Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  Shoot, I couldn’t afford the frozen chicken on sale at Wal-Mart last week. I bought eggs instead and ate them scrambled over rice.

  “Shucks, Shah-loh, yer always in trouble,” Tim teased, noogie-ing my hair and trying to make me smile. “Ain’t nothin’ new.”

  “Don’t do anything.” Adam reached over me and clicked through the site. “Wait until they contact you. You’re not obligated to do anything at this point. If you do, it’ll just make a bigger mess.”

  I made a face at Tim, trying vainly to smooth my hair. “A bigger mess hardly sounds possible.”

  “You shore she ain’t pullin’ yer leg?” Tim ran his hand through his brown mullet as I clicked out of the site and closed my e-mail.

  “No, but how can I be sure? I can’t trust Ashley for two seconds.” I played listlessly with the mouse, remembering Adam’s “you’re not alone anymore” speech. I sure felt like it sometimes. Especially now, when the last person in my family had deserted me. “Mom’s house isn’t worth much, but she’s right. Fifty thousand is still a sizeable chunk. Which is why I need it to sell.”

  Because the IRS is going to carve a huge chunk out of my front porch if I don’t.

  I turned my chair away from the computer. “So where are your flyers, Adam? Let me look at something positive for a change.”

  “Ha. Then you don’t want to see these. They’re pretty bad.” He dug a pile out of a box and plopped it in my lap. “See what you think.”

  CARTER LANDSCAPING, they read in a basic (ugly) font. Cheap-quality paper. A faded ink foldout part with information about the kinds of landscaping and light construction jobs Adam did. But I had to squint to make out the dark, fuzzy pictures, several sizes too small. The whole thing needed a dose of good old Virginia fall color.

  “I think I’ll go back to that lawyer site,” I teased.

  “I know.” He rubbed his forehead. “Not that great, huh?”

  “How old are they?”

  “Old enough. I’d like to update them this year, but I don’t have much experience with all that.”

  “That birdbath thing’d make a nice pitcher,” said Tim, picking his teeth with a toothpick he found somewhere. “All them colors. Whadja think, honey bun?”

  “Real nice,” said Becky. “With them red flowers. Looks kinda Asian.”

  Before I could comment, Adam stuck a business card in my hand. ADAM J. CARTER, LANDSCAPER.

  I turned the flyer over again. “What’s your budget for these?”

  “Dirt cheap,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  He pointed to some numbers in a ledger. “Basically paper and printing. I do all the layout on my computer.”

  “I could help you with design if you want,” I said hesitantly. “I did take some photography and design classes in college. Just about every reporter does. I mean, I’m not great, but …”

  “You could do that?” Adam took a step back, blinking in surprise. “You’re serious?”

  “Me? Sure.” I leaned forward. “I mean, you wouldn’t mind if I tried? I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ve got some ideas.” My heart pounded suddenly, thinking of something—anything—I could do that wouldn’t fall flat on its face here in Staunton, Virginia.

  Adam leaned against the bookshelf, eyes bright with excitement. “I’d pay you, of course.”

  “Fine. And I’ll pay you for painting my kitchen.”

  He smiled briefly and arranged some papers on the desk. “Well, if you designed these for me, I could print out some new ones to include my new services. And take them to some new businesses that will probably need work soon.”

  I looked around his room at the hanging plans and rolls of blueprints. The Bible half covered by receipts and colored pencils. I tapped a pen thoughtfully to my chin.

  “You need a new name,” I blurted. “Something catchy.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Adam scratched his head, one wary eyebrow raised.

  “Eden. Eden Landscaping.”

  Tim nodded, and Becky hugged herself in excitement. “That’s perfect, Adam! The Bah-ble an’ the garden an’ all that! An’ you bein’ named Adam. Ain’t that funny?”

  Adam reddened. “Yeah. I get that from time to time. Not exactly my idea of funny.”

  “But that’s just it!” I looked up from the flyers. “That’s your tagline. People will remember you. It’s corny, but it sticks.” I grabbed a pencil and doodled on some scrap paper hanging off his desk. “Look. If you made a logo like this, like the tree in the garden”—I drew some roots sticking out—“or a leaf, or—”

  “A fig leaf,” snickered Tim, and we all roared. Even Adam.

  “A normal leaf,” I retorted. “Whatever. Make that your logo, maybe add in your initials like this and put it on everything you print, and people will start to remember you.”

  “Look at Miss Artiste!” Becky cooed, leaning over my shoulder.

  “Really? You think so?” I felt shy suddenly, nearly losing my courage. But this might help Adam, so I kept sketching an A. “I minored in art, but I don’t think I’m that great. What’s your middle name, Adam?”

  Adam pretended not to hear. I slowly lowered my pencil. “You do have a middle name, right?”

  “It starts with J.”

  We all exchanged glances, and Becky shook her head. “Good luck gettin’ it outta him,” she grinned. “Y’all and yer weird middle names! Mine’s Louise if anybody’s askin’!”

  “You’re really not going to tell?” Adam with a goofy middle name. It struck me as funny, the way he came off as so sober and proper about everything.

  “If you tell yours first.”

  “Forget it.” I sketched in a C. “You’ll just be middle nameless then.”

  “Boy, do I wish,” Adam muttered under his breath, stacking up some boxes to make more room for Tim.

  “Mercy, Shah-loh! I didn’t know ya could draw like that! Yer real good!” Becky crowed. “I can’t hardly do a stick man; although once I drew a donkey fer a Christmas program at church. Folks thought it was a cotton-pickin’ monkey!” Her eyes lit suddenly. “Hey, you could put a verse on yer stuff, Adam!”

  “I actually had one here. Look.” He turned over the flyer. “In small print down at the bottom.”

  “I see it. But it’s not connected to anything,” I said. “If you choose a nature verse—like one from the Psalms—then it would all fit together.”

  Adam’s gaze pierced mine with that excited glow I saw from time to time. “ ‘The earth is the Lord’s,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘And everything in it.’ ”

  “That’s it! You need a catchy theme to stick in people’s minds, with lots of colors and pictures. Ad stickers on your truck. Go on the radio. Do some free work for publicity.” I turned his card over. “And you should call yourself a ‘landscape designer.’ It sounds more professional.”

  “Sheewwweeee!” said Becky, standing up and slapping me with a high five. “I think our little Shah-loh done hit another home run!”

  And the way she said it, looking from me to Adam with that sneaky grin, I didn’t think she meant just the flyers.

  “Then your business will have soul,” I said, ignoring Becky as color crept up my cheeks. “Unlike my house.”

  “Your house?” Adam looked confused.

  “Lowell told her it’s too empty,” said Becky. “That it don’t got no soul an’ that’s why folks ain’t buyin’ it. I offered her nice posters ‘n’ artwork, but I doubt she’ll take me up on my offer.” She snickered.

  “And she ain’t takin’ Brownie!” glared Tim. “We done been through that a’ready. So don’t even ask!”

  Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Is Brownie that … you know, that …?”

  “Yessir! An’ he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Well.” Adam put his hands on his hips. “That does present a problem.”

  His large, rough knuckles were close enough for me to touch, and I forced my eyes elsewhere
. Mentally screamed at myself to stop looking at Adam and get my mind where it belonged—on staging Mom’s house and leaving Staunton.

  “But they’re wrong, Shiloh,” said Adam, voice piercing my thoughts—which, at the moment, included throttling Becky for her sneaky grins. “Your house isn’t empty. It’s full of you. Your new life. Your mom’s life.”

  “But I’m not supposed to show me. It’s supposed to be a blank slate. A canvas. A skeleton.”

  “Impossible.” Adam crossed his arms. “A house reflects the heart. That’s what it’s made to do—to shelter and protect.” He gazed down at me in a way that made my pulse beat faster, despite my best intentions. “Just let your house reflect your new heart. It’s … well, beautiful.”

  Oh boy. I shaded my tree some more, hands shaking so that I had to erase one edge.

  A little spark leaped up into my mind, glowing, just like the golden spots of color that had danced over the fire. Only this one didn’t fizzle. It burned like an ember under my thoughts all the rest of the evening until Adam walked us out to Tim’s truck to say good-bye.

  Overhead the moon had risen, sharp and cold, over the smoky black land as Tim and Becky slapped hands one last time with Todd on the other side of the truck. Christie, blessedly, hung limp with sleep in Becky’s arms, while Gordon panted and made sticky swirls on the truck window with his wet nose.

  Adam opened the truck door and pushed back the front seat for me then offered me his hand to jump into the back.

  I stood there looking at his hand in the moonlight then slowly grasped it. Squeezed in behind the seat and tucked in my knees, breath curling softly in the chilly air.

  Adam hadn’t let go of my hand.

  Then instead of releasing me as I expected, he pulled me toward him ever so slightly. “Shiloh,” he said in a strange, tender tone of voice that I’d never heard before. I loved the way he said my name—rolling it over his tongue like a song. “Thank you. For everything.”

  His face came so close to mine that it startled me, and a tremor quivered through my stomach. I felt the heat in my cheeks as I stammered to say something—anything—that wouldn’t sound stupid.

  But I didn’t need to. Without another word Adam kissed me lightly on the forehead. He released my hand and stepped back to adjust the seat. Then he stood off to the side with his hands in his pockets, jacket collar up against the wind.

  “Shah-loh?” Becky hollered, striding around the darkened yard, swiveling her head. “Where’d ya go?”

  “I’m here!” I leaned over Tim’s hunting stuff and banged on the window, cheeks flaming.

  Tim threw his hands up in the air in mock exasperation and waved good-bye to Adam then let in a frigid blast of air as he threw open the truck door.

  Tim and Becky laughed as we pulled away, bantering back and forth and playing with sleepy Christie, and I joined in. But I don’t remember a word of what we said. I sat in the darkness, face hot in the cold cab. Touched the tips of my fingers to my forehead. Adam just kissed me.

  Sure, he could have kissed a sister that way, or his mom—but it was still a kiss. A sign of affection and even—dare I say it?—possession.

  I wondered there in the darkness, with Tim’s gun rack behind me and headlights dazzling my eyes, how it would feel to be known as Adam’s. To have his strength and protection all around me like the sturdy walls of a house, sheltering me against the cold and loneliness of life. To spend my days in peace, knowing that I was no longer alone.

  Just as he’d said before drawing me into the warmth and glow of the party.

  The spark that had twinkled in my mind suddenly blazed up, bright and burning. Light. Laughter. Life. Just like Adam’s fall-blooming garden, spilling out color no matter how short the days.

  I stared out at the darkened fields, telephone poles flashing by as my thoughts gathered momentum. Counted off things on my fingers. Then reached out and whapped the back of Becky’s seat so abruptly that she yelped.

  “What in the name a Pete?” she exclaimed, lurching around to scowl at me.

  “That’s it!” I cried. “Adam figured it out! I know what I’m going to do with Mom’s house!”

  Chapter 13

  Cold wind whipped my hair as I carried the giant photo prints out to the car, looking them over in the bright parking lot. I wished the November sun would warm the chilly asphalt and even chillier car, but no such luck.

  My roses in the flower bed had long since faded, withered like the brown and yellow leaves that still clung to barren trees, but I had preserved vivid fall. Here. On glossy printouts of Kodak paper with matching black frames: Mom’s spiraled Kobe blooms all rimmed with ice. A lone tree on a hillside. Leaves beaded with raindrops, all in bright colors that popped against the white matting.

  All these photos would form a gallery on the cream-colored kitchen and living-room walls. My house fairly sang with simple touches here and there: a bouquet of dry hydrangea blooms, their once-blue petals turned to paper-thin sepia. Bare forsythia branches in a vase. Bible verses. The Bible open to 1 John. Fragrant walnuts in a bowl. Golden pumpkins. Fall leaves.

  Everything fresh and joyful, just like my new heart.

  The house didn’t need more expensive stuff. It needed my soul. It mirrored me, Shiloh P. Jacobs, the butterfly-to-be—the no longer empty, who came to life, day after day, like a green tendril waking from winter sleep.

  Looking around at her new world and finding a gift here, a surprise there. A touch of God’s hand in the smallest of things. Things that might otherwise be overlooked in my former rush for beauty, polish, and poise.

  For the first time I didn’t care a bit what Lowell thought.

  My house would sell soon. I felt it.

  Which meant I needed to figure out what on earth to do about Adam Carter. And soon.

  “Thanks again, Pastor,” I said, shaking Matt Davis’s hand as I left the Sunday school room. Behind me a couple of guys still argued over whether soft point or hollow point bullets worked better for deer hunting, and a woman named Tammy wrangled over who had doughnut duty next week.

  Donut duty. Another reason for my fervent interest in the class.

  “No problem, Shiloh.” Pastor Davis beamed, patting my elbow. “We’re glad you’re here.”

  The class had finished early, so I slipped down the hall toward the still-cold sanctuary to wait for Tim and Becky and Faye. And try as I might to deny it, a certain Virginia landscaper.

  I clutched my Bible under one arm, thinking of the blue-violet asters Adam brought to The Green Tree as a centerpiece for my kitchen table. Something warm had crept into his eyes when he looked at me, and I found myself tongue-tied when we spoke, blood rushing to my face. Me, a fearless reporter who’d interviewed the Japanese prime minister without batting an eyelash.

  Despite all my inner scoldings to the contrary, my hands still trembled when Adam and I bent together over his computer screen to design the layout of his flyers, our fingers barely touching on the mouse.

  We walked through the cold grass and shrubs of his late-autumn gardens in early morning, the grass painted with frost and a silver, low-hanging mist sifting down through the trees. I stood next to him with unexpected closeness, squatting to take photos of his work and feeling flushed as I stood up. Stilling as he brushed a single eyelash off my cheek, his eyes just inches from mine.

  We did all the work together: going over the final draft, picking up the printing with jittery hands, distributing them all over town, designing new business cards.

  And wonder of wonders: it worked. For once I’d done something right, something that didn’t fall apart into burning pieces splattered across the ground.

  Adam had to hire two more employees to deal with the unexpected increase in clients, more than he’d ever had in the fall. Not to mention two orders for cobalt-blue birdbaths—complete with scarlet-red mums, just like the one in the picture.

  In return for my help, Adam gave me a Greek-style fish tile in colorful mosaic
, carefully chiseled out of an old garden wall he’d torn down at some sprawling estate. Baskets of wrinkly, citron-scented osage oranges and red bittersweet berries. Which now adorned my newly be-souled house.

  He even went so far as to pick me up from The Green Tree on our way to Thanksgiving dinner. A big, noisy family shindig at Becky’s parents’ house over in Stuarts Draft—out in the farthest reaches of the county—and I inhaled the musty smell of his truck, like mulch and burlap and a whisper of cologne. We laughed together over glorious orange sweet potato casserole topped with melting marshmallows, piling our plates full of green beans, turkey with cornbread stuffing, and quivery Jell-O salad. His eyes tender as the golden yeast rolls he passed me, our fingers barely brushing on the basket.

  Whoever this Adam J. Carter was, I found him invading my thoughts and carefully laid plans a little too often for my comfort. And with the worst timing possible—right as I scheduled house showings and turned mug handles in the same direction and polished a stove someone else would soon own.

  How could I even consider him? Especially so soon after my debacle with Carlos?

  For years I eschewed marriage, telling myself I’d never be like Mom and Dad, arguing hours into the night and slamming doors in icy good-byes. Not me. Not alive and vulnerable, afraid to weep. Even Carlos had remained more or less at a painful distance, which served me well when he cut the ropes with one swift, magnificent, coldhearted swipe.

  But Adam? I laced my fingers together tightly, wondering if maybe he could be different, could be …

  “Sugar?” Faye had stroked a strand of hair behind my ear the night before as I sat at my kitchen table, hands clumped with biscuit dough. My eyes fixed on the fish tile and its red, blue, and yellow mosaic squares. “That’s real pretty. Who gave it to ya?”

  “That?” My voice had come out sort of squeaky, and I tried to shrug. Plopped the blob of dough down on the flour-covered table. “Oh. Just Adam. Sort of as a thank-you for … um … work stuff.”

  Faye didn’t reply. She just leveled her eyes at me behind her glasses and moved the biscuit pan out of the way. Handed me the rolling pin. “Adam’s a real nice guy,” she finally said, clearing her throat. “He’s got a good heart, Shiloh. I wonder if ya …”