Queen Bee (Lowcountry Tales #12)(6)

“Well, hi, Holly,” he said. “Would you like to come in? How’s your mother?”

“Oh, no, thanks; she’s fine. Nothing broken. Her doctors wanted her to stay the night just to be sure she’s okay.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Archie said. “I’m sure you’re relieved, too.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Mith Holly!” Tyler shouted. “Come see my map of Italy I’m drawing for extra credit!”

“Cool it, Tyler,” Archie said.

I smiled and said, “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if y’all came over for dinner?”

“Well, thank you! I was just going to order a pizza for the kids.”

“Well, I’m making chicken and mashed potatoes with little green peas. Nothing fancy.”

“That sure sounds better than pizza,” Archie said, with a smile so honest and beautiful, it almost made me gasp.

“I hope so,” I said.

Tyler and Hunter began rubbing their stomachs and licking their lips while making yum-yum grunts.

“Mmmm! Mashed potatoes!” Hunter said.

“Are you sure it’s not an inconvenience?” Archie said. “You do so much for us. I don’t want to impose.”

“You couldn’t impose if you wanted to! Not even one tiny little bit!” I said. “See y’all in about an hour?”

“That sounds fine. Thank you!” Archie said and then turned to his boys. “Gentlemen? Synchronize your watches! We depart at eighteen hundred hours!”

“We don’t have watches, Daddy,” Tyler said with his toothless lisp. “We’re still too little. Remember?”

Maybe I’d buy both boys watches for Christmas. Batman or Mickey Mouse watches?

“Great! See you soon!” I said and left.

I took the bags of groceries from the trunk of my car and hurried inside to get supper started. This wasn’t going to be a romantic dinner with candles, but I put on my favorite Tony Bennett album of George Gershwin’s music anyway. I just wanted to see how motherhood and marriage might feel. You know, just try it on, like a sweater. Oh, sure, I had made dozens of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the boys after school or on the weekends when Archie had an errand to do, even before they lost Carin. I was sure the boys looked at me like an adopted aunt of sorts, because I got plenty of hugs from them. And I had also wiped away buckets of tears when they felt blue or angry or frustrated. In the first days after we buried Carin, I’d taken them casseroles and cake, just like all the other women on the island. It was our tradition, and a nice one, I thought. But this would be the first time I cooked for Archie and the boys in my own house with them all there.

When Momma wasn’t ranting and raving, she occasionally delivered some wisdom. One of her favorite sayings had to do with the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. I’d dazzle him with my special chicken dish. I wasn’t a gourmet or anything close to it, but I had a way with chicken, thanks to a recipe I’d cut out of Southern Living magazine ages ago.

I washed and cut the potatoes into chunks and dropped them into a pot of salted water with their skins left on and set them on the stove on a high flame. I always used a potato ricer on the cooked potatoes that would catch all the skins when they were pushed through. Then I opened the package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, laid them on paper towels, and blotted them dry. I mixed two eggs in a soup plate with some milk and salt and pepper, and I put a cup of flour on another plate. I sliced a lemon and browned it in some olive oil and butter. Then I dredged the chicken breasts in flour, dipped them in the egg mix, and browned them all, putting them aside to rest as they were done. When we were ready to sit down I’d squeeze the juice of a whole lemon in my frying pan along with a big chunk of butter to make a sauce. Then the chicken would go back in the sauce with the lemon slices to warm it up and coat it all in lemony, buttery heaven. At the last moment, I’d drizzle it with honey and sprinkle minced chives from my garden over the top. Even my mother liked it. It was that good.

I flipped the album over and set the table in the kitchen, because we never used the dining room, except on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Besides, it was half covered with mail, mostly catalogs my mother refused to let me throw away. She had a black belt in shopping.

The grocery store flowers went into a glass vase in the center of the table. I used our newest place mats and paper napkins folded in triangles. The next challenge was finding four unchipped plates, and to my surprise, I did. When it was all put together, the table looked inviting. Not magazine worthy, but it had a wholesome charm.

By six, everything was ready. A fresh pitcher of iced tea stood on the counter, because of course we drank iced tea all year round. The peas were buttered, the chicken was sauced, and the potatoes were whipped into velvet ribbons. A Mrs. Smith’s frozen apple pie was bubbling away in the oven, and it was as domestic a scene as any woman ever set. All I needed was a golden retriever to star in a Martha Stewart tableau. The doorbell rang. On the way to answer it, I glanced at myself in the hall mirror to see that I had forgotten to put on lipstick or to brush my hair and thought, Oh, well, too late for vanity. I bit my lips to give them some color. Didn’t Scarlett O’Hara do that when Rhett showed up unexpectedly?

“Come in! Everything is ready! Did you boys wash your hands?”