Free On the Right Side of a Dream by Sheila Williams Page A

spaces in the southwestern deserts. I looked across the endless pasture of Paul Terrell’s ranch that seemed to stop with a screech of brakes at the Rockies rising in the distance. And, once again, I gazed with wonder at the mountains, giant-sized pyramids of slate, the peaks disappearing from sight under caps of clouds and berets of snow.
    When Jess turned off onto Kaylin Ridge Road, I came out of my daydream, sat up, and looked at him.
    “You’re not going to the diner first?” I asked.
    He shook his head.
    “Figured you might want to get situated, rest a little, maybe unpack.”
    The clock on the dashboard read 12:30.
    “It’s lunchtime. Probably have a full house . . .” I thought aloud, my mind clicking over automatically to my role as cook on the lunch shift. “Did you make chicken salad? Did I tell you that I add sliced apples to mine now? What about soup? Are they making Reubens? Did you remember to add the steak sauce to the ground beef before you pressed it into patties?” Then I bit my tongue and slowly looked over at Jess.
    Jess has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. I read somewhere that black eyes don’t exist in humans. Whoever wrote that is wrong. Jess has black eyes as sure as my butt is wide. And they can get blacker, if that’s possible, when he’s ticked off (and then you just better get the hell out of the way) or when he’s amused about something. He’d set his jaw tighter than the vault at Fort Knox. But the corners of his eyes were turned up. He was enjoying himself.
    “It’s so damn incredible, Juanita. We managed to keep the diner open while you were takin’ a spa vacation getting your aura adjusted. Ain’t that just the most extraordinary thing? Even managed to fry up some decent eggs and make a sandwich by myself once in a while.”
    I snorted.
    “Yeah, but it’s a good thing I came back when I did. ’Cause if you don’t start adding my secret ingredients to the recipes, you’ll have to close.”
    He gave me a look that would warm butter then flipped the turn signal.
    “You really
aren’t
going to the diner first, are you?”
    “Not on your life. If I take you over there now, you’ll never leave. Somebody will make a phone call, the whole town will show up and, before you know it, you’ll be standing knee-deep in pork chop sandwiches.”
    He was right. But I was disappointed. I wanted to see the folks again, wanted to be around people who really did
eat
food. Not like the tiny half-sized types I had been cooking for who ordered a stack of pancakes with blueberries, ate one blueberry, then said they were full! I wanted to see Mountain dive into three scrambled eggs, a bowl of grits (with butter), four pancakes, and six slices of bacon. I wanted to hear about the new Wal-Mart that the town was up in arms about, the high school band director’s divorce, and Mignon’s new boyfriend. Not to mention the fact that Horace Patterson’s wife was having a baby and . . . I’d missed Paper Moon. It felt good to be back even if it was for a funeral.
    When Jess opened the door to the cabin, I heard barking.
    “Dracula! The Queen of Sheba is back!”
    That darned dog charged toward me like I was breaking in but stopped just short of tackling me. I held up my hand. Before I left after Christmas, I’d started teaching Dracula a few new tricks.
    “Don’t slobber on me!” I warned him.
    Dracula hung his head as if his feelings had been hurt.
    “Don’t give me that stuff, you know what I’m talking about,” I crooned as I scratched him behind the ears. I frowned as I felt around the dog’s shoulders. “Dracula, you feel . . . skinny.” I stepped back and studied the Rottweiler, who looked up at me with eager brown eyes and a rapidly wagging tail. “Jess! You aren’t feeding him enough! He’s so skinny!”
    “Humph. Juanita, the dog’s growing up, that’s all, lost that baby fat. I’m exercising him more. And . . .” He poked his head around the doorway from the