The Undead in My Bed

Page 22

After I’d reconnected the stove’s innards, I went back to bed and tried to think calm, happy thoughts. I needed to sleep if I was going to come up with an appropriate and painful rebuttal to this abuse of my domain. Striking at my stove was a new low for Sam. How would he like it if I went into his basement and melted down all of his precious tools?
Hmmmm.
“Oh, come on, Tess, where are you going to get a smelter?” I said to myself, sighing and rubbing at the persistent ache in my middle. Perplexed, I sat up in my sad, lumpy bed and realized I was hungry. Not just a little peckish. I was seriously, feeling-my-belly-button-rub-against-my-spine starving. I hadn’t been this hungry in years, certainly not this early in the morning. I was usually just hungry enough to need a snack by the end of a dinner shift, meaning a lot of midnight carbs. I usually skipped breakfast in favor of running five miles to make up for the late-night eating.
I thought back to the last time I’d actually made breakfast for myself and couldn’t remember what I’d eaten. And now that I was hungry, what did I want? Waffles? Frittata? Crepes?
Those things were all well and good, but what I really wanted was Lucky Charms. I hadn’t had sugary cereals since culinary school, when I’d regularly carried those mini-single-serving boxes around for snacking between classes. My pastry instructor found a box of Sugar Smacks sticking out of my purse in class one day and embarrassed me so thoroughly for my “toddler palate” that I’d lost my taste for them. But now I wanted a bowl of marshmallowy, sugar-coated goodness—badly. But what I had was fancy cheeses, eggs, and brioche.
So, instead of Lucky Charms, I had a spinach and feta omelet.
This just wouldn’t do.
—
On my safari into the Shop ’n Save, I grabbed my Lucky Charms, and some Cap’n Crunch for good measure. I bought Oreos, Pop-Tarts, and the makings of Fluffernutter sandwiches—things I’d loved as a kid but had abandoned for the sake of refining my palate. After recovering from the shock of how little I’d spent at the register, I tucked the grocery bags underneath the front seat of my car and cast a longing glance down the quaint little street. It was one of those old-fashioned Main Street arrangements, skinny two-story buildings all bunched up against one another—a hardware store, an antiques store, one of those old-fashioned ice cream parlors, and a sandwich shop called the Three Little Pigs. The cars lining the parking lots were older but well maintained, and the people milling around did it pretty slowly. This was not the place for the Hollow’s young and hip to do their errands.
Did the Hollow have a young and hip crowd?
I didn’t want to go home just yet. So I walked. I window-shopped at the antiques store and browsed the selections at the ice cream parlor for later reference.
I walked past the Three Little Pigs, a snug little brick building with a ridiculously charming cartoon sign. Catching sight of a patron chowing down on a triple-decker ham sandwich through the front window, I seemed to be moving over the threshold before I could stop myself. I was just in time for a late lunch, and I was hoping that whatever I ordered incorporated cheese fries in some way. I hadn’t had cheese fries in years.
The interior was done in dark panels and black-and-white hunting photos, presumably of the owner’s family. The menu was scrawled on a chalkboard in bright colors. The smell was incredible, so many layers of scent—fresh bread, frying bacon, melting cheese. I had to catch myself to keep from drooling all over the floor. This might be even better than Lucky Charms.
With an emphasis on carnivorous delights, the Three Little Pigs seemed to be primarily a sandwich shop. If it once had a pulse, it could be grilled, fried, braised, or roasted, then slapped between two slices of bread and delivered to your table. I was trying to decide between the house specialty—pork chop on wheat, topped with grilled ham and bacon—or starting off small with a turkey club, when a dill pickle flew over the opposite side of my booth and smacked me square in the eye.
“Sonofa—” I yelped, turning to see the adorable strawberry blond toddler who had blinded me with dill brine. “Gun,” I finished lamely.
“I’m so sorry!” a beautiful auburn-haired woman gushed, stepping around the booth and handing me a napkin to dab at my stinging, stinky eye. Her tinny country twang contrasted sharply with the fierce elegance of her face, but I doubted the sandy-haired man sitting with her minded all that much. “We’re still workin’ on hand-eye coordination and table manners. Trust me, they normally don’t waste a bite.”
“That really stings,” I marveled as she hovered.
“I know, it’s the vinegar,” she said, clucking her tongue and offering more napkins. “I’m so sorry.”
I snorted a little. “That’s OK. ‘Blinded by flying pickles’ goes nicely with the rest of my week.”
“I’m Jolene Lavelle, and this is my husband, Zeb.” She gestured to the sandy-haired man, who was currently scrubbing barbecue sauce from the boy twin’s face. “And these are our twins, Janelyn and Joe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, swiping at my eye one last time. “Tess Maitland.”
“You new in town?” Jolene drawled.
“Yeah, how can you tell?”
“The accent. You don’t have one.”
I chuckled. “I’m from Chicago. I’m just visiting the area for a while.”
“And you’re not having a very good time?” Zeb asked, his big brown doe eyes sympathetic. “You said a pickle to the eye went with the rest of your week. That can’t be a good vacation.”
“Come on over here, honey, and tell us all about it,” Jolene said, dragging me out of my booth. Geez, this girl was crazy strong for someone so slight. As she pushed me into the seat opposite Joe the pickle flinger, she yelled for someone named Maybelline to bring her a “tall blue.”
I really hoped that was some sort of home-brewed moonshine, because I could have used a drink right about then.
Imagine my surprise when a tall blue turned out to be a large blue glass bottle of homemade root beer, which Jolene swore would cheer me right up. It was tasty, with strong undertones of sassafras and ginger. The lack of carbonation was a little weird, but it settled my stomach almost instantly, and the lift in blood sugar helped my outlook considerably.
Jolene took the kids behind the counter and handed them off to two equally pretty waitresses, who bore a strong resemblance to my new friend. The ladies bobbed the babies on their hips and fed them bits of smoked sausage, which could not possibly be good for them. Then again, those kids seemed to have a lot of teeth.
Jolene snapped me out of my thoughts by sliding onto the bench seat next to me. “OK, now you have my full attention. Let’s hear it.” I lifted my eyebrows at her commanding tone. “Oh, come on, you look like your head’s about to pop off. You’re dyin’ to talk to someone. Now, spill.”
I looked to Zeb, who smiled at his wife fondly. “It’s best to just do what she asks. She’ll get it out of you somehow.”
I sighed. “It’s just, this house I’m renting, I have an ‘unexpected’ roommate. I would feel sorry for him, but he’s kind of rude and prickly. And I can’t get rid of him because I don’t have superstrength.”
On and on, I rambled about the house, which I loved, and Lindy, whom I didn’t have any fond feelings for, about Sam and Phillip and talking arugula, until I finished with “My professional reputation is in shreds. I haven’t had sex in six months, and I’m starting to think that after a certain period of disuse, everything grows over down there. Plus, I don’t know if I have a job or health insurance to go back to, so how am I going to afford the reconstructive hooha surgery?”
“Wow,” Jolene marveled. “That was an impressive rant.” She shot a look to her husband. “That was a Jane rant.”
Zeb grinned and shrugged, as if answering some unspoken question from his wife. There was a nonverbal coziness to their communication that made my chest ache a bit. I’d never had that kind of intimacy with any of my boyfriends.
“It’s all going to be just fine, Tess. You’ll see. You just relax now, while I get us a little lunch.”
Jolene returned to the table with two trays piled high with all sorts of foods that I didn’t recognize—colorful casseroles and fried mystery items and ribs.
“There’s no way the three of us could eat all this!” I cried, rising to help her heft the trays. “Please let me know what the check total is, so I can cover my share.”
“Pay?” Zeb scoffed. “McClaines eat free at the Three Little Pigs. Otherwise, we wouldn’t get access to Aunt Lulu’s special seven-layer salad. She doesn’t give that to just anybody.”
Without responding, I poked at the mayonnaise-covered bowl skeptically. “Why don’t I see any green vegetables in that salad?”
“Surrounded by beautiful smartasses, that’s my lot in life.” Zeb sighed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
“Everything you see here was made by my family, except for the pulled pork and the ribs,” Jolene said, unloading her culinary treasures with a practiced hand. “It’s on special, provided by the Volunteer Fire Department. They’re hosting a barbecue booth at Burley Days, and they needed the practice. My uncles don’t handle barbecue very well, which is why they don’t usually serve it here. Something about the smokers and fire—they get all wound up bein’ manly men and end up overcookin’ the meat.”
“Outdoor cooking has been known to do that. So, seven-layer salad?” I said, lifting a brow and staring at some well-disguised romaine lettuce that seemed to be topped with mayonnaise and bacon.
Jolene shook her head in a maternal fashion. “Hold on, sweetie, we have to start you out slow. We’ll work you up to seven-layer salad. You’re new to this whole Southern comfort food thing, and I don’t want you to get sick off your first try.”