He scoffs, and I say, more insistently, forcing a confidence I do not fully feel, “You just need to go over there and get those green onions chopped before Lillie gets in here and realizes she doesn’t have what she needs to finish her étouffée.”
Invoking Mama’s name does the trick every time. If nothing else, my brother is obedient.
Hannah glances at Wyatt, but only when she doesn’t think I’m looking. She’s called me opinionated and overbearing, but she’s also learned a ton from me. She hasn’t been able to afford culinary school, and I’m happy to mentor her, but her mixing business with pleasure—that pleasure being my brother—doesn’t quite work for me. He just graduated from college and needs to figure out his career path before even thinking about being in a serious relationship. She does seem to genuinely care for him, which is why I haven’t sacked her for insubordination. Okay, mostly she’s still here because she’s dependable and a damn good cook.
I peek into the pot of collard greens, biting the inside of my cheek. Is it enough? I thought so before Wyatt came along. Today I made nearly a fourth more than last week when we’d had just enough. It’ll be plenty… I hope.
Mama comes into the kitchen just as I balance the lid half on the pot. “Smells good, Rowan.”
Collard greens cooking never smell good.
“Thanks, Mama.” The swelling at her elbows is noticeable, but I know enough not to mention it.
“Those collards have all those people lined up out there, you know that don’t you?” She reaches up to pat my cheek, a sparkle in her hazel eyes, but the pain is lurking just beneath.
I grab her hand and hold it against my face, closing my eyes. When I open them, she smiles and takes her hand back without another word. She shuffles over to the counter where Wyatt is set on his task, concentrating on his knife movement, but keeping a protective eye on our mother.
Mama pats him on his arm. “You can leave those a little bigger if you want.”
“Okay, Mama.”
She looks around the kitchen and nods at each person in turn. “I better get out front and make sure everything is ready to open. Darlene called in sick earlier, but thankfully Leonard was able to come in. Looks like we’ll need all six waitstaff scheduled today.” Before she walks through the kitchen door into the dining room, she bends to rub her knees. “Wyatt, how’s that new bartender working out?” She’s through the door before he has a chance to answer. I imagine in her mind, her question distracted us enough to not notice what she was trying to cover up.
Wyatt frowns. “Does she think we can’t see she’s in pain?”
I turn back to the stove and stir her étouffée, taking a moment to gather myself. Wyatt’s younger than me by five years, and although technically a grown man, there’s only the two of us. I still have the need to be the stronger one and take care of him. “She must not be taking all her steroids.” Sometimes she cuts them in half. I’ve seen them in the bottle split in two. She’s known others with lupus who’ve had to get knee or hip replacements in their thirties. At almost fifty, that’s got to be on her mind. She only got the diagnosis less than two years ago, and it’s been a difficult adjustment for us all.
Hannah walks her petite self over to Wyatt and rubs his shoulders, her rosy-porcelain hand a contrast to Wyatt’s russet-brown neck. I roll my eyes and turn back to the stove. “He’s fine, Hannah.” She may be a great cook, but I’m still not convinced about this girlfriend business.
She ignores me and continues comforting my brother. Which is fine, but I do know she better wash her hands before she goes back to cooking.
*
Mondays mean Smothered in Love is closed and I can relax without worrying what’s going on there without me unlike on my scheduled days off. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, there’s no rest for the weary, so I still end up driving to downtown Austin to pick up some new plants for our garden behind the restaurant. I’ve been keeping an eye out at the nursery closer to home in Round Rock, but they haven’t had the okra plants I’ve been looking for.
I’m blasting the latest School of the Eighteen Horse album through my Bluetooth when I turn onto Red River, and the Everheart Bar and Fine Dining sign practically slaps me in the face. God, why did I come this way? Fucking Everhearts. Must I be reminded of their wealth and privilege at every turn?
I zoom past and cross under the freeway, pulling into the nursery parking lot just east of downtown. This place is occupying some prime real estate. I’m surprised they haven’t been gentrified out of this part of town yet. Lord knows people are doing their best out our way.
This time of year has lots of folks out in the balmy days of spring, the smell of fresh flowers flowing freely through the air. I pass some healthy-looking juvenile lemon trees and bend to rub the leaves, inhaling the heady citrus smell. Lillie Townsend would kill me if I brought home another lemon tree. They’re my weakness. When I straighten, a long shadow passes over me and I jump a bit.
“Hey there, Rowan. I thought that was you.”
Ugh, an Everheart. At least it’s the okay one. I fix my face before looking up. He’s the tallest one too, although they’re all vertically blessed. Not the only thing they’ve been blessed with. They’ve got good looks in spades, dirty bastards. Something I can
