Country Heaven (39 page)

Yeah, J.P. had three sisters, and he knew how to deal with family. Perhaps staying away from his friends had been a mistake. “I’ll call you.”

“Catch you later, my friend.”

Rye heaved himself off the couch and walked to the window. The kids were in the backyard, both of them laughing as the puppies chased them in circles. Tammy was standing near one of the beds he’d hired some hot–shot landscape architect to design, touching a white hydrangea. Then she knelt and plucked out a weed tunneling through the mulch. When she continued to thread her way across his flower beds, he frowned. She didn’t need to act like some gardener. He could hire people for that. But when she reached the roses, which were blooming in a profusion of apricot, and broke off a few spent flower buds, he suddenly remembered something. Her childhood science projects had typically involved growing plants from seeds or cuttings. Inspiration dawned.

Letting himself out the French doors, he started across the backyard. Annabelle made a beeline for him. She was sweaty and slightly rumpled, her yellow hair ribbon hanging askew, but her face was filled with a contagious kind of joy. He swung her around, and she burst into giggles. When he stopped, she shouted, “Again, Uncle Rye. Again.”

Playing with her gladdened his heart, but he didn’t miss the fact that Rory was doing his best to ignore him as usual. God, he hoped his nephew would stop making him feel like an asshole. Tammy had said it would wear off, but it hadn’t, and Rye was beginning to think the kid had picked up the Hollins ability to hold a grudge. Wasn’t Rye a champ grudge holder himself?

Heart racing from nerves, he finally put Annabelle down—she immediately scampered back toward Barbie—and made his way across the yard. Made himself frown as he neared Tammy. Let the silence lengthen until he flicked a rosebud with a finger.

“You know, ever since I moved into this house, I meant to do something with the yard. I mean, we planted some things,” he said, gesturing to the roses. “Yet, something seems to be missing.” He waited, watching her from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?”

She turned her head so quickly, her dangling pearl earrings slapped against her cheek. “What?”

He dug the tip of his boot into the grass. “What do
you
think’s missing?”

She took her time, and he wondered if he’d misjudged the situation.

“Well,” she started, “what you currently have is lovely. It’s simple and uncluttered. It allows the grass and trees to define the space with a few flower beds as focal points, leaving the river as the main point of reference.”

Define space? Focal points? Well, someone seemed to know landscaping jargon. “But it could look better, right? I mean, it’s awfully boring other than this stuff.” It nearly stuck in his throat, but he forced it out. “What’s this again?”

She followed the finger he was pointing. “An oak–leaf hydrangea.”

He shook his head. “Right. Well, you seem to know an awful lot about landscaping. I’m going to be real busy with this new album over the next few months. Do you think you might have the time to do something about this? I mean, I entertain here a lot, so you could spend whatever you liked. Do whatever you want.” And darn it, if he wasn’t acting like an idiot, trying to suggest a new purpose for her.

The way her mouth parted made him want to buy J.P. a whole case of his favorite bourbon. “Really?”

“Heck, if I had time, I might just use some old tires I have in the barn and plant some of those flowers with the faces on them.” He bit his cheek to keep from smiling at her horrified reaction. “What are those anyway?”

“Pansies,” she said weakly. “Did you say tires?”

When he nodded, she looked ill. He almost laughed. J.P. had done it again.

“I’d be happy to do something,” Tammy said in a rush.

“Wonderful,” he replied, and when she smiled without reserve, he knew he had her. She looked about as happy as Annabelle did, racing around with her puppy.

“Just don’t cut my shrubs into any weird shapes. I hate that.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t.”

As he strolled away, he started whistling, and when he passed a white hydrangea, he thought of Bedford Plantation and the night he and Tory had spent there.

There was pain in the memory, but maybe J.P. was right. He needed to write about what he knew. Words about a moonlight garden started to form. Music—guitar, violin, piano—started to play in his head. Feeling his creativity burst forth, he began jogging.

It was early yet, but somehow he knew his writing block was over.

Everyone has something they crave when they’re sad or away from home. Being halfway around the world in rural Africa, I realize mine is French toast. Its power to lighten your spirit, soothe your worries, and make you feel closer to home is magical. My Grandma started the tradition by bringing day–old French bread home from the diner where she worked. We were always looking for ways to use it. This recipe worked like a charm—and we never tired of it. Dress it up with a good cup of coffee or mimosa and enjoy its scrumptiousness.

Fan–tabulous French Toast
1 loaf of French bread
¼ cup butter
2 eggs
1 2/3 cups milk
Pinch of salt
3 tbsp. sugar
1 tsp. nutmeg

Slice the loaf into pieces and butter both sides. Line a buttered pan with the bread slices. Beat the eggs. Add the milk and pinch of salt. Stir. Pour over bread and sprinkle with nutmeg. Chill for at least 1 hour (overnight is best). Bake at 425 degrees for 20–25 minutes until golden brown. Serve with warm maple syrup and a side of fruit. Strawberries are especially lovely.

Tory Simmons’ Simmering Family Cookbook

Chapter 24

Kenya, Africa

N
ight sounds screamed around Tory. Crocodiles thrashed in the water, fighting hippos. Birds squawked. When she heard steps outside her tent, she grabbed the stick on the floor. Was it another baboon? The mutant monkeys with their red butts were completely unafraid of humans and showed up all the time—day and night. They freaked her out.

“Tory?” Kevin Andrews called. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She was glad for the company, given that the generator was set to go off in about thirty minutes, plunging them into darkness.

Kevin, a Ph.D. student from New York University and another Fulbright fellow, was the only other student with her in their small camp. They were both studying the impact of tourism on the Maasai people and how it affected life in their family compounds, called bomas. She was more interested in how it affected women and girls, particularly their traditional gender roles as wives and mothers, while Kevin was focusing on the impact on their pastoral way of life, especially the herding of animals. Kevin spoke Maasai and Swahili, which had been a God–send, even though there were an increasing number of Maasai who spoke English because of their interactions with the tourism sector. He darted through the tent flap quickly, swatting to keep the giant bugs outside. His earnest round face was covered in a whole truckload of freckles, and his red hair was fuzzy from the humidity, which never seemed to go away.

“You’re working on your cookbook again,” Kevin commented, sitting in her other rickety chair.

“Yes, it’s my fun time.” Her salvation in this strange world, which was a heck of a lot more challenging and alien than she’d ever imagined. The contrasts made her head spin—in Kenya there were thriving, modern cities like Nairobi and Mombasa, and small villages in the savanna, where local people lived in mud huts and still hunted their own food in a largely untouched landscape of golden grass and endless blue sky dotted with elephants, lions, and giraffes. Of course, there was also the spattering of Range Rovers trolling along that same land, tourists on photo safaris leaning out of the cabs to snap pictures of wildlife.

Kevin was holding two beers, and he held one out to her. The local brand, Tusker, wasn’t bad, but it was always lukewarm. The condensation on the bottle coated her hand.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you did a great job cooking with the Maasai women today.” He ducked his head and glanced away.

She wanted to sigh. The poor guy had a crush on her, and she couldn’t be less interested. Why couldn’t she find a funny, nice guy attractive? Oh yeah, because Rye had cut her heart out with a melon baller, making a summer salad of her most vital organ.

“Thanks, it was interesting to learn what they do to the meat after the men hunt. How they pack it in salt.” Everything else had been…well, not her cup of tea. She knew these people ate every part of the animal, but seeing it had given her a queasy stomach. Calling them sweetbreads in her head hadn’t helped.

Kevin fingered her binder. “You ever think of making cooking your fulltime passion?”

Of course. She’d had twin withdrawals on this trip. One for Rye. And the other for cooking. She missed planning what she would cook each day, and that moment when someone’s eyes fluttered at the first bite of one of her dishes. Especially wickedly–lashed hazel eyes.

“I love cooking, but my Grandma really wanted me to have an education, and my parents were both educators. I liked anthropology in college, so I kept pursuing it.”

The electricity flickered in the tent. Tory’s eyes darted to her watch. She and Kevin always shut the main generator off at nine o’clock to conserve fuel while the small one kept their food cold in the mini–fridge. Then, it was pitch black. And the night sounds seemed to crank up in volume like the boom box of her youth.

“Well, don’t chefs have educations? I mean they go to school, too.” He lifted his shoulder. “It’s just that I like you, and you don’t seem happy. You’ve told me about Rye Crenshaw, but I don’t think that’s the only reason… I’ve been on a lot of research trips, and…well…are you sure this is what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

Hadn’t she been asking herself that question every day since she’d arrived? She’d always expected her true passion for this subject to spring to life when she was in the field, experiencing other cultures live and in the flesh rather than trudging through dry textbooks. Right now, she didn’t know what her purpose was, but she hadn’t found it here. Scary.

“You know, my grandpa always said you couldn’t escape your problems by running away,” he continued. “They always caught up to you.”

Yeah, Kenya certainly hadn’t been the escape she’d hoped it would be, even though the beauty of the land stole her breath away. Giraffes running across the savanna, elephants bathing, and lone lions or cheetahs boldly sunning themselves, ignoring her presence as she drove by.

Kevin swatted at one of the ever–present flies. There were swarms of them, especially when she and Kevin were eating or right before a storm. It was yet another foreign thing.

“Look, I know it might not be my business, but I don’t like seeing you so miserable. When I saw you cooking around the fire with the women today, your face…well, it beamed. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you
really
smile since you got here. I think that means something. Don’t you?”

She looked away. The tent’s sides rippled from the wind. He was right, of course. Hadn’t she felt that elusive sensation—happiness—for a short while today? And what a relief it had been… She’d been worried some switch in her had been permanently shut off in Memphis, condemning her to a life of tears and misery.

“It helps having someone else see it,” she said. There was the urge to take his hand, but she didn’t want to give him false hope. “I’m glad you said something.”

“Good.” His round face transformed with his smile. He reached his beer bottle out, and she clinked hers against it. The lights flickered again, and his face fell.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to shut the generator off. Might be running out of fuel.”

Kevin had never made a move on her—he’d only given her a friendship she needed so desperately. And that was something else she liked about him.

As he ducked out of the tent, he said, “For whatever it’s worth, Rye Crenshaw was a fool to let you slip away.”

God, could he be any nicer? And he was right. Rye was a fool. She’d been so good for him. And he’d been good for her until his mistrust had driven an irreparable a wedge between them. Somehow, some way, being with him had made her feel like she was part of something bigger than herself, part of a family again.

Every night, even though her prayers for herself had dried up, she whispered prayers for each of them in the darkness of her tent. Hoped they were doing all right.

She caressed her cookbook. Kevin was right. She didn’t belong here, observing and analyzing tribal culture. She wanted to spend her days in that special place where life blossomed—in the kitchen, cooking for people. When she finished her dissertation, hopefully in the spring, her promise to her grandma would be fulfilled.

Then she could go back to what she loved.

Cooking.

Maybe not at Diner Heaven, but somewhere else. She hoped her grandma could understand.

The lights went out. Instead of the fear that always shot through her at this time of night, a new peace filled her to the brim like a glass of cold water on a warm day. She fell back on the cot. Even though she couldn’t see the stars, she could imagine them.

And she started to whisper to the creator of the skies above.

God bless Rory. And Tammy, and Annabelle, too. God bless Hampton and Amelia Ann.

She rubbed her heart when it fluttered, but didn’t fight the words forming in her mind.

And God bless Rye,
she whispered.
Help him be the good man I know is inside him.

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and fell into her hair.

***

In the ensuing weeks, Rye was knee–deep in his writing mojo. J.P.’s advice seemed to unlock the words that had been frozen in his head. He found purpose again—in his music and his family. He burned both ends of the candle until he had his songs where he wanted them, and when he shared them with J.P., his friend told him they were the best he’d ever written. Heartbreak and his newfound love for his family looked good on him.