Free Lovesick by James Driggers

dinner,” he said.

    Menu Two—Sunday Dinner
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    Cream of Tomato Soup
Fried Chicken
Mashed Potatoes and Gravy
Garden Peas
Biscuits
Coconut Cake

    â€œThis one’s got flour in the chicken breading, a cake, and the biscuits, so you have three things to show,” he said, holding three fingers in the air. “Plus, chicken for Sunday dinner will make them think you are a lady of real refinement.”
    â€œI am a lady of real refinement,” she snapped back.
    â€œA lady of means,” he said. “A chicken is not as easy to come by as a piece of pork or stew beef. You watch. Those other women will have a mock turtle soup and call it sophisticated.”
    â€œI could never make all of this in a million years,” she complained. “It’s too much.”
    â€œYou won’t have to make it all,” he replied. “I guarantee they are only going to be interested in what you tell them you can bake. You have to sell them on the idea of it. And when you roll out those angel biscuits, they probably will just write you the check right there and then on the spot.”
    The final menu— Ladies’ Luncheon —had proved the most cantankerous of all. Butcher had wanted to do a cold menu, which he explained to Virginia would show her to be a hostess who knew how to plan ahead. The problem was that as the centerpiece to the menu, he had proposed a baked pâté in aspic, which would fulfill the pie crust requirement, but also something he said was so refined that it would elevate her to an entirely different level. Virginia protested no sane woman would ever attempt such a thing.
    â€œThat’s just because they couldn’t think of it. Won’t imagine a savory pie. They will all be doing lemon meringue or peach or chocolate chess. I guarantee it,” said Butcher. “And this is as simple as the pie crust really. Ain’t nothing more than minced pork baked in a shell. A meatloaf when you get down to it. It’s just when you slice it that it shows off.” Butcher had seen Laurent slice one to lay out on a platter for the dining room at the brothel. Spiced ground pork encased in a shimmering golden pool of aspic surrounded by a delicate, flaky pastry. He had called it a country pâté ( pâté de campagne ) . Butcher didn’t think there was anything country about it. It was the most pleasing dish he had ever seen—worthy of a king or queen.
    He had finally convinced her, but only after Mona had taken his side. They had fallen into a rhythm again, he sensed.
    â€œRemember when we had the chicken liver spread on toast?” she asked. “You said how much you liked that—how elegant it was. Pâté of chicken livers,” she said, as if scrolling the words through her memory. “It was on the menu at the hotel.”
    â€œWhere was that?” asked Butcher.
    â€œBefore we were in Fayetteville,” she said. “We were staying in a hotel in—”
    â€œWhat difference does it make?” said Virginia. “Yes, I remember the chicken liver spread. Perhaps you are right. It would make a good impression. But you can’t call it anything that sounds foreign. That will sound like I’m putting on airs. And country just sounds . . . well, so common .”
    And so the final menu fell into place.

    Menu Three—Ladies’ Luncheon
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    Tomato Juice Cocktail with Celery
Waldorf Salad
Farmhouse Pâté in Pastry
Chilled Asparagus
Shortbreads with Berries and Cream

    Butcher liked that Mona had taken his side against her boss, tried not to imagine that it meant more than it did. Tried to squash down the feeling that he had become sweet on her. He had missed her since he had left Fayetteville, and he was looking forward to her arrival in Atlanta. She had awakened something in him, and though he was surely twice her age, she had made him feel like a young man again.
    He agreed to work any shifts that were