20. Dante
CHAPTER 20
Dante
Twenty minutes later, Faith and I climbed into the old pickup truck, a stack of takeout containers balanced on the bench seat between us. Meemaw had tasked us with our own version of meals on wheels, delivering Thanksgiving dinners to those who couldn’t make it to the senior center. I could never say no to her, and it seemed Faith had also fallen under her spell. As I turned the key, the truck rumbled to life.
“Where to?” I asked.
Faith consulted the handwritten list. “Looks like Mrs. Tierney is our first stop. It says the apartment over the drugstore?”
I watched as she studied the list, resisting the urge to reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. This girl did something to me, touched some part of me deep inside, a place I hadn’t visited in a long, long time. She looked up and caught me staring.
“What?” She self-consciously wiped at her cheek. “Do I have food on my face or something?”
I laughed. “Nah. Let’s get going. Knowing Meemaw, she’ll have another job waiting for us when we get back.”
We pulled out of the lot and took a left on Main. Mrs. Tierney was thrilled to see us and insisted we join her for coffee while she ate her meal. From there, we made a delivery to Mr. Sanders, who spent fifteen minutes showing me his collection of Civil War memorabilia. We only managed to leave after I promised to stop by the next time I was in town. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of stops, ending with a visit to Mr. Branson, my high school English teacher. He answered the door and welcomed us in.
“Well, Dante Bishop, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Come in, come in.”
“Hi, Mr. Branson. Happy Thanksgiving. Meemaw noticed you couldn’t make it to the center, so she sent us over with dinner for you.”
Mr. Branson took the container of food and ushered us into the kitchen. “Your grandmother is a powerhouse, Dante. I don’t know where she finds her energy. If she’s drinking from some secret fountain of youth, you’ve got to tell me about it.” He transferred the food to a plate and put it in the microwave, then turned to face us. “Where are your manners, Mr. Bishop? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Sorry, Mr. Branson. This is Faith.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Faith.” Mr. Branson shook her hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Faith said with a sincere smile.
“You can call me Don,” he told her. Looking at me, he added, “You still have to call me Mr. Branson.”
I laughed. “Old habits die hard, huh?”
The microwave beeped, and Mr. Branson took his plate and grabbed some silverware from the drawer. “Shall we?” He walked into the dining room, clearly expecting us to follow.
We joined him at the table and sat down to keep him company while he ate.
“So, Mr. Branson, Faith’s a professor in the English Department,” I said.
“Just an adjunct,” she added.
Mr. Branson raised an eyebrow and looked up from his sweet potatoes. “Really? Did Dante tell you I was his English teacher?”
“No, he didn’t mention it,” Faith said. “Was he a good student?”
Mr. Branson chewed a bite of turkey. “When he wanted to be.” He gave me a pointed look.
“Aw, come on, Mr. Branson. You loved me. You always gave me A’s in your classes.”
Mr. Branson looked at Faith. “He had his moments. You should have him show you his poetry sometime.”
My cheeks ignited. Leave it to Mr. Branson to remember the freaking poetry. I’d gone through a particularly angsty period during my junior year of high school, and when Mr. Branson gave the class a few poetry assignments, I’d found a release.
“Really?” Faith gave me an appraising look.
I picked at a hangnail on my thumb and tried to think of a way to change the subject. “So how about those Colts?”
For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Branson and I debated the possibility of the Colts making the playoffs. We finally got up to leave, and he walked us to the door.
“Tell your grandmother thank you for the meal. As usual, it was delicious.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along the compliment,” I said.
Mr. Branson took Faith’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Faith.” He lowered his head and looked at her above his glasses. “The poetry, dear, ask him about his poetry.”
She smiled. “I will.”
I nudged her toward the door. “Take care, Mr. Branson. I’ll see you around.”
Mr. Branson put a hand on my arm. “That right there is a beautiful girl. Don’t let her get away.”
I removed his hand and gave him a handshake. “Is that the dementia talking, Mr. B?”
“Oh, be gone with you. Remember what I said.” Mr. Branson shooed us through the door and back out into the snowy evening.
I opened the door, and Faith climbed up into the cab. “Poetry, huh?” The reflection of the streetlight sparkled in her eyes as she smiled at me.
“He must have me confused with someone else.” No way in hell was I showing her that stuff, even if she did sound interested. I shut the door behind her and trudged through the snow to the other side.
When we got back to the senior center, Meemaw and her crew had all the tables cleaned off and the dishes washed. She and a handful of women sat at one of the tables playing cards.
“Good, you’re back. Do you want to join us?”
“Not on your life, old woman.” I turned to Faith. “She’s a card shark. Don’t let her suck you into a game.”
“Oh, pshaw.” Meemaw waved a hand at me. “It’s just a friendly game of cards.”
“Don’t listen to her, Faith. How much has she taken you for, Mrs. O’Leary?”
“Just fifty cents so far,” Mrs. O’Leary said.
“It’s only a quarter a game, dear,” Meemaw said.
Faith laughed. “High stakes, huh?”
“Ask her how she paid for her new sewing machine.” I deposited a kiss on top of Meemaw’s head.
Meemaw glowed. “Let’s wrap it up, ladies. I need to get home. I promised this boy some homemade pecan pie.” The women cleared away the cards, and Meemaw walked through the building, turning off lights.
“Thanks for a wonderful day, Mrs. Bishop. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help out more,” Faith said.
“Don’t you give it another thought, sugar. You helped out plenty.”
Faith gave her a quick hug. “I guess I’ll just head out. Dante, I’ll see you back in town.”
Meemaw held her arm. “Just where do you think you’re going, hon?”
Faith gave her a confused look. “Well, back to Newbridge, of course.”
I snickered, and Meemaw snorted. “In this?” Meemaw gestured to the heavy snow still falling around us. “Get in the truck, sweetie. The only place you’re going is home with us. Besides, I want to get to know you better if you’re going to be spending time around my grandson.” She waddled off toward the passenger side as fast as her short little legs would carry her.
“After you,” I gestured toward the truck.
“But—”
“Don’t bother arguing with her. You’ll lose.” I smiled to myself. As much as I’d enjoy seeing Faith go head-to-head with my grandmother, the outcome was predetermined, at least in my mind. “Besides, there’s no way your car would make it back to the highway. The plows haven’t even come through.”
Faith bit her bottom lip. “I suppose I could come for the pie. Then we can see how the weather looks.”
“Are y’all comin’ or am I gonna freeze to death in this here parking lot and meet my maker?” Meemaw called from the truck.
I raised an eyebrow at Faith and pointed toward the truck.
“Well, okay, just for pie,” she said, already taking cautious steps in the snow.
Sure, pie and who knew what else Meemaw had planned. She was known far and wide for her meddling, which was precisely why I hadn’t mentioned a girl—much less introduced her to one—at least since junior year. One thing was for sure—it was going to be an interesting evening.