Page 9 of Stronger Than Blood
I said my goodbyes and hugged Mrs. Cox, telling her how sorry I was for her loss. Somehow, I think it was providence that I’d shown up while she’d been there. My gut told me the whisper in the cemetery had been Mr. Cox, especially now that I saw that she was smiling now, and I could tell it’d been a bit since she had.
It was a win, win situation though, cause I also had a destination in mind. Yeah, it was a long shot. My family had splitdecades before I was even thought of. I was clearly a product of not one but two biracial marriages, so if they were still upset about that, there was no way they would accept me.
But if I was really supposed to find my past, that was the only path I could move forward on. It had to be more than just a fluke that I’d met the one person who knew enough about me and my family to send me in that direction.
I checked online and found a motel in Chattanooga. I booked a single room and loaded Piston Creek into my GPS. Luckily, it wasn’t far, so maybe I’d have time to enjoy the afternoon and get the lay of the land before I showed up unannounced and proclaimed myself a long-lost cousin in search of family since mine were all gone.
Chapter six
Mick
“Yes, ma’am. Yes ma’am. I… Of course. I’ll bring them myself, uh-huh, thank you,” I said and hung up just as my boss walked in.
“Was that a personal call, Mick?”
I nodded. “Yes, and this is my break, so—”
“Don’t give me lip. I will tell you what I’ve said from the beginning: no personal calls at work.”
I didn’t argue. The woman was impossible, and yes, I did know the law well enough to know she couldn’t come into the break room and tell me I didn’t have the right to a personal phone call. Still, considering they’d been reported to the state last year about not giving breaks, and that person ended up being “encouraged to leave,” I knew if I made a stink, I’d be out of a job as well.
Mrs. Stewart was so concerned about that pie for Sunday potluck she’d called me, even though she knew I was at work. I’d recognized her number and had answered, knowing she was going to fret if I didn’t.
I’d already made the pie, and it was sitting in my refrigerator at home. Although the thing took up most of the space, I was happy to do Mrs. Stewart a favor.
So, I chugged the rest of my milk and tossed the leftovers I’d intended to eat later this week in favor of making sure the chocolate meringue didn’t get smooshed before it made its Sunday debut.
I’d finished cooking all the pies for the store before my break, and now I just had to make the disgusting premade cookies. I never understood why they wanted me to make them when I could cook something from scratch a hundred times better.
The same went for the biscuits they served with their makeshift breakfasts. They tasted like someone had gotten confused between flour and baking powder. It just made no sense to me. Oh well, it was my job to do what they told me, so I’d make the nasty stuff.
I’d put my foot down regarding the pies, though. I would not insult Granny Ida’s legacy by serving a pie made from chocolate pudding. I’d almost gotten fired over that, but when my pies sold out every week, my boss stopped fussing.
Like everyone else in the store, I was hanging on by the grace of God, as Granny would say. The Milners weren’t known for their tolerance of employees. They tended to go through them like the rest of us go through tissue when we’ve got a bad cold. I’d managed to keep the job for four years after changing my degree in community college from English Lit to culinary arts.
I’d loved all things literature, but I didn’t want to be a teacher. I didn’t see myself as a novelist, and I didn’t want to move away from Granny Ida, so I decided instead to do something that might one day lead to owning my own business.
I had ridiculous dreams of owning a Southern dessert store. I was good at baking most things. Breads and rolls were fine,although I wasn’t excellent at those. I tended to do better with sweets like pies and cakes.
I’d built up a nice nest egg. Granny Ida, despite my ongoing concerns, never needed anything financially from me, and I never spent any money on myself other than the basics, so if nothing changed, I could see myself reaching my goals in the next few years… provided I didn’t piss off Mrs. Milner and get fired like everyone else here did.
By the time I’d finished washing and storing all the equipment, I was late getting out. “Granny Ida,” I said when she answered the phone. “I’m running late again, but I’ve got to run by my apartment and grab Mrs. Stewart’s pie and change into church clothes.”
She said she was almost ready and to come on. That sounded like her. I hung up and drove over to my dinky apartment, rushed up, and decided I didn’t have time for a shower, although I knew I smelled like flour. I grabbed the pie, thankful I’d had a leftover pie box in the back of my car from last week when I’d brought a pie from work.
Granny was waiting on her front porch, and I had to resist the urge to shudder at the sight of the place. I hated that, even now, I equated Granny Ida’s home with that despicable man who still haunted me.
She climbed into my passenger seat, and I could tell she wasn’t feeling as spry as usual. “Did you and Mrs. Stewart live it up too much in Nashville?” I asked.
“Well, you know how it is when women are out on the town,” she said, smiling.
I chuckled and quickly side-hugged her before driving to the church. Luckily, I didn’t fall asleep during the service, which was a big deal for me. I had a hard time staying awake on eight hours sleep. Add the fact that nowadays, when I came to church, it wasafter pulling an all-nighter. I figured that had to earn me some extra brownie points from the Big Man.
The potluck was fun, as usual. I’d been coming for years, and the food was always the same. A modern-day popularity contest, and the most popular people’s foods always went first.
Granny Ida’s food never lasted long, and I didn’t think it was just because she was popular, rather because she brought fresh foods from her canned collection, something rare these days.
What made me smile, though, was that my pies, no matter who requested them, were always the first to go. We were taught not to feel pride, but I did. I wasn’t good at much. I could keep a clean and healthy garden, thanks to Granny. I knew how to put food up in a way that preserved it and didn’t kill anyone from botulism, and I could bake some damned good desserts.
