“Have you heard from Chenille lately?” Elizabeth asked. Chenille was Chiffon’s older sister. She’d been chosen by her school district to teach gifted students in a teacher-exchange program in England for a semester.
Chiffon poked her straw into the remaining ice in her cup. “She called to wish Dewitt a happy birthday. She sure misses everyone. Especially her boyfriend, Garnell.”
Elizabeth nodded and glanced at her daughter, who was happily gnawing on a teething ring in her high chair, oblivious to the racket around her. “I’m glad Glenda is too little to care where her birthday party will be.”
“Yeah, you have a few years yet.” Chiffon snapped a new roll of film into her camera. “Timothy looks happy as a clam.”
Elizabeth glanced over at her husband, who was thronged by three little boys watching him twist a balloon into the shape of a wiener dog.
“He does look like he’s enjoying himself,” Elizabeth said. Instead of appearing frazzled by all the bedlam, Timothy acted as excited as one of the pint-sized party guests.
“Mama!” Dewitt shouted. He was out of breath as he approached Chiffon. “I need more tokens.”
“More? You had a whole handful five minutes ago,” Chiffon said. She poured a pile of the gold plastic coins into his waiting palm. “After this, you’re done. Those darn machines eat up tokens like they were kibble.”
Elizabeth ventured a nibble of the pizza slice that the moth-eaten Manny E. had placed in front of her on the sticky table. The cheese was rubbery, the temperature was cold, and the crust was the consistency of cardboard.
A group of Manny E’s minions, Doughboy Dan and the Sausage Sextet got onstage and started singing, “Playtime Pizza is the happiest, happiest place on the planet.”
“You got anything for a headache?” Elizabeth shouted to Chiffon. Chiffon nodded and set out three bottles: Extra-Strength Tylenol, Motrin, and Anacin-3.
“Choose your poison,” she said. “After last year’s party, I came prepared.”
Later, after Timothy and Elizabeth had helped drop off half the party guests, Timothy was humming Playtime Pizza’s theme song as he pulled up in the driveway of their bungalow.
“Please don’t do that.” Elizabeth plugged her ears with her fingers.
Timothy chuckled as he put the SUV into park. “I take it you didn’t care much for Playtime Pizza.”
“It was a train wreck,” Elizabeth said, climbing out of the car. “I though Chiffon was going to tear her hair out.”
“It was kind of loud,” Timothy said, opening the back door to release a sleeping Glenda from her car seat. “But I had a lot of fun with all those little kids.”
He unlocked the front door and stepped inside the house. “I’m looking forward to the time when we’ll have our own tribe of children,” he said with a wink.
Tribe! After a long afternoon of herding a pack of rambunctious kids, Elizabeth’s patience snapped.
“Timothy Horace Hollingsworth,” she fumed as she followed him into the nursery. “I’m your wife... not some sort of… old woman in the shoe who’s supposed to have a parade of children trailing after her.”
She hadn’t intended to confront him this way; her plan had been to civilly discuss the issue over a glass of Chablis. Too late now: She was spitting like a grease fire.
“What do you mean?” Timothy said as he tucked Glenda in her crib.
“You heard me,” she continued. “You keep making remarks about all these babies we’re going to have. What you really mean is the children I’m going to have, because I’m the one who has to do all the work.”
“You don’t think I help out enough with Glenda?” Timothy said in a wounded voice.
“You lend a hand when you can, but you’re not here all day long with a baby.” She softened her tone. “You have no idea how isolating that can be.”
“But what about your Mommy Time group? Doesn’t that give you a chance to hang out with other adults?”
“Mommy Time has been canceled until the weather’s warmer. We lost our place to meet, and we can’t find another one.” She looked at her husband with large, pleading eyes. “Do you have any idea what I’m trying to say?”
“Of course I do, sweetheart. I didn’t realize how hard it is to be cooped up with an infant all the time.” Timothy curled his arm around her waist. “Have you been keeping this from me for a while?”
Elizabeth nodded, sniffing back tears.
“Tell you what.” He smoothed a strand of dark-blond hair behind her ear. “Why don’t I get Ferrell to tend the bait shop on Friday afternoons, and I’ll come home and look after Glenda. That’ll free you up to do a little shopping or have a lunch date with your friends. Maybe you could even treat yourself to a facial or a pedicure. How does that sound?”
“No.” She stiffened in his arms. “You don’t understand at all. I could care less about clean pores or painted toenails.”
“What are you saying, then?”
Tell him, she ordered herself. There would never be a better time than now. She gently broke free from his embrace and faced him. “I want to go back to work.”
“Work?” Timothy said, as if genuinely puzzled. “How can you work? Who would take care of Glenda?”
“Timothy, there are people who care for children, nice, decent people who—”
“Strangers,” he interrupted. A look of betrayal crossed his face. “You want to put our daughter into the hands of people she doesn’t know or trust. We discussed this at length, Elizabeth. We both agreed that the parent is the best person to raise a child. Why even have children if you’re going to farm them out to other people all day long?”
“Not all day long,” Elizabeth protested. “I thought I’d work part-time to start. I called your mother, and she said Hollingsworth Paper Cups could use another marketing executive, especially since they’re coming out with those new, insulated coffee cups.”
“Are you telling me that you’re going to abandon our daughter so you can peddle Styrofoam cups?” Timothy demanded.
Glenda stirred restlessly in her crib and Elizabeth put a finger over her lips.
“Let’s go in the living room to talk this out,” she whispered. “I don’t want to wake her.”
Timothy shook his head and dropped down into the rocking chair beside the crib. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but there’s nothing to talk about. We had an agreement, and you’re trying to wriggle your way out of it. As far as I’m concerned, this discussion is closed.”
“Come on with me, Timothy, please,” Elizabeth rested a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve always been able to talk things through.”
“Not this time,” he said darkly. “You go into the living room. I’m staying in here with my daughter.”
Nine
Old age is a high price for maturity.
~ Sign on the bulletin board at the Senior Center
With a shy smile, Mavis admired her enhanced silhouette in her full-length bedroom mirror. Yesterday she’d driven to Dilbert’s Department Store in Augusta for their annual Foundation Fling, and the saleswoman had talked her into purchasing a Liquid Assets Aqua Bra.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mavis said as the woman—a little red-haired sprite scarcely out of high school—had extolled the many virtues of the pricey bra.
“It molds to your body’s natural shape and temperature,” the salesgirl said, handing Mavis the lacy bra on a plastic hanger and ushering her into a dressing room. “And it adjusts to three levels of cleavage.”
Once Mavis had tried on the bra, she couldn’t get over how shapely she looked. She was used to buying plain A-cup bras on sale, which did nothing to boost her humble little bosom. With the Aqua Bra, her breasts inflated like fireplace bellows, even at the tamest level of cleavage.
A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, Mavis mused as she turned from he
r mirror and went into the kitchen to check on her chicken divan casserole. She opened the oven and saw the Parmesan cheese on top was golden brown and bubbly. The heavenly fragrance of the dinner wafted throughout her sunny galley kitchen.
As she removed the casserole from the oven, she recalled Attalee’s constant hounding ever since Birdie had taken off in the direction of Brewster’s house.
“You gonna let Birdie snatch that Brewster from right under your nose?” Attalee had nagged several times. “That gal’s got her trotting harness on for your fellow.”
“He’s not my fellow,” Mavis had protested. “Birdie has as much right to him as I do.”
Attalee had leveled a bony finger at her. “You saw him first. She knew you were kindling after him.”
Later, when Mavis came home to another night of watching old black-and-white movies and munching Healthy Choice popcorn all alone on her sofa, she decided that Attalee was right. She’d seen Brewster first and when she’d confided her interest in him to her friend, Birdie had gone after him like a duck on a June bug.
That was mighty underhanded and selfish of her, Mavis huffed. After tossing and turning that night in her narrow single bed, she woke up with a fresh resolve.
Every woman for herself, she’d thought as she flung a leg out of bed. Her new attitude led to her decision to amplify her assets with the Aqua Bra and to prepare a nice, hot dinner for Brewster.
“Perfect,” she said to herself as she placed the hot Pyrex dish on the kitchen counter.
While it cooled, she reapplied her lipstick and practiced what she was going to say to Brewster when she arrived at his house.
“Brewster, I mean... Brew,” she said, trying to affect a breezy tone. “I was cooking, and I’m afraid I got a little carried away in the kitchen. Could you use an extra casserole for your freezer?” Too mealy-mouthed. Plus it sounded like she was trying to pawn off her leftovers on him. The direct approach, though daring, was probably her best tactic. “Hello there, Brew,” Mavis practiced, batting her eyelashes. “I hope you like chicken and broccoli, because I made a casserole especially for you.”
She grimaced. Still not quite right. She’d just have to sort out what she was going to say to him when she got there.
Since the day was sunnier than usual, Mavis slipped on her good wool coat to make the short walk from her little cottage on Persimmon Road to Brewster’s house on Chickasaw Drive. The warm casserole dish felt toasty against her abdomen, and she liked the sensation of the bracing wintry breeze on her cheeks as she strolled down the sidewalk.
Bluish gray smoke curled from the stout brick chimney of her next-door neighbor’s house, and Mavis’s nose twitched with pleasure at the intoxicating fragrance. She carefully watched her footing along Persimmon Road, which was lined with ancient oak trees. The mossy roots burrowed from their bases like long, gnarled fingers. She could easily trip over a knuckled protrusion and be sent sailing through the air.
Eloise Jenkins was in her yard inspecting her azalea bushes, and she waved at Mavis and pointed at several burgeoning white blossoms on the bush.
“Those two warm days last week fooled this bush into thinking it’s spring,” she said. Noting the casserole in Mavis’s arms, Eloise asked, “Who’s under the weather?”
“Nobody,” Mavis said, a hint of irritation in her voice. You could scarcely sneeze in Cayboo Creek without everyone knowing about it. “Just a little hot dish for a friend.” Mavis quickened her pace to quell any farther questions.
“Seems to be a lot of that going on today,” Eloise called after her.
What does she mean by that? Mavis wondered. Thankfully, she managed to make the rest of the walk without encountering anyone else. Rounding the corner, she smiled as she saw Brewster’s red car parked in the drive of his house.
She rang the doorbell, her heart knocking against her chest like a woodpecker as she waited for Brew to answer. When he appeared, he tossed her a wide grin and said, “Well, looky here. Today’s my lucky day.”
Buoyed by his warm welcome, Mavis felt her confidence surge.
“Hello, Brew,” she said with a wave of her glove. “I’ve got something to warm you up on this cold day.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a fact?”
Oh dear. That came out a bit more suggestive than she’d intended. Thrusting her casserole dish at him, she said, “I hope you like chicken divan.”
“I sure do,” he said. “And it looks like I’ll be eating a lot of it. Come on in and visit for a spell.”
Mavis stamped her feet on the mat while Brewster offered to take her coat. She smelled sawdust and noticed that most of the furniture was shrouded with sheets.
“I hope I haven’t caught you in the middle of your work,” she said, shrugging out of her coat. “I can only stay for just a—”
“Brew,” said a familiar voice coming from the depths of the house. “Who’s at the door?”
“It’s Mavis, Birdie,” Brew replied, hanging Mavis’s coat on a hook in the hall. “Aren’t the two of you friends?”
Birdie appeared in the hallway, wearing a new red dress with a daring slit up the side. She startled when she saw Mavis.
“Yes,” Mavis said, forcing her lips into a smile. “We’re the best of friends.”
“I thought so,” Brew said. “And what a fine coincidence. Birdie just dropped by with her own delicious dish of chicken divan.”
Using my family recipe, Mavis thought. She and Birdie often swapped recipes, and the chicken divan had come directly from Mavis’s collection.
Birdie’s eyes fell on Mavis’s enhanced bustline.
“You’re looking very robust today,” Birdie said, putting her emphasis on the second syllable.
“I’ll say,” Brewster said, eyeing Mavis with appreciation.
“Thank you,” Mavis said with a blush.
“I guess I should dash off,” Birdie said. She turned to Brew.
“I hope you enjoy the casserole. And if you need to reheat the yeast rolls, put the oven on 375.”
Mavis nearly gasped aloud. Birdie’s homemade yeast rolls? There were none better.
“And if you don’t eat all the blueberry cobbler, it freezes nicely,” Birdie added.
Cobbler, was it? Birdie had certainly outdone Mavis’s meager offerings.
“Don’t let me run you off, Birdie,” Mavis said. “I’m the one who needs to be going. I’ve left Attalee alone in the store.”
“Are you sure either of you have to leave?” Brew asked. “I like some company while I eat.”
“I guess I could stay a little while, Brew,” Birdie interjected. “Sorry you have to run off, Mavis. May I see you out?”
Triumph shone in Birdie’s eyes. Apparently she thought the battle was over before it even had begun.
“Not necessary,” Mavis said, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “I’ll just be on my way.”
Ten
I can resist everything except temptation.
~ Message in the Methodist Church bulletin
Mrs. Tobias ascended the steps to the Cayboo Creek Library, which was housed in a white Craftsman cottage with squatty stone pillars and a generous wraparound porch. As she opened the door, she inhaled the smell of a familiar blend of dried paste, old wood, and heated air from the elderly boiler.
Miss Goodbee, the seventy-five-year-old librarian, teetered on a stepladder, shelving books. She glanced toward the entrance when she heard the thud of the door.
“How do, Mrs. Tobias?” she said. “It’s a mite nippish out there.” Miss Goodbee’s gray eyes looked perpetually surprised, as they swam beneath the thick lenses of her eyeglasses.
“I like the crisp air. It’s revitalizing,” Mrs. Tobias said, folding her sheared beaver coat over her arm. The librarian stood on tiptoe, revealing two inches of her lace slip.
&nb
sp; “Miss Goodbee, your cotton is low,” Mrs. Tobias whispered.
“What’s that?” Miss Goodbee said, adjusting the knob on her hearing aid.
“Your slip,” Mrs. Tobias said, stepping toward her. “It’s showing.”
“Gracious me.” Miss Goodbee tugged her beige pleated skirt down over her knees and alighted from the ladder. “You came on a good day. I just got a shipment of new books in.”
Mrs. Tobias browsed the new-arrival shelf, lined with the usual offerings of foil-covered romances and cozy mysteries. Today she was in the mood for something a bit more weighty.
“Maybe I should stick with my old standby.”
“You’re in luck,” Mrs. Goodbee said. “To Kill a Mockingbird was returned this morning. I’ve already reshelved it.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Tobias said, heading for the L-M shelf. Once she located the novel, she wandered into the sunny alcove, which served as a reading nook. Settling into a leather wing-backed chair, she positioned the book on her lap and thumbed through it trying to remember where she’d left off. Once she located her place, a folded piece of lined notebook paper drifted from the pages. She opened it to discover a handwritten poem.
Your dark brown eyes. Your cute little nose. You’re real special to me, and I hope that it shows.
When you tear through the yard, or play with your ball.
I cherished those times most of all.
Hap, dear Hap, you’re quite a chap, and your papa misses your snore.
Come back, dear Hap. There won’t be a flap.
Your papa will wait by the door.
How quaint, Mrs. Tobias thought, smiling at the awkwardly conceived verse. She wondered about its author and whether or not he was looking for his misplaced poem. Mrs. Tobias shook the book to see if anything else might be contained in its pages and a library receipt floated to her lap. She slipped on her reading glasses and looked at the name.
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