Naomi helps another person while Vernon steps aside.
“I could sell some of these in the store if you’d like. See how it goes on the retail side,” he mentions. While Grady Seed and Soil is mainly farm supplies and flowers, they have a small shop with novelty items that his sister Wilhemina runs.
“We don’t need a hand—” I don’t get to finish my word as a hand rests on my forearm. My younger sister glares at me a moment and then addresses Vernon.
“Mr. Grady, that would be wonderful. How many do you need, and by when?”
I glare back at my sister who’s squeezing my arm, cutting off my circulation like when we were children. Her warning is clear. This isn’t a handout. Vernon isn’t offering charity. He’s offering help, business help, and I need to accept it as such if I want to try my hand at selling more soap.
“I’d love to speak with Wilhemina,” I suggest. Vernon pulls a card from his pocket and writes down a number.
“You can call her directly. I’ll let her know you’ll be phoning.” With a nod, Vernon steps back from the table, and a heavy pat smacks his shoulder.
“Vernon,” Jedd addresses him. I hadn’t seen him approach, but something in his sharp tone hijacks my heart. I’m actually happy to see him, but suddenly wonder if others can see the pleasure on my face. Will they know what I’ve done with him? Will they know he sleeps in my bed each night? We aren’t really a secret, but I don’t know how I feel about publicizing our relationship. I no longer care what the Valley community thinks of me. They judge, and they moralize, and it’s none of their damn business. However, I don’t need more rumors about me.
Jedd nods to me, and the two men step aside, chatting as I turn to other potential customers inspecting the soaps. Hazel and Mabel wander past and each purchase a bar. My eye keeps drifting off to Jedd and Vernon, who move off even farther from the table while still remaining within the vicinity.
“My, isn’t this something?” The judgmental feminine voice is none other than my oldest sister, Scotia Simmons. Naomi freezes next to me.
“Scotia,” Naomi chokes.
“Sissy, how nice to see you,” I address her. Scotia cringes at the ancient nickname, and I want to kick myself for falling into a false tone with her. I’ve always sought the approval of my older sister, wanting her to like me when it felt like she didn’t. Naomi had the opposite opinion. She didn’t care if the eldest Winters sister liked her or not. Maybe it’s because I’m the middle sister. Maybe because I was the second child, but I wanted my sister’s acceptance, and I’ve never had it.
Scotia huffs in response to my greeting. Her eyes scan the soaps like she smells something odiferous. She picks up a bar with two pinched fingers as if the item were garbage and could potentially soil her. Lifting the fragrant rectangle for her nose, she inhales once with a sharp snort. Then her eyes widen and clash with mine.
“Did you make these?”
I struggle for air and force a response. “With Naomi’s help, yes.” I’m not worldly like my older sister, not as intelligent or socially accepted as her, and I hate the inferiority I feel when I’m around her. She’s my sister. Nothing makes her greater than me except the power I’ve always given her. The power to feel superior to me.
“Huh,” she remarks, setting the soap back on the pile, purposely positioning it so that it teeters to the side. My sister is a business entrepreneur in her own right, having inherited quite a bit of money upon the death of her husband. The Fried Pickle Princess made deep-fried phalluses famous. With her perfect skin, erect posture, and trim outfit, I’d be surprised if a greasy delicacy has ever graced her lips, but her claim to fame is coated deliciousness. She’s also famous for her superiority complex and her disapproving attitude.
“What do you think?” I ask, hating that I’ve asked, hating that I’m a grown woman still seeking her approval. Naomi’s hand returns to my forearm, not squeezing as hard as it did while speaking to Vernon but more in solidarity with me. Scotia’s eyes leap to the movement.
“Always a pair,” she snips, reminding us of how Naomi and I were the closer sisters, although really Naomi and Jebediah, our brother, were the closest Winters siblings. Those two had been best friends to the core, pushing our parents to the brink.
“Scotia,” Naomi finally speaks, more a warning in her tone than a greeting. Naomi never could understand our sister’s lack of attention after my accident. I wrote it off as Scotia’s embarrassment—her sister a drunk driver. Naomi considered it just downright mean and rather unchristian for a woman preaching the Good Word like she had a direct line to God himself.
“Another hobby?” Scotia scoffs, forcing me to recall the many hobbies I’ve had over the years, my dedication to each slowly waning over time. Am I really considering I can make this craft into a habit? A hobby into an income? Who do I think I am?
“Jedd Flemming,” his stern voice snaps me out of my pessimism, and I notice his hand outstretched for Scotia, who sneers back at the metal glint of his opposite hand. Her eyes remain on his claw, apparent as his shirt sleeves are rolled up to both elbows, exposing his left arm for what it is.
“Scotia Simmons,” she huffs, her nose rising higher as if an additional bad smell wafts in front of her. Jedd snaps his fingers, dismissing her lacking hand.
“Pickles,” he replies.
“Fried pickles,” she clarifies, lowering her nose and her furrowed brow to morph into a more surprised but pleased expression.
“Yeah, I don’t like pickles, but I’m certain the fried stick is decent.” The way Jedd drawled the st- made the word sound like something else, more phallic in reference.
Naomi’s mouth pops open, and the grip on my forearm tightens. I snort, unable to contain the sound.
“Well, I never…” Scotia states, lifting a hand for her pearls even though they aren’t present.
“I bet,” Jedd responds, and Scotia’s lower lip falls. “Nice to meet you.” His salutation is a dismissal, and our sister turns on her heels, tapping away from the table. Naomi begins to snicker as soon as Scotia is out of earshot, but I’m still startled by how Jedd stood up to her.
“Jedd, that wasn’t very—”
“The Fried Pickle Princess is more like the abominable biscuit bitch. She’s your sister?” His eyes move back and forth between Naomi and me. Naomi’s chuckles grow although a hand over her mouth tries to stifle the laughter.
“Jedd, may I see you for a moment?” I shouldn’t leave my table. I have soap to sell, but I need a second with him for more reasons than one.
Jedd sheepishly follows me out of the large cafetorium and into an empty classroom. The community center is an old elementary school turned community central for things like the Friday night Jam Session, the annual Halloween party, and the winter market.
“Did you buy me a horse?” I ask the second I’ve closed the door and pulled the shade for privacy. It’s risky slipping into a room. If I don’t want gossip, I shouldn’t give people something to talk about, but this can’t wait for some reason.
Jedd chuckles. “That’s not what I expected you to ask. I thought I was in deep horse doodoo for speaking to your sister how I did.” Jedd reaches behind his neck, scratching nervously.