“Now, there’s something you don’t see every day.” Dad nods to himself with satisfaction.
The sopping wet reporters quickly retreat to their news vans. My mother stalks through the front door and slams it shut behind her. Then she walks over to the living room windows, grabs the brown and yellow sunflower curtains, and yanks them shut.
“Don’t just stand there gawping, shut the curtains!” she yells out to me and Dad. We hurry through the room, pulling the remaining curtains shut.
Loretta’s nasal squall drifts in from the kitchen. “What in tarnation is happening out there? What kind of three-ring circus are you running here?”
“Why is she even here?” I ask my mother, shooting an annoyed look in the direction of the kitchen.
Mom waves her hand helplessly. “Well, I can’t turn her away. She’s family. She came by to tell me about that billboard. Then the reporters showed up right afterwards.”
Billboard? What has Blake done?
Loretta strolls into the living room, her quilted Vera Bradley purse dangling from her arm, and looks at me with a smirk.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter. Having problems with that boyfriend? I heard he admitted he comes from a family of criminals.”
“My daughter is not a prodigal!” my mother squawks indignantly. “She works in an office and she keeps her clothes on!”
She pokes her finger into Loretta’s arm. Loretta backs away, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield. “That’s not what that–”
My mother grabs her by the arm and marches her towards the door. I quickly step out of the way.
“This is my daughter you’re insulting, you mule-faced old sow, and I’ve put up with your snide comments long enough. Next time you insult her, you’re getting a punch in the snoot. I am proud of my daughter no matter what she does. I’d be proud of her if she was a prodigal!”
I hold up my hand. “Mom, that’s not what– Oh, never mind.”
“Well, I never!” Loretta gasps. “I suppose you would!” And she sweeps out of the house indignantly, head held high.
Then my mother swings around to face me. “Peach-pie!” she grabs me and hugs me, and then my dad joins in.
“I’m sorry!” I cry out.
“No, I’m sorry!” my mother wails. “We shouldn’t have ignored your calls like that. I was calling Isabella every day to make sure you were okay, though. And Clarita. And Edna. And sometimes Jemma, but she’s so busy with those carts of hers. I told her she works too hard.”
She what now?
I can’t believe nobody told me my mother was calling – even though she probably wheedled them into it. I’m going to have a word or three with those guys. There will be actual swearing involved, and not the cute Southern kind.
Then we’re all bawling and apologizing to each other. We join in a three-person hug, sniveling on each other’s shoulders. My tears splash on my mother’s apron and my dad’s gingham shirt. Finally we let go and take deep breaths.
“I forgot. I won’t call you peach-pie any more,” my mother says with a heavy sigh.
“Mom! No.” I step back, my hands resting on her shoulders. “I don’t hate peaches. I bought a lot of peach product from you, and I ended up eating so much of it that it just put me off the taste for a while. I’ll never get sick of hearing you call me that, though. That’s our thing. Isn’t it?”
“It is.” She sniffles harder.
“We shouldn’t have gotten mad at you, sweetheart. I’m more mad at myself, for putting our problems on your shoulders. You never should have found out about them,” my dad says, and my heart throbs in sorrow. “We were upset at first, but we’ve had time to cool down, and I understand why you did what you did.”
My gaze falls to the floor. “I embarrassed you in front of your friends, though.”
He shrugs awkwardly. “Anybody who’s got any problem with us, or you, isn’t a friend.”
I smile through my tears and swipe at my cheek with the back of my hand. “That is some excellent fatherly wisdom. Now. What the heck is happening with the reporters?”
My father directs a scowl at the curtained windows. “Apparently your Mr. Hudson is advertising on Times Square. He put up a sign the height of a skyscraper, saying, Winona, I’m sorry, please call me. And everyone figured out who it was.”
And he just sent a fleet of reporters to my parents’ door, as if he hadn’t embarrassed them enough already. “That sounds like him,” I say sourly.
“It is pretty romantic.” My mother looks misty-eyed.
I shake my head in exasperation. She’s willing to forgive the wealthy, gorgeous guy who’s pursuing her daughter. I know what she’s thinking. She’s picturing how adorable our grandkids would be. “He’s just a rich show-off thinking he can buy his way out of anything.”
“Of course! What a show-off,” my mother agrees hastily. “Nobody likes a show-off.”
“Speaking of, you think you maybe could get him to stop sending those flowers?” my father asks. “We’re too busy to bring them over to the nursing home, so they’re all just dying out there. Seems kind of wasteful.”
August is their busy season. It’s the last month that they ship their gift boxes of peaches, before they move on to pecans.
“I’ll leave a message for him,” I promise.
I glance down at my suitcase. “Do you want me to stay in the guesthouse?”
“Do you want me to smack you upside the head?” my mother retorts. “You’re finally home, and you’re going to stay in your room and let me spoil you a little. Also, the guesthouse…we’re going to be renting it out starting next week. We got a very good tenant.” At my surprised look, she flashes me a wry smile. “You’ve made a home in New York. I know you won’t be staying here. We want you to visit more often, but you’re not meant to live in Peach Pit, and it’s time we stopped trying to force it on you.”
“Mom.” My voice is husky with emotion. “I will come visit you more. A lot more. So much you’ll be sick of me.”
“Now, now. That could never happen. Probably.” She winks at me, and we both manage a shaky laugh.
A siren’s wail cuts through the air, and my father walks over to the window and peeks out through the curtains. “Oh, look, the sheriff’s here.”
Mom and I follow him over to the window. The sheriff is talking to a reporter who’s sitting in his van. The reporter looks annoyed, but pulls away and heads down the road. The sheriff moves on to another van.
“Can he do that?” I wonder. “I mean, not that I want them here, but I think they could argue that they’re on public property and they have the right to be here.”
“Well, there’s nowhere to park on this section of road, and if every single one of our neighbors says they’re not allowed to park in their driveways or on their front lawns, then they’re out of luck. They can’t just sit there blocking the public roadway.”
My father smiles in satisfaction as we watch the rest of news vans driving off. And it strikes me that this is why my family loves it here. Sure, there’s snootiness from some of the townsfolk, a lot of gossip and backbiting, but people have each other’s backs. The neighbors watch out for each other, just like my Kitchen Krew friends.