Change is the one thing we can be sure of.
Naomi Judd
Mama stared at the girls, her eyes narrowing as she noticed Twiggy sitting next to Beau. And Crystal sitting next to Jasper. And Dahlia sitting next to Dewey.
“Well, who do we have here?” My mother took a seat and looked all around the table, her brow knitted.
“Mama, this is Dahlia.” Dewey looked a little scared, but Dahlia didn’t seem to notice.
She offered Mama a broad smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fisher. I’ve heard so much about you. And Queenie . . .” She looked at my grandmother, who took her usual seat at the head of the table. “My goodness, I feel as if I already know you, I’ve heard so many fun stories.”
“All good, I hope.” Queenie gave my brother a concerned look.
“All good.” Dahlia smiled.
Mama seemed to be having a hard time with our guests. She narrowed her gaze as she looked at Dewey and his guest. “Dahlia?” Mama spoke the word, then repeated it slowly, as if trying to make sense of it. “Dah-li-a.”
“It’s Swedish,” Dahlia explained, her accent sounding even heavier here in Fairfield than it had in Dallas. “It means valley.”
“Well, my goodness.” Mama fanned herself with her hand. “Down in the valley, the valley so low.”
Dahlia’s countenance fell at once.
“Mama!” Dewey groaned. “It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Well, she is lovely, isn’t she?” Mama pointed at Dahlia’s hair. “Is that real?”
“Mama!” I gave her a scolding look.
Dahlia didn’t seem bothered by my mother’s hair question. “Actually, they’re extensions. I got them at a salon in Dallas a few months ago. I think they work for my face shape, don’t you?”
“Did she say salon or saloon?” Mama whispered.
I gave her a warning look.
“I need to take you to meet Nancy Jo at Do or Dye.” Mama turned her attention back to Dahlia. “She’s new in town and is really hip. Like you. I’d bet you two would be terrific friends. What did you say those things in your hair are called again?”
“Extensions.” Mama mulled over the word and shrugged. “Need to get me some of those, I think. This current Diane Keaton ‘do’ is turning out to be more of a ‘don’t,’ don’tcha think?” She fussed with her hair.
Jasper, perhaps nervous by our mother’s odd welcome to Dahlia, decided this would be the perfect time to introduce Crystal.
“Mama, I want you to meet someone. This is Crystal. She’s from Georgia. Where they have peaches.”
Like that would help.
The petite blonde flashed Mama a broad smile. “Oh, Miz Fisher, I’ve heard so much about you!’ Her Southern drawl seemed more pronounced today. “Jasper here tells me you’re the purr-fect mama, and that’s just purr-fect with me, because my mama and daddy are singing with the angels right about now. I miss ’em so much.” She rose and walked to my mother’s chair, then wrapped her in a big hug. “I hope we’ll be free-unds. Can we?”
“Well, shore, honey.” Mama’s own accent thickened. “I have a feeling we’re two peas in a pod.”
“Mmm, peas.” Crystal giggled. “I haven’t had a good bowl of black-eyed peas since I left Georgia.”
“Then you have to come to our house when we’re done. I made a big pot of black-eyed peas just yesterday.”
“Ooh, I’d love that. Yum.” Crystal gave Mama another hug, told her that she felt sure they’d be best friends, and then headed back to her chair.
Beau, perhaps encouraged by this scene, cleared his throat. Mama shifted her attention his way, her gaze landing on Twiggy, who sat beside him in complete silence.
“Beau? Who have we here?”
The whole table grew silent. You could’ve cut through the tension with a knife.
Beau took a swallow of his sweet tea, then released a slow breath. “Mama, I’d like you to meet Twiggy.”
“Twiggy?” Mama’s brows scrunched. “Like the model from the sixties?”
A delightful smile lit Twiggy’s delicate face. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Is she your mama or something?” Before Twiggy could respond, my mother gave the young woman a closer look. “I do think I see a family resemblance, especially in the calorie department. You look as if you could stand some padding, girlie. We’ll have to load you up with carbs. It’ll do you a world of good.”
Twiggy paled. “Oh, no thank you. I’m off of carbs. In fact, I’m gluten-free. Well, mostly.”
“Gluten-free?” My mother’s eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might take leave of her face. “Well now.”
Oh. Dear.
Mama couldn’t abide anyone who hated bread. Bread was a staple in our world, kind of like air or water. Or lemon pound cake.
Beau’s sweetie lit into a dissertation about some diet plan she’d found online. Before long she and Dahlia were engaged in a conversation about it. Mama, on the other hand, refused to play along.
“The only diet I’ve been able to stick to is the one where you cut back at the buffet.”
“Or eat your weight in lemon pound cake,” Beau whispered to me.
“I heard that.” Mama gave him a sour look. She pointed at Twiggy’s short bob. “Now that’s a haircut! I think I saw this once on a TV show. Did you pay money to have that done or cut it yourself?”
“I-I paid money.” Twiggy squared her shoulders. “I’ve never cut my own hair. Well, not since I was three, anyway.”
“I’ve cut Herb’s hair for years,” Mama said. “And my boys’ too, though frankly, most of the time they just shaved it all off in the summertime, due to the heat. I always say a woman who can cut her man’s hair is of great value. She saves him the $6.99 at the barber shop.”
“Oh, I ahl-ways cut my brothers’ hay-er too,” Crystal said. “I’m real-ly good at it.”
Mama turned her gaze to Crystal and smiled. “Good to know. Why don’t you and I go have a look at the buffet, Crystal? In fact, I’ll show you around the restaurant so you’ll feel right at home.”
“Oh, yes ma’am.” Crystal rose and joined my mother. “I’d love that.”
“When we’re done, I’ll come back and feed that skinny one some bread.” She pointed at Twiggy, who sat in stony silence, glaring at Beau.
Mama and Crystal headed off arm in arm to take a little tour of the restaurant. Dahlia engaged my grandmother in some conversation about the weather. And Twiggy—God bless her—reached for a slice of bread from the basket in the center of the table.
Beau offered a little shrug, then passed her the butter. “And there you have it,” he said with a smile. “That’s our mama.”
Yep. That was our mama, all right. Nothing we could do about that, at least at the moment. Queenie switched the conversation to the recent drought, and Pop joined in, talking about how he’d seen an upswing in the sale of garden hoses.
Less than five minutes later Mama and Crystal returned to the table, all smiles. I couldn’t help but notice my mother was carrying a large slice of lemon pound cake. Strange, since we hadn’t eaten any real food yet.
“You’ll never guess, Katie. Crystal’s from Georgia.” Mama took her seat once again and set the pound cake down.
“Well, yes, I know. She’s—”
“From Atlanta. She was Miss Peaches two years in a row. Isn’t that a fun coincidence? I told her that you were Fairfield’s Peach Queen your senior year and she can totally relate.” Mama gave Crystal an admiring look. “She even loves peach cobbler, my all-time favorite.”
“Well, Mama, you didn’t think I’d bring home a gal who didn’t like peaches, did you?” Jasper looked offended. “I know a good girl when I see one.”
“I believe you do.” Mama shook her head and looked at all of the girls. “I still can’t get over the fact that all of you met in a bridal shop. Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.”
“Well, that’s kind of a long story,” I said.
“No time for that now.” Mama shifted her gaze to Twiggy. “I daresay we get busy feeding this one something before she wilts away to nothing. Oh my goodness. Why, you’re eating the bread.”
“I am.” Twiggy took another bite. “It’s good.”
“Well, for pity’s sake. I hope we don’t have to call 9-1-1,” Queenie said. “I once heard of a gal who had to be hospitalized after eating bread.”
“It’s a very real problem,” I said. “People who are overly sensitive blow up like balloons when they eat bread.”
“Good thing I’m not overly sensitive then.” Queenie gave me a wink.
“It’s not really like that, anyway,” Twiggy said and then took another nibble. “I’m not hypersensitive to gluten or anything like that. Mostly I just don’t like the carbs, so the gluten-free diet works for me. Really, it’s more Paleo, if you want the truth of it.” She took another big bite of the bread.
“Paleo?” Mama’s nose wrinkled. “Are you an archaeologist or something?”
“No. It’s a kind of diet.”
“Well, I understand. The doctor put me on a diet once too. Didn’t really take, but I gave it the old college try.” Mama took a nibble of her lemon pound cake. “I think mine was called the California diet. No, maybe it was the Arizona diet. Anyway, it was named after some state. Never heard of the Paleo thing. I’ll have to look it up on the internet.”
Queenie sighed. “I’m terrible on the computer. Things are whirling so fast on that machine, I just can’t keep up. To be honest with you, I’d be just as happy if there was no such thing as the internet. I liked things the way they were before we were all in each others’ business on those crazy social media sites.”
“Oh, but if we didn’t have internet, our whole business would collapse,” Pop said. “We’re dependent on networking, you know.”
“Well, all this talk about bread has me hungry,” Queenie said. “Does anyone mind if I get some food? It is my birthday, after all.”
“Yes, we wouldn’t want the birthday girl to starve.” Pop chuckled.
Everyone rose and made their way to the buffet. Mama caught me in front of the salad bar and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Dewey’s got his eye on that tall girl with the platinum hair, does he?”
I nodded. “Dahlia’s very nice.”
“I don’t trust anyone whose name I can’t pronounce.”
“Like Mayor Luchenbacher?” I asked.
“Well, of course I can pronounce Luchenbacher. I grew up with Karl Luchenbacher. That’s not foreign to me. Delilah is foreign.”
“Dahlia.”
“Exactly. Foreign. And I can’t understand half of what she says. Do you think she’s trying to impress us with that accent of hers?” Mama’s eyes flashed with suspicion. “Maybe she’s really from California or someplace like that, and she’s just acting. Putting on a show so people think she’s all hoity-toity when she’s just a regular small-town girl like us.”
“I don’t think there’s much that’s regular about us,” I said.
“I’m definitely not regular,” Pop said as he stepped into the spot next to me. “Haven’t been for the past four years, but I think it’s got something to do with male menopause.”
This led to yet another bizarre conversation with my parents.
“That Twiggy girl is the last person on earth I’d picture with my Beau.” Mama reached to fill her plate with lettuce. “Such a skinny little thing.”
“Mama, why do you care if Beau has a girl?”
Mama turned back to look at me. “I don’t expect you to understand, Katie. You’re not a mama.”
“But even if I was, I’d want my kids to be happy. It’s obvious Beau is very happy with Twiggy.”
“He can be happy with someone closer to home. When the time is right.”
I pulled her off to the side, away from the others. Time for a heart-to-heart with Mama. “What if the time is right now?” I asked. “And what if the place really is Dallas? Would that be so awful?”
A painful silence followed my words.
“What if this is God’s answer to Beau’s prayers for someone to love?” I continued. “Would you argue with him? The Lord, I mean.”
“If we could put that part aside and focus on the look of happiness on Beau’s face, then wouldn’t you agree this is for the best?”
Mama said nothing. She shifted her salad plate from one hand to the other.
“Point is, she brings out the best in him,” I said.
“In Dallas.”
“That’s where her work is, sure. But Dallas isn’t exactly Timbuktu, Mama. It’s only an hour or so away.”
“Conversation over.” Mama headed back to the salad bar. “My goodness, it’s crowded in here tonight. We have to fight for food.”
Among other things.
We filled our plates and headed back to the table. Before long everyone but Mama settled into comfortable conversation. We even had Queenie laughing on more than one occasion. When it came time to open gifts, she turned her attention to the packages, obviously intrigued. She had just ripped the paper off of a gift from Mama when something—or rather, someone—caught my attention from the other side of the room.
Walking toward us, albeit hobbling a bit, was Aunt Alva . . . on Brady James’s arm.