“You’re just cynical these days,” Elizabeth said. Chiffon had separated from Lonnie, her wayward husband of fifteen years, and had been in the man-bashing mode for months. “Besides, it isn’t technically Timothy’s fault that we can’t find decent, affordable day care for Glenda. But I know he’s secretly pleased.”
“What? Are you thinking about going back to work?” Chiffon asked.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose as the manicurist swabbed at her nails with the acrid-smelling polish remover.
“I was. If I could find a good arrangement for Glenda.”
“I know what you mean,” Chiffon said. “I daycare-hopped for ages with Gabby. Nothing seemed right, and every place I liked kept raising their prices. I was lucky to find dear, sweet Mrs. Pirkle. She loves kids and doesn’t charge an arm and a leg.”
“Who’s Mrs. Pirkle?” Elizabeth asked.
“She’s the sweetest old lady you’ve ever met. Hey!” Chiffon snapped her fingers “She’s got an opening. Little Frankie Morgan’s family moved to Macon a week ago.”
“How many kids does she keep?”
“Just Gabby now. She won’t take on more than two. Ever since I found her, my child-care worries have been over. I’ve got Emily and Dewitt enrolled in an after-school program, and Gabby is in the loving arms of Mrs. Pirkle.”
“She sounds perfect.” Elizabeth yanked her hand away from the manicurist and stood. “I’ll call her right away.”
“What about your manicure?” Chiffon asked.
“I don’t want Mrs. Pirkle to fill her opening with another child.” She grabbed her coat from the chair and slipped into it. “What’s her number?”
“Good grief. I’m sure it will keep through your manicure, Elizabeth.” Chiffon studied her friend’s anxious face. “All right. You must be itching to go back to work. Her number’s 555-9991.”
“Thanks, Chiffon.” Elizabeth jotted it down on the back of a grocery receipt. “You may have saved my life. Sorry about the manicure.”
“It’s all right. Oh, wait a minute. I almost forgot.” Chiffon rummaged through her bag and handed Elizabeth a sealed white envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Emily’s birthday invitation. The party’s next Saturday.”
Elizabeth tucked the invitation into her purse. “It’s not another Mozzarella Monkey party, is it?”
“‘Fraid so,” Chiffon said with a sheepish grin. “And quit making that face. My house is too small to have a birthday party, and that hairy ape’s the only game in town. Wait until Glenda gets old enough for a kiddy party. Then you’ll see.”
When Elizabeth called Timothy and told him about Mrs. Pirkle, she could tell he wasn’t thrilled.
“Mrs. Pirkle? Who’s that? I’ve never heard of her,” he said.
“I know you haven’t, honey. I just spoke with her and she told me she’s new to Cayboo Creek. But I’m going to meet her today at four p.m. and—”
“I’m coming, too,” Timothy interrupted. “I’ll close the bait shop early.”
That afternoon, she and Timothy pulled up to Mrs. Pirkle’s white-brick ranch house in the Camellia Estates subdivision. After Timothy put the SUV into park, Elizabeth opened the backseat door to get her daughter.
Timothy stood in the front yard waiting for them. When they approached, he pointed to a small sign lodged in the soil.
“Look at this,” he said in a low voice. “This grass has been treated with chemicals. Read it. It says ‘hazardous to small children and pets.’”
“I see.” Elizabeth hoisted Glenda higher in her arms. “But I’m sure Mrs. Pirkle won’t let Glenda play in the front yard. If the children go outside at all, it will likely be in the back.”
“If she treats the front yard with chemicals, she probably treats the back,” Timothy said, sputtering like a motorboat. “This is a grave matter. What kind of person spreads pesticides all over her yard? Not the kind I want to have watching my child.”
“We’ll ask her about the yard, okay?” Elizabeth adjusted the strap of her diaper bag. “Let’s just go inside.”
They followed the pansy-lined fieldstone leading up to the house. Mrs. Pirkle was a collector of lawn ornaments. She had a kissing Dutch boy and girl, three ceramic geese, two stone bunnies, and a plastic gnome, all placed at various points in her yard. Her doormat featured a picture of a Boston terrier carrying a basket of flowers in its mouth.
“Kind of cutesy, isn’t it?” Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at her husband.
“Extremely deceptive considering her yard is a toxic-waste dump.” Timothy’s hands were shoved into his pockets, and he was kicking at a collection of pebbles on the front step.
Elizabeth rang the doorbell. “Let’s not bring that up right out of the gate, okay?”
Timothy didn’t answer. He burrowed his neck into the collar of his jacket.
“Hello there,” said a musical voice as the front door flung open. The woman who answered had white hair, curled into tight springs. She wore a bright red sweatshirt that said “Nana is another word for love.”
“I’m Mrs. Pirkle,” she said. “And you must be the Hollingsworths.” Mrs. Pirkle was portly, but in a pleasant, grandmotherly way. The smell of freshly baked peanut-butter cookies drifted out into the cold afternoon.
“Come on in. It’s much too nippy out today,” she said, beckoning them inside. The pair advanced into a cozy living room with blond wood paneling and periwinkle drapes tied back with pink satin ribbons. Mrs. Pirkle squealed when Elizabeth pulled Glenda’s knitted cap from her head.
“Look at this wee one. What a picture! May I?” she said, holding out her arms.
Glenda bicycled her legs as Elizabeth handed her to Mrs. Pirkle. Mrs. Pirkle pointed to a curved-back sofa with a multicolored afghan draped across the cushions.
“Make yourself comfortable on the davenport,” she said. “Oh, the dear wee one has a runny nose. Let me get a tissue.” She indicated a plate on a glass coffee table. “Also, please help yourself to a cookie. They’re hot out of the oven.”
As Mrs. Pirkle ambled down the hall with Glenda in her arms, Elizabeth turned to Timothy to give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. He didn’t see her; he was too busy peering at something behind the couch.
“What are you doing?” Elizabeth whispered.
“Checking to see if her electrical outlets are covered.”
“And?”
“They are. In this room.”
“All better,” Mrs. Pirkle said, returning to the room with a babbling Glenda.
The rocking chair across from the couch squeaked as Mrs. Pirkle arranged her plump frame on its wooden bottom. Glenda was perched on her lap, staring up at her with large, quizzical eyes the size and color of robins’ eggs.
“I’m sure you have a million questions for me,” Mrs. Pirkle said. “On the lamp table there is a typed summary of my background, along with a host of references. But to give you a short overview, I worked as an RN in a hospital nursery for fifteen years. I also have a master’s degree in child development, but I think my most important qualification is that I just love little children.” She nuzzled Glenda’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, wee one?”
Glenda let out a joyful gurgle in response.
Elizabeth picked up Mrs. Pirkle’s resume and read it.
“This is so impressive. Look, honey.”
She handed the paper to Timothy, who gave it a cursory glance.
“I know you’ll want a tour of the house,” Mrs. Pirkle continued. “I keep two brand-new cribs in my guest room, so there’s no need to bring a porta-crib. I also have two high chairs in my kitchen, and I—Mr. Hollingsworth, you look like you have a question?”
Timothy stood up and cleared his throat. “You’re painting a very pretty picture, Mrs. Pirkle,” he said, with an accusatory voice, “but how do you
explain the deadly poisons in your front yard?”
“Timothy!” Elizabeth flew up from the couch.
“Poisons?” Mrs. Pirkle looked puzzled.
“Mrs. Pirkle,” Elizabeth began. “There was a sign in your front yard saying your grass had been treated with lawn chemicals, and Timothy was concerned—”
“As he should be,” Mrs. Pirkle said with just the right touch of outrage. “What kind of person puts pesticides on their yard when there are young children and unsuspecting animals in the neighborhood? I’m so sorry, Mr. Hollingsworth. That sign was left over from the previous occupants of this house. The ground’s been so hard this winter I haven’t been able to budge it from the yard. Regardless, your precious little daughter won’t be anywhere near that grass. I have a sunny playroom, filled with toys, where she can crawl.”
“See, honey,” Elizabeth said with a nervous grin. “Everything’s okay.”
“Mr. Hollingsworth,” Mrs. Pirkle said. “I can see you’re a diligent father, and I commend you for it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to put your mind at ease.”
They toured Mrs. Pirkle’s tidy, one-story house and Timothy scrutinized each room, using the childproofing checklist that he’d downloaded from the Internet. He poked his nose in her kitchen cabinets and looked under beds. But despite his thorough search for lurking dangers, thus far, Mrs. Pirkle’s house was above reproach. There were corner bumpers on the edges of the furniture and locks on all the toilets. Cleaning products and sharp objects were placed well out of reach of curious little hands.
Noting the furniture straps anchoring a dresser to the wall, Elizabeth elbowed Timothy. “This place is safer than ours,” she whispered.
Timothy ignored her and pointed to a white flowering plant on top of a television.
“Is this a lily of the valley?” he asked Mrs. Pirkle.
Mrs. Pirkle blinked behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “I do believe it is.”
“Did you also know it’s an extremely dangerous plant?” Timothy said with the self-righteous tone of a trial lawyer. “Eating its leaves or flowers can cause local irritation of the mouth and stomach, followed by vomiting, pain, and diarrhea. Mental confusion may also ensue.”
“How astute, Mr. Hollingsworth!” Mrs. Pirkle said. “If other fathers were as concerned as you, there’d be far fewer tragedies in the world.”
She turned the plant upside down and examined the bottom of the vase. “Fortunately this was made in China. Isn’t it amazing what they’re doing with plastic plants these days?”
Timothy didn’t even have the decency to blush and continued his arduous (and embarrassing) inspection of Mrs. Pirkle’s home. Finally, after he’d scrutinized every room as carefully as a police detective at a crime scene, he said, “I think I’ve seen enough.”
The couple made their way to the living room and stood near the door. Readying to leave, Elizabeth spoke.
“Mrs. Pirkle, I don’t think I could hope for a better care-taking situation, and I’m sure my husband agrees with me. So I think—”
“That we need to go home and mull this over,” Timothy interrupted as he took Glenda from Mrs. Pirkle’s arms. “Thank you for your time.”
“All right, Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth,” Mrs. Pirkle said. “Take care of the wee one for me, and I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Once they were outside, Elizabeth glared at her husband. “What could possibly be wrong? The price is right. Glenda already loves her. It’s an ideal situation.”
“Are you seriously thinking about leaving your child in that woman’s hands without running a criminal background check on her?” Timothy said, fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. “Who knows what kind of skeletons Mrs. Pirkle, if that’s her real name, has rattling around in her closet. She’s not even from Cayboo Creek. She could be Lizzie Borden’s great-aunt for all we know. I’ll stop by the sheriff’s office tomorrow morning and get the goods on her.”
“I think you’re being an alarmist.” Elizabeth sighed. “But okay, we’ll run the check. However, if she’s clean, we hire her. Agreed?”
Timothy toed the grass with his work boot. “Agreed,” he said. “But with extreme reservations. You didn’t think there was something kind of shifty about her?”
Elizabeth laughed. “She’s about as shifty as Mr. Rogers.” Then she cuffed his arm. “Come on, Timothy, everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”
Timothy shook his head. “I wish I were as optimistic as you.”
Sixteen
Five days a week my body is a temple.
The other two it’s an amusement park.
~ Graffiti in the ladies’ room of the Chat ‘N’ Chew
Mrs. Tobias stood in front of a painting of an oversized magnolia. “This would go well over my fireplace,” she remarked to Rusty. “I like the artist’s bold strokes.”
He pulled out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “Let me buy it for you.”
“Absolutely not. It’s much too much money.” Mrs. Tobias moved on to the next painting, a voluptuous nude reclining in a bathtub.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” Rusty asked. “They’ve got a jug in the back.”
“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Tobias said. She watched his muscular leather-garbed back disappear into the swarms of gallery-hoppers. It was First Friday in Augusta, a monthly event where the art studios downtown flung open their doors for the evening to serve wine and cheese.
Mrs. Tobias had never attended the event before, and she was having a pleasant time. Peddlers lined the sidewalks hawking clay bowls, silver jewelry, and crocheted handbags. Families maneuvered strollers through the crowds, trailing popcorn and helium balloons. Performers, their grease-painted faces gleaming like moons underneath the streetlights, sang songs or danced along the perimeters of the aging storefronts.
Despite her jovial mood, Mrs. Tobias was still plagued with concern about Rusty’s sexual orientation, and she couldn’t think of an acceptable way to broach the topic. If he admitted to being a homosexual, would she be able to hide her dismay? Or what if he was one of those fellows who lusted after both women and men? Could she continue to keep company with someone who might, at any moment, steal off with a bewhiskered stranger?
Rusty returned with a plastic cup filled with an overly sweet Chardonnay, and they finished viewing the rest of the paintings in the gallery.
“Let’s stroll a bit, shall we?” Rusty said.
“But I’ve not finished my wine,” Mrs. Tobias said.
“Take it with you.” Rusty grasped her hand. “Come on, it’s just a big street party.”
“All right,” Mrs. Tobias said. Well-bred ladies most definitely did not drink in the streets, but she was too distracted by the squeeze of Rusty’s big, warm hand to protest.
The night air was bracing, and Mrs. Tobias pulled up the collar of her beaver coat. A group of teenagers were prowling the streets, their open jackets flapping in the breeze like bat wings. Mrs. Tobias noticed one young man wearing a red wool hat with a University of Georgia logo.
“Are you a football fan?” Mrs. Tobias asked Rusty.
“Not particularly,” Rusty said. A spicy aroma drifted from a corner restaurant that twinkled with a string of jalapeño-shaped red lights.
“I could go for a burrito about now,” Rusty said, steering her toward the restaurant. “How about you?”
“Basketball? Or hockey?” Mrs. Tobias continued. “I understand Augusta has its own hockey team. Perhaps you attend some of the games?”
“Too violent for me. All that fighting.” Rusty gazed at the chalk menu posted on the wall. “The Baja burrito is tasty. It’s made with mahi-mahi and potatoes.”
“Baseball then?” Mrs. Tobias asked over the jerky rhythms of music that blared from a pair of speakers above their heads. “It is one of the more civilized sports.
”
“Not as civilized as figure skating,” Rusty said. “Now that’s a sport I actually like to watch.”
A young man, his head wrapped in a multicolored yarn turban, approached the counter. Thick, snakelike rolls of hair slithered out of his head covering. “Help you folks?” he asked.
“I’ll have the Baja and a margarita,” Rusty said. “Gracie?”
She hadn’t even bothered to look at the menu. Figure skating? The evidence was stacking up like planes over Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport. Her new beau was almost certainly gay.
“Perhaps a nice Cobb salad?” Mrs. Tobias said.
“I don’t see that on the menu,” Rusty said. “The nachos are fairly decent.”
“Nachos it is.” It didn’t matter what she ordered, since her appetite was waning.
They sat down at a high-top table in the back, waiting for their order. Rusty bounced his knee to the beat of the music and winked at her from across the table.
“You’re wearing a new outfit, aren’t you? It’s very flattering.”
That clinched it. Heterosexual men never noticed women’s new clothes. Harrison certainly never had. Mrs. Tobias searched Rusty’s face.
“It’s okay.” She paused. “I know.”
“You know what?” Rusty said, his forehead wrinkling.
“About your... preferences. And it’s fine. We can still be friends.” She reached across the table to stroke the back of his hand. “I do so enjoy your company.”
“I’m lost,” he said with a shrug.
“Figure skating. Antiquing. Quiche. It all adds up.”
“To a big old mystery. What are you talking about, Grade?”
Mrs. Tobias winced. “Look at your fingernails, Rusty.”
“What?”
“Indulge me. Just take a quick peek.”
“Okey doke.” Rusty curled his fingers and examined them. “Looks like I could use a sound scrubbing.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s not what I was expecting. I’m confused now.”
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