Read 'Til Grits Do Us Part for Free Online

picture.”
    Meg froze. Mug at her lips. I saw her eyes slip down from Mom’s picture to the blue Amanda Cummings folder splayed partially open on my desk—Amanda’s high school senior picture sticking out, her wheat-colored hair glowing.
    And Meg promptly choked on her tea, spattering it all over the carpet.

    â€œOh my word!” Meg fumbled for the tissue box, and I jumped up to help her sponge the mess. “I just…wow. They look alike. Your mom and…Amanda.”
    I kept my eyes down, mopping up chunky bits from the tea-soaked carpet. I sniffed. “What is this? Garlic?” I drew back, holding my squashed tissue a good distance away.
    â€œOf course. I used like eleven or twelve cloves this time,” she replied proudly. “I smash them with a spoon, add some ginger, and just enough alcohol to clean out the old ticker. Whatever’s in the cabinet.”
    Her long strings of beads jingled as she bent over to wipe something off the back of my chair. “Once my maple syrup fermented, and it made some pretty good stuff. I mean, I didn’t know maple syrup could ferment, Shiloh, but when I took the top off,
boof
! It hit the ceiling.”
    My hand holding the tissue halted partway to the trash can. “You mean you drink…” I dropped my voice to a horrified whisper. “At work? Are you crazy?”
    Meg jiggled the grayish liquid. “What? I’ve got enough antioxidants in here to fertilize an entire cornfield. Want some? I never get sick.”
    Sickness sounded strangely welcome compared to whatever brew Meg had in that mug. I scooted back a few more inches and pointed to my Japanese teacup. “No thanks. I’ve got my antioxidants covered right here.”
    â€œWell, the next time you get the flu, don’t come crying to me.”
    â€œBelieve me, I won’t.” I shook the folder and photos to make sure they were tea-free. “Sorry.” Meg sponged the side of her mug. “I just didn’t expect… I mean, they look like sisters. I can see why you might not want this story, huh?”
    â€œYeah.” I smoothed the corner of Mom’s photo on the cubicle wall. “It’s silly, but the resemblance is a little overwhelming.”
    â€œI don’t blame you. They’re not related, are they?” She held the two photos side by side.
    â€œNo way. Mom only had a younger brother—and died at age forty-nine. Amanda was what, twenty when she disappeared?”
    â€œI think so. Maybe twenty-one.”
    â€œBesides, Amanda disappeared five years before Mom even moved here.” I swiveled back and forth in my chair. “There’s no correlation. Period.”
    â€œDoes your mom have relatives around here? Cousins? Something?”
    â€œDon’t even.” I put my hand on my hip. “No relative of mine has ever been south of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m descended from a bunch of drunk French trappers who got permanently stuck in New York.”
    â€œSo your family tree forks.” Meg snickered.
    â€œIn all directions. I’ll never be a Southerner, no matter what Becky says.”
    Meg flipped open the top of the blue folder and thumbed through some pages. “What about Amanda then? Where’s she from?”
    â€œDeerfield, from what I read.” I glanced uneasily at the folder. “There’s not much else about her, and absolutely nothing in common with my mom. Amanda was a die-hard vegetarian though.” I poked her. “You’re not Amanda, are you?”
    â€œYou never know.” Meg bobbed her eyebrows.
    â€œShe worked at a place in town called The Red Barn when she disappeared.” I flipped a page in the folder. “Ever heard of it?”
    â€œNope.”
    Like I said. Nothing in common. Except our birthdays—Amanda’s and mine. Both June twelfth. I tipped her bio sheet toward me, raising my eyebrows.
    â€œSo Amanda grew up in