Addie shuddered to think about her conversation with Jasper the night before. Much of the night was muddled, but she remembered exactly what she’d said. The thought made her want to crawl back under the covers until Christmas. She hadn’t wanted him to know. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know. She picked up her phone and dialed her mother’s number.
“Addie? Hi!” Her mother’s voice came booming from the other end. “How are you, sweetie?”
“I’m okay, Mom,” Addie replied. “I just called to check on you and Jerry.”
“Oh, we’re good . . . you know. The usual—working on the house.”
Addie sighed into the phone. “Me too. I’m not getting much accomplished, though.”
“What’s wrong?” Concern filled her mother’s voice. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“It’s nothing. I just miss you guys, that’s all.”
“We miss you, too!” her mother replied. “Are you sure you’re okay down there all by yourself? In that house all alone?”
“I like alone,” Addie reminded her. “That was the point of coming here. To be alone. Besides, I won’t be here forever. A few months, max.”
“I don’t have to like it, Adelaide. I just wish you’d talk to someone about things . . . you know.”
Addie rubbed her throbbing head. This was not the direction she had intended for the conversation to go. “I’m tired of talking, Mom.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” her mother replied. “Maybe it’s time for you to meet some new people.”
“That’s actually why I’m calling.” Addie saw a chance to change the subject. “I got kind of drunk last night . . .”
“Oh, Adelaide.”
“Mom, let me finish,” Addie said. “I got a little drunk last night and acted like an idiot. I think I said some things that I shouldn’t have.”
There was silence as her mother thought about it. Finally she said, “Well, you know what your aunt Tilda always did when she stuck her foot in her mouth?”
“Ate her foot? I don’t remember Aunt Tilda apologizing to anyone . . . ever.”
“It was rare. But it happened. Except she was a lot like you—she had trouble saying the words. So she baked.”
“You want me to bake?”
“I don’t want you to do anything, kiddo,” her mother replied. “But, at least for your aunt Tilda, baking was a way to relieve stress and apologize all at the same time.”
“I relieve stress with paint thinner and sandpaper,” Addie replied. “But I do have all of Aunt Tilda’s cookbooks upstairs in the attic. I guess it can’t hurt to try something new.”
Her mother’s laugh jingled through the phone. “I would suggest the recipe for fried pie.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Addie threw her phone down on the couch and walked to the kitchen. She just needed to think for a minute. She walked over to the counter and cut off a twelve-inch piece of cheesecloth and soaked it in tung oil. Maybe if she could remove all the dust from the table she’d been sanding, she’d feel better. She strapped on a particle mask and got to work.
Addie was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. It wasn’t until Felix began to bark that she looked up. Wanda was standing in the doorway looking horrified.
“What on earth are you wearing on your face?” she exclaimed.
“It’s just a mask.” Addie pulled the mask off her face. “It keeps the dust particles from the table out of my lungs.”
“Did you do all this?” Wanda ran her hand along the now smooth table.
“Yup,” Addie replied. “I found it in my aunt’s old shed out back. I think it’s the same one she had sitting in here when I was a kid.”
“What will it look like when you’re done?”
“Similar to how it looks now. I’m just going to stain it,” Addie said. “So what’s up?”
“Well, you left your clothes at my house last night.” Wanda handed Addie a plastic bag. “I washed them for ya.”
“Thanks. Come on in.”
“Hey, Felix.” Wanda leaned down and scratched Felix behind his ears. “I could hear you barking all the way from the street.”
“I thought you had to go in to work today.”
“I do. But not for another hour or so.” Wanda jammed her hands down into the pockets of her scrubs. “So, last night was kind of crazy, huh?”
“It’s definitely on my top ten.”
“So what happened with you and Jasper?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Addie. Don’t think I didn’t notice your face all puffy like you’d been cryin’ when you came back inside.” Wanda sat down at the kitchen table. “I didn’t say anything last night ’cause we were with Bobby. But I’m not blind.”
Addie sat down next to her friend. “I was just trying to get him out of there before your brother changed his mind. He didn’t want to leave. We argued about it. That’s all.”
Wanda placed both of her hands palms down on the table. She stared down at the prints left on the glass. “Look, the reason I came over here . . . well, I wanted to apologize.”
“Apologize?” Addie was surprised. “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t mean to push you into going out. Gettin’ all dressed up. I didn’t think about how maybe you came here to get away from people, not see more of ’em . . . you know . . . after . . . what happened in Chicago.”
“So you’ve heard about that.”
Wanda looked over at Addie, her big green eyes full of tears. “Your aunt told me the month before she died. I’m so sorry. I just didn’t think.”
“It’s okay.” Addie reached over to take Wanda’s hand.
“Miss Tilda didn’t tell me much. She was forgetting an awful lot by then.”
“We were getting married,” Addie said. “It was a car wreck. Jonah, that was his name, was pronounced dead at the scene . . .” Addie trailed off, not sure whether she could keep her voice steady enough to continue. “It was the worst day of my life.”
“I’m so sorry, Addie.” Tears streamed down Wanda’s face. “I’m just so sorry.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired of talking about it. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me.” Addie hesitated and then added, “Please don’t feel sorry for me.”
Wanda wiped at her tears with the paper towel Addie handed her. “I don’t. I mean, I won’t. I just don’t know what to say.”
“I spent the last year being sad. I don’t want to be sad anymore. I came here to try out some other kind of emotion.”
“And then mean old Jasper Floyd makes you cry.”
“I actually owe him an apology.”
“Oh, really?” Wanda raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Addie replied. “My mother suggested I make Aunt Tilda’s famous fried pies, but I can’t even boil water.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’ve got me.” Wanda jumped up from the table. “But I don’t believe I have a recipe for fried pies—well, not like your aunt could make them.”
“I have her recipe box around here somewhere,” Addie mumbled, following Wanda halfheartedly around the kitchen.
Wanda stopped in her tracks. “You have her recipe box?”
“Yeah.”
“Girl, get that thing out.”
Addie did as she was told. Her aunt Tilda’s recipe box didn’t look like anything special. In fact, it looked just like everything in her aunt’s house—old and covered in dust—when she found it tucked behind a cast-iron skillet in the kitchen cabinet. She’d considered throwing it out, not knowing what it was at first. It took her a minute to realize she’d seen it before, many times, during the summers she’d spent with her aunt. It was the little wooden box she pulled out before she began cooking every meal. Her aunt never looked at any of t
he recipes she pulled out. She just licked her index finger, leafing through them with surprising speed. Once she found a recipe she liked, she pulled it out and set it on top of the box. She wouldn’t look at it again until she filed it away.
Many of the recipes were written on index cards or scraps of paper. Some of them had been ripped out of magazines, but those were few and far between, and most of them had been marked up one side and down the other, proof that Tilda’s special touch could be tasted in everything she cooked.
“Here it is,” Addie said at last, pulling a yellowed card out of the box. “I hope it’s the right one. It just says ‘fried pies’ on it.”
“Tilda Andrews didn’t have but one fried pie recipe,” Wanda replied. “What’s it say we need?”
“Apples, brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon . . .” Addie tore her eyes away from the card and focused on Wanda. “Can’t I just buy a pie and pretend I made it?”
“You can’t feed a store-bought pie to the likes of Jasper Floyd,” Wanda said. “You want him to think you’re cheap and easy and lazy?”
Addie shook her head from side to side, wide-eyed. “A store-bought pie can say all that?”
“It can say that and more.” Wanda stared into Addie’s empty cabinets. “You think Jasper’s mama feeds him store-bought pie?”
Addie didn’t know how to respond to that question. She’d never met Jasper’s mom. Did his mom still cook for him? Was that normal? She couldn’t remember the last time her mother cooked for anyone, let alone her adult daughter.
Wanda sighed and slammed the cabinet doors shut. “Put that recipe in your pocket, honey, and grab your keys. We’ve got some shopping to do.”
CHAPTER 14
THE ROAD TO JASPER’S FARM WAS MOSTLY UNPAVED. FELIX stirred occasionally from his nap in the front seat to growl at the bumpy ride. It was funny to Addie that Felix liked to ride in the car. There were days when he was afraid of his own shadow, but if there was a car door open, Felix was going to jump in. It didn’t matter how far they went—the second Felix was in the seat, he fell asleep.
It was the first time that Addie had seen the Delta countryside since her visits with Aunt Tilda. The land was lush and green, and miles of cotton and cattle stretched out in front of her. Here the mighty Mississippi deposited rich soils over millions of years. She remembered her aunt calling it the land of rivers.
After several miles, Addie came up on what looked like an old farm. Although the land had been tended, the buildings were in terrible disrepair. The graying boards of the barn were leaning to one side, and it looked to Addie like a strong gust of wind might bring the whole structure toppling to the ground.
The house was almost completely demolished, with only the remnants of a chimney left standing. There were pieces of the house everywhere—from what Addie could tell, a native stone house.
This must be the old Jones farm, she thought. Bobby’s accusations from the night before ran through her head. If Bobby was that upset, she could only imagine how the Jones family must feel. Addie had no desire to see Redd as angry as he’d been the night of the fair, and she wondered if the rest of the family was like him.
She didn’t notice the Floyd farm until she was upon it. Her breath hitched in her throat as she took in the magnitude of the property. She turned left up the driveway, the house growing larger and larger as she approached.
The house was an 1830s mansion, which from the outside gave Addie a sense of antiquity, a farm meticulously kept over time. Addie had never seen anything like it in her entire life. The vast house, dwarfed only by the vastness of the land surrounding it, stood in the shade of at least four pin oak trees.
Addie hesitated. She considered throwing the car in reverse and flying back down the driveway before anybody had the chance to notice she was there. She didn’t really need to apologize, did she? After all, Jasper had pushed her. He’d wanted to know.
She looked over at Felix, who panted excitedly. Addie guessed she didn’t have much of a choice now. She was already here. And the pies would go bad if she didn’t find someone to eat them. Rolling the windows down a few notches, she said to Felix, “Sit here. I will be right back.” She’d just drop off the food and leave. No big deal, right?
Addie opened the back door and pulled out the basket full of food. She took a long look at the house before trudging up the front steps and up onto the huge wraparound porch.
Addie rang the doorbell, and when a middle-aged woman answered the door, panic began to rise in her throat. She hadn’t thought this through. She hadn’t even called first. She didn’t even have Jasper’s number! What kind of a person shows up at the house of someone she doesn’t even know well enough to have a number for?
“Hello. I’m . . . I’m Adelaide Andrews,” Addie stammered. “I’m . . . I . . . I know Jasper. I brought him these.” She shoved the basket at the woman.
The woman looked lost for a few seconds, and then much to Addie’s relief, broke out into a broad grin. Jasper’s grin, she realized. She was a squat, round woman with bright blue eyes hidden behind square bifocals.
“Well, hello!” The woman had a deep southern drawl, thick as honey. “Come on in, darlin’. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“You have?” Addie was dumbfounded. “At church?”
“What?” The woman ushered Addie inside. “No, from Jasper, of course. I’m his mother, Artemis Floyd.”
“I thought so. He has your smile.”
“And you, my dear, look quite a lot like your aunt Tilda.” Artemis turned to wink at her. “I was quite fond of your aunt. She was like a second mother to me.”
She led Addie down a wide hallway of deep mahogany wood floors covered by vibrant oriental rugs. Addie had little time to take in her surroundings before she was standing inside one of the largest kitchens she’d ever seen in her life.
“What have you made us, Adelaide?” Artemis asked, peeking inside the basket.
“Call me Addie, please,” Addie replied. “They’re fried pies.”
“Oh! I love fried pies.”
“I wanted to thank your son for helping me with the tree-in-window incident,” Addie said. “I hope they taste okay. I’ve never actually made them before.”
“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” Artemis replied. “You must stay for Saturday supper.”
“I couldn’t. I didn’t even tell Jasper I was coming.”
Artemis waved off Addie’s concerns. “Nonsense. He’ll be thrilled.”
“I really would love to stay,” Addie continued. “But I’ve got my dog in the car. He’ll go crazy if he’s left out there for too much longer.”
“I cannot send you home on an empty stomach,” Artemis replied. “Besides, who can say no to grilled pork tenderloins, green beans, and cheese grits?”
“That sounds glorious,” Addie admitted. “But . . . what’s a . . . grit?”
Artemis looked at Addie, a bemused smile forming on her lips. “Well, bless your heart! I forgot that you aren’t from here. Grits are . . . well, they’re a coarsely ground corn, sort of like porridge.”
“Oh,” Addie said. “I think I saw a recipe for something with grits in my aunt’s recipe box.”
“You’re in possession of Tilda’s recipe box?”
Addie nodded.
“I can’t believe that woman didn’t take that box with her to her grave, God rest her soul,” Artemis replied. “That woman was the best cook in three counties.”
“I remember.” Addie winced at the thought of her aunt smelling or tasting the sorry excuse for pies she’d fried up earlier. “I’m not much of a cook myself.”
“You wouldn’t mind to let me take a look at those recipes sometime?” Artemis asked. She was staring intently at Addie.
Something told Addie that she should say no. It didn’t matter to her—she didn’t figure she’d get much use out of the box’s contents. She probably would have showed it to Wanda, but she hadn’t asked. A little voice inside her, Aunt Tilda’s vo
ice, said that Artemis knew she shouldn’t be asking, either.
“A woman’s recipes are like her diary,” her aunt Tilda had told her once. “They aren’t meant for anyone else’s eyes but hers.”
Before she could answer, Addie heard footsteps hurrying toward them from the front of the house. A man wearing a green Floyd Farms T-shirt came rushing into the kitchen. He bounded toward the women, his arms flailing. “Ms. Artemis! Ms. Artemis! Come quick, there’s a rabid animal in the chicken coop!” he screeched.
“Calm down, Clyde,” Artemis said, barely rising from her seat. “I’m on my way. Grab the .22 from the case.”
Addie followed Artemis outside and around to the right side of the house, quite a ways out. She could hear the chickens before she saw them. Once she got close enough to witness the commotion, she saw a fury of black and white racing around and around the wire fencing.
Clyde was behind them with the shotgun in hand. He was out of breath. He raised the rifle to his shoulder. “Hold yer ears, ladies. Then cover yer eyes. You ain’t gonna want ter see this.”
Addie squinted at the muddy mass running in circles around the coop. It looked oddly familiar. “Wait!” she yelped. “Wait, don’t shoot! That’s my dog! Felix! No! Felix!”
Artemis and Clyde stared open-mouthed at Addie as she ran. Neither was sure what to make of the frantic young woman in front of them.
The closer Addie got to the coop, the more she realized that Felix wasn’t trying to eat the chickens. He was licking them as they squawked their protests. Each time a chicken got close enough to Felix, he stuck out his tongue and gave them a good lick. He waited in the mud, hiding, until a chicken wandered over.
He stopped when he heard Addie’s voice, cocking his head to one side as she scolded him. “Felix, you crazy dog! What is wrong with you?”
Felix rolled over on his back, wiggling in the dirt and chicken poop. He licked the air, he licked the chickens, he licked the mud, and he licked himself.
“That’s your mangy dog?” Clyde asked incredulously. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot that thing when I first saw him molestin’ them chickens.”
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