Chapter Eight #2
His phone stopped ringing. He tucked his arms over his chest and stood wide-legged in the space between the kitchen and the breakfast area. “Haven’t had much time to do anything with it.”
The room looked like a giant had picked it up, shook out the cabinets and drawers, then put the house on spin cycle. The counters and floor were heaped with pots, dry goods, assorted tools, and a bronze armadillo.
Wait. A bronze armadillo? Nope, not going to ask.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jackson watching her. Her heart tripped. The taste of tart strawberries flooded her mouth. “Rent or buy?”
His eyes crinkled. “We getting personal, Anna Grace?”
“Just Anna’s fine.” She pulled her label maker out. “Temporary or permanent?”
He sucked his cheeks in, but his eyes were still laughing. “Rent.”
“See, now, wasn’t that easy? Any preference on what goes where?”
“Nah. Figure you know more about kitchens than I do. But don’t be taking off with my armadillo. I’ve been guarding that from you Northern types for years.”
“Don’t worry. Your armadillo’s safe from me.”
Her cheeks went hot, but like last night, he ignored the accidental innuendo.
“Sweet Home Alabama” erupted from his pocket again. He gave a sigh and stepped toward the living room. “’Scuse me a minute, Anna Grace.”
“Just Ann—never mind.”
He disappeared around the corner with a chuckle.
The kitchen felt bigger without him in it.
She studied the room’s layout. Pots and pans would go in the cabinets by the stove.
Pantry items near the fridge. Silverware, plates, and cups closer to the dining area.
She’d fill in everything else where it fit.
She turned her label maker on, listening to the easy cadence of Jackson’s speech.
She couldn’t make out his words, but his voice sounded strained.
Was that even possible?
Paws clicked across the wood floor. The dog plodded into the dining area, then plopped on her haunches. She sniffed in Anna’s direction, her chocolate eyes soft and lovable. “Such a sweet thing,” she murmured.
Jackson appeared in the doorway. He gave the dog’s ears an affectionate rub. “I got some stuff going on, so I gotta get going,” he said to Anna. “You okay here?”
Get going? He was leaving her alone to put away his kitchen?
Was she okay here? No, you dumb redneck, I thought the stupid bet was a ploy to hang out with me.
She floundered for her fake happy face. Bad enough she’d misunderstood his intentions and thought all the teasing meant he liked her.
She would be mortified if he realized it too.
“Sure,” she said. “Absolutely. I’ve organized a kitchen or two. I think I can handle this one. Besides, you’d be in my way if you stayed.” Or make her like him more.
She was so bad at this.
He dug a set of keys out of a heap on the counter. “Got a couple of pizzas in the freezer. You know how to use the oven?”
Was that guy-speak for So, can you cook? I’ll be back for lunch at noon. “Frozen pizzas. Right. I’m on to you. The bet didn’t include a hot meal.”
Bad move. Now she had to watch that killer smile again. “A hot meal. I like those stakes. Might could be up for a redneck golf game when I get home Monday.”
Monday. He wasn’t leaving because of the phone call. He’d planned to go all along. “Sorry, I have plans Monday.” If planning not to see him counted as having plans. “You want me to lock up when I’m done?”
“That’d be right decent of you.” He tapped his leg. The dog went to his side. “Don’t be messing up your whole day here if you got other stuff to do. Appreciate the help. You’re a peach, Anna Grace.”
She twitched but kept smiling. “My pleasure.”
He took the dog out the front door, and then she was alone in a near-stranger’s kitchen, doing his damn momma’s work. He was a thoughtless, ignorant redneck who flirted and teased and asked girls out to dinner so he could get a clean house or a hot meal.
She stormed around the kitchen. She should put his silverware in the drawer near the stove, far, far away from the dining area. That’s what she should do.
But then he might think she was mad about his leaving.
Or worse, that she was too dumb to organize a kitchen. Wouldn’t that be the redneck calling the Yankee a hick?
At least things were straightforward with her label maker. It might’ve been made in China, but they understood each other perfectly.
“You tried Daisy’s biscuits yet?” Miss Flo asked Jackson Sunday afternoon.
They sat at a rented table on the lawn behind the monstrosity of a house that his momma called home. Louisa and her girlfriends squealed and giggled and gossiped two tables down. His head ached like his stomach had after he’d sampled Miss Flo’s granddaughter’s biscuits this morning.
“Light and fluffy,” he said.
Miss Flo beamed. “She’s coming bowling with us tonight if you got a notion to hide out from all the fireworks.”
“Now you hold on there, Flo,” Mamie said. “You know Gertie asked if Jackson could sit with Scarlett at the show already, and Ophelia claimed his other side for Cletus’s great-niece.”
Jackson spotted his momma carrying out a couple of pies. He leapt to his feet.
All unhurried and manly and graceful-like, of course. “’Scuse me, ladies, looks like Momma needs some help.”
She didn’t, of course, but Jackson had been over in the desert and missed sweet potato pie last Christmas.
“Bring us back a couple pieces,” Mamie said.
“But make mine small.” Miss Flo adjusted her librarian glasses over a saggy pout. “Doctor says I have to watch my girlish figure.”
“Looking good to me, Miss Flo.”
And while the ladies tittered away, he went off hunting some sweet potato pie.
But five minutes later, when he’d finished delivering the ladies their after-fried-chicken desserts, he sat down to enjoy his first sweet potato pie in over a year and a half, and found it wasn’t the right mix of sweet and potato.
Maybe it was the conversation.
“Is Daisy the one with the mole?” Louisa was asking.
She’d joined the ladies when her girlfriends went off in search of refills.
Looked like Momma and Russ would be hosting a sorority party tonight.
Jackson said another silent thanks for Mamie’s couch.
He’d logged a lot of hours on it already this summer.
“No, no, sugarplum, that’s Scarlett,” Mamie said.
“Daisy’s the one with the” —Miss Ophelia shot Jackson a look and dipped her voice to funeral parlor soft while rubbing her upper lip— “hormone imbalance.”
A chorus of “Ooohhs,” accompanied a round of heart blessings.
Jackson shoveled another bite of pie in his mouth.
It was the crust, he decided. Not as flaky as he remembered.
A creeping sensation went down his back, like he was being watched by a rabid armadillo.
Wasn’t Momma’s crust that’d ever been so flaky.
It was Anna Grace’s.
“Pie okay, sugarplum?” Mamie asked. “You look like you swallowed a frog.”
Pie was great.
But it wasn’t that apple stuff he’d had two nights ago.
“Pales in comparison to the company,” he told Mamie with as much of a charming grin as he could muster when he was getting ideas about sneaking out of Louisa’s post-birthday breakfast tomorrow to head on back to Georgia for some apple pie for breakfast.
He hoped leaving Anna Grace in his kitchen hadn’t screwed up his chances of getting some more of that pie.
He eyed Mamie. She eyed him right back.
Hoped she didn’t figure out he’d left a lady alone in his house to put his kitchen together. He’d been raised better than that.
But the way Anna Grace had salivated at the mess, he reckoned it would’ve been right cold of him to tell her to come back another day. He’d lay odds the girl had more issues than her ex-husband not loving her.
Wasn’t ready to lay odds more of that apple pie would be worth it though.
Still, he’d take apple pie over Daisy and Scarlett’s biscuits.
He broke eye contact with Mamie and turned to his baby sister.
Her eyes were crawling with an afternoon hangover, but she was grinning big, Daddy’s dimple popping out, telling Miss Ophelia about that engine Russ had arranged for her.
“Smells like french fries,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe the guys that attracts.
Not the kind I’d give my biscuits to, don’t you worry, Mamie. ”
“Get anything else good?” Jackson asked.
“Craig and Maura got me textbooks. For my twenty-first birthday. You believe that?”
“Good for your brain,” Jackson said.
Louisa’s nose crinkled up all girly-like.
“I’m sure they meant well, sugarplum.” Mamie patted Louisa’s hand. “And what did you get the birthday girl?” she asked Jackson.
“Daddy’s old twenty-two,” Louisa said. “And he’s gonna take me hunting.”
The Misses went wide-eyed and pale-faced. “Well,” Miss O said. “Bless his heart.”
Yeah, he was thinking that move was about as smart as setting off a firecracker in the only outhouse for miles, but Louisa didn’t have much of Daddy’s.
Jackson didn’t either, come right down to it, but he had memories.
Louisa had Russ.
Mamie gave his arm a squeeze. “Right nice of you,” she said. He felt an unfamiliar prickle in his eyes at the shiny gloss in hers. “He’d be right proud.”
He planted a kiss on her weathered cheek. “Thanks, Mamie.”
He stayed the rest of the weekend, even though it meant sitting through the fireworks with his dates.
They weren’t bad to talk to or look at, but they were both sporting that look girls got when they started thinking about big white dresses and diamond rings.
Made him right twitchy. But he treated them gentlemanly all the way through handing them back to the Misses.
Louisa was more than hung over for her post-birthday breakfast, so Jackson made sure she was going to live, gave his excuses to Momma and Russ, loaded Radish up, and headed home.
He had some apple pie waiting for him.
But the closer he got to home, the closer he got to crossing that line to nervous. Wouldn’t have surprised him to walk into his kitchen and find his armadillo missing.
He could hope, anyway. But he still found himself smiling over the way Anna had slung that label maker out of her bag like Miss Dolly whipped out her knitting needles.
She’d looked downright adorable swinging that thing around, and the way her eyes went all dark had given him a few ideas he was best not having.
Still, he found himself wondering how a guy fell out of love with something like that, if he was dumb enough to fall into it in the first place.
Not his problem, though.
Not like his kitchen was.
If she’d left it a mess, wasn’t like he’d notice. Had a woman or two do a lot worse than he reckoned Anna Grace had the nerve to try.
So when he and Radish got home, her giving him a look Mamie liked to call the stink-eye for making her endure both the noise at Louisa’s party and the drive, he gave his dog a rub behind the ears and strolled all casual through his mud room and into the kitchen.
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t sparkly clean countertops and neat little piles of screwdrivers and mismatched socks Anna probably thought didn’t belong in the kitchen. His cabinets and drawers were all labeled with surgically centered labels.
Radish sat back on her haunches in front of the table, stink-eye getting stinkier. He rubbed a hand over his head. “Think I got the better end of this one, huh, girl?”
He had half a mind to call up Anna and invite her to dinner to thank her, but once he talked the number out of Kaci, he’d probably have a heck of a time convincing Anna to let him pay.
Crazy woman.
He slid open the drawer next to the oven and found his hot mitts, just like the label said. It peeled off easy, no damage to the drawer. He added a bottle of wine to that dinner he’d probably have to play her another round of redneck golf for.
She’d labeled every drawer and cabinet with exactly what he found in them. Except for one little surprise in the cabinet next to the fridge. He opened it up, expecting mixing bowls and small appliances, and came face-to-snout with his armadillo.
Only scared him a little.
Good thing Radish couldn’t tell anybody otherwise.
He made to shove the armadillo in a corner, but then he got a better idea.
Radish gave a sigh and padded into the living room. His dog’s way of claiming innocence. Pretty sure she threw a you’re too old for that, dummy in for good measure.
Louisa was coming next weekend. She’d given him the armadillo for his twenty-first birthday.
Didn’t matter where he was in the world, first thing she did when she came to visit was check on it.
Once or twice she put a dress on it. The armadillo, he’d keep.
The dresses went to the shop for grease rags.
A note on the table caught his eye. Curious, he tucked the armadillo under his arm like a football and went to check out Anna Grace’s parting shot.
The handwriting was about as symmetrical as he’d ever seen, and the note wasn’t half-bad either.
Jackson –
Your movers lost your silverware organizer. Also, it’s difficult to dry dishes with towels that are made of holes instead of cotton. I only mention it because I didn’t see any paper plates.
Anna
(JUST Anna)
She’d probably stood about fourteen feet high and looked down her nose at that paper while she was writing the note, too.
The lady might be strung tight, but she sure amused him.
He crossed the kitchen to the fridge and deposited the armadillo in it front and center, right where it’d make Louisa scream like a girl the first time she went digging for his beer.
That’s when he realized something was missing.
Son of a biscuit. His apple pie was gone.
Still, he felt his grin go a little wider. “Good for you, Anna Grace,” he murmured to himself. “Good for you.”