Authors: Molly Harper
I rattled the doorknob, wondering if it counted as breaking and entering if the building was already “broken.” The knob twisted in my hands, and—
“Kind of sad, isn’t it?”
Jolene’s voice sounded just behind me, making me jump and smack my head against the decorative rack of ribs hanging low over the doorway. “Ow!”
Jolene continued as if I hadn’t just beaned myself with plaster-of-Paris pork. “This place was a Half-Moon Hollow institution until about ten years ago. Hank Fowler died, and his kids just didn’t have the business sense or the flair for the kitchen that their daddy did. They limped along until a couple of years ago. They just couldn’t keep the doors open anymore. I don’t know why they’ve never sold the place.”
“Too many prospective buyers injured themselves on the low-hanging decorative pig?” I said, rubbing my head. I nodded toward the poster. “OK, explain this Burley Days thing to me.”
“It’s the highlight of the Hollow social calendar,”
Jolene said, feigning distress at my ignorance. “It goes back to when burley tobacco was
the
big crop around here. Local farmers would bring their harvests to the brokers and get paid on one particular weekend each fall. They’d have money to spend, so vendors and carnies showed up every year to take it. It became a big party. Farmers around here have moved on to soybeans and such, but we’ve kept the tradition alive with funnel cake and ring toss. It’s a hoot.”
“How does a Bloody Bake-Off figure into this?” I asked, cringing.
Jolene wrinkled her nose. “Jane says that Faux Type O is sponsoring some sort of cook-off, asking people to come up with recipes using synthetic blood.”
“Why would the company want to do that?” I asked as we ambled back toward the van.
“Newer vampires miss human food,” she said. “They want more variety in their diet. Rather than lose their audience, Faux Type O is lookin’ for ways to incorporate its product into the sort of ‘cravin’ foods’ that new vampires will want. They’re going to put the winning recipes into a cookbook. So if you win, you’re basically selling the rights to the recipe for your prize money.
“They’re hosting the contests all over the country. Ophelia, the head of our local Council office—she’s really scary,” Jolene said. “She has connections at the beverage company, and she’s good at intimidating
city officials. She said she wants to, quote, ‘integrate the undead community into the Hollow’s traditions.’”
“She gets a cut from the company, doesn’t she?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“Is Jane going to enter?” I asked.
Jolene stopped in her tracks, spluttering and choking, nearly doubled over in laughter. When she finally straightened up and wiped at her eyes, she wheezed out, “Jane’s first few solo attempts at serving coffee at the shop sent people into convulsions. I don’t think she’s willing to do that, even if it means winning twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Now it was time for me to splutter. “Twenty-five thousand dollars! You’re telling me some vampire could win twenty-five thousand dollars just for making up a recipe?”
“Doesn’t have to be a vampire,” Jolene said, giving me a pointed look. When I scoffed, she cried, “What? You cook all the time.”
“Yes, for people with pulses and the ability to process solid foods,” I said. “There are some dietary restrictions even I can’t work with.”
“Fine, leave the vampire judges to deal with Jane’s mama’s Bloody Pot Pie.” Jolene sighed as we climbed into the minivan. “Jane’s mama seems to think she can force Jane into eating human food again if she just gives her enough pot pies. If she figures out a way to put
Faux Type O in a pot pie, I pity those poor volunteers—including Jane.”
“Why would Jane volunteer for something like that?”
“Like I said, Ophelia is scary,” Jolene said, shrugging. “So, are you ready for tonight?”
“What’s tonight?”
“I’m droppin’ these clothes off, and then you, me, Jane, and Andrea are goin’ out for a girls’ night. Jane hasn’t made any of the plans, so we should be safe. Think you’re up for it?”
I snorted. “I think I’m ready for whatever nightlife Half-Moon Hollow can dish out.”
—
I was so
not ready.
Girls’ night, apparently, meant The Cellar, where it was “Country-Western Night,” and Jane never paid for drinks, because she’d rescued the owner-bartender during an attempted robbery a few years ago. So we had not only unlimited alcohol but also access to a mechanical bull.
One of the few things I could remember clearly about the evening was being grateful that Sam wasn’t home when I stumbled through the front door around 2:00
A.M
. and broke my fall with my face. But according to the pictures Andrea saved to my phone, I had not only ridden the mechanical bull, I’d borrowed a stranger’s cowboy hat to make my experience more authentic. I thought the hat went very nicely with
Andrea’s sparkly black tank top. And the western-wear lover’s phone number appeared to be scrawled on my arm, next to “Call me, Cowgirl!”
Oh, well, at least he was cute, according to the picture that showed me returning his hat and giving him a big wet kiss on the cheek.
The rest of the pictures included various shots of Jolene attempting karaoke, Jane hugging Norm, the cuddly bartender whose life she’d saved, and the four of us gathered at the bar, shot glasses in hand, giggling our asses off while Jolene tried to fit all of us into the frame.
At some point, my friends’ husbands dropped by to scrape our inebriated asses off the barroom floor and drive us home. I’d met Zeb before and liked him. Underneath his oily charm, the vampire Dick Cheney was a really sweet guy who clearly loved Andrea and his friends with the ferocity of a pissed-off honey badger. I sort of recalled that the one guy who tried to hit on me in his presence was given the scariest stink-eyed glare this side of a correctional facility. Jane’s Gabriel was more of a mystery, all brooding silence and stiff upper lip, until Jane made some ridiculous joke and he smiled like a man seeing boobs for the first time. But in a really romantic, courtly way.
The final picture was a group shot taken by Norm. Somehow I ended up in the middle of all of those couples without sticking out like the sore single thumb. I looked happy. Not just drunk-giddy
or relaxed but genuinely, no-holds-barred happy. I couldn’t remember seeing that expression on my own face since . . . I couldn’t remember seeing that expression on my face.
Still, it was the deepest night’s (and most of the morning’s) sleep I’d had since I arrived in the Hollow. I rolled onto my back, and the reverberating pain in my head made me instantly regret moving. Zeb, my designated driver, had apparently left a glass of water and some Advil next to my bed when he’d dropped me off. I lifted my head from the pillow, just barely, to look at my alarm clock and saw that I was supposed to be meeting Chef Gamling at the Half-Moon Hollow First Baptist Church in less than an hour. Moving gingerly, I eased up from the bed and reached for the water glass. It only took me three tries to pick it up.
After scrubbing off eau de barroom, I discovered that Sam not only had soaked all of my clean bras and put them in the freezer, but he had also destroyed yet another cheap pot and left it in the sink. After preparing my traditional hangover cure of a bacon, egg, and tomato sandwich, I barely had time to Super Glue Sam’s car keys to the counter before I was due to meet Chef.
The Half-Moon Hollow First Baptist Church was one of those classic brick churches with stained-glass windows. I felt nervous walking through the back entrance of the fellowship, as if God would reject my
hungover presence in his house like a faulty kidney. But he let me walk all the way into the industrial-sized kitchen unscathed, so figured I wasn’t his top “smiting” priority.
Chef Gamling was already stationed at the counter, shredding cheddar from a block the size of a football. A gigantic stock pot boiled on the stove, while another pot held a huge batch of green beans with bits of bacon. I could smell ham baking and the cinnamon-spice mix Chef used for his special apple pie recipe.
“Are we catering a party?” I asked.
He turned and leveled a critical gaze at my clean jeans and T-shirt, the sensible shoes and tight ponytail. He tossed an apron at me. “You’ll do.”
My transition back to Chef’s galley slave was made with alarmingly little force. He had me chopping veggies, straining pasta, making a roux for the basic white sauce he needed. Dealing with hot butter fats was particularly cruel given my hungover state, but I think that was probably the point to Chef’s exercise.
“What exactly are we making?” I asked as he added the shredded cheese to the white sauce.
“Macaroni and cheese,” he said. “Ham. Granny Houston’s famous green beans—a recipe I had to barter a Le Creuset casserole for, thank you—and apple pie.”
“For what?”
“The church has Saturday-afternoon fellowship meals. Everybody from the community is welcome,
whether they pay or not, whether they’re members of the church or not. The pastor thinks it’s important for everybody to gather for a good meal, for no other reason than to spend time together. Usually, they play board games or volleyball, depending on the weather. I think the plan for today is an Uno tournament.”
“You’re going to all this trouble—aged cheddar, sauce from scratch, what appears to be green beans combined with bacon, butter, and brown sugar—so you can feed a church crowd mac ’n’ cheese before a card game?”
“These people deserve good food, carefully prepared, whether it’s simple fare or a wedding feast. They’re going to share a meal, something to bring them closer together. That’s the point of what we do, Tess. Not the reviews or the interviews. Good food. Happy diners. That’s all there is.”
He pinned me with that frank gray gaze, and I felt a little ashamed of myself. “Now, be a good girl and stir the sauce.”
With that, he popped me on the butt with a dishtowel and returned to his nutritionally bankrupt green beans.
—
When I was
in college, I saw cafeteria serving as the last stop before culinary oblivion. I had nightmares in which I woke up patting my head to make sure the hairnet wasn’t really there. But now I found that I liked greeting people as they came through the kitchen line
for their lunches. I liked being able to talk to friendly faces as they moved by, complimenting the colors of the food or the delicious smells wafting up from the steam table.
I’d never had this sort of contact with customers before. Phillip did his damnedest to make sure I was insulated from dealing with overenthusiastic customers. I rarely left my kitchen, just in case.
But because these diners liked Chef, I was accepted as his little helper, greeted warmly, and complimented for my addition of smoked paprika to the macaroni and cheese. After we’d fed everyone, some of them twice, Chef made me sit at the counter and eat a huge helping of everything. I wasn’t gaining weight back fast enough, in his opinion. Overall, it was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
I guessed Chef didn’t have more Kitchen Yoda wisdom to impart, because he joined the Uno games—leaving me with the dishes, thank you very much. I was up to my elbows in bubbles when a trilling feminine voice behind me cried, “Hi there!”
Jumping and nearly dropping a sixty-four-ounce glass measuring cup on my foot, I turned to see a pretty, slender woman with a brown bob and mischievous hazel eyes. The shape of her mouth reminded me of someone.
“Aren’t you Tess?” she asked, smiling broadly.
“Um, ye—gah!” I yelped when the woman threw her arms around me and squished me to her bosom.
“Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad my Jane has a friend who goes to church!”
Well, I was standing in a church building, so I guess she was technically right.
“I’m Sherry Jameson, Jane’s mama.” She sighed, giving me one last squeeze. “But you can call me Sherry. All her little friends do. Jane told me you’d be here today, and I just couldn’t wait to meet you! Now, don’t get me wrong, I love Andrea and Jolene, but it’s just so good to know that my daughter spends time with a nice girl. I mean, just look at you, cooking up a storm in the Lord’s kitchen.”
Now was so not the time to whip out my phone and show her the pictures of Jane and me running tequila boat races. So I settled for a bland smile while Mrs. Jameson pressed a heavy Saran Wrapped package in my damp hands.
“I made you my special peach cobbler. Jane mentioned you’re a cook, so I knew you’d appreciate a little something sweet. Don’t you worry about sugar or calories, all right, honey? You need a little meat on your bones,” she said. “I used to make this for my Jane all the time, but you know, she doesn’t eat anymore.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say before Sherry crushed me into another hug, my arms flailing against her back.
I glanced down at the package in my hands. Mrs. Jameson had cooked for me. I didn’t even know if it
was any good. But it was thrilling to have someone else cook something for me, not because she was trying to impress me or drill me for information but for no other reason than that I was a friend of her daughter’s and she thought I needed it.
Hungover or not, I was going to go home and eat every bite.
Somewhere in the back of my pickled brain, a switch labeled “Sherry Jameson” flipped into place. Now I knew why Sherry’s name sounded so familiar.
I smiled brightly, though it sort of hurt my cheeks. “Aren’t you the Realtor selling Howlin’ Hank’s?”
—
Two hours later
, I was in love with the Howlin’ Hank’s building.
Miss Sherry was honest with me. Hometown Realtors had assigned her this building to test her newly official salesman skills. The agency had been trying to offload the place for years and hadn’t had so much as a nibble. The idea that she could be the one finally to sell it had thrown Sherry into warp speed, as Jane put it.
Chef Gamling accompanied us as my “anti-life-ruining-decision lifeguard.” Before she let me in the front door, Sherry went in to turn on all of the old beer signs and the jukebox. The current selection was a Hank Williams Jr. song made overtly off-key by the warped 45. That’s right. The jukebox was so old it played actual records. Still, the electric display gave
me a better idea of what the place had looked like in its heyday.