Read Still Life in Brunswick Stew for Free Online

the west of town. I pulled up and parked before the chain link fence and flashed my vendor badge to the woman sitting at a card table at the entrance. I squinted into the sun, surveying the fairgrounds. Empty except for people closing down their booths and carrying equipment to the parking lot.
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “Whew, it’s hot.” The older woman mopped her face with a handkerchief and straightened her straw hat. She glanced behind her at the sorry festival remains. “A bunch of folks took sick. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years working at this cook-off, but I guess it’s not surprising in this heat. Maybe some potato salad went bad or something. Never eat anything with mayonnaise when the temperature’s above eighty-five.”
    “So they don’t know what caused the food poisoning? What about the stew?”
    “Girl, don’t say that. It would ruin our festival more than an off-potato salad. Sidewinder counts on the money this weekend brings in every year. We get folks from all over the South. Even saw some from Texas and Tennessee today. No one can make Brunswick Stew like a Georgian, but plenty of folks like to try their hand. Particularly those Virginians that think they invented the stuff. Then there are all the barbecue folks that come to try it. Can’t have a pulled pork sandwich without coleslaw, Brunswick Stew, and banana pudding.”
    She pulled off her hat, revealing a wet mess of gray hair, and fanned herself. “Maybe it was the banana pudding. A good banana pudding is made with eggs.”
    “So, it’s not the Brunswick Stew? My friend ate a lot of it and got sick.”
    “Honey, I don’t know what did it. We’ve had inspectors swarming this place, testing everybody’s food. Guess we’ll find out.” She slammed the hat on her head. “But I doubt it’s the Brunswick Stew. That stuff cooks all day. No bacteria can survive. I bet she ate potato salad or banana pudding with her barbecue.”
    “She didn’t eat barbecue. She ate Brunswick Stew.”
    The woman stood up. “You listen to me. Brunswick Stew is a delicious, beloved dish we’ve been eating forever. No one gets sick from Brunswick Stew. It puts hair on the chest of men and will put some curves on that stick of a body of yours.”
    She crossed her arms. “Go on and get you some.”
    Plunking my fists onto my stick of a body, I shot her a look back. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying enough of it. Ma’am,” I added to not be rude.
    She flushed and thrust her massive breasts in my direction. “My stew cooking got me my husband. Men like meat in their stew and on the bones of their women.” She looked me up and down. “And I’m not seeing any ring on your finger. You probably can’t even cook.”
    “I don’t need to cook.”
    She harrumphed. “Like I said, I don’t see a ring on your finger. Where you from anyway?”
    “Halo.”
    “Figures,” she said, settling into her plastic deck chair. “Go on now.”
    I stomped past her. “Country,” I muttered.
    “Redneck,” she returned.
    I sped past the inflatable jumping games, wandered through the craft section, and halted at my partially dismantled booth. With sweat darkening his golden blond hair, Todd leaned over the PVC pipe frame, yanking on two pieces fitted together. A pair of slot machine cherries tattooed one calf. Sweat glistened on his shirtless back as he tugged on a pipe.
    “Todd,” I called. “Thank you for taking down the stand. I know it’s a pain.”
    He stood up slowly, giving me an ample view of the lean physique and tight muscles that came from lifting weights and hauling boxes. Unlike Eloise’s boyfriend, Griffin, muscles suited his long body and weren’t propagated by supplements. He turned, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand.
    My breath caught as he offered me a view of his upraised bicep and the hard swells and angles of his chest and belly. A vision for a Rafael-styled fresco on my bedroom wall with Todd as the