Country Heaven (16 page)

“Oh, and you can wear your hat in here when we’re alone,” Daddy called. “Just don’t do it in front of your Mama. You know what a stickler she is about that kind of thing.”

As a gesture, it was telling. His father had always stood on ceremony, too. “Yes, sir. Rest now.” He let himself out the room, closing the door behind him. All his energy exhausted, he sagged against the wall and closed his eyes.

God. His head was spinning like he’d been doing wheelies with his truck.

“Rye, is there something wrong?”

Rye jerked upright. His mama stood by the staircase with her hand on the carved newel post, her wedding and Crenshaw family rings glittering in the light from the second floor front window. He took a moment before responding. He’d bet twenty bucks she’d been hovering upstairs, waiting for him to come out.

“No, Mama, everything is fine,” he said as he passed her, heading down the stairs. She’d trained him well. Never show true emotion and say everything was
fine
even if the house was on fire and you’d just caught your fiancé in bed with another man.

When he reached the foyer, he called, “Tory,” since no one was sitting in the front parlor.

“In the kitchen,” came her reply.

She was sitting at the table with Amelia Ann and the children, having a glass of the standard Hollins rosemary lemonade, if he had to guess, and boy didn’t that take him back. When was the last time he’d had lemonade?

“What are y’all talking about?” Rye asked, striding forward.

“We were just asking Tory about her favorite recipes,” Amelia Ann said.

Which meant his sister hadn’t really known how to engage their guest and had selected a safe topic. Well, it had probably surprised her to see Tory. He hadn’t mentioned he was bringing her because he hadn’t wanted any push–back. Or questions about why he was bringing his cook.

“How nice.”

“Speaking of which. Are you hungry, Rye?” Tory asked. “It’s well past dinnertime.”

And it was clear no one had planned a supper for them. Mama’s doing, no doubt.

“Ah…we thought you’d get in later,” Amelia Ann murmured, trying to cover up the rudeness.

Tory rose fluidly from the chair. “No worries. Amelia Ann, do you have any sandwich fixings?”

“I’m not hungry,” he said, suddenly needing to escape. He wanted to spend time with Amelia Ann, but he was too raw after talking to Daddy.

“Well, you’re growling like a bear,” Tory said, “and it’s best to feed you when you’re like that.”

“Tory, I said I’m not hungry.” He scanned the kitchen. The gleaming perfection made his stomach curdle, like he’d been struck with the flu. The counters sparkled without clutter. There were green pears ripening in a silver decorator bowl. Stainless steel appliances shone without smudges. Mama still didn’t allow pictures or school drawings to mar her canvas, he noticed.

Nothing had changed.

He turned to walk out, but halted when he saw Mama standing stricken behind him.

“Rye, your Daddy would like you to stay in the guest house.”

His heart hurt again. It was an honor, that, especially since it was Granddaddy Crenshaw’s old place. He hadn’t expected hospitality, so had secured them reservations at the motel in town.

“Thank you. That would be nice,” he responded, not wanting to refuse Daddy.

When Tory came through the doorway, Rye said, “Mama, this is Tory Simmons. She’s a friend of mine who’s studying for her Ph.D. at the University of Kansas. She’s a Yankee, so I hope you’ll show her the lovely Southern hospitality she’s read about.”

“Of course,” Mama singsonged, the perfect hostess. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Simmons. We’ve seen your…picture in the paper. Such a lovely story, Rye helping you and all. And you two…becoming close because of it, especially since you’re the daughter of a schoolteacher and such. We couldn’t have been more delighted to hear that Rye’s been spending time with you. You are most welcome here.”

His mama could make bullshit sound like apple pie.

“Thank you,” Tory said, glancing his way, a question in her eyes. “As I told Amelia Ann, the media tends toward embellishment.”

“We’d better get settled in the guest house,” Rye said. “We’ll just say goodnight to everyone else.”

“No need to disturb your daddy,” Mama responded. “I’m sure he’s just plain tuckered out.” She sailed up the stairs.

Rye grabbed Tory’s arm and drew her toward the kitchen door.

“We’re heading to the guest house. See y’all later,” he called.

“Good night, everybody,” Tory said. “Rory and Annabelle, remember what I said.”

His cowboy hat was on the hat rack now—courtesy of Mama, no doubt. Anger and other emotions pounded him like hail. He slapped it on his head and let go of Tory, the door looking like a sanctuary now.

Stalking to the truck, he realized his face was hot. Even his ears were burning. The minute they’d buckled their seatbelts, he shoved the car into gear and floored the gas.

“Hey,” she called as she braced a hand against the dash.

While he knew he should slow down, he just couldn’t manage it. He drove like a maniac, taking the turns fast and hard. When he pulled up in front of a smaller white house with slate blue shutters and a wrap–around porch, Tory was breathing shallowly, her face white.

A spurt of guilt shot through his gut, but it was like a raindrop in an ocean of emotion. He flew out the truck and ran for the house, sucking in deep breaths of hot, muggy air. The meadow beckoned, making his eyes sting. So many memories.

God, he hadn’t been prepared. He knew now that
nothing
could have prepared him.

Everything was raw again, and he felt like he was back in the same place he’d been when he left five years ago.

There was just no escaping the past.

***

Tory leaned her head against the truck’s window as Rye strode off, and it seemed wise to just take a moment to settle herself. The terror from his reckless driving had her heart pounding a two–step in her chest. As she took slow, steady breaths, it finally returned to a normal cadence. When she finally left the truck, her gaze tracked to Rye, and she headed in his direction. No one needed a friend right now more than he did.

He stood by a white fence with his head pressed against a black stallion’s neck, stroking the animal’s mane. His cowboy hat was perched on a fence post.

The meadow rose onto a hill lined with wildflowers, flanked on both sides by trees. Three horses roamed in the distance, their tails flapping in the gentle breeze, warding off flies. The black stallion near Rye playfully nudged him in the shoulder and then ran off to join a buttermilk–colored mare.

Rye was leaning his arms over the fence when Tory reached him. Putting her shoe on the bottom rung, she turned to face the horses.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

His hand ripped away a vine wrapped around one of the fence posts. “Not right now.”

They were quiet for a long while until Tory whirled around to look at him. She placed her hand on his arm. His muscled bunched, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “Come on, let’s go see what I can scrounge up for you to eat.”

He laid his hand over hers before returning to his pose at the fence, the only sign he’d given that her presence was comforting. “You go on ahead. I’ll be there in a while.”

As she walked toward the house, she realized devastation had been the main note in his beautiful voice.

She didn’t think it would go platinum.

I’ve never cared for vegetables. I suppose I should say
plain
vegetables. Whoever said they were good for you really ruined my life. There’s a whole host of other foods I’d rather be eating. Being from the Midwest, we didn’t do much to our veggies. So I decided to try something new one day. One of my favorite veggies is asparagus. Alone, I’m not sure I’d care for it, but I’ve learned one of life’s essential truths—heavy whipping cream makes everything better. If calories bother you, stop reading now. But if you’re like me and willing to indulge every once in a while, give this a try. You’ll never look at asparagus again in the same way. Oh, and here’s a helpful hint: the sauce also works wonders on green beans.

Tory’s Creamy Vegetable Sauce
1 tsp. olive oil
2 cloves garlic, mashed
1 cup heavy whipping cream
½ tsp. fresh ground pepper
¼ cup feta cheese
¼ tsp. Greek seasoning
2 tbsp. Brandy
1 tsp. lemon juice (fresh)

Heat the olive oil and sauté the garlic until brown. Add the next four ingredients until the cream bubbles around the sauce pan and reduces. Add the brandy, and if you’re lucky enough to have a gas stove, dip it toward the flame. The mixture should ignite and further reduce the cream. Add the lemon juice. Cook 1 more minute. Remove and serve over your vegetable of choice.

Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook

Chapter 9

W
ith nothing to do, Tory explored the house, pausing to marvel at the luxurious rich fabrics and heated towel racks in the bathrooms. There were two guest bedrooms, and she chose the gold and cream one for herself, leaving the room decorated in navy blue and white to Rye. It was like staying in the Ritz Carlton, not something she’d ever done, but she’d seen pictures. The kitchen had stainless steel appliances, a gas stove, and beautiful caramel granite countertops. But there wasn’t a single thing in the refrigerator save sweet and sour pickles, mayonnaise, and mustard. Either his family hadn’t expected him to stay, or their welcome had its limits. Rye hadn’t come back yet, and she didn’t have the heart to bother him. Since it was nearing nine o’clock, she didn’t even know if there were a local grocery store open in a town this small.

The anthropology book she was trying to read just wouldn’t hold her attention. When she heard a knock at the door, it puzzled her. Why would Rye knock? Sighing, she headed to the front of the house and answered it.

It was Amelia Ann. “Hope I’m not interrupting, but we realized after you left that there wasn’t any food stocked in the guest house.” Even under the porch light, Tory could see the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

“Good thing Rye didn’t want to eat.” But she did, and her stomach grumbled on cue.

“Speaking of which, where is he? I thought he could bring in the groceries.”

“He’s watching the horses. I can help you.”

Amelia Ann stopped her with a hand. “One thing you’ll learn about these parts is that men do the heavy lifting. He won’t like us taking them in. And I brought a lot of stuff down from the main house.”

Rye wouldn’t like it, huh? Well, that was news. “Then who loaded them in the car?”

Amelia Ann brushed a hair from her cream suit. “Oh, Rob Donner. He’s a senior in high school from next door. Nice boy.”

Tory bit her lip. This anthropologist was getting the lay of the land. Men and women had carefully defined roles in this town, it seemed. Well, she could respect traditions—to a point.

“Let’s get Rye.” Plus, she hated the thought of him standing alone like that, clutching the fence like it was a life preserver.

Amelia Ann stopped Tory with a gentle touch. “Please, not yet. I was hoping we might talk privately for a little while we have the chance.”

Just what she wanted to avoid, but she nodded. She followed Amelia Ann into the formal living room and took a seat across from her on the most ornate and uncomfortable sofa she’d ever experienced, cheery in sunny yellow.

“So, what do you think of Rye?” she asked.

“Well, he’s nice…” Gosh, her view of him had done a one–eighty, and it would be rude to share her first impression of him as a wild, devil–may–care country singer.

Amelia Ann’s lashes fluttered. “When Rye introduced you to me as his cook, I thought he was simply trying to get Mama’s blood up by bringing you here. Rubbing her nose in it that you were…”

Beating around the bush was so not her style. “What?”

“Well, it’s not like I think that way,” Amelia Ann said in a rush. “But Mama has certain ideas about class. I thought you really might be…involved, despite what you said. Especially since he told Mama you were his friend, not his cook.”

Tory started laughing and pointed to her chest. “Me and Rye? No, I’m Rye’s cook. Do I look like his type? Trust me, the other stuff is all a PR trick.”

“But what about the kiss in the papers?” Were the woman’s cheeks red?

“Let’s leave it at this: your brother brought me here because he likes to eat, and like he said, we’re friends…of a sort.”

“And you’ll be private about all this, I can tell, which is real important to Rye.” Amelia Ann tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not that he ever tells the truth about us. He even told a reporter once that he was named after his Mama’s favorite drink—rye. Mama’s never touched hard liquor. It was quite the scandal before she cleared it up with her friends.”

Scandal? That sounded pretty extreme. “He didn’t,” she said, although she could easily hear him saying that.

Amelia Ann shook her head. “Yes, he did. And you can imagine how well that went over. Rye is an old, honorable name in our family. I understand he only said it because he was hurt.”

Yes, there to be seemed to be a lot of that going around.

She leaned forward. “Mama was really upset after she talked with Daddy tonight. He told her he’s going to one of Rye’s concerts when he gets better.” She was acting like she was divulging gossip at a church picnic.

“Tell me about Granddaddy Crenshaw.” Tory said, both to change the subject and because she was curious.

“Granddaddy’s family lost nearly everything in the Depression, but he fought and scraped his way back to the top. He was something of a hell raiser. Divorced the woman his family had wanted him to marry—my Mama’s mama—and married a spinster school teacher from across the tracks. They had quite the love affair and were married for decades, but they were too old to have children when they met. Mama was in high school when it happened. I don’t think she ever forgave him for the divorce. She blamed him for sullying the Crenshaw name, so she found a sort of…redemption by marrying into the Hollins family.”