Swamp Cabbage -- The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles book 6

Chapter 1 In A Month of Sunday's

by Paisley Ray

Chapter 1 In A Month of Sunday's

"SWAMP CABBAGE sounds like bayou bullshit. You really expect me to believe that some plant growing near the marsh is edible?" I asked as I trekked next to Francine through high grass toward the garden shed.

"Fine then, you don't have to have any of my homemade Sunday supper fritters."

I hated when she used food as a weapon. It always gave her the upper hand. If I didn't figure out a way to break my roommate of bossing me around this summer, living in the same house on Lady's Island outside of Beaufort, South Carolina, could quickly spiral into the unbearable realm of friendship ruination.

Humidity clung to my neck and chest while mosquitos feasted on the tender bits behind my knees. A series of warnings rumbled as fast-moving clouds cast bleakness on the reeds that butted off the waterfront property of an inlet on Brickyard Creek. I smacked the back of my leg too late. A quarter-size red bump had already swelled. "Do you even know how to use a chainsaw?"

After stepping around a rusted wheelbarrow, Francine wiggled an unfastened padlock out from the door hinge. "Rachael O'Brien, stop being such a stick in the mud. Ever since you arrived, you've been grumbly."

I swatted at something winged that pricked my neck. "My mood was upbeat until you dragged me out here. It's not a good idea. Whacking down vegetables on property that isn't ours. Are you even sure that what you saw was cabbage? And why do we need a chainsaw to cut it? Wouldn't kitchen scissors or pruners work?"

With one hand gripping the padlock, she used her free hand to point at me. "Why you always giving me such a hard time? Making me explain myself?"

I took offense to her snarkism and considered hightailing my ass to the main house, but we had coordinated internship locales, and for three months we'd be carpooling into the same small town. Summer had barely begun, and picking a rift with Francine wasn't worth it.

"Swamp cabbage is no head of lettuce you pluck outta some farm field. It's a tree, and the inside is a melt-in-your-mouth delicacy, as long as it's cooked by someone who knows what they're doing."

I'd spent three years away at college and had some experiences under my belt. Cutting down some tree that likely involved a swamp didn't have appeal. I'd developed a well-earned aversion to bodies of still water. "Can't we buy cabbage in a can at the Piggly Wiggly?"

"Sauerkraut is what them Germans gobble down at Oktoberfest, and it's the only tinned cabbage in the store. It ain't the same. Besides, fresh anything is always best. While you were staring at paintings in the hallway, I saw it in a clearing." Her voice trailed off. "No more than seven feet tall. Even a scrawny thing like you oughta be able to handle pulling the cord on a chain saw and maneuvering a small ax. Think you'd be more grateful that I go to the trouble to put some meat on your Yankee bones."

"I am an Art History major. Taking note of paintings is what I do."

"There you go again, trying to make your major sound more interesting than we both know it is."

"There are some nice pieces in Mr. Larkin's house."

"Are any of them any good?"

My eyes squinted at her. Francine Battle's claim-to-fame resided on her bloodline. Her great-memaw, Clementine Hunter, had become a famous artist, and my roommate wasn't shy about using that factoid to fluff her feathers.

"From what I glimpsed, mostly Confederate scene reproductions. But you'd have to be knowledgeable to know the difference. The two landscapes in the dining room are interesting. I can't quite decipher the signatures."