by Barbara Lohr
No doubt the shrimp boats had headed out a couple of hours ago. By noon, some of them might be back, nets heavy with their morning’s catch. Some of the private slips were empty, the smaller boats and yachts having headed out for a day on the water.
“Friends,” Emily murmured, stretching out. “Feels nice to have them.”
Josie slid her a sidelong glance. “Are you talking about us or Jackson?”
Emily dipped her head. “Both, I guess. I don’t have to explain things with him. Don’t have to tell him who I am. That’s all I’m saying. We know each other. Accept each other.”
“No surprises,” Bryn said with satisfaction. “I might come from Asheboro but things are the same over there.”
Josie glanced over at the man and woman on the next swing, deep in quiet conversation. “That must be the comfort of couples who’ve known each other forever.”
“Like my parents,” Emily said. “They grew up here.” Her parents hadn’t made the mistakes she’d made, but they hadn’t had the excitement either. Emily had always loved the thrill of new adventures. But not anymore.
After saying good-bye, she came straight home and worked on her blog. Easy breakfast was the topic. Don’t have time for breakfast? Breakfast may be the most important meal of your day.
And she proceeded to explain why. So many people started their day on an empty stomach. She couldn’t help but scold them. Her habit was to eat oatmeal with flax seed and walnuts on top every morning, especially before walking.
Never exercise on an empty stomach. More frantic typing before she moved into another breakfast favorite, small egg quiche cups kept in the freezer.
The freezer. A sudden need for a chocolate kiss grabbed her. She headed into the kitchen, taking a moment to appreciate the dry floor. Jackson had done a much better job than she could. Opening the freezer, she listened for that rattle. Still there. Excellent. Unwrapping the foil, she popped the kiss into her mouth. Then she headed back to work while the sweetness of the chocolate slowly released.
Beat six eggs with a whisk or hand mixer. Mix in a quarter cup of low-fat swiss cheese or another substitute. Add chopped french onions, crumbled cooked turkey bacon, along with spinach or your other favorite green.
Spinach. Her fingers stalled on the keys. Jackson had checked out her website and Facebook page. But she wouldn’t read anything into that.
Back to her recipe. Add a bit of dill for flavor and a pinch of salt. Pour mixture into six to eight lined cupcake tins. Bake at 350 degrees for thirty minutes.
After finding a picture from the last time she’d made the egg cups, she posted the recipe and the photo. Hitting that upload button always made her feel good. Emily’s client list was expanding since developing her niche for singles. Her site now had a button for “Single and Thriving.” She was all about that. Of course, Josie and Bryn had signed up when she mentioned it.
Pushing back from her desk, she stretched. Sasha was perched on her desk, eyes focused on the cardinals at the bird feeder. Jackson was right. Her fur was so soft and thick. Emily gave Sasha a good scratch behind the ears that got her purring.
So Jackson had a cat. She liked that.
Creeping closer to the kitchen, she listened for the rattle. Perfect.
Maybe she’d make cookies. She hadn’t forgotten his comment about the cookies she’d baked for him in college. Her cupboard always had chocolate chips and the basic baking ingredients. The kitchen had been a priority when she unpacked. Whipping her bowl and beaters from the cupboard, she began to measure the flour, sugar and oatmeal.
By that time Sasha had joined her, swishing her tail at Emily’s feet. “Okay. Early lunch.” Grabbing the green bag of cat food from the counter, she measured some into Sasha’s bowl.
Then it was back to the recipe. “These are for Jackson,” she told Sasha. “You liked him, remember? That nice man who fixed my sink.”
The nice man who might come to work on the rattle in her refrigerator.
The man she really shouldn’t have on her mind.
***
As usual, Emily went to her parents’ house for Sunday dinner. They lived a few blocks from the square in a Lowcountry home with a wide porch and a wreath on the door. The wreath changed like clockwork with each season. Right now, artificial forsythia decorated the door with cheerful yellow blooms. Mama kept her wreaths in the garage, hung in seasonal order.
Her father pulled her into a warm bear hug when she came through the door. “How’s my little girl?”
“Oh, Daddy.” Emily’s dad always smelled of Olde English aftershave. “Your little girl’s fine.” She gave him a tight squeeze, slipped off her jacket and hung it in the closet. Moments like this made her glad she’d returned to Sweetwater Creek. Sure she’d come home for holidays when they rolled around. But those visits had been rushed. Now she was settling in. “Where do men buy their soap?”
Looking puzzled, Daddy folded his arms above his expanding paunch. “The store, I guess. Your mother picks it up. Why do you ask?”
She had to think fast. “One of my articles.”
Now, if her dad had really thought about that, her response wouldn’t make sense. Her blog focused on food, not personal hygiene. But Daddy just smiled. He’d been so happy when she’d moved back home. Weekly calls and holidays weren’t nearly enough for him.
The smell of Lowcountry shrimp and sausage stew hung in the air, along with Mama’s buttermilk biscuits. Emily’s interest in food had been natural. Her mother was a great cook, and her mouth watered.
“Charlotte is coming for dinner.” Her mother bustled through the kitchen door.
“Guess it’s time to go get her.” Grabbing his navy jacket, Daddy left. Charlotte Whipple lived next door, hardly a long walk. But Emily’s father insisted on escorting her down the path between their houses.
“That’s nice, Mama. I always liked Miss Charlotte.” Charlotte Whipple and her husband Raleigh had lived next to Emily’s parents for as long as she could remember. Now Miss Charlotte was a widow and Mom often had her for Sunday dinner. “How’s she doing?”
Her mother pushed back her latest perm. “No problems with the hip replacement. A physical therapist comes a couple times a week. Of course we check on her. Take food over and so on.” If her mother wasn’t running out to Mah Jong or bridge, she was cooking for a sick friend or neighbor.
“Of course you do.” Following her mother back into the kitchen, Emily breathed in the yummy smell of Mama’s cooking. She gave the stew bubbling in the pot a quick stir. A blast of hot air hit her when her mother whisked fluffy biscuits from the oven. She loved being in the kitchen when her mother cooked. This was the kind of gathering she’d missed, living in the city.
“We’re here,” Daddy called out. Emily ran into the living room to give Miss Charlotte a hug.
“Oh, my. Smells wonderful,” Mrs. Whipple sang out. “How nice to see you, Emily.”
“You too, Miss Charlotte.” Emily kissed the older woman’s cheek that still felt like silk and smelled of her lavender powder. “Mama’s almost ready.”
Emily helped Miss Charlotte settle into a dining room chair. Her slow, careful progress told Emily she still had some work to do with her physical therapy.
Her mother was always prompt with dinner and this Sunday was no different. When they were all seated, Mama sailed through the kitchen door, carrying a brimming serving bowl.
Sausage shouldn’t be on her father’s diet. But Emily didn’t comment. He loved Mama’s shrimp and sausage stew, and his open heart surgery hadn’t changed that. But her mother didn’t seem to get it. She cooked the way Grandma had cooked. Emily was hoping she could introduce some changes gradually.
“You could bring out the salads, Emily,” Mama said. Emily scurried to the kitchen. The individual salads had pinwheels of orange with coconut and chopped pecans sprinkled on top.
“So are you seeing anyone, dear?” Miss Charlotte asked after she’d eaten her first mouthful. “Any handso
me man in your life?”
Emily hadn’t seen that coming, although their neighbors had always been interested in her dating. Gulp. “Um, no.”
“Emily is very busy building her business right now,” her father somehow said between mouthfuls. He was so cute, sticking up for her.
“Oh, my.” Miss Charlotte’s fork was poised over the salad. “Now remind me. What business is that, dear?”
Mama jumped in. “Our Emily’s a nutritionist.”
“Ooooh.” Mrs. Whipple’s pale blue eyes glittered. “And what exactly is that?”
“Healthy eating.” Emily speared a section of orange. “We are what we eat.”
Did I really say that?
Her mother ducked her head while Daddy spooned more stew from the tureen.
Tilting her head to one side, Miss Charlotte seemed to consider that. “My doctor told me I should eat well. But you know, for one person, it’s not easy. I don’t like to spend time in the kitchen since my Raleigh’s gone.”
A sadness squeezed Emily’s heart. She’d enjoyed seeing Mr. Whipple working in their garden. No one had fences in Sweetwater Creek so the yards merged. Her mother usually worked on color coordination with her summer flowers. A bed of pink sweet williams would stand behind blue pansies. Mama thrived on order. Miss Charlotte and her husband mixed the black-eyed Susans and pink lantana with abandon. Tossing in a mixed packet of zinnias would drive her mother crazy.
That was as wild as the neighborhood got on Sorghum Lane.
“Emily has clients.” Her father spoke up. “She draws up menus for them.”
Sometimes Daddy surprised her by being so up to date on her activities. Of course, he’d signed up to be her first client...and then promptly didn’t follow her menu suggestions.
“What kind of menus?” Miss Charlotte blotted her lips with one of Mama’s hand embroidered napkins.
“Healthy stuff.” Emily held up a fork holding oranges. “Fruits and vegetables.”
“Spinach,” her father said. “Isn’t that right, Em? Spinach is very good for you.”
“Any green vegetable has a lot of vitamin B,” she said for her mother’s benefit. “But spinach is loaded. You can mix it in a salad or cook it as a side dish.” How had they gotten into this?
But sadly, Miss Charlotte’s mind wasn’t on green vegetables. “So, why aren’t you dating some nice young man, Emily?” Her mind could flutter from one topic to another like one of the humming birds in her garden.
“Honestly, Charlotte. Emily just got back,” her mother said. “Why I’ll bet all of your boxes aren’t unpacked yet. Are they, sweetie?”
“Mama, it’s been a couple of weeks. Of course I’m sorted.” She tried to sound indignant, as if all her seasonings had been alphabetized in the drawer closest to the stove. But her mother knew her too well.
“You should try Match.” Mrs. Whipple gestured toward the end of the table. “Grace, could you just spoon up a bit more for me, please?”
Numb with shock, Emily passed Miss Charlotte’s plate to her mother and back.
“Do you mean Match.com?” How on earth did the widow know about the popular dating site? The online site Emily had never visited.
“My granddaughter met the nicest man on Match. She’s getting married this summer.”
“A wedding.” Mama’s eyes grew damp.
Emily’s chewing slowed. All parents wanted their daughter to find her knight in shining armor––a man with a decent job and patience with children, because of course there would be grandchildren. As an only child, Emily hadn’t fulfilled her duty. She crunched down on the pecans sprinkled on the orange salad.
“Pass the biscuits please, Grace.” Daddy wanted an end to this conversation. In the shifting of the biscuits and butter, the group moved away from weddings and everything that came with that happy occasion. Emily sent a grateful smile to her father, who winked back.
In high school, she’d had serious wedding discussions while lolling about in Josie’s rec room or on Bryn’s sun porch. Emily had pictured bridesmaids dressed in pink and blush. Her own wedding gown would make all her Cinderella dreams come true.
No girl planned to be single at thirty.
“Now don’t you go giving Emily any weird ideas, Charlotte.” Clearly, the conversation had alarmed Emily’s mother. “Dating strangers. What is the world coming to?”
Sometimes Emily wished Mama would have a drink before dinner. Some of Daddy’s Kentucky bourbon would no doubt do the trick.
Daddy pushed back from the table. “Isn’t it about time for that lemon cake, precious?”
“Oh, I do love lemon cake.” Miss Charlotte sighed. Emily felt relief wash through her like the first warm day at Butter Bean Beach.
Thank goodness they got through the rest of dinner without Miss Charlotte mentioning online dating again. Emily helped her mother clear the table of her grandmother’s Gorham china. She’d been taught to have respect for the china and silver that was always used for Sunday dinner and holidays.
As she whisked away the salad plates, Emily was dumped back into regret as thick as the whipped topping on the lemon cake waiting in the kitchen. She carefully stacked the dinner plates to the side and picked up the dessert plates. Usually she loved her mama’s lemon cake, but her stomach felt off after Miss Charlotte’s comments. Her mother was cutting thick slices when Emily set the plates next to the cake on the table.
The light texture of the frosting was topped with a sprinkling of coconut swirls on the top. But while Mrs. Whipple took dainty bites and moaned her delight, Emily could hardly choke down a forkful. What was wrong with her? Quietly, she placed her napkin over what was left. At the first sign that everyone had finished, she jumped up to help clear the table. Her contentment had vanished.
All the way home, she heard her clock ticking. She turned on the radio to drown it out but no luck. Every song seemed to mention loving someone forever. There was a lot more to marriage than a wedding. The man had to be right, not some stranger she found online. The very idea made her cringe.
That night she tossed and turned until Sasha jumped off the bed with an indignant thump to sleep on the couch. Wrapping a fleece blanket around her, Emily padded into her office, flipped on the computer and went on a site called Lowcountry Singles. She’d noticed signs stuck in the ground along the road, never guessing she’d actually go on the site.
The number of single men in this area amazed her. And some looked decent with friendly smiles and respectable careers. Foolish hope unfolded in her chest like a flaky croissant, the buttery kind you just can’t resist.
But who was she kidding? She wasn’t ready. Anxiety rippled over her chest at the thought of noisy bars and crowds of people. She shut down the computer. On her way back to bed, she visited the freezer and scooped up a couple frozen kisses.
The fresh chocolate chip cookies in a zip-lock bag sat ready for Jackson. Partial payment for his help in this kitchen.
Jackson liked her baking. At least he had in the past.
If he came over. But she was pretty sure he would.
“I’m sure he’ll come back,” she said the next morning as she briskly marched down the pavement with Bryn and Josie.
“Absolutely. What’s the story with him and Victoria?” Josie asked. “Did he talk about her when he made his house call?”
“Not a word.”
“Well, if that isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is,” Bryn muttered.
“I’m not sure guys talk about their girlfriends the way we do.” Emily was tired of fixating on Jackson. “Any decisions about the storefront?”
Bryn’s eyes sparkled. “I have an appointment to see it tomorrow.”
The three of them unleashed childish squeals of excitement. “You’ll be my neighbor. This is going to be wonderful.” She imagined the scent of Bryn’s flowers filling the old building.
“Back to Jackson,” Josie said when they’d grown quiet again and the only sound was the slap of shoes on the pave
ment. “Have you driven past his house?”
Emily jerked her head to face her friend. “No. Why would I do that?”
Josie gave her a look of disbelief. “That’s just what women do to check out the territory.”
“This isn’t my territory.” Her cheeks hot––and not from the soft morning sun–– Emily unzipped her hoodie. Sometimes Josie didn’t get it. “I’ve never cruised past any guy’s house.”
Josie patted her on the back. “That’s because you never had to. In college men were falling from trees, ripe for the picking. Here in the real world? We have to work. Treat looking for the right man like a job.”
What? “Jackson isn’t my job. He’s my... buddy. My friend.” The word felt strange, like a plain old cherry popsicle that could magically turn into an orange creamsicle when she unwrapped it. “This sounds more like a mission than a casual checking in on a friend.”
“He’ll never know. Don’t you want to know if Victoria’s car is there? This is a key point that could indicate the level of their relationship.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” The idea made sense. That is, if she were interested in Jackson in that way. Which she wasn’t.
But what did Emily have to lose? She was curious. “At Sunday dinner, the topic of weddings came up. Our neighbor’s granddaughter is getting married.”
“Oh, no. Did your parents’ minds skip right along to babies?” Josie groaned. “Don’t you hate it?”
“Absolutely. Babies danced in my mama’s eyes.”
Bryn sighed and Josie shook her head and muttered, “Blast it.”
Unfulfilled expectations pressed on Emily’s shoulders. “Not that I don’t want to provide them with the patter of little feet.”
“Sometimes I’m glad my folks live in Florida now.” Josie sighed. “It’s easier to move the conversation right past weddings and baby showers when I’m not looking my mama in the eye.”
“You’re lucky,” Emily said. But she’d hate it if her parents moved somewhere else. She’d just returned and was basking in the warmth of seeing them all the time. But she didn’t want to continue this conversation about parents. Bryn’s own parents had died in a crash when she was only twenty-one. Josie seemed to get the message