Page 6 of Heart of Dixie
Dinner?Oh, no, what was I thinking? I flew from the market, leaving Deke and the memory of his unforgettable eyes behind.
Was it even safe? It was probably stupid, was what it was. Not only that, but I just added one more thing to my to-do list: find Beth and give her a piece of my mind. She may have thought she was clever, sharing thateye candyteaser, but Deke in the flesh was definitely one thing thathadchanged in this little town. Big time. A little heads-up would have kept me from tripping over my tongue.
I gulped down my soda even though there was already enough adrenaline flowing through my body to keep me keyed up for a week. The morning sun grew higher in the sky as I rolled through the stop sign, heading toward my old stomping grounds. In a town this size, it didn’t take long to get anywhere, and that was a good thing. I had much to accomplish and the faster I got it done, the faster I was out of here.
Memories flitted through my mind as landmarks became familiar. The two houses on my left that I’d cut between on my way to the woods; the Hoffers’ straight ahead and three down, with sheets hanging on the line. Had they always seemed so run down? They must have.
I pulled to the end of Cooter’s gravel driveway and left my car idling. My legacy. The place looked better than I expected. The long, narrow trailer on the dirt tract before me had its screens secure at the windows and door, but was splattered with mud from a recent rain.
My memories—years and years’ worth—were full of angst and eagerness to make my own way. Of avoiding my daddy and the sharp edge of his tongue. I desperately searched the area. Somewhere, at some point, something good must have happened here.
I had it!Glimmers of the one summer my mama and I held hands as we traipsed into the woods to pick blackberries. The earthy smell; birds chattering in the trees; sunlight filtering in narrow shafts through the tall trees. Vines were tangled throughout and clawed at us as we plucked their fruit. We had a bowlful, enough for a pie, before we surrendered to the chiggers. Their bites or the itching they certainly caused were long forgotten, but I remembered our laughter while we picked the juicy berries, and how the deep, bright purple juice stained our hands. I’d turned ten earlier that summer.
My mama ran off to Chicago with Evers Westerbrooke and his millions by the end of the year.
I was parked near the last spot I saw Deke before I left. Before those memories could assault me too, I got out of my car and picked my way through the rutted yard. Even barely surviving on a small town news reporter’s wage, my mama kept our house clean and scattered with wildflower seeds she managed to squeeze out of the family budget. It had neverbeen much of a play yard, and now it was just a patch of barren, neglected dirt. The swing set she badgered my daddy into building for my fifth birthday still stood, and had brambles climbing its rusted posts. The metal steps leading to the front door were rusting as well, but seemed safe enough when I tested them with my weight.
“Hello, pretty kitty cat.” People talked to animals, didn’t they? I wasn’t quite sure of the protocol, but the pregnant tabby rose from her nap to greet me, mewing and winding around my ankles. I ran a hand down her spine head to tail and she purred. She liked me. I showed her a smile and did it again. “Hey, pretty mama. Are you Coot’s?” Suddenly, she nipped at my hand, then lumbered across the yard to settle in the shade of a low-hanging tree.Bitch.
Seemed she was Coot’s, after all.
Okay, time to do what I came for. But still, my hand hesitated on the knob. This was what I’d run from. I could still stick Coot in the ground without stepping foot inside this oversized garbage can. I didn’t need to see it again to imagine the layers of grease covering the kitchen appliances. The crusted-on dishes piled in the sink. The overflowing ashtrays.
No!I was stronger than that. I squared my shoulders and walked in, then staggered to a halt in the doorway.
The furniture was all familiar. Well, maybe not the leather Barcalounger or the oversized flat screen centered on the far wall, but this was Cooter’s house. Sort of.
There wasn’t a thing out of place in the area before me. No dirty laundry thrown carelessly over the furniture. No smelly cigarette butts piled high beside his chair—as a matter of fact, there was a pleasant aroma, almost as though something was baking. I took a few steps until I was at the kitchen doorway.
The front door squeaked open behind me. “Yoo-hoo! Dixie, that you in there?”
I spun, my palm flying to my chest.What the hell?“Mrs. Hoffer? You scared the crap out of me!”
The butcher’s wife stood in the open doorway with keys dangling from her hand. “Sorry, dear. And please call me Elsie.” She moved further inside and closed the door behind her. “I heard you were in town so I thought I’d bake a coffee cake to welcome you back. Then I realized there was no cream for the coffee and had to run home—” She lifted a quart carton from a shopping bag clutched in her other hand as she paused for breath.
Cinnamon!That’s what smelled so good! “Really, it was nice of you to go to all that trouble, but not necessary.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, dear.” She dropped her keys on a nearby table. “The recipe is special to me. Won me first place at the county fair.” A mix of pride and modesty lit her face. “Excuse me, I need to put these things away.” She disappeared into the back bedroom, then returned shortly, fluttering past me to open the oven door. “I do love to bake. And with Fred gone all these years, and now poor George . . .” She opened the drawer beside the stove for a hot pad to remove the baking pan, then reached overhead for a couple of mugs once it was cooling on a rack. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any of that artificial sweetener, but I have sugar here.”
My head began to spin. “Thank you again, Mrs. Hoffer.”
“Elsie.”
“Elsie.” I corrected myself as she poured coffee into matching cups. “But I imagine you must need to get home. I’m sure I can manage.” I wasn’t here for social hour; simply to check a task off my list.
She already had the cake on a serving plate and set on the kitchen table. Steaming mugs followed. The aroma of warm spice finally overwhelmed me and I pulled out a chair. I wasstarving, and a sucker for home baking. And there was a good chance the coffee had me drooling.
Accepting a healthy portion along with a fork, I let my eyes wander the counters and then the living room beyond. Everything was so clean and neat, you’d think it was the housekeeper’s regular day. Elsie hummed around the kitchen, straightening this and that. Why would she care about clutter inthishouse? Finished, she draped the damp kitchen towel over the sink.
Suspicion began to dance about in my head. The unusually tidy house, her familiarity . . . “Elsie, do you clean for my daddy?”
“Yes, sometimes I do that too.”Too? Were she and Cooter . . . ? Did they . . . ? The thought refused to gel. “Elsie, do youlivehere?”
She laughed as she gathered up her purse. “Oh, good heavens no, dear. I have my own place just up the road.” Her hand flickered toward the cardboard milk carton as if to remind me she’d recently been there.
“You seem quite comfortable here.”With Cooter?This was a riddle I needed to solve.
Elsie paused with the outside door ajar and glanced around. “Of course, dear. It’s a nice, comfortable home.” She offered a friendly, somewhat encouraging smile, and left.
