In the middle of hickory.., p.15
In the Middle of Hickory Lane, page 15
Dang if she hadn’t put to words what I’d been feeling.
“Compare that building to the Sweetplace, for example,” she added.
“To be fair, I don’t think the new shopping center is looking to attract the same kind of consumer as the Sweetplace.”
“Exactly my point,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “The Sweetplace is for everyone. It feels down-home, all heart and soul. That place feels big-city, cold, and impersonal. Not many around here will take a liking to it. I haven’t even been in Sweetgrass very long and I know that.”
I jotted down-home on a piece of scrap paper. “I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing for Sweetgrass to offer an upscale place to shop. It can only help the town grow and expand. And not all big cities are cold and impersonal. But this…” I shook my head. It was too much.
“Upscale is fine, but not cold and impersonal. That’s not going to fly around here.”
It wasn’t. Even the wealthiest Sweetgrass residents, those who enjoyed all the finer things in life, prided themselves on their Southern charm and hospitality. That, I suddenly realized, was what was missing from the rendering. Charm. “Color will help. A soft blue? A light green?” I ventured, but neither felt quite right.
“Maybe,” she said, sounding like color wasn’t going to help at all. “Where’s the brick? I mean, they don’t have to use hideous Yardley brick—I know I wouldn’t—but it’s a former brickyard. You’d think there’d be a nod to its history somewhere. Did the Yardleys sign off on these design plans? Did they do a business model? Unless they make some big changes, it seems to me like they’re destined to fail.”
I laughed at how riled up she had become. “I have no idea.”
“Soften it up, Cora Bee. Put a little bit of Sweetgrass into it. Put a little bit of you into it. It needs your warmth, your connection to nature. It’s the only way it’s going to succeed in a town like this.” After looking at the clock on the computer screen, she stood up. “I need to get going. Do you need anything before I head out?”
I glanced around. “I think I’m good.”
She gestured to my foot, housed in a black cast that started at the bottom of my toes and ended a couple of inches below my knee, which was propped on the ottoman. My toes, painted a radiant peony pink, peeped out from the bottom of the cast looking cheerful in the morning light, reminding me of how grateful I was that I hadn’t needed surgery. Sure, four to six weeks in a cast wasn’t ideal, but at least it didn’t require hospitalization.
“Keep that elevated as much as possible,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Like other mornings, I found myself wishing she didn’t have to go. It was a shocking thing to admit, even if only to myself. I had convinced myself that I had enjoyed living alone.
I’d been wrong.
“Call Glory’s phone if you need me.”
“I will, but once again I’ll ask when you plan on getting your own phone?”
“Soon,” she said with a smile as she headed out the door.
I didn’t quite believe her. I had the feeling she liked being unreachable.
As I turned back to my computer, I heard her moving about her bedroom, the kitchen, and finally the living room. The front door squeaked open and then a second later squeaked closed. Despite my reminders that Emme didn’t need to lock the door while I was home, I waited to hear the sound of the dead bolt and finally heard the metal click. Before she’d moved in with me, I rarely locked the dead bolt at all—only the handle—but I had changed my ways since she’d been here, simply for her peace of mind. She took security seriously, and once again it made me question what she’d been through in life.
If I read between the lines of what she’d shared with me, I could picture the places she and her mother had stayed while moving about the country. The motels, the short-term rentals, the seedy rooms for rent. What had life been like for a young girl in that situation? What did she do while her mother, a serial dater according to Emme, went out on the town? I couldn’t imagine that Kristalle took her daughter along with her when she met men.
It was no wonder Emme locked the doors.
Out the window, I watched as she walked along the sidewalk, waving to Dorothy, who was in the garden wielding her pink trowel, and to May, who was picking up the newspaper on her front lawn.
Tomorrow would mark two full weeks since Emme had first stepped foot on Hickory Lane. But for some reason it felt like I had known her forever, even though I truly knew very little about her at all.
* * *
Hours later, I yawned and stretched and tried to work a kink out of my neck. My eyes were blurring from looking between paint swatches in my hand to my laptop screen. It was time for a break.
Pushing back from my desk, I grabbed my crutches and set them under my arms. Emme had found armpit pads and hand grips made for crutches at the pharmacy, and they’d made all the difference in terms of comfort. She’d taken the extra step of creating covers for the pads with scraps of fabric Glory had on hand, so they looked cute, too. I’d watched in awe as she had cut a pattern, then hand sewed the covers with neat, even stitches.
“Where’d you learn how to sew?” I’d asked.
“There was a sewing program at a library once. In Omaha?” She’d tipped her head upward as if searching her brain for information. “No, it was Des Moines. I always get those Midwest cities mixed up.”
It was another thing I had learned about Emme. She’d spent a lot of time at libraries. Each time we visited the Sweetgrass library, I was amazed at the variety of books she’d select—and how many. It was obvious she was a well-read bookworm.
As I crutched past her bedroom, I glanced inside. The bed was made, and the little lavender bunny sat in front of fluffed pillows. Glory had told me how Emme had taken a liking to the stuffed bunny, and it had filled me with happiness that Glory had bought it for her.
I crutched into her bedroom to steal a peek at the connected bathroom, just to make sure she had enough supplies. Everything was spotless. Even the towels were hung neatly. As I headed for the hallway, out of curiosity—and pure nosiness—I opened one of the dresser drawers near the door.
It was empty. I checked another. It was empty, too. All of them were empty.
I’d suspected that Emme had been living out of her suitcase—which was stowed away in the closet—and wondered why she hadn’t unpacked. Not that she had much to unpack, as she had very few items of clothing, but still.
It made me realize that Emme likely viewed my home as just another temporary place to live. Technically, I supposed it was. Emme would eventually move back to the apartment above Glory’s garage. For some reason, the thought of her leaving—even if it was only to move next door—made my heart hurt.
Feeling guilty for snooping and suddenly restless in the house, I made my way outside to the porch. The last week of April had brought with it a pattern of abundant sunshine and pleasant weather. It wasn’t bound to last, all this good weather. Storms would roll through. Hurricanes would form. There would be nights spent hunkered in the hall closet while tornado sirens blared. But for now, I was going to enjoy the clear skies.
I bypassed the rocking chairs and porch swing and headed for the wooden door. I carefully made my way down the steps and paused to catch my breath as I reached the walkway. Stairs were challenging. Before I’d broken my foot, I’d taken my mobility for granted. I had never really considered the agility required for simply getting up for a glass of water, or rolling over in bed, taking a shower, or driving a car.
Once I’d resigned myself to wearing the cast for the next four to six weeks, I realized that I had to cut back on in-home consultations. It was too exhausting to lug myself around people’s homes, in and out, up and down. I’d contacted the clients I already had scheduled, explained the situation, and switched them to virtual consultations. Fortunately, all had been agreeable to the modification.
The sun shone brightly overhead as I crutched across the street, headed for the gazing pool. The natural spring had been a favorite spot of my grandmother’s, and it was a favorite of mine as well. As soon as my left foot hit the ground in the island, a gentle buzzing vibrated under my foot. I could even feel it radiating in the handles of the crutches.
I waved to a neighbor who was working on a vegetable bed, leaned my crutches against the stone ledge of the gazing pool, and sat down. My gaze went to the rhododendron that amazingly looked none the worse for wear after its uprooting, but I couldn’t bear looking at the roughed-up ground without tearing up until I remembered how much Bee had loved this spot. This garden. This land. She wouldn’t want a single bit of it to cause me sorrow. What happened here hadn’t been the garden’s fault. It was good, also, to remember that we’d be laying Bee to rest near this same spot. With that in mind, I took a look around, focused on the beauty. I saw it in the curve of an oak leaf, the veins on the ferns, the numerous shades of gold on the black-eyed Susans.
Just last week a county engineer had come by to look at the garden. Ultimately, he claimed the sinkholes were a rare aberration. The ones that had opened in the 1960s had developed because of a drought. The newest one had apparently opened because of the excessively rainy early spring we’d had. He deemed the garden safe but warned that caution should be used in the area during extreme weather patterns, especially near the gazing pool.
Aunt Glory hadn’t seemed the least bit worried about another sinkhole opening up, which eased the minds of everyone in the neighborhood. Where she led, we followed. I had no idea what any of us were going to do without her.
I gently lifted my casted foot onto the pool’s stone ledge, since I’d promised Emme I’d keep it elevated as much as possible, rearranged my skirt for modesty, and took a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I lifted my face toward the sky and let the sun warm my skin.
“Listen,” Aunt Glory would always say when we sat here side by side.
I heard the whisper of wind through the live oak tree, the melodic song of a wren, the soothing murmur of the water in the pool, the buzz of a bee. Tension eased from my shoulders. Worries slipped away.
I glanced at the water, wondering if I’d see anything today, glimpses of times past. Images of life lived by others. I didn’t always. The gazing pool was selective in its offerings. I’d only seen three images since I moved to this neighborhood, but not for lack of trying. The most recent had appeared six months ago when I’d seen a doctor in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, and sorrow in his eyes. Instinctually I knew what he’d been saying and to whom. If the gazing pool hadn’t shown me that scene, Glory might never have told me the truth of her so-called remission.
As the tiny wren continued to sing from atop the bee weather vane on the stone shed, the water stopped murmuring, the quiet a sure signal to pay close attention. The ripples on the surface flattened as images slowly came into focus.
The sun warmed my shoulders as I watched the scene play out. It was dark and hard to see the finer details. It was a motel room, the walls bathed in red and blue police lights. There was a formidable officer, holding handcuffs. Blood on my hands. My heart beat crazily, and I was filled with fear.
The officer reached out, and the scene spun around to face a new direction. It now looked out into the night. At an ambulance. A stretcher. Then I was being walked to a police car, placed into the backseat. As one foot went in, then another, pink flip-flops came into view on the floorboard. The tops of the feet were splattered in blood. The second toes on each foot were just a fraction taller than the big toes.
Emme.
Startled by the realization, I must have jumped because I nearly lost my balance on the wall. I grabbed the stone ledge to balance myself, and when I looked back at the water, it was bubbling peacefully, as if it hadn’t just sent a shock wave through my world.
I set my casted foot down on the ground and reached into my skirt pocket for my cell phone. I had only spoken to my mother a few times since our fight, but we’d texted every day. Quick notes, mostly about my father, who was improving steadily, and about the police investigation, though there wasn’t anything new to discuss. And, of course, after my vow to stop discussing her, we’d said nothing about Emme.
But now here I was about to break my word, something that filled me with a sense of shame. Yet when I’d told my mother that I was done talking about Emme, I never expected what I’d seen in the gazing pool.
I was afraid my voice would betray me if I called, so I typed out a text as quickly as I could.
Me: Hey, did you ever check with Chase about Emme’s background?
Mama: Why? Did she take something priceless and skip town?
Even though the words were typed, I could hear the pain in them. Kristalle had wounded my mother to her core when she took Emme away. Now probably wasn’t the time to tell her that letting Emme into her life would likely be the first step in healing that wound. Not when I was asking about her background.
Me: Just curious.
Mama: Seems like more than curiosity.
Me: Are you stalling answering because the report came back clean and you don’t want to admit you were wrong?
Suddenly I prayed that the report had been clean. That she had been wrong. That the gazing pool wasn’t telling me the whole story. There had to be some sort of reasonable explanation for what I’d seen. Not that an arrest and blood were reasonable, but I was grasping at straws.
Mama: You don’t get that sass from me.
Me: I know exactly who I get it from.
It was her. It was all her. My sass came straight from my mama.
Mama: You’ll be happy to know that Emme’s background check was clear. In fact, it was spotless. By all appearances, she didn’t exist in the time frame between her birth and when she got a GED.
Spotless. Even as relief pulsed, the scenes from the pool haunted me. She’d been handcuffed, put into the back of a police car. And whose blood had been splattered on her? Had it been her own?
Mama: Isn’t that curious? Where was she?
Me: I don’t know for sure. All over, it seems.
I needed to end this conversation before she remembered we weren’t supposed to be discussing Emme at all.
Luckily for me, a good reason appeared in the form of a chocolate Labradoodle racing toward me, freedom flying through her curly hair. As Mabel barreled forward, tongue lolling, I put my phone in my lap and braced for her enthusiasm even as I said, “Mabel, sit!”
Her steps slowed and faltered as if she hadn’t been expecting a command, but she didn’t stop completely.
“Sit,” I said again, more sternly this time, lowering my palm like Alice had taught me to do during one of her afternoon visits.
Mabel slowed to a hesitant stop, and her backside lowered. It didn’t touch the ground but it hovered closely to it. Her tail wagged like mad, brushing the grass, kicking up dust.
“Sit,” I said again.
She sat.
“Good girl,” I said in a voice I nearly didn’t recognize, all high-pitched and oh so proud.
I swept my hand toward my chest and said, “Come.”
With an excited jump, she trotted over and stuck her nose in the crook of my neck and licked my chin. I gave her a good back rub. “Hi, Mabel.”
When my phone dinged from my lap, I kept one hand on Mabel’s collar and with the other opened the text that had come in.
Mama: I think an alias is entirely possible. Probable even.
Me: I have to go, Mama. I have a dog to return to its owner.
Mama: That excuse is getting old, Cora Bee.
I sent an eye-rolling emoji along with a quick snap of Mabel, who appeared to be smiling for the camera.
Glancing down the street, I saw Jamie’s truck sitting in his driveway and sent the same pic to him with a text that we were at the gazing pool. Since Alice had been spending so much time at my house, he’d insisted I put his phone number into my phone, which had certainly come in handy right about now.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and rubbed Mabel’s ears. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
Her tail wagged.
“I mean, I’m glad no bones were broken this time, but still. It’s not safe for you. There are cars. You could get lost. Stolen, even, since you’re so cute.” She licked my chin again as if thanking me for my assessment, and I laughed.
She sat at my feet but seemed to be trying to glue herself to my body. She pushed her head and neck against my stomach and chest and left them there. And every so often, she snuck in another sloppy kiss.
So help me, I was getting used to them.
I rested my cheek on top of her head, rubbed her belly, and felt the stress of my morning drain away. “Thanks, Mabel.”
When her head snapped up, I looked up and saw Jamie jogging toward us. Her tail started wagging again, but she stayed put.
At the sight of him, I felt something deep within me pang with longing to know him better. To know how he took his coffee first thing in the morning, to know his favorite childhood memory, to know how his arms would feel around me. To become his friend. Maybe more.
I looked down so he wouldn’t see any of those things, those impossible things, written on my face. It had been so long since I wanted any of that from a man that it felt strange even thinking about them. After our coffee chat, I’d told myself that I’d stay friendly but keep my distance—emotionally and physically. But the father-daughter duo made that nearly impossible. Beyond Alice’s afternoon visits, Jamie often walked Mabel by the house when I was sitting on the front porch, and we’d get to talking and sharing sweet tea, allowing those feelings to grow like out-of-control weeds. I hadn’t even known the man two full weeks. It was all such a whirlwind, and whirlwinds scared the life out of me.
As he grew closer, he said, “I thought Mabel was with Alice, but Alice is nose-deep in a book in the hammock, oblivious to the world around her. I also thought we’d dog-proofed the backyard, but we must’ve missed a spot.” He took a breath. “Thanks for finding her, Cora Bee.”
