Southern Fried Sushi (43 page)

These Jesus people had a way of catching me off guard every single time. I had to be on my toes with them, too, just like with Kyoko. Although for slightly different reasons.

“But I know you wanted children. Why didn’t God give them?”

Faye reached a sweatered arm around my shoulder. “I dunno, sugar. Mebbe it’s for you. You ever think a that?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Lord knew you’d need somebody in your life right now, doll. An’ here I am.”

The breath went out of me, and my cheeks burned angrily. “But that’s not fair to you, Faye!”

“It is fair! We don’t deserve none a this.” She gestured around at the fields and silver-gray sky.

“That doesn’t make everything all right!”

Faye turned her face to me almost severely. “You wanna talk about fair, Shiloh? While the Lord Jesus was up on that cross bleedin’, it wasn’t because a Him—but because of me. Because of you. And our sins.”

I started to protest, but this time Faye stood her ground. “We rejected Him and went our own way, just like them cows over there, always tryin’ to bust through the fence an’ wander out in the road. No, Shiloh. I done tried that. I’m His now, for better or for worse.”

Like wedding vows. Didn’t Tim call it a romance?

A smile flickered on Faye’s wrinkled lips, rosy with lipstick. “But with God it’s always better. He works out every single thing in our life for our good. Bible says so.”

“You believe that, Faye? That this pain means something? And that God uses it to make us better people?” Pain oozed from my side in fresh waves. I stumbled, arms around my middle.

Persecuted but not abandoned. Struck down but not destroyed.

Faye was either a lunatic, stark raving mad, or she was right. She couldn’t be both. I opened my eyes.

“With all my heart, doll. That’s what faith is.”

“And you’d still say yes to God’s plans for you? Even if it was only for me?” My voice broke.

“It’d be my privilege.” She smiled and circled me with her arm. “His plans for me are always better than anything I could dream up for myself. Just wait an’ see.”

Right then and there on that slant of waving grass, I madeup my mind not to let Faye go. I would not be Carlos. I would not replace her. I would not forget to write and call like I’d done with Mom, even when I moved away.

For the first time in my life, I would be Hachiko the dog. Waiting, waiting at Shibuya Station. Or more precisely,

somewhere in redneck Staunton, Virginia.

Friday marked the coolest day yet, even with the sun, and Faye and I headed to Mom’s house early to make hot chocolate for Earl when he arrived at six.

“My roses are dying.” I leaned sadly over the railing in my jacket, purse, and reporter’s notebook under my arm. The flower bed was scattered with carmine petals. Faded green leaves, pocked with yellow, shivered in the wind.

I imagined the thorny canes poking through white, like Mom had written. Snow that covers. Snow that blots out. Snow that promises shouts of victory just beneath the surface. Roots reaching down into frozen soil, waiting for spring.

“It’s about that time,” said Faye, tenderly touching the leaves. “They’ll look real good next year though. Your mama always had the prettiest flowers around.”

Even the Kobe bush, full and leafy, boasted thick green spades all over. I hated that its season would end so soon, after such hard work.

But still—it lived. It had survived. Next year I’d see blooms … or whoever bought the house would.

We spun around as country music blared from a rusty pickup, careening into a driveway down the street. A dilapidated Dukes-of-Hazzard-like car squealed in behind it. Hooting. Yelling. Somebody threw a wheelbarrow.

Back in Tokyo I’d lived between a six-figure endocrinologist and a famous news anchor. Neither of whom owned a wheelbarrow.

“Oh brother,” I muttered, fumbling with my key. “Here they go again. The Jester brothers.”

“They drunk?” Faye whispered.

“Who knows.” I pushed open the door, and a sharp, strong chemical odor slapped me. I backed into Faye. “Phew! What’s that smell?”

“Smells like varnish! Ya workin’ on something for the house?”

“No. Just moving furniture.”

The smell increased as I stepped inside. “Faye, do I have a gas leak? I might have to call the fire department!”

I rushed into the kitchen, forgetting my stove was electric. Not gas. Then halted there, breath sucked out. My keys dropped with a clank.

“What’s a matter, sugar?” asked Faye sharply, her mother-hen instincts coming out. “Did ya—”

She saw it, too, and gaped, purse strap falling limp over her arm. “Well, I’ll be.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth, fresh tears beginning to flow. I tried to speak and couldn’t.

“Who do ya suppose …?”

From top to bottom, all the ugly brown-and-white wallpaper had been stripped from the kitchen and dining room and the walls covered with a silky coat of eggshell-white. It glowed apricot in the last rays of evening. The rooms now looked large, airy, and modern.

The chest of drawers was gone. I rushed down the hall, and sure enough, my bedroom floor gleamed honey-colored wood. A thorough cleaning and fresh coat of wax. Mom’s, too. Carpet staples taken up. All the furniture put back where it belonged, reflections shining on those warm wooden beams.

In an instant, Mom’s house was transformed. All insults about Southerners—Jesters or otherwise—stopped in my throat. My “Southern Speak” notebook splayed on the floor.

“Ya didn’t contract anybody?” Faye asked in bewilderment.

“Who do ya think did the work?”

My hand rested on my forehead as I searched my brain. “Adam’s the only one who had my keys. And … remember? He had paint on him when he brought my car Wednesday!”

“But he couldn’t have done ev’rything by Wednesdee.” Faye ran a hand over the wall. “This here’s a lotta work!”

“Hold on.” I marched over to a kitchen chair and snatched up a baseball cap with a fleck of paint on the back. “Aha!” I waved it as evidence. “Tim was here, too.”

“How do ya know? Ain’t that Adam’s?”

“Nope. Vic Priestly, number 54, John Deere. Tim’s favorite driver.”

And I bawled into his cap.

The phone trilled. I was still sponging my face and thinking of the sacrifice Adam—and especially Tim—had made for me. I loved them fiercely, like family. Family in a way I’d never known.

“Hello?” I tried to steady my voice.

“Lowell Armstrong from Titanic Farm & Real Estate. How’s the house coming, Shiloh?” I detected a note of sarcasm.

My hand quivered on the receiver. One of those astonishing, rare moments when everything in the universe lines up exactly right. If I tried, I couldn’t make this happen.

And now, for my moment in the spotlight. “Lowell, the house is ready.”

A surprised pause. “What do you mean ready? Wallpaper down, walls painted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Carpet taken up, hardwood floors polished?”

“Yes.”

I heard him banging and shuffling through papers, obviously not expecting to get so far with me. He was hunting for the list. “Really? How about the … uh … leaky bathroom faucet?”

“The plumber’s coming in fifteen minutes.”

Silence.

“Well,” Lowell finally said. “Wonderful! So are you ready to put it on the market?”

“Absolutely.” I grinned at Faye. “You can start listing it anytime.”

“Good, because I have some folks who might be interested in a little place just like yours. Are you ready to show?”

“Just name the day.”

Lowell’s voice sparked with excitement. “Great, Shiloh! I’ll come over tonight and put our Titanic Farm & Real Estate sign in your front yard.”

I hung up the phone then screamed and hugged Faye. And we jumped up and down in that beautiful kitchen like two giddy high schoolers.

S
o what happened next?” asked Jamie, gripping her tray in excitement. We dodged busboys in the busy Green Tree kitchen, waiting for two orders of roasted red pepper soup. Trinity Jackson, a tall African-American waitress, crowded next to us, listening in.

“Remember when Earl fixed my faucet and had hot cocoa with Faye and me? Well, the next Sunday evening he came by again to check the faucet. When she was there for our weekly cook-fest.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially.

“Did he know she was coming?”

“I mentioned it.” I scooted plates around on my tray to make room for the soup. “I thought it was a coincidence, but last Saturday he stopped by again.”

“When Faye was there?”

“Yep. I think he saw her car.”

Trinity bent close, trying to hear over the dishes and pans banging and the hiss of steaming pots. “You think he’s … you know, sweet on her?”

“I don’t know, but I think so.”

“Talkin’ about me again?” asked Blake loudly, smacking Trinity with his notepad. “The answer is yes.”

“No!” She smacked him back. “Not now, not ever!” But her dimples curved into a grin.

“Aw, Trinity,” he sighed, grabbing a handful of silverware and grinning, his pale blond face gleaming like a chubby moon behind glasses. “I love older women. You know that.”

“I don’t know a thing except you’re my nephew’s age,” she retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Why don’t you go find a freshman?”

“Never, Trinity,” he quipped, pretending to look rapturous and offering her a silverware bouquet. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending. I didn’t know. “You know I’ll always love you.”

“Get out of here!” I snapped. “We’re trying to talk!”

“Men.” Trinity laughed and rolled her eyes. She’d done some modeling, and at twenty-six was a knockout. Slim and dark-lashed with impeccable makeup. “Isn’t Blake like nineteen?” she whispered.

“I think so,” Jamie whispered back. “But you have to give him points for effort, right?”

Trinity rolled her eyes. “I guess. He’s a nice kid.”

“Faye’s older than Earl by a couple years,” I said smugly. “Doesn’t seem to deter him any.”

I grabbed the bowl of soup from Flash and gave him a thumbs-up. Gratefully accepted a couple of hot sweet-potato fries.

“Ha. Blake is Blake. I don’t care how old he is.” Trinity shoved off the counter and went to grab a pitcher of ice water. “So tell me about your lovebird friends.”

“Well, they’re not lovebirds yet. But every time I visit Earl, he’s always listening to Bible Today. That radio program with the sermons.”

“You’re kidding!” Jamie arranged salad plates carefully on her tray. “Faye loves that one, doesn’t she?”

“Exactly.” I wagged my eyebrows.

Trinity’s amber eyes sparkled. “So are you gonna set them up? I love mushy stuff. Come on, Shiloh! Let’s plan.”

I cupped the second bowl of soup from Flash and carefully set it on Jamie’s tray. “Give me some ideas then. Becky thinks we should move fast because there’s an older guy at church who’s been asking about her.”

Trinity’s face clouded. “How is Becky? She hasn’t been here in a while.”

“Not a hundred percent, but better.” I’d spent all the time I could with Becky, taking her out for ice cream and shopping. I convinced her to buy a smashing pink dress that matched her pale skin. And, of course, to get her highlights and hair done again at Crystal.

After seeing the new Becky, Tim already didn’t mind shelling out a few bucks—and I helped with the clothes. She was smiling again. I know she still hurt, but as she told me, life went on.

After I told Jerry about the newly painted kitchen, he’d given Tim and Becky dessert on the house. Even he seemed a little protective of me after what happened in Winchester. He didn’t take flak from his employees, or excuses, but he also played Papa Bear—making sure people treated us right. I liked being in his good graces.

I was still thinking about Becky when the last customer paid, and I slumped, bleary-eyed, into an empty booth to pick up stray napkins the busboy had missed.

“So you sold your house?” Trinity looked up from the booth where she was rolling silverware in cloth napkins.

Waitresses never really stop conversations. We just spread them out over several long, interrupted, noisy hours. Or occasionally, days.

But this time her words made no sense. “Huh?”

“You said there was a couple scheduled to look at your house. After your … uh … fiasco.” She gestured to my side with a fork, and I cringed. I still popped an Advil every now and then, but the swelling had gone down, and most of the time I barely felt it.