Chapter 5
Five
HEIDI
Slowly opening an eye, Heidi tensed.
She had slept hard – probably harder than she’d slept in over a month.
This wasn’t her bed nor a hotel, but a distinctly feminine little room with enough doilies and crocheted pillowcases to supply every tearoom from here to Houston with delicate cozies from a bygone era.
The tiny bed was so welcoming and warm with quilts piled high on the daybed that she had thought was a couch last night when Mimi walked her in here and offered to put curlers in her hair too.
To the little old lady, this had been a girl’s sleepover… but to her?
She was trapped.
Stuck.
It was like she’d abandoned every bit of modern conveniences to step back in time.
First, it was lack of signal for her phone, then no functional ATMs…
and now it was curlers, doilies. Sitting up, she reached for the first curler - and winced.
Each metal cylinder was filled with a springy, brushlike filament to help grab the hair and held into place with a green plastic torture instrument, she realized as she pulled a few of them from her hair.
“Owww…”
And heard the older woman clucking her tongue as she walked into the guest room, nearly assaulting her once more. What was it with these people in this town?
“There’s an art to this – or you’ll end up with snarls and tangles…
” Mimi admonished, pulling on Heidi’s hair as she deftly unrolled the prickly rollers one at a time.
With each move, she put the curl into place like she was building a bouquet, fussing over each one almost lovingly.
“Don’t touch or else they’ll fall. You have to nurse them, work it, and then style it into place with a little hairspray or a hairnet. ”
“I’m not wearing a hairnet…”
“Me neither, but you don’t see me making faces each time I unroll one – now do you? Didn’t your mama, aunt, or grandmother ever put pigtails in your hair or braid it when you were a girl?– And stop flinching. I’m not pulling… or I will just so you can see what it feels like.”
Heidi stared at the little old woman in disbelief. “Are you threatening me?”
“Land sakes no, child. I’m willing to teach you a valuable lesson that someone should have taught you by now,” Mimi chuckled, smiling as she continued to work.
“Quit moving, or I’ll hurt you even worse? That’s the lesson?”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t come here to get maimed or have my hair yanked out – Ow! - one by one…” Heidi flinched, tears stinging her eyes as the woman tugged on a snarled knot hard, causing a burst of pain to race across her scalp. “I need that, you know.”
“You came here for a fresh start – and a man.”
“The fresh start, yes… a man – no.”
“Why can’t both happen?” Mimi paused, looking at her curiously.
“Because one would bring me joy and the other would give me a migraine.”
“Then it’s the wrong man.”
“And I suppose you have someone in mind?” Heidi asked drolly, already aware that Jack’s grandmother was trying to play matchmaker.
“Me?” Mimi said innocently, pushing up her glasses. “Heavens no. I don’t believe in matchmaking. People need to mind their own business.”
“Whew,” Heidi sighed openly in relief and sagged as the last curler was extracted from her hair with a ‘Ta-Da’ from Mimi in triumph.
“No, I believe in fate, a little luck, some good ol’ boys raised right, a little magic and spark between two people when it's time, and some charming kisses that leave a woman breathless,” Mimi said wistfully with such longing written on her face that it caused Heidi’s words of protest to die off in understanding.
The sweet little lady was talking about her own relationship, her own husband, the photo of him that she’d lovingly touched on the wall to say ‘good night’ – and no one had to explain that her husband had passed away.
Before Heidi could say anything, Mimi cleared her throat and smiled at her. “Come. You’ve gotta let those curls set before you brush them, and I’ve got the coffee ready. The skillet is warming in the oven for some good ol’ egg gravy like my mama used to make me. Have you had egg gravy on toast?”
Heidi chuckled, following the little woman down the hallway and not bothering to check her hair.
No, things were certainly different here, and there was no pressure, no rushing to get on the road before traffic picked up…
and it was kind of strangely nice. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a hot breakfast at the table, talking over coffee.
In fact, every morning was rushing to get to her job, eating a granola bar or a Pop-Tart in stop-and-go traffic while in a full-on mental road rage that she swallowed back to keep from getting the finger, yelled at, or worse yet - shot.
No one wanted to be a statistic.
“You should stay a while, find your place, take a break from all that,” Mimi said, waving a hand off to her left. “That mess…”
“I am,” Heidi chuckled. “I’m going to be here for four or five days.”
“Girl, please. It’s gonna take that to get that stick out of your butt…”
It was so unexpected, so crazy, so out of the ordinary coming from a little woman who was barely five feet tall with a little tremor to her as she stood there at the stove.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m trying to use your terms, so you understand. When my George used to go on vacation, he used to say, ‘The first five days were to unwind – and the sixth day was to dread getting back to the store.”
“What did George do?”
“Oh, we had a sweet little bakery,” Mimi smiled. “We made pastries, breakfast muffins, little tea cakes, but you want to know what my favorite was?”
“What?” she asked, utterly fascinated at the life this woman must have led. She couldn’t have imagined her running a bakery after all the fuss about the curlers – a hair salon would have been more like it.
“My grandmother’s buttermilk donuts,” Mimi sighed happily, closing her eyes at the memory. “There’s no smell like it, you know? I remember her mixing the batter in a ceramic bowl, rolling out the dough with her wooden pin, and then cutting them into squares…”
“Squares?” Heidi started in surprise.
“Oh yes – round ones left scraps, but that dough was so good, so crispy that she used to cut them into little square loaves and fry them whole. You would get a fluffy inside, a crispy outside, and that taste…” Mimi hummed happily as she shook her head.
“My grandma could really cook. Now get over here, child.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, if you’re in this house, then you’re gonna learn my secrets – and we’re making egg gravy together from scratch. You ever make a roux?”
“A roo?”
“Roux, roux, roux,” she barked like a weathered drill sergeant. “A bit of grease, some flour, you brown it and…”
“Ooooh,” Heidi exclaimed in understanding – and nodded. “I’ve had it but never made one. Show me how.”
“You learn by doing, so switch sides with me – besides, that skillet is too heavy for me to lift, and I want some egg gravy toast.”
“I see.” – and she did. Heidi was going to do some of the ‘heavy lifting’ for the woman so she could have some of her favorites that she’d been unable to do on her own.
The cast iron skillet had to be at least twelve inches across, maybe more, with a slick, seasoned surface that indicated it had been used faithfully for years.
“You want a heaping spoonful of drippings – in that can over there.”
“Should we use butter?”
“Heck no,” Mimi scoffed, swatting her on the arm.
“You’re smarter than that. Think like you’re a pioneer woman so you don’t muck up the taste with some of today’s modern garbage.
Today’s butter doesn’t melt – and you need something that does.
Grease, Crisco, oleo… and I prefer bacon grease or drippings. ”
“Wait,” Heidi started, alarmed, “What do you mean ‘today’s butter doesn’t melt’…”
“Shh – when you cook, time is not on your side – not with a roux,” Mimi hissed in a hushed breath, her eyes focused on the skillet like a soldier about to rush the hill in battle. “You need another dollop…”
“We could measure it?”
“We are measuring it – now look and learn. It’s melting, but you don’t want it to burn… and now!”
“Now what?”
“It’s roux time, child. Flour? You put the flour in next and stir – I thought you said you’d made a roux before…”
“I’ve eaten stuff made with a roux…”
“I swear, children nowadays…” Mimi muttered under her breath, which immediately set Heidi to laughing as she sprinkled the quarter cup of flour that was shoved in her direction. “Get a fork and stir.”
“What about a spatula or a whisk?”
“Fork, Laura Ingalls – think pioneer style, remember? Do you think Laura Ingalls had a silicone spatula? Nooo, so you don’t either, or you’ll mess this up.”
“Yes ma’am,” she chuckled, grabbing the fork and working the tines in the flour as Mimi muttered something else unintelligible, moving to Heidi’s other side and grabbing her arm.
“Don’t scrape it or treat it like it’s a backscratcher – angle your fork, press the flour, mix it slowly, and work it.
That pan was a wedding gift from my parents so if you ruin it there will be hell to pay, young lady…
and I like you,” Mimi said sternly, but that soft smile cushioned her words as she hugged her with one arm, shoving her hand toward the skillet like a mother showing her daughter how to cook for the first time…
except she wasn’t either. Her daughter – or inept.
“Work it… stir… and then comes the milk.”
“So we’re making gravy?”
“Hang tight and don’t get impatient on me…”
“Heidi, pay attention because you’re at the most important part,” a voice said from behind the two of them, which caused her to almost drop the fork in the roux mixture as she looked over her shoulder.
Somehow, Jack had slipped into the house quietly without her knowing it, and as she looked at Mimi’s profile, the woman was smiling.