Rest in Peach (25 page)

“Nola Mae? Is that you?” The sound of my mama’s southern drawl cut through my thoughts. “Come on inside. We’re waitin’ supper for you.”

“Coming, Mama!” Inside I found my parents sitting at the table, three red and white checked placemats already set with plates and silverware. In the center of the table rested a large platter of chicken fried steak, flanked on either side by a bowl of greens and a nearly overflowing gravy boat. Mama was pouring from a sweating pitcher of iced tea. I leaned in and gave Daddy a quick peck on the cheek, inhaling his familiar scent of spent cigars and perhaps a touch of peach jack whiskey, before settling into my spot. “Looks good, Mama.” Of course, if Mama made it, it was good. For as long as I could remember, people had been talking about my mother’s skill as a cook. In fact, it was her famous peach preserve recipe that inspired and made Peachy Keen the success it was today.

“How’d things go at the shop, hon?” she asked.

“Busy. I’m going to need to make a few more batches of preserves if I’m going to cover my online orders and the extra business in the shop. Chutney’s selling well, too.”

“It’s the cooler weather,” Mama commented. “Ladies are making more pork roasts. Y’all know how well peach chutney goes with pork.”

I nodded, casting a glance toward my father. “You’re quiet this evening, Daddy. Everything going okay?”

He grumbled, but didn’t bother looking up from his plate.

“Never mind him,” Mama said, reaching again for the tea pitcher and topping off her glass. “He’s had a bad day.”

I put down my fork. “What happened? Something with the orchards?”

“No, nothing like that,” Daddy said, pushing his own food around his plate. “A problem with Snyder’s.”

“Snyder’s Fruit Stand? I don’t understand. What’s going on?” The Snyders ran one of the largest produce stands in the county. A couple seasons back, Daddy negotiated a sweet deal with Jack Snyder—he gave Daddy a higher percent of profit than we’d normally get at other stands on all the bushels of fresh peaches we could provide. In exchange, the Snyder’s stand got the best of our crop. It was an exclusive deal and we were his only supplier, which meant a sure-thing market for our highest quality peaches, plus we didn’t have to pack and ship. Which saved even more money. Rumor had it that Jack hoped to open other stands in nearby counties as well, though so far it was just a rumor.

From across the table, Mama let out a long sigh. “Raymond, is it really necessary to talk business at the dinner table?”

Daddy waved her off. “Seems Clem Rogers stole the contract out from under our noses. Snyder said Clem offered a
better deal—ten percent less retail than we’ve been getting. I’m not even sure how Clem can afford to do business that way.”

“I don’t either. Sounds like he deliberately undercut you.”

Daddy shoved his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Clem Rogers bears a grudge.”

“For what? What ever happened between the two of you anyway?” I asked.

Mama and Daddy exchanged a quick look, but offered no explanation. I sighed. For as long as I could remember there had been contention between Clem Rogers and my father. And most of it coming from Clem, in my opinion. Once, he cut off our water supply by diverting the small branch of the Ocmulgee River that ran through our property and provided our irrigation water. Thank goodness my brother Ray, a local attorney, was able to talk some sense into the man, but not before some of our trees were damaged. Then there was the time Clem ousted Daddy for the coveted role of General Lee in the local Civil War reenactment. Didn’t think Daddy would ever survive that disappointment! He did so love to ride into battle on Traveller, the horse, and scream the rebel yell. Now, this thing with the Snyder’s Fruit Stand. Just one more of Clem’s dirty deeds.

“Did you try talking to Snyder again? To change his mind?” Mama was asking.

“Yes, but he wasn’t around by then. But I couldn’t let it rest, so I stopped in at Clem’s. Just got back from his place a while ago. We had a few words. None of them good, I’m afraid.”

She shook her head. “I just can’t figure that man. So bitter. And to think you’ve been supporting him in his race for mayor.”

Daddy shrugged. “Who should I support? Some city slicker with big ideas?”

“You’re not being very nice, Raymond,” Mama admonished. “Margie Price may not be from this area, but she’s a very nice woman. Why, I was just at her place yesterday for afternoon tea and it was quite pleasant.”

Daddy placed his elbows up on the table and waved his fork as he spoke. “All I’m saying, Della, is that Clem’s a farmer, like us. We want someone in office who’ll protect farmers’ interests. I don’t think your friend, Margie, is the best man . . .
woman
for the job.”

“Yeah, but what about
our
interests?” I wanted to know. “Clem’s definitely not supporting us. Sounds like he wants to put us out of business.”

“It’s just one small fraction of our distribution list, Nola. It’s not like it’s going to hurt us all that much. Besides, there’s other fresh fruit markets out there. I’ll get another deal going with one of them.” He sighed and started pushing his chair back from the table.

“Where are you going?” Mama demanded. “Sit back down and eat something.” She glanced over our plates. “Both of you need to eat. All this good food’s going to waste.”

Daddy stood and looked back. “Sorry, dear. ’Fraid I don’t have much of an appetite right now. I’m going to look over some paperwork in my den for a while. Call me when it’s time to leave for the meeting.” I watched as he retreated to the safe haven of his den—a place where he stored his worries right along with a full box of cigars and a bottle of Peach Jack. I imagined he was going in there now to relieve some of this latest stress with a quick tip of a shot glass.

I turned back to my own plate, speared a piece of meat and slid it through a smudge of gravy before popping it into my mouth. Guess we all have our special ways to mollify stress. Daddy’s was partaking in libations, while I preferred
to drown my worries with gravy, grits or any other southern delish Mama cooked up. “The gravy is perfect tonight, Mama. And there’s a little kick to the chicken fried steak. Did you do something different?”

She smiled with pleasure at the compliment. “Added a little Cajun spice to the flour.”

“Well, I love it.” I was about to spear another piece when we heard the sound of sirens coming down the road.

“What in the . . .” Mama popped out of her seat and ran out to the porch. I followed on her heels, the screen door slapping shut behind us. “Sounds like fire trucks,” she said, scanning the horizon. We couldn’t see the main road from our house, so there was no telling which direction the trucks were heading. “I don’t see any smoke, do you?”

The screen door screeched open again as Daddy joined us. “See anything?”

The early evening sun was quickly setting, making it difficult to see much of anything. “No,” I answered, still searching. Then I spotted it. A small plume of black smoke rising above the peach orchards. “There! I see it,” I cried, pointing north.

For a few seconds, we all stood frozen, staring at the cloud of smoke in silence, before Daddy jumped into action. “Looks like it’s coming from Clem Roger’s land. Come on, let’s go.”

•   •   •

I held on tight as our farm truck roared down the gravel drive and turned out onto the main road, dust and pebbles flying out from under the wheels. “You don’t suppose it’s Clem’s house, do you?” Mama asked, her brows furrowed with worry. The Rogers had settled in this area even before the Harpers, and their home, built in the early 1800’s, had survived the Civil War. “What a shame if that beautiful old home caught fire.”

“Let’s just hope no one’s hurt,” Daddy said, taking a wild turn off the main road onto the country lane that ran between our properties.

“Maybe he’s just burning off some old wood scraps, cleaning up the place,” I said, hopefully. But as we neared Clem’s land, those hopes were dashed by the bright red and orange flames licking the air like a hungry lizard. Thankfully, they weren’t coming from Clem’s house, but his barn.

Mama’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no! What a shame. Looks like the whole barn will be lost.”

We got out of the truck and squinted through the smoky air. I watched the water from the firefighters’ hoses as it arched across the sky in a seemingly futile effort to quell the angry flames engulfing the structure. Next to me, Mama was pointing and saying something, but her soft voice was drowned out by the popping and crackling of burning wood and the roar of the oxygen hungry fire. Not that it mattered. Because the only thing I could hear were the words playing over and over in my own mind. The very words I’d heard one of the Crawford sisters say earlier that day when she referred to tonight’s debate—
a real barn
burner.

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