'Til Grits Do Us Part by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page B

at the crowded tables.
    Well. Maybe not crowded, exactly. Now that I looked, I could see a few empty tables here and there, lonely chairs—but wasn’t that normal?
    â€œNot exactly.” Jerry sighed and reached for his leather folder. “Take a look at this.” And he tossed a magazine on the table.
    â€œ ‘The Green Tree offers plain vanilla,’ ” Adam read out loud then looked up at Jerry in surprise. “ ‘Upscale veggie-heavy joint serves up more of the same tired dishes and flavorless design.’ ”
    â€œFlavorless design?” I yelped, snatching the magazine closer. “Who said that?”
    â€œI’m afraid there’s more.” Jerry pulled out a folded newspaper. “This ain’t much better.”
    â€œ ‘The Green Tree’s steady slide from alluring to abysmal just goes to show that farmers should stick with fried eggs and pork shanks.’ ” I gaped at the blocky type. “ ‘Farmers’? They’re making fun of your last name, aren’t they?”
    â€œThat ain’t the half of it. We’ve had a thirty-eight percent decrease in customers since these things ran.” He shook the newspaper. “The lowest I’ve seen in nine years of business. Today we had half the usual number of lunch customers. I’m at my wit’s end.”
    The numbers fell hard on the table like a dropped spoon, shattering our thoughts.
    Jerry sighed, slumping back in his chair. “I jest don’t get it. I work hard. I break my back. I treat my folks right and give my customers the best. And doggone if it don’t come back and bite me in the leg.” He pointed a finger at the newspaper. “This stuff’s death for restaurants, folks. One-and-a-half stars? You think people are going to shell out cash for me to buy fresh organic spinach and Jarlsberg cheese with a rating of one-and-a-half stars?”
    Jerry looked haggard. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m washed up or my time as a restaurant owner is done. I dunno.” He put his hands up. “I gotta do somethin’ though, or…who knows what’ll happen.”
    â€œJerry, no.” I shook my head. “You can’t fold. Staunton needs at least one place that doesn’t sell fried chicken and ham biscuits. Please.”
    Jerry’s cheek crinkled into a wry grin. “Don’t ya think I’ve been up night after sleepless night thinkin’ about that? And what about Stel? She’ll take a hard cut.”
    Jerry’s sister Stella. My Marlboro-smoking, school-bus-driving, big-haired next-door neighbor who looked out for me with a tender fierceness. Stella made her heavenly caramel-chocolate brownies and cherry cheesecakes for Jerry, who then sold them at The Green Tree. Giving her a good-sized amount of the proceeds.
    I could imagine her now, bent over her stacks of bills and gripping her hair-sprayed ’do in a posture of desperation.
    â€œAnd how’s Mama gonna get along without the checks I send her? She don’t got nothin’ else. Pop left me all this seed money for a business, and I shore as anything don’t wanna let him down. God rest him.” The Adam’s apple in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “That’s why I’m askin’ for your help. I’ll pay ya. Shiloh, you got a good head for logos and stuff. Make me a good one. Help me come up with some new layout design for the room or colors or something.”
    He raised his palms. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this place goin’. I’ll take out a loan. Mortgage the house. Whatever. It means a lot to me.”
    I lifted my head briefly to catch Adam’s gaze, recalling his former landscaping business cards and flyers we’d worked so hard to design and print. His brand-new catchy logo, now slapped on the side of somebody else’s truck.
    â€œAdam. You’re the plant guy.”
    â€œI