Natural Born Charmer

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Blue thought of her own mother. “You straightened your life out. You have to feel good about that.”

  “It was a long journey.”

  “I think it would be good for Dean to forgive you.”

  “Don’t, Blue. You can’t imagine what I put him through.”

  Blue could imagine it. Maybe not in the way April meant, but she knew what it felt like not being able to count on a parent. “Still…At some point he has to see you’re not that same person. He should at least give you a chance.”

  “Stay out of it. I know you mean well, but Dean has every reason to feel the way he does. If he hadn’t figured out how to protect himself, he’d never have become the man he is now.” She checked her watch, then rose from the chair. “I need to talk to the painters.”

  Blue glanced down at Riley, who’d curled into a comma on the blanket. “Let’s let her sleep. I’ll stay.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I’ll sketch for a while, if you have some paper.”

  “Sure. I’ll get it for you.”

  “And maybe use your bathtub while I’m at it. If you don’t mind.”

  “Take whatever you need from the medicine cabinet. Deodorant, toothpaste.” She paused. “Makeup.”

  Blue smiled.

  April smiled back. “I’ll put out some clothes you can change into.”

  Blue couldn’t imagine anything designed for April’s willowy body fitting her, but she appreciated the offer.

  “My car keys are on the counter,” April said. “There’s a twenty in the drawer next to my bed. When Riley wakes up, would you mind driving her into town for lunch?”

  “I’m not taking your money.”

  “I’ll bill it to Dean. Please, Blue. I want to keep her away from him until Jack’s people get here.”

  Blue wasn’t sure that keeping the eleven-year-old away was the best thing for either Riley or Dean, but she’d already been called to task for meddling, so she reluctantly nodded. “All right.”

  April had laid out a delicate pink camisole and a frothy little afterthought of a ruffled skirt. She’d hastily modified both garments with some kind of double-sided tape to make them smaller. Blue knew she’d look adorable in the outfit. Way too adorable. The fluff-ball who wore those clothes might as well be wearing a SCREW ME OVER sign. This was the problem Blue always faced whenever she got around to fixing herself up, the main reason she’d stopped doing it.

  Instead of the clothes on the bed, Blue appropriated a navy T-shirt. It did little to improve her purple tie-dyed yoga pants, but even she couldn’t stomach appearing in public in her orange BODY BY BEER sleeping T-shirt. Vanity reared its ugly head, and she dipped into April’s makeup—a swipe of soft pink tint on her cheeks, a little lip stain, and enough mascara to make it apparent exactly how long her lashes were. Just once, she wanted Dean to see that she was perfectly capable of looking decent. She simply didn’t care to.

  “You look nice with makeup,” Riley said from the passenger seat of April’s Saab as she and Blue headed into town. “Not so washed out.”

  “You’ve spent too much time around that awful Trinity.”

  “You’re the only person who thinks she’s awful. Everybody else loves her.”

  “No, they don’t. Okay, probably her mom. The rest are just pretending.”

  Riley gave a faint, guilty smile. “I like it when you talk bad about Trinity.”

  Blue laughed.

  Since Garrison lacked a Pizza Hut, they picked Josie’s, the restaurant across from the pharmacy. Josie’s was short on charm, the food was lousy, and it lacked employment opportunities—Blue asked about a job first thing—but Riley liked it. “I never ate anyplace like this. It’s different.”

  “It definitely has character.” Blue had settled on a BLT, which turned out to be more L than B or T.

  Riley pulled a translucent sliver of tomato off her burger. “What does that mean?”

  “It means it’s only like itself.”

  Riley thought it over. “Sort of like you.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  Riley stuffed a French fry in her mouth. “I’d rather be pretty.”

  Riley had left on her FOXY T-shirt, but exchanged the dirty lavender cords for a pair of too-tight denim shorts that squeezed her stomach. They’d settled into a cracked brown vinyl booth that afforded a good view of a bad collection of western landscape art displayed on nauseating pastel blue walls along with some dusty ballerina figurines resting in shadow box frames. A pair of blond, fake wood ceiling fans stirred the smell of fried food.

  The door opened and the lunchtime buzz stilled as a formidable-looking older woman limped in, supporting herself with a cane. She was overweight, overpowdered, and overdressed in bright watermelon pink slacks and a matching tunic. Multiple gold chains accented a plunging V-neck, and the stones in her dangling earrings looked as though they might be real diamonds. She’d probably once been beautiful, but she hadn’t permitted herself to age gracefully. The sprayed mass of teased platinum hair that curled, waved, and swooped around her face had to be a wig. She’d drawn in her eyebrows with a light brown pencil but abandoned restraint with thick black mascara and frosted blue eye shadow. A small mole, which might once have been seductive, sagged at the corner of her bright pink lips. Tan orthopedic oxfords supporting badly swollen ankles were the only concession she’d made to her age.

  None of the lunch crowd seemed happy to see her, but Blue regarded her with interest. The woman surveyed the crowded restaurant, her disdainful gaze flicking over the regulars, then settling on Blue and Riley. Seconds ticked by as she openly studied them. Finally, she bore down, her pink tunic molding to a formidable set of breasts held high by an excellent bra.

  “Who,” she said, when she reached their table, “are you?”

  “I’m Blue Bailey. And this is my friend Riley.”

  “What are you doing here?” The faintest trace of Brooklyn colored her speech.

  “We’re enjoying a little lunch. How about you?”

  “I have a bad hip, in case you haven’t noticed. Were you planning to ask me to sit?”

  Her imperious manner amused Blue. “Sure.”

  Riley’s panicky expression suggested she didn’t want the woman anywhere near her, so Blue slid over to make a place on her side of the booth. But the woman shooed Riley aside with her fingers. “Move over.” She placed a big straw purse on the table and lowered herself slowly into the booth. Riley plastered her body against her backpack, sliding as far away as she could.

  The waitress appeared with silverware and a glass of iced tea. “Your regular’s coming right up.”

  The woman ignored her to concentrate on Blue. “When I asked what you were doing here, I was talking about in this town.”

  “We’re visiting,” Blue replied.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Well, I’m basically a citizen of the world. Riley’s from Nashville.” She tilted her head. “We’ve introduced ourselves, but you have us at a disadvantage.”

  “Everyone knows who I am,” the woman replied querulously.

  “We don’t.” Although Blue had a strong suspicion.

  “I’m Nita Garrison, of course. I own this town.”

  “That’s great. I’ve been wanting to ask somebody about that.”

  The waitress popped up with a plate holding a scoop of cottage cheese and a quartered canned pear resting on shredded iceberg lettuce. “Here you go, Miz Garrison.” Her syrupy voice belied the dislike in her eyes. “Anything else I can get for you?”

  “A twenty-year-old body,” the old woman snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The waitress hurried off.

  Mrs. Garrison inspected her fork, then poked at the canned pear as if she were looking for a worm hiding under it.

  “Exactly how does anybody own a town?” Blue asked.

  “I inherited it from my husband. You’re very odd-looking.”

  “I’ll take that as a complimen
t.”

  “Do you dance?”

  “Whenever I get the chance.”

  “I used to be an excellent dancer. I taught at the Arthur Murray Studio in Manhattan during the fifties. I met Mr. Murray once. He had a television show, but you wouldn’t remember.” Her haughty manner suggested it was Blue’s stupidity at fault rather than her age.

  “No, ma’am,” Blue replied. “So…when you inherited this town from your husband, would that be the whole town?”

  “All the parts of it that count.” She plunged her fork into the cottage cheese. “You’re staying with that stupid football player, aren’t you? The one who bought the Callaway farm.”

  “He’s not stupid!” Riley exclaimed. “He’s the best quarterback in the United States.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Mrs. Garrison snapped. “You’re very rude.”

  Riley wilted, and Nita Garrison’s high-handedness no longer amused Blue. “Riley has very nice manners. And she’s right. Dean has his faults, but stupidity isn’t one of them.”

  Riley’s stunned expression indicated she wasn’t used to anyone sticking up for her, which Blue found sad. She noticed the other customers were openly eavesdropping.

  Instead of backing down, Nita Garrison puffed up like an angry cat. “You’re another one of those people who lets kids behave however they want, aren’t you? Lets them say whatever they want. Well, you aren’t doing her any favors. Just look at her. She’s fat, but you let her sit there wolfing down French fries.”

  Riley’s face turned bright red. Mortified, she dipped her head and stared at the tabletop. Blue had heard more than enough. “Riley is perfect, Mrs. Garrison,” she said quietly. “And her manners are a lot better than yours. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d find another table. We’d like to finish our lunch alone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I own this place.”

  Even though they hadn’t finished eating, Blue had no choice but to get up. “All right then. Come on, Riley.”

  Unfortunately, Riley was trapped in the booth and Mrs. Garrison wasn’t moving. She sneered, revealing lipstick-smeared teeth. “You’re as disrespectful as she is.”

  Now Blue was burning. She jabbed her finger toward the floor. “Out, Riley. Right now.”

  Riley got the message and managed to squeeze from under the table with her backpack. Nita Garrison’s eyes narrowed to irate dashes. “Nobody walks away from me. You’ll be sorry.”

  “Wow, I’m scared. I don’t care how old you are, Mrs. Garrison, or how rich. You’re just plain mean.”

  “You’ll regret this.”

  “No, I really won’t.” She threw down April’s twenty, which about killed her, since their lunch had only come to twelve-fifty, wrapped her arm around Riley’s shoulders, and led her through the now silent restaurant and out onto the sidewalk.

  “Do you think we could go back to the farm now?” Riley whispered when they’d moved far enough past the door.

  Blue had hoped to make some more job inquiries, but that would have to wait. She hugged Riley. “Sure we can. Don’t let that old woman bother you. She feeds off being mean. You could see it in her eyes.”

  “I guess.”

  Blue continued trying to soothe her as they got in the Saab and pulled out onto the main street. Riley made all the right responses, but Blue knew the hurtful words had struck home.

  They’d nearly reached the city limit sign when she heard the siren. She glanced into the rearview mirror and saw a police squad car bearing down. She wasn’t speeding, and she hadn’t run any red lights, so it took her a moment to figure out the cop was after her.

  An hour later, she was in jail.

  Chapter Ten

  April and Dean both came into town to get her. April handed over Blue’s driver’s license and claimed the Saab. Dean bailed Blue out of jail and yelled at her. “I leave you alone for a couple of hours, and what do you do? You get yourself arrested! I feel like I’m living in an I Love Lucy rerun.”

  “I was framed!” Blue’s shoulder banged against the door of the Vanquish as he took a curve too fast. She was so angry she wanted to hit something, starting with him for not being as indignant as she was. “Since when have you heard of anybody being thrown in jail for driving without a license? Especially somebody who has a perfectly valid license.”

  “Which you didn’t have on you at the time.”

  “But which I could have produced if they’d given me half a chance.”

  The police hadn’t questioned Blue’s statement that Riley was a family friend visiting the farm, and while Blue had been seething in her cell, Riley was sipping a Coke and watching Jerry Springer on the waiting room television. Still, it had been one more scary experience for the eleven-year-old, and April had driven her back to the farm as soon as the police turned over the Saab’s keys.

  “This whole thing was totally bogus.” Blue glared across the passenger seat at Dean, whose blue-gray eyes had turned the exact color of an ocean storm.

  He wheeled around another curve. “You had no license, and you were driving an out-of-state car registered to someone else. How does that constitute being framed?”

  “I swear to God, all those fashion magazines have destroyed your brain. Think about it. Ten minutes after I went head to head with Nita Garrison, the police pulled me over with a lame excuse about random seat belt checks. How do you explain that?”

  He switched from anger to condescension. “So what you’re saying is that you got into a fight with an old lady, who then forced the police to arrest you?”

  “You haven’t met her,” she countered. “Nita Garrison is mean to the bone, and she has the town in her pocket.”

  “You’re a walking catastrophe. Ever since I picked you up on—”

  “Stop making such a big deal out of it. You’re a professional football player. You have to have spent some time in jail yourself.”

  He bristled. “I have never been in jail.”

  “Dude. The NFL won’t let you on the field if you haven’t been arrested at least twice for assault and battery—double points if you beat up a wife or girlfriend.”

  “You’re not even mildly amusing.”

  Probably not, but she’d made herself feel better.

  “Start at the beginning,” he said, “and tell me exactly what happened with the old lady.”

  Blue described their encounter in detail. When she finished, he was silent for a few moments before he spoke. “Nita Garrison was way out of line, but don’t you think you could have been a little more tactful?”

  Blue bristled all over again. “No. Riley doesn’t have a lot of people standing up for her. Or any, for that matter. It was time to fix that.”

  She waited for him to tell her she’d been right, but instead, he turned into the freaking town historian. “I talked to the painters about Garrison being up for sale and got the whole story.” A few hours earlier, she’d been anxious to hear this, but not when he still hadn’t said she was right.

  He shot past a Dodge Neon that had unwisely decided to pull out in front of him. “A carpetbagger named Hiram Garrison bought a couple of thousand acres around here after the Civil War to build a mill. His son enlarged it—that abandoned brick building we passed on the highway—and established the town, all without selling an acre. If people wanted to build houses or businesses, they had to lease the land from him, even the churches. Eventually, he passed everything to his son Marshall. Your Mrs. Garrison’s husband.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “He met her a couple of decades ago on a trip to New York. He was fifty at the time, and she was apparently hot.”

  “Let me tell you those days are gone.” His civics lecture had started to make her wary. She had the feeling he was buying time. But for what?

  “Marshall apparently shared his ancestors’ aversions to selling even a quarter acre. And since they had no children, she inherited it all when he died—the land the town’s built on and most of the businesses.”


  “That’s way too much power for one mean-spirited woman.” She separated her ponytail to tighten the rubber band. “Did you find out how much she’s asking for it?”

  “Twenty million.”

  “That rules me out.” She gazed at him sideways. “Does it rule you out?”

  “Not if I sell my baseball card collection.”

  She hadn’t really expected him to divulge his net worth. Still, he didn’t need to be so sarcastic about it.

  A dairy farm flashed past as he took advantage of the straightening road. “East Tennessee is a growing area. Popular with retirees. She had an offer for fifteen million from a group of Memphis businessmen but turned it down. People suspect she doesn’t really want to sell.” The car nearly fishtailed as he took the turn onto Callaway Road. “Without any national franchises, Garrison is pretty much a time capsule—quaint, but frayed at the edges. The local business leaders want to capitalize on that quaintness, spruce everything up so it’s a tourist destination, but Nita refuses to cooperate.”

  As he raced past the lane that led to the farm, she straightened. “Hey! Where are you going?”

  “Someplace private.” The road turned into a dirt track. His jaw tensed. “Where we can talk.”