High Cotton Page 3

  My phone rings, but the traffic light has turned green, so I decide to wait until I’m in the office parking lot to answer since the only person who calls me this early is Mama. No doubt it has something to do with the reunion.

  Once I pull into my designated parking spot, I call Mama back. She doesn’t waste a second before letting me have it. “What took you so long?”

  “I don’t like to talk on the phone while I’m driving.”

  Mama makes a guttural sound with her throat. “You’re probably the only person in Pinewood who feels that way.”

  She and I have always had a frustrating relationship, but I love her, and I know she loves me. In fact, I suspect that all her pushiness is to help me remember where I come from.

  “So what’s up?” I ask. “I have a meeting in a little while, so I don’t have long.”

  “I thought you didn’t have to be at work until nine.”

  “I have to get ready for this meeting. If you want me to call you back later, I will.”

  “No,” Mama says. “I just need to know if you’re bringing someone to the reunion.”

  “Bringing someone? Like who?”

  “I don’t know. A date, maybe?”

  I don’t even have to think about this. “I doubt it.”

  “Shay.” Mama’s voice is soft but deep, reminding me of what I used to think was a tone of disapproval when I was a teenager. Now I hear it more as concern and desperation. “You can’t keep this up. Everyone in the family is worried about you being . . . well, staying single.”

  “You mean being an old maid?” I hate the sound of that, even coming from my own mouth. “Look, Mama, I’m happy with my life. I have a nice job, a comfortable condo, and lots of friends.”

  “Yes, I realize that, but—”

  “Like I said, I’m happy. I’m in the office parking lot, and I need to go in.”

  “Okay, Shay, but you have so much to offer the right man, and I’d really like for you to at least give this dating thing some thought.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  After I click the Off button, I sit and stare straight ahead for a few minutes. I told Mama that I’m happy, but am I really? I’m content . . . most of the time. Yet there are moments that make me think it might be nice to have someone by my side. Someone to lean on. Someone to laugh with. Someone to share life’s difficult moments. Someone to gripe to after a bad day at the office. Truth be told, I’m not always happy with my job. In fact, even though I have a ton of stuff to do, lately I’ve been bored to tears. And of course that makes me feel guilty as all get-out since I know dozens of people who would love to be in my shoes.

  I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and get out of my car. I have a meeting that deserves some preparation. It wouldn’t be right to give this new company anything but all my attention.

  Easier said than done, as Mama has always said.

  Throughout the sweet little company’s presentation about why they would revolutionize the condiments industry with their variety of flavors in 3-in-1 packs that go from dinner table to tailgate party, I picture the product on a picnic table . . . at my family reunion.

  “There’s enough for a party of twelve to season their hamburgers and hot dogs at a tailgate party and still have some left over,” the main woman whose name I can’t remember says. She’s trying to show confidence, but I can see the redness of her nervousness creeping up her chest and starting to reach her face. Her hands shake as she gestures.

  Her sidekick speaks up. “Or you can serve all your friends and neighbors at your backyard party without having to tote a whole bunch of bottles of stuff.” She turns to the first woman. “Right, Doris?”

  Okay, good. Now I remember her name.

  “We use only top-of-the-line ingredients in our condiments, so they should make even the pickiest eater happy.”

  After the people finish touting their condiments, the Southern Foods marketing manager opens the meeting to questions. I’ve already instructed the team to go easy on these people since this is their first attempt to get into the big leagues.

  Doris wrings her hands as she nervously glances around the room at the Southern Foods executives. I notice how she has to keep swallowing before she speaks, and my heart goes out to her. Finally, one of them lifts a finger and speaks.

  “I’ve seen similar products on the market already. Have you researched the competition?”

  Doris’s eyes widen, and she slowly shakes her head. “I . . . I didn’t know anyone else had this. I thought I invented it.”

  A few more people on my team come up with some lame questions, letting me know that they’re just trying to appear interested, when all they’re doing is placating the nervous prospective vendors. There are three people here to do the presentation, but once the rehearsed part is over, the only one speaking is Doris, the inventor of the product.

  My heart goes out to this sweet little lady with the accent that is not only southern but country as well. The urge to put her at ease washes over me.

  “I’m not sure we’re ready to make a decision on this just yet,” I say. “Let us discuss it, and we’ll get back to you.”

  She turns to her people, who both nod, then looks back at us. “Would y’all like to have some samples to help you make the decision?”

  Since I happen to know that this company started on a shoestring, and these people invested their life savings in getting it up and running, I nod. “That would be nice, but I’ll be happy to pay you for them.”

  “You don’t have to.” The look of desperation on her face nearly cracks my businesslike facade.

  “I insist.” I turn to my assistant. “Please have the bookkeeper cut a check for this case of samples.”

  After they gather their presentation materials, my assistant escorts them to the door. Doris stops, turns to face everyone still seated at the table, and manages a shaky smile. “Thank y’all so much for agreeing to see us. It would be such a pleasure for us to do business with a great company like Southern Foods.”

  Once we’re alone, I turn to my team and, fighting the emotions that have welled up in my chest, force a smile. “Well? What do y’all think?”

  The marketing manager lets out a chuckle, then clears his throat when he realizes I’m not laughing. “It is rather naïve for them to think this would be a success.”

  “Why?” I tilt my head and fold my arms as I hold his gaze, making him squirm. “Have you even tried their product?”

  He frowns. “No, of course not. They didn’t give us anything to try.” He gestures over the empty table. “Most of the vendors bring us food.”

  “Really? Are you willing to sit here and eat condiments right out of the package?” I give him a look that makes him drop his gaze and shift in his seat.

  “Well, no, but they could have brought—” He cuts himself off and lets out a breath, his nostrils flaring in the process.

  “Actually, they’re leaving plenty of samples for us to try later. I don’t think it would be fair to make a decision before we know what the product tastes like and how it works in a real-life situation.”

  One of the reasons I’m successful is that I don’t make rash decisions unless I’m one hundred percent sure of something. Although I suspect my marketing guy is right, I want to make sure we do the right thing by the vendor.

  When my assistant returns to the meeting room, I ask, “Did you get the case of samples?”

  She nods. “Two cases, and they’re paid for. There’s enough for all of us to take some home.”

  “Good.” The image of the condiments at my family reunion returns, and I let out a sigh of satisfaction. What better way to know if this product will be a success than to run it by my very picky, very opinionated family?

  Digger stands in front of the coffee pot, his legs peeking out from beneath his brown shorts, giving me that familiar tingly sensation all over. I know he’s thinking about tha
t ridin’ lawn mower, but I’m not.

  “I thought I’d go on over to Jackie’s on my way home from work and take a look at those lawn mowers.” Yeah, I’m right.

  So I pull out the big guns. “I’m cookin’ a pot roast for supper, so don’t stay there browsin’ too long.”

  I obviously said the right words, if his eyes rollin’ back and his soft moan mean anything. And I know they do. Me and Digger went to a married-

  couples retreat where we learned about love languages. His is obviously food, even though that’s not officially one of them. It should be.

  He downs the last of his coffee, grabs another biscuit from the basket, takes a bite, chews a couple of times, swallows, and gives me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “Any chance you can make a lemon meringue pie for dessert?” His look of love is definitely melting me from the inside out.

  I grin back at him. “Of course I can.”

  “That’s my girl.” He shoves the entire rest of the biscuit into his mouth and leaves the house with his cheeks bulging. I lean over and look out the window to watch his backside until he slides into his truck. I sure do love that man.

  Digger and I were awful young when we got married, so we had no idea what we were doing. One thing I know now that would have made me want to wait is the amount of debt we managed to amass in such a short time after high school. His cool set of wheels with the killer stereo system set us back quite a bit and took forever to pay off. Then three babies . . .

  I don’t ever want him to worry about providing for us, so rather than go back into debt, I work that part-time job that he doesn’t know about. Keeping quiet about it isn’t something I’d choose if I had my druthers, but since Digger is so proud, I keep it a secret, and my boss is willing to go along.

  If he ever finds out about my job, hoo-boy, he’ll be so upset. And his pride will be in the gutter. He loves to brag about how he’s able to support his family and I’m able to stay home for the young’uns. Our little “oops,” Jeremy, goes to a preschool program at the church, so I don’t have to feel guilty about my job.

  I’m fortunate that one of my old high school pals is doing so well with her boutique, La Chic, that she can’t keep up with the customers and the books. So I go in several days every week and do her bookkeeping. It’s fairly easy, and I get to sit in the back room where no one can see me. She gives me an employee discount, but I don’t even have enough money to take advantage of it. Truth be told, I don’t need what she sells—mostly high-end designer clothes and overpriced fashion jewelry, most of which is way too flashy for my taste. But there are a few things I might indulge in if . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding? I love the stuff. All of it. Especially the flashy pieces. Okay, I can’t think about that now, or I might get all weepy about the things I want but can’t have.

  We have always loved our family more than anything, which is good since our first young’un came almost exactly nine months after we got married, and then the next two came two years apart. My mother-in-law made a few snide remarks about my being a baby factory, but she quickly got over it when she saw what a good mother I was.

  I finish cleaning the kitchen as I ponder what to do next. My boss, Amanda, doesn’t need me for a couple more hours.

  “Mama!” The blood-curdling scream startles me, but it shouldn’t.

  Jeremy has always been a late sleeper, and since he’s still in his crib, he can’t get out until I go get him. Our other young’uns were climbers, but not Jeremy. That might be on account of his low center of gravity since he’s so stocky.

  “Mama’s comin’,” I holler back. I wipe off my hands on the dish towel, toss it onto the counter, and run back to his room.

  His little grin sends that familiar warmth all through me, and when he opens his arms wide for me to pick him up, I almost fall apart right there in his room. That boy has me wrapped around his little finger, sometimes to Digger’s dismay, since I’ve been known to drop whatever I was doing to answer Jeremy’s call. God knew what He was doing when he plopped our little unexpected bundle of pleasure into our lives.

  “Banana.” Jeremy grins. “Banana?”

  “Do you want a banana?” I sure hope we’re not out of them. He loves bananas, but that’s not something I can buy in bulk since they go bad so fast.

  His whole body wiggles in my arms as he nods with enthusiasm, and then he stops, lifts his chubby little hands to my cheeks, and turns my face toward his. “Toast?”

  We definitely have bread, so I can make him some toast. Jeremy has never liked biscuits, which is why Digger jokes we have a Yankee baby in the family.

  I’m relieved to see a banana in the fruit bowl. It’s covered with brown spots, which is just the way Jeremy likes it—and probably why it’s still there, because no one else does.

  I put him in the booster seat and set his place with a Sesame Street place mat I picked up at a garage sale on the other side of town, where Digger’s rich cousin Bucky lives. Jeremy watches me as I prepare his sippy cup with half apple juice and half water, then peel the banana. I drop a slice of bread in the toaster before I sit down with my coffee.

  “School?” he asks.

  “Yes, you have school today.”

  Jeremy grins and takes a sip of his juice. He loves the church preschool where he gets to hang out with other kids his age and actually be the big kid for a change. He’s big for his age, but at home, he’s still the baby.

  He downs the last of his juice and thrusts his cup toward me. “Mo’.”

  Digger is concerned about how Jeremy only speaks in single words, mostly commands. All three of our other kids made sentences by the time they were three. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the amount of time I had to spend with them, but with this job, I’m doing well to keep his mouth fed and his bottom dry. Oh, that’s another thing. He’s not potty trained yet, and he doesn’t show any signs of interest in using the potty.

  I spend the next half hour feeding and dressing Jeremy. On the way to the church where he goes to preschool, we listen to kids’ worship songs and I attempt to sing along. Singing has never been my strong suit, but Jeremy doesn’t seem to mind. He even chimes in with unrecognizable words and tunes every once in a while. Our pitiful attempt at harmony makes my heart happy.

  After I deliver him to his classroom, I rush out to my car and speed toward La Chic, where Amanda awaits.

  “You’re a little late. I was worried about you, Puddin’. Is everything okay?”

  I nod. “Digger took forever getting out the door, and then I burned Jeremy’s first piece of toast, so I had to fix him another one.”

  Amanda gives me a sympathetic smile. “I totally understand. I’ve had more than my share of days like that.” She pauses. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you pick out something from the clearance jewelry case? I know when I’m havin’ a rough day, it always cheers me up to get a new bracelet or pair of earrings.”

  I glance longingly toward the case but shake my head. “I’d better not. If I come home with something new, Digger will wonder, and I don’t feel like answering questions.”

  “Don’t you think Digger will understand?”

  “Maybe so, maybe not. I’m just worried about bruising his pride.” I leave out the part about how I love his swagger, and he might lose some of it if he thinks I’m having to work.

  She giggles. “I can’t believe you’ve been able to keep this job a secret for so long.”

  “I’m not sure how much longer I can. It’s getting increasingly difficult.”

  Amanda’s smile quickly fades. “I hope you’re not plannin’ on quittin’. I don’t think I could ever find anyone to replace you.”

  That little bit of encouragement makes me smile. “Maybe I won’t have to. Digger’s softening up about a lot of stuff lately, so maybe he’ll understand why this job is so important to me. I just can’t mention the fact that we need the money.”

  She knows all about Digger’s old-fashioned sensibi
lities. “He’ll probably be happy about it if you tell him you’re doing it because you enjoy it.” She pauses and gives me a look of concern. “You do enjoy working here, don’t you?”

  More than she’ll ever know. “Yes, of course. Speaking of working, I’d better get to it so I can pick Jeremy up when preschool is over. I can’t be late again, or they’ll start fining me.”

  I leave the office early on Friday afternoon feeling, as Mama would say, plum tuckered out. It’s difficult enough to deal with hiring a new store set coordinator after the one who’s been with me since I got promoted decided to “find herself” in a cross-country motorcycle trip with some guy she’s been seeing all of two months. Now I have to start hunting for someone to fill her position, as well as a sales manager to replace the one I trusted but who went off and accepted a position with our chief competitor.

  I’ve always been loyal, so I expect those around me to be the same way. Unfortunately, I’m often disappointed when I find out how little I know about someone.

  The only thing that’ll make me feel better today is a new head-to-toe outfit, and the best place to find one of those is La Chic. I usually wind up with an extra-nice bonus since I wear the sample size of most of their shoes, and they almost always have something they’re taking off the display that I can pick up for a steal. I’ve asked Amanda about how that always happens when I visit her boutique, and she says I have great timing.

  I pull up in front of the store, get out of my car, and walk toward the front door. To my surprise, as soon as I step inside, my brother’s wife, Puddin’, is standing there talking to the owner.

  Puddin’ looks like she just spotted a ghost. Before I can say something nice, which I always do when I see her because she’s so sweet, she starts babbling about how little time she has to shop, since she has to leave and pick up the baby from his church program. Her hand flies up to her mouth as though she might have let something slip. “I hope you don’t think I’m a spendthrift,” she adds with a shaky smile. “I almost never spend money on myself.”