Dear Carolina

Dear Carolina by Kristy W Harvey Page B

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Authors: Kristy W Harvey
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me a cup a’ water that you don’t need any different than the church folks giving you some old stuff they don’t need.”
    I didn’t realize Buddy was talkin’ ’bout scripture or I would’ve acted nicer. “I ain’t taking no handout even if I do think it’s a nice thing them people’s doin’.”
    Buddy sat down on the couch and said, “Instead of being so self-righteous and acting like you don’t need nobody, why don’t you write a thank-you note and call it a day?” He pointed over at them bags. “I’m sure as hell not carrying all that stuff back over there, and I doubt you can do it in your condition.”
    I looked down at my belly, remembering that we wasn’t just flirting here. I was knocked up, poor, and all alone.
    â€œFine,” I said. “Motherhood’s making me soft,” I muttered.
    Buddy laughed.
    I was giving up pretty easy mostly ’cause any fool could see I worried about how I was gonna get all that baby stuff all day long.
    â€œYou know you can come to church any time you want to,” he said. “It’s a nice group a’ folks, and we’d sure be happy to have you.”
    I nodded. But it was one of them times that life had got me down so hard I weren’t sure God even remembered my name. “So that why you came over here?” I asked. “You trying to get somebody new in your church?”
    I was baiting, but that Buddy, he weren’t biting, not one bit.
    â€œIf you ever want to come,” he said, “just let Graham or Khaki know.” He tipped his hat before turning around. “They’ll get word to me.”
    I couldn’t keep from watching his tight backside in a pair of worn Levi’s stroll out my door. Much as I thought Jesus had forgotten about me, sometimes a slow smile from a real cowboy is all it takes to make a girl a believer.

Khaki

    A YELLOW JACKET ON A CAN OF CHEERWINE
    One thing I always steer my clients away from is any preconceived notion about design. Maybe they think they hate pattern, but pattern is what a room needs to enliven it. Perhaps they think wood floors feel cold, but they would make the room feel grounded and sophisticated. They think black is morbid, but just a touch would make the other colors in the palette come alive as if illuminated by a spotlight.
    That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t believe in preconceived notions about other things. If you’ve never been to North Carolina, for instance, you’ve never had proper barbecue. There’s a big debate in our state about whose barbecue is better, the western part or the eastern. But it’s not much of a competition. Anyone can slop a thick, syrupy sauce over meat. When you can make a pork butt fall off the bone and melt in your mouth with proper seasoning, perfect cooking, and a little vinegar, then you know you’ve got talent.
    I was telling Daniel all about that controversy that was as biga part of Southern politics as the War of Northern Aggression as we sat across from each other at a red-and-white checked tablecloth in the middle of the lunch rush at King’s Barbecue. He put down his slaw- and barbecue-filled bun and asked, “What’s the matter, Fran?”
    I stopped my hush puppy, almost tasting the crispy, golden fried batter, right before it got to my mouth and said, “What do you mean? I’m great.”
    I was lying, of course. I’d hardly been able to raise my paddle that morning at the furniture auction we’d gone to in nearby Wilson; my head was so full of the information I’d stayed up all night reading. As it turns out, surgery for this condition I had was somewhat controversial, some saying it actually made it spread faster. I had read heartbreaking tales of women who had gone through surgery after surgery and in vitro after in vitro only to never have a baby of their own. On the other hand,

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