Blessings of Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  I turned and stared blindly out a window at the town square. People walked around as if nothing had happened, as if tomorrow wouldn’t be the blackest day of the year.

  What was I going to do?

  I turned to Muriel. “You can order flowers, can’t you?”

  “Mrs. Townsend does all the wholesale ordering for the shop…” Her gaze cut to the computer. “But I know where she orders them from.”

  “Get on the phone. Please. I can’t let this happen to Josie.”

  “I… white roses are a specialty item. We get them from warehouses down in Atlanta. It could take several days.”

  “Surely they can arrange for overnight delivery. If not, I’ll drive down there myself and pick them up.”

  Muriel stepped over to the keyboard. “I’ll ask.”

  By six o’clock that evening, we’d talked to every floral warehouse in a two hundred mile radius. No one could promise us even a dozen white roses before Monday. It was a weekend in June, the month of weddings, and they were all ordered out.

  Every floral avenue exhausted, I staggered back onto the sidewalk. The bright spring sun shed no light on my dark dilemma.

  Where could I possibly get white roses in the next eighteen hours?

  I wandered around the town square, desperate for a solution. Shop owners nodded to me as they waved away their last customers or rolled up the sidewalks. Most shops in Mossy Creek closed at 6 p.m., with the exception of the theater and café. Anna Rose Lavender and Beau Belmont were auditioning locals for the summer musical season.

  I’d never felt so alone, even at the top of Mount Colchik.

  Although…

  Why was I surprised? Every one of us was alone, ultimately. No matter how much Josie talked about Creekites standing by each other through thick and thin, the people of Mossy Creek weren’t any different from people in big cities. Everyone looked out for themselves.

  My gaze fell on a bed of begonias at the corner of cross pathways leading to the bandstand in the middle of the square. I’d seen Eleanor Abercrombie and her husband, Zeke, tending the bed earlier in the week, their backs curved by years of bending over flowers.

  In my desperation, I was sorely tempted to steal them. But I couldn’t, not even for Josie’s wedding. Begonias wouldn’t do, anyway. They were a shy little flower. Eleanor Abercrombie was famous for her roses. Why couldn’t she have planted some on the square?

  Suddenly I straightened, my head swinging west. The Abercrombies might not grow roses on the square, but I knew where they did. Eleanor Abercrombie thought the world of Josie. Surely she wouldn’t let Josie’s wedding be ruined, even to win the Bigelow County Garden Contest.

  I headed toward Spruce Street, praying to the God I didn’t believe in that Josie was wrong… that Mrs. Abercrombie’s Silver Passions could be purchased. I would offer my entire bank account to find out.

  I never got the chance. Mrs. Abercrombie wasn’t home. I banged on both her front and back doors, but the only answer was silence.

  Standing on the bottom step leading up to her back porch, I glanced around at the wealth adorning her backyard. Rose bushes lined the whitewashed wooden fence, laden with blossoms in nearly every hue of the rainbow.

  Where had Mrs. Abercrombie gone? And would she be gone long enough for me to do the unthinkable —

  “Hey! You there!”

  I turned to see Mrs. Abercrombie’s next-door neighbor, Clevine Wallace, making her way slowly around the side of the house. Mrs. Wallace was eighty if she was a day, with arthritis so bad she walked with two canes.

  “What are you up to, young man?”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wallace. Do you perhaps know where Mrs. Abercrombie is, and what time she’ll be home?”

  “Who’s that?” Mrs. Wallace came several steps closer, then paused to push her glasses up on her nose. “Why, you’re the young man Josie McClure’s gonna get married to tomorry, ain’t you?”

  “Harold Rutherford, ma’am. About Mrs. Abercrombie…”

  Mrs. Wallace shook her head. “Eleanor and Zeke won’t be home until tomorry morning. Had an emergency with their daughter, Nancy, over in Yonder.”

  “Tomorrow? What about the garden contest?”

  “Oh, they’ll be back for that, don’t you fret. Eleanor’ll rush home tomorry just in time to do some last minute trimming, I expect. She’s got to beat Geraldine Matthews, ya know.”

  I explained what had happened. “As you can see, it’s imperative I talk to Mrs. Abercrombie. Do you have a phone number for her daughter?”

  Mrs. Wallace shook her head. “That’s a gawl-dern shame, that’s what it is. Imagine Eugenia acting like that. Holdin’ a grudge for twenty years. Even by Creekite standards, that’s something. Why, nobody in town’ll give her any business now.”

  “A phone number?”

  Mrs. Wallace peered at me closely. “You ain’t thinking you’re gonna get Eleanor’s roses, are ya?”

  “I’m desperate. Josie is going to be heartbroken when she finds out that she won’t have any flowers for her wedding. Not even a bouquet.”

  Mrs. Wallace shook her head. “Eleanor might cut you some on Sunday, after the contest, but not before.”

  “Sunday’s too late, and she has hundreds of flowers. How many does she need for the contest?”

  “Every single one. The judging’s on the entire garden, not just one flower.”

  “What about other rose bushes in Mossy Creek? Surely the other ladies in the Mossy Creek Garden Club can spare some roses from their gardens.”

  Mrs. Wallace’s face brightened, then fell. “That’s true, son, but most of ’em donated their roses to the high school prom last Saturday. You might find a few buds, but that’s about all.”

  I glanced at my watch. I had an hour before I had to be at the rehearsal. “Please give me the phone number of Eleanor’s daughter, Mrs. Wallace. I can’t give up.”

  “I could, I reckon, but it won’t do you no good. Eleanor, Nancy, and Zeke are all heading to Nancy’s in-laws, ’cause Nancy’s mother-in-law’s sick. Eleanor and Zeke got to take care of the grandkids while Nancy takes care of her mother-in-law.”

  I felt hope recede. Still, I had to try. “Please. Maybe I can catch them before they leave Nancy’s house in Yonder.”

  Mrs. Wallace pursed her lips all the way back to her house next door. She looked up Eleanor’s daughter’s number in her address book and let me call from her phone.

  She was right. There was no answer. I left a plaintive message, begging Mrs. Abercrombie to call me as soon as she could. But in my heart, I knew it would do no good.

  Back on the sidewalk, I paused in the fading sunlight for one last look at Mrs. Abercrombie’s roses. I could come back late that night and steal them, but that would be despicable. Plus the whole town would know who did it. Even if Mrs. Wallace didn’t tell, people would recognize the flowers. It would be just as hard on Josie to have her husband in jail as to face a church with no flowers.

  No flowers. Josie was going to be devastated. From what I’d seen, her idol, Martha Stewart’s, entire decorating premise centered around flowers. Sure, we could use other kinds of flowers in the wedding, but Josie had her heart set on roses.

  I wanted to rail at every rose-stripped Creekite garden I passed on the way back to my truck. How could all those rose bushes let Josie down like this?

  That night at the rehearsal, I put off telling Josie as long as possible. There was nothing she could do about it, anyway. I’d tried everything short of…

  Short of scouring the mountains for old farmstead roses that had gone wild. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought about that sooner? Hardy, old-fashioned roses that had survived on their own weren’t as showy as the modern hybrids, but at least they were roses.

  I spent the entire night wandering the dark mountains in search of roses, without even a sliver of a moon to help. I knew where several bushes were from my years wandering the mountains, and I found a few more after the sun came up. />
  The wedding was slated to start at one, so I was forced to start back down the mountain with my sack full of roses just after ten. My arms, face and back were covered with gashes. Wild roses don’t give up their beauty willingly.

  Exhausted from stress, the sleepless night and exercise, I thought I was imagining things when I heard voices. When I rounded the next bend, I stopped dead. Two women were walking just ahead carrying sacks laden with wild roses.

  I shook my head. Was I hallucinating? “Hello there.”

  They smiled and greeted me. I’d met them before, but not at Josie’s church. Mossy Creek Garden Club members. Peggy Caldwell and Mimsy Allen. Only Mimsy was a true Creekite. Peggy had moved to Mossy Creek just a couple of years ago.

  “Shouldn’t you be at home taking a shower and getting dressed?” Peggy asked.

  “I’m going now, but first I have to take these roses by the church. You see, Eugenia Townsend at Mossy Creek Flowers and Gifts didn’t —”

  “Didn’t order Josie’s flowers,” Mimsy finished. “We know.”

  “You do?”

  “The whole town knows,” Peggy said. “What do you think we’re doing up here on a Saturday morning?”

  I was stunned. “You came all the way up here to pick roses for Josie?”

  “Of course we did.” Mimsy sniffed as if insulted. “You don’t think we’d let Josie get married without roses, do you? Why, Eleanor’s grooming her as a future member of the Mossy Creek Garden Club.”

  “I…” I could hardly believe it. “Thank you.”

  “Are you headed down to town, now?” Mimsy asked.

  “Yes. I need to get these to the church so I can pick up my tux.”

  Mimsy grabbed Peggy’s sack, poured her flowers into it then handed it to me. “Take your sack and ours down to Ed Brady’s truck, will you? We’ve got a few more bushes to strip.”

  “You mean . . . Mr. Brady’s here? Are there any others?”

  “Well of course,” Mimsy said. “Half the town. The other half’s at the church, arranging the flowers we’re shipping in by special delivery, courtesy of some connections Mayor Walker has with an out-of-state grower. But don’t worry. We’ll make it to the church on time. Just see that you do.”

  My astonishment must’ve been plain, because Peggy placed a warm hand on my arm. “Don’t you understand? You’re not alone up here, Dr. Rutherford. Creekites care about each other, and take care of each other. I had a hard time grasping that fact, too, when I first came to town. But you’re a Creekite now. Might as well get used to it.”

  “I . . . I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You got that right,” Mimsy chirped. She pushed me on down the trail. “So get on down the mountain with your load. Put your sacks in the back of Ed’s truck. He’ll see they get to the church. You go get a hot shower. You look like you need one.”

  * * * *

  By noon, I was at the church. I walked in and stopped dead in my tracks. There were probably thirty people scattered about the sanctuary, arranging roses on the altar, in vases along the pulpit, on the ends of pews.

  I walked down the aisle in wonder. As I passed, the workers greeted me casually, as if this kind of thing happened every day. Halfway down, I realized that the roses arranged in cascades across the pulpit were special.

  “You look right handsome in your tux, young man.”

  I turned to face Eleanor Abercrombie. “Your roses.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “The contest…”

  “Happens every year. Josie will get married only once.” Her pale blue eyes narrowed. “You see to that.”

  “How much do I owe —”

  “Don’t insult me, young man.”

  I took her hands in mine. “Thank you for doing this for Josie. It means so much… to both of us.”

  “You’re most welcome, Harry Rutherford. From the bottom of all of our hearts. And just so you know, I didn’t do this for Josie. Well, all right, I did it because I love her, but I also did it to uphold the town’s honor.” Her sun-weathered face beamed up at me. “Don’t judge Mossy Creek because of Eugenia Townsend. Just because one bush has root rot doesn’t mean the whole garden needs digging up.”

  I kissed her cheek. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “No need to.” She pulled back and reached down into a pew. “Like I said, you’re handsome in your tux, but it needs one more thing.”

  She straightened and pinned one of her Silver Passions on my lapel. “This isn’t the best one. I used that in Josie’s bouquet.”

  “Mrs. Abercrombie, are you sure you want to pin one of your prize roses on me? I have to confess. . .yesterday I thought about stealing them.”

  She chortled. “Why, I’m flattered.” Then she patted my chest. “They’re exactly where I want them to be. You’re one of us now. When you need help, all you have to do is ask.”

  All I had to do was ask, and a whole town would come to my rescue. Even though I’d earned a second masters degree in quantum mathematics, I couldn’t begin to count those kinds of blessings. They were infinite.

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume IV, No. 1 • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  The Bell Ringer

  McClure-Rutherford Wedding Filled with Surprises

  by Katie Bell

  The wedding of Josie McClure and Dr. Harold (Harry) Rutherford took place on Saturday afternoon in the sanctuary of the Mossy Creek Presbyterian Church amid a sea of roses and silver candles.

  Josie’s father, John McClure, gave the bride away.

  The bride wore a white satin off-the-shoulder gown embroidered with seed pearls and a matching white, pearl-encrusted cap trailing a wedding veil loaned by the matron of honor, Jayne Reynolds. Josie’s mother wore a pink knee-length dress.

  The groom and the father of the bride wore black tuxedos.

  The reception, a gift from Win Allen, aka Chef Bubba Rice, was held in the Sunday School rooms in the church basement. Chef Bubba provided the traditional refreshments which included his special punch, finger sandwiches, cheese straws, fresh fruit dips, nuts and wedding cookies. The groom’s cake was appropriately shaped as a chocolate log, a tribute to Harry’s profession as a professor of environmental botany. The wedding cake was four tiers high and decorated with wild roses, whose scent filled the hall. Since the groom’s nickname is Bigfoot, Chef Bubba also provided a size twenty-two chocolate shoe, filled with marzipan roses. Harry laughed and said that it was the first time anyone had ever made a tribute to the size of his feet.

  Joe Biddly’s string quartet surprised the happy couple at the reception. Joe serenaded Harry and Josie with two, shall we say, untraditional choices of music: Are You Ready To Go Now, originally recorded by The Chuck Wagon Gang — I think — and There’s Gonna Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. I think it’s fair to say those songs were truly unexpected by the wedding couple and everyone else in attendance.

  WMOS Radio

  “The Voice of the Creek”

  Good morning, Mossy Creek! This is Bert Lyman, WMOS FM, bringing you, as we in journalism like to say, ‘all the news that’s fit to print and some that isn’t.’ Even if this is radio.

  First, our own Katie Bell is still out of town at the newspaper awards luncheon in New York. I’m finding it hard to believe that the gossip columnist from our little Mossy Creek Gazette was nominated for a major award. Others might think being a finalist in the Quaint Weekly Newspaper Columnist category is a put-down, but Katie will be the first to tell you that she’d rather be quaint than overlooked, as if anybody could ever overlook Katie.

  We’d like to overlook the weather today. We’ve had a week of rain. Sagan Salter, that would be Doctor Salter, our anthropologist and resident Cherokee cultural expert, says it’s the wog; that’s the animal responsible for punishing those who aren’t true to their past. The wog is calling the rain spirits to deliver the Cherokees back to the land beneath where they lived before
they came to the surface and became ‘the people.’

  At any rate, the rain is behaving peculiarly. It drowns the mountains and farmland to the north of Mossy Creek but skips over the farms between Mossy Creek and Bigelow to the south. Chief Royden rescued a couple of hikers (we’re on the Appalachian Trail, you know) who nearly got washed away by Mossy Creek yesterday. But the leaves are changing beautifully and the roadside stands are full of bright red Sweet Hope apples from the orchards up at Bailey Mill, so tourists are heading our way like pilgrims on a sacred march. They know our reputation for hospitality. There was a time when apples and moonshine were Mossy Creek’s number one exports.

  The Bereavement Report would normally be omitted this morning, for the only passing we have to report is that of Willis, Officer Sandy Crane’s mascot at the police station. To all of us who knew him, that old gray tomcat was a lot more human than most folks. He was the only animal in Mossy Creek on speaking terms with Bob, Ingrid Beechum’s Chihuahua. You could set your watch by Willis heading for O’ Day’s Pub every afternoon. He knew exactly when it was time for Sandy to drop by for a tonic water and a few minutes of Oprah on the bar TV. Willis never missed his lap time. If Oprah had asked Willis if life was working for him, all she’d have gotten was a satisfied purr. A cat doesn’t need many blessings to be happy.

  Since we’re talking about passing over, Ezekiel Straley, owner of the Mossy Creek Funeral Parlor, says his chapel is open to any of our autumn guests who might like to tour the facility and burial grounds with the thought of joining us in eternity.

  I’m pleased to report that the gossip about trouble between Ezekiel and Argelia Rodriguez, our local dance instructor, has been highly exaggerated. Chief Royden has been called in twice to intervene, but I don’t have any other details. At least none I can report without getting in hot water with Katie Bell. She’s been working this story for months. So she’ll fill you in when she gets back from New York City.