Mary Bliss said. But she didn’t.
“If you ever tell anybody I said this, I’ll deny it to the grave,” Gerran Thomas said, “but that chicken salad was even better than my nanny’s.”
“I’ll never breathe a word,” Mary Bliss promised.
“I asked around,” he continued. “And your neighbor Kimmy said you made it. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said. “The recipe was my best friend’s mother’s. She took the recipe to the grave with her. I don’t know if I got it exactly right, but I think it was pretty close to the way she made it.”
“My dear!” Thomas exclaimed. “That salad came directly from heaven.”
Mary Bliss laughed. She’d been laughing off and on for two days now. She wondered if she’d passed some kind of milestone.
“I don’t know if Mamie made it to heaven,” she allowed. “She was married three times, dipped snuff, and cheated at bridge. But you could definitely say it came from beyond the grave. So I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. Now here’s the sticky part. I’ve got a huge wedding coming up in two weeks. Do you know Braelynn Connors? She’s the anchor on channel eleven at five o’clock?”
“I’ve seen her,” Mary Bliss said. “The blonde with the mole?”
“Adorable, isn’t she? Anyway, it’s seven hundred and fifty people, at the Botanical Garden. Town and Country magazine is flying a photographer down to shoot it. Everything has to be perfect. Perfect!”
“I’m sure,” Mary Bliss said. She wondered if she was having an out-of-body experience. This man kept talking in exclamation marks, but he didn’t seem to be saying anything specific.
“I’ve got a confession, Mrs. McGowan,” Thomas said. “I was a naughty, naughty boy. Heh-heh. I stole a little dish out of your church kitchen, and I took home a sample of that chicken salad of yours. I went right over to the station, and I caught Braelynn in the makeup room, and she tasted it and she agrees. We have to have that chicken salad at the wedding!”
“Oh.” Mary Bliss couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I wonder if you would be willing to part with that recipe?”
She looked around her kitchen. At the peeling linoleum, at the damp spot on the ceiling. At the stack of bills on the counter near the phone.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said sweetly. “After all, it’s not really my recipe to give. Katharine’s mother, Mamie, was extremely secretive. And I feel it would be a betrayal if I passed it along to somebody else.”
“Darn! That is disappointing,” he said. “Braelynn has her heart set on it. We’ve already changed the menu around just to make room for your chicken salad. I was going to do cold poached chicken breasts with a margarita crème dressing, but now Braelynn won’t hear of having that.”
“Hmm,” Mary Bliss said.
“I’ve tried my hand at re-creating it,” Thomas said. “But it’s a bit of a puzzle. That sweet-tangy thing is so tricky. Tarragon, right? And crème fraiche?”
“Not exactly,” Mary Bliss said.
“I wonder…,” he said, letting his words trail off. “Sour cream?”
“No.”
“Buttermilk?”
“No.”
“You’re killing me!” he said, lapsing back into exclamation marks again.
“It’s really a sacred trust,” Mary Bliss said.
“All right,” he snapped. “What Braelynn wants, Braelynn gets. And she wants that chicken salad of yours. So what would it take?”
“I really couldn’t…”
“Cut the cute stuff, Mary Bliss,” Thomas said. “Let’s talk chicken salad.”
“Well,” she said sweetly. “Since you put it that way. The only way this can work is if I make the salad myself.”
“No. Absolutely not. Nobody but Gerran does Gerran’s Gourmet Cuisine.”
“I understand. Good-bye, Mr. Thomas. And good luck with the wedding. I’m sure Braelynn will make a beautiful bride.”
“Wait! All right,” he said. “What do you want? What will it take?”
“I make the chicken salad myself,” Mary Bliss said, her mind racing. “In my kitchen, in my home. I buy all the ingredients myself, fix it all myself. You pick it up the morning of the wedding. And as far as the world knows, it’s Gerran’s chicken salad.”
“No. No. No. Impossible. Health department regulations stipulate that all food sold commercially must be prepared in kitchens inspected by the county health department.”
Mary Bliss found that she had recently gained a healthy disregard for regulations of all kinds.
“Who’s to know?” she asked. “I’m a very particular cook, Gerran. My kitchen is spotless. You can ask anybody.”
“This is very irregular,” he fussed. “I could lose my catering license.”
“You could just go with the poached chicken breasts with the margarita crème dressing,” Mary Bliss offered. “I think I saw a recipe for that in last month’s Family Circle.”
“Family Circle!” he shrieked. “That’s impossible. I created that recipe myself. The lime peel is candied and gingered and…All right. You can make the chicken salad at your house. I’ll pick it up that Saturday morning. In an unmarked van, of course.”
“Fine,” Mary Bliss said. “I think that will work. Just out of curiosity’s sake, how much chicken salad are we talking about here, Gerran?”
“That’s why I won’t work with amateurs,” he said bitterly. “How much? How much do you think? We have seven hundred and fifty confirmed. I’ve got to have a hundred pounds, minimum.”
Mary Bliss swallowed hard. She’d nearly killed herself producing ten pounds of chicken salad for Parker’s memorial service. This was ten times as much. Maybe she really was having an out of body experience.
“That’s no problem,” she said smoothly. “I charge twenty-five dollars a pound, of course.”
“Of course,” he snapped.
“And I’ll bill you for the ingredients,” Mary Bliss said.
“I’ll require an itemized bill,” Thomas said quickly.
�
�Impossible,” Mary Bliss said, borrowing his favorite phrase. “The recipe is a secret, remember? If I tell you what went into it, what’s to keep you from figuring the recipe?”
“Never mind,” he said. “So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it.”
42
The Fourth of July was on a Thursday. On Wednesday, Mary Bliss picked her first tomato of the summer. It was a huge red treasure, an old-fashioned variety called Mortgage Lifter, whose seeds she saved from year to year. She put the tomato in her gardening basket, along with half a dozen crookneck squash and a single cucumber, and carried it triumphantly into the house.
Her mama had always aimed to pick her first tomato of the summer by the Fourth. Mary Bliss wished Nina could have been there to see her gorgeous Mortgage Lifter.
She knew what she had to do with that tomato. She washed and peeled it, then carefully cut it into thick slices, which she then salted and peppered and placed on a pretty pink-flowered saucer.
The tomato would be a sacrificial offering to Eula—her own personal act of contrition for the awful lie she’d been living for the past few weeks.
Mary Bliss packed the rest of her offertory—homemade macaroni and cheese and a thick slice of chocolate layer cake, into the small blue cooler. She’d picked a few flowers, some daisies, cosmos, zinnias, and bee balm, and these she wrapped with a damp paper towel before inserting them into a jelly jar and placing them in the cooler.
She dawdled in the kitchen, arranging more flowers in the yellow McCoy vase she kept on the windowsill, putting the extra squash in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. What she was really doing was delaying her departure for the nursing home.
She dreaded seeing Eula, dreaded hearing her rail against “colored nurses” and “Jew doctors” who were conspiring against her. Most of all, she dreaded facing her mother-in-law, who at every weekly visit reminded Mary Bliss that Parker was alive, somewhere, on an island, and would soon return to free her from this nursing home hell, and to have Mary Bliss thrown in the slammer.
Little Bitty Lies Page 21