Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  The happy conversation and spilled laughter warmed me as much as the flames, offering a glimpse of what it must feel like to have family. A simple family, yes, but a happy one. Cliff wrapped his arm around Adam’s shoulders, the way they must have talked for years.

  Adam said something in reply, making them both chuckle. I saw Adam shift Christie in his arms as he scratched her velvety ears, and then I turned to watch Rick and his mischievous smile, teasing Todd about something. Their heads bent together, laughing, and all of us somehow caught up in it all.

  I couldn’t remember ever feeling this way about family—not even for a moment.

  Losing Mom packed a hard punch, but I’d never really known her. Ashley’s dagger wound, on the other hand, still stung. And try as I might, I still struggled to forgive my dad for leaving Mom.

  For leaving me.

  Just about everyone I’d ever known, including my fiancé, had walked out of my life and never looked back.

  I closed my eyes and tried to press all of now into my memory: the lighthearted voices, the crackle and roar of flames, the snap of twigs and puffs of smoke. A sapphire sky crisscrossed with dark holly branches, and the last gasp of greenish turquoise on the western horizon. Christie gnawing Adam’s jacket button. That sweet fall chill wafting up from carpets of fallen leaves, so sharp and cold it hurt my nose.

  After a song and a prayer, Becky and Faye went in to help Vanna. I followed awkwardly, not sure of my role at the Carter house.

  We carried pies down to a table, already laid out with paper plates and cutlery. And a big crock of hot, spicy apple cider. A smaller one of coffee.

  I weighed down the napkins and plates with decorative gourds to keep the cold wind from grabbing them and made a space for the famous tub of Cool Whip. If there’s one topping Southerners can’t live without, it’s Cool Whip. Processed and full of chemicals, yes, but I caught myself licking the plastic lid before tossing it in the trash.

  Vanna turned on an outdoor light, and then everyone attacked the table. Reaching for plastic forks. The glint of carving knives. Pouring steaming cider into paper cups. Tim stealing the cup out of Adam’s hand. Faye cutting slices of cinnamon-scented pie, bright orange like fall leaves. Pumpkin, perhaps?

  I was still hugging my jacket in the cold and remembering my years without family when someone thrust a plate into my hands. “Looks like you got a second chance.”

  “Sorry?” I accepted the plate and looked up at Adam in surprise.

  “It’s pecan.” His eyes were luminous. “The kind your mom sent you back in Japan.”

  I remembered it there in its plastic wrapping, symbolizing everything ridiculous I thought Mom’s life—and our relationship—represented.

  And I was wrong.

  I gazed at the dark triangle on my plate in surprise then back at Adam.

  “Thanks.” I dropped my eyes and fumbled with a napkin, remembering how rude I’d been to him, too, during my first days in Staunton. How infuriated he made me, along with everyone else, and the way he dug napkins out of a paper bag to stanch my tears. Instead of hating me, Adam took me fishing.

  Gave me a second chance to start over. To discover the Mom I never knew and the pieces of her life I’d missed.

  “What’s the other one?” I pointed to his orange slice, picking up my plastic utensils with clumsy fingers.

  “This? Sweet potato.”

  “Sweet potato pie?” I nudged it with my fork. “You’re serious?”

  “Sure. We always make it this time of year. Try it.” He held his plate closer. I hovered my fork, remembering purple-skinned satsuma imo sweet potatoes back in Japan, roasted and passed piping hot from the vendor’s truck as he sang his wares in an eerie, lilting voice.

  I shaved off a little piece and tasted cinnamon. Cloves. Something thick and intensely creamy. “I’m surprised.” I took another bite. “Not bad.”

  “Want to trade?”

  “How about we share?”

  “Even better.” He tugged a plastic knife down the middle of both slices, and I plopped a wobbly half on his plate.

  Then he touched his plastic fork to mine in a kind of “cheers,” and we both dug into our pie. Crunchy with pecans, just as I’d remembered. A perfect salty crust. That ying-yang mix of crunchy and gooey. Mom would have loved it.

  I wondered, briefly, what she would have thought of me standing here under the deep blue Virginia sky, eating pie with a teacher’s son.

  “How’s your burn?”

  “My what?” My mouth bulged with pie. And Cool Whip, which someone had applied liberally on top.

  “The burn on your arm.”

  At church. Our conversation in the hallway. I pulled my sweater sleeve down across my wrist. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

  Adam took another bite before speaking. “Do you get them a lot?”

  “What, burns?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes. The milk steamers get really hot.”

  I saw him glance down at my finger with the bandage, but the curve of the plate covered it.

  “You’re one to talk.” I nodded at the deep scar across his left hand. “I’m surprised your fingers are still attached. Stitches?”

  “That? Yeah. A bad machete swing. But …” He scratched his hand through his hair.

  “But what?” I prompted, feeling my old irritation crop up. It was always like this with Adam—me prodding it out of him and, usually, getting ticked off at what he said.

  “I don’t know. It’s just different.”

  “What’s different?”

  Adam shuffled against the wooden railing. “I just hate to see you covered in bandages. You’re not a man, Shiloh.”

  “And?” My words came out testy. I’d spent nearly twenty-five years living by myself, and no guy was going to tell me I couldn’t do my job. I even knew how to tie a tie, thank you very much! For my superstarched Green Tree uniform. “It’s okay for you to hack yourself with machetes, but I can’t break plates and burn myself with hot appliances?”

  Adam soberly sized me up. “Yes.”

  And nothing else. We ate in silence, and I forced myself to choke back the angry speech that rose—with frightening swiftness—to the tip of my tongue. Things are just different here, that’s all. Where the Civil War still lives and chauvinistic guys blast deer and possums with their stupid twelve gauges!

  “Do you like coffee or cider?”

  “This is your birthday.” I started for the table, but Adam’s hand on my elbow stopped me. He had two plastic cups there, one of each, resting on a railing.

  “Coffee. Thanks.” I smiled in spite of myself.

  Stubborn Adam. If I married somebody from the South, I’d better get used to weird male machismo. And probably deer heads mounted on my wall.

  “It was nice of him to hold the door for me,” Kyoko had said. “I might be fat and scary, but I’m still a girl.”

  My cup shook just a little, and I wiped coffee off my chin.

  Adam winked at me, something I’d never seen him do. “Come on over with the others.” He gestured with his head toward the warm circle around the fire. “Don’t stand over here all by yourself. You’re not alone anymore.”

  For the rest of the night his words played in my head—as we threw away the plates and carried empty dishes back inside, and as Adam sat on a log near the fire and opened presents: a new sweater from Becky, some business books from Tim, and my meager contribution—a (discount) book on garden design from Barnes & Noble.

  Christie frolicked with the wrapping paper, leaving shreds all over the leaves, finally falling asleep in a heap on Todd’s dirty jeans. The chill increased to a sharp cold, and most of the crowd headed for the warm, yellow interior.

  But several of us lingered, warming our hands by the fire and slowly feeding it logs. Every now and then Tim or Adam would go off into the dark trees with a knife and come back with fresh branches, sending sparks soaring.

  “You’re not alone anymore.”
>
  What did he mean by that? That this band of friends had become my family? Or that he …? I scuffed my shoe in the leaves, darting cautious glances at his worn brown leather work coat and then back to the fire, trying to figure him out.

  Tim was competing with Todd to see who’d eaten the most pie when Becky suddenly smacked me. “Doggone it, Shah-loh, you didn’t give him yer present!”

  “Yes I did! The book. Remember?”

  “That ain’t yer present! At least that ain’t what’s in the back a the truck.”

  I turned scarlet-oak red. “It’s not a present. I mean, not exactly. I just thought he might want it, but it’s not all that.”

  Becky lifted her chin and harrumphed at me. “I think ya oughtta let him decide that, don’t you?”

  Adam looked up from the dry pine branch he was snapping against his knee. “What’s in the truck?”

  “Now don’t you go braggin’ about yer doggone eight-pointer again, Yankee!” Tim complained. “That’s all I heard all day!”

  Adam’s eyes bugged. “You shot a deer?” He laughed in disbelief, hands frozen on the branch as his head swiveled from me to Tim.

  I scowled. “Don’t be silly! Tim’s lucky I’m even eating the stuff.”

  “Eatin’ it? You scarf it up like there ain’t no t’morrow. Tell the truth, woman, er you ain’t gettin’ no more a my rice an’ gravy!” He shook his finger at me. “Say, ‘I like it!’ ”

  “All right! All right!” I put my hands up. “You win. I like it.”

  “A lot!” ordered Tim.

  “A lot.”

  “Enough ta wash my truck every weekend an’ clean my rifles.”

  “Enough to …” I looked around for something to throw.

  “What’s in the truck?” asked Todd, cheeks red from cold.

  “It’s …” I shoved my hands into my pockets, wishing Becky hadn’t brought this up. I’d nearly decided not to give it to him after all, especially after his “you’re not a man” comments. Hmmph. “Well, you just have to see, I guess. But I don’t think you’ll want it.”

  We put out the fire and crunched through pungently sweet fallen leaves to Tim’s truck, and there it sat in the truck bed—a curious bulky thing covered with a tarp and tied down with rope. I felt foolish. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I regretted it.

  “What is it?” Adam peered in.

  Tim jumped up into the bed of the truck and squatted down, picking up the bundle without unwrapping it. He handed it down to Adam, who dropped the heavy thing onto the ground with a thud.

  Todd tried to peek under the blanket. “Is it a toilet, Shiloh? Did you give him a toilet?” He laughed. “That’d be a weird birthday present. Then again, the one upstairs don’t work so well, so maybe it’s a good idea.”

  Adam looked up at me, and I shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  He let the rope fall and then peeled off a layer of tarp. Unwrapped the old blanket taped around it. And when the light shone on it, I was afraid to open my eyes.

  Chapter 12

  It was a birdbath. An old ceramic birdbath I’d found in Mom’s storage building and intended to throw away, before Earl convinced me to keep it. He told me it had a nice, wide basin and could be used again, especially if I painted over the ugly stained gray. Which gave me an idea.

  I’d seen some beautiful garden art in the books at Barnes & Noble, and Earl helped me paint the whole birdbath a rich cobalt blue. Then we added some antique gold paint and partially sanded it off, gilding the corners and leaving the blue to shine through. Lacquering it to leave a shiny gloss.

  A few swipes of the brush in gold paint along the bottom in Japanese-style fish shapes, and voilà. Unique and striking—or so I imagined at the time—and I thought it might look nice filled with water in one of Adam’s garden displays. But now I could hardly look at Adam. He built decks, not birdbaths.

  “Shiloh?” Adam looked up in astonishment. “You painted this?”

  I gave a nervous laugh and shoved my hands into my pockets. “You can tell, right?”

  He turned it around in the dim glow of the porch light, running his hands along the base and the bowl.

  “Look, you don’t have to keep it. It was Mom’s, and Earl and I just gave it a new paint job. I know right where I can put it if you don’t have room.”

  “Who’s Earl?” He abruptly glanced up.

  “My neighbor. The one we tried to set up with Faye.”

  “Oh. Him.” He ran his hand along the gilded lip of the basin. “You painted this?” he asked again, scratching his head in disbelief. “For me?”

  “I mean … sort of. Yes. It’s garden art, or something like that. And you’re a landscaper. I guess the birds will like it.”

  “Shiloh, it’s …” He squatted there a few minutes and ran his hand over his jaw, eyeing the blue birdbath. Then without warning grabbed my hand, pulling me along toward the house. “Come with me!”

  I had no idea what his reaction meant, but I figured it must be … uh … good.

  It took my stunned brain a moment to realize he was holding my hand—warm, strong fingers laced between mine—and to catch the rising breath that fluttered in my throat. Adam’s hands were hardworking hands. Hands that hauled boulders and heavy bags of gravel and soil. Dug postholes and planted trees. Hoisted heavy posts into the ground and nailed trellises. I felt lightheaded.

  “Where are we going?” My breath puffed out in a little cloud as we came around a bright corner of porch light and dim fire glow to the wooden back deck. He pulled me up the steps, and I shivered as he dug around in the shadows by the pine tables.

  “Hold this.” Adam plopped a chilly pot of scarlet chrysanthemums into my hands, and the heat dissipated from my fingers immediately.

  He picked up another matching pot and headed back to the truck, Becky staring after us with a sneaky, open-mouthed smile.

  “I’ve got an idea!” He beamed his flashlight on the birdbath. “Can you help me bring it over here, Tim?”

  And they hauled it over to a shadowy spot on the other side of the house, all landscaped with flat stone walkways and juniper shrubs. Faint light from the lanterns in the front cast a pale yellow glow.

  “Here.” Adam gestured with his work boot. “Right next to this patch of Irish moss.” And they dumped it upright in a swirl of white gravel, tamping it down around the base.

  “Todd, can you fill one of those buckets out back with water?”

  Todd sprinted off. Adam clicked open a pocketknife and sliced off some deep red chrysanthemum blooms right under the flower head, making a pile on the gravel. Todd returned with the bucket, grunting and sloshing, and Adam helped him pour the water into the birdbath. It glinted there like black satin ribbons shot through with gold from the flashlight beam.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked, shivering. Pulling my jacket collar as tight as it would go and wishing I’d brought my scarf.

  “Watch.” Adam set a concrete brick in the very center and set the pot of whole flowers on top, making it appear to float on the water. Then he sprinkled the cut blooms right-side up in the water like little crimson suns. They drifted there lazily, bobbing around the rim in a gorgeous contrast of deep red and blue. Almost Asian, like colors on a bright lacquer vase.

  “Wow,” said Tim, scratching his head. “I reckon that looks perty nice if I do say so myself. Ya done good, Yankee!”

  Adam crossed his arms with satisfaction. “It looks fantastic! I can use it as one of my trademark gardening displays for my website. Or even better—my flyers! Come take a look.”

  We tramped inside, cheeks and hands red from cold, to Adam’s cramped bedroom upstairs, which groaned with stacks of files earmarked with yellow stickers. Bags of advertising flyers and posters. A tiny desk crowded with Bible, pencils, and markers, and rolls and rolls of blueprints in various states of unroll and completeness. Paper sketches taped up all over the walls.

  The rest comprised an odd array of gardening t
ools, bags of gravel samples, color swatches, and leather work gloves.

  I felt sorry for him. He barely had room to pull out the desk chair and offer it to me then unfold a chair for Becky. Who promptly scooted it over to Adam’s ancient desktop computer and checked her e-mail.

  “Hey, check yers real quick,” she giggled, pulling me around to the screen. “I jest sent ya something.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. It’s real funny.”

  While Adam dug in the closet for his buried flyers, I tapped in my password and dragged the mouse down my inbox list. Clicked on Becky’s message, which blared red flashing hearts. Something about love advice and Adam’s name …? I gasped and clicked out of it, hissing something at Becky under my breath.

  She doubled over with laughter. “Read it!” she whispered.

  “Read it yourself!” I started to close my inbox in a huff and then froze right next to the name in bold black and white: Ashley Sweetwater. I clicked on it.

  And then the room seemed to still. I leaned back in my chair with a gasp, knocking a book off the shelf.

  “What’s a matter?” Becky crowded around. “What, yer half sister send ya somethin’?”

  “Well, I’ll be. She wasn’t kiddin’.” Tim stroked his chin, poking his head around Adam’s.

  “Nope. It’s a real law firm.” I clicked through the website again and shook my head. “They’re legit.”

  “I can’t believe it, Shah-loh! She ain’t really gonna …” Becky’s voice trailed off. “Why, I thought she was jest full a talk!”

  “Maybe she is, but if she’s really hired somebody from this firm, then I’m in big trouble.” I scanned through her brief e-mail, which told me to expect a letter from J. Prufrock.

  “That guy from the T. S. Eliot poem? No way. She made this up!” I laughed out loud, scrolling through the list of attorneys on the site.

  “Who?” Becky peered up at me. “Don’t he drive fer Shell?”

  There it stood, in block letters: JAMES REUBEN PRUFROCK III, ATTORNEY AT LAW. I skimmed his bio then rested my forehead on my hand. Closed my eyes and mentally pounded the keyboard. “What am I supposed to do now? Hire somebody, too? You know I can’t afford a lawyer.”