4. A Lesson in Southern Hospitality
CELESTE
I couldn’t even bringmyself to sit in the dining area at The Comfy Cushion the next day. Marla had been appalled by Wesley’s behavior and warned me after he stormed out that I was never to sass anyone like that. I knew manners meant everything to Marla and Daddy, but after seeing how Wesley’s father acted, I wasn’t too sure that Wesley understood the difference. Even still, I wanted him to apologize to Marla, which was something I expected him to refuse. It was easier to avoid the entire situation by hiding out in Daddy’s office.
It wasn’t much of a surprise when Daddy came around the corner just before 11 a.m. and told me Wesley was out front asking for me.
“He’s your friend,” he reminded me firmly. “You don’t ignore your friends, especially when they come to ask forgiveness.”
My ears perked up at that and I walked down the hall and into the dining area with bated breath. Wesley stood next to the jukebox, a look of deep contrition on his face, holding a bouquet of light pink orchids and wildflowers. Marla stood just behind him clutching a bouquet of her own, bright red cardinal flowers.
I stopped when the toes of my sneakers were just a few inches away from his. My face flushed all the way to my hairline when I asked, “Are those for me?” No one had ever given me flowers before, not even Daddy.
“Celeste, I’m really sorry for storming out like that yesterday. I apologized to Marla, too.” Wesley shuffled his feet and pulled at the bottom of his shirt, his fidgeting letting me know that he was just as uncomfortable with our exchange. “Can you forgive me?”
“Let’s just forget the whole thing ever happened,” I offered. I accepted the flowers from him and inhaled deeply. They smelled sweet, fresh out of the ground.
He shook his head. “My housekeeper always said that I can’t forget or else how can I do better next time?” Wesley’s corresponding grin told me he knew the effect his apology was having on me. I wondered if the butterflies were located in my heart or stomach because at that moment, they felt one and the same.
I glanced at Marla and saw she was smiling at both of us. That was all I needed to see to know she had already forgiven him, too. Offering him a small smile of my own, I nodded.
“Go on back and whip up something for y’all to eat,” Marla directed me. “Jenny was too busy last night to properly restock all the condiments on the tables, so if I don’t get something out there soon, they’re gonna run me ragged over some dang ketchup!” She shooed us away towards the door that led into the prep kitchen.
“What do you like to eat?” I asked Wesley as I crossed the threshold to the large steel prep table that dominated the tiny room behind the grill line.
Wesley hovered near the doorway, his eyes as round as saucers as he took in the tall shelves filled with baskets of fresh vegetables, dry pantry items, and pre-made jars of sauces. Everything was lined up and neatly labeled, with a dry erase board on every section to write down due out dates.
“Aren’t we just gonna have a sandwich or something?” he asked.
I shrugged and went to the small sink in the corner to wash up. “I can make you a sandwich if that’s what you want.” Drying my hands, I grabbed a cutting board and large knife from the rack of clean dishes and returned to the prep table.
“Do you know how to cook?” he asked incredulously.
I laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Of course I do, silly! How else are you gonna eat if you don’t know how to cook?”
Wesley’s ears went red. “My father always insisted that we go out for dinner. Our housekeeper made my breakfasts and lunches.”
His revelation was equally surprising to me. I couldn’t imagine being nearly thirteen and not knowing how to make my own meals.
“Didn’t you ever help the housekeeper in the kitchen?”
He shook his head.
“So you can’t even make a grilled cheese? A peanut butter and jelly? A bowl of cereal?”
Wesley smiled sheepishly as he continued to shake his head with every question.
Mama never would have allowed him to leave until she taught him how to cook everything from scratch! She had forced Daddy to learn, too, though she hardly ever let him. Said it made her happy to serve him a hot meal filled with love.
“Well, I’m in the mood for a chicken quesadilla, so that’s what I’m gonna make,” I announced. Turning, I grabbed the clear plastic container holding the fresh bakery items and withdrew a large flour tortilla that our neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, made from scratch for us every few days. I entered the large, walk-in refrigerator and pulled out the blocks of cheese, a tomato, an onion, and cilantro. After I placed them back on the cutting board on the table, I pulled out a plate and placed the tortilla on it to keep it out of the way, but also make it easy for Jesse to throw on the grill. Dicing the tomato and onion carefully, the pieces were placed on the corner of the cutting board. I returned to the rack of dishes near the sink and grabbed the grater so I could grate fresh cheese onto the tortilla before adding the tomato and onion. When I was satisfied with everything, I returned to the fridge to grab the plastic bin with pre-grilled chicken pieces and a bottle of our homemade chipotle ranch dressing.
Wesley watched me with his mouth hanging open. He moved closer after I started dicing the onion, but his eyes tracked my every movement as I went about my work. After I squirted some of the dressing across the tortilla, I couldn’t help but squirt some onto my finger and lick it off. It was a recipe I had created with my mama, and even now I could see her face beaming at me as she swore up and down it was the best she had ever tasted.
“What is that?” He nodded towards the bottle as I squirted more on my finger again.
I tried to laugh it off when I realized I must look like a nutcase to keep putting a condiment on my finger and eating it. It was good enough to eat with a spoon. Or so Mama and Daddy told me.
“It’s my homemade chipotle ranch,” I explained. “I made the recipe a couple years ago with Mama, so now we always keep it on hand as a condiment.”
Maybe my mind was playing a trick on me because it almost looked like Wes was impressed.
“What kind of food do y’all serve?” he finally asked after several moments of considering my answer. Only he over pronounced “y’all” like the Yankees who came to visit on vacation.
I laughed at that. “A little bit of everything. Mama always said that her kitchen was her canvas, so she wasn’t following a recipe, she was making art. It was amazing to watch an entire meal come out of thin air! And she made it look so easy!” My voice dropped off as I lost myself in her memories. “I wish I could grow up to be like her,” I added quietly.
Wesley brushed the hair away from my face, staring directly into my eyes. “I bet you already are,” he whispered. Just the feather-light touch of his fingers on my skin had the butterflies return to my stomach.
I knew a thing or two about what happened between boys and girls. Mama had started giving me The Talk at a very young age because she said it was important for me to feel comfortable with my own body and to handle myself with grace whenever I was attracted to someone down the line. Wise words that all dissipated into smoke in that moment.
“You’re awfully pretty,” he whispered, his voice barely loud enough for me to hear.
I gulped. “You’re really pretty, too,” I breathed.
Wesley’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he laughed. He dropped his hand from my face in that same instant and took a step away from me.
The pull of gravity shifted with him. I shook my head and returned to my quesadilla, taking far longer than necessary to fold it over and center it on the plate.
Sensing the tension in the air, Wesley stepped closer and slid the plate in front of him. “Can you show me how to make one now?” His smile was rich and warm, reminding me of an angel again. “I wanna be a good cook like you.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “My mama was a good cook, not me.”
The blue in his eyes reminded me of a photo I saw at school once of the Caribbean Sea, bright and crystal clear. They didn’t waver from mine as he said quietly, “She’s not the one standing here to cook for me.”
Ice glazed over my heart at his words as the overwhelming sense of loss hit me again. It was like a freight train barreling down a hill towards me at the bottom, stuck on the tracks. Mama was supposed to be here. She left me and I wasn’t ready for her to go. Although even with his poor manners, something told me that my mama would have loved Wesley.
“Um, you can just have that one. I’m not really hungry.” I snatched the plate from him and brushed past him to round the corner and placed the plate at the end of the grill line. Jesse would know from its placement that it was something I cooked up, then pass it through to Marla when it was ready. We had a routine down after all these years. As I turned back around, my eyes were too blurred with tears to see and I slammed into Wesley’s hard form.
He grabbed me by the shoulders and soothingly rubbed his thumbs. “Don’t cry, Celeste. I don’t wanna make you sad.”
Whether he intended to or not, I didn’t want to ruin the moment. I nodded and hastily wiped the tears from my eyes. “Come on,” I offered. “Let’s make one for you, too.”
Wesley and I spent the rest of the afternoon together. Teaching him to make a quesadilla took three times longer than it should have because he had never held things like a knife or grater before. I had to show him how to properly dice the vegetables so his fingers were tucked in, reducing the chance of accidentally slicing one open, and then I had to explain the importance of washing all the dishes properly afterwards. Apparently, it never occurred to him that any dishes he used were actually washed by his housekeeper. I sent Mama a mental prayer asking her to bless the poor Mrs. Aguilar Wesley described.
He told me about some of the various five star restaurants he had eaten in while traveling to places like New York City, Paris, and Shanghai. I had never traveled further out than Tybee Island, roughly two hours away. Mama rarely ever wanted a break from the restaurant, so we didn’t really take vacations. It fascinated me to hear about the white gloved service and crystal dishware at the fancy places he had been.
When Wesley started describing the tiny servings, where food tended to pile up vertically rather than being spread out on the plate, my belly ached from laughing. He said there were several courses, so it wasn’t like anyone went hungry, but there was no such thing as a second helping. I couldn’t imagine a meal like that.
“I hope I can travel like that someday,” I commented suddenly. “Go to all those exciting places and try new foods!”
“You will, because I’ll take you!” Wesley vowed.
My cheeks burned at his promise. All I could offer was a shy smile of thanks in return. I hoped he kept his word.
We ended up spending most of our time perched on barstools in the back corner of the dining room, sharing more about our lives. I wanted to hear all about his life in Atlanta, which sounded like something out of another world. His father had more money than God (his words, not mine) and loved to show off his wealth with extravagant parties, enormous houses, and flashy cars that Wesley said his father never drove because he had a driver who worked for him 24/7. Marla popped in and out of the conversation between customers, chiming in that Wesley was gonna have to lower his expectations if he expected to live comfortably here in River’s Run.
He grinned sheepishly at me every time she said it. I doubted Wesley had ever been around folks who lived a lot simpler than he did, but I got the impression that I was happier with my life than Wesley had ever been with his. The blue in his eyes dulled whenever he talked about Atlanta and the penthouse he described sounded cold to me.
“Kiddo, it’s about time you returned home to your aunt Shirley,” Marla interrupted us.
A glance out the window told me the sun had set, meaning it was close to nine pm and The Comfy Cushion was about to close. We spent another afternoon doing nothing but talking. When had I ever talked that much to anyone, let alone a boy?
“I’m sure you’ve gotta get up for school tomorrow, too,” she prompted again when neither of us moved.
Ever since Mama’s death, I had struggled to remember the days of the week. It was hard to keep track when they all blended together from the blur of grief. I hadn’t been back to school since it happened; Marla and Daddy had worked something out with the principal, who was an old friend of Daddy’s, to let me finish up the year with a home school program. As long as I had all the work turned in by July 1st, I would be allowed to progress to seventh grade.
Wesley’s ears reddened again and he became fascinated with his shoelaces. “I’m actually not going to school yet,” he admitted quietly.
Marla’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
He glanced up at me with a face pleading for a way out of the conversation, but I was just as curious. Did rich kids not have to go to school either? Was that a thing?
Finally, Wesley sighed in defeat. “I got kicked out of all my other schools for fighting and there’s an issue with my transcripts not being completed.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but the embarrassment still lingered on his face at the admission.
“Transcripts not being completed? Like you’re missing a few credits?” Marla asked. Her lips were starting to purse again and my hackles rose in his defense.
“I can help you,” I offered. “I’m not in school right now either, but I have workbooks and things I have to turn in to finish all my credits for the year. We can do it all together.”
Wesley’s blue eyes flooded with hope. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
His smile lit up his face. “Best friends,” he affirmed.
Marla smiled at the exchange between the two of us. “Looks like you’re finally gonna get some work done yourself, Celeste,” she commented playfully. She knew I hadn’t touched any of the work the school sent home with Daddy.
“It might be kind of distracting for me to work on school stuff here…” Wesley’s voice faded off in uncertainty.
My mom’s best friend shook her head firmly. “Oh no, y’all’ll work at Celeste’s house. Nana can keep on eye on y’all.” She began wiping down the counter tops and resetting the clean drinking glasses as if the matter was settled.
I, however, groaned. “Not Nana!”