by Rhett DeVane
“Stomach problems?”
“No. No. She’s doing it on purpose. You know, to stay thin.”
“Ah-ha! There you are, you little dickens.” Mae plucked a blue puzzle piece and fit it easily into a section of sky.
Hannah snorted. “How can you always find the right one when all of them look the dadgum same?”
“Attention to detail, sugar-pot. And patience—something you are sometimes in short supply of.” She reached over and patted her daughter’s hand.
Hannah continued to rummage through the puzzle box lid.
“What’s eating at you, honey?”
Hannah glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“Something’s playing on your mind this morning.”
“And you can tell this . . . how?”
“You get a deep crease betwixt your eyes.” Mae touched a spot between Hannah’s eyebrows. “Right here. Furrows up when you’re mulling over a problem. Been that way since you were a child. Best be mindful of it, lest you forge a permanent worry line there.”
Hannah massaged her forehead with two fingers.
Mae plugged another section of sky into place. “I sleep with a piece of scotch tape between my brows.”
“What’s that supposed to do?”
“Keeps me from frowning in my sleep,” Mae said.
“I see.”
Mae studied her daughter. “You going to tell me what’s causing you to screw up your face? Norman? Or is Justine cutting the fool again? Teenagers can be such a trial.”
“No, none of that. Everything’s even keel, for now.”
Mae’s left eyebrow shot up. Hannah knew she might as well give it up when the question-mark brow appeared.
Hannah massaged her cramped neck muscles with one hand. “I’m trying to decide whether or not to interfere in someone’s business.”
“Uh-huh.” Mae continued to work on the puzzle. When it came to waiting out a confession, her mother possessed boundless endurance.
“Do you remember Justine’s friend Brittany?”
“The Rodgers girl? Been a while since I’ve seen her, not since her daddy passed some years back. Your father and I attended the funeral.” Mae rested a finger on her chin. “Little slip of a girl, wormy-looking.”
“She’s Justine’s best friend.”
“Seems like I recall my grandbaby mentioning her before.”
“Justine confided something to me. I’m trying to decide if I should break her confidence and interfere, or not.”
“Is she in a family way?”
“No, no.” Hannah paused. What harm could talking to her mother do? “Justine told me that Brittany’s bulimic.”
“That throwing-up condition, right?”
Hannah studied a puzzle piece, frowned, then pitched it back into the box. “It’s caused quite a rift between them. Justine’s beside herself with worry. I’m at a loss.”
Mae sat back and crossed her arms across her chest. “Some things are best left alone—like marital problems, for instance. I’ve gotten caught up in other couples’ affairs of the heart a time or two, and let me tell you, I learned that lesson the hard way.” She paused before adding, “But when it comes to something that’s life-threatening, especially when it involves a child, I’d have to find some way to step in.”
“How? My relationship with Justine’s improved. She comes and talks to me now. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“Sometimes sugar, all you have to do is plant a seed and let it grow. Just because you happen to drop by and visit with Brittany’s mama, and happen to mention how thin Brittany’s become—”
“Visit? With Missy Rodgers? That in itself would seem forced. She and I are two different breeds, Ma-Mae.”
Mae rested a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “You’re a bright gal. You’ll figure a way around it. After all, what’s more important? You feeling a little sheepish, or a young woman dying because no one said a word?”
Hannah’s Tangy Spinach Salad
1 bag fresh spinach, washed and drained
1/2 large red onion, thinly sliced
1 can mandarin oranges, drained
1 cup toasted, slivered almonds (toast raw slivered almonds under oven broiler until lightly browned)
1 pkg. feta cheese, crumbled
1/2 cup golden raisins or dried cranberries
Honey and bacon French dressing
Toss all ingredients together. Top with commercial honey and bacon French dressing.
Serve chilled.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hannah hesitated for a moment in front of Missy Rodgers’s perfect fortress, a basket of muffins hanging from one arm. How long had it been since she had stepped inside the restored Victorian home of Chattahoochee’s reigning volunteer queen? Five years? Ten? Dimly, she recalled a PTA planning meeting for one of Justine’s elementary school functions. Naturally, Missy Rodgers had been the chairperson.
The porch provided a good measure of the owner’s decorating skills. Matching rattan swings lined with plush pillows. Verdant ferns at precise intervals and terra cotta pots filled with colorful blooming annuals. Concrete statues of lop-eared rabbits crouching beside two white rocking chairs. Hannah could envision a covey of Southern belles milling in the cool shade in frilly hoop skirts, sipping mint juleps, batting their eyelashes at fawning suitors.
Missy Rodgers answered the door after the second set of musical chimes. She wore the latest summer fashion: lime green crop pants with a coordinating wispy form-fitting blouse. Her fingers and toes glistened with hot pink polish in a shade matching her lips.
“Hannah Olsen!” She swung the screen door open wide. “I was so pleased and surprised when you called. Do come in.”
Missy ushered her into a formal front parlor: a room that continued the illusion of the bygone glory days of Dixie. The high ceilings provided adequate space for large oak antiques that would’ve overpowered most modern homes. Cabbage roses in sherbet shades filled crystal vases. The Victorian furniture appeared about as comfortable as a bed of prickly pears.
“I made some fresh mint tea. Would you join me for a glass?”
“Sounds great. I’ll never turn down tea.” Hannah handed over the basket. “These are for you and Brittany.”
Missy smiled to reveal even white teeth. “How thoughtful. Banana nut muffins. It’s been positively ages since I’ve had one of these.” Her petite hand fluttered at her throat like a butterfly moth caught in a screen. “My recipes are so complicated and call for such exotic ingredients. I can’t recall the last time I made something so ordinary, yet so good. Thank you.”
Was there a back-door compliment in there somewhere? Hannah forced her lips to lift. “My pleasure. But I can’t take credit for baking them. I bought them uptown at the Borrowed Thyme Bakery.”
“Well, it’s the thought that counts, right? I have, upon occasion, purchased Mr. Joe’s cakes and pies. When I was in a pinch.”
A smirk tried to fight its way to the corners of Hannah’s lips.
“I’ll just pop a couple of these in my convection oven and warm them up a bit. We can have one with our tea. With butter, of course. I never use margarine, do you?” Her button nose crinkled as if she had detected a foul scent. “Come on back to the kitchen.”
Hannah followed Missy down a long hallway plastered with family photographs, past an ornate mahogany staircase, and into a large airy kitchen at the rear of the house. Except for a few tasteful touches of lemon yellow and blue, the room was bright white. Hannah couldn’t imagine facing such blinding gaiety first thing every morning.
Missy motioned to a round oak table surrounded with cushioned chairs. “Make yourself comfortable.” She wrapped two muffins in a damp clean cloth and popped it into the over-the-stove microwave/convection oven, then poured two glasses of iced tea and added sprigs of fresh peppermint.
A few moments later, Missy sat the warmed muffins on the table on two china saucers along with several pats of butter. Hannah noted how th
e blue in the plates matched the linen napkins. Of course. In her house, a person would be lucky to get a couple of paper towels and flimsy Dollar Store plastic plates.
“This really is a pleasure, you popping by.” Missy took a delicate sip of tea. Her eyebrows raised slightly in a question.
Time to make up a lie, and make it up quick. Missy Rodgers was not someone you visited for sport. “Are you chairing the Relay for Life?” Hannah asked.
“I have for the past five seasons. It’s a wonderful opportunity to raise money for a worthy cause.” She nipped a minute piece of muffin and chewed.
“My office would like to enter a team this year.”
“That’s all well and good, Hannah. But the relay was held a few weeks back.”
She really must start keeping up better. “I know. I meant for the next one.”
“It never hurts to plan ahead, I suppose. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll put you on my mailing list. I generally start sending out information after the first of the year. That way, you’ll have oodles of time to gather your people.”
Hannah sipped her tea, a perfect brewed blend with the extra punch of cool mint. “That’ll work.”
“I’ve been meaning to apologize for that bit of unpleasantness with the girls,” Missy said. “I’ve thoroughly chastised my relations for their lack of supervision.”
“Teenagers will be teenagers. We’ve dealt with Justine. The run-in with the authorities scared her so witless, maybe she’ll think twice before she drinks like that again.”
“Brittany has been on restriction since that night.” When Missy frowned, only her lips showed dismay. The flesh between her thin arched brows and around her mouth remained smooth. Botox, or did her mastery of perfection include a moratorium against damaging facial expressions?
“Justine has done her time—not only from Norman and me, but with the county too. I don’t see any sense in running it into the ground.”
“You must raise your daughter as you see fit. Since Andrew passed, I’ve had to navigate the shoals of parenthood alone.” Missy nibbled a muffin. At this rate, she’d finish one by Christmas.
Hannah bit her lower lip. How much more of Missy could she take without blowing a blood vessel? “I’m sure it’s not easy these days.” Hannah hesitated. “I do worry about Brittany, to be honest.”
Missy set her iced tea glass down and dabbed the moisture from her lips. “Why’s that? Is she making herself a nuisance?”
“Not at all. She’s like another member of the family, practically. She’s just so . . . thin.”
“All of the women in my family are dainty,” Missy countered. “We’re lucky to reach a hundred pounds. The only time I went a little over was in my last month of pregnancy.”
Hannah flashed back to her final trimesters with both Justine and Jonas. They could’ve strapped on ropes and floated her in the Macy’s parade. “I think girls our daughter’s age see those models in magazines and try to starve themselves half to death. Do you think she might be doing that?”
“I see to it that Brittany has a balanced diet,” Missy replied. “My daughter has a high metabolism. I’m the same way. I could eat that entire basket of muffins and not gain an ounce. I’ve never been one to lean to excess though. It’s a blessing, really.”
Shoot me now. Hannah polished off the rest of her muffin in one bite. “Guess I’m being overprotective. She looks a little pale and—” Hannah searched for a reasonable substitute for emaciated.
“She’s had a few female problems, hormonal.” Missy offered a pinched smile. “It is nice of you to be concerned, but I’m well aware of my daughter’s health.” She stood and began to clear the dishes. “You’ll forgive me, Hannah. I have a garden club meeting this afternoon. I haven’t completed my notes yet. I’m presenting a talk on herbs. Do you garden?”
The volunteer tomatoes that had sprouted by the compost bin probably didn’t count. “No time now, what with my mom and the family, and work.”
“Shame. It’s really very soothing to the soul.”
Hannah stood to leave.
“Thank you again for the muffins. Do stop by more often. We should talk more, Hannah. Our daughters surely do.”
As she walked the few blocks back to her house, Hannah mulled over the conversation. Good thing she hadn’t taken the whole dozen muffins. At the Olsen house, they’d be eaten and enjoyed. She had made no inroads into Missy Rodgers’s faultless force field. An offbeat Southernism of her mother’s popped into her mind: “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Dr. Emery pushed his rolling stool away from the dental chair and stood up. “I’m happy to report: no cavities, gums look healthy, no more cracked teeth. Congratulations!”
“No offense, folks, but I’d much rather come only for my regular cleanings.” Hannah sat up and swung her legs to the side of the dental chair. “Before I leave, may I speak with you about something?”
“Of course.” Dr. Emery settled back into his chair and handed Hannah’s chart to the hygienist. “Want to step into my private office?”
“No, that’s okay. I was going to phone you, but I realized I had this appointment. I’ve been reading up on anorexia and bulimia, and I have a few questions.”
Her dentist’s brows furrowed. “Not Justine, I hope.”
“Oh, no. She’s fine, except for the hourly teenaged crisis. I’m concerned for her best friend. She’s not your patient, by the way.” Hannah continued, “The article I read on the Internet mentioned something about dental problems relating to bulimia.”
“Depends on how long the behavior’s been going on. I’ve seen cases where a good deal of chemical erosion has occurred to the enamel as a result of frequent exposure to stomach acids.”
“If a patient came in and you noticed this, would you consult with the parent?”
“Depends. Is this patient a minor?”
Hannah nodded.
“In that case, yes. The new privacy rules prohibit us from disclosing information without written consent, even to family members. But in the case of a child under eighteen, we’re allowed to talk with the parent or legal guardian.”
“I see.” Hannah gathered her purse and keys. “If I spoke with her dentist and told him my concerns, he could follow up?”
“Legally, ethically, he or she can not discuss a patient with you, Hannah. Not unless the parent has given the okay, or she is your child.”
“The dentist could listen, though.”
He tilted his head. “I don’t see why not.”
Hannah smiled. “Perfect.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The aura of the previous night’s dream lingered as Hannah sipped her second cup of black coffee. She had felt the inner flame ignite early in the previous evening, and had tried to convince Norman the air conditioner wasn’t working properly. By bedtime, so many fans blew on her body, she almost needed tie-down straps to remain fixed to the mattress. She still craved peanut butter and felt seriously horny. Bizarre.
During her fitful sleep, her first love had dropped in for a visit. Marcus Motivano: a tall, wavy-haired, mustached young man with dark smoldering eyes. Even now, Hannah wanted to moan then cry.
Her freshman year of college had found Hannah Mathers a save-yourself-for-marriage, dewy innocent: the sort of girl who took men at face value and believed all people good and honest. Hard-knock 101 taught her a life lesson, with Marcus as the masterful mentor. Following eight months of unrelenting charm, he succeeded in bedding Sweet Hannah Mathers. The entire sexual act had happened so fast, Hannah recalled few details. She vaguely remembered wondering: Is that it? Is that what everyone is so hyped up about? Marcus had rolled over promptly and fallen asleep. Two weeks later, he unceremoniously ditched Hannah for a blonde bubble-headed bimbo with breasts the size of his libido.
Hannah shut down. Dated, yet never allowed one man to tip-toe close. For years, throughout college and the first part of her career, she developed male acquaintances—some, she wou
ld consider friends— but none broached the ice fields.
Until Hometown Norman.
Plain, milk-toast, dependable-as-an-old-Volvo Norman. So unassuming and non-threatening—a protective, brotherly type of man. Like a creamy rich piece of dark chocolate with a mocha filling, Norman sheltered a core so profoundly sweet, Hannah slipped and fell in love. Not frantic, heart-wrenching anguish, but the steady Sunday-morning-in-curlers kind of devotion. No matter how many cellulite thigh dimples Hannah counted, Norman only saw a beautiful wife and mother.
Sex with Norman astounded her. So, the female was supposed to benefit from the act? Imagine! Regardless of time’s passage, Norman remained a considerate lover. Slowly, he unearthed Hannah’s buried anger and replaced it with an easy contentment. True, the frequency and intensity had waned in the past few years, but all the talk shows attested to the normality of that.
Why, after all the years—loving husband, stable life, and two mostly-obedient children— did her unconscious mind periodically revisit Marcus Motivano? He appeared casually in a fleeting dream, never aged past twenty-three, where they would linger over drinks like dear old friends. A sexual undercurrent rippled beneath the surface of the discourse: a subtle flirtation, an invitation to replay the scratched, warped, and out-of-date vinyl recording.
Hannah despised loose ends. Mind-numbing work projects were completed. Refrigerated leftovers, purged when they turned into Petri projects. Dishes didn’t stand in unwashed stacks. Dust bunnies never grew to the size of volleyballs. If a thing was important enough to deserve time, then it would be hand-held to the bitter end. She counted less than five-fingers’ worth of loose ends in her life. Marcus topped the hit parade.
Initially, the infrequent forays into the past had left her with a vague haze of cheater’s guilt. But she couldn’t reign over slumber any more than she could stunt the persistent crop of whiskers sprouting from her chin.
Once, a few years back, she had toyed with contacting Marcus, and located his current address and phone number using the Internet. What could she say if she called? Hi, remember me? I’m the virgin from Chattahoochee—the one you pumped and dumped eons ago.