Jennifer
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
I was making pie.
I didn’t usually make pie, but I was waiting for the bread to rise so I could knead it again. I’d woken up with a thirst for violence. Cutting the butter into the flour for pie crust was almost as good as kneading bread.
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
I set my teeth, stabbing the frozen butter, while Cletus’s question looped in my head. The question had been on repeat because I didn’t know the answer.
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
The last seven days had been wearisome, made even more so because of Cletus’s question bouncing around my brain.
My momma had scheduled us a flight to New York in November to meet with Jacqueline Freeman and the Food Network folks. As such, she’d put me on a diet.
“I don’t want you to be thick for the cameras,” she’d said.
The hotel investment group my momma had been frantic about for the last several months were visiting our lodge this week. They were staying for two days. Usually, I was in charge of the bakery menu. It was my job to finalize the list of weekly offerings.
The morning after my “lesson” with Cletus, she’d handed me two sheets of paper. “This is what you’ll be baking this week and next,” she’d said. “And I’ve left out the clothes I want you to wear and written out instructions for your hair and makeup.”
I stared at her lists, unable to find my voice. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoyed planning the menu, this small amount of autonomy, until it had been taken away.
I thought things couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong.
As soon as the investors arrived I’d been paraded out like a show pony. One would think I’d be used to it by now, but I wasn’t. And with Cletus’s question running through my mind, their eyes made my skin crawl. Especially the youngest of the bunch, a crispily tanned investor from Las Vegas by the name of Allen Northumberland.
“Are you almost ready?” My mother’s anxious question pulled my attention away from the violent butter stabbing. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Oh, good. You’re wearing your pearls. You know I like it when you wear your pearls.”
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
I sighed quietly and turned to the large refrigerator, placing the half-cut pie crust inside and removing the dark chocolate cake, egg whites, and freshly shredded coconut I’d prepped earlier in the day.
“Make sure you wear the yellow gingham apron I like.” She was checking her reflection in the stainless steel mixing bowl I’d set out for the demonstration.
Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?
“Yes, Momma.” I arranged the items on the counter, bypassed the Smash-Girl apron I preferred, and selected the yellow gingham instead.
“Also, Jennifer.” She rushed to my side, glancing behind her as though to make sure no one was about sneak up and listen in. “I think that Alan fellow fancies you,” she whispered.
I tried not to shudder in revulsion, but something in my expression must’ve given me away.
She huffed. “Now don’t be like that. He’s plenty handsome, don’t pretend like you haven’t noticed.”
He was handsome; he was a looker. He also made my skin crawl. “I have no interest in Mr. Northumberland.”
She continued like I hadn’t spoken. “His uncle owns two of those big hotels on the Vegas strip.”
“So?” I asked impatiently before I could stop myself. Honestly, it just slipped out.
“Sooo . . .” She widened her eyes at me and pressed her lips together, as though her reason for bringing up Allen Northumberland was obvious.
When I continued to look at her blankly, she made a low, growling sound in the back of her throat. “Don’t play dumb, Jennifer. I know you’ve got brains in there. So I think it would be great if you were nice to Allen. He’s the sort your daddy would approve of. Pay special attention to him during the demonstration.”
I frowned at her. Then I shook my head. Then opened my mouth to say I’m not going to do that.
But before I could, my mother—infusing her words with pointed meaning—said, “I would very much like it if you would pay Alan Northumberland special attention.”
My mouth snapped shut and I stared at my mother, at her raised eyebrows, at the way her lips were pinched together in frustration, and I wondered what would happen—what was the worst thing that would happen—if I said no.
She will be disappointed.
My heart kicked up at the thought.
She will be disappointed in you.
Now my heart was racing.
Can you live with that? Can you live with disappointing her?