In a Jam

by Cindy Dorminy

  Mrs. Cavanaugh pulls out some scones and hands one each to Mel and Regina. “You need a man. Get a man, and he’ll get the hint.”

  She snorts. “Yep. That’s exactly what I’ll do... between clinic, ER shifts, tutoring science at the high school, and every now and then, sleep. A man is not in my schedule.”

  Regina gives her a sarcastic pout. “Poor Dr. Ballard. At least you got somebody drool-worthy hanging on your every word. I’ve got squat.”

  Mel wags a finger in front of Regina’s face. “Not so true. What about—”

  Regina snatches Mel’s scone out of her hand and holds it for ransom. “Patient confidentiality, Doctor.”

  Mel giggles.

  “Sorry if it’s none of my business, but what’s wrong with Mitchell?” I ask.

  Mel crinkles her brow in deep thought. “Nothing, I guess.” She motions for me to refill her tea glass. “I wish he wasn’t so pushy.”

  I fill her glass and pour myself one as well. “He asks you out a lot?”

  “Well, he never has.”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh responds in her usual huffy way. “Sounds like he’s not pushy enough.” Regina knuckle-bumps Mrs. Cavanaugh.

  I raise an eyebrow at Mel. “What she said.” It wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all if one certain policeman would be a bit pushier with me. I would welcome it.

  In a separate bowl, Mrs. Cavanaugh gives the chocolate icing one more stir before she lets the gooey heaven drip off the large mixing spoon. She taps it twice on the side of the bowl before she hands it to me. I’m about to drop it in the sink when Mel grabs my arm.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh gives me her typical tsk. “Child, don’t waste that icing.” She motions with her head. “Go on. Lick it up. Don’t you know nothing?”

  She is my kind of lady. “Yes, ma’am.” I run my tongue over the back of the spoon, and my eyes roll back in my head. Yum.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh glances at me. “Going back to your problems we were talking about before we got sidetracked with talk of puke and broken hips, no, I don’t want them to have your money. It’s yours now.”

  “Who?” Mel asks. “The Jacksons?”

  Mrs. Cavanaugh nods.

  Between licks, I ask, “Why not? Because you don’t like them, or because you don’t want the church to have it?”

  “‘Cause Mary Grace didn’t.”

  Hmm. I let that sink in while I stir my batch of jam that’s simmering on the stove top. I scoop up a spoonful in the ladle and walk it over to her, careful not to drip any on my hands. “Try this.”

  If I can pass the Cavanaugh test, I may have something. This has to be the one. I’ve gone over every recipe Granny has. This has to be the one because it had three stars by the title. Mrs. Cavanaugh takes a bite and smacks her lips. Her turned-up nose tells me everything I need to know even before she spits it out into the sink.

  “Is it better than the last one?”

  She wipes her tongue on a dish towel. “Worse. Girl, I ain’t never seen nobody that sucks at cooking like you.”

  I hold it out for Mel to taste, but she backs away. “No, thanks.”

  I collapse on a barstool and beat my forehead against the worn Formica countertop. “Ugh. This is so hard.” I know I’m whining, but I am entitled. I slide the recipe card over to her. “There’s one ingredient that’s been erased so much, it’s illegible. It has to be important because without that mystery ingredient, it sucks.”

  She slides the card back to me, and I stare at it, hoping I can conjure up x-ray vision to see what used to be written there. “All the best cooks leave one key ingredient off their recipes.”

  I squint in hopes the secret ingredient will become visible. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. What if someone wanted to make that dish?”

  “Oh no, you don’t never make someone else’s dish. And to make sure it never gets stolen, good cooks leave the key ingredient off.”

  I fling my hands in the air in defeat. “Ooo. Recipe stealing. I can see it now on the next episode of Cops. Two grannies duking it out over twice-baked potatoes.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “That ain’t funny, girl. Ask Jackie Richards. She made the mistake of loaning her special meatloaf recipe, the one her great granny give her, to Miss Eula Mae. Well, Miss Eula Mae, that snake in the grass, runs that E. coli-infested diner over in Cypress. She started selling the meatloaf as her own family secret.”

  I feign shock. “The nerve.”

  “True story. Word got out, because that’s what happens in these parts, and she ended up having to shut down that nasty place.”

  When her back is turned, I run my finger through the chocolate mixture and lick it. Pure T heaven. I used a Southern phrase. Well, Lord have mercy. It’s coming back to me.

  “I didn’t know there was such drama in this slow-as-molasses town.” There I go again. I’m becoming a master of all things Southern. With a mouthful of chocolate, I say, “But if others can’t figure it out, I sure can’t, and I’m not going to enter anything into the contest that’s going to make people sick.”

  “Looks like you ain’t gonna get that money.”

  Maybe if I pitch a fit and throw the spoon across the room, she’ll help me figure it out, but somehow I doubt it. “I’m trying. I’ve done everything in the agreement. I’ve gone to church.” I count on my hand. “I’ve tried to fit in, and that’s even harder. I am doing the best I can. That stupid jam clause was never mentioned when I met with the attorney.” I didn’t mention my slipup with Gunnar’s beer at the moon-bathing party, especially since Gunnar told me to be careful what I say around Regina. Besides, it was one little sip. One sip that led to two, which led to me wanting a third.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh snickers. “It was in the fine print.” Mel and Regina nod in agreement, as though it’s a no-brainer.

  “Ugh!” Please God, put me out of my misery. All that’s left on this stupid index card of the missing ingredient is a very faint “J” and a “D,” so something important is missing. Jam, juice, julienne, deglaze, dust, dice, dredge, drizzle. None of these things make sense with jam.

  “What did Granny leave you?” I’ve been wanting to ask Mrs. Cavanaugh this since the day I met her.

  “Not a pot to piss in.”

  Mel’s jaw drops open. Regina plops her head back on the counter, her eyes drifting closed. My eyes bug out of their sockets. “Nothing?”

  “Nope.”

  This makes no sense. Mrs. Cavanaugh had to be her closest friend. I’ve only known her a few weeks, and I’m already lost without her. “Why not? I bet you were closer to her than most.” My hands fly up to my mouth. “Oh my lands. That was rude. I’m sorry.”

  Regina pops her head up. “I better leave while I’m still awake enough to drive.” She turns to Mel and motions to the door with her head.

  Mel takes one more swig of her tea, throws some money on the counter, and stands. “Yeah, me too.”

  I sense they don’t want to be involved in this conversation, and I appreciate that.

  After they leave, Mrs. Cavanaugh grumbles as she turns her back on me to work on the pastry dough. “She had me in her will for a long time, but I made her take it out when she won that money.”

  I play with a dish towel. “You didn’t want any?”

  She turns her head around. “Child, what am I going to do with a whole lot of money? I’m eighty-six years old. We made a compromise. She’d take me out of her will if I let her pay off my house and give me some spending money. It was the only way to get her off my back.”

  I touch Granny’s framed photo, still sitting next to the stove. Damn you, Mother, for lying to me. “I bet you think I’m being selfish, trying to take the money and run, huh?”

  “No. If I was your age, I’d be doing the same thing. You keep that money. She wanted you to have it.”

  I bang my head on the counter again as I flop onto the stool. “She should have straight-out given it to the church and left me out of the will. I would hav
e never been the wiser.”

  She sprinkles the countertop with flour and motions for me to help her roll out the pastry dough. There is something very therapeutic about working with dough. Either I’m going to solve all the world’s problems, or I’m going to get arthritis. I’m not sure which will come first.

  “Maybe she was watching out for you.”

  “Pfft. She didn’t give a hang about me.” Three Southernisms in one conversation. Lord help me.

  With the rolling pin in one hand, she rolls out the pastry then dusts it with more flour. She motions for me to cut the dough into triangles like she showed me how to do yesterday. “She talked about you every day.”

  I drop the knife. “She did not.”

  “She worried about you being all swallowed up in that big city, especially after your mama died. Worried you were lonely.”

  This is not happening. If Granny knew about me, she could have reached out, especially after my mother died. I yank out another knife from the drawer and cut swift lines through the dough. “Lonely? I have lots of friends. I was out every night.”

  Okay, I may have only had a couple of friends, and lately, I was too lazy to go out, but no one really has to know that.

  “Don’t mean you weren’t lonely.”

  Tears burn my eyes. I pick at the worn edge of the recipe card.

  “She knew booze was your best friend.”

  That’s it. I slam my hand onto the counter. “Why is everyone in this dry county so concerned with my drinking? I don’t drink any more than anyone else. The only thing different is that I don’t conceal it. I am what I am.”

  There. I’ve said it. I’ve said my piece.

  She places the cutout dough onto the cookie sheet. “Lonely, that’s what you is.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “Ugh. I’m going upstairs to find another recipe. Maybe there’s a Jam for Dummies book.” I stomp up the stairs, not wanting to hear another word from the wise Mrs. Cavanaugh. She doesn’t know me. I’m not lonely at all.

  Except I am.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Andie

  If I yawn one more time during this church service, the pastor is going to make me take up the offering. Liza Jane and Jake are probably snoozing the morning away, and I would be too if I were them. Ever since the night at the lake, I haven’t seen Gunnar one time. I thought he was into me, especially after that interrupted kiss, but I must have read him wrong.

  Boy, that guy acts as though he’s so conflicted when it comes to me. One day, he’s telling me off about not visiting my grandmother, which, by the way, was not my fault. And the next, he acts as though he wants to jump my bones. We’re not in middle school anymore, for crying out loud. I know I’m not going to be here long, but I could do with a casual NSA relationship: no strings attached. But something tells me he’s not that kind of person. I’m not, either, but for him, I might make an exception.

  Girl, stop it. Get an eyeful, but don’t touch. It’s temptation at its best. I have to remember: green eyes or green dollar bills.

  And to top things off, he’s not in church this morning. I’m sure the pastor will forgive him since he had to work all night again. But not having him here makes church super excruciating. Without any eye candy, I’m totally bored. I guess he’s sleeping in. Maybe I could go wake him up, or join him. I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to figure out where he lives. I really shouldn’t be having dirty thoughts in church, but it beats listening to this as-dry-as-toast sermon.

  The bratty kid sitting next to me pinches my arm.

  “Ow.” Oops.

  Every head in the congregation turns to stare. The kid’s mother even has the nerve to shush me. I sneer at the kid, and he feigns shock. If I didn’t think I would go to hell for hitting a kid during church, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would love to smack that smarmy smirk off his face.

  “Uh. Amen, brother. Amen.” That’s the best cover-up I can think of.

  “That’s right,” a man says from the other side of the church.

  “Amen, Pastor,” another says.

  Everyone turns back to the preacher, and I can finally let out a sigh of relief. I slump down into the pew, and the little boy laughs. The pastor continues on about the gates of hell, and the kid has the nerve to stick his tongue out at me. And because I’m such a mature person, I stick mine out at him. If he doesn’t watch it, I’ll push him right through that gate of hell and throw away the key. Right as I’m having a pissing match with the idiot boy, I get caught by the Jacksons. Click. Even in church, they have no shame. They must have an unlimited data plan with all those pictures they take. I make a mental note to check out their blog tonight in case I need to make another entry of my own.

  I thank the Lord Almighty when the pastor gives the closing prayer. I didn’t think he would ever finish that sermon. I smile at the preacher as I leave the sanctuary. On the last step, I twist my ankle and almost kiss the concrete, but I catch myself.

  Click. Another photo. I right myself then throw back my shoulders and walk straight toward the blue-haired paparazzi.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it, Miss Jackson? You too, other Miss Jackson.” Damn. I surprise myself with that cavity-inducing twang. I smile and pose.

  They both stare, unable to move.

  “Aw, come on. Is it not fun if I want you to take my picture?” I give them a duck-face pose. I’m sure that will show up online tonight.

  My grin becomes beauty pageant large, and I add in a whisper. “No matter what you try or how you try to paint a picture of me breaking the rules, you will not get Granny’s money.” If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to stick to the plan. I cock my head to the side. “Y’all come back now, ya hear?”

  They gasp. “Well, I never.” They murmur to themselves and shuffle-walk away from me. Several other church members stand around slack-jawed.

  “And you never will, either.” I wave as they leave.

  Stanley leans against his rust bucket of a car and fills his bottom lip with tobacco. Just the person I need to see.

  “Howdy,” he says when he sees me. He stands up as tall as he possibly can. “You were getting into that sermon, weren’t you?”

  I roll my eyes. “When the spirit moves. Actually, I came over to see how you were doing.”

  Stanley spits, and a tiny bit of it lands on my toe. Ew.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your job situation. Do you think you’ll get laid off?”

  “Oh.” He peers around and lowers his voice. “Not yet, but I have some time to get my GED, or I’m out.”

  Here goes nothing. God, I hope he doesn’t take this as a come on. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. When I lived in Boston, I taught adult ed for a while.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Now I’m the one skimming the crowd and lowering my voice. “I got involved with it when I was on probation one time.” I cringe. “You know how that goes.”

  He chuckles and waggles his eyebrows. “You’re my kind of girl.”

  Oh dear. Through gritted teeth, I continue. “I feel bad about your situation, so if you would like me to help you prep for your exam, I will. You can study while you eat my leftover muffins.”

  A wiry grin moves across his face. Oh dear. He does think it’s a come-on. “You’ll help me?”

  “It’s real studying, okay. Not...”

  “Making out?”

  “Exactly. Don’t want to get involved with anyone here. You understand, don’t you?”

  He pouts, but he throws a grin in there too, so I know he’s not too disappointed. “Okay. I might do that.”

  I sigh. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Lord, I hope Gunnar doesn’t think I’m leading Stanley on, or worse, that I am into him.

  Stanley salutes, and I scamper away, but not before he yells to the Jackson sisters, “She loves me.”

  Great. That’s all I need.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

>   Gunnar

  To protect and serve. That’s my job. Okay, maybe I go out of my way to protect one little out-of-towner, but no one has to know that. She doesn’t have a clue how many times I check in on her, follow her to the bank, and make sure she’s locked up tight. She’s used to living in the big city, but that doesn’t stop me from being overprotective. And if I get caught, I can hide my excuse behind my badge.

  Tonight is no different. After a half-assed workout, I saunter down Main Street. In case anyone’s watching, I check to make sure each storefront is locked up tight. When I get to In A Jam, I stop in my tracks. The front door is ajar, but the lights are off in the shop.

  My gym bag slides to the sidewalk as I creep into the dark coffee shop. My heart races as adrenaline pulses through my veins. I hate this part of my job. We rarely have a break-in, but it does happen. I feel for my gun in my ankle holster to make sure it’s ready in case I need it. In all the years I’ve carried one off duty, I’ve never had to draw it, and I’m hoping tonight isn’t going to be any different.

  The light from the street lamp casts shadows around the store. Anyone could be hiding behind the counter, or worse, in the stairwell leading up to Andie. I hear a stumbling noise on the steps, then another, and a string of curse words.

  Slurring her words, Andie says, “Don’t make me use my weapon.”

  “Put the gun down, Andie. It’s me. Gunnar.”

  She staggers down the rest of the steps. My eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see her silhouette. I walk toward her until I am at the bottom of the steps, terrified that I might have to draw my gun and shoot her if she raises her weapon at me. I blink twice when she comes into full view, only wearing a tank top and panties. Shit.

  “I was only bluffin’. Don’t have a gun.” She holds her hands out so I can see she doesn’t have anything in them.

  “You left your front door open.”

  “Oh. Oops. I went out for an... errand, and I guess I forgot.” She snaps her finger. “Did you know this is a dry county? I figured out where Mason County started.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s that way about five miles in case you needed to know.” She giggles. “Then when I got back, I found Granny’s stash. Who knew?”