Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  I scraped some dough off my fingers with the spoon and looked up, my pulse beating faster.

  “Ya ever … well … think of him as more than jest a friend?”

  “Adam?” My sticky fingers shook, and I picked up the rolling pin and gently flattened the dough. Like so many of my reservations, smooshed thin and pliable. “I don’t know. I guess I thought he’s … all right.” My shoulders shrugged again, and I curved the rolling pin around a circular edge. “He’s not that good-looking, Faye. I mean he’s not ugly or anything, but he’s not … you know.” My face flamed. “Okay, maybe I’ve thought of him that way. A little. Yes.”

  I couldn’t look at Faye. Couldn’t raise my head. I just kept rhythmically rolling the dough.

  Her voice came so soft I almost didn’t hear: “Have ya told him?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “Well, maybe ya should.” Faye tipped my chin up with one flour-covered finger. “Or at least let him know ya feel the same way.”

  “Why? I’m leaving anyway. It won’t do any good.”

  “I think ya oughtta let him decide that.” Her words hung in the air. “He’s old enough to recognize love, Shiloh. And so are you. Trust God and tell him the truth.”

  That night I burned the biscuits. But they were the sweetest ones I’d ever eaten, crisp and brown on the bottom, drizzled with strawberry jam. I thought of the words love and Adam Carter, and a small voice inside me murmured a hesitant yes.

  I stopped briefly by the church bathroom in the chilly Sunday school wing to fix my hair, wondering how to put into words what I needed to say to Adam. Maybe after church, as we stood outside in the bright wintry sun, the vast sapphire sky cold and magnificent. The last days of fall swirling around us like dried leaves on the wind.

  Maybe I’d ask him what he meant by that kiss. Or maybe I’d just say it: “You’re all wrong for me, but I like you anyway.”

  No. That sounded horrible. I smoothed the clip in my hair and straightened my sweater, amazed that for once words eluded me. Me, a journalist, whose life and craft wove words—and suddenly my tongue could only stammer.

  But I would find those words and exchange them as a gift, like that little fish tile and pot of asters he placed so eagerly in my open hands.

  I pushed open the bathroom door and stepped into the hall, checking my watch. Voices echoed against the corridor walls as classes let out, strains of music just beginning to filter over from the sanctuary.

  And then I saw it—a figure that looked like Adam’s as I brushed past an empty Sunday school room.

  “Well, it’s good to see you again, Adam,” said a female voice, wafting faintly through the doorway.

  A young female voice. I scrunched to a stop on the carpet—and put myself in reverse.

  “I’m so glad.” She giggled. “That’s great. I’ve been thinking about you so much lately, and …”

  I knew I shouldn’t have peeked. I knew it. Something inside me, over the sudden pounding of my heart, shouted at me to mind my own business. To stop eavesdropping and “skedaddle,” as Becky always said, as fast as I could toward the sanctuary.

  But my feet didn’t obey. I caught my breath, peeking around the open door at a carroty-blond woman about my height standing with startling proximity to Adam Carter, her back partially toward me. But visible enough for me to see blushed cheeks and delicate pearl earrings. Down-turned eyes as she clutched her Bible to her heart. Adam’s head bent toward her.

  The surprising tenderness of the sight took me aback. What on earth was Adam doing in an empty Sunday school room talking to a girl? A girl who, from all outward appearances, he knew … um … quite well?

  He opened his mouth to speak, and I caught my breath and leaned forward.

  “I know you and I have gone through a lot together,” he said, voice low over the empty folding chairs. “And we’ve always known …”

  We’ve always known what? My mouth turned to sand.

  Adam shifted slightly, and I caught a glimpse of her face: not particularly pretty, especially in that ugly patterned dress framed by a horrible square pilgrim collar—but focused on Adam’s gaze. I saw her reach out, as if in slow motion, to put a hand on his arm.

  “We were meant to get married,” Adam said in such low tones I had to scrunch myself against the wall to hear. “From the beginning. You and I.”

  My wool dress coat fell off my elbow and onto the floor. Right there in a pile. I jerked back and tried to breathe, unable even to swallow, as I caught snatches of their hushed voices—“us” and “together”—right there in Covenant Baptist Church’s Sunday school room, in Adam’s husky tenor voice with a touch of Southern drawl.

  There must be some mistake. I snatched up my coat and leaned back against the wall, heart pounding. Trying to draw some other conclusion than the sinister one that formed in my brain, but coming up empty. The Bible quivered in my hands.

  “I know,” I heard her say back, although I didn’t dare peek again. “You’re one in a million, Adam. I’ve always thought of you that way, you know.”

  The floor trembled and the ground shook. I backed away, trying to regain my balance, and nearly knocked into a woman hurrying by with two kids. I managed to lurch into another corridor, barely seeing the people that jabbered and laughed, scattered in little clumps outside the rooms.

  “Shiloh? How’s your work going?” somebody called as I pulled on my coat and whipped my scarf violently around my neck.

  I stuck my hands in my coat pockets and walked faster, dodging deacons and robed choir members and children waving crayoned pictures of Jonah in the belly of the whale. Where, as I flung myself toward the nearest door, seemed like a pretty good place to be.

  I stalked out of the church and into the parking lot, stuffing my fingers into my gloves with shaking fingers. Striding faster and faster toward my car, breath coming loud and furious. I jerked open the door and threw my stuff inside then jammed my keys into the ignition and shifted into REVERSE.

  “You’re one in a million.”

  I pressed my Prada heel to the accelerator, not looking back.

  Chapter 14

  I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I drove as fast as I could away from the parking lot, bursting out of town and down side streets toward … well, anywhere that wasn’t Covenant Baptist Church. In three hours I’d clock in at The Green Stinkin’ Tree, and only God knew if I could keep my composure long enough to carry a tray of steaming plates without dropping them all over someone’s table.

  My gloved hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles tense and bulging, as my mind reeled over the images of Adam and Red-Blond Chick in an endless, roiling succession.

  I couldn’t have seen right. I couldn’t have… . I lifted one hand and pressed it to my cheek, still stunned. Did he really say marriage?

  A red light blinked on the dash, but I barely glanced at it. I clenched my jaw and kept driving, wondering how on earth I’d gotten myself in such a mess. Adam wasn’t even my style, for crying out loud. My … anything! He wasn’t even handsome. Not really.

  And now I felt like the heel, not even understanding why I cared so much about somebody like Adam Carter in the first place. For crying out loud—I wasn’t staying in Staunton anyway!

  Stupid birdbath. I turned right at the stoplight, heart boiling, and veered down a lonely country road. A brown rump stared back at me from a slow-moving horse trailer, and I stepped on the gas and passed it. Wishing I could do the same thing with this awful portion of my life—just leave it behind in the dust.

  I barreled through the next intersection, pausing at the STOP sign, and flashed past a smooth field lined with fiery red oaks, the color of my bursting pulse. Rolled hay bales scattered across the faded green like just-baked dinner rolls.

  And out of nowhere, I felt the car slow. The steering wheel tighten.

  What on earth? My jaw dropped, and I jerked off my sunglasses. Fumbling for the console with my free hand, running my finger over the lig
hts and dials. I’ve got plenty of gas!

  A burned smell wafted in, mingled with the sharp stench of cow, and white puffs curled from under the hood.

  “No, no, no!” I moaned, banging the steering wheel. “Not the car! Not now! Please, God! I haven’t even fixed the headlight yet!”

  I pulled over in the gravel and threw the car into PARK. Then I climbed out and squatted awkwardly by the car in my dress to pop the hood. I pulled off my gloves and jerked the hood open, and smoke poured out. Something dripped, stinking like charred rubber.

  I thought of Adam in that horrible Sunday school room. Ashley. The IRS. The hefty fee I’d have to pay to have my car towed then repaired—if it could be repaired—by some quack mechanic who’d take one look at my high heels and sunglasses and charge me double.

  I buried my face in my hands and bawled.

  I was still sponging my face and trying to think of who to call when, over the hill on a gray ribbon of country road, I spotted a squad car.

  Oh no. Please not …

  The car slowed, and a familiar buzz cut poked out the window. Shane put up his sunglasses. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Shiloh Jacobs.”

  I wiped frantically at my mascara then stuffed the tissues in my purse and zipped it shut.

  “What ya tryin’ ta do? Send smoke signals over to Charlottesville?”

  Shane pulled in behind me, and as much as I hated to admit it, I felt my shoulders sink in relief when he parked. He walked over to my car and checked the console then stuck the hood prop under the hood and leaned under to see what was dripping. Smoke billowed out.

  “Looks like ya got a oil leak. Yer car’s overheated.”

  “How much is that going to set me back?” I kept my chin high and my gaze detached. I felt awkward, though, since Shane had sent me red roses—a towering, expensive bouquet—to The Green Tree. And called me, too, after getting my phone number from his cronies at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

  Shane grinned and dug a toothpick out of his pocket. He stuck it in his teeth and leaned against my car, dropping his sunglasses back down over his eyes. Presumably so he could check me out, as he did most women, without showing his pupils.

  “It’ll cost ya upward of a thousand bucks. Maybe two.” He showed a broad smile at the look on my face. “How ‘bout I take ya home? I’ll have a lunch break here in a bit.”

  “I can’t go home. I work after this.” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions down.

  “Ain’t a problem. I’ll take ya there.”

  I glanced at my Honda and back at Shane. “No thanks. I’ll just call somebody to come pick me up.”

  Church. I sank my head in my hand. Everybody’s at church with their cell phones off. Shoot. And no way under the sun would I dial Adam Carter or anybody who’d ever called him “friend.” I dumped my cell phone back in the seat and stuck my hands on my hips. “Fine,” I sighed.

  Shane seemed to enjoy my frustration more than anything. He smiled and crossed his arms, not moving from my car. “Jest one little thing.”

  “What?”

  “Ya gotta go out with me. Jest one time.”

  “Forget it. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “A taxi?” Shane guffawed. “Go ahead. It’ll cost ya another thousand this far out, if ya can find one open on Sunday mornin’.”

  A brisk, sunny wind blew my hair, and I hugged myself, shivering. Something dripped under the hood, and my hair reeked of smoke.

  “Come on. I’ll take ya to lunch.”

  “And then the restaurant?”

  “Of course. I’ll even call somebody ta come get yer car.” He punched some numbers on his shiny new smartphone.

  I reluctantly followed him, taking my purse and Bible from the front seat. “It’s not a date,” I reminded him, grumbling as he held the door open for me with a too-gallant sweep of his arm.

  “Oh yes it is.” He winked at me.

  “Whatever.” I rolled my eyes and slid in.

  “This is a bar,” I snapped as Shane opened the door wider for the woman behind me, who sported a low-cut tank top. How in the world she could bare so much skin in the dead of November I’ll never know. But Shane didn’t seem to mind.

  “Yep. Club 21. It’s a sweet little joint.” He put his hand on my back and walked me toward a table. I walked faster so he wouldn’t have to touch me.

  I could hardly breathe in the dark, smoky, musty interior, gleaming with neon beer advertisements. “You come here all the time?” I arched an eyebrow, raising my voice over the pulse of rock music as I scooted out my chair and reluctantly peeled off my coat and scarf. I draped them over the chair back next to me and rubbed a spot on the table disdainfully with a paper napkin.

  “Yep. Every weekend. More’n that after grouse huntin’.”

  “What?” The bass blared, and I twisted my head to hear.

  “Grouse huntin’.”

  “What’s a grouse?”

  “Huh?” We both leaned forward and knocked heads.

  I rubbed mine irritably. “Never mind.” Probably some kind of rodent.

  Shane caressed my hand, which rested on the table. Then laced his fingers through mine as if he knew me a little too well. He didn’t. I snatched my hand away and mentally paged through my list of phone numbers for someone who could possibly pick me up. Stella? I dug out my cell phone and dialed her, turning away from the table. Dialed again. Then a third time as Shane scooted his chair closer. Sickly sweet aftershave invading my nostrils.

  “Drink, Shiloh?”

  “Water,” I said purposefully, glancing around at the beer bottles sprouting from nearby tables.

  Oh, Lord … what have I done?

  “So ya still gettin’ them calls from the septic service?” Shane put his face close to mine with a leering grin.

  “Yes. Almost every single day.” I stopped short at the sight of his teeth, startlingly white in the dull overhead light. “Why, is it you?”

  “Me? Naw. Ha-ha.” He chuckled and pulled his chair closer. “Becky told me ‘bout it. They’s prob’ly jest tryin’ ta hit on ya. Not that I’m s’prised, you bein’ such a looker an’ all. Lands, look at them eyes!”

  “Looks have nothing to do with it.” I untangled my hand a second time. “It’s simple disrespect to a woman to keep calling when I’ve asked eleven times for them to remove my number from their phone list.”

  “Oh, I respect women.” Shane grinned again. “A lot.”

  The waitress came, and Shane followed her with his eyes until he noticed me staring.

  “So, Shiloh,” said Shane, leaning closer. “What’s this I hear about you an’ Adam Carter?”

  “Adam?” I stiffened, fingers tightening on my water glass. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Aw. Come on. I hear through the grapevine that ya’ll might have a li’l somethin’ goin’ on. Not officially, of course, but—”

  “He’s a friend,” I snapped, bristling. “Or he was. And …” I pulled my sweater tighter, feeling bile pour back into my stomach. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “Some water under the bridge between you two, eh? Well, maybe it’s a good thing yer not tangled up with him the way I thought ‘cause I hear Eliza Harrison’s back in town.”

  “As if I care.” I took a sip of my water and stared over Shane’s head at a flickering TV tuned to a NASCAR prerace interview. “Whoever she is.”

  “They were real close, ya know. Grew up together. She ain’t real good-lookin’—kinda like him—but an all-right gal, I reckon. Seemed like they was gonna get married awhile back, an’ now that she’s back, I bet they’re gonna—”

  I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled through my numbers again in irritation, pretending not to pay attention to anything Shane said.

  “Ah.” Shane snickered. “I see. Well, good thing, ‘cause he ain’t good for ya. No sirree.” He swigged his water and scooted closer. “Adam’s a nice guy an’ all, Shiloh. Don’t get me wrong. But he’s kinda stiff. If ya know
what I mean.”

  “What?” I glanced up in irritation, remembering—with a pang—Adam standing on my front porch after nightfall and declining to come inside. The scent of dewy grass and moist earth filling my lungs.

  Shane snorted. “Some weird religion a his, I reckon. His brother’s all right, though, jest ain’t gonna be able to do much now without his legs.” He moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

  Something angry stirred in my chest as I listened to Shane ramble on about people I knew as if they valued no more than pocket lint.

  Shane dug in his back pocket and tossed his (fat) wallet on the table. “Adam works hard, but he couldn’t give ya a dime. You deserve more’n that.” He dropped a heavy, cologne-laden arm over mine. “Ain’t you tryin’ to sell that house an’ pay stuff off?”

  I scooted away and pulled my arm free, metal chair legs scraping on the sticky floor. Before I could answer Shane’s question, he pushed his wallet toward me with the bottom of his glass. “G’won. Open it.”

  “Your wallet?” I jerked my head up incredulously. “You must be joking.”

  “Here.” Shane opened it and let the bills splay in glorious shades of green. “The mark of a real man, Shiloh. He always has enough to take care of the woman he loves. Yessirree.”

  I closed his wallet and shoved it back, struggling to keep my voice calm. “I’m just fine.”

  But instead of arguing, he dropped his head and found my gaze. “You clip coupons, Shiloh. I done saw ya in the Food Lion. An’ yer scared to death a how much that car’s gonna cost ya. Why don’t ya just let somebody he’p ya fer a change?”

  “I’m just fine, Shane!” I said louder, grabbing my purse and pushing my chair away from the table. My hands shook on the chair back. Afraid of Shane’s roving eyes, but even more afraid of how my mouth went dry when I glanced at that wallet. For shame, Shiloh!