The Mulberry Tree

Patsy took on a tone that said she couldn’t believe Matt couldn’t see the obvious. “Because, Matt, dearest brother-in-law of mine, whoever you are ‘involved with,’ as you call it, becomes part of our family. We have Christmases and Thanksgivings together. Weddings. Funerals.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Look what you did last time.”

“Right,” Matt said. “I see what you mean.” His former wife had not participated in any family affairs. For the most part, he’d been isolated from his brother’s family for all the years he was married. If he did see them, he saw them alone. One meeting between Patsy and Cassandra had been enough for both women.

“This one is nice,” Patsy said, letting him know, yet again, what she thought of his ex-wife. “Opal likes her a lot. She even gave Opal and that daughter of hers some jam, and you should taste it!”

“She can cook,” Matt said, and there was reverence in his voice. “She can cook.”

Later, as Matt and Rick were on the stairs carrying boxes down to Matt’s pickup, Rick whispered, “The widow didn’t go bananas about Patsy and Janice.”

Matt nodded. After the one and only time that Cassandra had met his sister-in-law, she’d said, “Do you expect me to pretend that there is only one person in the room when there are two of them? That’s absurd. I won’t be visiting your relatives again.” And that had been that. Nothing Matt ever said budged her.

When Matt got out of his truck and went into Bailey’s house, he was amazed at how disappointed he was that she didn’t come out to greet him. “Hello? Anybody home?” he called, feeling a bit odd to be entering without knocking. This afternoon, when they’d moved Matt’s few belongings into the house, he’d known that she wasn’t there. Patsy a

nd her chain of informants had told him of Bailey’s whereabouts every minute of the day.

The house smelled great, warm with cooking, but when he went into the kitchen, she wasn’t there. There was a note on the refrigerator, “Dinner’s in the oven.”

It was the first time he’d seen her handwriting, and he liked it: easy to read, on the small side, neat and tidy. Like she is, he thought, smiling.

“Bailey?” he called, then thought, Maybe she wants me to call her something else. He went down the hall, and when he saw that her bedroom door was ajar, he pushed it open farther. “Bailey?” he called softly. No answer, and the open bathroom door showed that that room was also empty.

Did she go out? he wondered. Did she make him dinner according to their agreement, then leave him to eat alone?

Matt decided that the next time he saw Patsy, he was going to wring her neck. She was making him believe there was something between him and “the widow” that there wasn’t, and making him believe that if he thought there was ever going to be anything between them, then he had to act instantly.

Shaking his head to clear it, Matt went back to the kitchen and opened the oven door. Inside was a big plate and a bowl, both covered with foil. Slowly, he took the plate out of the oven, then peeled back the foil. There were four filets of fish, each lightly breaded and sautéed; a red sauce was under the fish, and when he tasted it, it was spicy-hot. Beside the fish was a big pile of what looked to be old-fashioned greens, the kind that they didn’t sell in stores and that he hadn’t eaten since he was a child. Beside it was a square of something that looked like onions. They were. Caramelized onions.

Lord! but the woman could cook!

He was halfway through the plate when he again began to wonder where she was. On impulse, he opened the door to the big pantry off the kitchen, then drew in his breath. Yesterday the room had been empty, but tonight there were many jars on the shelves, all filled and labeled. Stepping inside, he ran his hand along them. On the shelf under the window was a big glass jar filled with cherries, looking as though they’d just been picked and swimming in a clear liquid. “Cherry Cordial,” the label said in her neat lettering. On the shelves against the wall were jars filled with a dark liquid and labeled “Blackberry Liqueur.” There were jars of carrots surrounded by whole spices and a rich-looking liquid. “Jam,” “Conserves,” “Green Tomato Chutney,” he read.

Matt backed out of the pantry, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. It was Pioneer Woman meets Julia Child.

In the kitchen again, he finished his plate of food, then removed the bowl from the oven and took off the foil. It was bread pudding, one of his favorite things in the world. There were fat raisins in the bread, and a warm, custardy sauce floated on top. He took one bite and thought he might swoon, then laughed at himself for thinking of the old-fashioned word. Would he have to be revived with cherry cordial?

With his bowl full of pudding in his hand, he pushed open the screen door and went outside. It was early in the year yet, but soon it was going to get hot. He looked up at the mulberry tree. “Know where she is?” he asked, then smiled when a breeze blew the leaves and they seemed to point down the path. Looking through shrubs and low-hanging tree branches, Matt could see a bit of yellow near the fishpond. Bailey’s shirt.

“Thank you,” Matt said, smiling up at the old tree as he followed the twists and turns of the stone path down, and there was Bailey, bent over an empty raised bed. She was planting some little green things she pulled from a bunch.

For a moment he didn’t say anything, just stood behind her and watched her work. She was a very desirable woman. Very. But not in the way that most people would think of as “desirable.” There was something about her that made him feel good. She wasn’t the kind of woman that would make a man go wild with lust. No, she was the kind of woman that made a man think of quiet evenings in front of a fireplace. She made him think of coming home from work and telling her everything that had happened. She made him think of . . . well, of kids and catching fireflies in jars, and of grabbing her and them and rolling down the hill on the grass.

Matt had never liked to tell anyone his innermost feelings, so he couldn’t tell Patsy that he had to go slow with this woman, because this woman was too important to make a wrong move with.

“Dinner was delicious,” he said softly, and was pleased to see that the unexpected sound of his voice didn’t make her jump.

“Glad you liked it,” she said. “You probably know that Mr. Shelby raises catfish in a big tank in back of his house.”

Matt sat down on the grass not far from her and noted that somebody was going to need to mow the big lawn and the patches of grass here and there. He thought he’d better do some research on lawn mowers. “I can’t say that anyone around here knows much about Shelby. The shotgun tends to keep people away.” He noticed that she started to say something, but didn’t, then turned back to her planting. “What are you planting?”

“Strawberries. I got the sets from Mr. Shelby. Everbearing over there and June-bearing in this bed.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

She didn’t look up. “Take a guess.”

Matt laughed. “Let’s see, those bear strawberries all season, and those just produce berries in June. So how’d I do, Teach?”

“Perfect.” She moved on to the next row. “And before you ask, canners want all the berries to be ripe at once, so we can make great vats of preserves.”