He’d aged terribly in one week. She was lucky now to have thirty minutes a day where his mind could track a straight line and he’d be able and willing to answer questions or review pages.
“Want to know how it started, Leigh?”
“She told me. You met over the sock bins at the outlet mall.”
“I’d almost forgotten that! Excellent socks, by the way. No, I meant the seduction. And let’s be clear about who seduced whom. She is not a gold digger. One night I was listening to music. Sinatra, ‘Fly Me to the Moon.’ Geneva was clearing out the dinner dishes and she said how that song always made her wish she could dance. Two years ago I wasn’t like this, Leigh.” He swore and kicked the cane away.
She picked it up and put it by his chair. “So you got up and taught her how to dance. Smooth move, Terry.”
“It wasn’t a ‘move’ because I didn’t intend anything to happen, but once she was in my arms… Stop it, Leigh. I don’t like being laughed at by someone young enough to be my child.”
“Really? Yet you have no scruples about bonking someone who could be your granddaughter.”
“I’m not the first person in the world to hunger for love, Leigh, I’ll tell you that. What’s your heart’s desire? I’ve shared mine, so play fair.”
“You’ve pretty much made it happen, Terry.”
His eyes cleared and focused, and he tilted his head and studied her. “Daughter under your roof, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Is the longing quelled? Desire sated?”
“No, it’s all much worse. Now I want more of her. More of what she’s thinking, her confidences, everything. We have moments, but then a wall goes up. She remembers she hates me and I remember…much more and then I feel unworthy.”
His head dropped. He’d drifted away again. Finally he said, “Geneva’s not coming back.”
“Another week, Terry. I talked with her today, and that’s what she said.”
“She told me the same thing. She said that she’s enjoying being with her mother for the first time in years and she wants to stay there while that lasts. Well I’m not enjoying it, and I’m sure as hell not enjoying taking orders from that Nazi replacement you found.”
“I’m sorry she hasn’t worked out. Maybe it’s time you call your kids, Terry. I’m happy to help, but there are some issues I just don’t feel I should be deciding.”
“I called ’em. Dana’s coming. Friday.”
“Good. Thank you. I’ll call the employment agency again and see who else they have.”
“She’s not coming back,” he whispered. “She knows it and she can’t tell me. How wonderful it was to hold a beautiful woman in my arms again.”
Leigh picked up the Instamatic photo of the three friends in India. “Geneva looks like Sylvia’s modern twin.”
“You’re the first to say that. I sure don’t see it. Rob and Sylvia have met her, and they certainly never mentioned a resemblance. Before Sylvia had the first stoke they’d come down for lunch from time to time. Their daughter would drive them. Oh, what fun those lunches were. The girls would get busy in the kitchen, Sylvia and Geneva laughing away.”
“Same lovely brown hair, Terry. Same bedroom eyes, same knock-out body. Did sleeping with one quell the longing for the other?”
“You know the answer, Leigh.”
“Now you want more. Now there are two women you think about.”
A brown-spotted hand rose and carved out the shape of the oak tree. Terry nodded. “Morning, noon, and night.”
2.
“You can’t be serious, Mom.”
Leigh studied her daughter. She was, in fact, dead serious. She had no plans and certainly no desire to go to the Little Girl parade, the opening night event of the four day convention, but her answer to Emily’s abrupt invitation—Comin’?—was clearly not the right one.
Emily waited, blue eyes darkening to indigo as they heated with accusation. Leigh lowered the lid of her laptop. “I guess it’s been a long time since we’ve gone to a parade together.”
“If ever.”
“I’d happily give up an evening of work, if I thought you’d stick with me and not run off on some Little Girl errand or convention assignment. Not that I’m complaining about how much time you’ve been spending with them.”
“You are complaining and you shouldn’t. It’s not like you’ve made time for me. Forget it, don’t bother.”
Leigh grabbed her jean jacket and checked its pockets for keys and wallet. “Let’s go.”
*
Leigh had grown up in a small town and had been to plenty of parades. For the first five minutes, this one looked like all the others she’d ever attended, from the volunteer fire department truck clearing a path on Main Street to the tiny summertime contingent of a high school marching band that followed right behind. Just as the solitary bass drummer shuffled by, a wind gust yanked loose one end of a banner (“Welcome Little Girls!”) that had been strung across the street between light posts. Two teenaged boys immediately grabbed the free end and pulled until the entire banner came loose. They raced away, gathering the cloth in their hands as they ran. The boys and their prize disappeared around a corner amid much booing and shouting from the crowd.
Emily leaned over. “That’s for sure going up in someone’s bedroom tonight,” she whispered. Leigh nodded, unsnapped her jacket and sighed happily as Emily’s arm slipped through hers.
It was there for only a moment. A wave of applause grew louder, and Emily pulled away to join in. Leigh peered down the street. One by one, a line of very old cars approached.
Peach and Petra were in the first one, sitting atop the backseat of an ancient convertible. They waved and tossed candy.
Petra had gone period. She wore a white shirt with a high collar and a fitted, long skirt. She saw Leigh and waved vigorously.
Nice hair, Leigh thought as she waved back. Great color.
Peach was in one of her lilac dresses. She tamped down its billows with one hand as she tossed candy with the other.
There was a large sign on the car’s side door:
Petra Sinclair, Grand Marshall
1911 Torpedo Courtesy Dolly’s Vintage Fords
Peach apparently needed no signage.
The cheering and applause was continuous and loud, and then louder still when their driver, another of Pepin’s male teens, honked the anemic car horn.
“Cute kid,” said Leigh.
“Cute?” Emily
“What do you want your mother to say—he’s hot?”
The horn tooted again, and Emily waved at the driver. He saluted with an arm wrapped to the elbow in a blue cast, then pulled antique goggles down over his eyes and braced his arms on the wheel. The car sped away. Emily laughed.
“Do you know him?” Leigh asked. Her daughter shrugged. “You do know him.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ve been here less than two weeks, Marti and Peach have been keeping you busy getting ready for this madness, and still you manage to…”
Something in the set of Emily’s jaw silenced her. Manage to consort with the local males, Leigh finished silently. So this was a pattern with her daughter.
Emily said, “It’s not like I’m a slut or anything.”
“I didn’t say that. And I wasn’t thinking it, either.”
Emily leaned out and looked for the next of the old cars. It had stalled and the driver was out front, looking under the hood. “For your information,” she said, “that was Peach’s son.”
Leigh caught her breath. What had Marti called the boy? “Turnbull?” she blurted.
Emily hushed her. “No one calls him that except his parents and their friends. He goes by Joe.”
The second car had finally restarted and it crawled forward.
Joan’s Salon and Oxygen Bar
Dolly’s Vintage Fords had provided this one too, a 1920 Touring car.
“Hey!” Leigh said, and waved to the women in the in the car w
ho were shouting her name. “You see,” she said to Emily, “I know people too.”
“Those are crazy up-does they’re wearing.”
“Pompadours,” Leigh corrected her. Like Petra, Joan and crew had all gone period. The women suddenly clasped hands to their hair as the car lurched and sped to close the gap with the first car and unplug the bottleneck that had formed behind.
Two more vintage cars carrying local officials passed to mild cheers and whistles. Then a roar swelled down Main Street.
A platoon of costumed marchers approached to the beat of music blaring from an old boombox carried by a woman who walked along the edge of the street. Each of the marchers wore only purple Chucks, shorts and tops in the lilac-to-purple spectrum, and a paper mache, yard-long canoe that was suspended from shoulders by wide straps. Real canoe paddles rested across the fake canoes
Dee was in the front row of marchers. The music suddenly stopped. Then Dee shouted “1, 2, 3, Hey!” and the three rows of canoe-clad women began an intricate, precise marching pattern that involved equally precise maneuvers with the paddles.
After the drill, the music started up again and the paddlers resumed plain old marching to loud cheers.
Leigh said, “Are there canoes in the Little Girl books?”
A woman sitting on the curb right in front of her twisted around. “Big River Autumn,” she said as the women on either side of her nodded. “Chapter 4. The three girls make a dugout and paddle to the island.”
Leigh was able to stifle her laugh. She cleared her throat and said, “Thank you.”
“Holy crap, Mom,” Emily whispered.
Leigh whispered back, “I was polite. And watch your language.”
“Not what I meant.” She pointed.
Leigh looked. “Holy crap is right,” she murmured.
A dozen women tap-danced down the street, keeping time as best they could to the music playing on another boombox.
Leigh reached to tap the shoulder of the Little Girl expert on the curb, but caught herself and turned to her left. A man, thank god. A middle aged man with sideburns and a Harley T-shirt. “Don’t you think,” she whispered, “that tap dancers might be an anachronism? I mean, had tap dancing even been invented way back then?”
He shrugged and lifted a brown bag to his lips. After the drink had gone down he said, “Hell if I know, but my wife sure loves it.” He pointed. “Short one in the back row. They do this every convention. Go Rhonda!”
Rhonda tapped away, her brow furrowed as she counted out the steps. The dancers weren’t as precise as the canoe marchers but the spectators along the street didn’t care, and they cheered and whistled, the noise increasing to a viral frenzy when a plump dancer in pink in the front row suddenly shrieked and stuffed a breast back down into her costume without missing a step.
Leigh reached an arm around her daughter and pulled her into a hug. She kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for making me come,” she said. “This is the best parade ever.”
3.
Leigh didn’t think she’d held her daughter’s hand in over ten years, so as Emily pushed a path through the crowd that had gathered on the Methodist Church lawn after the parade, she simply smiled and let herself be led. “Where are we going?” she asked and then added, “That ice cream they’re serving looks good.”
“Your books arrived today at the convention gift shop. I thought you’d want to see them.”
“My books?’
Emily bit her lip. “The book on the cottage that Peach put together. I unpacked a couple of boxes and got a look. It turned out really well, considering how quickly it was done. Come on—the gift shop’s in the church basement.”
Why not, Leigh thought. Maybe that’s where the real artifacts were being displayed. Maybe she’d finally see the little outcast’s library card application. Maybe she’d get some ice cream.
The inside of the church was just as crowded as the lawn. Several Little Girls waited patiently in line for one of three cashiers to call “Next” while others were examining merchandise.
“Let’s go this way,” Leigh said, tugging on Emily and pulling her toward the far end of the large room. “There aren’t so many people. Let’s see what’s down there.”
Emily glanced around.
“Are you looking for someone?”
“I promised…I promised I’d help with clean-up.”
“You’re going to desert me?”
Emily straightened. “No.”
Not yet, anyway, Leigh thought. “Go find who you’re looking for, but please don’t leave me alone for long.”
The tables at the far end of the room were arranged in a large U and were lined with women. One turned and walked away, and in the brief moment before the space was filled by another Little Girl, Leigh caught a glimpse of a high school yearbook propped up on a stand. The artifacts.
She rose on tiptoes to see over the shoulders of two women who were discussing a green cloche adorned with a fake red rose. There was a card next to the hat.
Ida May wore this to the Newbery luncheon when she accepted a silver medal for Little Girl Gone, her third silver. Always a bride’s maid!
Another woman departed and Leigh moved quickly this time, stepping in to fill the void just as the entire line of women moved one step to the left, the synchronization as perfect as if Dee were in the lead and shouting orders. Leigh wobbled as the body to her right pushed her against the one to her left. “Sorry” she murmured. Then, loudly: “Oh!”
The library card application was a small sheet of green paper. Like the other paper objects on the table, it was enclosed in a plastic bag. Leigh reached to pick it up, then stopped when she spotted a warning flyer on the table, one of several set in intervals along the length of the display. Please don’t touch the treasures!
Leigh leaned forward, hands behind her back. “Card number seven,” she said, noting the number in the upper right corner of the form. Ida May must have waited in line on opening day.
The girl’s printing was precise and firm, the black ink still bold.
Ida May Turnbull
708 River Court
So once upon a time the cottage had its own address, separate from the big house at 702. Jasper Bancroft might have been a cruel bastard, but at least he hadn’t made the two women share a mailbox.
The girl’s signature was on the bottom line and it was child’s version of the adult one on the notes and letters she’d sent to Bancroft years later. Leigh turned to comment on that to the woman on her right, then caught herself just in time. The woman smiled and patted her shoulder. “I know, I always get teary when I see it too. It’s my favorite thing here. Are you a librarian?”
Teary? Leigh blinked once, shook her head, and stepped away from the table. On cue, the entire line shifted.
She turned toward the crowded shopping area and spotted Emily smiling and talking to a few women waiting for open cashiers. Emily waved and beckoned her over.
“Here she is,” Emily said as Leigh approached.
Leigh slowed. What, exactly, had her daughter been telling these women?
One thrust a pen and a copy of The Cottage toward Leigh. “Please?” There was a general rustling as other women hunted for pens.
Leigh managed a smile. “Gosh,” she said, stretching out the word. “There’s really no reason I should autograph that book. I didn’t write it. I didn’t take the pictures.”
“But you live there!” The woman gave her pen and the book an impatient shake.
“I live there temporarily,” Leigh said. “And trust me—the only thing I did for the project was unlock the door and make my bed. That’s not worth an autograph.”
Someone said “She’s not signing!” and the announcement echoed its way around the room as Leigh headed toward the exit.
“Mom!” Emily halted Leigh’s departure with a firm hand. “Come on. Don’t rush away. You’ve made your point, they’ll leave you alone.”
“I doubt that. Anyway, I�
��ve seen what I wanted to see. You stay, if you’ve promised to help or are meeting someone.”
Emily glanced around again.
“Or is Joe not here yet?”
An obvious struggle went on in her daughter’s face. She said, “Do you want to meet him if I can find him?”
“I do.”
“Then wait here,” Emily said and hurried away.
“Not for too long,” Leigh shouted. Women paused and stared, then resumed pawing merchandise.
There was a lot of Little Girl merchandise. Postcards and dolls and lunch boxes and board games and DVDs and jump ropes and cellphones and dishes and towels and more. One table was stacked with T-shirts and dresses. Women were snapping up the shirts, while others held dresses against their daughters to guess sizes.
Leigh picked up a plastic bowl that had a picture of three girls on it. “TV, not Seville,” she murmured and set it back down.
Books were relegated to one corner of the shopping area. Leigh wiggled between two women and picked up Big River Flood. Third in the series, according to the banner on the front.
She opened it to the first chapter.
The roaring began at midnight. Maud woke and looked out her window.
She was jostled from behind and set the book back down. She picked up a thin paperback from a different stack. Trapped in Ghost Cave! Small print under the title announced it as A Little Girl adventure starring Jed, Maud’s brother.
A spin-off. She opened this one to the first page.
“Let’s take a walk, Spot!” Jed called excitedly to his puppy. “I just know today will be special.”
Excitedly. Holy cow. Was writing stuff like that in her future? She slapped the book closed and set it down.
Roberta Garibaldi’s five novels were in stock and shared a table with some spin-offs. Little Girls filled their arms as a shop volunteer replenished the supply from boxes behind the table. Flyers announcing Garibaldi’s speech and autograph sessions flanked the books. Leigh started reading the short author bio on the flyer, got as far as “Pulitzer winner” and turned to work her way back out of the crowd.
The Cottage had its own table. One copy was opened for perusal; the others were shrink-wrapped and piled in tall stacks. “Good lord,” Leigh whispered as she flipped through the pages of the display copy. Emily was right: In a very short time Peach had put together an appealing book. And the genius photographer had certainly worked wonders with the bad lighting. She laid it down and then saluted the glossy volume, though she barely missed poking herself in the eye when she was suddenly pushed by several women reaching for copies. As she turned to get out of their way she spotted a smaller display of books and said, “Well, damn.”
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