Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,68
to her or Wesley, but the social implications of ending her engagement made her cringe. So did a startling self-revelation. She had agreed to marry a man she didn’t love to keep her parents happy. Pathetic.
When, in her eagerness to please others, had she lost sight of what she wanted?
More importantly, what did she want?
Dessert: Sassy wanted sugar so bad she had the shakes.
“Glad you like the food.” Viola interrupted Sassy’s thoughts. “Your brother ate here ’most every day, may he rest in peace. He could eat his weight in my fried chicken. How’s yo’ mama? I heard she got remarried.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With an effort, Sassy dragged her mind off visions of sugar plums. “She’s fine, thank you for asking.”
Mama and Daddy Joel had married when Sassy was three, but apparently it was still big news in Hannah.
“She was such a pretty thing. Bubbly, like you. Always laughing.” Viola pointed across the room. “Your mama and daddy were regulars. Sat in the same booth.”
Eleanor Jerkins Peterson Champion in a meat and three? The mind boggled. Mama was an epicure and she never ate fried food. Bad enough Sassy hadn’t known her father or her brother. Must Mama be a stranger, too?
“Then Junior died,” Miss Vi continued, “and the light went out of her.” She noticed Sassy’s abandoned fork. “Something wrong with them taters, or you saving your hungries for afters?”
Without waiting for an answer, Viola turned and hollered across the room at a bony waitress. “Pauline, I got to skedaddle back to the kitchen. See these folks get dessert.”
“Keep your garters on,” the waitress yelled without slowing her bustle. “I ain’t got but these two hands.”
Miss Vi shook her head. “Light on her feet but mean as a crocogator.”
Grim looked up from his second platter of fried chicken with the trimmings. Not so much as a chicken bit dotted his clothes or the tablecloth. It was like some magical anti-splatter force field surrounded him.
“What is a crocogator?” he asked.
“Half crocodile and half alligator.” Viola’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Got a head at both ends so he can’t do his business. That’s what makes him so mean.”
Grim slathered butter on his fifth corn muffin. “I can see how that would make one irritable.”
Viola laughed. “I like you. You’re funny.”
“My brothers would not agree.”
“Huh,” Viola said. “Maybe yo’ brothers don’t know you good as they think they do.”
“Mayhap you are right.”
“Mayhap?” The proprietor’s brown eyes gleamed with intelligence. “You one of them Dalvahni boys, ain’tcha? Knew it the second you walked in. Big and handsome, and you like your chow.”
“My brothers frequent your establishment?”
“Some of my best customers.” Viola’s expression grew dreamy. “That devil Brand has a smile that ’ud make a nun shuck her drawers, and the blond one, Hagar—”
“Ansgar,” Grim murmured.
“Could sing the feathers off a bird.” She shook off her reverie and fastened her gaze on Evan and Taryn. “You two new in town?”
“I’m Evan Beck.” Evan pushed aside his half-eaten plate of ribs. “Wilderness chick is my cousin, Taryn. She’s an escapee from a survivalist cult. That’s why she’s dressed so funny.”
Taryn put down the drumstick she’d been eating with delicate finesse. “That, sir, is a patent lie.”
“Don’t be ashamed of it, cuz. Own it.” Evan patted her hand. “Look on the bright side. When the zombie apocalypse comes, you’ll know how to survive off roadkill and drink your own pee.”
“I do not—” Taryn began.
Viola chuckled. “Zombie apocalypse? Lord a-mercy, you a card.” She saluted them with the tea pitcher. “Well, nice to meet y’all. Hope to see you again. We’re open Monday through Saturday for breakfast and lunch, Friday and Saturday for dinner. Closed on Sundays.” She glanced down at the plate of fried green tomatoes in front of Sassy. “You like shrimp, come back Friday night. Special’s Shrimp Viola—sautéed shrimp in white sauce with mushrooms and sweet red peppers. Best come early, though. We sell out jackrabbit quick.”
Miss Vi bustled into the kitchen. Across the room, the silver-haired beauty leaned over and kissed the man in the booth good-bye. Rising, she strolled out of the café.
The grumpy waitress twirled up to them, a rawboned ballerina with a tight bun and orthopedic shoes. Somewhere between middle age and death, Pauline’s thin features were scrunched in a permanent pucker, like she’d been whelped on a vinegar teat.
She bused their table and balanced the loaded tray on one skinny hip. “We got lemon pie, buttermilk pie, coconut pie, chocolate pie, strawberry cake, fudge cake, and ’nanner puddin’ for