Once Lucy had driven away, James returned to Milla’s side and offered her his arm. As they made their way to her van, the church bells began to toll. James opened Milla’s door and settled her inside, then paused in the open air, clinging to the remnant of hope delivered to his weary spirit through the ringing bells.
He then went home to dine on casseroles and a wedge of sweet potato pecan pie that was bound to put him over his daily caloric limit by a count of 531.
Mrs. Waxman’s Sweet Potato Pecan Pie
2⁄3 pound sweet potatoes (enough to make 2 cups mashed)
2 eggs
3⁄4 cup white sugar
1⁄2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1⁄2 teaspoon ginger
1⁄4 teaspoon cloves
12⁄3 cups cream
1 (9-inch) unbaked pie crust
3 tablespoons butter, softened
2⁄3 cup packed brown sugar
2⁄3 cup chopped pecans
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Peel the sweet potatoes and cut them into chunks. Place them on a baking sheet and bake until tender (about 20 to 30 minutes). Mash the potatoes and take care to remove all the lumps.
Beat the eggs lightly. Mix together the eggs and sweet potatoes. Stir in the white sugar, salt, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. Finally, blend in the cream. Pour the mixture into the pie shell. Bake at 350 degrees for 55 to 60 minutes or until a knife inserted into the center of the pie comes out clean. Allow the pie to cool.
To make the pecan topping: Combine the butter, brown sugar, and pecans. Carefully drop spoonfuls over the top of the cooled pie. Broil the pie until the mixture begins to bubble-about 2 to 3 minutes depending on the oven. Don’t overbroil, or you’ll end up with syrup! Cool again.
Serve with homemade whipped cream or a cup of coffee.
EIGHT
Jackson stood in front of the open refrigerator in a state of befuddlement.
“There’s so much Tupperware in here I can’t tell if I’m lookin’ at green-bean casserole, lasagna, or a fruit cobbler.”
In normal circumstances, Milla would have leapt up to assist her fiancé, but she was out of earshot. In the den, she sat in front of the blank gray television screen, knitting an unidentifiable object made of navy blue yarn. The nervous clicking of her needles transmitted her state of mind more than any words could have, and neither of the Henry men had any idea how to console her.
“I’ll fix you both a plate, Pop.” James shooed his father out of the kitchen and managed to microwave a turkey tetrazzini casserole with a side of green beans mixed with butter and pecans. Carrying two plates into the den, he motioned for Jackson to erect a pair of TV trays while he returned to the kitchen for glasses of water.
Worriedly, he watched as Milla pushed the food around on her plate. Jackson ate hungrily, of course, asking for seconds by holding his empty plate directly under his son’s nose so that James had to interrupt his own lunch in order to fetch another helping.
“I just wish those deputies would get here so we could get this over with!” Milla exclaimed suddenly.
James put his fork down and studied her. “Are you nervous about being interviewed, Milla, or about what you might have to tell them?”
When she didn’t answer, even Jackson stopped chewing and looked at his fiancée with mild surprise. “It’s those kids of hers, ain’t it? You were actin’ funny after you saw them. I reckon things got nasty.”
“Have you met them yet?” James asked his father.
Jackson shook his head. “Nope. Thought I’d let them do their family thing alone, seein’ it’s been awhile since they’ve gathered together. I was paintin’ most of the day. Those baker hands…” He seemed to become lost in the image he held in his thoughts.
Milla’s expression was pained as she glanced at James. “You’ll see them all this afternoon. We’re meeting Chase, Chloe, and Wheezie for dinner at Dolly’s.”
The doorbell rang and Milla started in her chair, causing her ball of yarn to fall onto the floor and unravel across the braided rug. James rose, rewound the ball, and then placed it on Milla’s clammy palm. “Just tell the truth, even if it makes someone look bad,” he cautioned. “They’ll find out about Paulette’s children anyway. You know Lucy won’t rest until she discovers what happened to your sister.”
Both Lucy and Donovan were at the door, dressed in uniform and their espresso brown Sheriff’s Department parkas. After exchanging terse, polite greetings, James led them into the den. He carried in two chairs from the kitchen table and positioned them on either side of Milla. Jackson quickly left his recliner in order to seat himself to her right. With James on her left, the Henry men had created bookends of love and protection for a woman who suddenly seemed so fragile.
Lucy removed a mini recorder from her pocket and explained to Milla that she and her partner were simply gathering information. “Can you tell me what Paulette did yesterday, Friday, December nineteenth?”
Milla seemed relieved by the simplicity of the first question. “I don’t know when she got up or anything, but she was here for breakfast by eight thirty.”
“What did you eat?” Donovan demanded.
“Scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes.”
“You sure that’s all?” he prompted.
Milla shrugged. “Coffee and eggnog. Nothing else.”
Lucy nodded encouragingly and wrote something in her notebook. “What did you do after breakfast?”
“We went over the menu for the wedding supper. My sister is, was …” She got up and retrieved the tissue dispenser and quickly blew her nose. “Sorry. Paulette planned to make onion rolls and the wedding cake for us. I’d hired Dolly’s Clint to fix us his chicken in a cognac cream sauce with garlic mashed potatoes and mixed green salads too.” Realizing that last bit was unnecessary, she returned to the point at hand. “After breakfast, we picked up my sister’s assistant, Willow, ran a few errands, and then met our family at the Apple Orchard truck stop for lunch.”
“State their names please,” Donovan directed.
“Chase Martin is Paulette’s son, Chloe Martin-Hicks is her daughter, and Louise Rowe is the eldest of us three sisters. My maiden name is Rowe.”
Donovan narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “But Paulette’s last name is Martine . Why are her kids Martins ?”
Milla issued a derisive snort. “It’s all about marketing. First of all, her real name was Patricia Rowe. Growing up, everybody called her Patty. She married Chase Martin Senior but kept his name after their divorce. She just Frenchified herself is all. Probably ’cause she went to cooking school in Paris before she was married.”
“Any idea where the ex-husband is at the moment?” Donovan’s eyes gleamed.
“Across the planet in Hong Kong. He’s a chef there. They’ve been divorced since the kids were in grade school, and Chase Senior has lived in Asia ever since.” Milla pointed the sharp end of her needle at Donovan. “Can I ask a question now, or is this a one-sided conversation?” James smiled to see that she was recovering some of her pluck.
Lucy looked apologetic. “In a minute, if that’s okay. Could you tell us about your family lunch?”
Stroking the length of knitted yarn, Milla was quiet for a moment. When Donovan opened his mouth to prod her into speech, Lucy placed a restraining hand on his arm and held her fingers to her lips. James felt a rush of gratitude for the gentleness and consideration Lucy was showing Milla.
“It wasn’t the warm and fuzzy reunion I was dreaming of,” Milla admitted with reluctance. “Paulette was delighted to see Chase. Even though they live in the same city they’re both so busy that they rarely sit down face-to-face. They get along well, though, and they’re very similar. Chase is a wealthy and successful lawyer, and Paulette is real proud of him. She heaped praises on his handsome head the moment we sat down.” She sighed. “I only wish she’d been half as kind to Chloe.”