Chapter Seven

When I arrived at the store, Aunt Velma stood in the produce section in her seersucker housedress, and I rubbed my hand across her back, inhaling the scent of Pond’s cold cream.

“Girl, you coming to our house this weekend?” she asked.

“I’ve got to work Saturday morning, and besides I don’t want you to make an extra trip to town, just to bring me in.”

“Don’t have much else to do.”

That wasn’t true. Aunt Velma and Uncle Ansel had a farm with more than enough work, even with JohnScott’s help. Besides, my uncle was pushing seventy and moved slower than a horned lizard on a cold day.

I smiled at Velma and consented. “Pick me up after work on Saturday.”

“Bring your momma, you hear?”

A nice thought, but we both knew it wouldn’t happen. Every evening, Momma came home from the diner, plopped in front of the television, and watched reality TV until bedtime. But I wasn’t complaining. She’d been waitressing at the diner for five months, and I thought maybe she’d finally found a good fit.

Emily Sanders, one of Fawn’s churchy young groupies, pushed a cart past us, checking items off her mother’s list. Her eyes slid over me, but she grinned at my aunt.

Velma pointed with a banana. “Emily, honey, those peaches over by the water fountain are nice and ripe. You get some so your mother can make you a peach cobbler.”

“Thanks, Ms. Pickett.”

“But watch out for the cantaloupe ’cause they’re squishy. Won’t last till suppertime.”

I tied my apron around my waist. “Time for me to man the register. See you in a minute.”

When I turned, I almost collided with a woman in a light-blue pantsuit. A pantsuit? I instantly recognized the stranger as Mrs. Cunningham. Even if I hadn’t been able to identify her by the process of elimination, I would’ve known her because she looked so much like Grady. I excused myself and strode to the register twenty feet away, where I grabbed a handful of coupons and pretended to be busy.

My aunt scanned the woman up and down. “Bless your heart. You must be the minister’s mother.”

“Yes.” The woman stuck out her hand, but Velma didn’t notice. Women didn’t really shake hands in Trapp, and Mrs. Cunningham was bound to figure that out soon enough.

“Velma Pickett,” my aunt said with a nod. “My husband Ansel’s a farmer-rancher. Your boys will know my son, JohnScott, from school. Coach Pickett? Anyhow, I’ve got eight more kids grown. We’re not churchgoers but don’t begrudge those who are.” She stretched the truth with that last statement, but Velma always said what people didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Mrs. Cunningham had Grady’s smile, but her speech wasn’t as attention-deficit as her son’s. “My name is Milla Cunningham,” she said. “We’re from Fort Worth, but my husband and I worked as missionaries for several years.”

“Husband?”

Milla rustled her shopping list. “He died last year.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Velma’s attitude softened, and she lowered her head in condolence while the preacher’s mother seemed to force a smile.

“Things sure are different here.”

“That so?” Velma said. “I bet you’ll get used to it directly.”

I peeked over the edge of a coupon and watched as Milla Cunningham steeled herself.

She leaned toward Velma and was about to say something when Emily charged around the corner, sending an apple rolling across the floor.

“Mrs. Cunningham, how are you?” Emily bubbled. “Are you getting settled?”

Velma shoved her grocery cart toward the okra and away from the ensuing hugs.

“Well, the boxes are unpacked.”

Emily stood so close that I thought she might knock the lady down. “My parents raved about the sermon yesterday. They said Dodd made the Bible easy to understand.” She giggled. “Dad said he’s going to be a better preacher than Brother Dunbar.”

“Oh my.” Milla fumbled with her necklace.

“Is it all right for me to call him Dodd?” asked Emily. “Because if you think I should call him Brother Cunningham, you say the word. Or Mr. Cunningham, if that’s best. Though Mom insisted we know each other well enough to go by first names. But whatever you think is what I’ll do, Milla.”

The woman’s silence accentuated Emily’s rant, and I almost laughed. To cover, I studied an expiration date on a Tide coupon.

Milla seemed sorry to rain on Emily’s infatuation parade. “I suppose ‘Mr. Cunningham’ might be more appropriate, since he’s one of your teachers now.”

“Oh my goodness, you’re right. It’s just that I don’t think of him that way, you know?”

Milla’s expression was utter patience, but the way her left hand gripped the shopping cart made me think she wouldn’t mind grabbing Emily by the shoulders and giving her a shake.

The teenager blubbered on. “I heard you and your husband went to college with Charlie Mendoza back in the day. He and his wife are so sweet. And now you’ve met the Blaylocks, too. Mom says Neil Blaylock is as close to an apostle as you can get—”

Fortunately, another shopper came to check out, providing a reason for me to ignore the rest of Emily’s drivel. By the time I had the customer out the door, Milla Cunningham had disappeared into the depths of the store, and Emily stood in front of me.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Did you find everything all right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Not so talkative now.

Emily craned her neck to search out the window at nothing and then studied a pack of gum as if she was memorizing the content label. When her gaze bounced from the label to me, I pretended not to notice.

I felt sorry for her in a way. She didn’t have a mean thought in her empty head, but she had always been a follower, and she’d jump off the Caprock Escarpment if everyone else decided to. She habitually ignored me, of course, but I always felt her heart wasn’t in it.

“That’ll be seventeen dollars and twelve cents.”

Emily handed me a twenty and mumbled, “Keep the change.”

She scooped up her plastic bags and sped out the door before my brain processed what she had said. Keep the change? That would be almost three dollars. Enough for a burger from the Dairy Queen. As I stuffed the money in the front pocket of my jeans, I considered whether Emily was trying to be nice or simply wanted to get out of the store and away from me.

“That girl’s a mess.” Velma rattled her shopping cart toward me. “Talked the Cunningham woman’s ears clean off.”

I scanned a can of pork and beans as Velma lowered her voice. “The preacher’s mother seems like a nice lady, but you can’t judge the buttermilk by the color of the cow. Could still be soured.” She leaned toward me. “What are the sons like?”

I pictured Dodd sitting on the corner of my desk, but I forced the image away with a shrug. “The same.”

“Boy hidy,” Velma muttered. “I bet they caused fruit-basket turnover up at the school.”

“You’d have thought they were painted fluorescent orange the way everyone carried on.”

She dug through her handbag. “You heard whether the kid’s playing ball?”

“No idea.” Her groceries filled six plastic bags. “You want me to call Luis to take these out for you? He’s hiding in the back.”

“That boy …” Velma reached across the counter to push the Talk button on the intercom. “Luis Vega, you get yourself out here and help an old woman with her bags, you hear?”

At the back of the store, the swinging metal door slammed against the freezer case.

“Coming, Mizz Pickett!”

Velma snapped her purse closed. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Ruthie. Peach cobbler.” Then she swept out the door, with Luis running to catch up.

What would I do without Aunt Velma? Since my childhood, she had comforted my tears and praised my successes. She taught me to cook, enlightened me about the birds and the bees, and educated me on proper dating etiquette. My heart warmed as she stomped across the parking lot in her Crocs, and I turned to smile at my newest customer.

Milla Cunningham eased her basket onto the counter, then clasped her hands at her waist. “You must be Ruthie.”

A muscle on the side of my neck twitched.

None of the employees at the United wore nametags—why would we?—so I wondered at her knowing my name. “Yes, ma’am.” I hurried with her groceries, setting my face in an expression of deep concentration as though I couldn’t be interrupted. It didn’t work.

“I’m Milla Cunningham.”

She waited for me to speak, and I racked my mind for something to say. You make me uncomfortable. What have you heard about me, other than my name? Would you mind shopping when I’m not on duty? I opted for something more civil. “Hi.”

“I’ve heard about you.”

That much was obvious.

“From my sons,” she added. “They said they met you Friday night.”

Her groceries fit into two bags, and I positioned them on the end of the counter. “That’ll be twenty dollars and seventy-six cents.”

She scanned a debit card and punched in her PIN. “See you later, Ruthie.”

“Have a good evening, ma’am.”

I fiddled with the plastic-bag dispenser until she was out the door, and then I watched her walk to her car, a dark-red SUV. She was a pretty woman with a stylish haircut that immediately put her out of place in Trapp, but she wasn’t made up fake, and her pantsuit wasn’t overly fancy.

She seemed harmless enough, but I wasn’t about to trust her. I couldn’t help remembering Velma’s buttermilk comment.

Time would tell.