Free Rock of Ages by Howard Owen Page B

van around to the porch behind the storage room, and in half an hour, her meager, undeserved inheritance is, as William says, “good to go.”
    He seems sincere in inviting her to stay for supper—“Hell, I bet we could even scare up a beer or two if you want to sit and talk”—but Georgia says she’ll take a rain check.
    More like an ice check, she mutters to herself as she backs out of the driveway, trying to avoid children who don’t seem disposed to move at all as she eyes them in the rearview mirror. When hell freezes over.
    The boy she saw earlier, no more than 5 years old with white-blond hair, stands in the dirt, picking his nose. They make eye contact and he gives her the finger, then finally runs to the other side of the yard when she stops and opens the door.
    The big part-shepherd chases the van for half a mile. He seems to actually be trying to bite the tires. Georgia has the sense, as she turns on to the state road, that she is leaving a foreign country.
    â€œBlackwells Über Alles,” she mutters.
    Back at the house, Leeza is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and holding a recipe book she must have brought down with her. She’s frowning.
    â€œOh, hi,” she says when she sees Georgia come in. “I was just looking for something good to cook tonight.”
    Georgia believes she manages to catch the grimace before it reaches her face. The last time Leeza “cooked” for them, there was a scene involving bloody chicken, tears, and a quick call to Pizza Hut. Leeza has not had much experience cooking; she’s been taught most of what she knows from Justin, who learned how to render several classes of plants and animals appetizing during his Peace Corps days.
    â€œWhat’re you thinking about fixing?” Georgia asks.
    â€œOh, I dunno. Here’s one I’ve always liked. We had it once in this cool restaurant when Dad took us to New York. Beef Wellington.”
    â€œHmm. Beef Wellington.” Hell, Georgia thinks, why not try something hard? “Well, that’s always kind of intimidated me. Tell you what: If you’ll wait until I get my shiftless son to help me move this stuff out of the van, I’ll show you a great recipe for roast beef. It’s a no-brainer.
    â€œI mean,” she says quickly, gun-shy about accidental insults, “even I can do it.”
    Georgia, who has made a passable beef Wellington on a handful of occasions, has faced the sulking (Leeza’s) and wrath (Justin’s) before when feelings were hurt over kitchen prowess. As she walks out the screen door in search of her son, who is supposed to be “doing something with Kenny,” she sees her possibly-future daughter-in-law still poring over the cookbook, perhaps ready to take on beef Wellington just to show Georgia she can, which she can’t.
    As the day fades, the wind has picked up and the weather has turned chilly, as if November is finally bringing fall to the Carolina coastal plain. Georgia’s sweater is overmatched, but she doesn’t want to go back inside just now.
    She spots two figures across the field and sees that Justin and Kenny are playing golf on the little two-hole course Justin has taken to calling Little Augusta. While she is still 100 yards away, Justin takes a swing and they both yell “Fore.” The ball is invisible to Georgia, who’s staring into the low-hanging sun. She can only put her hands over her head and turn away from them until she hears a “thunk” in the near-distance.
    â€œSorry,” Kenny says as they walk toward her. “We weren’t expecting an audience today. The gallery’s usually not much of a problem out here.”
    He and her son seem to genuinely like each other. They do have some history, although it’s pretty much ancient history by now. Kenny did teach her son how to drive the unsettled summer he turned 16, the summer she abandoned him and he