Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(111)

“You okay, Maverick?” Mrs. Barry asks, walking up the hall with a concerned frown on her face.

“Um, yeah… I mean, yes, ma’am.” I glance back at the closed office door. “Just kind of, uh… hungry.”

“Come on to the kitchen and I’ll fix you a plate for lunch. And you don’t have to ‘ma’am’ me. I know Hendrix does, but that’s just because of how she was raised.”

“Thank you.” I frown. “How was Hendrix raised?”

Mrs. Barry looks over her shoulder and winks. “Right.”

It takes me a second to process it, but when I do, I can’t help but laugh. God, she’s just like Hendrix.

Guess I’ll have to love her, too.





CHAPTER 42





MAVERICK


What is this stuff you put on the greens?” I hold up a jar of what I can only assume is magic sauce.

“Chowchow.” Mrs. Barry rests one fist on her hip. “You never had chowchow?”

“Never even heard of it, but it’s really good.”

“It’s kind of like relish. You pickle some tomatoes, cabbage, onion, peppers. Stuff like that. Where’d you grow up?”

I take a gulp of sweet tea before answering, glad that Hendrix’s “diversion” resulted in one of the best meals I’ve had in long time. No disrespect to Laurenz, of course.

“When I was really young, we lived all over because my dad played ball, but mostly Vegas and California.”

“Guess chowchow didn’t make it that far.” She laughs and sits down at the kitchen table with her own plate. “You cook much?”

“No, I, um… Well, I have a chef who cooks for me.”

She stills, fork halfway to her mouth. “She lives with you?”

“His name is Laurenz. He doesn’t live with me, exactly, but he does travel with me a lot.”

“He’s just your chef? Don’t work for nobody else?”

“Just me.”

“You must pay him a pretty penny.”

I grin and stir the mashed potatoes on my plate. “I make it worth his while, yeah.”

“And you live in California?”

“Most of the time. Malibu.”

She lifts one brow and sets her fork down. “Well, where else?”

Is this where the interrogation really begins?

“I… um, I have an apartment in New York, a house in Miami, a… ranch in Texas.”

“Did you say a ranch? Like a real ranch with horses?”

“It’s not a very big one,” I assure her. “I’m rarely there. It’s an investment.”

“So you rich as snot?”

I choke on a laugh and maybe a piece of corn bread. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s all right.” She pats my hand consolingly. “Bible say the love of money is the root of all evil, not money itself. So just do the right things with what you got.”

“I try to.”

“Good.” She picks up her fork and stabs a piece of baked chicken, by order of Dr. Katz reducing her intake of fried foods. “My baby girl went and got her a rich man. Lucky Hendrix.”

“I’m the lucky one.” I glance up to smile and then resume eating.

“Hendrix hasn’t brought many boys home.” She snorts. “I know my daughter. I know it’s not because she didn’t have any, but she didn’t see fit to bring many of them around. So you must be special.”

“I hope so. She’s certainly special to me.”

“Did she tell you ’bout me and her daddy?”

The smile freezes on my face at her words, and I weigh my response carefully. I know how rare it is for Mrs. Barry to discuss Hendrix’s father, and that often when she does, it’s in a fugue of confusion.

“Just that you met really young,” I say after a moment.

“Knew each other since we were kids.” Mrs. Barry chuckles. “I couldn’t stand his big head.”

“Why not?” An involuntary smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“He thought he was hot stuff.”

“Was he?”

“Oh, yeah, but he didn’t have to act like it.” We laugh together for a little bit before she continues. “He was good-looking and smart. Played football.”

“Ahhh. Had some swagger, did he?”

“Lots of it. He walked right up to me and said, Betty, it’s gon’ be you and me.”

“And what’d you do?”

“Kicked him in the shin.”

Our laughter mixes in the otherwise quiet kitchen again before we move on.

“How’d he win you over?” I ask.

“His mama had this beautiful garden. We had a contest every year for prize flowers. Her ranunculus won just about every time. They were famous around here. He would bring me one from her garden every Sunday.”

“Like to your house?”

“He’d leave it on my front porch. No note. Just the flower. Everybody knew his mama’s ranunculus. No mistaking them.”

“How long did he do that?”

“Two years.” She chuckles and it’s a little raspy, slightly hoarse with emotion. “One Sunday we were in tenth grade, he showed up with his flower, ready to leave it, and I was sitting on the front porch.”