Chapter 2
Penny
The Welcome to Whynot sign still leans a little to the left, which is the exact opposite of most politics in the rural South.
I roll down the rental-car window, and warm, sticky air rushes in.
I catch a whiff of honeysuckle, nostalgia for the magnolia and wisteria that aren’t quite ready to perfume the air.
Within ten seconds, my hair gives up its city-girl smoothness and puffs out like I’ve been electrocuted.
Wilmington Street looks exactly the same.
The courthouse dominates the square—three stories of red brick and white columns.
Judge Bowen, who is a distant relative of mine, is probably on his bench right now, smacking his gavel to tame unruly lawyers.
The courthouse remains the tallest thing in town, unless you count the water tower that proclaims Whynot—Home of the World’s Best Biscuits, but that’s technically just about fifty yards outside of city limits.
Across the northeast corner sits Aunty Q’s, Mary-Margaret Quinn’s antiques shop, windows crammed with everything from porcelain teapots to rusted farm signs. Mary-Margaret has sworn she’s set to retire every year since I left for college, and every year the open sign still hangs on the door.
A block down, Sweet Cakes Bakery glows behind its pink-trimmed windows.
There’s a fuchsia-and-yellow neon cupcake shining in the front window—if there’s one business I intend to frequent during my visit, it’s that.
Not only do I adore the sweets offered for sale, but the owner, Larkin Mancinkus—now Locke—is my very best friend in the world.
I ease around the square, slowing by the Mainer House, a beautiful Victorian with white clapboard siding and black shutters.
Hanging ferns span the large porch and the rocking chairs are the best seats from which to view the entire town.
It’s been a part of Whynot longer than electricity.
Catherine Mainer and her husband, Gerry Mancinkus, used to host spring galas there—she the gracious farmer’s daughter, he the brash Yankee Marine.
Now their grandson Lowe and his wife Mely live inside those same walls, and Muriel has shared with me on more than one occasion that the town is expecting the patter of little feet soon.
Doesn’t matter what Mely or Lowe want, Whynot demands the next generation be brought forth.
Central Café appears next, its windows dark, and my chest squeezes. The place raised me almost as much as Muriel did. I grew up in that diner, earned money in summers to help with college and probably owe my love of all desserts to the sweet potato pie served there.
The thought of it not surviving Muriel’s broken hip is more than I can bear, and that’s why I’m back in town.
Then I see him, and I have to resist the urge to crank the air-conditioning because that man can make a woman flush.
Sam Rochelle.
He’s walking down Wilmington toward Chesty’s, tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair catching sunlight.
His sunglasses hide what I remember to be impossibly blue eyes, and the dimple in his cheek flashes when someone calls out to him.
He laughs—low, easy, familiar—and then disappears through Chesty’s door.
Still gorgeous and apparently still working at the same bar where he started after dropping out of college five years ago.
I’d assumed bartending was a temporary thing for him…
a way to fill time until he figured himself out.
Sam’s a smart guy and I didn’t see bartending in his long-term future, but maybe I was wrong.
After moving away, my finger isn’t on the Whynot pulse the way it used to be.
Muriel’s bungalow sits under a canopy of dogwoods whose leaves are fully unfurled, the flowers just starting to open. It’s one of my favorite trees and I know it has a lot of religious symbolism, but I love it simply because it represents spring in the South.
My aunt lives on a quiet street where everybody’s mail gets read twice—once by the recipient and once by the neighbor across the hedge.
Muriel’s 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham sits in the driveway, taking up almost the entire concrete pad.
The damn thing’s nearly twenty feet long with velour seats and chrome spit-shined to a sparkle.
It was a gift thirty years ago from her late husband, Earl.
I note two cars parked along the curb and I peg the one with the Honk if you love Jesus bumper sticker as belonging to a sweet church lady. That proclamation graces many a bumper around here and always makes me smile with fondness.
The other has no identifying features, but I presume it’s a home health aide. Muriel got discharged from the rehab hospital just yesterday and I know she has to continue therapy.
Luckily, I rented a compact car at the Raleigh Airport and I’m able to squeeze in behind the Caddy. I grab my shoulder bag and don’t bother with my luggage in the trunk. I’m too eager to see Muriel and gauge how she’s really doing.
I don’t bother with the front door, intent on letting myself through the side entrance that leads into the small kitchen.
The scent of lemon oil, cinnamon and maybe a hint of antiseptic hits me, and those three things together aren’t all that pleasant.
There’s a pound cake on the counter, covered in plastic wrap with a small white bow on top, which confirms my suspicions that a church lady is indeed nearby.
It’s a universal truth that if there’s cake, you can bet that within twenty feet there’s a Southern woman checking in on her neighbor.
I move through the kitchen, following the sound of laughter, and find Muriel on the living room couch. Her leg is elevated on a fortress of pillows and her gray hair is pinned back from her face with bobby pins, but of course, she has on lipstick because she’s well-bred.
The smile comes without effort as I see she’s in full command of two church ladies—Mrs. Puckett and Mrs. DeVine—and a home health nurse who looks… tired. Not defeated—just the sort of weary that comes from being bossed around by a woman who can flay you with a look and then feed you till you cry.
Mrs. Puckett sees me first, her face lighting with recognition. “Oh, my stars… look what the cat dragged in. Penny Pritchard has come home!”
Muriel’s head twists and her gaze rakes from my silk blouse to my pencil skirt and low-slung heels. She puts on an exaggerated disapproving look. “If it isn’t Miss Washington, DC. Bless her heart and her humidity-sensitive hair.”
I snort, set my bag down, and cross to the couch.
Bending over, I give my aunt a warm hug, noting that she holds on a bit longer than she normally would, and I don’t miss the flash of relief when she lets go.
Muriel smells like Pond’s cold cream, and a million memories of me hugging her over the years assault me in the best way.
She pretends to shoo me but squeezes my hand before letting go. “You didn’t need to come all this—”
“Yes, I did.” I straighten and glance at the church delegation. “Mrs. Puckett… Mrs. DeVine… you both are looking pretty as pictures.”
They preen, Mrs. Puckett touching her white curls with a manicured hand. “Oh, please, darling girl. You’re the one who should have jetted off to Paris to walk runways rather than that dreadful Capitol Hill. Your looks could have taken you places.”
I disregard the comment because one of the things I always hated was people thinking my looks would take me far in life rather than my brains. I turn to the other tired-looking woman. “Hi. I’m Penny Pritchard, Muriel’s niece. I assume you’re a home health aide.”
She stands and we shake hands. “I’m her occupational therapist. Dawn.”
“Well, thank you for taking care of her.”
Dawn gives Muriel a side-eye and then turns back to me with gratitude as if I’m the first person to say that today. “Your aunt’s doing well—stubborn, but that’s apparently baseline.”
“Stubborn?” Muriel sniffs. “Sturdy is the word you’re reachin’ for.”
Dawn ignores her, grabs a backpack, and slings it over her shoulder. She places a gentle hand on Muriel’s leg. “You did good today, honey. I know you’re frustrated, but this will take time. I’ll be back day after tomorrow.”
Muriel waves her off as if embarrassed by the praise. “I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I say and follow her right out onto the front porch.
She must sense that I need to talk as she turns around to face me, and I pull the door closed. “Really… how’s she doing?” I ask.
Dawn gives me a soft smile. “She’s doing just fine, but it’s a hard injury to overcome at her age. She wants to be up and running around today and that’s not going to happen.”
I nod in understanding. “I took some time off from work and I’ll be staying with her. What can I do to help her recovery?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “The woman needs no motivation. If anything, you’re going to have to encourage her to take her time. Her exercises are important, but she can’t overdo it. She’s mobile with the walker but no stairs, no bending and no arguing with trained professionals.”
“Got it,” I say with a chuckle. Muriel has always been a force of nature and I really didn’t expect this to slow her down at all.
Dawn pats my arm. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
I watch until she pulls away and then head back into the house. The other women are standing, purses in hand.
Mrs. Puckett bends to peck Muriel on the cheek and turns to me. “I left a chicken divan in the fridge. Just heat it at 350° for about thirty minutes. Cake is on the counter.”
“I saw,” I reply, standing by the door to hold it open. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Mrs. Puckett leans in to give me a hug, followed by Mrs. DeVine, who says, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. Of course we’d come, and we’ve got a meal train in place. You won’t need to cook for quite a while.”
“Toodles, Muriel,” the ladies call out with air kisses and then they’re gone, me leaning against the door, grinning at my aunt.