“Susan won't be the only one looking for him,” Jack said, a hint of a snarl in his voice.
“I promise to be extra careful at home and at the shop, Aunt Ruby.” I gave her a hug. "Now. What kind of pie do you have? I'm starving!"
"You can't have your pie first," she scolded, allowing me to change the subject. I didn't doubt that I'd hear more about it, but—for now—we were going to enjoy our Sunday lunch and not think or talk about the kind of person who cut off fingers and left them as gifts.
By the time Jack and Uncle Mike finished grilling, Aunt Ruby and I had the potato salad, bean salad, and fruit salad on the table, and I was setting out plates and glasses. We took the pitchers of water, lemonade, and sweet tea out of the fridge just as Jack put an enormous platter in the center of the table.
I stared down at it. "That's a lot of meat."
Uncle Mike beamed. "Isn't it great?"
"There are only four of us."
"What's your point? Jack's a tiger. He needs to keep up his strength."
I gave my uncle a suspicious look. "Since when do you defend Jack's right to, as you put it, 'eat you out of house and home'?"
"Since he bought all the steaks!"
Jack started laughing and piled four steaks on his plate. This did not even make a dent in the mound of meat. I took a steak and a chicken breast, figuring I'd have a little of both and take the leftovers home to Lou, who was also a carnivore, after all.
Uncle Mike snatched the potato salad bowl away from Jack's reaching fingers and scooped a large portion onto his own plate, then passed it to me.
"Better get some while you can," he muttered.
I shook my head but spooned out a generous helping and then handed the bowl to Aunt Ruby. "What happened to male barbecue solidarity, Uncle Mike?"
"Oh, that was only about the steaks and chicken. When we get to the side dishes and the pie, it's every man for himself."
"And woman," pointed out his wife, the mayor, who'd actually baked the pies.
I poured myself a glass of water. "What kind of pies?"
"I have two apple, a lemon meringue, and a chocolate cream," she said. "I didn't bother with pecan, since yours always turn out better than mine, anyway. You're making pies for the Swamp Cabbage Festival, right?"
"Sure. I never win anything, but it's fun."
Jack polished off his first steak, poured himself another glass of lemonade, and then looked at me. "Will you remind me what swamp cabbage is?"
"People everywhere else call it hearts of palm. The sabal palm, also known as the cabbage palm tree," I said. You can't grow up in Dead End and not know the particulars of swamp cabbage. "It looks like a bunch of logs when it's harvested and then you cook it up. One tree gives you about a quart, cooked."
"But isn't the sabal palm Florida's state tree? And when you take the heart, it kills the tree, right?"
I put down my fork and stared at him. "How do youknowthese things? Like Boron?"
He shrugged and held up his glass. "I know things. I drink lemonade, and I know things."
"Don’t we have any beer?" Uncle Mike started to get up.
"Not for Sunday lunch after church," Aunt Ruby told him sternly. He sighed but sat back down.
I pointed at Jack. "Quit misquotingGame of Thronesat me."
"So," he persisted. "Wouldn't it be illegal to cut down the trees?"
"Not here," Uncle Mike, Aunt Ruby, and I all said simultaneously.
"What do you mean, not here? Not here, the trees don't die, or it's not illegal here in Black Cypress County, with your—our—special charter?"
