Page 66 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

The electric company cleared out the fallen tree and debris, but the fact of the matter is my trailer is in shambles. Granted, it wasn’t in great shape to begin with, but now it’s an absolute dump. Already soggy from the storm, I’m not going to add my tears to the mess, but frustration builds. Feelings of helplessness tie me in knots. If it weren’t for Maddock’s generosity, we’d be living in the office in the restaurant. I don’t like the feeling of being in someone’s debt. I have enough of that as it is.

Still standing outside, the crunch of tires over gravel startles me. It’s Jesse, but he’s in his regular truck.

“Howdy,” he calls with a tip of his hat.

Tallula hops out of the passenger side. We swap a hug and she takes Leonie with glee. Lexi and JQ aren’t the only ones who will soon be starting a family.

“It’s remarkable,” he says.

“That a power line came loose during the storm, the pole got hung up in my favorite magnolia tree, and the whole thing came crashing down on my house?”

“That, but also that Maddock was the one who took charge and prevented a major fire and possibly injury to our local crew.”

It’s also pretty amazing how quickly he cleaned up the estate—granted, it’s not in any shape to be featured in an HLTV special, but it’s livable, whereas this place is ready for a Dumpster ... and how he did laundry, including a bunch of his T-shirts, has been helping take care of Leonie, and keeping me well supplied with snacks and meals.

“I saw you over here and figured if you were thinking of heading inside, we’d go together.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, Jesse, but?—”

He shakes his head. “No arguing. These are Maddock’s instructions. As it is, the place is a hazard, but likely you want to retrieve some of your things.”

He’s right, so I accept this help while Tallula entertains Leonie. We pick through the debris, but there’s not much worth salvaging. Just some clothes, a few mementos, and kitchen items.

Once back outside, Leonie lets out her little lion roar when she spots me. I take her and a pile of mail from Tallula grabbed from the overflowing mailbox.

She says, “You have to come by the Coffee Loft to grab a complimentary baked good every day starting next week.”

“Tallula, you don’t have to—” I’m about to decline her offer.

“Maddock took care of it.” She bites her lip as if sensing I might not like Maddock using her as a conduit to bark commands.

Fine. Secretly, I love it. I’ve never been taken care of like this. It makes me feel twitchy, but also something else ...

“Well, thank you.”

She clears her throat. “He also said that if you don’t follow orders, there will be consequences.”

I’d cross my arms in front of my chest, but they’re full of mail—which I could do without—and Leonie, who’s being a major snuggler right now.

After we say goodbye, we walk back down the tree-covered lane to the chateau. Tire tracks lead onward toward the cemetery and fort. It’s too early for Hogwash Hunters to be out this way. Perhaps, in addition to making sure that I’ll be fed and watered daily, Maddock took a spin down there before he left.

The big house stands imposing before us, but it’s far less haunted looking than when I brought Maddock here for the first time—he let a lot of little light into this place and my life.

Leonie looks around and I point out things we pass—a squirrel, a daisy, and a maple tree. From the nearby bayou, a twig snaps and a bird caws as it flies skyward. The only wildlife I have a real concern about are gators, including the crocogator, so I hustle inside.

When Leonie goes down for her nap, I pick through my mail, sorting bills from junk. Letters from my mother go in that pile, too.

Unfortunately, for Luckie, it’s too little too late. I’m not interested in her wild theories or get-rich-quick schemes. Instead of the depressing state of my finances, I set aside the stack and pick through the cupboards. Yes, I serve pancakes every day at the restaurant, but I could go for a fluffy stack with butter and syrup right now.

While looking for a whisk, I find the old cookbook with the red fabric cover worn thin by use in a drawer. I’d forgotten all about it. On the inside, it says,Property of Eloise Tickle.

The paper bound by three rings is brittle and I turn them carefully. It contains handwritten recipes along with others meticulously cut out from newspapers and magazines. Notes about variations, measurements, and personalizations fill the margins. Tickle was a big fan of the flapjacks with a side of mulberries when in season. I grunt because Maddock would probably like them, too.

So many people came through this old house—from my mother with her schemes and scams, Jesse and Sawyer with their spray paint, and countless others looking for treasure. “Yet they missed this,” I whisper.

Sure, it might not be valuable to some, but inspiration sparks as I review the recipes, including sweet potato hash, one for a roast with rosemary, okra salad, chocolate pudding, and an apple tart. At some point, I will update the menu at the restaurant and add some of these.

When I reach the back, there are some kid-friendly recipes too, including one for “Baby’s First Birthday Cake,” along with finger foods and a secret ingredient pasta sauce to “Ensure Nutrition.” Spoiler alert: it involves pureed collard greens.

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