He blinked some more, standing straighter. “You wouldn’t?” His voice cracked like an eggshell.
“No.” On a whim, I reached forward and held his hand. He looked between my face and our joined fingers as I spoke from the heart. “Mr. Badcock, your eggs are . . . well, they’re magical. And I guess I should have told you prior to now, but all other eggs in comparison might as well be applesauce.”
Applesauce being the low-fat, vegan replacement for eggs in baking recipes. In other words, a sad and inferior imitation.
“Oh,” he breathed, blinking faster now. A bit of color touched his cheeks. “My goodness. I don’t—I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is all very unexpected.”
I released his hand, stepping away as he watched me retreat. “Just, thank you. Thank you for your eggs. Thank you for taking the time to raise those chickens right.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Sylvester.” He sounded a bit dazed, but also proud.
As he should be. He should be proud of his serene layers.
“Anyway,” I laughed lightly. “Look at me, getting all emotional. Again, I’m sorry for my outburst. Should I send a check over? With the deposit for this year? Or how do you want to handle that?”
“Uh . . .” He glanced at the ground, looking like he was frantically trying to locate his scattered thoughts. “I guess, uh, a check is fine.”
“Glorious!” I clapped my hands together. “I’ll send my momma over on her way home from the hotel.” Hopefully, she wouldn’t mind.
Now he stiffened and his face blanched. “Your—your momma?”
“Yes.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile. It was no secret in Green Valley that my momma was as well respected as she was feared, especially with the local business owners.
“Mrs. Donner-Sylvester?” His voice cracked again, and he pulled at his open shirt collar like it was too tight.
“It’s just Ms. Donner now,” I reminded quietly. “The divorce isn’t anywhere near final yet, but she prefers it.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right.” Mr. Badcock pushed his fingers through his sweaty hair, frowning as he glanced down at his clothes. “What time would she be by?”
“About nine, I suspect. As long as that’s not too late or disagreeable to you.” Glancing at my watch, I saw it was now half past three. This egg encounter had taken much longer than I’d expected. I needed to get those four dozen eggs back to the bakery and in the fridge soon. Three new orders had come in—all for custard—and the way I made it, the mixture needed to rest overnight.
Plus, I couldn’t be late for the jam session, not again.
“Well, all right then.” Mr. Badcock, seeming both overwhelmed and resigned by the turn of events, motioned me forward. “Let’s go up to the house and get you those eggs.”
I followed dutifully, happy to have avoided a disaster.
At least, for now.
Chapter Two
“Selfish— a judgment readily passed by those who have never tested their own power of sacrifice.”
― George Eliot, Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe
*Cletus*
“What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our makeshift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.
Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up. If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a handwritten note showcasing their superior pen(wo)manship, or a mime routine with or without the painted on face, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized yet readily available resource, for example.
A silence ordinance, that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.
“Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one blond eyebrow lifted higher than the other.
We’d just finished the last stanza of “Orange Blossom Special.” I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question were in response to the frown affixed to my features because I should have been pleased. I was not pleased.
I’d semi-coerced my brother Billy into singing with us. A rare achievement. Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session. Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and with Billy on vocals we sounded like one of those real, bluegrass studio bands.
Again, I should have been pleased. And yet, I was not pleased.
Jenn was late.
Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.
“It’s time to take a break.” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already read it ten times. “I need to make a call.”
Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared. He smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.
“Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument, and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”
A person walked between Drew and I just as the quiet words left his mouth, the man sidestepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.
Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.
Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned a happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.
He should’ve been a musician. Or he could’ve been one of those engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro football player.
But no.
Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator next. And after that, a congressman.
My expression of displeasure intensified. I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.
She better not be working.
I swear, if that dragon lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .
I would . . .
I won’t do a thing.
Dammit.
I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.