Johnnie Come Lately by Kathleen M. Rodgers

Author:Kathleen M. Rodgers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: texas, family saga, eating disorder, bulimia, adult education
Publisher: Camel Press
Published: 2016-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

A short time later, they strolled past The Grapevine, Portion’s premier winery and tasting room. Johnnie tossed her hair back and laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the time Whit and I almost got kicked out of that place?”

Dale cocked his head and gave her a mock frown. “I’m almost afraid to ask. No telling with you and Whit.”

She knuckled him playfully on the arm. “They were having a free wine tasting. Let’s just say we got our money’s worth.”

Dale stopped to peek in the window. “Looks pretty hoity-toity, if you ask me. What happened? Y’all get schnockered?”

“Boy howdy.” She felt tipsy from the night air, the music, the parade of Friday night traffic filing up and down Main Street.

Dale moved for the door. “Come on, honey. Let’s go see if they remember you.”

“Oh, heck no.” She grabbed him and pulled him down the sidewalk. “Keep walking, cowboy.”

When they got to the intersection of Worth and Main, her eyes were drawn to a new neon sign high over the grand corner entrance of the stately old bank building across the street.

The sign over the large transom window said: THE PREACHER’S HOUSE—a tavern and emporium of good eats. Above the sign, the date 1900 was etched in black on a white limestone block. On a marquee beside the ornate leaded glass doors flashed the welcome: Happy Hour 5-7 p.m.

Right then and there, Johnnie made up her mind that’s where she wanted to eat. For once, she didn’t care what was on the menu. Fried, grilled, blackened … they were all the same at this moment. It was the building that called to her—a place that enchanted her as a child—and the light shining through the massive glass doors. Squeezing Dale’s hand, she wondered how she’d passed by the former bank all these years, barely giving it a thought until now.

“Oh, Dale, I haven’t been through those doors in years. Let’s go in.”

He glanced at his watch then back up at the sign. “The Preacher’s House, huh? Looks like we just missed happy hour.”

High overhead, the light turned green and they stepped off the curb to cross the street.

Suddenly, she was eight years old, holding Grandpa’s hand and skipping along beside him as they headed toward the bank. “I just love those fancy doors,” she chattered, pulling him along.

Grandpa laughed and let her lead the way. “Not to mention those sweets they give you, right, young lady?”

Dale held the door open for her, and as she stepped across the brass-plated threshold with the word BANK embossed in the metal, some of the magic faded. Gone was the pretty young teller with the bright red lipstick and bouffant hair, smiling down at Johnnie behind the brass bars and marble counter. The space seemed smaller now, the hardwood floors less shiny, the dark brick walls less formidable. But the ceiling still soared, and the antique fans still whirred.

“Howdy, folks. Welcome to The Preacher’s House.”

Lost in thought, Johnnie flinched at the sound of a man’s voice.

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