Chapter 4
K enyon squinted in the dim light to see that she’d died and gone to heaven, which turned out to be pink instead of the white always seen in movies.
She lay in a soft bed, a twin-sized four-poster with pink chiffon draped from post to post. Shiny stars hung from each post. A flowery quilt in a variety of shades of the hue covered her.
The walls – pale pink. A long window stood open letting in a refreshing breeze.
Even Mother Nature participated in the color scheme as the pinkish prism of dawn broke over the horizon at the edge of a field.
She sat up, more alert. “Where in blazes am I?” She rummaged around in her ravaged mojito-infused brain where bits and pieces of memory ricocheted off the walls inside her head.
She’d been at a rowdy strip club, Chad had cheated on her with a stripper and with her best friend, there had been a brawl, and she’d fainted.
That much was etched into her skull like the epitaph on a tombstone, touting the death of her life as she’d known it.
She supposed she should feel destroyed, and she did. She should cry and wail and carry on. But a bit of memory came back, the one where she’d already done all that.
The rest – well – her forehead furrowed in search of recollection.
Strong arms had carried her to a truck. Ah, she remembered.
It had been a very handsome guy. She’d cried and talked a lot while someone drove her away from the club.
She’d been helped into a house, stumbled up some stairs, and…
. That was it. No more sense could be made of it all.
The house was obviously this one and the person who brought her here must be an employee of the club.
A stripper? Hard to imagine a stripper lived in a place as quaint and cozy as this.
She slipped out of bed and realized she wore a short, white nightgown. At the window, she could see that she was on a lovely farm, the old-timey kind that dotted Michigan’s countryside.
In a chicken coop near a vintage barn, a young woman tossed out what looked like bird seed and dozens of chickens came running, flapping their wings and clucking happily.
A giant vegetable garden meandered out of sight, the rays of early morning sun forming fuzzy golden fairies atop green leaves.
The young woman left the coop and went to a fence where she put one foot up on a low rail while resting her arms on the top rail to look out into a pasture full of sheep.
A calico cat charged out of the barn, gracefully hopped up onto the fence, and demanded a pet from the woman, who obliged.
The door behind Kenyon creaked as it cracked open.
A curly-topped redhead with large eyes framed by pink glasses peeked in and stared her down.
The door opened all the way and the little girl, about five, shuffled in.
A Sheltie, with rusty-red fur that matched the girl’s hair, ambled in, too.
The dog had a white stripe between its eyes, a bushy white ruff, and white feet making it a small version of Lassie of movie and TV fame.
“Well, hello.” Kenyon tossed out a wave. “I’m Kenyon. What’s your name?”
“Rose.”
“Ah. That’s a pretty name.”
“This is Rover.” Rose pointed at the dog.
“Hello, Rover.” That didn’t seem like an appropriate name for a Sheltie, a sheep herding dog, but Kenyon last that pass.
The dog took a step forward at the mention of its name but stopped short of the stranger.
“Rose, is this your room?”
A hearty nod made the child’s glasses slip down her perky nose. She shoved them back up.
“Thank you so much for letting me sleep here. Your bedroom is very pretty. I hope you had a nice place to sleep, too.”
The nod again and another shove of the glasses. “I slept with Mommy. Her room is pretty, too. Are you feeling better? Mommy tol’ us how you di’nt feel good at her res-trant, so she brought you here.”
That bit of information took a twirl in Kenyon’s mind and landed on awareness.
Okay. The child thought her mom worked at a restaurant.
Good move for a mother who was a stripper.
Then the memory hit – on the way here she’d promised the woman she’d never tell anyone about the strip club.
Never. Kenyon had been asked to promise numerous times.
“Um, yes,” she fibbed. “Yes, that’s what happened, and I do feel much better. Thank you.”
“You have pretty hair. It’s black. Mine’s red.”
“I see that. Yours is pretty, too. And you have beautiful eyes.”
“Your eyes are pretty, too.” The little tyke smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.
“Thank you, sweetie.” Kenyon wasn’t about to tell this child that growing up other kids had teased her about her Asian American eyes.
The compliment warmed her heart. Feeling as if she now had a BFF, she asked, “Would you happen to know where my dress is? I don’t see it here and I need to get dressed. ”
Rose sighed like that was a stupid question, so maybe BFF had been a stretch.
“Grammy’s washing it. Don’t you ‘member? You spilled something on it. Mommy put those over there for you.” She pointed at the antique dresser where a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, neatly folded, awaited next to Kenyon’s purse.
“Oh, that’s so nice of her. Listen, how about if you and Rover go downstairs now while I get dressed?”
“Don’t you hafta go potty first?”
The astute question surprised Kenyon, coming from one so young. “Yes, actually I do.”
“The bafroom’s down there.” Rose pointed down the hall. “I’ll tell Grammy you’re coming.”
“Thank you.”
The girl trotted down the stairs, her trusty companion at her side.
Kenyon went into the bathroom, a wide space with a well-used pedestal sink, chipped clawfoot tub, and cheery curtains on the window.
The toilet looked a hundred years old but worked like a charm.
The place had seen better days, yet everything was spotlessly clean.
A fluffy towel hung over the side of the tub, inviting her to partake.
She appreciated the gesture but decided to pass.
Pleased to find a new toothbrush in a package waiting on the rim of the sink, she brushed her teeth, wiped away what little eye makeup remained, washed her face, and almost felt human again.
She looked at her unadorned face in the mottled mirror above the sink and was surprised to see that she looked like a teenager again.
Well, she didn’t feel like one. She felt twice her twenty-two years.
On the way back to Rose’s room, an open door invited her to peek inside a large bedroom she assumed was the mom’s.
Indeed “pretty,” as Rose had said, the walls were a creamy color except the one behind the wrought-iron headboard had wallpaper with a feminine floral pattern of pale pink and green on a cream background.
A quilt with the same colors covered the bed.
It felt clean and fresh yet as if it could have been like that for a hundred years.
Across the hall from the mom’s room, a door stood ajar to a charming, colorful sewing room and next another door was closed. It was a big, old farmhouse, built for the kind of large family people used to have.
Back in Rose’s room, she made the bed and dressed in the borrowed clothes that fit perfectly.
All the while she tried to figure out what she could ever do to repay these strangers who’d taken her in during her time of need.
She supposed she should be embarrassed but too much had happened for that to hold sway over her.
She was so far past embarrassment she might never feel it again.
The minute she started down the stairs the smell of breakfast – bacon and coffee and something fried – made her stomach growl with urgent hunger. She was starving.
Following the heavenly aroma, she landed in a large kitchen at the back of the farmhouse and was surprised at what she saw.
She knew she shouldn’t be, being from a blended family herself, but she was.
An older black woman with whimsical, curly, silver hair stood at the stove flipping something that sizzled in a cast iron skillet.
Although not slim and wearing a housedress and flowery bib apron, her bearing revealed life-long elegance.
Was this black woman Grammy to the white girl? Rose solved the quandary.
“Grammy, she’s here.” Rose, who sat at the wood kitchen table, pointed at Kenyon. The cook turned away from the stove, spatula midair.
“Well, good morning, dear. Breakfast is almost ready, and the coffee is hot. Pour yourself a cup if you’d like.
” “Grammy” gestured toward a mug that sat on the counter by the stove where an old-fashioned coffee pot percolated next to the frying pan.
The woman’s voice was hearty and warm, welcoming Kenyon as if they’d been friends forever. “How are you feeling this morning?”
Why are these people being so nice to me?
The lure of coffee overrode Kenyon’s concern.
She said she felt fine and thanked the woman as she used a potholder for the hot handle on the pot and poured herself a generous cup.
After doctoring it up with the sugar and milk that sat on the counter, she took a long sip of what seemed like the nectar of the gods.
“How do you like your scrapple?” The woman dished up three fat slices of the fried cornmeal mush and sausage and held it out to Kenyon. “Butter or maple syrup or both?”
Kenyon held her coffee mug in one hand and took the plate. “Oh my, thank you! I’m a purist. Butter only.”
“Ah, I see you know your scrapple. Everything you need is on the table.” The woman handed a loaded plate to Rose, too, and then placed five more slabs in the pan. It sizzled loudly in response.
“My MoMo – my grandma – makes it, too. I love it. I’m Kenyon, by the way.” She sat down and Rose shoved the butter dish and a plate of bacon toward her. She took some bacon, slathered her scrapple with butter, and took a giant bite of each.