Page 20 of When Love Takes Root

Miss Claudette’s voice softened, but she didn’t let me look away. “Rest ain’t weakness, baby. Even Jesus got in the boat and went to sleep.”

I huffed a small laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t yes, ma’am me and then go lift six houses before sundown,” Miss Claudette said.

Juice pointed at her. “Please tell him again.”

“You hush. You need rest too. Your mouth been running since 1986,” Miss Claudette said with a laugh.

Juice pressed a hand to his chest. “Unprovoked.”

“Accurate,” I said.

Miss Claudette squeezed my wrist once more before letting go. “Your daddy would be proud of you.”

I nodded, but I didn’t trust my voice right away.

“Auntie, before you make this man cry in your grits, can we discuss these extra biscuits?” Juice asked, clearing his throat and lifting his fork.

Miss Claudette threw a napkin at him. “Greedy boy.”

“I’m not greedy. I’m appreciative with range,” Juice said.

I laughed then, low and grateful. That was Juice. A clown with discernment. He knew when a room needed air. He knew when memory had gotten too heavy and grief needed somebody to crack a window.

By the time we finished breakfast and tested the kitchen lights, the circuit held steady.

“Look at God,” Miss Claudette said.

“And proper wiring,” I said, packing my tester into my bag.

She pointed at me. “God made the man who did the wiring.”

“Don’t gas him up, Auntie. He already walks around looking like somebody’s final answer.”

I paused and looked at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It came to me,” Juice said with a shrug.

“That’s usually the problem.”

Miss Claudette laughed and packed us leftovers before we could argue and made us promise to call when we got back to the shop.

Twenty minutes later, Juice had one of Miss Claudette’s pork chops in one hand and another opinion in the other.

“We need an administrative assistant.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “Here we go.”

“I’m serious, Siah. Somebody needs to answer phones, schedule jobs, order parts, and not come in there trying to become step mama to your future children,” Juice argued

“We need help,” I admitted.

“Specific help. The last woman handed you a résumé on scented paper.”

“It wasn’t scented.”

“It smelled like vanilla and intentions. I opened that folder and thought we were hiring for a cupcake ministry.”