Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Twelve.” Becky rolled her eyes.

  Tim scowled at me over his rice. “Uh-uh, Shah-loh Jacobs! Don’t you be gettin’ no notions about my Brownie! He’s mine fair and square.”

  “Please!” begged Becky. “Let ‘er have it!”

  “It ain’t a ‘it.’ It’s a he, if ya don’t mind. An’ Brownie ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He leaned down the hallway and hollered. “Hear that, Brownie? Don’t ya worry! I ain’t gonna give you away!” He shook his head. “Ya made the poor thing cry.”

  I stared at him, leaning my head on my hand in disbelief.

  “Tim’s awful attached to that rodent,” Becky whispered. “Sleeps with it sometimes when I’m outta town.”

  “Shh! Don’t you say that in front a comp’ny, woman! She’ll think I’m weird!”

  “Well, she done figgered that out by now.” Becky carried her plate to the sink. “Goodness only knows! Don’t even git me started on the Cheez Whiz an’ badger episode!”

  “The what episode?” She was joking. She had to be.

  “Woman? Shush!” Tim glanced over at me, choking back laughter. “Did you say somethin’, Shah-loh? Thought I heard some high-pitched noises, but it didn’t make no sense ta me.”

  “I got pitchers!” Becky called on her way down the hall. “So don’t sass me, boy!”

  He pretended to pound the table in frustration.

  Becky was still yelling. “Y’all better hurry up if we’re gonna make it over ta Adam’s before dark! I don’t know ‘bout you, but I ain’t missin’ that pie an’ bonfire fer his birthday!”

  “Oh yeah.” Tim shoveled his rice and gravy into his mouth and swigged the last of his sweet tea, which Southerners drank no matter how cold it got outside. “Honey? Did we get him a present?”

  “I’m wrappin’ it right now!”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, just that ol’… what’d ya call it? Brownie?”

  His eyes bugged out. “Now hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute!” And he pushed his chair back and dashed down the hall.

  I twirled my empty fork on my plate, envying the warmth that welled up between Tim and Becky. I missed being known by someone—and still loved.

  Loved, like Tim said, no matter what kind of skeletons hung in my closet. “A relationship,” Adam had called life with God last summer, as he and Becky and Tim sat over take-out pizza in my living room.

  “A romance,” amended Tim.

  I glanced out the frilly tan curtains at a poplar branch, which shook lemon-yellow leaves in the late afternoon sunlight. Remembering—for some odd, inexplicable reason—the long, pale scar that stretched across Adam’s knuckles on his left hand. I’d seen it before but never asked what happened.

  A bike accident? Chopping firewood? Or did he fall off the roof like his dad a few months ago, necessitating (1) a rush to the emergency room and (2) the laughable “help” of one clueless waitress—moi—at The Green Tree to administer Rick’s medications?

  I’m just glad I didn’t overdose the poor guy; Rick was certainly one of my favorite people, next to Todd, of course, and Adam, and …

  Why am I thinking about Adam anyway? I scooted my chair back abruptly and took my plate to the sink. Stepping over Christie, who had fallen asleep on a heap of torn newspaper bits. One shred hung in the fuzzy fur of her right ear.

  “Shah-loh? Yer goin’, too, right?” Becky poked her head around the corner, mouth foamy with toothpaste.

  “Going where?” I ran some water over the sponge.

  “Aw, quit that!” She smacked the sponge out of my hand. “I don’t bring ya over here ta clean my house! That’s what husbands’r for.”

  She grinned and scrubbed her teeth some more, hand on her hip. “Whaddaya mean, ‘where’? Didn’t Adam invite ya? He said he did!”

  “He sort of mentioned it on Sunday.” I put both hands on a kitchen chair back, balancing it back and forth. Yep. Uneven flooring. Lowell said that took money off property value.

  “Ya got him a present! What’s the matter with you?”

  I shrugged, pushing the chair back into place and running my hands through my hair. “Nothing’s wrong, Becky. I just … maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know.” My laughter sounded nervous, and I tried to relax, sitting down at the table and straightening napkins in the basket. “Maybe I’ll stay here and watch the dogs. Gordon ate a lot of deer meat, and that can’t be good for his digestive system.”

  “What on earth?” Becky stared, toothpaste dripping.

  “Okay. Gordon’ll be fine. But I’ve got Christie. Todd wanted me to bring her, and I think it’s a bad idea.”

  “Why? She’s an angel!”

  “Right. Because she’s asleep now.”

  Becky marched over and put her hand on my forehead. “Lands, Shah-loh, yer fingers are tremblin’! You comin’ down with somethin’? Ya ain’t got a fever, but ya look all funny all of a sudden.”

  “I’m not trembling!” I thrust the napkin basket away. “And I’m not sick either. But about tonight? I mean, it’s going to be Adam’s family mostly, and I’m not family. I haven’t even known him that long. Isn’t a family birthday party kind of … private?”

  Becky didn’t even listen to the rest of my little speech. I caught a glimpse of her as she headed down the hall, toothbrush in hand—shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

  Chapter 11

  Trinity’s what?” I pressed my other ear closed, trying to hear Jerry on my cell phone over the loud breathing of two dogs, the squeak of Tim’s shocks, his rumbly engine, and Hank Williams on the tape player up front. Yes, Tim’s truck still had a tape player. “She hasn’t shown up to work yet?”

  “Nope. You seen her?”

  “What do you mean she’s not there? Trinity’s never late. She helped train me, for crying out loud.” I shoved another rifle in a cloth case over to the side as Tim turned a corner, piling dogs and crossbows and an army-green camping chair against my legs.

  “Well, she’s an hour late, an’ nobody’s seen her.” Jerry sighed, and I heard the clatter of dishes in the background. Flash’s muffled voice calling an order to José, the newest short-order cook.

  “I’m kinda worried about her, Shiloh. She ain’t all there these days. I don’t wanna let her go, but …”

  “I’m worried about her, too, Jerry. I’ll call her. Thanks for letting me know.”

  I told Jerry good-bye and dialed Trinity, my forehead tight with worry. Nothing. I dialed again, hanging on to the back of the seat with one hand while Gordon drooled wet patches across my nice jeans. Christie put both front paws on the window and whined.

  “Get off, hound,” I whispered, trying to gently push Gordon away and then finally elbowing him off my legs. Groaning at the endless ring of Trinity’s phone that abruptly shifted into voice mail.

  “What’s goin’ on back there?” Becky called back, scrunching her head around to see me as she disentangled Christie from the gearshift. “You seem awful stressed fer somebody who’s got the night off!”

  “I’m not stressed. I’m …” A black metal crossbow slid sideways, skewering me in the ribs, followed by a rain of musty-smelling camouflage hunting coats. “Smashed.” I unclipped my seat belt and turned sideways in the seat, shoving stuff on the floor.

  “Well, I’m real pleased ya decided to come.” Becky raised an eyebrow. “Ya had me worried there fer a minute.”

  I dialed Trinity a fifth time and left a message then reluctantly closed my phone and stuffed it into my purse. “Yeah, well, I can’t stay long. I’m busy. I’ve got tons of stuff to do to fix up the house, and then I’ve still got to iron my clothes for work tomorrow.”

  I felt bad for complaining. It was nice of Adam to invite me, especially when I knew he didn’t have much time off. Fall kept him busy with more than hunting: pruning, winterizing lawns, hauling leaves, putting in walkways and walls, and planting bulbs. So much so that he didn’t even have time for a real party—just a couple of pies before a long ni
ght of balancing ledgers and updating flyers.

  Two of his employees hadn’t shown up for work, so Adam spent the previous week scrambling to hire new guys and smoothing over problems at one construction site. He told me at church he’d pulled three all-nighters, finishing up blueprints for a new project in record time and dozing in his car as he waited for the copy shop to open.

  I knew how he felt. Last Friday I nodded off at The Green Tree, rolling silverware. Face-planted right on the table. Jerry sent me home early and gave me the following night off.

  “How does he find time to sleep?” I asked as we jolted along then realized I’d spoken out loud. “I didn’t mean that. I just wondered …”

  “Who, Brownie?” asked Tim. “With me. Oops. Did I say that? I meant on the shelf!”

  Becky smacked him. At least she’d put on her nice jeans and a fuzzy gray sweater, topped by a fitted jacket, so she smacked with style.

  “I was asking about Adam.” I rolled down the window a crack to rid my nose of doggy smell, pulling Christie back on my lap. “How does he sleep with all the stuff he has to do?”

  “He don’t get much, I reckon. Landscapin’ is like that. Ya work yer tail off all spring an’ summer long an’ into the fall, and then durin’ the winter ya get yer breaks.”

  “Well, what does he do in the winter? He can’t hibernate.”

  “He works on new plans an’ blueprints and orders new supplies. Sometimes he takes a class, like that one he did last year to learn how ta put in stone walls and ponds an’ stuff like that. Buildin’ decks. An’ then there’s snow. Lots a shovelin’, but there’s money there.”

  “Shoveling snow?” I wrinkled my nose. “Doesn’t sound like great work, huh?”

  “Neither does waitin’ tables, but it pays the bills.” Tim grinned at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Touché.”

  “I think he’s wantin’ to start takin’ college classes,” interjected Becky. “He didn’t say nothin’, but I keep seein’ him look at college stuff. Wouldn’t be su’prised if he starts his course again now that Rick’s doin’ a little better. Maybe rent a place of his own.”

  “Rent a place? Why?”

  “Well, he’s twenty-three.”

  “And that means something? Kyoko dated a forty-one-year-old who still lived with his mom.”

  “Ha!” Tim shook his head. “‘Round these parts a man like that’s called a freeloader. An’ Adam ain’t one, last I checked.”

  “Wait,” I said, stopping in midpat on Christie’s head. “Is Adam thinking of moving? Or only moving to a new place?”

  My question came out a little too quickly. “I’m just curious,” I added, in case they got any wild ideas. “I mean, I’m planning to leave town as soon as I can sell Mom’s house. So.” I shrugged.

  Tim finally turned down the tape player. “Well, I don’t reckon he’s thinkin’ a movin’ away until Rick’s in a little better shape. Wouldn’t ya say, honey bun?” He turned to Becky, tapping out the rhythm to the music on his worn steering wheel. “‘Course with his business and all, it’s gonna be awful hard fer him ta ever move.”

  “Right.” I leaned against the seat back and shifted my legs around Gordon. “I sort of figured that.”

  We turned into the narrow gravel driveway and parked in front of the two-story Carter house, its wood-and-brick exterior gleaming in the last rays of evening. The first time I’d come in such a rush to help Rick that I barely noticed a thing. Now the gardens Adam had skillfully designed glowed, jewel-like, in the pale blue evening: stone walkways, small burgundy-tinged dogwood and dark spruce trees, and flower beds bursting with cheery marigolds and thick, broccoli-shaped clumps of rust-red sedum, all interlaced with leafy coleus exploding in chartreuse and pinky-red tones. Ice-blue asters poking up petaled heads among yellow-faced pansies. Even in the ruins of summer, Adam’s garden lived—breathed—sang—a kaleidoscope of last hopes before the snow.

  A dying sun spilled over the mountains, twinkling through the tree limbs that sifted quivering leaves onto a golden carpet.

  “They’re here! They’re here!” Todd shouted, throwing open the front door. Two chocolate labs bounded down the front walk—named, if I remembered Todd’s explanation correctly, after NASCAR drivers Dennis Hamlin and Dale Earnhardt. “And you brought Christie! Thank you, Miss Shiloh! Thank you!”

  I doubt your family will be thanking me in five minutes, after she’s chewed on the kitchen table and torn holes in the sofa, I thought, warily holding her out for Todd.

  We met in a happy mass on the sidewalk. Todd grabbed Becky and me by the hands and dragged us into the bright yellow foyer, Christie squirming under one arm. We shook hands with Adam’s dad, Cliff, a high school math teacher, minus the arm cast I remembered from his summer accident. His mom Vanna giving hugs with her cute pink-cheeked smile. An elderly couple who I guessed must be Adam’s grandparents.

  And then Christie wiggled loose, dropping to the carpet. Nails skidding on the shiny floor. She darted through the arched doorway and into the living room.

  “Christie!” I hollered, panting, running after her for the fourth time, as Todd grabbed her from gnawing an armchair. Denny and Dale in curious pursuit, noses quivering. “Todd, you’ve got to hold her tight. Like this.” I stuffed her in the crook of my elbow.

  “I’ll hold her! I promise!” He reached out, eyes pleading.

  I shook my head, wishing I’d never brought her. Or better, agreed to Becky’s silly dog idea. “If she pees on the rug, your parents will kill me.”

  “Oh, she won’t. I’ll—”

  Christie, sensing a challenge, stuck her nose under my elbow and somehow managed to slip through both my grasp and Todd’s. Careened toward the hallway. I ran to grab her, practically bowling over Adam’s older brother, Rick—maneuvering his wheelchair through the bedroom doorway with obvious effort.

  Droopy pants hung over the empty places where his leg and left foot should be, but his shoulders showed new strength. The weight benches and physical therapy gave him a good workout.

  I stopped short as Todd snatched up Christie, laughing, and bounded outside with her under his arm.

  “Hiya, Shiloh. Brought me a dog, eh?” Rick laughed, watching them go.

  “Don’t I wish.”

  Rick’s grown-out brown military cut fell over his forehead like Adam’s. He’d made such an impact on my decision to trust God that I wished I could say it, put it into words. Instead I remembered myself and dug in my purse. Then dropped a little shopping bag in his lap.

  “What’s this?” Rick asked, rolling his wheelchair to a better-lit corner. “It’s Adam’s birthday, not mine.”

  I bent awkwardly to hug him. “Open it!”

  He dug in the bag and pulled out a CD of the Psalms. Just reading and some background music. Thanks to my employee discount at Barnes & Noble.

  “Guns N’ Roses?” Rick turned the CD cover over. “Uh … thanks. I’ll have to grow my hair out now.”

  “What?” I snatched the CD back and realized he was teasing me again.

  “Really, Shiloh,” he said, dark eyes meeting mine. “I appreciate it. That’s really nice.” His voice had lost its characteristic wry laugh.

  I shrugged. “I just thought you might like to have it, especially when you’re not feeling so great. Adam said you’ve been training a lot to walk, and …”

  My voice trailed off, remembering his face pale with agony. The pills I’d handed him in shaking fingers.

  “Read to me how we are made,” Rick had begged as pain swept over him. “How we are fearfully and wonderfully made.” And never before had the scriptures entered my heart so deeply, so personally.

  “The Psalms are my favorite.”

  “I know. You’re going to make it, Rick. You’re going to do far better things than you imagine.”

  “We both are. Hang in there, Shiloh. Things’ll get better for you, too.”

  Outside I heard Todd shouting Christie’s name, and I lau
ghed and shook my head. “Don’t be so sure.”

  We stood under a sunset-painted sky, warming ourselves by the crackling flames, when I heard the familiar rumble in the distance. The sound of a truck door slamming. And my heart made a funny little miss-beat.

  How ridiculous. I turned my back and tossed another stick in the fire. It’s just Adam—and he’s not my type at all!

  Ever since I learned that men lost their senses over soft hair and sugar-sweet smiles, I’d always dated “high” on the food chain: rich, good-looking guys with hearts of ice. A pro basketball player. An Issey Miyake model. Stockbrokers like my black-eyed heartbreaker Carlos. It formed a society ladder—work your way up to the top and never look back.

  I’d definitely never wasted a second glance on somebody who drove a pickup truck and hauled gravel.

  But when Adam came into the backyard in work boots and a thick jacket, carrying heavy gloves and a pair of pruning shears, that little miss-beat tickled again. He strode so confidently—a man who worked with his hands and knew what he wanted out of life.

  “Hey everybody!” He waved as Todd raced toward him in the sweet, leaf-scented twilight, laced with fragrant smoke, and caught him in a hug. Christie racing after him with a stick in her mouth. “I’ll just change and be right down.”

  He headed inside, and I saw a light come on in his bedroom behind the curtains then blink off, and then Denny and Dale bounded down the back steps ahead of Adam in a chocolate-brown escort. He cradled Christie, who nestled down against his jacket like she belonged there. Warm against the crisp November breeze, fur blowing.

  “Well, look who’s here!” crowed Becky, high-fiving Adam. “The birthday boy himself!”

  “Birthday?” asked Tim, looking lost. “You gotta be kiddin’! I’m here fer pie!”

  Cliff pushed Rick’s wheelchair across the leaves, squeaking and crunching, and we all merged in front of the fire, amber light flickering on our faces. Faye came across the yard like a shadow, rosy from cold, and we pulled her over into the cozy circle as sparks danced and showered in the air. Smoke blew in a shift of wind and Todd fled, choking.