But I’d heard the stories, mostly from Aunt Pearl, who Mama said could talk the ears off a mule, and a little from Daddy who used them to help “explain Mama” to me.
Several years back, Grand settled into a small house on Georgia Avenue, one that may have been at one time a starter for some sweet couple back in the 1940s but was now a “last home” for her. Almost a shotgun-style house, but not quite. Still, by standing at the front door one could see clear to the back door and, if it was open, into the backyard, which was twice as large as the house. There was a sitting room full of overstuffed old furniture, a dining room not big enough for a proper table and china cabinet (but Grand managed to squeeze them in anyhow), two bedrooms connected by a single bath, and a kitchen stretching wide against the back of the house. It often smelled of cinnamon and rich coffee grounds and reminded me of small plates topped with fat brownies and tall glasses of cold milk on hot summer days. I adored visiting her there and slept over enough that a few of my clothes hung in the front bedroom closet along with at least two pairs of shoes tossed willy-nilly on its floor.
“Well then,” Grand now said as she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, “we have a lot of work to do, don’t we.” It wasn’t a question. Very few things with Grand ever were.
“What do you mean?” I asked, completely unsure.
“Cooking. Cleaning.” She looked pointedly at me. Me who had never so much as fried an egg or done a load of laundry. My mother had always done that … wasn’t that her purpose? “Let’s start with the basics, shall we?”
Mama smiled lightly as she patted my shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to this. Your daddy and I are going to watch a little television in the den.”
I knew my mouth hung open like the entrance to a cave and my eyes moved wildly between the two women who meant the most to me in my life. “Mama,” I whispered as Grand began rattling around under one of the cabinets where stainless steel pots and pans were stored.
Mama patted my shoulder again. “Have fun,” she mouthed back as Grand suddenly popped up, her hand gripping a pot handle.
“Now then,” Grand said, turning to me like a drill sergeant. “Do you know how to boil an egg?”
Chapter Four
Elaine Singletary had been my best friend since as far back as I could remember, our mothers being the same. Mama and Mrs. Singletary had become close after Grand moved herself and her children to town, Mama often saying that Rose Warren Singletary had been her lifesaver during those awful days of change and upset.
I felt the same about Elaine. She was my rock. Or at least she had been until Westley came along and then he took that role. She was also the kind of girl who flitted wherever the wind took her—and for now, it had taken her to college to study nursing. After that, she told me, she had no plans other than to bask on the beaches of Tybee for a while.
Elaine took the ’70s seriously, making note of every fashion-labeled, glossy-covered magazine with slick ads deemed stylish. She parted her long copper-penny hair straight down the middle; it fell thick to her waist, swaying back and forth when she walked. She wore all the right clothes and, being the petite thing she was, looked sensational in every style. I was by no means a large girl, but next to Elaine I felt positively monstrous.
On that Sunday afternoon, after Grand left—and after I’d not only learned how to boil an egg, but how to crack six of them into the mixture that would become my first pound cake—I called Elaine on the phone to see if she’d already left for the university.
She hadn’t. “Hey,” I exclaimed, relieved. “You’re still there.”
“Yeah,” she drawled, her voice whispery soft and intellectual. “I don’t have to be in class until later tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll drive back to Statesboro sometime in the morning.”
Elaine had attended Georgia Southern since fall term after our senior year. “I’d like to come by and see you, if that’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got something to talk to you about.”
“That sounds ominous. Sure. Come on.”
I darted into my bedroom, retrieved my keys and purse, and then let Mama and Daddy know where I was going.
Mama stood in the middle of the den, arms crossed, and eyes wide. “Well—what—what . . .”
“Spit it out, Paulina,” Daddy said from his chair. I noted a dessert plate with telltale signs of my pound cake sitting on the occasional table next to him.
“What if Westley comes over?” Mama finally sputtered.
“He won’t be here until later. Besides, his church was having some kind of function today and his mother and father really wanted him to hang out afterward.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what, really. I just know he said he wouldn’t be here until later on.” I looked to my father. “How was the cake, Daddy?”
Daddy smiled in approval. “Not bad,” he said, rubbing his belly. “Especially seeing as that was your first go at it. Westley will gain twenty pounds the first year of marriage, I’ll betcha.”
Mama crossed over to me then and her hands fluffed my hair, which fell in dull brown waves to my shoulders. “We really need to talk about your hair.”
I pulled away. “What about it?”
“Leave her alone, Paulina,” Daddy said, his eyes fixed on the television.
“We have to think about how
