Chapter Two
Opal’s living room was straight out of the seventies, with ivy wallpaper, an orange-and-brown-plaid sofa and armchair to match, crocheted doilies on the coffee table and end tables, and not a speck of dust anywhere. The kitchen was through an archway straight ahead. A table for four was set with floral dishes and covered with bowls of food that smelled so good, Libby’s stomach growled loudly.
“I hope you’re not one of those picky eaters that counts every calorie,” Opal said.
“No, ma’am, I am not,” Libby assured her as she washed her hands. “I’m not a bit bashful when it comes to good home cooking.”
Neither of the women came up to Libby’s shoulder. Opal might have been ten pounds heavier than Minilee, and her face was a little rounder, but they both had light brown eyes and a touch of black still in their gray hair. Minilee’s faded bibbed overalls hung on her thin body, and her red T-shirt had seen better days. If she or Opal had applied makeup that morning, sweat had wiped it all away. Opal’s jeans had patches on the knees, and her T-shirt had a picture of daisies on the front.
“I like anyone who doesn’t turn up their nose at home cooking.” Minilee pointed to a chair on the left side of the table. “You sit right there. Benny will sit at the head.”
Libby pulled out a chair and took a seat. “Are y’all sisters?”
“Nope,” Opal said as she eased down into a chair. “Our husbands were cousins, so that makes us cousins-in-law. Ernest was my husband, and Floyd was Minilee’s. But we might as well be sisters. We’ve lived right here in Sawmill for more than sixty years.” Opal bowed her head. “It’s your turn to say grace, Minilee.”
“I prayed at breakfast, so it’s your turn,” Minilee argued.
“I said it last time we had company around the table,” Opal informed her without looking up.
“All right, but I’m going to write it down on the calendar,” Minilee growled, but then her tone changed, turning sweet and soft when she started the simple prayer. Evidently, she didn’t want to test God’s patience by talking to Him in the same voice she used on her cousin-in-law.
As soon as Minilee said, “Amen,” Opal raised her head and passed a platter filled with thick slices of ham to Benny. “I miss the days when me and Ernest raised our own hogs. I made the best rub to put on the hams and then smoked them for days. My poor husband died two days after he retired. Just sat down in his chair one Sunday after church and was gone before I got dinner on the table.”
“I’m so sorry.” Libby took the platter from Benny and put a piece of ham on her plate.
Minilee started a bowl of fried okra around the table. “My Floyd passed away three weeks before retirement. Me and Opal been widows for up near twenty years now. We don’t try to raise our own meat anymore, but we do keep up a garden. Except for the meat, everything on the table came from there.”
“And we can or freeze a lot of what we can’t use or give to the book club girls,” Minilee said as she passed a relish tray with fresh tomato slices and two kinds of pickles to Benny.
“Book club? That sounds really nice. How many members do you have?” Libby wondered if there were just the two elderly ladies or if others came from down around Paris, or maybe that little town she had passed through on the way to Sawmill.
“There used to be ten of us, but only four are regulars these days. At our age, folks have aches and pains, and family issues. But the two of us and a couple others hold down the fort for the most part. We’d be glad to have you join us, if you like to read,” Minilee said.
“I love to read, and I’d be honored to join you,” Libby said. “Thank you so much for inviting me. And thanks also for this awesome meal.”
“We’re glad you and Benny can join us today. And happy to get to know you since you might be our neighbor,” Opal told her.
Libby didn’t miss the emphasis put on the word.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” Minilee said.
“I was born in Jefferson, and my grandmother raised me in her antique shop. She died my second year in college, so I had to either take out student loans or quit classes and get a job. I chose the latter one because I do not like the idea of being in debt. I’ve been working as a bookkeeper in an insurance firm for the past ten years,” she told them, keeping her answer as short as possible.
“That’s what you do, not who you are,” Minilee said. “I want to know something about you personally.”
“Well, my name is Libby O’Dell, but my birth certificate name is Elizabeth Victoria O’Dell. There’s not much to tell that I didn’t already say. I used to volunteer at a shelter for abused women before I left Austin.” She hoped that was enough to satisfy Minilee’s curiosity.
Quietness settled over the room. To Libby, it seemed as if everyone had even stopped chewing. Finally, she broke the silence. “My neighbor in Austin used to go to the farmers’ market and bring tomatoes home, but they weren’t as good as these.”
“We only use organic fertilizer,” Opal said.
“That means we like manure, not chemicals. We’ve got a guy from up around Grant, Oklahoma, who brings us bags of horse manure. That stuff is like vitamins for roses and for tomatoes. It’s high in nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. You don’t have high blood pressure, do you?”
Libby frowned. “No, but why would you ask?”
“It’s also high in salt,” Minilee explained. “Me and Opal are healthier than most women our age. Heck, we’re even better off than most women your age. We don’t use much store-bought food. That stuff is filled with preservatives, and I personally think that’s what’s wrong with the world today. It messes with their minds. But if you’ve got blood pressure problems, you’d need to be careful with too much salt.”
Opal and Minilee had managed to draw more information—little that it was—out of her than she’d ever told anyone the first time she met them. If that wasn’t enough, she hadn’t signed the contract yet. She could always start driving whichever way the wind blew her and find work—even if it was stocking shelves at a local grocery store.
When she tuned back in to the conversation, they were talking about putting in a compost pile. She finished her food and listened with one ear until Opal changed the subject abruptly. “Y’all ready for dessert? Minilee made a blackberry cobbler yesterday. We picked the berries a couple of days ago. Me and Ernest discovered the patch out behind what was the sawmill back in them days, and we been pickin’ them ever since.”
“At least, on the years when they produce,” Minilee added.
“When they don’t, we rely on the ones we have canned and stored down in the storm cellar.” Opal pushed back her chair and headed across the room toward the oven. “The cobbler has been warming up in the oven. It’s so much better with just a little heat on it. We made real whipped cream this morning, too. When we can, we buy cream from a dairy farmer over near Powderly.”
“Y’all should put in a café or maybe a little food wagon to run on the days the store is open,” Libby suggested.
“Honey, we’re too old for that, but we have thought about making a cookbook and calling it The Sawmill Book Club Cookbook.” Minilee stood up, went to the refrigerator, and brought out a bowl of whipped cream.
“That sounds awesome,” Libby said. “Can I help with anything?”
“Nope, we got it covered,” Minilee answered. “And when y’all get done, you don’t have to worry about helping with cleanup today. You need to look at the apartment across the street and figure out if you really want to live in Sawmill. Don’t pay any attention to the windows in the front part. We always clean them once a month before the book club meeting. That’ll be next week. I imagine you’ll have your hands full getting moved in if you decide to stay here. It hasn’t been touched since Walter died.”
“Hope you ain’t afraid of spiders and mice,” Opal said.
“Not one bit,” Libby answered. For free rent, she would have a standoff with a rattlesnake.