Cinnamon Toasted
Authors: Gail Oust
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To Caden Alexander and Emma Grace.
Love you to the moon and back.
Everyone should have a friend like Fran McClain. Not only does she lend me prized cookbooks and handwritten recipes, but she also hosted a German Oktoberfest for me in July so I could sample sauerbraten and spaetzle. And to Greg, my son, who truly gets what it’s like to be a writer—and lets me know he’s proud of me. Have I told my friends in the Purple Gang and Sweet T’s how
much I appreciate you welcoming me back into the fold after lengthy absences while I’ve been in the “basement” writing? If not, forgive me. I treasure your friendships. No less appreciated is my husband, Bob, who never complains about egg sandwiches for dinner. My acknowledgments wouldn’t be complete without a shout-out to the wonderful readers who love nothing more than to curl up with a cozy.
May that addiction never end.
C
INNAMON FROM CEYLON.
Nutmeg from Grenada. Cloves from Madagascar. A regular United Nations lined the shelves of Spice It Up! Pleased, I stepped back to admire the window display I’d just finished. The collection of baking spices paired with the large wicker basket of red Cortland apples as nicely as cheese did with crackers.
In spite of naysayers, Spice It Up!, my little spice
shop on the town square in Brandywine Creek, Georgia, was flourishing. Certain folks—they shall remain nameless—were reluctant to admit that a former country club wife who’d been dumped by her ambulance-chasing, skirt-chasing husband of twenty-some years could morph into a successful shopkeeper. But I’d done it. I’d showed them.
With a contented sigh, I returned to my place behind the counter,
intending to check inventory. I’d no sooner clicked on the computer than Melly Prescott, my former mother-in-law, burst through the door.
“Piper,” she gasped. “I practically ran all the way over.”
I stared at her, aghast.
Melly, run?
Never in a million years. Not even if her house were on fire. It simply wasn’t her nature to hurry. “Melly, are you all right?”
Melly pressed a blue-veined hand
against her twinset-clad chest. “I’m fine, dear, really,” she panted. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, is all.”
I went over to her and, taking her elbow, guided her toward one of the stools I kept behind the counter. I studied her more closely. She looked … different. Her usual not-a-hair-out-of-place silver pageboy was mussed. If that weren’t alarming enough, she’d ventured out in public
without first applying lipstick.
Melly managed a laugh, albeit a breathless one. “The way my heart’s pounding, you’d think I’d just won a dance contest.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you some water.” Racing for the small fridge at the rear of the shop, I patted the pocket of my sunny yellow apron with its chili pepper logo for the reassuring outline of my cell phone. I might need to dial 911. Melly not
only looked different, but she was behaving strangely as well. Was this a warning sign of a stroke?
Casey, my mutt of many breeds, woke from his snooze at the foot of the back stairs leading up to my apartment. My scruffy pet raised his head, one ear cocked, as if to ask what all the commotion was about. When I ignored him, he resumed his afternoon nap.
I snatched a bottle of water from the
fridge, twisted off the cap, and hurried to Melly’s side. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, dear.” Melly took an unladylike gulp.
Although her breathing was less ragged, Melly’s color was still high, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes mirror bright. I berated myself for not taking the CPR course offered at the fire station. One never knew when that information might come in handy.
What is the rule of thumb
these days?
I wondered. Were people still doing mouth-to-mouth? Was it chest compressions only? Or both? I made a mental note to Google this later.
“You haven’t stopped taking your blood pressure medication, have you?” I inquired, eyeing her nervously.
“Mercy sakes, no,” she said. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
I regarded her thoughtfully. Melly had to be in her seventies, but other than that, I didn’t
have a clue which end of the spectrum her birthday fell upon. I doubted even CJ—her son, my ex—knew his mother’s exact age. According to the
Melly Prescott Book of Etiquette,
never ask a woman her age.
Never.
And if—I shuddered at the prospect—a person unwittingly breached the etiquette protocols, a bald-faced lie was perfectly acceptable.
“Melly”—I channeled my inner yoga instructor—“why don’t
you take a deep, calming breath, then tell me what’s going on.”
She withdrew an envelope from the pocket of her A-line skirt. “I wanted you to be the first to see the letter that arrived in the afternoon mail.”
Before she could explain further, a woman who looked startlingly familiar, yet drastically different, charged through the door. “Honeybun, wait till I tell you…”
Melly and I gaped at
the new arrival dressed in red with blond hair styled in a beehive. Hoops the size of tangerines dangled from her earlobes. Strappy sandals with three-inch wedge heels were also a clue. Big earrings, high heels, and bright colors pointed in only one direction. I was the first to recover from surprise. “Reba Mae Johnson, that you?”
Opposite as opposite could be on the outside, Reba Mae, my BFF,
and I were two peas in a pod when it came to things that mattered. Where I was barely five foot two, with unruly red curls and eyes as green as a tomcat’s, Reba Mae was tall and statuesque, with fair skin and eyes a pretty soft brown. Her hair color varied with her mood—or maybe the moon. Yesterday it had been jet black; today it was sunflower yellow. The two of us had bonded years ago over diapers,
teething, and soap operas.
Melly pursed her lips, her urgent news temporarily forgotten. “Girl, what have you gone and done to yourself this time? You look like a floozy.”
Unabashed, Reba Mae patted her sky-high do. “You know what they say, Melly. The higher the hair, the closer to God.”
“Hmph.” Melly sniffed. “If that’s true, you oughta be close enough to whisper in his ear.”
“Stop!” I held
up my hand like a traffic cop. “Will one of you kindly tell me what’s going on?”
Both of them began talking at once.
“I just received the most wonderful—,” Melly gushed.
“Y’all won’t believe—,” Reba Mae said—so excited, she couldn’t stand still.
They stopped midsentence and glared at each other.
“I was here first,” Melly pointed out. After sliding off the stool she occupied, she insinuated
her smaller self between me and Reba Mae, who towered over us. “Piper, dear, I wanted you to be the first to hear my news.”
Reba Mae, not about to be outdone, gently but firmly elbowed Melly aside. “Piper, you’re gonna freak once I tell you—”
“Not so fast, missy.” Melly glowered at Reba Mae.
“Ladies, ladies,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re behaving like a pair of six-year-olds.
Don’t make me give you a time-out.”
Again, Melly sniffed, affronted. Reba Mae, on the other hand, pouted—she actually pouted. I hated to see a forty-something woman pout. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Fine,” Reba Mae conceded grudgingly. “Age before beauty.”
“Reba Mae Johnson,” I scolded. “Shame on you. That’s no way for you to speak to my mother-in-law.”
“Ex-mother-in-law,” Reba Mae and Melly
chorused in perfect two-part harmony.
“Right,” I muttered. “Nice to see that you finally see eye to eye on something. Now, someone, please tell me what the heck’s going on.”
Melly took the high ground. “Go on, Reba Mae, you first.”
Reba Mae, not to be outdone, folded her arms across her impressive bosom. “No, you go first. I insist.”
Unbelievable!
We had apparently reached a stalemate. I tucked
an errant red curl behind one ear. “Why don’t we just flip a coin and settle this thing once and for all?”
I fished a shiny copper penny from the need-a-penny dish next to my antique cash register.
“Very well,” Melly agreed in a put-upon tone. “I’ll take heads.”
“Fine,” Reba Mae said, sounding equally prim. “Tails.”
I rolled my eyes, a gesture I’d acquired from my daughter, Lindsey, who turned
seventeen in late July. Teens, I’d discovered, were hands-down experts when it came to eye rolls. “All righty, then.” I placed the coin on my closed fist and tossed it into the air. It landed on the heart pine floor and spun around a few times before coming to rest.
“Tails,” Reba Mae crowed. “I got the part.”
“And I’m going to be rich,” Melly announced, not missing a beat.
“Part? What part?”
My head swiveled from one woman to the other. “Rich … how rich?”
“I’m gonna be Truvy Jones.” Reba Mae enveloped me in a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. “The opera house is puttin’ on
Steel Magnolias.
Since I own and operate the Klassy Kut—the best little ol’ beauty shop in Brandywine Creek—the director said I’d be perfect for the role.”
I hugged her back. “That’s wonderful, Reba Mae. You’ll
make the best Truvy ever.”
Melly cleared her throat to regain my attention. “My turn for a hug.” She put her arms around me in a stiff embrace, gave me an anemic squeeze, and just as quickly released me.
I tried not to show my surprise at this unprecedented display of affection. Now, I know hugging is second nature to most Southerners, but Melly Prescott didn’t number among them. I swear the
woman must have been at the hairdresser’s the day the good Lord dispensed the hugging gene.
Melly’s face was wreathed in a smile the size of Texas. “I’m going to be rich, Piper. Not just rich, but filthy rich. And I owe it all to you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“You feelin’ okay, Melly?” Reba Mae asked, genuine concern on her face. “You look a mite feverish. Maybe you should sit a spell.”
“Never
felt better.” Melly waved a sheet of paper, which by this time was a bit crumpled. “I’m too excited to sit still, although I do feel a little flushed.”
Melly, excited? Flushed? Reba Mae and I exchanged nervous glances. Melly was scaring me. I regarded her worriedly. Eyes—the same blue gray as my ex-husband’s and my daughter’s—sparkled, her cheeks rosy. “How long has it been since your last physical?”