Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  His old bird joke from the first day I met him. I laughed.

  “To the starlings,” I grinned, tapping my cup against his.

  Starlight flickered over the darkened meadow when Adam eased into the Smokewood Meade development plot, Tim rumbling in behind us in his white pickup. Armed, I might add, with more than enough deer-hunting weapons of all sorts to keep us sufficiently protected.

  But nothing Adam or Tim said could have prepared me for the sight of Mom’s battered Honda, its sides dented in and windshield wipers and side mirrors torn off. The windshield smashed, littering the dry November grass with glistening shards.

  My brand-new, just-fixed, seventy-dollar headlight bashed in.

  AND MY RICE KRISPIE SQUARE PLATE EMPTY. The nerve!

  I slid out of the truck to my knees right there in the snowy ground, unable even to cry.

  Chapter 27

  The Christmas season had announced its arrival in Staunton with gaudy strings of colorful blinking lights and tacky light-up reindeer. The nicer houses put up more “refined” white lights, but not the purple house down the street. Oh no. They decided to decorate with orange candles in every window, giving the whole place a creepy Halloween glow.

  Trinity surprised me. Not only had she moved out of my place, but she’d left her old apartment and moved in with a cousin. The dark circles slowly disappeared from under her eyes, and although I know she still missed Chase on some level, I saw her smile again.

  I stood on a stepladder at The Green Tree, helping Jerry dust the evergreen boughs and red ribbons. Merry Christmas, Chase ol’ pal! I thought spitefully, adjusting the wreath over the door.

  Jerry had given Trinity some extra shifts to keep her busy, and surprise of all surprises, handed me an envelope with nearly three hundred crisp dollar bills. Courtesy of Blake, who’d taken my Mary Baldwin College party of thirty—and graciously saved me my tip.

  Which meant that, during the month of December, I got to pay my light bill and buy groceries.

  As for my car, Beulah paid for my entire repair bill when she heard the news, and Tim and Becky and Adam threw in enough to get my house and car-door locks replaced, since I never found my wallet and keys.

  Just my purse, lying there in the empty snow.

  For Christmas I got invited to more places than I could humanly attend: Christmas Eve with Faye and her Sunday school class, a bash with Stella and Jerry, Christmas dinner with the Carters. Beulah and both generations of Donaldsons haggled with me over the remaining days.

  I hauled home more gifts of homemade spice cookies and chocolate-covered pretzels than I could eat, plus new gloves and doggie toys and ice scrapers for my car. Peppermint-scented candles and creamy goat’s milk soap from Cracker Barrel’s gift shop. And a fat seventy-five-dollar gift card for JCPenney, which I hoarded like Scrooge himself, dreaming of soft knits and clean wool pleats. Fancy designer or not. It had been, after all, a long time since I’d plunked down money for new clothes.

  We all showed up for the church’s candlelight service on Christmas Eve, too, cold and happy and laughing and excited. Whispering about our Christmas plans. Until the spotlight beamed down on the baby in the manger, and I remembered why Jesus had come. How He’d shown up unceremoniously, much like I had in Virginia, and taken on flesh so He could know our pain. Our joy. Our temptations and struggles.

  And not just to know them, but to heal them.

  We circled the shadowy sanctuary with flickering candles in our hands: a shimmering group of faces, of uncertainties and memories, both sweet and painful, all joined in solidarity.

  The ancient verses gleamed comfort into our souls: “But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.’ ”

  Becky stared into the flickering flame with eyes brimming over, remembering perhaps her empty womb but the full manger. Faye held my hand, her face lit with hope for the new year. Adam stood next to me, one hand on Rick’s wheelchair and the other around Todd, eyes glinting gold.

  I’d never seen anything like it. The swelling music, throbbing in my throat, as I lifted my voice for hymns. The mystery of simplicity and sacrifice, power and humility. The rustle of Bible pages, whispering, “Draw closer! Draw near on your knees! Come see the One who came in flesh … for you!”

  For one shimmering moment I knew—without a cloud of doubt in an inky-black winter sky—who I was.

  I am Shiloh P. Jacobs, redeemed of God. I will never be the same.

  My hands shook as I held my candle, spilling wax teardrops down onto the paper holder.

  I could still feel the warmth of flame and candlelight in my soul when Adam led me out into his backyard after Christmas dinner, a light snow sifting down from the laden boughs like powder. It was crazy enough that I’d spent a whole day with his family, helping Vanna bake cranberry-apple pies and playing G.I. Joe action figures with Todd.

  My eyes playing hide-and-seek with Adam’s blue ones as we set out gold-rimmed china and unfolded red cloth napkins. Firelight glowing on the curves of his face, his sweater smelling of wood smoke and snow, and our fingers intertwined as we bowed our heads for prayer. Now I stared up at evergreen branches and bare twigs stretched across gray—a gaping, open sky, bare and exposed, in contrast to the lush, sheltering canopy of fall. My sapphire blue birdbath wore a crown of ice, fallen maple leaves enshrined as if in glass.

  “Is that where you got my Christmas tree?” I asked, breath making a white puff. Adam knew I hated cut Christmas trees, chopped down in the prime of their lives, so he dug up a little pine for me, root ball and all, and potted it. In the spring I’d replant it out in my backyard—for whoever bought the house to enjoy it.

  “Over that way.” He pointed. Our footsteps crunched in soft snow, and my nose smarted with cold. Began to run. Not the best way to make an impression.

  “Shh. See that?” He moved his head close to mine and pointed.

  “What?”

  “There. In the tree.” His breath stirred the hair against my cheek, and I could smell the faint fragrance of his aftershave, masculine and woodsy like he’d been hauling in firewood. Actually he had. Maybe it wasn’t aftershave.

  “Um … where?” I gulped.

  “To the right of that big turkey oak.”

  “Turkey what?”

  Adam’s shoulders jumped with poorly concealed laughter. “Just look.” He turned my head with his hand and pointed. “See that red dot?”

  “What is it?” I squinted.

  “A cardinal.”

  I shielded my eyes and gazed at the shock of crimson on deep-green boughs, like an oversized holly berry. I’d seen pictures of them before, but never an actual, live cardinal.

  Brooklyn claimed one kind of bird—pigeons. Flocks of them, everywhere, always underfoot. And the oversized Tokyo crows that swooped down on people with huge, outstretched wings, smart enough to break into color-coded trash? Don’t even get me started.

  We watched as the cardinal preened and shook his feathers then flitted off with a dusting of snow. Soundless. Like the silent world around us, as if all noise had vanished with summer. We stood apart again, a cold wind rushing between us. Adam tipped his head back and looked up.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I shivered and pulled my scarf tighter. “It looks kind of sad, if you ask me. All the leaves fallen. All the empty and barren places. So much gray. I guess I’m not much of a winter person.”

  “Oh, I am. It’s my favorite season.”

  “Winter? Really? I thought summer would be your favorite. It’s when you get the most work.”

  “If you like sweating in the hot sun, it’s great. Winter is the only time I really get a break.” He smiled. “Not much demand for water gardens and tulips at ten below zero.”

  “Good point.” I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. “But I like leaves.”

&n
bsp; “So do I, but there’s beauty even in the bareness of it all. See? Look at the branches.”

  “I know. Empty.”

  “Okay, yes, maybe. But look at the lines. The sharp contrast of light and dark, cutting across the sky like a knife. Their intersections and shapes. I think it’s beautiful.”

  I watched as my breath puffed mist that dissipated into the cold branches overhead. “You sound like my mom,” I said softly, remembering her words.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably. “But I mean that in a good way.”

  He didn’t ask, but I felt I owed him some sliver of explanation. “She changed a lot before she passed away. God did an amazing work in her heart. I think …” I pressed my lips together, wind stinging my face. “I think I would have loved her. Maybe I did. Maybe I do now.”

  If I wasn’t careful, I could even say the same words about Adam.

  A twinge of embarrassment crept up like a chill. Why are we even out here anyway? I shivered, knees knocking together.

  “Come on. You’re cold. Let me show you your present.” He put his hand on my elbow and led the way.

  “My present? I thought you gave me one.” I followed him, chattering. “The basket of flower-seed packets. Right?”

  Odd but nice. A gardener’s gift: little dry flecks that would burst with color in the summer.

  I’d sifted through them: a blue-and-white Japanese morning glory, a strange ivory flowering vine that trapped and released moths, a burgundy poppy, a sapphire-blue nasturtium, and several others. Some heirloom varieties.

  And a short note about something all the seeds and I had in common.

  Blue? No. The Japanese thing? No again. They all grew leaves …?

  His riddle stumped me, but I thanked him anyway. Fortunately Vanna was ready with a pretty, and much less thought-provoking, ivory knit scarf that matched my wool dress coat, and I exchanged it for a tin of homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies with dried cherries.

  Adam swung open the creaking door of a large, musty-smelling outbuilding, its interior dark and cave-like. It smelled of secrets, bound and stored for years upon years. I leaned forward and peeked inside, tiny snowflakes stinging my cheeks.

  “A weed eater? You shouldn’t have.”

  “Funny. Although you could use one around your shrubs.” He reached in to a shadowy shelf and produced what looked like an ugly potted stick studded with some gleaming red fruits. “Merry Christmas.”

  Huh? I took the pot, chilly through my gloves. Is this some kind of a joke?

  But Adam looked so excited that I studied the pot again, figuring one of us had a screw loose. Then … wait … that familiar knobby trunk, the corkscrew turns and twiggy branches.

  “Is this a bonsai?” My voice raised in shock. I held the pot up to eye level and inspected it in bewilderment, brushing stray snowflakes off the winter-gray twigs.

  “Yeah. Sorry it doesn’t look much like one right now because it’s dormant. But it’ll bloom in the spring.”

  “A bonsai?” I repeated. “A real bonsai?”

  “It’s a crab-apple tree. I’m keeping it out in the toolshed to maintain a cool temperature without freezing. It should sprout buds around March or April if you bring it inside.”

  I looked from the pot to Adam in disbelief. “A crab apple? Those gnarly trees you see on farms? Does it have flowers?”

  “Pink ones. They’ll come out before the leaves if you raise the ambient temperature.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it, not even teasing him about his garden-ese. “I’ve always wanted a bonsai! And even in Tokyo, I never, ever had one. How did you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  I turned the pot around, heart pounding so fast I could hardly look at him. The form curved meticulously, as if it had popped off the pages of a Japanese magazine. “Did you trim it yourself?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve only had a few months. I started it … well, awhile ago.” In fact, Adam had only known me a few months. Still. Impressive, to say the least.

  “But how? How did you learn how to do it?”

  “Internet. You can learn to build a spaceship on the Internet if you want to.”

  I circled the little tree with my hand as if protecting it from the cold. He’d even studded the soil with moss and tiny white Japanese-style stones.

  “Did you know that you could sell these and make tons of money, Adam? You’re really good. And Asian stuff is all over the design magazines now.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets as snow shivered off an overhead branch like fine mist. “Maybe. But that’s not what I’m interested in at the moment.”

  “What are you interested in, then?” I fingered the cold twigs.

  “Giving you something to remember Japan.”

  It struck me suddenly that a crab-apple bonsai was as east-south as the deep-fried sushi I’d joked about with Becky. A farm tree turned Japanese artwork. I let out a silvery breath, feeling something tender rise in my chest.

  “And maybe see you smile again, the way you do when you remember your life back in Japan.”

  My mouth stuck shut. It was too much, all the thought Adam had put into my little tree. The months and weeks of trimming and pruning without saying a word. The research and shaping and careful arrangement of stones.

  Molding his ways to mine in the smallest of details. My heart flickered like the Christmas candle, and I wondered, ever so briefly, if I could do the same.

  I was still thinking about my little bonsai, so bare and beautiful and full of promise, when Adam surprised me one sunny afternoon by appearing in Barnes & Noble toward the end of January while I shelved and organized books.

  “Do you have a free evening this weekend, Shiloh?”

  “What?” I asked, nearly dropping a heavy motorcycle encyclopedia. I stepped down off the step stool and smoothed my hair behind my ear.

  “An evening to go somewhere. I’ve found a place I think you’ll like.”

  “In Staunton?”

  “In Charlottesville.” Adam’s dark khaki coat, which fit him surprisingly well compared to his bulky work stuff, nearly matched his hair.

  “Where’s that?”

  “A city big enough to have what I wanted.”

  The air glinted with cool Brazilian guitar music and the scent of espresso. “Sure.” I smiled, turning my eyes down in sudden self-consciousness. “Who else is going?”

  “Tim and Becky, and I’ve asked Faye, too.” Adam cocked his head. “Hey, is she seeing Earl or something?”

  “Earl? No. We tried that already.” I scooted some books together on the shelf. “It didn’t work. Just like most other things in my life. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, she said the funniest thing. She said we might think of inviting Earl, since she feels sad he has to be alone this time of year.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “She said that?”

  “Ask her yourself.” Adam shrugged. “Should I invite him?”

  “Definitely.” I took a book from the cart, imagining our triple date. Or since Adam was arranging it, triple nondate. Or whatever I was supposed to call it.

  “Where are we going?” I pressed my nose to Adam’s truck window like a kid, eyes searching unfamiliar six-lane roads and restaurants. Charlottesville lights and bigger-city traffic sprawling for blocks. “And where did Tim and everybody go? I thought they were following us!” I checked the rearview mirror again.

  “They’ll be here,” said Adam, flicking on his turn signal and veering off the crowded street. “Tim had to stop for gas.”

  “What’s this place? Aren’t we going to …?”

  My voice failed me. I broke off, staring at a building with a dark, Asian-style slanted roof. Tips turned up like bells on a jester’s shoes. Low, sculpted pines. Bare Japanese maples. A Japanese-style stone lantern arching over a wooden footbridge.

  “You didn’t.” I let out my breath.

  KATO JAPANESE STEAKHOUSE read the sign.
>
  “You did!” I grabbed Adam’s arm in delight, scrambling out of the truck before he could even help me out. “It’s a Japanese place!”

  “Probably not the fancy stuff you’re used to, but it’s as close as I could find to good Japanese food.” Adam slammed my truck door and leaned against it, bracing his coat against the winter cold.

  “You’re serious? They have sushi here?” I felt tears burning in the corners of my eyes, and not just from the harsh wind.

  “I can’t guarantee the quality. But they’re supposed to. Yes.”

  “Real sushi?”

  “I hope so.” Adam smiled. “You hungry?”

  I didn’t even answer him, my mind so busy sifting through beautiful Japanese memories like handfuls of pearls: salty miso soup, deep-green-circled sushi rolls, pink shrimp perched on rice, cups of steaming tea. Earthy, briny, brown soy sauce and pungent ginger slices. Slender chopsticks. The things I had come to love as my own.

  “You want to go back to Japan, don’t you?”

  “Of course. It’ll always be part of me. But …” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “I guess I can wait to go back.”

  “Why?”

  We stood in silence, watching the cars go by and wind rustle the fawn-colored winter grasses that grew along the edge of the parking lot. Little winter juncos pecked at something by a red Camry.

  “Well, my goals are different than last year,” I finally replied, playing with the ends of my scarf.

  “How?”

  “I don’t want to live for myself anymore. I’m God’s now.” Beulah’s verse tingled in my ears. “Behold! I make all things new!” I dropped my scarf back in place. “And at the same time I have to keep in mind that—” I broke off, looking away.

  “That what?” he prodded gently.

  “Well, things are probably going to change pretty drastically if Mom’s house doesn’t sell.” I swallowed hard and glanced at the Japanese restaurant, each stone lantern and sculpted juniper tree catching in my throat.