Avery Proctor did not like feeling helpless. Ever since her teen years, when her daddy left her momma and she had to step in to take care of her baby sisters, Avery had promised herself she would grow up strong so she wouldn’t have to rely on strangers for help. For the most part, that’s the way things worked out. She put her two children through college, buried a husband too young, and sent more than one suitor packing because no one measured up to her beloved Harry.
A few times along the way, Avery had to ask for assistance. But not often, and not without repaying what she borrowed, with interest—and a handwritten thank-you note. So she knew about giving and receiving, about how sometimes it takes just a little bit extra to get somebody through a rough spell.
Avery was extra sensitive to people in need, and it just about broke her heart when she saw sad stories on the evening news. She wanted to save each and every person in distress. Most times, of course, she couldn’t do anything more than weep, and pray, and send a check to the American Red Cross, like with 9/11 and Katrina. Those two tragedies liked to do her in. So when the waters rose in Tennessee in 2010 in what that cute young weatherman called a “five-thousand-year flood,” Avery was ready.
Well, she was sort of ready. Her basement got four feet of water in it, so she lost her daughters’ old prom dresses and some grapevine wreaths she was planning to decorate for the holiday craft fair at the church, but she was lucky and she knew it. Avery felt bad that she couldn’t save the people who drowned or rebuild the homes of those who lost everything. Goodness knows she would have been willing to wield a hammer if her doctor hadn’t told her to let up on the manual labor after that time she got tangled in the barbed wire trying to mend a section of fencing by herself. But Avery could do one thing to help: she could cook.
As soon as the grocery store reopened after the worst of the rains had passed, Avery loaded up her cart with all the ingredients she needed for her specialties: bacon cornbread and cold spaghetti salad. She was halfway to the checkout line when she decided she’d make some grape tea, too, and maybe a few chocolate fried pies.
Avery had been famous for her bacon cornbread ever since she first took a batch to the annual cemetery working more than twenty years ago. Now she would cook all day and all night, as long as it took, to serve the people of her community who had been there for her when she needed them after Harry died. For starters, she would drive her station wagon across town and leave baskets of food for the Marshall brothers, who had lost everything, and the Newtons, whose son had moved them into a hotel until their house could be repaired. She would pour iced tea into Mason jars until every thirsty neighbor had a drink.
It wouldn’t even matter to Avery if she got her dishes back; not this time, even though she’s a stickler for proper etiquette, just like her Aunt Gracie. She wouldn’t complain if she didn’t receive thank-you notes or if no one called to sing her praises. Instead, Avery would be grateful that this time, when tragedy came calling, she was able to answer with her hands and her heart.