Chapter 7
The church potluck is at noon.
“You’re coming, right?” she asks, as if we’ve already had this conversation. “To the potluck?”
I’m standing in my kitchen in my silk pajamas, holding a cup of coffee, with my hair doing something that can only be described as being “ambitious.”
“I have not been informed of any potluck. What potluck?”
“The First Baptist monthly potluck. Everybody goes. Mavis never missed a single one.” Dolly sets the casserole dish on my counter and looks me up and down, her expression telling me that my current state of dress is not acceptable.
“You’ve got about ten minutes to make yourself look presentable. I’ll wait.”
“Dolly, I can’t just… I don’t have anything to bring. I’m not even Baptist—”
“Honey, half the people there aren’t Baptists. It’s not about religion; it’s about community.”
She’s already moving toward my closet, which feels like a huge invasion of privacy. I should protest, but I don’t.
“And don’t worry about bringing something. You’re new. First time’s a freebie.”
“I really don’t think—”
“Wear this,” she says, holding up a dress that I don’t remember packing. A navy sheath with tasteful white piping. “This is church-appropriate, but not too fancy. And for heaven’s sake, you’ve got to do something with that hair.”
Thirteen minutes later, because Dolly’s definition of ten minutes is apparently flexible, I’m in the passenger seat of her ancient Buick, speeding toward the First Baptist Church of Copper Creek as she fills me in on everything I need to know.
“Now, Pastor Dale’s a sweetheart. Don’t let the title intimidate you.
His wife, Ruthie, makes the best banana pudding in three counties, so be sure to compliment it.
Mayor Birdie will corner you within five minutes of your arrival.
Just smile and nod, and don’t commit to anything.
And whatever you do, don’t mention the new stoplight. It’s a sore subject.”
“The new stoplight?”
“Long story. Just don’t mention it.”
I’m trying to process this flood of information when we pull into the church parking lot, which is already packed with vehicles, pickup trucks mostly, but also a surprising number of sedans and a few minivans.
“Remember,” Dolly says as we get out. “These are good people. They loved Mavis, and they wanna love you too. Just let them.”
I’m not sure how to let people love me, but I follow Dolly through the front doors anyway, clutching my purse like a lifeline.
* * *
The fellowship hall is chaos. It’s organized chaos, I suppose, but chaos nonetheless.
Long folding tables are covered with food, more than I’ve ever seen in one place.
Casseroles, salads, and desserts in endless variety.
People stand in groups, talking and laughing, while children weave between the adults like small, sugar-fueled torpedoes.
The noise level is equivalent to that of a small stadium.
“Eleanor.”
A woman stands in front of me with the sudden intensity of a heat-seeking missile. She’s small, maybe five foot three, with a honey-blonde bob that’s shellacked into architectural perfection. She’s wearing a coral pantsuit with a big flag pin on the lapel.
“I’m Birdie Parsons, mayor of this fine town. I’ve just been dying to meet you properly.”
She takes my hand in both of hers, and I notice her manicure is flawless. Finally, something I understand.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mayor Parsons. What a charming town you have.”
“Isn’t it just?” She’s still holding my hand, her eyes scanning my face with an intensity that suggests she is cataloging every pore, mole, and freckle. “Now, I understand you’re from Atlanta. Buckhead specifically. Very nice area. Very refined.”
The way she says refined makes it sound like a communicable disease.
“Yes, I’ve lived there most of my life.”
“And you run an etiquette school, is that right? Teaching young ladies how to behave properly?” Her smile never wavers, but something in her eyes sharpens. “How interesting. You know, we don’t have much call for that sort of thing around here. Our young people learn manners at home.”
I’m not sure if this is an insult or not, but it feels like an insult, even if it’s wrapped in so much sweetness I can’t be certain.
“Well, different communities have different needs,” I say carefully. “I’m sure your young people are wonderfully well-mannered.”
“Oh, they are. Mostly.” She finally releases my hand. “Now, you simply must come to our next town council meeting. We have some concerns about The Rusty Spur that we’d love to talk to you about. Nothing serious, just, you know, neighborly conversation.”
“Concerns?”
“The noise ordinance, mainly. And the parking situation on Friday nights. There was an incident last month with the—well, we can discuss all that later.” She pats my arm. “Now, you go get yourself some food. Ruthie’s banana pudding is not to be missed.”
She’s gone before I can ask what incident she’s referring to, swept away by someone else who needs her attention.
“She does that,” Dolly says, walking closer. “She drops little bombs and then disappears. Don’t let her rattle you.”
“Oh, I’m not rattled.”
“Honey, you look like a deer caught in the headlights. Come on, let’s get you some food.”
* * *
The food line is where things start to go wrong.
It begins innocently enough. A woman I don’t know hands me a plate and points toward the spread of dishes.
“Help yourself, sweetheart. There’s plenty.”
I look at the options. Casseroles of all different origins. Salads drowning in what looks like mayonnaise. Something called a “congealed salad” that appears to be Jello with fruit suspended in it. An entire table is dedicated to desserts, including what I think is the famous banana pudding.
I take small portions of things that look safe. Some green beans. A roll. A scoop of what looks like chicken salad, although I’m not totally sure.
The woman behind me watches my selections with horror.
“Honey, that’s all you’re having? You need to eat more than that. You’re skin and bones.”
“I’m not really that hungry.”
“Nonsense.”
She starts adding things to my plate without asking me. A heap of something called hash brown casserole. A square of cornbread. And a mysterious brown substance that she identifies as “Aunt Myrtle’s famous beef tips.”
By the time I escape the line, my plate is piled so high I can hardly see over it.
I find a seat at one of the tables between Dolly and an elderly man who introduces himself as Earl. The same Earl whose wife passed, I realize, remembering what Wyatt told me. He looks tired but grateful for the company, and I make a mental note to be especially kind to him.
“So you’re Mavis’s girl,” he says, looking at me. “You don’t look much like her.”
“I’m told I have the same cheekbones.”
“Well, maybe, but Mavis had a way about her. A spark.” He shakes his head slowly. “You seem a little too contained.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this, but it definitely does not feel like a compliment.
“Eleanor is still settling in,” Dolly says. “Give her time.”
“Well, time’s all any of us have,” Earl agrees. “Well, that and Ruthie’s banana pudding. You tried it yet?”
“Not yet. I was saving room for dessert.”
“Smart girl.”
The conversation swirls around me as I pick at my overloaded plate.
People stop by to introduce themselves, but the names and faces blur together.
I meet the hardware store owner, the librarian, and the woman who runs the hair salon.
Everyone has a connection to Mavis, a story about something she did, or a memory they want to share.
And then everyone has questions about me.
“So you’re single?”
“No husband waiting for you back in Atlanta?”
“What exactly is an etiquette school? Like, you’re teaching people what fork to use?”
“How long are you staying here?”
I answer as best I can, trying to be polite without giving away too much information. I feel myself tensing up with each question, each curious glance, each well-meaning but invasive inquiry into my life.
* * *
Pastor Dale is definitely not what I expected.
He’s younger than I imagined, maybe in his mid-fifties, with kind eyes and a gentle manner that immediately puts me at ease. But he’s also, I remember, the person who would have inherited the bar if I hadn’t accepted the terms of the will.
“Ms. Whitfield,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you could join us. Mavis would have been so pleased.”
“Thank you, Pastor, and please call me Eleanor.”
“Eleanor, then.”
He takes a seat across from me, and I notice that his plate is as overloaded as mine.
“I wanted to say, I hope there aren’t any hard feelings about the will.”
“Mavis and I talked about it at length, and she was very clear about her wishes. No hard feelings at all. I understand she wanted the bar to go to someone who would appreciate it. She wanted it to go to you specifically.” His eyes are warm.
“She spoke about you often, you know, wondered about what kind of woman you’d become. ”
“I wish I’d known her.”
“She wished that too.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Mavis had a gift for seeing potential in people, and she saw something in you that made her believe you were meant to be here. So I hope that you’ll trust that instinct, even when things are difficult.”
Before I can respond, a woman appears at his side, his wife Ruthie, I assume, based on the way she touches his shoulder.
“Dale, stop monopolizing the new girl. Let her eat.” She turns to me with a smile. “I’m Ruthie. Has anyone told you to try the banana pudding yet?”
“Yes, everyone has told me to try the banana pudding.”
“Well, good. It’s my grandma’s recipe. I’d be offended if you left without having some.”
She’s gone before I can respond, off to manage some other aspect of the potluck.
Pastor Dale watches her go.
“Thirty-two years,” he says, “and she still keeps me on my toes.”
“That’s wonderful.”