“So you proceed with caution, then?” I couldn’t resist pressing. “Why?”
Vivi shrugged, then reached out a hand to fiddle with the straw in her empty cup. “Mama loved my daddy almost blindly, I think. For her, he was the one that got away, the love of her life,” Vivi said with a small shake of her head. “But when he left and she needed someone to lean on, Annabelle was still there. Even when my mama pushed her away, Annabelle wouldn’t leave her on her own. So as much as Mama always resented Annabelle’s influence in making my father leave, she also recognized how important it was to remember who stayed.”
I realized then, in the momentary silence that followed, that the conversation had naturally worked its focus away from me, a fact for which I was grateful beyond words. It didn’t take any further prompting from me to get Vivi to keep going, either. I sat quietly and let her continue the tale.
“Mama never really got over my father; but she didn’t let not having a husband hold her back, either. She set out to prove she could make it, and that was part of what made her open Sweet Azalea’s. Not that that was easy, either.” Vivi snorted. “Plenty of people in town bad-mouthed her, said no one should ‘encourage’ a woman who obviously had no morals.”
I felt my eyes grow wide. “Seriously? Wow, you’d think that people would want to be a little more supportive of someone who was trying to provide for her child and be self-sufficient. That takes integrity.”
“I know. Not everyone sees things that way, though,” Vivi admitted. “But Mama was determined, and Annabelle was a big enough deterrent to some of the less-encouraging people around here that things eventually got off the ground.” Vivi shifted in her seat. We’d been here awhile now, it seemed, but I wasn’t sure exactly how long. The conversation had grown far more personal than I would have expected, and I wondered how my luck would hold on not having to reveal any of my own details.
“Funnily enough, as much as Annabelle did to blow up relationships—meddling in my mama’s affairs and being the reason George ended things with your grammie—she did just as much to help both of them in ways that only her particular influence could bring,” Vivi said, once again picking up her thread of the conversation. She was almost lost in the telling, from what I could see.
I raised a questioning eyebrow, hoping I wouldn’t break the spell.
Vivi caught my look and grinned. “When Mama opened Sweet Azalea’s, she went to your grandmother to see if she would sell her cakes to the restaurant,” she began, the grin faltering ever so slightly at the threat of a grimace. “As good a cook as Mama was, she couldn’t bake to save her life—and she’d tell you that outright. So when Annabelle told her she needed to ask Merry to bake for her, Mama was like a pig after acorns.” Vivi paused a minute, looking thoughtful. When she spoke again, her words came more slowly. “I think, in a way, it was Annabelle’s way of redeeming herself with Mama—and Merry—without making things awkward.”
I nodded. “That makes sense.”
I knew it was risky, breaking Vivi’s flow like that by speaking, reminding her that I was there, potentially reigniting her curiosity in me. I had a feeling, though, that she was satisfied to keep her own narrative going. “Did Grammie agree? I don’t think I ever heard her mention baking anywhere or selling her cakes to a restaurant, and I know I would’ve remembered something like that.”
“No, Merry didn’t take the offer. Even when Mama begged her to just make the cakes at home and sell them to her, she wouldn’t do it. I don’t think back then that she felt confident enough. She sold her cakes to society ladies and mothers who wanted them for their children’s birthdays and brides who came to her raving about how much they loved the frosting they’d tasted on a friend’s cake. But I don’t think that Merry ever really, truly understood how good she was,” Vivi sighed. “She thought of it like a hobby; you know that, I’m sure. I think maybe she was afraid that if she sold her cakes to Mama, no one would buy them. No one would go to a real restaurant and buy a piece of cake made by a home-baker.”
“But she baked so many cakes, for so many people,” I protested, feeling a little upended by how much a woman I hardly knew could know so much about my grandmother when I didn’t.
Vivi tipped her head to the side, contemplative. “She did, Dellie. But I don’t think she ever thought that it was important. I don’t think that she realized she was making more than cake for people.”
The words hit my ears and my heart with the piercing force of an arrow, ringing with ultimate truth. She didn’t know, and now it was too late to tell her that.
“Does Hal know you’re here?”
Despite the accusatory nature of those words, they were wrapped in the tone of a tease, delivered by a warm voice that sounded somehow like it could glaze a sweet roll. I looked up to see a petite blonde shaking her head at Vivi, her blue eyes wide and mischievous. Her raspberry-glossed mouth formed a mock moue.
“Savannah Leigh, don’t even go there!” Vivi shot back with a laugh, reaching out to swat playfully at the young woman who now stood beside our table.
“Better watch out, or I’ll report you for harassment!” Savannah squeaked, neatly dodging Vivi’s swat.
“That only works for sexual harassment, you goof. Plus, you don’t actually work for me,” Vivi retorted. “And if you tell Hal I was here this morning—not that he should care, since I am his boss, and it’s not as though I’m betraying him by eating their food—I’ll tell him that you’ve started going to KFC for their fried chicken.”
Savannah shivered. “Don’t even say the words, Vivi.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’ll hear you.”
“Heaven forbid,” Vivi agreed. “And then you’d forever be blacklisted, never again to taste the crunchy goodness of his buttermilk-basted yardbirds. You’d have to resort to finding someone willing to put their butt on the line and bring them to you on the sly, and I suspect you’d have a better shot at getting an audience with the Pope on that one,” Vivi continued almost cruelly. “Not even I would risk it.”
I watched the tag team in silence, marveling at the ease of their banter and mentally comparing it to what I had witnessed between Vivi and Annabelle. The difference was remarkable, refreshing, and fun.
I cleared my throat, hating to break the flow, but I was feeling increasingly awkward as the un-introduced member of the party.
“Oh, Savannah,” Vivi said, shooting me an apologetic look. “I’ve forgotten my manners. This is Dellie Simms—Merry Samuelson’s granddaughter.”
Savannah offered me a bright smile, her teeth the enviable white of a toothpaste ad, yet somehow still managing not to be obnoxious. “Happy to meet you, Dellie,” she said, still in that warm glaze of a voice. “Your grandmother was a good lady, and we all miss her like crazy. And I think everyone in Hampton misses her cakes.”
I smiled back at her. “Thanks. So is that how you knew her, Savannah?” I studied her, trying to gauge her age, wondering if Grammie had made her birthday cakes or delivered a tiered confection on her wedding day. I caught a glimpse of a ring-free hand. That would be a no on the wedding cake, then—but that didn’t rule out the possibility of her having tasted one at someone else’s wedding. Or, I remembered with a flash of self-reproach, that she had never been married at all. I was the last person on Earth who should be assuming that the lack of a wedding band definitively meant the lack of a marriage.
Savannah nodded in answer to my question. “Your grandmother made every cake, for every occasion in my family. I’m not half convinced that we didn’t invent a few of our own just so we had an excuse to order a cake from Merry!” Savannah giggled, and I almost giggled back. I couldn’t help it. Everything about this person standing next to me made me want to be her friend, to fill my calendar for the foreseeable future with trips to the nail salon and the craft store and everything else girly and pink that I’d missed out on for so long, despite the best efforts of my mother, my sister, and even Bette.
“So are you here visit
ing your grandfather, then?” she asked.
“I am. I wish I had been able to make it here for the funeral, but there was a lot going on with work and…” I trailed off, the explanation sounding suddenly weak to my ears. I hadn’t come, hadn’t been able to, and now I felt incredibly guilty. Because, if I was perfectly honest, the biggest roadblock to Hampton had been me. My own fears and anxieties had gotten in the way—and the reminder of that came like a sobering slap in the face.
“I understand,” Savannah said kindly, generously. “And plane tickets that last-minute are outrageous!” she exclaimed, her already wide eyes becoming great blue orbs. They reminded me of aquamarines, and I wondered if she was a March baby. It would have only been fitting, with eyes that color.
Vivi nodded in agreement.
“So what do you do, Savannah?” I asked, once again trying to steer the conversation away from any details about myself. “Do you work with Vivi at the restaurant?” Given the earlier exchange, it was a reasonable assumption.
“No, not technically. I come in every once in awhile to lend a hand, but I’m not on the payroll. I guess you could say that they pay me in food,” she said with a wink and a smile. “And it’s fun for me, too, which helps. Especially since I’m trying to learn what it’s like to work in a professional kitchen. I want to open my own place someday, but until I do, I pay the bills by being an office manager. It’s not a bad job, but it’s not something I want to do forever, you know?”
I nodded. I did know. Before I’d become a writer, I’d been in exactly the same position; so I was all too familiar with that feeling of being unfulfilled at work, but not knowing what would really fulfill you. It seemed, though, that Savannah knew just what her true calling might be.
“And running a restaurant is?” I ventured.
She blushed. “Well, not really a restaurant. I kind of like the idea of a food truck. Keeps things interesting when you can move around, I think, and Vivi thinks it would be successful,” she said.
“I do,” Vivi confirmed, puffing up like a proud mother. “Savannah’s got a great palate, and she knows what things would taste good together, even if they don’t seem like they would make sense. She can get a little crazy with some of her ideas, but that’s what I like about it,” Vivi observed. “It’s not something you’d find everywhere, and that’s what I think would make it a success.”
I looked back at Savannah. “So what kind of food will you serve on your truck?”
Her grin deepened. “Hand pies.”
I blinked. Hand pies? Fortunately for me, I knew what she was talking about. I knew that hand pies were, in many areas of the country, generally referred to as turnovers; but still, the idea was taking a few moments to compute in my brain. To look at Savannah, it might seem more logical to expect her to say she wanted to run a restaurant, maybe something along the lines of a breakfast bistro or a little sandwich shop…but a food truck that served hand pies? I narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine her with a rolling pin in her hand, dusted from nose to toes in flour. Okay, I could believe that. She looked like she knew her way around a few church cookbooks, some of which, no doubt, would impart recipes for some very delicious pockets of crust.
Obviously, my face telegraphed my thoughts, because Savannah threw her head back in laughter.
“I know, I know. It’s weird. But not impossible—there have been some pretty odd-sounding food truck concepts, but they can still be successful. Plus, I’m a Southern girl. Who doesn’t eat up the idea of a Southern girl baking pies?” Savannah asked, flicking away any hint of protest away with a flap of her hand. “And it may not exactly be pie, but it’s basically the same thing…just made into a street-ready version. A little pie-dough pocket of love to hold in your hand…” Savannah trailed off with a happy little sigh. “I know it may not seem like something to build a whole menu around—but give me flour, eggs, and some shortening, and I can come up with something pretty tasty, if I do say so myself.” She sounded confident without being arrogant in the least. More like she really, really wanted to cook for you and prove the hidden potential in her pie dough.
“She wants to call it The HandStand, but I’m trying to convince her otherwise,” Vivi said, shaking her head with a fond smile. “I don’t think it sounds like it has anything to do with food. It’s confusing, and that’s not going to help her get any business.”
“Oh, stop. I think it’s cute,” Savannah protested. “It definitely speaks to the concept, don’t you think?” She looked to me, a hopeful blush suffused on her cheeks.
“Um,” I swallowed, casting about for a good answer. I saw both points, actually. And while I didn’t want Vivi to think I was a complete cheese-ball, I didn’t want to offend Savannah, either. I opted for neutrality.
“I know, I know,” Savannah grumbled, still somehow managing to sound cheerful. “It might be a little bit cheesy, but I think you’d be convinced if you had one of my masterpieces.” She grinned.
I narrowed my eyes at her, extremely curious by this point. What could she possibly do with hand pies that hadn’t already been done?
“Here’s your five-minute elevator pitch, then, Savannah. Sell me on the idea. I don’t know you, so you don’t have to worry that I’m giving you a biased opinion. Tell me—what would bring people to your truck?” I asked, shifting my weight in my seat so I could look her full in the face.
Savannah pulled one of the empty chairs at the table and proceeded to plant herself on the cushion, her movements quick and excited. Her face was flushed with pleasure, and her eyes danced.
“May I?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.
I dipped a quick nod. “Please do,” I replied, not sure she even registered the answer.
“I was pretty broke when I moved here, living in a cramped apartment with a kitchen the size of a litter box—” I raised an eyebrow at the analogy “—and yes, I have a cat, okay?” She admitted with a hopeless shrug of her shoulders. “But I only have one, so technically, that would make me ‘a woman with a cat,’ not ‘the cat lady.’ Right?” Savannah suddenly looked worried, her eyes ping-ponging between Vivi and me for confirmation.
“Focus, Savannah!” Vivi barked.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, wiggling in her chair. “You have to forgive me, Dellie, I tend to go off on rabbit trails… Mama always said I wasn’t the most focused person in the world, but I’d like to think it’s a sign of my creativity.”
I nodded, hoping she would shift back to our earlier conversation.
“Anyway, Mama sent me a cookbook that was nothing but recipes for pies—sweet pies, savory pies…and at the back of the book were a few for hand pies. They were amazing, and all of them had such inexpensive ingredients that they were perfect for me. Even in my eensie kitchen, making them was pretty quick and easy; and I could make enough of them to eat and freeze for later…” She trailed off to take a breath. “I had so much fun with it and came up with so many recipes of my own, using some of the same ingredients from traditional pies, that pretty soon I was making almost everything into hand pies. I gave Vivi a few to try, and she loved them.” Savannah shrugged. “I don’t know, somehow the idea of opening a food truck happened.”
“And I told her that it was a little off-the-wall, but it was good—and since it was so good, it wouldn’t matter so much that it was kind of crazy.” Vivi smiled at Savannah, nodding confidently. “We need to shake things up a little around here.”
“Have you tested it out at all? Do you think people here will be willing to go to a food truck that serves nothing but hand pies?” I asked. Sure, I totally loved the idea, but I wasn’t the majority of the population. They were the ones who would ultimately determine the success or failure of Savannah’s venture, should it ever come to fruition.
Vivi took the liberty of answering. “They will, if the ones she’s made for me are anything to go by—I’ve actually had her make some for me so that I could sell them at Azalea’s sort of as a test run, and they’ve been a huge
hit every time.”
Savannah glowed under the praise, savoring the sweetness of Vivi’s obvious confidence in her as though it was a piece of chocolate melting on her tongue.
“Wow. The HandStand, huh?” I looked from one woman to the other, feeling a smile of my own forming. “That’s so exciting! Do you know where your target area would be or when you’re going to get your truck?”
Savannah’s face fell a little bit as she came crashing back to reality. “Not yet, and I don’t have all the money I need yet, either. Still working on that, but I’m not too far off.”
“And I know that she’d be able to take out a small business loan,” Vivi added. “She’s got everything a bank would be looking for—good credit, a strong business plan, stable history in the community.” She paused. “And me. I’d be a reference for her in a heartbeat,” Vivi concluded.
Quick as a flash, Savannah pulled Vivi into a tight hug, her cheek mashed up against Vivi’s. “Thanks for that, Vivi. That means a lot.” She was smiling, and her eyes were squeezed shut, but I could tell by the timbre of her voice that Savannah was close to tears.
“Oh, stop making a scene. You know I would—I’ve told you that before,” Vivi replied, neatly extricating herself from Savannah’s embrace. “We just have to find you the perfect spot and set you loose!”
“So what’s your signature pie? Do you have one?” I asked.
“Everybody loves my Love Me Tender Bacon Bender, so that’s definitely going to be on the menu… It’s inspired by Elvis, of course. It’s got a filling of peanut butter, chocolate pudding, banana custard, and chopped bacon that’s been cooked all crispy crunchy… It’s divine,” she said, moaning and rolling her eyes. “Oh, that reminds me, Vivi. Have you gotten your present for Tilley’s shower on Saturday?” Savannah asked, once again veering swiftly off topic. I, for one, was completely lost, having absolutely no point of reference that might clue me in to how she had leapt from Elvis-inspired turnovers to a shower for someone named Tilley.
Life Without You Page 13