Read Online Like Sweet Potato Pie by Jennifer Rogers Spinola - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Rogers Spinola
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Reluctantly sat up. “Okay. Fast. But then gravity’s taking over.”
I walked her through the house with Christie in my arms. Memories poured back, momentarily making me forget my ache for Japan: The bedroom floors that Tim and Adam polished after taking up the carpet. The kitchen full of autumn blooms where Becky taught me to make sweet tea. The living room where we spent the last moments of her unborn baby’s life, laughing, and the front porch where I’d sat with Adam in the twilight.
“What do you think?” I ran my hand across the smooth, cream kitchen walls. Adam and Tim had stripped Mom’s hideous brown ‘70s wallpaper, and the paint still smelled new.
“Where’s your stash of oversized belt buckles and cowboy hats?”
“My what?”
“Hold on.” Kyoko moved things around on the counter. “There must be a spit cup here somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes and sat down at the table, which was still scattered with lace and marigold petals. “So why didn’t you call me? I could’ve met you at the airport!”
“Yeah, sorry. I know it’s rude to show up out of the blue, but I had a few days off, plus two Japanese holidays … so I just bought a ticket and came.”
She gazed around the dining room, apparently trying to reconcile herself with the fact that she’d indeed entered the South. “I can always camp out at Best Western if you need some space. I’ll ask for that room you had overlooking the train tracks.” She rubbed sleepy eyes, smudging her dark makeup. “Or I can stay at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel.”
“Stonewall Jackson? You’re making it up!”
“Wanna bet?” Kyoko slapped a printout in my hand. “Hey, you’re the one who lives here. Not me.”
I jerked the paper closer. “It looks nice!”
“It actually does.” She bent her head to see. “I can ask for the Dixie Suite. They serve grits and pigs’ feet in the morning, and a free ticket to the Civil War reenactments—complete with mugging.”
I instinctively circled my side with my hand where the skinhead had kicked me with his boot, requiring lots of ice and pain medication. Then Kyoko’s words registered, and I smacked her with the paper. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’re staying here.”
“You sure? Because I don’t want to intrude. Seems like you’re pretty busy here, cow tipping and whatnot.”
I ignored her. “I’ve missed you.” I hugged her again, and she glowered. Got up and played with my refrigerator magnets.
I forgot—Japan and the American South had two very different rules of physical contact. Southerners hugged. Whacked. Tackled. Gave noogies. A lot. And Japanese … well, bowed, standing a foot apart and trying desperately to avoid eye contact.
Kyoko sat back down and gave me an awkward pat on the head, messing up my hair. “Yeah, I’ve missed you, too, Ro,” she said with as warm a smile as she could muster.
Ro.
No one else in the world used that nickname for me, made up of the last syllable of my name butchered in Japanese. Even the Japanese honorific,
-chan
, she sometimes tacked on the end reminded me of achingly beautiful Tokyo days.
“How long can you stay?”
“Can you put up with me for seven days? I know, I know. I’ll smoke outside. Dog and allergies and house on the market.”
“A week? That’s it?” My smile collapsed. I don’t know what I’d hoped for, but seven measly days? I wanted to soak up Japan from Kyoko, crab that she was, like osmosis: The office jokes. The subway. The sparkling city lights. I wanted to pretend I’d never gotten fired for plagiarism and board the plane bound for Tokyo by her side, never to return.
“Well, a week’s all I’ve got, bucko.” Kyoko yawned, stretching. “Take it or leave it. And if you leave it, give me my cream puffs back.”
“I guess my choices are limited.”
“Smart woman.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“Tea’d be great.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve got that sweet iced-tea stuff in your
I walked her through the house with Christie in my arms. Memories poured back, momentarily making me forget my ache for Japan: The bedroom floors that Tim and Adam polished after taking up the carpet. The kitchen full of autumn blooms where Becky taught me to make sweet tea. The living room where we spent the last moments of her unborn baby’s life, laughing, and the front porch where I’d sat with Adam in the twilight.
“What do you think?” I ran my hand across the smooth, cream kitchen walls. Adam and Tim had stripped Mom’s hideous brown ‘70s wallpaper, and the paint still smelled new.
“Where’s your stash of oversized belt buckles and cowboy hats?”
“My what?”
“Hold on.” Kyoko moved things around on the counter. “There must be a spit cup here somewhere.”
I rolled my eyes and sat down at the table, which was still scattered with lace and marigold petals. “So why didn’t you call me? I could’ve met you at the airport!”
“Yeah, sorry. I know it’s rude to show up out of the blue, but I had a few days off, plus two Japanese holidays … so I just bought a ticket and came.”
She gazed around the dining room, apparently trying to reconcile herself with the fact that she’d indeed entered the South. “I can always camp out at Best Western if you need some space. I’ll ask for that room you had overlooking the train tracks.” She rubbed sleepy eyes, smudging her dark makeup. “Or I can stay at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel.”
“Stonewall Jackson? You’re making it up!”
“Wanna bet?” Kyoko slapped a printout in my hand. “Hey, you’re the one who lives here. Not me.”
I jerked the paper closer. “It looks nice!”
“It actually does.” She bent her head to see. “I can ask for the Dixie Suite. They serve grits and pigs’ feet in the morning, and a free ticket to the Civil War reenactments—complete with mugging.”
I instinctively circled my side with my hand where the skinhead had kicked me with his boot, requiring lots of ice and pain medication. Then Kyoko’s words registered, and I smacked her with the paper. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’re staying here.”
“You sure? Because I don’t want to intrude. Seems like you’re pretty busy here, cow tipping and whatnot.”
I ignored her. “I’ve missed you.” I hugged her again, and she glowered. Got up and played with my refrigerator magnets.
I forgot—Japan and the American South had two very different rules of physical contact. Southerners hugged. Whacked. Tackled. Gave noogies. A lot. And Japanese … well, bowed, standing a foot apart and trying desperately to avoid eye contact.
Kyoko sat back down and gave me an awkward pat on the head, messing up my hair. “Yeah, I’ve missed you, too, Ro,” she said with as warm a smile as she could muster.
Ro.
No one else in the world used that nickname for me, made up of the last syllable of my name butchered in Japanese. Even the Japanese honorific,
-chan
, she sometimes tacked on the end reminded me of achingly beautiful Tokyo days.
“How long can you stay?”
“Can you put up with me for seven days? I know, I know. I’ll smoke outside. Dog and allergies and house on the market.”
“A week? That’s it?” My smile collapsed. I don’t know what I’d hoped for, but seven measly days? I wanted to soak up Japan from Kyoko, crab that she was, like osmosis: The office jokes. The subway. The sparkling city lights. I wanted to pretend I’d never gotten fired for plagiarism and board the plane bound for Tokyo by her side, never to return.
“Well, a week’s all I’ve got, bucko.” Kyoko yawned, stretching. “Take it or leave it. And if you leave it, give me my cream puffs back.”
“I guess my choices are limited.”
“Smart woman.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“Tea’d be great.”
“Hot or cold?”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve got that sweet iced-tea stuff in your
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