Granted

  For my mother Betty Louise Hulett Crouch

  Granted

  ANGELA CORRELL

  VIRGINIA BEACH

  CAPE CHARLES

  Granted

  by Angela Correll

  © Copyright 2017 Angela Correll

  ISBN 978-1-63393-550-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  212-574-7939

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  Chapter One

  “ERNESTINA CHADWELL IS dead!”

  The news shot through the prayer chain like a greased bullet. Beulah Campbell hung up the harvest gold wall phone and dropped into a chair. The long-time Somerville Baptist kitchen director was gone, found slumped over the Sunday paper with a pair of scissors in one hand and a two-dollar-off coupon for a Butterball turkey in the other. Blessedly quick, the ninety-year-old woman had not suffered, and Beulah was grateful.

  They had served together for more years than she cared to count. It was hard to imagine a church meal without Ernestina, who flitted to and fro, adjusted tablecloths, and clucked over the order of casseroles. Erni had managed every social function for forty years, including cake and punch receptions, potlucks, and the New Year’s Eve watch night dinners. She dictated the location for every plate, spatula, and trivet, and no one questioned her authority since she had survived the comings and goings of seven pastors.

  It was a bad time for Ernestina to die. The annual community Thanksgiving potluck, the biggest event on the Somerville Baptist social and missionary calendar, was one week away. The church doors were flung wide for all the community to enjoy free turkey with all the fixings. They straggled in from all parts of the county, down from hills and up from hollers, and got their bellies full of home-cooked food made from scratch.

  The very thought of potlucks made Beulah’s stomach churn with hunger. She remembered the cinnamon rolls made by her best friend and neighbor, Evelyn Wilder, and she opened the blue Tupperware container. Beulah tore off the gooey bread, dipped it in her coffee, and popped it in her mouth. As she savored the sweet and spicy flavor, Beulah thought back on all the years she had served as Ernestina’s selected apprentice, especially with the Thanksgiving potluck. Beulah could do it blindfolded, but she had always held back, in order to respect Ernestina’s position as leader. Now, it was her turn to assume the full mantle of responsibility.

  “I’ll do my best for you, Erni,” Beulah said, looking at the ceiling of her kitchen. She noticed three new cobwebs and sighed. Cleaning was impossible this time of year. Dead flies, ladybugs, and spiders piled up overnight. She thought spiders were supposed to eat flies and ladybugs, but in her house, they all lived in utopian harmony.

  There was no time now for dealing with insects. The church potluck needed her. For such a time as this, she thought, recalling her favorite verse from the book of Esther.

  The phone rang, but Beulah didn’t rush to answer since she knew who was on the line. She refilled her coffee, then answered, as she settled in for her morning conversation with Betty Gibson, her across-the-road neighbor and fellow church member. There was much fodder for today’s chat.

  “Beulah, I reckon you’ve already heard. I can hardly believe it. I volunteered to coordinate the funeral meal for Ernestina, so we need to do it up right. Can you bring green beans with chunks of ham hock, two coconut cream pies, and a broccoli casserole, the one with Cheese Whiz? I need you to serve, too.”

  “I’ve gone off the Cheese Whiz, but I have a new recipe,” Beulah said, and noted the ingredients she’d need to pick up at the grocery store.

  “What in the world will happen to the potlucks? And Thanksgiving right up on us.”

  “It’s a big job, there’s no doubt about that,” Beulah said.

  “Well, I heard at homemaker’s club the Presbyterians want to take it over. They’ll jump right on this if we don’t do somethin’ quick. You know they’ve been salivating over the potluck ever since we got that big write-up last year in the Lexington paper. Who’s going to step up and take her place?”

  Surely Betty knew Beulah was next in line. After all the years as Ernestina’s assistant, she was the obvious choice. Yet, it didn’t seem proper to self-appoint herself before Ernestina’s body was cold in the ground.

  “I reckon Pastor Gillum will decide fairly quickly. I’m sure he’d like to get her buried first.”

  “If we don’t pull it together, we’ll lose the community potluck. I don’t believe Pastor Gillum needs to wait too long.”

  Beulah felt a twinge of anxiety, but by the time they’d talked of other things and hung up the phone, she wondered at how Betty got herself so whipped up. It couldn’t be good for a body to borrow all that trouble. Evelyn was a Presbyterian, and if there was talk of them taking over the potluck, Beulah would have heard it from her. Too much silly gossip—the very reason she had dropped out of homemaker’s club twenty years ago.

  Beulah topped off her coffee and focused on her to-do list. There were changes to make, now that she was in charge. It was very possible Pastor Gillum might appoint her overall kitchen director, but for now, it was best to focus on the Thanksgiving potluck, and not get her cart before the horse.

  For one, she wanted locally grown turkeys. Jake, her granddaughter’s fiancé and Evelyn’s son, recently told her about the Bourbon Reds he found pasture-raised the way God intended, not crammed into a tight cage and pumped with antibiotics. They did cost more than Butterballs, but since it was a community potluck, maybe they could get help from some of the local businesses.

  Second, Ernestina would hear of nothing but pumpkin pies, and Beulah knew just as many folks preferred pecan pies. This year, there would be a choice.

  Third, there would be real sweet tea. Ernestina had taken to the powdered tea mix because of its ease and economy, but it was a travesty to call a mess of powdered chemicals “sweet tea,” and Beulah promised herself it would be honest-to-goodness sweet tea this year, even if she had to make it all herself.

  Tired papier-mâché pilgrims and cornucopias adorned the tables year after year, looking worse and worse as each holiday passed. Beulah relished the idea of a decoration overhaul, but there was a strict budgeted amount, and food quality was most important.

  With no time to waste, Beulah attacked the to-do list with gusto. Her appointment was simply a matter of ceremony and that could wait until after the funeral.

  ***

  Ernestina’s visitation and funeral were held on the same day, as had become the fashion for some folks who didn’t anticipate a door-busting crowd. Beulah gave her condolences to Ernestina’s children, as well as the host of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Pastor Gillum preached a fine funeral, full of Ernestina’s praises for her service to others as well as her love for her church and family. There was a soothing rendition of “It is Well With My Soul” and then a foot-stomping version of “Victory in Jesus” before the service concluded and they made a somber convoy out to the graveyard, where they were met with a blustery wind. Beulah slipped out before the final amen and made her way back to the fellowship hall where she took her place in the serving line for the after-funeral meal.

  The food was a bit of a disappointment. Betty had opted for buckets of fried chicken and store-bought containers of potato salad and coleslaw that mixed in with a few homemade items. Beulah was sure the cheesecake came from Walmart, despite the glass plate. It was a blessing Ernestina wasn’t here to see her own funeral meal.

  After everyone had gone through the line, Beulah filled her own plate and set it aside for later. First, she needed to talk with Pastor Gillum. The timing was appr
opriate now. Ernestina was in the ground, the potluck was a week away, and she had to rescue Thanksgiving.

  The portly pastor hovered over the dessert table and eyed a third helping of chocolate cake. He had never been a small man, but since his wife died a few years back, he had simply drowned his sorrows in desserts.

  “Beulah, I’m looking for your chess pie,” he said.

  “It was here, but we’re down to crumbs now,” she said, and pointed to an empty pie plate.

  “Ah, yes, a good sign. Maybe I’ll settle for this chocolate cake.”

  He sliced a piece large enough to feed three people. Beulah looked on with approval; the happier he was, the more agreeable the conversation.

  “Could I speak with you a moment?” she asked, and sliced a piece of Italian cream cake for herself so the visit would seem more social.

  “Why sure, come on over here and we’ll sit at the end of this table. I wanted to talk to you, so this will work out just fine. I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee with this cake. Can I get you one?”

  “Yes, black, please.” This is working out quite nice, she thought. Pastor Gillum was already ahead of her. He anticipated the kitchen dilemma and was ready for action.

  When he returned with the coffees, she waited for him to speak first.

  “Now, I imagine you want to apologize,” he said. “But there is no need for that. ‘For everything there is a season,’ and we’re always wise to recognize when that season is over.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve been through a lot this year, what with your granddaughter moving back home, a knee surgery, and finding your nephew in Italy. It’s not unusual to go through such a time and decide to make life changes. Sometimes these things cause us to consider what life is all about and how we spend our time. It’s perfectly understandable, and there is absolutely no apology necessary.” Crumbs from the chocolate cake dropped into his coffee as he took a drink.

  “Pastor Gillum, I—”

  “When Betty informed me you didn’t want to do the Thanksgiving potluck anymore, I admit I was disappointed. I guess we’d assumed you’d take over for Ernestina. Betty explained your feelings, what with all you’ve had going on this year.”

  Beulah’s mouth dropped as she tried to make sense of his words.

  Pastor Gillum wiped the cake crumbs off his mouth and pushed back his chair. “That Betty, she’s a good one. She jumped right in for Ernestina so there won’t be any disruption. You can sit back and relax, thanks to your friend. My heavens, that cake was delicious.”

  Beulah looked down at her uneaten slice of Italian cream cake and felt sick.

  ***

  Beulah tossed her pocketbook into the passenger seat and slammed the key into the ignition of the old Marquis.

  Betrayal. That is what it is, plain and simple. After all these years of friendship and being good neighbors to boot. All her understanding and love for Betty, despite her gossiping and churlishness, and this is how she got paid back. Beulah thought back to the conversation she’d had with Betty when Ernestina died. Not one word had she uttered about giving up the potluck. She’d simply said that it was a big job, and it should be discussed after the funeral.

  Betty twisted her words to Pastor Gillum and manipulated the outcome to suit herself. Over and over, Beulah had put up with Betty’s petulance and petty comments. It was time to wash her hands of that woman. She gripped the steering wheel and slowed as she approached the Gibson bungalow, which sat smugly across from her own farm drive. Betty’s car was parked out front; she had slipped out of the funeral meal early, which left the rest of them to clean up. Beulah tapped the brake and considered a right turn in order to unload everything she thought about Betty Gibson at the moment.

  In your anger, do not sin. She swerved left into her own driveway instead of the Gibson’s, aggravated at how those scriptures seem to come unbidden and unwelcome at times. The leafless walnut trees flew by in a blur as she bumped up and down into gravel potholes and skidded to a stop next to her house.

  Chapter Two

  ANNIE SAT ACROSS from Jake in their favorite Italian restaurant. Candlelight danced amidst soft shadows on the white linen tablecloth. While he studied the menu, she studied him. The dark hair that curled at any sign of humidity, the small scar above his left eye from a baseball accident, and the crystalline blue eyes that made her melt. He was so darn handsome she wanted to pinch herself to make sure it was real. She looked down at her antique engagement ring, as she had so many times these last few weeks, and saw it was still there. Why did she keep thinking it might disappear? That all this loveliness might float away like a dandelion in spring?

  Jake looked up. “Have you decided?”

  “My usual, pasta primavera. Wanna split the calamari?”

  “Yeah, sounds good,” he said, and closed the menu. Orders placed, Jake leaned forward. “So, how’d it go?”

  “It’s a world away from being a flight attendant,” Annie said as she reflected on her first day as activities director at Richwood Manor and her boss. “Colleen cares about the residents and wants to see them continue to have full and productive lives. We discussed scheduling activities for December, which is the big push now since we’re so close.”

  Annie hesitated. “Colleen seems different to me than when I first interviewed with her. She was very business-like even then, but now I almost sense a prickliness. Do you think she has doubts about me doing the job? I don’t have a background in this, so I’ll have to learn as I go.”

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. “Either way, you’re hired and you have time to prove yourself.”

  “If Vesta Givens weren’t in my corner, I would be even more worried.”

  The ninety-something-year-old former school librarian provided valuable information to Annie in the past and had recommended her for the job.

  “Everyone looks to her for her approval. We’re planning breakfast together two or three times a week, so I’ll have a pulse on the residents and what they need. It’s so different from being a flight attendant. I hope I can do a good job.”

  Jake reached over and took her hand in his. “You’ll do a great job, no worries about that.”

  The waiter brought the fried calamari and opened a bottle of sparkling water with a great flourish.

  Annie delayed the bad news she dreaded telling Jake.

  “I met all the residents today and one gentleman is the cutest. He’s handsome and still has a lot of charisma. He kissed my hand, told me I was a ‘lovely vision,’ and then winked at me.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “He could be my grandfather. Jealous? I don’t think so.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I can’t remember his first name, I met so many people today, but his last name is Caldwell.”

  “Lonnie Caldwell. He owns a lot of land in the county,” Jake said.

  “How do you know all that after being gone for ten years—really fourteen, when you count college?” Annie asked. “I feel like I’m in a new place learning everything and everybody all over again.”

  “I didn’t disconnect quite like you did. I still came home pretty often and helped Dad, and I kept in touch with the guys at the bank since that was my business. It helps, now that I’m back.” Jake put his fork down and leaned back.

  Annie realized it was true. When she flew the coop, she’d ended up in New York for ten years after college as an international flight attendant. Her trips home had been brief and centered on her grandparents.

  “There’s also a resident who is related to my father,” she said. “I think she’s his aunt. I’m not sure if it’s by marriage or relation.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “She knew me, but I can’t remember ever seeing her. It’s weird, these relatives I don’t know well. That side of the family is so lost to me. None of them ever tried hard to get to know me, and I sure haven’t tried at all.”

  “Maybe this is your chance,” Jake said.

  “I’ll visit with her sometime this week.” The waiter brought their entrees.

  Annie took a breath and plunged in with the news.

  “As part of my first day, I had to read the Richwood Manor employee manual and sign the back of it. So, I found out I can’t take a vacation, even unpaid, for six months. That puts us squarely into May for the wedding. I know it’s longer than we hoped.”