Robert sat down in the customer chair.
“I know part of it is you’re an auto parts salesman who doesn’t know much about cars, but we’re working on that. She also holds it against you that you drive a nice, old beater, but don’t carry tools. But there’s more to it than that.” John’s gaze narrowed. “That’s your mission tonight. I want answers too.”
“She’s really going to like me tonight when I tell her she’s paying.” Robert inhaled deeply and glanced toward the house.
“I got my petty cash box right here.” John chuckled. “I knew that was eating at you.” He set a gray metal box on top of his desk, flipped back the lid, and handed him a five-dollar bill. “If I give you a ten, she’d be suspicious.”
“You’re trying to match make me with your daughter.”
“She doesn’t even like you.” John’s cheeks widened.
“But you do.” Robert entwined his hands behind his head.
“If she ends up with Gary, it isn’t gonna hurt her to have had at least one other fellow ask her out. And it isn’t going to hurt for Gary to hear about tonight either, is it? So, do Missy and Gary a favor and keep her out until at least eleven.”
Big John didn’t even like Gary. Robert could tell. Big John liked him.
“I’m not an interested suitor.” Across the paper-laden desk, Robert met John’s unblinking gaze. “My reasons are credible—Missy’s not a Christian, which is very important to me. She dislikes me. I don’t like overcooked food. Not to mention...” He ran a hand through his short hair. “She’s—”
“I’m not asking you to marry her.” Big John reached for his backscratcher. “Just take her out for a strawberry shake, get her home at a reasonable hour, and do one very specific thing for me.” John returned the backscratcher to its nail and swiveled in his chair to face him.
“I want you to man up and find out why Missy treats you like…”
Robert drew oxygen deep into his lungs. John was right. Missy treated him like crab. It was time to man up.
CHAPTER 21
Missy had wanted to see Trudy’s hair, and tonight at Spudder’s it was up in a bun with only a few long curls hanging down. She still looked as pretty as ever in her orange-and-blue waitress outfit that just happened to be the local high school colors. Spudder’s was named after Ridgefield High School’s mascot.
“You ever had their fries?” Robert asked, across the narrow table. The smell of a fried potatoes lingered in the air.
“No, do you want to share an order?”
Robert’s face disappeared behind the menu. She could almost hear what he was thinking: Shakes were two dollars each, and an order of fries was two dollars.
“I have enough for shakes.”
“I’m not hungry anyways,” Missy said.
“Next time, then.”
She laughed at his confidence. “There won’t be a next time, Jerry Boy, sorry to say.”
“Then why’d you say it?” Lowering his menu, he lifted his brows.
“I wanted to set you straight.” She shrugged. “Only reason I came is to see her hair.” She nodded toward where Trudy stood three booths away taking an order.
“Gary’s old Trudy?” Robert’s eyes narrowed.
“Usually she has her hair down. Looks just like Farrah Fawcett’s. Someday soon, I’m getting my hair cut just like Farrah’s.”
“You mean like Trudy’s.” Robert turned to watch Trudy. “She looks like a nice gal.” He met Missy’s gaze. “But you’re prettier.”
How could he even say that? Embarrassed, she peered out the window at downtown Ridgefield. Baskets of hanging flowers lined the main street, and a large banner announced the upcoming Fourth of July parade.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I know better.”
Trudy strolled to their table and flipped to a new page in her order book. “Are you two ready?”
“Yes.” Robert looked at Missy. “We’ll have two of your strawberry milkshakes.”
“Anything else?” Trudy chewed on a piece of gum.
“Two glasses of water would be nice too. Thank you.” Robert smiled.
“Coming right up.” She strolled away.
“See . . . nothing all that special,” Robert said. “Now if it were you taking my order, it would have been far more colorful. You would have thrown in a Jerry Boy and maybe even a little crab too.” Despite his words, his hazel eyes weren’t merry.
“You’re a little more moxie when Daddy’s not around.” She felt a tad surprised.
“You know why?”
“No, don’t suppose I do.” She curled her toes beneath the table.
“Because your dad and I are now friends, and you continue to treat me like...” His voice trailed off.
Had Jerry Boy been about to say . . . ? Her mouth felt dry due to it hanging open for so long.
“I’d like to know, Missy, what I’ve done to annoy you. Your father’s friendship and... I’ll be honest... his business are both important to me. Right now—”
“This is why you asked me out for a milkshake?” Missy slowly nodded. “To try and patch things with the boss’s daughter.”
“If you didn’t notice it was your father doing the asking, not me.”
She scanned the nearby booths; thankfully Trudy was not in the immediate vicinity.
“You...” she felt her mouth bunch up, “come in trying to change everything. Daddy. Church. Cooking lessons.” She leaned back in the vinyl booth and gripped her hands. “Everything was dandy before . . . We had our own nice little routine.”
“If you’re so opposed to going to church and the cooking classes, tell your father no.”
A picture had developed in her mind that she wasn’t entirely opposed to. Her hair looked just like Farrah’s, and she was wearing a pretty blue-and-white checked apron holding out a platter of homemade fried chicken. And of course, Gary was sitting at the table. Why in the world was she here?
“Don’t you see it?” Her hand dropped to the table. “The reason Daddy’s so opposed to Gary’s bumper sticker is because he already has an ideal suitor in mind.”
“This isn’t up to your dad.” Robert set both elbows on the table. “Now that you and I know what he’s up to.”
“It’s your turn to tell him that, ‘cause I already have.”
“I have also.” He shook his head.
“Yes, and here we are.” Daddy had done the impossible—got two people not even remotely interested to go out for shakes.
“You don’t need to worry, Missy. I don’t date women who treat me like...”
She held her breath as she waited for him to say it. Instead, he simply exhaled.
“You’ve grown fond of the word.” She wondered how fond. He probably said it all the time when she wasn’t around, and now Daddy was telling her not to say it at all.
“It accurately describes your attitude toward me.” His face matched the color of their future milkshake.
Trudy was on her way to their table, carrying a tray. She set their order down in front of them: two large strawberry milkshakes piped with a whipped cream topping and two glasses of iced water. “There you go. Enjoy.”
While Trudy walked away, Missy plunged her straw deep into the frothy decadence and took her first sip of summer in a glass.
“I want you to know every time I’ve been at your place, it’s been on account of your dad, not you.”
She shrugged. Whatever. He didn’t need to elaborate.
“I’ve been courting him, not you.”
“Okay, I get it. I feel better. Thanks.” Hopefully no one was eavesdropping. No one appeared to be.
“I feel better, too.” Robert didn’t look up from his milkshake.
Missy told herself to get over her feelings of angst. Jerry Boy was now a part of their family like Rick Baker used to be. Whether she liked it or not, she was just going to have to get used to it.
On the way home, Missy realized she should have driven her t
ruck; it didn’t have a Bic pen for a fuel filter.
“I had a better time than I expected,” Robert said, watching the road.
“Yeah, I guess we cleared the air.”
If Jerry Boy’s wagon broke down on the side of the road, she wouldn’t fix it by flashlight or moonlight; she’d make Daddy come pick them up.
“You’re awful quiet. What are you thinking?” Robert glanced her direction.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “I was just thinking if we break down between here and home, I’m not fixing your fuel filter by flashlight.”
“I don’t have a flashlight.”
She wasn’t surprised. “If it happens, we’ll have to call Daddy to come pick us up. He’ll bring his tow bar.”
“Tow bar?”
“Yes, tow bar.”
Robert chuckled for three mile posts.
“Why are you still chuckling?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You’re one-of-a-kind, Missy Stuart.”
They were courting words, and she had to resist the impulse to soften a wee bit. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it beautiful?” He grinned looking straight ahead.
He meant the full moon, which sat perched on the hillside up ahead and bathed the road and passing countryside in a silvery glow.
“The moon in late June,” he said.
She couldn’t go getting sidetracked; Gary was finally showing signs of asking her out.
“I’m not interested, Jerry.”
“I promised your Dad I’d keep you out until eleven. Maybe we can park on the edge of your driveway, and you can talk about Gary.”
“Why eleven?”
“Because Spudder’s closes at ten, and he wanted Gary to wonder a little. I know, Missy, your dad’s asking a lot.”
“No, he’s scheming a lot. He could care less about Gary. I already told you; he likes you, not Gary. He’s keeping you and me out until eleven, and you’ve fallen for it.” She crossed her arms and sat back in the bench seat.
Robert scratched his right cheek. “I’ll just take you home then.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”
CHAPTER 22
True to her word, Bertha left a Felida Community Church Cookbook on the table in the foyer. A paper clip secured a little note to the front that read for Missy Stuart. The plastic-comb bound cookbook had a red-and-white plaid cover with a color photo of the church featured on the front.
The first recipe Missy turned to was Salmon Cakes. Mix flaked salmon with an egg, chopped onion, flour and cracker coating; shape into patties; fry the cakes in hot oil; and serve with Oven Potato Fries. It didn’t sound too hard, and it would be a new way for her to use up the canned salmon. Tickled, Missy hugged the cookbook to her.
Carrying his Bible, Robert stepped into the entry. He appeared completely at home and, if she had to admit it, quite handsome in his white button-up shirt and dark slacks. He spotted her and smiled, probably because she was holding the cookbook against her like other ladies held their Bibles.
“Hi Missy, where’s your dad?” He strolled toward her.
Last week she’d worn a ponytail to church, so today she wore her hair loose. Maybe Robert and the rest of the folks wouldn’t realize she was wearing the same dress two Sundays in a row if her hair was different.
“He’s out in the parking lot talking to some fellow with a Ford Mustang that needs a new clutch. Daddy’s always had a difficult time separating work and free time.”
“I’m sure the fellow doesn’t mind.”
“He made me come in. Didn’t want me getting my dress dirty.” She hadn’t meant to draw attention to the dress.
“How was he last night about my dropping you off so early?”
“A little down in the mouth, but he couldn’t very well talk to me about it, could he?” She smiled.
“Would you like to sit in the back with your dad or up near the front again?”
“In the back.”
Nearby, an elderly man chuckled, gripped the back of Robert’s neck, and gave it a good shake. The two started talking.
Among a foyer full of people she didn’t know, Missy felt amazingly alone. She glanced toward the church parking lot and wished Daddy would hurry up. She decided to find Bertha and pay her for the cookbook. In the sanctuary, she spotted the sweet elderly woman four rows from the back, gabbing to another lady in the pew beside her. Missy sat down on Bertha’s right, and waited patiently. A large family came in and, just like that, half of the remaining seating was gone.
“I see you got it.” Bertha patted Missy’s arm. “My spiced pumpkin cake on page seventy-eight is wonderful, but wait until October to make it. There’s just something about the smell of cloves and cinnamon in the fall.”
“I will. Here’s the three dollars, Bertha. Thanks so much.”
Missy glanced over her shoulder. Daddy was now seated, and the back row was filling up fast.
Bertha waved a hand. “Just put it in the offering, honey.”
“Where’s the offering?”
Below Bertha’s smile, she wore a brooch in the V of her dress exactly where Grandma Stuart used to pin hers. Missy resisted the temptation to tell Bertha she reminded her so much of Grandma.
“After the singing, my husband, Wilfred, and the other elders pass around little baskets. Put the money in there. It will be used for the Lord’s work, both great and small.”
“All of the Lord’s work is great,” the curly gray-haired woman said, and winked at Missy.
“Missy...” She heard Robert’s voice behind her.
She turned to look up at him.
“The back’s already filled. We better grab seats while we can.”
Could she just stay here? She turned to ask Bertha.
“Wilfred sits here after he helps with the offering.” Bertha nodded at where Missy was seated.
A feeling of impending doom taunted her. The room was filled with prayers. Daddy was praying, and maybe Mrs. Schoening. And if Missy wasn’t careful, she could grow old in the fourth pew from the front. Robert held out his arm. Out of fear that Daddy would bellow “Take it!” she cupped her hand around his bicep.
He patted her hand with his as they strolled toward the front. If Robert wasn’t careful, everyone was going to start thinking they were a couple. Four rows from the front, Missy nearly stepped on the toes of a long-legged man and his knobby-kneed wife before sitting down beside a very plump middle-aged woman. It was going to be another long, warm service.
Lord, help me to not fall asleep. Wide-eyed, Missy wondered if it was her first prayer.
Just like the prior Sunday, Robert leaned close as he held the hymnal between them. Despite her list of grievances last night, it was plain as day he was getting ideas. She’d have to set him straight—and soon. After the last hymn, he closed the book and returned it to the wooden rack. There were little pencils and white envelopes on the back of the pew in front of them. Hmm, she’d write Jerry Boy a note.
But it was basket time first. Robert held the basket for her while she laid Bertha’s money inside. There were checks, lots of quarters, and even a fifty dollar bill in the offering. Wow!
After she passed the basket, Robert peered at her with furrowed brows.
She knew exactly what he was thinking. Why was she, Missy Stuart, a foul-mouthed, non-believing sinner giving money to the Lord?
Church was similar to the library—a quiet zone. She reached for the pencil and wrote on a white envelope: Bertha said to put the cookbook money in the basket. And then she showed it to him.
He nodded.
Next, she wrote something that she’d never told a living soul, except for Martha. The time had come to tell Robert that he didn’t stand a chance, her heart was already taken. She printed: I like Gary. I always have on the envelope and handed it to him.
H
e read it and smiled. Even though the preacher had started preaching, Robert took the pencil from her and began writing something down. Missy watched the preacher and wondered if he’d notice that Robert wasn’t paying attention.
Robert returned the pencil to the pew in front of them, and handed her the little envelope. In very plain print, he’d written: I know. I always have.
Despite his sentiments, Robert’s shoulder bore warmly into hers. When she almost fell asleep, he squeezed her hand instead of shaking her knee like last Sunday. Even though he’d written: I know. I always have, there was still that Sunday sparkle in his eyes. Was Jerry Boy lying to her in church of all places?
Something had to be done about him—and soon.
“I told Robert Tuesdays are the best night to come for dinner ‘cause you’ve been to town and got groceries,” Daddy said during their drive home.
“So he’s coming to dinner on Tuesday?” Missy flipped through her new Felida Community Church Cookbook, and spotted Bertha’s Blue Ribbon Cabbage Rolls.
“Yep. I told him not to bring his catalog. Told him we’ll read the Bible instead.”
Missy thumbed through the pages. Tuesday night she’d make a dessert, something to go with the cabbage rolls. She spotted a Chocolate Zucchini Cake and wondered how it would taste if she substituted cabbage for zucchini?
“Did you find yourself a wife?”
“No, but I got a lead.” Daddy held the steering wheel with both hands and hummed a hymn that was faintly familiar. “Is there a recipe in there for Fried Chicken and Gravy?”
“Let me check.” Missy flipped to the back to the index, and under chicken found a number of recipes. “There are two recipes for fried chicken.”
“Good. See if there’s a recipe for bread and butter pickles like your mama’s. I like a good crunch.”
She scoured the index. “Sorry, Daddy, there’s no bread and butter pickle recipe.”
Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance Page 12