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Authors: Between a Clutch, a Hard Place
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spot any family photos. Jim half-sat half-lay on a brown leather sofa with a cream colored blanket over his legs.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder. “I’m okay. Really. You didn’t have to come all this way and play nursemaid.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke, giving me the feeling he did want me here despite his protests.
“I didn’t come to play nursemaid,” I said. “I came to play cook. Anything you need before I get started?”
Jim grinned. “My crutches and the television remote, please. Mary knocked the crutches over, and I don’t know what she did with the remote.”
I sat the crutches back up against the couch, and I found the remote on a nearby bookshelf. “That Mary is a doll. C.C. seems pleasant, too.”
“Ah, the Courtes are wonderful people . . . especially Mary. She’s meant a great deal to me.”
“I can see why. If she lived near me, I’d have her spoiled rotten . . . not that you don’t!” I handed him the remote. “There. You and Matlock find something decent to watch while I get some cooking done.”
I left “the boys” watching a game show, and I went into Jim’s kitchen to see what I had to work with. I’d stopped by the grocery store and bought the makings for both a tuna casserole and a spaghetti casserole, and I hoped Jim would have the pans I’d need. Thankfully, he did, and I flew in to making my casseroles.
The kitchen was spotless, which surprised me since Jim was living here alone. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me since the rest of the house was so clean, but it did. If something had happened to me and Crandall had lived in our house by himself for any more than two days, the whole house would have been a disaster area—the kitchen especially so. I could imagine coffee cups and cereal bowls stacked from sink to ceiling while TV dinner cartons overflowed from the trash can. But Jim’s kitchen was all oak cabinets and white tile, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere.
As I was rolling me a crust to put on the top of my tuna casserole, the oven light went off, lettin’ me know it was hot enough to bake the tuna pie. I put the crust on and crimped the edges with more care that I usually take. Didn’t want Jim to think I was a sloppy cook, you know. I put the casserole in the oven, checked the clock, and then blew into the spaghetti pot to keep it from boiling over.
Well, low and behold, the doorbell rang. You ain’t gonna believe who it was. Okay, you probably will believe it—it was Tansie. I went to the door, and there stood the big ol’ blousy thing wearing so much makeup that Jezebel herself wouldn’t have been caught dead in the woods lookin’ like that. That Tammy Faye might’ve, though. Remember her? She’s the one that used to say the Lord loved her and wanted her to be pretty . . . or something like that. Well, God love her, she must’ve thought the Lord wanted her to be a clown; and Tansie was lookin’ a might “Clarabelle” herself today.
I was tryin’ to think of something clever to say, but she beat me to the punch. “You must be Jim’s house frau,” she said. “Funny, but you bear a striking resemblance to my dear friend Myrtle.”
“Oh,” I said, forcing a chuckle, “I’m far from being the hired help. I do what I do because I enjoy it . . . and so does Jim.” I stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in?”
The angry hiss of water on a stove eye let me know that the spaghetti was boiling over again, so I hurried to the kitchen to blow into the pot some more. This time, after stirring it, I cut the heat down.
I was surprised to find that Tansie had followed me into the kitchen rather than gone hunting after Jim like a beagle on a rabbit’s trail.
“So, how is he?” she asked.
“He’s got a broke ankle,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that—Bettie told me that. How is the poor
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder. “I’m okay. Really. You didn’t have to come all this way and play nursemaid.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke, giving me the feeling he did want me here despite his protests.
“I didn’t come to play nursemaid,” I said. “I came to play cook. Anything you need before I get started?”
Jim grinned. “My crutches and the television remote, please. Mary knocked the crutches over, and I don’t know what she did with the remote.”
I sat the crutches back up against the couch, and I found the remote on a nearby bookshelf. “That Mary is a doll. C.C. seems pleasant, too.”
“Ah, the Courtes are wonderful people . . . especially Mary. She’s meant a great deal to me.”
“I can see why. If she lived near me, I’d have her spoiled rotten . . . not that you don’t!” I handed him the remote. “There. You and Matlock find something decent to watch while I get some cooking done.”
I left “the boys” watching a game show, and I went into Jim’s kitchen to see what I had to work with. I’d stopped by the grocery store and bought the makings for both a tuna casserole and a spaghetti casserole, and I hoped Jim would have the pans I’d need. Thankfully, he did, and I flew in to making my casseroles.
The kitchen was spotless, which surprised me since Jim was living here alone. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me since the rest of the house was so clean, but it did. If something had happened to me and Crandall had lived in our house by himself for any more than two days, the whole house would have been a disaster area—the kitchen especially so. I could imagine coffee cups and cereal bowls stacked from sink to ceiling while TV dinner cartons overflowed from the trash can. But Jim’s kitchen was all oak cabinets and white tile, and there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere.
As I was rolling me a crust to put on the top of my tuna casserole, the oven light went off, lettin’ me know it was hot enough to bake the tuna pie. I put the crust on and crimped the edges with more care that I usually take. Didn’t want Jim to think I was a sloppy cook, you know. I put the casserole in the oven, checked the clock, and then blew into the spaghetti pot to keep it from boiling over.
Well, low and behold, the doorbell rang. You ain’t gonna believe who it was. Okay, you probably will believe it—it was Tansie. I went to the door, and there stood the big ol’ blousy thing wearing so much makeup that Jezebel herself wouldn’t have been caught dead in the woods lookin’ like that. That Tammy Faye might’ve, though. Remember her? She’s the one that used to say the Lord loved her and wanted her to be pretty . . . or something like that. Well, God love her, she must’ve thought the Lord wanted her to be a clown; and Tansie was lookin’ a might “Clarabelle” herself today.
I was tryin’ to think of something clever to say, but she beat me to the punch. “You must be Jim’s house frau,” she said. “Funny, but you bear a striking resemblance to my dear friend Myrtle.”
“Oh,” I said, forcing a chuckle, “I’m far from being the hired help. I do what I do because I enjoy it . . . and so does Jim.” I stepped back from the door. “Won’t you come in?”
The angry hiss of water on a stove eye let me know that the spaghetti was boiling over again, so I hurried to the kitchen to blow into the pot some more. This time, after stirring it, I cut the heat down.
I was surprised to find that Tansie had followed me into the kitchen rather than gone hunting after Jim like a beagle on a rabbit’s trail.
“So, how is he?” she asked.
“He’s got a broke ankle,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes. “I know that—Bettie told me that. How is the poor
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