Read Online 'Til Grits Do Us Part by Jennifer Rogers Spinola - Free Book Online

Wooden shutters. Satellite dishes. Screen doors and birdbaths and narrow front porches supported by decorative pillars.
    I turned before my T ITANIC F ARM AND R EAL E STATE sign into Mom’s neat gravel driveway, which thankfully sported nothing more than trimmed forsythia shrubs, tastefully arranged geraniums, frosty-green juniper bushes, and bright summer marigolds (thanks to Adam). An American flag fluttered from the front porch, and roses cascaded in a colorful froth from her flower beds. Brown country shutters. Fresh creamy-tan siding and brown-shingled roof.
    And No. Country. Music.
    Or bluegrass. Whatever Tim called it.
    I parked and headed up the deck steps at the side of the house, pausing to touch a fistful of Mom’s white blooms that poked through the wooden railing. Roses that should have reminded me of yesterday. Of redemption. Of all the changes in Mom’s life, and in mine, blooming fresh and clean and astonishing.
    But now they just made me think of the weird bouquet back at work.
    â€œChristie?” I unlocked the door and poked my head into the laundry room, keys jingling over the sound of her happy barks.
    She barreled into me, licking my face, as I struggled to keep my grip on my purse, keys, folders, and laptop case. Becky had thrust Christie at me in a cardboard box last fall—all glistening eyes and trembling whiskers and wet puppy nose—and sucker that I am, I took her in. And, yes, even named her after a NASCAR driver, per the current trend among my Staunton-ite friends.
    Pets are a death knell for three things: (1) immaculate furniture, (2) spontaneous weekend getaways, and (3) selling real estate. But seeing as none of those ever happened to me anyway, I’d decided to take my chances with Christie.
    I squatted there in my snazzy heels and work pants, laughing as Christie covered my arms and chin with kisses, practically knocking me onto the off-white linoleum on my back.
    What could I say? After years of silent Japanese apartments, it felt nice to be missed.
    â€œCome on, Christie.” I nuzzled her head as I stood and brushed off my pants, stepping over my discarded running shoes. Then I slipped out of my heels and into soft Japanese house slippers. “Let’s see if we can find that warranty in Mom’s stuff and save us a couple of bucks.”
    First things first though. A hot cup of green tea. I dropped my purse and laptop on the table and reached for my black Japanese teapot, a carryover from my time as a college exchange student, homestay participant, and two glorious years as one of the top reporters at the Associated Press’s Tokyo bureau. All of it gone now, lost in the rumble of jacked-up trucks.
    I poured water and set the pot on the stove, preparing my bitter
matcha
green tea powder, spoon, and favorite teacup by rote. And then I shoofed my way into Mom’s bedroom in my slippers, Christie at my heels.
    â€œOh, Mom,” I sighed, pushing open her bedroom door and taking it all in: the simple wooden dresser and mirror that had been hers. Butter-yellow curtains and flowered bedspread. The closet that once held her pantsuits for work as a special-ed teacher at the Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind, and Indian-style blouses in wild colors for off days. The antique trunk at the foot of her bed that still cradled her secrets.
    â€œWhere would you keep your transmission warranty, Mom?” I spoke out loud, causing Christie to poke her head out from under the bed and smile at me, a stray clump of dust on her nose.
    Yep. Dust. How many months since I’d vacuumed under that bed? Too many, obviously. Not surprising since almost all my spare time went to (1) work, (2) driving the long, winding roads to and from town, and (3) standing in line at Food Lion hoping I had enough cash to buy boxed macaroni and cheese.
    And now here I sat, preparing to dig through journals and tax returns and students’ papers all layered in Mom’s trunk