One Foot in the Grove (6 page)

The mantel clock chimed a dozen times. It was midnight.

“Yooo-hoo! Eva, dear, are y'all in there?”

Dolly woofed again. Then, she sat down next to me at the screen door and wagged her tail.

I recognized my oldest sister's light, singsongy voice. Flowing across the wet lawn like an apparition, Daphne held up folds of her long white satiny bed robes that billowed in the blustery wind. Her other hand carried a silver bucket. My slender sister's face was still covered with a big pastel-colored silk scarf tied over and around her head, like a fairy burka. Only her watery blue eyes peeked out through an opening in the headdress that fell to her shoulders.

“
Dahhwr-ln'
, it's meeeeee, Daphneeeee!”

“Daphne. Is everything alright?” Standing at the screen door, I brushed bread crumbs from my
GEORGIA VIRGIN
tee. Dolly quickly scoffed them up from the floor.

My wraithlike sister stepped lightly inside the cottage. On Daphne's petite feet were heeled mules with sodden white marabou-feather pom-poms that covered her perfectly painted toes. Daphne was one of the few people in
the universe who could carry off such ridiculously impractical footwear, and make it look perfectly normal. In the rain, no less.

“I have something for you . . .” Daphne sang, as she floated past me, through my “bedroom” and “dining room” areas, and headed to the “living room” on the far side of the one-room cottage. A waft of pricey floral perfume trailed behind her. French, no doubt.

Daphne alighted on a rumpled off-white linen love seat with rolled arms that squatted behind a glass-topped coffee table with a metal frame with clawed feet. Dolly lay down by Daphne's feathered feet on the shabby Oriental carpet.

I plopped into a comfy armchair that was newly slipcovered in perky floral chintz. The chair and matching ottoman, both of which had been in my bedroom as a girl, were nestled under a tall wrought iron lamp alongside a Chinese garden stool in the corner. On the rear wall behind the chair, shelves were built around an open window where lacy curtains billowed and puffed in the wind. The shelves were jam-packed with my beloved books—mostly fiction—as well as some of my most favorite things, including a decoupaged box from my childhood that was filled with special trinkets, some first-place ribbons I'd won running cross-country, a few cherished photos, and my “emergency” cash—although, already, I'd spent nearly all of it and was down to a one-hundred-dollar bill. Also on the shelves was my collection of tiny landscape paintings, along with some glass baubles, old cameras, and my printer.

Daphne reached into her silver ice bucket and pulled out a slender green bottle adorned with a sprig of lavender and a purple ribbon. Then, she pulled out a brown bottle of liquor.

“Eva,
dahhwr-ln'
, I wanted to give these to you earlier. They're little housewarming tokens to welcome y'all back to Georgia—some peach whiskey and some lavender-infused olive oil. The oil is wonderful for your skin. Smells like a garden. And it's ever so relaxing.”

I took the bottle of whiskey and the smaller bottle of oil.

“Thanks, Daph. I'll enjoy these, I'm sure.”

“Wendel, over at the package store, just started carryin' the whiskey last month. It's made locally, so I thought I'd help support our neighbors. And I made the lavender-infused oil with the ladies from New York a few hours ago before . . . before . . . ooh
my
!”

Daphne let out a wail and made squeaky sobbing sounds of despair before putting her head in her delicate, manicured hands. Her “my” was drawn into a two-syllable word. Very dramatic. Daphne searched a pocket somewhere in the folds of her satin, pulled out a lace handkerchief, reached up to the slit in her headdress, and dabbed her eyes.

“You couldn't have known that you're allergic,” I said. Daphne nodded her shrouded head and sobbed. Dolly whimpered and licked the pom-poms on Daphne's feet. The drama was getting on my already-primed nerves. I had enough to worry about, I thought. Honestly, I couldn't imagine why she'd been using lye, anyway. If she and the guests had just used olive oil to make a pure castile soap, lye wasn't necessary at all. And making castile soap would have boosted our olive oil business. I'd give her a hard time about it when we were both feeling better.

“Daphne, it's late. Is there something I can do to help you?” Hopefully, I didn't sound too harsh. I was overtired. And I was anxious to ask her about Chef Loretta running off with the guide, Leonard. Because he'd been out on a hunting and fishing spree when I'd first arrived back home, I'd never met the man. Given Loretta's distinctive demeanor, I was curious to get Daphne's take on the couple.

Daphne pulled part of the wrapped scarf down and blew her nose, loud and hard, into the dainty hankie. Her normally flawless porcelain face was blotchy red and swollen. I actually felt sorry for her.

“I've cold-compressed for hours (hear her, when she says ‘aow-wahs') and used up all our ice. I'm not sure we'll even have enough for the guests. Do y'all have some ice that I may borrow?”

Although the notion of “borrowing” ice is ridiculous, I decided not to be smart about it.

“I have ice. Also, I have some freezer packs. I'll get you what I have.”

“Thank you, Eva, dear. I'm sorry to be a bother. I know y'all have a lot on your mind.”

“It's no problem. I keep cold packs around for when I run and overdo. Or for when I do something stupid, like jog into a pothole.”

“Heavens! You're not likely to find potholes in these parts.” Daphne pulled the scarf back up over her nose, muffling her voice. “I reckon we've got plenty of gopher holes, though.” She dabbed her eyes. “Anyhoo, I'm glad to hear y'all are still runnin' these days. The exercise will do your mind some good. I do worry about y'all frettin' so much. Y'all have always been a bit of a fretter.”

Daphne held out the ice bucket. I was pretty sure it was sterling. I took the bucket and went to my mini freezer in the kitchenette. Yup. Sterling. And antique. With a big “B” engraved on the side. Must've been from her Atlanta ex's family. I wondered if Big Boomer knew she had it. Probably not. Kudos for Daphne. I pulled out ice cubes and packs—all I had in the freezer—and plunked them into the fancy bucket.

“Daph, would you like a little bite to eat? Some tea?”

“I'd love a little bite, nothing to drink, thank you. I missed dinner and I'm rather famished.”

“That makes two of us. Missing dinner, that is. Sweet or savory?”

“Savory sounds lovely. If it isn't too much trouble. Thank you.”

I grabbed a baguette and sliced it on a wooden board. I opened a jar of Chef Loretta's tapenade—it was just about the only thing I had left in the cupboard. I slathered the bread with the briney paste of black olives and fresh olive oil, anchovies, capers, garlic, figs, fresh mint, basil, parsley, and dried herbs from Daphne's garden before placing the treats on a blue and white transferware plate. I crossed over
to where Daphne was seated and shoved aside stacks of papers and wads of tissues on the coffee table before resting the plate on the glass tabletop. I set the icy silver bucket on the corner of the coffee table. Dolly came over to investigate and began licking the cool, sweaty sterling bucket.

“How lovely,” said Daphne as she stiffened her back and wrinkled her nose, trying to look past the piles of papers and tissues obliterating the coffee table. “I see you're usin' grandma's Blue Willow.”

Like the Blue Willow patterned plates, except for my very personal and most cherished items, almost everything in the cottage had belonged to someone in my family, or was some sort of vintage find, recently purchased and rehabbed by Daphne.

With two dainty fingers, Daphne picked up one of the slathered slices of bread from the plate and pulled her head wrap down below her chin, biting off a chunk of bread and tapenade.

“Ummmm,” she mumbled. “Good.”

“Glad you like it. Loretta made it. Speaking of Loretta, what's this about her leaving tonight?”

I grabbed a piece of the tapenade-topped bread. After noshing on an entire olive loaf earlier, you'd think that I'd had enough. But . . . no.

“Umm.” Daphne picked up another piece of bread and tapenade. “Frankly, I'm relieved. Don't get me wrong; she was a wonderful cook. However, I found the woman to be a bit brusque.”

“Brusque?”

“If y'all ask me, she went about butchering with a bit too much gusto.” Daphne pushed the entire piece of bread and tapenade into her little mouth. “I watched her hack a side of beef once, and I swear, it's the only time I
evah
saw her smile. I worried about the children.” She raised her hand in front of her lips as she mumbled through the big mouthful.

“But what about tomorrow? I mean, today! How are we going to serve the guests?”

I shoved a slice of bread piled high with the chunky topping into my mouth.
Instant pleasure
.

“Well actually, we were counting on
you
to see it through. Didn't you get my text earlier?” Daphne licked her lips and raised her scarf back up to just below her eyes. “I mean you
are
in charge of guest relations. I told Daddy that y'all could handle it just fine,” she mumbled through her headdress.

My chest tightened and I swallowed hard. I nearly choked on the tapenade treat.

“But, Daphne, I . . . I can't cook,” I gasped. The treat went down like a lump. “I nearly burned the big house down today . . . twice!”

“Of course y'all can cook, Eva. Y'all are just a little out of practice. And, I daresay, y'all have been a bit distracted by your heartbreak and this deplorable runaway bride nonsense. Y'all will get over it. In fact, cooking will be good therapy. Every woman can cook. Except, of course, Pepper-Leigh.” Daphne sighed. “You know, I've wondered if she's a changeling. All that nasty black. And leather. She's just so out of step! Why does she have to be like that? She distresses me. Remember the time she used bird skulls as place card holders on Thanksgiving?”

Daphne brushed bread crumbs from her lap and put them in a neat pile on the edge of the serving plate. Dolly inched closer to the table.

“Dear me, Eva, you must do something about all these piles of papers! And, my, my, my! The tissues! They're not all
used
, are they?”

I sat silently and rolled my eyes. I knew that up until that moment, Daphne'd tried really hard to be polite and not say anything about the mess. Still, the answer was obvious.

Daphne swallowed hard and her back stiffened. “How will you
evah
entertain . . . in such . . . a . . . place?” Looking around and taking in all the balled-up tissues scattered over nearly every surface in the room, I knew that Daphne was horrified.

“Entertain? Me? Not an issue, I assure you,” I said dryly.

“I know y'all have been distraught, dear, but it's time to
pull yourself up by your bootstraps. After all, y'all are a
Knox
woman.”

“Right.”

Daphne flapped her hand and changed the subject.

“Anyhoo, y'all can take care of the meals until I find someone suitable. We can't go willy-nilly and just hire
anyone
, of course. It may take a few weeks.” She honked her nose again. “Maybe months.”

A chunk of bread caught in my throat as I tried to smile. Knox woman or not, how was I going to prepare meals for people? Paying guests, no less? And even if I could—and I couldn't—I'd still never live up to DQ Daphne's exacting standards. I doubted anyone could. Chef Loretta was as close as anyone'd come, and apparently, even she'd failed the test because she'd been too “brusque.” Whatever that was. Who used words like “brusque,” anyway?

I stood up and headed to the kitchenette.

“Maybe we can find y'all a man right quick. That should help y'all feel better.”

“Really, no man. I'm taking a break from men.”

“Well, I suppose that's fine for now. At least until y'all get this place cleaned up. Maybe next week, then.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Alrighty. I'll not keep y'all,” continued Daphne. “The snack was delish, thank you.” Daphne stood up with her bucket. “Y'all should make some of this tapenade for our guests,” she continued cheerily as she made her way over to the door. “It's quite tasty.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

I was kidding. I choked down some water. When it came to
preparing
food, there was no way. I couldn't understand how Daphne didn't know better. She'd raised me. And she'd seen—and smelled—the smoked-out kitchen in the big house earlier. Twice in a day. She must be desperate, I thought.

“There are grits in the cupboard for breakfast,” continued Daphne. “And some of Boone Beasley's marvelous thick-sliced, nitrite-free bacon and low-fat spiced sausages in the
fridge. And blueberries. Yes, do make some blueberry pancakes. And biscuits. And sausage gravy, of course. One can't have biscuits without sausage gravy. There's plenty to work with in the pantry. And there's fresh eggs from the Spencers' farm, some of Daddy's peaches, and all sorts of fresh fruit and veggies. Can y'all carve those little rose-shaped butter patties like Loretta did? Guests just adore those! We'll need ice. Maybe y'all can run down to Carter's Country Corner Store and pick up ice. They still open at six, don't they?”