Chapter 13 Georgia
Georgia
“And what about snacks?” Cece’s eyes scan the shop. “Y’all must have more than Junie’s crunchy cheesy offerings.”
It’s going far better than I ever expected. The camaraderie, I mean. Even in my wine haze, I know the options we’ve come up
“I wish.” Junie grips her stomach. “That sandwich hours back isn’t holding up well against these drinks.”
“Y’all don’t keep snacks anymore?” I ask.
Tina shakes her head. “Got ourselves into an awful state having them here. All the customers would ask for just a little bite and the place practically became a cafe. They were like locusts.”
“It was that famous cherry pie that started it,” Cece says.
Tina’s homemade cherry pie is a family favorite that never fails to please. It’s been the center of family gatherings for
as long as I can remember. Delight baked into a tinfoil dish.
“It’s been forever since I had some.” I let out an embarrassingly enthusiastic groan. “I’d kill for a bite of it.” The flake
of the pastry, the sweet and tart balanced in a divine cherry kiss. My mouth waters, and I swallow.
Tina nods. “Randy doesn’t like cherries, so I always have to make two pies at a time.
Apple for him and cherry for me. It’s the one thing I won’t compromise on for him.
I love it, just like our mother made it.
But that’s not to say I want to eat an entire pie myself .
. . so every time I’d bake one, I’d keep a few slices for me and bring the rest here. ”
“The number of times I had clients calling, asking, ‘Tina bringing any of that pie today?’” Junie says. “They’d even cancel
their appointments and ask to reschedule to a pie day.”
Everyone loves Tina’s cherry pies (Randy doesn’t count—hasn’t ever counted), and it has even been suggested that she open
a bakery. I understand why she hasn’t. It’s both a massive financial risk and a break from our hairdressing family line.
“Hang on,” I say. “What if we sold the pies to make some money?”
Tina drains of all color, looking as terrified as if I’d suggested a gladiator duel.
“That may be the best idea yet,” Junie says after a squeak of approval.
“Oh no, I’m not sure,” Tina says. “I’m just little old me. No one wants to pay for the pie. Part of the appeal is it being free.”
“And y’all know the county fair is coming up in just over a month,” Cece says. “They have a pie contest every year, and some
of the contestants run booths and sell slices. I don’t know how it all works, but I’ve fixed up the trucks of half the guys
on the committee, so I can ask around and see what the deal is.”
I’ve never seen Cece so animated about anything. Sure, the liquor probably helps on the enthusiasm front, but she looks unironically
happy.
“Are y’all being seriously serious?” Tina asks.
“Yes!” Junie says.
“Of course,” I say.
“Think of who else enters. I just worry—my pie, you know?” Tina says. “Gosh, I might throw up at the idea of embarrassing myself like that.”
The three of us just sit and look at her, a silent stone wall.
“I’ll need to think about it,” Tina says. Her cheeks begin to flush, and she raises a self-conscious hand to her face. “I
would definitely need help.”
“We’re here to help,” Cece says. “You’re the only person in town who doesn’t believe in your pies.”
I whoop and throw my hands in the air; I agree with my full body and my full voice. It isn’t until after I hear myself do
it that I realize it’s exactly what Mama used to do—when her team won, when a hair color came out just right, after Junie
and I performed a dance we made up. I guess part of her spirit lives on in me, whether or not I’m a June.
Cece freezes, staring at me.
“Geez,” Junie says. “You have yourself a little seance and switch your soul for Mama’s?”
Now it’s my turn to blush. “Yup,” I say. “Right back there in the office, so we’d best make sure Daddy sages the place in
case any mischievous spirits slipped in.”
“Much the company June would keep,” Tina says through a laugh.
The thought of my father and his space here lifts me slightly from the delight of this impromptu happy hour. Tina and Cece
are showing up for us—for me and Junie, for this shop, for our shared livelihood—like they have all along.
Rich Scott is noticeably absent.
Objectively, expecting him to appear here is unfair of me, and probably the drinks I’ve guzzled are amplifying what’s usually
only a shard of resentment. He doesn’t know the scope of the issue here, Junie has not tagged him in; he is not a Louise.
But he’s our dad, and he should just know.
He should feel compelled to leap into action just like he should’ve all those years ago.
Back when he sat mired in his grief while I stepped up for Junie in ways I wasn’t ready or prepared to.
Back when it was really Cece and Tina doing our raising.
Not only did we desperately need him at the time but even more, I wanted it to be him.
I wanted him to carry us through the dark.
Despite his inaction, I loved him then, and I love him now. And I know he loves us.
It’s just that part of me has always wondered if Junie and I weren’t enough for him to wake up for. He’s imperfect just like
the rest of us. So maybe he is a bit of a Louise too.
Cece looks into the bottom of her empty cup and stands. “Well, I should get on home.”
Junie checks her watch. “Is that the time? It’s going to be a rough morning.”
By now it’s late evening, and we all need a tall glass of water, some food to line our bellies, and a good, long sleep.
“Alright, time to call it a night,” I say. “Shop meeting adjourned!”
“Shop meeting?” Tina says.
“I guess it works.” I shrug.
“Come on, girls, we can do better than that!” Junie says.
“What about Bourbon and Whiteboards?” Tina asks.
“Sounds a bit like a defunct rock group,” I say.
Tina squints. “I see that now.”
“Blowout Bar Dropouts?” I suggest.
Mama despised blowout bars—to an unreasonable degree. She called it price gouging or a monopoly or something. Frankly, there
were too many twists in her theory for me to pin it down.
“It should be more positive,” Junie said.
“How about some ideas from you, Miss Junie?” Cece asks.
“Good Hair Days. Right from Mama’s sign outside,” Junie says.
We stop and let it settle in. In silence we raise our just-about-empty cups in a wobbly toast.
“Good night, ladies. This Good Hair Day is officially adjourned,” I say.
Junie scurries over to a cardboard box and yanks it open. She digs through and twirls around with what is usually the most prominently displayed Dolly Parton image, a plastic-framed “oil painting.” Junie props it up atop a high stack of boxes and tips an imaginary hat. “In Dolly we trust.”
“Might as well,” I say. “Until the construction starts.”
Junie comes to my side, and I take her under my arm into a wriggly hug.