“Sybil, good heavens! Are you planning to cook a church supper while you’re here?”
Allowing me to only take the handled sack tilting dangerously, she continued to the kitchen bearing the other grocery bags. “Hardly, but I do intend to put some weight on you skinny white girls.”
Back in the 1960s, Sybil Sides’ mother had been one of the few blacks allowed inside the country club at Martin’s Mill, and that was because she worked in the kitchen. Miss Imogene had been admired for many of her dishes, especially her delicious cornbread muffins. Sybil inherited her mother’s culinary skills, as well as her recipes, and continued to love any opportunity to cook—especially in my sunny and welcoming cream-on-cream kitchen.
“Girl, I don’t need any help packing on the pounds, but I sure won’t refuse anything you prepare,” I assured her.
“How about red beans and ham hocks with a side of cornbread for supper?” Sybil asked, immediately starting to unpack her bounty. “That new market out by the highway had some pretty strawberries shipped in fresh from the Rio Grande Valley. Since the berries are out of season, the price was as high as the fur on a wary feral cat’s back, but look. Didn’t they make a tempting pie?” She smiled proudly as she opened the lid on the plastic case.
I couldn’t keep from groaning. “Sybil, that smells divine, but all I can see is three pounds heading for each of my thighs.”
Grinning, Sybil added, “I also soaked the beans overnight because I’d planned to make them anyway, so it won’t take them long to cook. If you’ll let me use one of your big pots, I’ll get them started. They’ll be ready to eat in a couple of hours.”
“The pots are right in this cabinet,” I said, pointing to the island. “Use anything you need. As usual, mi casa, su casa, oh, talented one. Help yourself. Only I’d feel like a better hostess if you’d get out of your jacket first.”
Laughing at her own eagerness, Sybil did unbutton her eggplant-purple, quilted jacket, leaving her in a comfy charcoal gray sweat suit. A pretty lavender knit scarf dressed it up, but I held my hand out for it and the coat.
“Give it here and I’ll hang it up in the coat closet next to my office. Ladies, whenever you’ve warmed up and are ready, please feel free to do the same. There are plenty of hangers.”
No one followed me, and I returned to find them praising my kitchen. One thing I’d insisted on when Charlie and I got around to our final renovating of this old farmhouse was vastly improving the place where I spent so much time. Back then I’d daydreamed of big family dinners, once the kids were grown and had their own children—or at least grand holidays with a house full of people. But my offspring had ideas of their own, which has taken Jamie, Mallory and daughter, Kimberly, to Houston, while Rachel, Paul and their children are in Virginia. The last time the house had this many people in it was for the reception that followed Charlie’s funeral.
“Just looking at this abundance is making my stomach growl,” Maggie said. She had put her jacket over the back of one of the bar stools, and had started to help Sybil unpack.
Carly ventured as far as the kitchen doorway and asked hesitantly, “Would you mind cooking a small portion of the beans without any meat?”
Most of us in the South had been taught to cook by our mothers, which meant we fried virtually everything in lard—unless it was smoked or barbecued. In time, we learned to make some healthier adjustments; however, the mere idea of not making beans with ham hocks had us all going still and staring at Carly in disbelief. Mercy, what next? Banana pudding without vanilla wafers?
It was Maggie who opened her mouth to challenge her, but Carly beat her to it, continuing with a slight shrug, “I’m a vegetarian.”
One of those death-knell silences followed. The last time any of us had heard of a vegetarian in these parts had to be in our school history books. Deprivation had been a forced issue during the Civil War—after the Yankees ransacked every farm in their path, confiscating any and all livestock for their troops. The idea of a woman born and raised here being a willing vegetarian was . . . well, it just wasn’t southern!
Two
SYBIL WAS THE first to recover from Carly’s unexpected comment. “Why, sure, hon.”
She’d undoubtedly noticed Maggie’s disapproving expression, as well as my own shock, and immediately reached for a smaller pot. Visually measuring a cupful of the plump beans, she said, “Carly, you and Dana don’t know this about me, since neither of you were around then, but before I got my teaching degree, I worked in the cafeteria at Martin’s Mill Elementary. Just like these girls remember it from their school days, everyone ate the same thing, or else they brought their lunches from home. Nowadays, things are way more complicated. So many people have food allergies. Even in the classroom we have to be very careful about making sure there’s no cross contamination. Last year, a student in my second-grade class was extremely allergic to peanuts. That sweet little boy broke out even if he touched a crayon another child had been using, one who had eaten a peanut butter cookie. So believe me,” she said, rinsing the beans then filling the pot with fresh water, “this is a small request and no problem at all.”
Right then and there, I decided the S in Sybil also stood for saint. I was the hostess for pity’s sake, and I hadn’t recovered from my surprise fast enough to put my guest’s comfort first. I’d focused only on the bizarre-ness of her request—and, okay, what I’d perceived as her rudeness. It was easy to see Carly’s relief at Sybil’s kindness. For a moment her remote, cool expression warmed under Sybil’s caring nature.
“I can’t imagine having to deal with such a condition,” Carly replied, looking overwhelmed. “My decision not to eat meat has nothing to do with an allergy. It’s more about a path toward a healthier lifestyle. Mostly, though, I simply don’t like the idea of killing something so I can eat it.”
Maggie uttered a skeptical grunt as she removed the cork from one of the bottles of wine she’d unpacked. “I gather those fine sensibilities don’t extend to the poor critters that became your designer boots and handbag?”
“They’re all street vendor imitations, but I’m flattered you think they look like the real thing.” Carly’s expression turned cool again as she met Maggie’s sharp scrutiny. “So is the jacket. Excuse me. I believe the socially preferred term is faux.”
What we needed at that moment was a bolt of lightning to rescue me from what I could foresee as the invitation I wish I’d never extended. But knowing I couldn’t even hope for a three-foot icicle to impale me—since it hadn’t even begun to snow yet—I stumbled out of my own tongue-tied state and said too enthusiastically, “Oh, what a good idea, Maggie, you know where the glasses are. Who else wants wine? Dana, I have water from our own well, which is wonderful, tea . . .”
“Pour me a glass of that potion.” Sybil grinned at Maggie. “I want to feel like those chefs on those TV cooking shows that always have a glass of something on their work stations.”
“It’s Merlot,” Maggie said. “If you prefer something else, there’s Chardonnay, Cabernet, Pinot Grigio, Pinot Noir . . .”
“I’d love a glass, too,” Carly told Maggie. “Thank you.”
“I don’t care what the wine snobs say, I like Merlot,” Sybil replied. “Bring it on.”
Although Maggie’s raised eyebrows suggested what she thought of finding herself in the position of having to serve the leggy beauty, she efficiently collected enough glasses for us. I didn’t know whether to kiss her for resisting the impulse to make some smart remark, or pinch her Spanx-covered butt for not hiding that she’d been tempted.
She poured