As his stomach let out a roar of starvation, she laughed.
But he didn’t, and abruptly, he had to clear his throat. This was home. This food, prepared by this specific woman, was home—he’d had exactly what was on this plate all of his life, especially back in the years before his mother had retreated from everything and she and his father had been out five nights a week socializing. Sick or well, happy or sad, hot or cold, he and his brothers and sister had sat in the kitchen with Miss Aurora and behaved themselves or risked getting swatted on the back of the head.
There were never any troublemakers in Miss Aurora’s kitchen.
“G’on now,” she said softly. “Don’t wait to where it gets cold.”
Talk about digging in, and he moaned as the first taste flooded his mouth. “Oh, Miss Aurora.”
“You need to come on home, boy.” She shook her head as she sat down with her own plate. “That northern stuff is not for you. Don’t know how you stand the weather—much less those people.”
“So you going to tell me what happened?” he asked, nodding at the cotton ball and surgical tape in the crook of her elbow.
“I don’t need that car you bought me. That’s what happened.”
He wiped his mouth. “What car?”
Those black eyes narrowed. “Don’t you try to play, boy.”
“Miss Aurora, you were driving a piece of—ah, junk. I can’t have y’all like that.”
He could hear the Southern creeping back into his voice. Didn’t take long, did it.
“My Malibu is perfectly fine—”
Now he held her stare. “It was a cheap car to begin with and had a hundred thousand miles on it.”
“Don’t see why—”
“Miss Aurora, I’m not having you in that junker no more. Sorry.”
She glared at him hard enough to burn a hole in his forehead, but when he didn’t budge, she dropped her eyes. And that was the nature of their relationship. Two hard heads, neither of whom was willing to give an inch about anything—except to the other one.
“I don’t need a Mercedes,” she muttered.
“Four-wheel drive, ma’am.”
“I don’t like the color. It’s unholy.”
“Bull. It’s U of C red and you love it.”
As she grumped again, he knew the truth. She adored the new car. Her sister, Miss Patience, had called him up and told him that Miss Aurora had been driving the E350 4MATIC all around town. Of course, Miss Aurora never dialed him to thank him, and he’d been expecting this protest: She’d always been too proud to accept anything for free.
But Miss Aurora also didn’t want to upset him—and knew he was right.
“So what happened this morning with you.” Not a question on his part. He was done with that.
“I just got a little light-headed.”
“They said you passed out.”
“I’m fine.”
“They said the cancer’s back.”
“Who is they.”
“Miss Aurora—”
“My Lord and Savior has healed me before and He will again.” She put one palm to Heaven and closed her eyes. Then looked over at him. “I’m going to be fine. Have I ever lied to you, boy?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Now eat.”
That command pretty much shut him up for twenty minutes.
Lane was halfway done with his second plate when he had to ask. “You see him lately?”
No reason to specify who the “he” was: Edward was the “he” everyone spoke of in hushed tones.
Miss Aurora’s face tightened. “No.”
There was another long period of silence.
“Y’all gonna go see him while you’re here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Somebody’s gotta.”
“Won’t make any difference. Besides, I should get back to New York. I really came here only to check if you were okay—”
“You’re gonna go see him. Before you go back north.”
Lane shut his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy.”
After a serving of thirds, Lane cleared their plates, and had to ignore the fact that Miss Aurora appeared not to have eaten anything at all. The conversation then turned to her nieces and nephews, her sisters and brothers, of which there were eleven, and the fact that her father, Tom, had finally died at the age of eighty-six.
She was called Aurora Toms because she was one of Tom’s kids. Word had it in addition to the twelve he’d had with his wife, there were countless others outside the marriage. Lane had met the man at Miss Aurora’s church from time to time, and he’d been a larger-than-life character, as Deep South as Mississippi, as charismatic as a preacher, as handsome as sin.
Not that he was being arrogant, but Lane knew he had always been her favorite, and he figured that father of hers was the reason she indulged him so much: Like her dad, he’d also been called too handsome for his own good all his life, and he’d sure done his share of womanizing. Back in his twenties? Lane had been right there with good ol’ Mr. Toms.