“Is it good?” she asked.
Kit sighed and nodded. It was quite possibly the most elegant, perfectly tuned meal she had ever had. She paused a moment to remember the taste of the biscuit, soft and steaming, with its butter and juicy jam, blackberry maybe. It was heaven in her mouth. Kit was not prone to noticing the nuances of food—she ate, felt better, moved on—but this meal begged for attention. Even the butter was perfect, sweet and bright with salt, just soft enough to spread.
“How did you do this? It’s normal food, but it’s so, so much better.”
“I have this theory,” Eleanor said. “If you pay attention, you can tell what a thing is supposed to be—like its destiny, I suppose.” She reached into a wire basket of motley eggs, cocoa and cream, speckled and faintest blue. “So, this egg here, it’s very particular. And if you heat it too fast, or don’t give it enough fat to keep it from sticking, if you undermine it in any way, you prevent it from becoming wonderful. Even if it’s good, or very good, you’ve shortchanged it. I suppose I don’t see the point in messing with an egg if I can’t help it achieve greatness.”
“I would never give so much thought to an egg,” Kit said, buffing the yolk off her plate with a bit of biscuit, “but I’m sure as shit glad you do.”
Eleanor went over to the sink and plugged it up, then filled it with hot water and a long squeeze of Dawn. She scratched her nose and left a dollop of suds behind.
“You know, I never have been able to cook for one. After Emily was gone, single portions looked so . . . pointless there on the plate. I really don’t eat too much anymore. Your stomach shrinks as you get older, like it knows your body demands less and less, and it’s this slow cycle of diminishment. I abhor a poor appetite. It has always confused me, and here I am now—I could eat a biscuit and a nice peach and call it a day. So, I cook for two or more and hope someone invites themselves to supper, which they sometimes do. A nice boy named Caleb comes and collects branches, cleans the gutters, odd jobs I used to love to do but can’t do well anymore—he stops by sometimes, keeps me company, eats all I’ve got, and nothing makes me happier.”
“Well, that works out then, because I’m always hungry,” Kit said.
Eleanor shook her head and smiled at the dishwater. “I just can’t believe you walked up to my door,” she said softly.
As kind as Eleanor had been, this life was all so new. Kit understood she should be grateful, and she was. She should stay here as long as she was welcome. But it was hard to trust a good thing that was so foreign to her. She was restless and found herself questioning the value of staying still. If she stayed, she could get bored, or stuck with people she didn’t like, or worse—she could get caught. Of course, she could get caught on the run, too. And here she had Eleanor to vouch for her, a nice old white lady nobody had reason to doubt. But the thought that made her tearful and determined to stay: a picture of her smiling child hung up on the wall.
Kit thought of Manny that night. When all the signs of this new reality dimmed with the lights, and she lay alone, eyes closed, searching for sleep, she missed the warm shape of him in bed, the narcotic effect of his smell. Defiantly, she remembered only the parts she wanted to. His body, the weight of it, against her; his easy laugh and the puckish look in his eyes when they pulled off a proper con; the way he seemed to read her wants before she’d even allowed herself to know them.
Even now it was impossible to imagine not missing him. He had been her only companion, her protector and friend for nearly as long as she could remember. Choosing the right thing for her baby had been easy, but no logic, not even the truth about Manny’s character, would cut him out of her heart.
The next day, Eleanor wasted no time in orienting Kit to Pecan Hollow and announced they would attend the spaghetti supper that night. Eleanor hoisted herself into her brown and white Chevy pickup, grunting a little when she landed on the bench seat. Kit slid in next to her. Ten minutes into the drive they came to town. Eleanor parked and idled in front of the grocery store and gave Kit the ten-second tour from inside the truck. This was as close to a central square as the little town had: a post office the size of a roomy outhouse, a modest grocery store, Clete’s feed store, the police station, and a twenty-four-hour diner. A defunct railroad section split the central square on the bias and disappeared under a paved crossroad.
“That there’s where you get your groceries and your sundries,” Eleanor said, pointing to the crumbling, windowless stucco building in front of them. “I like to do my own shopping but I might send you out for the odd something or other.” She turned and gestured to a dusty barnlike structure that was covered in corrugated aluminum. “I get my chicken feed from Clete. It’s usually all right but I check the bag every time because once it came moldy and sickened my whole little brood. If there was someone else in town I’d take my business there, but in a town this small you can’t be choosy.”
Kit half-listened and rolled her face around the stream of cool air coming from the vents.
Eleanor prattled on, clearly delighted to play tour guide. She pointed her index finger. “There’s the police. Not much need for them here, poor things. They’re bored to tears. If you ever get the truck stuck in the mud they’ll tow you out. Come to think of it, I did have to call them one time when I found one of these druggie boneheads sleeping in my bushes. I think he tried to break in but nodded off before he got very far. Didn’t even budge when I lashed his wrists together with zip ties. Cops came pretty quick and hauled him off, still fast asleep.”
Kit smiled in acknowledgment of Eleanor tying up a sleeping intruder, but inside, her guts twisted to see how close they were to police.
“Anyway,” Eleanor went on and gestured toward a flamboyant 1950s building with a swooping pitched roof. “If you get sick of my cooking—and you won’t—right there is the diner. They make a pretty decent Reuben. I go there for lunch sometimes just to get out and see what’s what.” The diner looked out of place next to the humble, almost impermanent construction of the other buildings.