Free Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

never eat a blessed thing except unsalted oatmeal with no butter. They like to scare us into going to them every time you turn around.”
    “Yeah. If you’re sick, they make money. If you’re not, they don’t.”
    “Glory! You’re right! Everything’s a racket these days, isn’t it?”
    She took two tumblers from a cabinet and filled them with ice and water.
    I looked around her pristine white kitchen with all the red accents and smiled to myself. She had certainly cornered the market on strawberry accoutrements. There were dishes, mugs, canisters, dish towels—you name it—all of them had strawberries on them somewhere. She even had a red Viking range with eight burners and two ovens. It looked like a big valentine centered on the back wall. In fact the entire kitchen was a kind of valentine, a love letter showing how important her kitchen was to her. I agreed with that position because I had always felt that as much as I enjoyed the drama of a gorgeous living room or the glamour of a beautiful dining room, the kitchen was the heart of a home.
    Her kitchen was where we usually worked, all of our papers spread across her oversize trestle table. It was still early in the day and sunlight was pouring through the windows. I noticed a grouping of bird feeders outside on black wrought-iron shepherd hooks and I thought how nice it must be for her to sit across from the windows and watch the migrating birds come and go.
    “That’s new, isn’t it? The bird feeders, I mean.”
    “Yes! It is. Isn’t it just the perfect thing to keep me company? After Jake died last year, I decided I was too old for another dog and then I saw these on the Internet and thought, well? Why not?”
    “Why not indeed? Now, let’s talk about inventory. It’s planned for next week . . .”
    We talked about shrinkage due to expiration dates, breakage, and how much we had to write down for taxes for 2006.
    “It’ll be a cold day in you know where before I insist on producing strawberry-pomegranate jam again. Remember how we thought all those little seeds would be a surprising burst of flavor? All those antioxidants? All people did was run to the dentist and write me letters of complaint.”
    “Yeah. Way worse than raspberries. We couldn’t give it away. How much do we own?”
    “I’m afraid to tell you,” Miss Sweetie said. We stared at each other for a few seconds and then she said, “Okay. Four hundred cases. That’s forty-eight hundred jars.”
    “Holy smoke. That’s a lot. Maybe I can give them to Bobby Mack at a big discount and he can use it as a marinade?”
    “Maybe we should try it as a marinade first?”
    “I’ll ask him to send me a pork shoulder and I’ll try it tonight. Is that the worst problem we’ve got?”
    “Yes, I’m happy to say. Other than this, it’s strawberry chiffon heaven around here! And, by the way, we’re very close to landing the Sara Lee account as well. Did I tell you about this?”
    “No! Oh, Miss Sweetie, that’s wonderful!”
    “Yes, it is! Even though I am supposed to be just a spokesperson, our head of sales drags me into everything. Anyway, they have a whole new line of low-fat muffins and our strawberries . . .”
    Her eyes twinkled and she became very animated as she told me how Sara Lee proposed to market the muffins and how much revenue we stood to gain if we acquired the account. For all of her complaints about how it was time for her to retire, it was obvious that Sweetie’s was keeping her going.
    “And, Caroline? I had a call from Nancy this morning about our bridge game this week. She was headed to Beaufort for a breakfast and she saw the billboards. Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Mother McCree! We had no idea Frances Mae was so, well . . .”
    “Crazy?”
    I felt the back of my neck ignite and my face was in flames.
    “Oh, come on now.” She reached across the table and patted the back of my hand. “I know it’s none of my business, but if I can help