“She’s not your wife yet, so you listen to me. Men who sweat for a living need their salt. That girl is little more than a child. Don’t you let her tell you a thing. And you,” she says, turning to Daddy and pointing at him with her fork, “you tell that Buell Fulkerson we got nothing to say on the subject of Cora Baine or any other Baine. We have worries enough of our own without worrying about those Baines.”
As if saying it out loud has reminded Grandma, she pushes aside the curtain and looks out on the front drive. She leans to get a view to the left and then to the right. She’s looking for any sign of Aunt Juna.
“Don’t you suppose she just died, Daddy?” Caroline says, offering cream to Abraham the same way Grandma offered salt. “Died from being so old?”
While everyone else in the house, most especially Annie, is ruffled and unkempt after a long night, Caroline is shining like she always does, maybe more. Her hair is glossy and tied off with a white ribbon that likely saw an iron before being wrapped around her ponytail. Her pale-green dress is equally pressed, and her eyes are bright and wide open, her lids not hanging heavy like they are on the rest of the family. From this day forth, Caroline will be ever prepared for the moment she finally meets her husband-to-be. People will be expecting the same of Annie, for her to be readying herself for her intended. On this particular morning, Annie is not yet ready.
Again, Abraham shakes his head at Caroline’s offer and pats his stomach. Pulling back from the kitchen window, Grandma gives another grunt, slips a finger through the handle on the small white pitcher, and pours a hearty dose of cream in Abraham’s coffee.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Grandma says. “It’s Juna Crowley. She’s the one killed Cora Baine.”
“Mother, please,” Mama says, turning from her toast. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Mrs. Baine was awful old,” Caroline says, starting to tap one toe the way she does on the mornings she has a history test. “Don’t you suppose that’s all it was?”
“Buell ain’t much for supposing,” Daddy says, crossing his arms.
“Ain’t nothing to suppose,” Grandma says.
Because Daddy’s still watching Mama watching that toaster, he must not be angry about Sheriff Fulkerson or the salt and cream forbidden by Abraham’s fiancée. He must be angry with Mama.
“He’ll need to be sure,” Daddy says. “Got to ask questions to be sure.”
“Couldn’t even remember the last time I saw Cora,” Mama says. “You tell Buell that. It ought to be enough.”
“The toast, Sarah,” Grandma says, resting a hand on Mama’s shoulder same as Daddy did.
This time Mama doesn’t pull away, but it’s too late. Even though she was standing right there, her finger at the ready, the toast burned. Daddy stands and stares at the two charred pieces of bread peeking out of the silver toaster.
“Person might wonder what’s filling your thoughts this morning, Sarah,” Daddy says, and without taking a single bite of eggs or sip of his coffee, he pushes open the screen door and stomps across the porch, leaving the door to slam closed, which rankles Grandma almost as much as footprints on her kitchen floor.
Mama watches Daddy go, apologizes for ruining breakfast, and then excuses herself because she has a terrible headache. Caroline follows her with a damp cloth and two aspirins, and Grandma butters the charred toast.
The kitchen falls silent except for the sips Grandma takes from her coffee cup. Abraham Pace eats Daddy’s eggs and then nudges Annie and asks if he can have hers too, seeing as how she’s letting them go cold. Annie pushes her plate across the table, tells Grandma a spiced cake for dessert at tonight’s supper would be just fine, though Annie doesn’t much like spiced cake even when Grandma makes it at Christmas. But there is no cocoa in the pantry and Grandma would just as soon not ask anyone to go to town. Like Annie, Grandma must figure folks will be talking.
“Did you see him?” Grandma asks, reaching up and cupping Annie’s face with her tiny hands after Abraham has left the kitchen. Those hands are cool and will probably leave behind a smear of flour. As she often does, Grandma smells of lavender, salty butter, and freshly brewed coffee.
“He was brown-haired with blue eyes,” Annie says, stealing back the vision Caroline stole. “I seen him clear as day. But I didn’t know him, don’t know who he is.”
“But you will,” Grandma says. “You’ve a lifetime to find him, and when you do, you’ll know him.” Then Grandma winks. “He’ll know you too. A lifetime, you understand?”
Annie nods. Grandma is still worried about Annie being the one to die, and she thinks Annie is worried too.
“It’s all foolishness,” Grandma says, lowering her hands. “All that rocker nonsense, it’s mountain-grown foolishness.”
“So you don’t think Aunt Juna’s coming home?”
Grandma wipes her hands on her apron, pushes open the screen door, and shoos Annie through.
“Oh, no, child. Juna will come home now. I’m certain of that.”
“I don’t think I want her here,” Annie says, wondering if Grandma will scold her for speaking such a thought. “I don’t think she should come.”
“You’re wise for thinking such a thing,” Grandma says, smiling instead of scolding. “Juna Crowley is a person best forgotten.”