The Strawberry Hearts Diner(82)

“We have decaf and plain coffee,” Vicky said.

That the Robertson kids would be interested in getting rid of their land didn’t surprise her. Both their parents had gone to a Frankston nursing home last fall and the two daughters lived in Florida these days. The Robertsons had grown strawberries on that place back when Nettie’s grandparents had farmed the forty acres adjoining it.

“Okay.” He sighed. “Just a tart then and whatever coffee you have made.”

She set his order on the table and laid the ticket on the edge. “No hurry, but I’m havin’ a quick lunch with my daughter and her girlfriends.”

“Knife?” He rolled his eyes.

She went back to the counter and brought out an oversize steak knife. “This do? Most folks just pick the tarts up or else use a fork to cut them.”

“I’m not a redneck,” he grumbled.

“No, sir, you are not,” she said in a sugary-sweet tone. “And I’m still not selling my land or my diner. You might check north of the Robertson place, since I don’t think you’ll have much luck with anything south of there. We’ve all made up our minds to keep what we’ve got. I’ve told you that a dozen times. Like I asked before, why aren’t you in Troup?”

“I’m lookin’ into both places. Pick is my first choice, but . . .” He cut off a piece of the tart and put it in his mouth. “Not bad. Pretty good.”

Emily shot a go-to-hell look across the room meant to fry the man into nothing but a big toothy skull and fancy shoes right there on the spot. “That, sir, goes beyond pretty good. Nettie’s tarts are amazing.”

“And you would be the daughter, right? I remember you from the picnic.” Carlton broke out his smile and threw a few dollar bills on the table as he stood to his feet. “Keep the change.” With all his usual fanfare, he strutted out of the diner.

Vicky picked up the money and snorted. “The change is exactly two cents.”

“Can’t expect anything better from a cheap con man,” Emily said. “Next time he comes in here, Nettie, I want you to get out the magic potion and put it in his coffee.”

“Magic?” Jancy asked.

“That would be the stuff they give folks who overdose to make them throw up,” Emily said.

“He sent that good-lookin’ cowboy that was at the picnic to my folks’ place,” Waynette said. “He tried his best to make them sign a preliminary agreement that they wouldn’t sell to anyone else.”

“What happened?” Jancy asked.

“Mama brought out her shotgun and ran him off the place. He left the paper on the table and Daddy had the lawyer take a look at it. Preliminary, my butt! It was a contract to buy the property for a fraction of what it is worth,” Waynette said.

Sarah raised a hand. “Same at my house, but it was Daddy who ran him off.”

“We should have cornered him right here in the diner. Between the seven of us we could have done a number on him,” Teresa laughed.

“Heck, we wouldn’t all need to let our burgers get cold. Jancy could have wiped up the floor with that fool,” Nettie laughed with her.

“Y’all are the best.” Jancy stood up and started toward the kitchen.



The girls left, but it wasn’t long until several cars pulled into the parking lot. Nettie hustled back to the kitchen, where she removed several steaks that had been marinating in an egg and milk mixture and coated them with flour. She’d made chicken-fried steaks every week for so long that she could do it in her sleep—her mind went to other things while she worked. Maybe when the baby was born, she would stay home a couple of days a week and babysit. After all, Emily had said that she’d be the great-grandma—that’s what they did. Semiretirement would take some serious thought, but if Jancy would stay it might be a possibility.

“What’s your secret on those chicken-fried steaks?” Jancy asked as she joined Nettie in the kitchen.

“Double breading. Dip them in the milk mixture, then in flour, then repeat the process. And get the grease very hot. Overcooking toughens the meat, and grease that’s not hot enough makes for soggy bread on the outside. Plus, I put two tablespoons of cornmeal in the flour,” Nettie told her. “Watch me do these two. You can do the next couple, and I’ll watch to make sure you do it right. Like good bread making, it’s technique as much as recipe. What’s goin’ on up front that you are back here?”

Jancy did not take her eyes off the process, and when it was her turn, she did it exactly like Nettie did. “I volunteered. Seemed like Vicky and Emily needed some more time together.”

“You are a quick study, and I mean in more than just cookin’, girl. You can do the rest,” Nettie said. “And tomorrow morning you’re doin’ the hot rolls. I’m thinkin’ that maybe when the baby is born I’ll trade a few days a week in the diner for rockin’ the little one up at the house, but keep that under your hat. I’m not ready to announce it just yet.”

“You got it.” Jancy smiled.

That evening when they closed up the diner and headed to the house, there was not a single tart left on the cake stands. Nettie had made crusts and had them ready to go for the next day. Cream cheese was set out to soften to speed up the filling process, and the strawberries’ glaze had been made.