Like Sweet Potato Pie (38 page)

“Who said anything about sleeping? I’ve got a date.”

“A date?” I shouted. “At this hour? What time is it there, midnight?”

“Ten after two. It’s a Japanese holiday. We’re going to Daikeien Game Center in Ichikawa. Ever heard of it? It’s this insanely huge place with tons of arcades. Batting cages and stuff. And it costs a hundred yen to get in, Ro! A buck! Can you beat it?”

“With who? You didn’t tell me!”

“Of course not! I didn’t know until yesterday afternoon. And it’s with
whom.
Have you forgotten your grammar there in the verb-impaired South? Tsk-tsk!”

“Tell me!”

“Tell me your middle name, and I’ll spill.”

“What?”

“Oh well. Time’s up.”

I bit my lip and considered making up another name, but I felt guilty. Lying didn’t come so easily anymore. “Really? You’re not going to tell me?”

I must have sounded so pitiful that Kyoko felt sorry for me. She made an annoyed groaning sound. “All right, all right. Kaine, okay?”

“Kaine? As in, AP Kaine? The guy who flirts with the Japanese secretaries and saves all the mayo packets from his nasty fast-food lunchboxes and eats them on saltines?”

Pause. “Yes, that’s Kaine,” she retorted a little crabbily. “Thanks for spoiling my night out on the town.” She sighed. “I’ve stooped to dating a coworker. That’s how bad my life is.”

“Don’t you even complain about how bad your life is! I doubt you have neighbors who set up plastic deer in their front yards to plink with .22 rifles, do you?”

“You?” Kyoko hooted. “If you ask me, it looks like your life’s starting to look up a bit. Next thing you know that farmer will be out on your lawn playing Peter Gabriel. Remember that movie?”

Great. If I argued with her, we’d have a full-scale conversation about constructivism, counterculture, the ‘80s, and a lack of modern soul, complete with musical references, with poor Kaine standing at her door until two in the afternoon.

I chose diversion. “So you’d better go get ready, right?”

“Ready? You think I’m gonna get dolled up for somebody who eats mayo packets?” I heard her cell phone tweetle. “Hold on.” Some muffled talking. “It’s him, Ro. I’d better go.”

“Have fun.” I grinned.

“One last thing. Did you know that John Cusack, the ‘80s cult-classic heartthrob for more than two decades, never married? One of the greatest ironies of all time.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Yep. Then again, neither did Morrissey. Go figure.”

If I ever figured out who Kyoko was talking about half the time, I’d be a happy woman.

I hung up and listened to the silence of the room then shuffled over to Faye’s computer and logged onto the Internet to disperse my good news to the world.

And as I scrolled through my in-box, the cursor hovered over a name I vaguely recognized—an old family friend. I clicked, startled at the brightly colored photos that spilled out. Baby blues and pink of cheeks and Ashley’s dark wheat-colored hair falling over her exuberant dimples. Dimples that reminded me of Trinity and, with a deeper pang, of Dad.

Ashley’s motherly smile took me by surprise. Proud and exhausted and tender, hands circling a pale-blue receiving blanket, minus the bulk of her pregnancy weight. Her husband, Wade, grinning that goofy smile as he tried to change diapers.

My half sister was a mom. I had a nephew. A half nephew.

She hadn’t even told me he was born.

Of course not. I passed a hand along my smooth hair, tied back in its sophisticated ponytail, wondering how things got so ugly between us. Ashley certainly couldn’t blame
me.
Even so, I felt a bit left out, a mere onlooker in this important event. Worse, a lurker. Just passing through their photos like any other stranger.

“Hello, doll!” said Faye brightly, making me jump as she rattled her key in the door. “Who’s the darlin’ baby?”

I spun around. “Faye? You’re home!”

“Home and waitin’ for yer news, sugar! My lands, yer in a suit! Well, don’t ya look like a million bucks!” She hugged me, smelling of spicy jasmine perfume. Something flirtier than she usually wore.

“You got new glasses!” I traced the wire frame. Younger and slimmer than her other roundish ones, in a modern tone of brownish-red.

“Ya like ‘em? I figgered I’d try somethin’ different.” She set down her grocery bags as I moved to log out and turn off the computer screen. “That little smiler somebody ya know?”

“Carson?” I reluctantly dragged the mouse down his photos. Which, I had to admit, looked pretty good. I could almost smell his sweet baby-powder scent. “He’s Ashley’s baby. Just a month old.”

“Things with Ashley any better?” Faye rested a hand on my shoulder.

“What? How? I got a letter from her lawyer demanding copies of the will, but until Shane Pendergrass comes to haul me to jail, I’m not giving her anything. Not one measly penny.”

Faye sat down next to me. “Well, of course not, sugar. You aren’t obligated to do anything.”

I studied her. “But you think I should.”

“Not at all. But there might be other ways ya could keep the door open.”

“What door?”

“Relationships, sweetheart. Keep the door open to a relationship. Maybe not now, but someday.”

“With Ashley?” My mouth gaped. “Are you kidding, Faye? I don’t want a relationship with her! Or Dad! Ever!” I crossed my arms.

Faye hesitated. “I know, doll, but not so long ago ya thought the same way about yer mama.”

I winced and fresh anger stirred. “Mom was different. Mom changed her life and recognized her mistakes. Ashley and Dad just go on living the way they want and couldn’t care less about anyone else.”

“Well then, maybe ya can be the one to show ‘em a different way.” Faye’s words came out soft, her arm around my shoulders.

“Me?” I gasped. “What do I have to do with anything?”

“The Lord loves us all, sugar. He died for us while we were still His enemies. Ya might not want a close relationship with Ashley, an’ that’s fine, but I wonder if ya might consider shinin’ a little bit a His love through the crack in that door. So if she wants to change one day, she can.”

Great. Here we go again.
As if my episode with Chase wasn’t enough. Now I’m supposed to be a light to Ashley, too?
Why don’t You dump all the weirdos and creeps in my lap, God?

“I can’t help Ashley, Faye. I’m barely a Christian myself.”

“A little bit a light on a dark night is better than none at all.” She patted my hand as she moved to hang up her coat. “And I think you’ll find that when the Lord’s in ya, it don’t matter if ya been a Christian one day or a hundred. He still works through ya. Still speaks through ya. And still uses ya to draw others to Himself.”

Faye had just stepped around me when I reached up suddenly and snatched her hand back.

“What on earth?”

Her
ring
hand.

F
aye tried to pull away, but I was too quick for her. The smooth wedding band I remembered had vanished. Instead a small ring of silvery gold glittered in its place, antique, affixed with a sparkling lavender stone.

“What is this?” I hollered, knowing full well. But I wanted to hear her say it—hear Earl’s name slip from her lips like a secret—hear Faye Clatterbaugh tell me, in her own words, that she’d found love.

Love.
The sound reverberated through me like a roar of distant thunder.

“I was gonna tell ya anyway.” Faye cast bright eyes downward, running her finger along the ring. “We jest … we …”

“We who?” I shouted, even though she sat right next to me on the piano bench, pretty pink sweater contrasting with the purple stone.

“Me an’ Earl. I reckon we … well, seems like God’s doin’ somethin’ we didn’t expect.”

“Well, everybody else sure did!” I felt tears brim in my eyes. Faye enfolded me, and I leaned into her shoulder, gasping back a sudden rush of emotion.

For all my ridiculous mishaps in Staunton, this
actually worked!

“Are you all really going to …?”

“Get married? Yep. I reckon we’re gonna.”

“What? That fast?” I blotted my eyes, wondering if I’d actually encouraged Faye to take leave of her senses. “You’ve only known him for what, a couple of months?”

“I know, sugar, but when it’s right, well, why wait?”

I couldn’t argue. Just hugged her tight, mind reeling over all the implications of Faye Clatterbaugh becoming Faye Sprouse.

“You’re going to be a wife again!” I blabbered, releasing her to hunt for a tissue. I shouldn’t have said “again,” I suppose. It sounded gauche. But Faye didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m no spring chicken!” Faye chuckled, taking off her glasses to wipe her eyes. “But I shore feel like one! Like I’ve done lost my mind, as giddy as back in high school when I met Mack. Dear Lord! I didn’t know I had any a them emotions left!”

Her teary face turned toward the photo of Mack on the end table. I wanted to snatch it away, to hide it, to bury it somewhere in an attic, but Faye’s hands found it. She turned over the glass gently, stroking the frame.

Two golds touching—one around her ring finger and one curved around the photo.

“I thought you didn’t want to get married again,” I said hesitantly, scrubbing my face with a tissue as Faye’s face darkened slightly, like a cloud passing over the sun.

“I didn’t.” She swallowed hard, looking down at the photo. “I loved Mack. Maybe I still do.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute, and I stared down at the beige carpet.

“Ya see, Shiloh, love ain’t what ya see in the books and movies. Forget all the sultry eyes and trips to Paris and women chasin’ after yer gorgeous, mysterious man. That ain’t real life. My Mack wasn’t even real good-lookin’, to tell the truth. Nobody ever hit on him or chased me around askin’ if he had a brother, like they always show in romance books. But he was my love.”

I looked up in surprise at her tender tone.

“Ya know somethin’, honey?” Faye leaned forward, looking at me with blazing determination. “There ain’t no Mr. Right,” she whispered fiercely.

“What do you mean? I thought you just said that Earl …”

She grasped my hand and turned me toward her. “Men are
flesh,
Shiloh. They’re
human.
Do ya hear me? They ain’t all movie stars an’ muscles an’ bouquets of flowers. That’s Hollywood! Young women fill their heads with this idiotic nonsense an’ then run out and divorce their man ‘cause he ain’t what they wanted. He ain’t what they read about. Thing is, they cain’t never find it ‘cause it …
don’t … exist.
”

Faye’s bird clock on the wall tweeted the bottom of the hour, but I didn’t move an eyelash.

“Listen to me, sugar. If ya don’t remember a thing I say, remember this: Love is what you live out every single day, good times or bad. Givin’ up things for the other. Changing to accommodate somebody else. Learning to love without all the bells an’ whistles. It ain’t always pretty, and it definitely ain’t perfect. But it’s good.”

She patted my hand and let it go.

“It’s like … well … like sweet potato pie.”

“Pie?” I choked, heart still racing from her speech.

“Sweet potatoes ain’t the prettiest vegetable, Shiloh, once ya dig ‘em outta the dirt. Ya ever seen one?”

“I guess so. In the grocery store.”

“They’re all lumpy and crooked and got knobby purple skin. Kinda ugly shape. But once ya cook ‘em awhile over God’s good ol’ refining fire and sprinkle on some sugar and spice, a little laughter and a lotta forgiveness, a heap a mistakes, you’ll make a dessert fit fer a king. Lands, one a the best things I ever put in my mouth!”

“Didn’t we have that at … um … Adam’s house?” I asked hesitantly, afraid to meet her eyes. “For his birthday?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

I twisted my fingers together, remembering the way he’d put the plate in my hands. That scar across his knuckles.

“God’s heroes are real, Shiloh,” said Faye, tears welling up in her blue eyes. “They fail and make mistakes. They can’t complete ya or fulfill ya ‘cause only Jesus can do that. They ain’t always gorgeous or even good-lookin’. But they’ll hold yer hand ‘til the day they die an’ lay down their life for ya like the Good Shepherd Himself. Now
that
is
real.
”

I heard my cell phone vibrate in my purse. But I didn’t move to pick it up. I couldn’t.

They’ll lay down their life.

Kyoko’s voice rang in my head just like I’d heard it on the Tokyo subway:
“Carlos has never given up
anything
for you!”

And then I felt the weight of Adam’s cell phone in my pocket. The cream-colored table skirt reminding me of my newly painted kitchen. The bandage on my finger and his hand reaching out to touch it.

Faye chuckled. “Ain’t much mysterious ‘bout a man when ya wipe his hair an’ stubble outta the bathroom sink. When ya pick up his dirty, sweaty clothes off the floor and clean his toilet. But I tell ya one thing—there ain’t a love on this earth that can compare. Do ya hear me, Shiloh Jacobs?”

I moved my mouth, and my voice could only squeak out a whisper. “Tell me, Faye. Tell me what love is.”

“Ya wanna know? It’s yer husband refusin’ to look at some cute young thing in a red dress when ya start to get gray hair and a few extra pounds from the years. It’s the way he hugs ya to his heart when yer still in a paper gown on a doctor’s table and he just told ya that ya cain’t have kids.”