Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter
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and peered into the mirror. “You sure I look okay?”
“When don’t you look more than okay, Gram? And stop trying to change the subject.”
Marvela snapped the visor closed. “There’s nothing ‘going on,’ as you so decorously phrased it, between Ross and me.”
Linden aimed the car into an empty slot between a Ford Focus, and a mud-splattered, gun-toting, wide-body pickup that’d seen better days. A two-flag sporting pickup—reflecting the owner’s dual citizenship: Dixie and America.
“Haven’t seen the man since the summer we graduated from high school.” Marvela reached for the door. “And I have no intention, Smarty Pants, of telling you how long ago that’s been.”
“And you’d no idea he just returned to Cartridge Cove like you?”
Marvela flung the door open. “Pop the trunk, Honey Girl, so I can get the box of chicken. And I do not pretend to know what has got into you, Linden Birchfield. Such unspeakable rudeness to our guests this afternoon. You embarrassed the life out of me in front of my old friend, Ross.”
The undulating r-r-r-’s. Linden gritted her teeth. Subject evaded again.
She joined her grandmother at the open trunk. “I’ll get it, Gram.” She handed Marvela her keys.
Linden heaved the cardboard box lined with aluminum foil out of the trunk. The mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken permeated the air as the setting sun cast long shadows across the bustling parking lot.
Marvela slammed the trunk shut, and pressing a button, locked the Toyota with a beep. “This way.”
She followed as Marvela wove her way among the cars coming and going out of the church parking lot. Their progress slowed as Marvela introduced her “Honey Girl” granddaughter to old friends.
“This box isn’t getting any lighter,” Linden protested after the tenth such introduction. “And I thought this was a Cherokee event. You know,” she whispered in Marvela’s ear. “An Indian dinner.”
Marvela held the side door for Linden to pass first. “That’s what we call it because of the menu. Take out or eat in. But it’s always well patronized by every segment of Cartridge Cove society. Especially for a bi-ethnic cause like this one.”
“The volunteer fire department?”
Marvela nodded. “The firemen are frying trout caught right out of Singing Creek for the fundraiser, too. I bought supper plates for both of us. We’ll eat here so I can take my turn on the serving line.” She smiled. “It’s good to be part of a caring, close-knit community again. All the Cartridge Cove’s churches are helping out.”
Her grandmother called greetings to various female members of the Baptist, Methodist, and Hallelujah Community churches manning the stovetop and serving line.
“Imagine that,” Linden muttered to the boxed chicken. “All three of them.”
What she wouldn’t give for a little civilization right now?
A Starbucks. A mall. Linden sighed.
Marvela tied a navy blue chef’s apron around her svelte form. The apron read, Blue Mountain Majesties—God Bless America and Snowbird. The volunteer waiters sported similar kitchen attire in various red, white, and blue combinations. “Grab a plate, Linden. Go ahead and eat. Time for me to dish out the cherry cobbler.”
Eat? Alone? Surrounded by all these people she didn’t know?
Marvela deserted her for the long dessert table on the far end of the fellowship hall.
Linden picked up a tray, a white Styrofoam plate, cup and napkin-rolled bundle of plastic utensils. This was going to be about as much fun as a . . . ?
A case of indigestion.
She curled her lip as she glanced over the aluminum pans. One of the “helpers” slopped a serving of hominy onto her extended plate. Another added a piece of fatback.
“Don’t worry, Miz Birchfield . . .”
At the taunting familiar voice, she swiveled.
Walker Crowe leaned his elbows on the other side of the galley counter. “You look like you could use a little more fat on that Madison Avenue figure of yours.” Smiling, he straightened to his full height, looping his thumb into his jean pocket.
Had he just complimented her? Or insulted her?
She glared at him to be on the safe side. But she’d misjudged his evening assignation. He wasn’t on a date. He’d come to volunteer like Gram.
He held out a ladle filled with boiled potatoes. “I’d offer you some potatoes, but I think you have enough starch in your system.” Mischief gleamed from his eyes.
Pasting a fake smile on her face, she glanced from side to side to see if anyone was watching before she stuck her tongue out at him.
He chuckled. “Glad to see you took my advice and came tonight.”
She rolled back her shoulders. “I didn’t take your advice.”
He raised an eyebrow into a question mark.
“I-I,” her hands gripped the cafeteria-style tray. “I simply accompanied my grandmother.”
He rolled his tongue in his cheek.
She clenched her teeth, wondering what it’d take to wipe that arrogant, patronizing smirk off his face. But mesmerized by his sensuous mouth, she licked her lips at the same moment the most obvious solution to accomplish such a feat occurred to her. Her breath hitched.
Although that might lead to more than she bargained for. She flushed. He laughed out loud.
Could he read her mind? Or just her body language?
He pointed to the hunk of bread. “Bean bread. Lesson number two. Corn meal cooked with pinto beans and then wrapped with cornhusks to boil like a dumpling. Produces a solid cake.”
She levied her tray against the counter and dropped the “biscuit” with a resounding thud onto the plate.
Walker gave her a lopsided smile. “Most people season this Cherokee staple with grease.”
“The fatback, I’m presuming?”
He folded his arms across his chest, lowering his eyes to half-mast.
“An acquired taste, too, I’m assuming?”
He grinned. “Kind of like me. We Cherokee grow on you once you get to know us.” He rested one hip against the counter separating them.
Was he . . . flirting . . . with her?
Flustered, she tilted the tray, causing the plastic utensils to slide forward. She made a wild grab for them but knocked her empty cup into the pan of creamed corn. She sighed.
Leaning closer, he fished the cup out of the corn. “Or maybe just me you might grow fond of.”
She quirked an eyebrow to indicate the likelihood of that happening. He handed her a new cup.
Linden pointed at a pan of greens. “What’s that?”
“Something we call ramps. A wild spring onion.”
“O-k-aa-ay.” She extended her tray to him.
Walker shook his head. “Because I like you and you’re new around here, and because we have to work together this week, I’m going to steer you away from this traditional favorite.”
He liked her?
She felt the pink working its way from beneath her denim jacket. A quivery feeling had taken hold of her kneecaps.
“You eat this and everybody in a five-mile radius will know it for the next day or so.”
“Oh.” That’s what he’d meant.