by Diane Moody
Gristle chomped on a bite of kettle corn. “I ain’t never tasted nuthin’ like this before! Why you never made none o’ this fo’ us, Buddy?”
“You never asked,” he quipped back. “But where are your manners, Gristle? Hand this to Maleeka for me.”
“That’s all right, Buddy,” Maleeka teased, reaching for the treat. “I’ll teach Gregory some manners, even if I have to take him back and make his mama slap some sense into him.” She took a bite, and her eyes grew wide. “But he’s right—why you never made this for us before? I gotta tell ya, this is to die for!”
Buddy laughed. “Well, thank you, Maleeka, but no need to die on my account.”
“Hey, speakin’a dyin’,” Gristle said, “whatev’a happen to that ol’ buzzard Deacon? Ain’t seen him round no’ more. He do us all a favor and shuffle off this mortal coil?”
“Nah, but he had to retire,” Buddy said. “After he suffered that massive heart attack at the City Council meeting, he had a stroke while he was still in the hospital. It paralyzed him severely, so he’ll be in therapy for quite some time. He isn’t able to say much, so I’d say Deacon’s days of playing the ruler baron are over.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” a voice behind them mumbled.
They turned to find Lester picking kettle corn out of his cup. He stopped eating and looked up. “What?” When no one said anything, the slightest hint of a smile tugged at his mouth.
They laughed at his reaction, as they often did when he caught them off guard like that.
Buddy stirred the big pot of corn. “Ah now, Lester, let’s don’t wish Deacon any bad will. He’s got a tough road ahead of him.”
“There you are!”
Tracey turned to find Mrs. Peterson standing in the back door of their shop. “How nice to see you, Mrs. Peterson. Come out and have some kettle corn,” she said reaching up to help the elderly woman down the steps.
“Don’t mind if I do, but someone else is here to see you, too.” Mischief danced in her eyes as she stepped aside.
There, leaning over to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe, a tall block of a man stepped out onto the stoop. As he straightened to his full height, the stranger stood tall beside the tiny widow.
It took Tracey a second. “Stump? Oh my gosh, it’s really you!”
“Holy cow, is that really you, Stump?!” Buddy hooted.
“Who else you know this tall?” Stump teased as he escorted Mrs. Peterson down the steps. Gone was the furry long beard. Gone was the messy, tangled head of matted hair. Gone were the ragged clothes he always wore. In their place, he wore a black sweater over a white oxford cloth shirt and gray slacks—and not so much as a single facial hair.
“Stump, you’re positively handsome!” Tracey cried, giving the big guy a hug. “Look at you, all clean-shaven! What a nice smile you had hidden under all that . . . stuff.”
He blushed, which was easy to see now with all that hair gone. “I have Mrs. Peterson to thank. I asked if she’d like to accompany me today and she said yes—on one condition.”
Buddy laughed. “I guess we can figure that one out. Mrs. Peterson, you are truly a miracle worker.”
The diminutive widow stood up on her toes, reaching up to tug on Buddy’s ponytail. “Yes, Buddy, it seems I am a miracle worker, and I think I’m looking at my next project.”
Buddy gave her a hug. “Well now, Mrs. P, don’t get carried away.”
Tracey laughed, enjoying the easy banter before stepping back inside. There she found Noah returning from delivering an armoire.
He gave her a side hug, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t know if you’ve realized it or not, but if you and Alex keep this up, you’re not going to have a stick of furniture left by the end of the day.”
“Which would be an awfully nice way to end our first day, don’t you think?” Alex said, rearranging a display on the side counter.
“Bite your tongue, Sis! If so, that means you and I stay up all night refinishing what’s left in the back. And I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.! All I want to do is—”
“Oh, girls! Girls!”
Sadie Woolsey rushed through the front door. “You won’t believe what’s just happened!”
Alex grabbed her by the elbow. “Miss Sadie! What is it? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m just so excited, I can hardly contain myself!”
“What is it?” Tracey asked, guiding the librarian to a tall stool at the checkout counter.
Sadie held a hand to her chest as she tried to catch her breath. “Remember those specialists from the Smithsonian who stopped by last week to examine the cup and saucer you found here in these walls? Well, just minutes ago I received a call from them. They said they couldn’t reach you at Walnut Ridge, so they called me instead. I explained about the grand opening and asked if I could take a message. Well, lo and behold—are you ready for this? They’ve validated the pieces to be authentic china from President Lincoln’s White House!”
Their cheers filled the room. “I can’t believe it!” Tracey said, hugging the librarian.
“Yes, yes, it’s absolutely true. And in addition, they said the note from Craggie Collins was authentic as well. Apparently, they have some kind of test they can run to determine the age of the paper it was written on. So they’ve asked if you would be willing to donate the note in addition to the cup and saucer. Isn’t it just wonderful?”
With a hug, Alex said, “I’d say this calls for a celebration!”
Later that evening, long after sunset, the proud proprietors of Second Chances celebrated a happy ending to their first day in business—and the exciting news about the Lincoln teacup. Noah and Buddy took over kitchen duties, serving up hearty sandwiches and ladles of Alex’s baked potato soup. Sadie arrived with two of her famous chess pies, with her trusty camera slung over her shoulder. Most of the Elders had left earlier in the day, but Lester, Stump, Gristle and Maleeka gradually showed up to join the gathering. They all mingled from one room to the next, enjoying a relaxed evening together.
Around 7:30, Buddy gathered everyone into the den to take some photographs of the momentous occasion. Sadie, who fancied herself quite the photographer, took charge and set up each shot—Buddy and his daughters, Buddy and his Elders, a shot of Alex and Tracey, one of Gristle and Maleeka, and a solo portrait of the new and improved Stump. Only Lester refused to be photographed.
“Not happenin’,” he mumbled.
They all stared at him, then handed him another piece of pie and left him alone.
“Where’s Noah?” Sadie asked. “Let’s get him in here and have a shot of him with the girls holding the Lincoln teacup. Perhaps the Smithsonian would like to see the faces behind the historic discovery.”
“But you should be in that one too, Miss Sadie.” Buddy took the camera from her. “You go stand there with the girls.” He looked around. “Noah? Where are you?”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said, joining them from the living room. “Alex asked me to get the cup and saucer out of the hutch.”
Lifting her hands to caution him, Sadie warbled, “Oh, be careful, Noah. We certainly don’t want anything to happen to them. Not after all this time.”
“Noah, how about you give the girls the cup and saucer and let them both hold it in front,” Buddy said, framing the shot. “Then you step there behind Tracey alongside Sadie.”
Noah handed the cup to Alex then stepped behind the girls. “How’s this?” he asked, wrapping his arm over Sadie’s shoulder.
“Here, Trace,” Alex said, holding the cup and saucer. “Let’s hold it together like this.”
“Okay, on three,” Buddy said. “One, two—three!” The camera flashed, and he checked the preview on its small screen. “Looks great, but let’s take a couple more. Okay, everybody—”
“Wait,” Tracey said, peering into the teacup. “There’s something in here.” She lifted ou
t a wad of tissue paper.
Noah leaned over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“Oh dear, please be careful,” Sadie cautioned again.
“Just a wad of tissue paper,” Tracey said, lifting it out of the cup.
“Probably just trash,” Alex said, taking the cup and saucer from her sister.
Tracey started to unroll the wad of tissue. “No, it feels like—” She turned to look at Noah. A flash caused her to look back at her father, wondering why he took a picture before they were ready.
“Tracey, c’mon—you’re killing me here,” Alex prodded. “It feels like what?”
Tracey’s mouth opened as the tissue fell to the floor. She gazed back at Noah just as he dropped down to pick it up . . . then remained where he was.
On one knee.
“It feels like a ring?” he asked as another camera flash went off.
“Yes,” Tracey whispered, staring at the diamond solitaire in her hand. “But—”
“No buts, Tracey,” he said, his face beaming with expectation. “I need to ask you a question.”
“Uh oh,” someone uttered from the back of the room.
They all turned to look at Lester who grinned mischievously.
“Oh my goodness, “Alex breathed as she and Sadie moved over beside Buddy. She carefully set down the cup and saucer then clasped her hands together against her mouth. All eyes returned to Tracey and Noah.
“Tracey Jolene Collins, will you marry me?”
Unable to speak, she simply nodded as a tear slipped down her face.
Noah stood up, slowly sliding the diamond on her finger. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
For a split second, no one said a thing. Then spontaneous celebration filled the room, echoing against the rafters of the old house.
Time stood still as Noah and Tracey laughed through tears of joy.
“For heaven’s sake, Noah!” Alex shouted, “Give her a kiss!”
And so he did.
Epilogue
Of course, the Lincoln teacup and saucer in my hands aren’t authentic. Years ago, Aunt Lucille told me she bought the set in a gift shop at the Smithsonian in Washington. Still, I prefer to imagine the china I’m now carefully placing back in my hutch had originally been a gift from dear old Abe himself. Perhaps young Craggie Collins, or another White House employee like him, had dropped by the Oval Office to say goodbye. And who knows, maybe the President gave him the set as a parting gift. Knowing all too well that the First Lady had already ordered a new pattern since this one hadn’t stood the test of time, perhaps Lincoln and Craggie had a brief farewell exchange . . .
“Sure sad to see you go, Mr. Collins,” Abe says, extending his hand to the young man. “But I thank you for your service these past few years.”
Craggie shakes his hand as they head for the door. “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”
Beside the door, a tea service sits atop a tall table. The President peeks around the corner then lifts the cup and saucer. “Here, son. As a token of my appreciation. A little keepsake, if you will.”
“Oh, Mr. President, I couldn’t!”
Abe motions for Craggie to open his satchel. “Quick, before the First Lady catches me. She’s been on a tirade about this blasted china.” Safely securing the pieces, Abe closes and latches the young man’s leather bag. “Just think of it as a favor you’re doing for me.” He gives Craggie a wink, then pats him on the shoulder and sends him on his way.
Or something like that.
I take a deep breath and bask in the faux-memory. Funny, but when I imagine these scenes in my head, I can smell the musty air in that famous old building. I can hear Abe’s clock ticking over on the mantel. I can see the dark circles under the President’s eyes and the sadness hiding behind his kind countenance. I’ve never written historical novels, but I have to say it’s pretty fun hobnobbing with the movers and shakers of our past. I say that, but then I hear a gunshot ring out on an April night at Ford’s Theater . . . and I realize all stories eventually come to an end.
I shake it off, this gray cloud of darker days in our nation’s history. Time to change gears and start thinking about my next novella. I’ve been so distracted lately, I’m having trouble remembering which teacup goes with this new story. The setting is back east somewhere in the vicinity of Boston, I think?
My cell phone rings and I dig it out of my jeans pocket. On the screen I see Mark’s picture and my heart does a little two-step.
“Hey, Mark! How’s it going?”
“Morning, Luce! There’s something I need to know.”
“Ask away, big guy,” I say, twirling a curl of my hair with my fingers.
“Did Noah man up and come back for Tracey?”
I’m glad he can’t see me because my smile is so oversized, I look spastic. I know this because I see my reflection in the glass of my hutch. But how sweet is he? Most of the guys I’ve gone out with in the last decade couldn’t care less about my fiction world. The best I ever got was, “Well, uh, you done yet with that, uh, little story . . . thing?” Pathetic.
But Mark? He not only knows where I am in my current project—he knows my characters’ names.
“I could tell you,” I respond, “but then I’d have to kill you. Which would never work because we have plans tonight, right?”
“We absolutely do. And speaking of that, don’t forget to wear your crew shirt, okay?”
“It’s ironed and ready. Anything else?”
“No. But I can’t wait to see you tonight.”
“Me, too. You. Too,” I stammer, as usual. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Bye, Luce. See you at six.”
I drop the cell phone back in my pocket then lean back to look down the hall. There on my bedroom door hangs my brown bowling shirt. Go ahead. Have your fun. Laugh all you want. Me—Lucy Alexander—bowling? I have to admit, I hated it at first. I warned Mark I’d be the laughingstock of the entire UPS fleet in our region. But he was so excited about introducing me to his friends and their significant others, how could I say no? If, however, you’re expecting a detailed summary of my efforts to stay out of the gutters at Ten Pin Alley, forget it.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yes. I’m trying to remember which teacup. Then suddenly I see it and remember. It’s always been one of my favorites because I have such vivid memories of sipping tea from it all those years ago the summer I visited Aunt Lucille. And oh, what a story it has to tell . . . a story of unrequited love, a mysterious legend, and those who have never forgotten its curse.
I can hardly wait to get started!
Acknowledgments
With every book comes help from old friends and new, and Lucy’s newest novella is no exception. On her behalf, I would like to thank the following:
To my favorite local proofreaders, Glenn Hale and Sally Wilson. And to my new proofer extraordinaire, Bev Harrison, who has given my story its extra sparkle with her Australian expertise. Thanks to all of you!
To my favorite biker babe, Terry Young, and her wonderful husband, Ivan. Thank you for educating this motorcycle-challenged author and making sure I didn’t embarrass my characters with any misguided faux-Harley lingo. I hope I got it right. I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for those who love the open road. Love you ttmab.
To Sharon Jacob and Julie Harrel of Vintage Shabby Chicks, whose shared passion for restoring “used, discarded, and sometimes broken furniture and giving it new life,” was the inspiration for Alex and Tracey’s new business. Thank you for a business model that so flawlessly mirrors God’s promise to give us new life through Jesus Christ. Sharon, thanks for taking time to educate me on your painting magic and showing me so many of your beautiful transformations. To learn more, check out Sharon and Julie’s website at: http://www.vintageshabbychicks.com
A special thanks to Marian Parsons—a.k.a. Miss Mustard Seed—for permission to include her fabulous Miss Mustard Seed Milk Paints. To my readers, you ca
n visit her website at: http://www.missmustardseedsmilkpaint.com. Take my word for it, you simply must pamper yourself by ordering a copy of her beautiful book, Inspired You: Breathing New Life into Your Heart and Home. I guarantee you’ll be inspired!
Also, special thanks to my new favorite artist, David Arms. Last January, God surely led me into your quaint barn gallery in Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee just after I began working on this story. The moment I saw it, I knew this was the perfect setting for Tracey and Alex’s converted smokehouse, both inside and out. Thank you for graciously allowing me to borrow its charm for my cover art. To my readers, I invite you to spend some time visiting David’s website. There you can read his story, visit his studio, learn about his unique use of symbolism, then treat yourself by browsing through his amazing portfolio. I know you’ll find his work as unforgettable as I have. Visit David at: http://davidarms.com
To my beloved aunt, Lucille McKeag Hale, whose gift of teacups inspired the stories of this novella series. I miss you so much.
And as always, a huge thanks to my husband Ken who continues to make my dreams come true every single day. I love doing life with you. Next time we do El Jardin, dinner’s on me.
About the Author
Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane Hale Moody is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives with her husband Ken in the rolling hills just outside of Nashville. They are the proud parents of two grown and extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.
Just after moving to Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion to write again. Since then, she’s written a column for her local newspaper, feature articles for various magazines and curriculum, and several novels with a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her attention.