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Excerpt
When it comes to family,
love, tradition and pride are a powerful brew...
The third of the Sweet Tea story collections (SWEET TEA & JESUS SHOES, MORE SWEET TEA) treats readers to a panorama of Southern life, both then and now. Family dramas, comic mishaps, sentimental remembrances and poignant choices illuminate these thirteen stories by new and established authors. There’s something for every reader: The gritty realism of a hunt for wild boars, the gentle grieving for a home now filled only with memories, the funny battle between a woman and her recipe for deviled eggs, and much more.
Come sit a spell on the front porch. Prop your feet up, sip a cold glass of sweet iced tea, and lose yourself in a way of life that’s as irresistible as pecan pie and as unforgettable as a chilled slice of watermelon on a hot summer day. Welcome to a place that exists between the pages of How It Was and How It Might Have Been—just a little bit south of the long path home.
Coming soon!
Made with Love
Deborah Grace Staley
The kitchen was the heart of Hannah
Goode’s home. It was a big, loud, messy place filled with heavenly aromas and
great conversation. Momma firmly believed idle hands were the devil’s
workplace. If that was the case, the cure was to keep everyone busy cooking.
Yep, the yard had more weeds than grass, and inside, dust could be found
accumulating on furniture and in corners, but the kitchen was well stocked and
well appointed.
In the
kitchen, each family member had a job. Momma did entrees, Daddy desserts, Lara
made side dishes, and Hannah was in charge of breads and sweet tea. Not that
Helen Goode didn’t mix it up on occasion. Momma was known to change everyone’s
jobs without notice, just so each person learned how to make everything. But
Hannah loved the breads, and, of course, sweet tea was a southern staple.
It’s not
so surprising that Hannah grew up wanting to be a baker. When the time came,
she applied to the finest schools. She and her parents had spread the acceptance
letters for culinary schools across the scarred kitchen table and talked about
which she should choose. Momma had cried, and Daddy had looked proud. Hannah
squeezed Momma’s hand and said, "It’s okay. I’ll be home on holidays, and it’s
only a two-year program.”
Momma took
Hannah’s hand in both hers while she and daddy shared a look.
"What is
it?” Hannah asked, not sure she wanted the answer.
Daddy laid
his big, warm hand on top of hers and Momma’s. "The doc says I need surgery,
but I don’t want you to worry—”
"Surgery!”
she said in unison with her sister.
"Now it’s
nothing to worry about. I’ll just go in, have it done and be good as new before
you know it. Now, which of these schools is good enough to deserve my little
girl?” He’d wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I’m so proud of you.”
She chose
a school, and then Daddy had had surgery and begun chemotherapy. The prognosis
was good. Hannah left for school that fall. When she’d come home for
Thanksgiving, her daddy had been so weak, so feeble. She didn’t know which
broke her heart, that or him asking for help with the pumpkin pies. He sat on a
stool and supervised, but as always, Hannah cherished time in the kitchen with
her family.
Christmas
that year, the Goodes had baked more than ever before because everyone had
wanted to spend every second together doing what they loved. There were
decorated cutout cookies, cakes, pies and dessert bars. They’d covered
everything that had gotten in their path with chocolate. They even made rum
soaked fruitcake—Gran’s recipe.
It had
been Daddy’s idea to ship most of it to the soldiers overseas and away from
home at Christmas. The rum cake stayed. It had to come with the warning, "Do
not operate heavy machinery after consuming.”
Hannah
laughed, remembering. She could just imagine soldiers driving tanks around the
Middle East tipsy on rum cake.
It was
that Christmas Hannah had first gotten the idea to sell their baked goods.
Momma and Daddy wouldn’t say, but with Daddy unable to work, things were tough
financially. Christmas Day, she’d stayed up all night making cupcakes. The next
week, she had taken them to every restaurant and corner store she’d come
across. When she’d returned home, she had orders from three restaurants and two
delis.
Hannah
didn’t go back to school. Daddy hadn’t been happy about it, but she was
determined to spend her days baking with him. Momma had helped with deliveries
while Daddy had rested.
Business
was good. Great, in fact. The orders had soon outgrown their kitchen’s
capabilities. They needed more ovens, commercial mixers and storage. Hannah
found cheap equipment online from closing businesses and took out a one-year
lease on a shop front with good foot traffic downtown. For the first month,
Hannah had just filled commercial orders. Toward the end of the month, Daddy
had felt so much better that he’d come in and helped them. Lara had done what
she could after school, but none of them had wanted to take her away from
sports or her schoolwork.
Things
went so well that the family found themselves with spare time in the
afternoons. That’s when they put some tables and a coffee bar in the front of
the store. They began opening midday to sell cupcakes. By then, most of the
baking was done, and Momma was making deliveries. The first week, they’d sold
out by three. As word spread, they sold out sooner.
"Hannah,
honey,” Daddy said, "I think you’re going to have to hire some help.”
"I don’t
know, Daddy. I want to keep it a family business.”
"Then talk
to your cousins. Your Aunt Christy said the girls have been looking for a job,
but haven’t had any luck.”
"Can they
bake?”
Daddy
laughed. "We’ll do the baking. Let them take orders and wait on customers.”
She hired
Ginger and Gracie, who, thankfully, started right away. Hannah was so busy she
was dead on her aching feet most afternoons. The shipping company had just
picked up treat boxes going to the soldiers overseas. Sending them had become
something like a tithe for the Goode Family Bakery. God had blessed the
business so much, they all wanted to do something to help others. Supporting
the troops was another way to honor Daddy, who had spent the years before he
married Momma in the Army serving in Desert Storm.
The years
passed almost without Hannah noticing.
Daddy got
a clean bill of health and had been in remission since. Thank God. Lara went
off to college, and Hannah had bought a loft downtown to be close to the
business. Hannah liked being able to walk everywhere she went. With Maryville,
Tennessee being a small town, it was pretty quiet, so the routine was a bit
monotonous. She’d like to say she was too busy to get lonely, but if she was
being honest, sometimes she wondered what might have been if she’d stayed in
cooking school. Would she have moved to a big city and become a chef? Would she
have met someone? Had a family of her own by now?
Hannah
shook her head. Thinking about what might have been served no good purpose. She
had no regrets. She loved her work and spending time with her family. It was
afternoons—the time when all the busyness of baking had passed and she had time
to think—when her mind wandered. Or more to the point, her mind wandered when
she should have been trying to make sense of the jumble of paperwork cluttering
her desk and clogging her inbox.
Hannah
grabbed a cup of coffee and a cupcake and sat at a corner table with her laptop
and overflowing inbox. Instead of sorting through it all, she wound up doing
some mindless Internet surfing. The bell on the front door signaled the arrival
of a customer. She didn’t even look up, just tapped away on the mouse pad and
sipped her coffee while deleting junk emails.
"Welcome
to Goode’s,” Gracie said. "What can I get you?”
"A
double-chocolate buttercream cupcake and a bottle of water, please.”
She looked
up to check out the owner of the rumbling, deep voice and found a man wearing
fatigues with an American flag and several bars on the sleeve that indicated
his rank. The insignia indicated he was Air Force. He was average height, but
nothing else about him was average. Like most soldiers, he was in great shape
and powerfully built. Tanned, clean-shaven, close cut dark hair. She propped
her chin on her hand and irrationally wondered what color his eyes were.
"For here
or to go?” Gracie asked.
The man inhaled
deeply. "The smell is so amazing, I think I’ll sit awhile and enjoy.”
Gracie
smiled. "Have a seat, and I’ll bring it right out to you.”
"How much
do I owe you?”
"It’s on
the house. Memorial Day is this weekend, and cupcakes are free to members of
the military.”
He nodded,
twisting his cap in his hands. "Thank you.” He reached into his pocket and
dropped a few bills in the tip jar, then sat at a table not far from Hannah. He
caught her eye and smiled a greeting. Hannah smiled as well, then looked back at
her computer screen, but soon, she was sneaking another peek at him. He had a
compelling face that kept her looking past what should have been polite
glances. There was something about his eyes, which were the color of rich,
velvety chocolate. He couldn’t be much older than her, but his dark eyes held a
sadness that said he’d seen more than a man so young should.
He looked
up then, and their gazes locked.
Caught
again. Hannah swallowed hard, but didn’t look away. Instead she smiled. Good
thing she wasn’t standing, because his smile literally made her knees weak.
Gracie set
his cupcake and the bottle of water in front of him. "Let me know if you need
anything else.”
The man
looked up at her. "Actually, I was wondering if the owner of the shop might be
in.”
Gracie
looked over her shoulder at Hannah, unsure if she wanted to speak with anyone
since this was her first break of the day. Hannah stood and walked over to join
her cousin. "I’m the owner,” she said, holding out her hand. "Hannah Goode.”
The
soldier stood and took her hand, smiling. "Lieutenant Sam Evans. It’s a
pleasure to meet you, ma’am. If you don’t mind me saying, I wasn’t expecting
someone so young and pretty.”
Add
charmer to his growing list of attributes. Her hand in his tingled at the
contact, and unsure of how to respond to his comment, she just smiled, then
pulled her hand back to rub it against her jeans. "What can I do for you,
Lieutenant?”
"Sam,
please. I wanted to come by and personally thank you for what you do for the
troops.”
"Oh.” Hannah
frowned. "How did you know?”
"My
company in Afghanistan received more than one shipment of your baked goods.”
"Really?”
Her family had received a number of letters from soldiers since they’d started
the shipments all those Christmases ago, but they’d never met any of the
soldiers in person.
He swept a
hand towards a chair at his table. "Would you care to join me? That is, if
you’re not too busy. That looks like a lot of paperwork over there, and I don’t
want to interrupt your work.”
"It’ll
keep. I was just taking my afternoon break.” Still smiling, she pulled out the
chair he’d indicated, but he moved around the table to hold it for her while
she sat. Something in her midsection softened. She was a sucker for courteous
men. His good looks and the uniform didn’t hurt, either.
"You were
stationed in Afghanistan?”
"Yes,
ma’am.”
"You’re
starting to make me feel ancient. Please, call me Hannah.”
His smile
drew her in. "Hannah.” The way he said her name in his deep, slow, southern
drawl had her moving closer to the edge.
"My tour
just ended, so I’m on leave before reporting back to base.”
Hannah
frowned. There weren’t any Air Force bases near Maryville. Just the Air
National Guard Base, but they didn’t have any troops presently deployed. Their
baked goods were a local delivery. "Where are you stationed?”
"Georgia.”
"You have
family here, then.”
"No,
ma’am,” he said, but caught himself. "Sorry. Hannah.”
"What
brings you to East Tennessee?”
"I came
for you.” He flushed. "I mean, it’s like I said, I came to thank you in
person.”
"That’s
very nice of you, but surely you have family anxious to see you now that you’re
home.”
He took a
bite of his cupcake. "Mmm.” He licked icing and crumbs from his lips.
"Delicious. I didn’t think it was possible that they could taste better.”
She was
completely distracted by both his obvious enjoyment of the dessert and by his
lips. They looked soft and moist from where he’d just licked the icing and
crumbs away. Her wayward mind conjured an image of them looking just like that
after a kiss.
"I made
those fresh this morning,” she said. "Getting them halfway around the world
takes a bit longer.”
"They
tasted like heaven. The airtight packaging you used kept them pretty fresh.
Having the icing in a separate packet was a great idea.” He spoke so softly
that Hannah leaned in, not wanting to miss a word. His voice was low with the
most beautiful, easy cadence. She could have listened to him talk all day.
"Don’t get
me wrong, the mess hall made baked goods for us, but what they gave us was
nothing like this.” He took another bite. "These,” he held up the cupcake,
"were like a taste of home.” He set the cupcake down and wiped his mouth with a
paper napkin. "My mom made me cupcakes when I was growing up. They’re my
favorite dessert.”
She
crossed her arms on the table, smiling. "What flavor do you like best?” Hannah
was thinking she would whip up a quick batch of a dozen or so that he could
take with him, since he’d gone to the trouble of finding her shop and
delivering his thanks in person.
"I’ve yet
to find a flavor I don’t like.”
"You have
to have a favorite,” she pressed.
His smile
was wide and unrepentant. "The one I just ate is always my favorite.”
A baker
could die happy cooking for this man. This thought, combined with the other
strong feelings swirling through her, should have set off warning signals, but
instead, everything about him intrigued her.
"You never
answered my question—about your family? I hope you’re not delaying your
homecoming on my account. It’s very nice that you came here to personally thank
us for the baked goods, but you could have sent a card or letter. That’s what
most of the soldiers do.”
All Foam, No Beer
Valerie Keiser Norris
When I was
twelve and Daddy ran off with the preacher’s young wife, Mama never shed one
tear. She gathered up the clothes he’d left behind and lugged them to the big
oil barrel in back to burn with the trash.
"No way am
I donating any of that mess to the church rummage sale,” she declared. "Already
given those hypocrites more than I planned to.”
Mostly,
she didn’t talk about him. She seemed more annoyed that he’d gone off without
fixing the next-to-the-bottom basement step than that he’d left with another
woman. Within a week she purged the house of everything of Daddy’s. She hauled
his worn recliner to the dump, sold his guns, and got rid of every last one of
his NASCAR hats and die-cast model cars, right up to the current 1964 versions.
The unattached garage would have to be gutted to strip it of Daddy’s things, so
Mama just ignored it, parking the car in the driveway like always. Photos and
personal stuff she tossed into a carton labeled "Joyce and Angie’s father,” and
gave it to my older sister and me. "Just keep it out of my sight,” she warned
us.
I stored
it beside the vacuum in the hall closet. Mama, tall and broad-shouldered, loved
yard work, but wasn’t much for house cleaning.
One thing
Mama didn’t get rid of was the beer-brewing equipment in the basement. "I’m the
one who always ended up taking care of it, and I make pretty good beer. Which
you won’t know until y’all are legal age.” She fixed Joyce and me with her
steely-eyed glare.
"Yes,
ma’am,” I said, but she didn’t need to worry on my account.
Joyce, two
years older than me and worlds more sophisticated, had no such qualms. Barely
fourteen, she and her friend lifted a half-dozen bottles from Mama’s stash and
drank them in the garage. Since Mama had sworn not to go into the garage ever
again, Joyce felt safe. I don’t know what she planned to do if Mama kept count
of her beer—no one ever accused Joyce of being the brainy sister. After her
little party, she stumbled into the living room, fell onto Mama’s lap, and
gushed, "Mama, you’re so beautiful.”
Mama
looked down at her and sighed. "Joyce Louise, could you be a little less like
your father?”
They say
girls act out when their fathers disappear from their lives, but even when
Daddy lived with us, he was pretty much indifferent to us. Joyce had gone
boy-crazy at twelve and drove Mama wild with her behavior. After Daddy left,
though, Mama seemed to lose the energy to police Joyce. Whenever the school
called about Joyce’s truancy or her failing grades, Mama got after her, but
that was it.
I don’t
think Daddy’s being there or not made much difference in me. I was the good
kid, the one who came home after school, cleaned house, and made supper. When
Mama got in from her job as a trucking company dispatcher, I was usually at the
kitchen table, homework spread out, with supper simmering away on the stove.
Joyce would slink in just before or even after Mama arrived. You couldn’t miss
the swollen lips, the dark hickeys peeking out above turtlenecks, the dried
grass clinging to Joyce’s sweaters, but Mama never said a word.
By the
time Joyce turned sixteen and officially started dating the boys she’d been
sneaking around with, Mama was finally herself again, less prone to hide in her
room of an evening. She wasn’t keen on any of the specimens Joyce brought home.
"Like brew gone bad,” Mama said. "All foam, no beer.”
When one
stayed in his car at the end of the driveway, honking for Joyce to come out,
Mama grabbed Joyce’s arm as she raced to the door. "Oh, no you don’t. Either he
comes to the door to meet me, or you don’t go.”
"But
Mama—”
"No,
ma’am. If he can’t behave like a gentleman, y’all ain’t going out.”
We
listened to the honking horn awhile, and finally a car door slammed. A few
seconds later came a knock on the front door. Mama answered, me peeking from
behind her. Many of the boys in Joyce’s class were wearing Beatles’ bangs, but
this boy’s hair was oiled and formed into a front curl, and his socks were
white. Greaser.
Mama
glanced to her left, giving Joyce the look that could reduce me to a pile of
mush. Out of sight of the boy, Joyce crossed her arms against her new orange
A-line dress, her face set in the pout she’d mastered before I was born.
Mama
turned back to the door. "Can I help you?”
"Joyce?”
"No, I’m
Mrs. Peterson.”
He rolled
his eyes. "She here?” he asked, scratching at his sparse goatee.
"Yes, she
is.”
A silence.
Mama looked prepared to stand there all day, one hand holding the door open,
the other firmly pulling the screen door shut.
"Well, we
have a date?” He widened his eyes, as if Mama was a mite slow.
Oh, you
poor fool, I thought.
"Oh? And
who might you be?” Mama asked.
"Just tell
her it’s Turk.”
"Turk.
Hmm. Why don’t I tell her it’s that little Fadden boy who used to pick his nose
and eat it?” Mama said.
Three feet
away, out of sight of the boy, Joyce’s whole body slumped. She cast an
anguished look at Mama.
For a
moment Mama and the boy stared at each other. "I’m Derek,” he finally said.
"That was my brother.”
"Oh? I
never heard there were two Fadden boys.” Mama opened the screen door enough to
stick out a hand. "Nice to meet you, Derek Fadden. I’m Joyce’s mother.”
Warily, he
held out a hand and let her shake it.
"Would you
like to come in?” Mama didn’t let go.
"Uh, no,
just send Joyce—”
Mama
pushed the screen door completely open with her shoulder and pulled him
forward. "Come in, come in. Have a seat. Let me get to know the young man my
daughter thinks enough of to date.”
Joyce
glanced my way, misery etched in the thick coat of base makeup covering any
hint of a pimple. "I’ll never get another date in my entire life,” she
muttered.
