Claire reflected that a smarter candidate would have illustrated how her platform aligned with the mission of the IWS. Marigold, instead, was preaching to her small group of contemporaries, crowded together on her side in the first few rows. These were the values that were important to them; or at least the ones they paid lip service to. Claire spotted several among them who were known to be having affairs, or drank a bit too much, or had children who were always in trouble. Marigold herself had a son nicknamed Jumbo who was known to be a remorseless bully.
Marigold wound it up within her time limit, but only after Professor Dittmeyer reminded her she had one minute. After the professor interrupted, Marigold rolled her eyes and shook her head before she continued. Claire winced at the graceless gaff, but Marigold was too oblivious to be embarrassed for herself.
“When you cast your vote,” Marigold said, “remember the Rose Hill you lived in when you were a child. Vote for that Rose Hill, and despite how tarnished and faded it has become, I will do my best to restore that gem.”
Marigold’s cronies clapped for her with the most enthusiasm, while the rest of the crowd was much more polite.
After Marigold sat down, Professor Dittmeyer introduced Kay, who asked for Ed to come up and adjust the microphone for her. She then thanked him with a big, sincere smile that everyone could see, saying, “Thanks, Ed.”
“Thank you, ladies of IWS, for so graciously inviting me,” she said. “And thank you, Marigold, for agreeing to share a stage with me. We may not agree on many issues, but we both love Rose Hill, and that’s a great basis on which to build any platform.”
Through her strong voice and gracious demeanor, Kay displayed a calm confidence that thrilled Claire. She found herself rooting for her friend to annihilate Marigold, and then was appalled at how bloodthirsty the thought was.
Claire cast her critical eye over Kay’s appearance, and could not find fault. Upon her ample figure, Kay wore a flattering tunic-length, collarless dress jacket and pants in wheat-colored linen, with a simple strand of pearls and matching earrings. Claire had blow-dried her hair into a smooth bob, and her normally fly-away bangs had been tamed. Claire gave her multiple points for appearance. It seemed she had underestimated her friend in more than one regard.
“It’s easy to romanticize the Rose Hill of our childhoods by looking through the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia,” Kay said. “I, too, played outside every evening until the streetlights came on, and my parents didn’t worry about where I was. But I also remember the evening Elsie Fitzgerald drowned in Turtle Creek. I was there, as were some of you. We could have benefited from the supervision of some responsible grownups.
“It was a devastating loss for the Fitzgerald family, her friends, and the whole community. Elsie’s family lived out Possum Holler, in a very modest home, and she had many brothers and sisters. Her father had been laid off at the mine, and was making what little he could doing odd jobs for folks. Her mother had Lou Gehrig’s disease. They couldn’t afford a funeral, so the ladies of the IWS took care of it. They couldn’t afford a gravestone, so the ladies of the IWS took care of it. This wasn’t looked upon as shameful, condescending charity; it was just folks helping out a neighbor in need.
“When Elsie’s mother got so she couldn’t look after her children or her home, the ladies of the IWS stepped in and formed what would now be called a task force. Back then it was called folks helping out a neighbor in need. The ladies of the IWS have always understood that bad things happen to good people all the time, and then, as now, they were there to help out.”
Claire looked at Marigold, who had a look of distaste on her face, as if she was smelling something not so nice.
“It’s sad to see what has happened out Possum Holler. We all know how expensive it is to own and maintain a home; and just like back when we were children, some of our neighbors in Rose Hill have fallen on hard times. Some were born into hard times and have just never been able to rise above their circumstances. But these people are still our neighbors. Instead of kicking them out of town because they can’t afford lawn service, how about we offer to have one of our kids mow their grass? It’s never too early to teach altruism, and it’s never too late to become a good neighbor.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Claire thought Kay may have missed her calling to be a preacher.
“My platform is simply this: I want to leave Rose Hill a better place for having been in charge of it,” she said. “Some may call what I’ll be doing being mayor, but I call it helping out folks in need. And that means all the folks in Rose Hill, regardless of how long they’ve lived here, where they go on Sunday mornings, how dirty their kitchens are, or how rotten their children turn out to be. We are all different and no one is perfect. We all could do better. I promise to be everyone’s mayor, and I’ll do my best to help those in need.
Professor Dittmeyer reminded Kay that she had one minute, and Kay graciously thanked her.
“No matter how hard we try,” Kay said, “or how careful we are, bad things, even devastating things will still happen to members of our families and our community. How good it is to know that the IWS will always be there, asking, ‘How can we help?’ It’s also reassuring to know that IWS will always be there to teach the younger generations how important it is to help folks in need, regardless of our differences. Those are the values that are important to me, and I know they are important to you. Thank you for inviting me here, today, and thank you for helping me be the best mayor I can be, which will only happen with your support.”
There was no contest in the applause department; with the exception of Marigold’s friends, the entire crowd stood up to applaud Kay. Afterward, Kay was so surrounded by so many people that Claire could only get her attention long enough to wave and give her a thumbs up.
Maggie and Scott went to the hospice table, where Maggie’s brother Sean had volunteered his legal services, to get the West Virginia combined living will and medical power of attorney forms. Ed was busy interviewing Marigold, so Claire went back to work.
Since the IWS event had included lunch, Claire was not surprised when Ed did not appear bearing her lunch, but she hoped he might stop by anyway. She kept peeking out the front window, watching for him, but for the first time in weeks, he did not show up. Claire ate half of her energy bar before throwing the rest away. It really did taste like cardboard.
The bell on the front door tinkled and at first Claire did not recognize the little man who came in. He was covered in fine white dust, from the long, straggly brown hair that fell from his wispy comb-over, on his faded blue Monty Python Flying Circus T-shirt and ripped jeans, to his holey black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. He was clutching a canvas bag full of something. He pushed his glasses up his nose and peered at Claire through thick lenses set in round wire frames. He smothered a smile, which turned it into an odd smirk. That’s when she recognized him.
“Eugene?” she asked.
It took him several moments to respond, through the most painful stammer Claire had ever witnessed. She felt her heart open up and pour out compassion on him like a tsunami of pity.
“C C C C Claire,” he finally said. “You look tho ….”
She had forgotten about the lisp. Poor little guy. Claire smiled at him, determined not to make him anymore painfully self-conscious than he already was. She wondered what word he was stuck on.
“P p p pretty,” he finally said.
“Thanks, Eugene,” Claire said. “Did you come in for a haircut?”
“N n n no,” he said, with a look of alarm.
He laughed in a short bark and snorted. He held out the bag he was clutching, and Claire took it from him. It was heavier than she anticipated, and she almost dropped it.
“C c c c careful,” he said.
Claire loosened the drawstring on the canvas bag and opened it, peered inside. It was full of polished rocks in many beautiful color combinations. She recognized the silvery black hematite, the pale pink quart
z, and the purple amethyst, but there were some others that she had never seen before. She took a few out and placed them on the counter.
“These are beautiful, Eugene,” she said. “Your mother said you have a business selling these.”
Eugene snorted again and covered his mouth, but not before Claire could see his chipped front teeth. He was balanced on his toes, and he started to rock back and forth from one foot to the other, his arms crossed tightly and his hands stuck under his armpits.
Claire wished desperately that she had a client scheduled to come in any minute, but unfortunately, there was no one scheduled for another hour.
“Would you like to come in and sit for awhile?” she asked. “Have a visit?”
“N n n no,” he said, and shook his head violently.
Claire put the rocks back in the bag and handed it to him.
“Well, thank you for letting me see these,” she said. “They’re lovely.”
“They are f f f f f ….” he started, but got stuck.
He hit himself in the head and said, very easily, “Thtupid.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Claire said. “Please don’t say that.”
“K k k k keep them,” he said.
“I couldn’t keep them,” Claire said. “They’re much too valuable.”
“Y y yeth,” Eugene said, and frowned at Claire. “P p p p prethent.”
“Thank you, Eugene, that’s very kind of you,” Claire said. “It was good to see you again.”
Eugene just stood there, looking around the salon, and Claire was at a loss as to what to do. She placed the bag of rocks on the counter and waited. She saw Farmers Market Frank coming and wished him to walk on by, so of course in he came.
“Excuse me,” he said to Eugene, who stared at the floor as he scuttled to one side and then slid out the open doorway.
“Bye, Eugene,” Claire called out after him. “Thank you for the rocks!”
“Weird little guy,” Frank said. “I hope I didn’t scare him off.”
“I think everything scares him,” Claire said. “Not just you.”
“The board approved my loan!” Frank said, as he picked Claire up and swung her around the salon waiting area.
“Great!” Claire said. “Please put me down.”
Frank gave her a huge hug before he let go. He smelled like B.O. and patchouli, which made Claire think of her ex-husband, Pip. It was not a positive association.
“Let me take you to lunch,” Frank said. “My treat.”
“I have an appointment coming in an hour,” Claire said.
“No problem, then,” Frank said. “C’mon.”
Claire locked the salon door and followed Frank down the sidewalk, conscious of every eye upon them as they advanced. Frank was such a huge spectacle of a person that many people stopped in their tracks just to look at him. He would do well in Hollywood, Claire decided, as the lead in a B movie action flick, as a WWF wrestler, or, depending upon the correlation of certain body parts to his giant frame, he could make a fortune in porn.
Frank held the door to the diner open for her and as she walked in she met Ed coming out, carrying a paper bag that she just bet had her lunch in it.
“Hey,” he said. “I was just coming to see you.”
He realized Claire was with Frank just as he finished saying that. A big smile of amusement was quickly smothered with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.
“Come join us,” Frank said as he shook Ed’s hand. “I got my loan.”
“No, thanks,” Ed said, and then nodded to Claire. “But you all have fun.”
Frank took up one whole side of a booth, and Claire was cognizant of everyone in the diner looking at him. At first he seemed oblivious, but when he smiled his big wolf smile at the waitress, and she dropped her pen, his eyes twinkled at Claire. He knew very well what effect he had on people. He enjoyed it.
Claire ordered a small salad, and no sooner had the waitress left than a tattoo-covered gentleman wearing a jean jacket vest advertising “Lords of Doom” came over to the table, and started talking to Frank about heirloom tomatoes. Frank invited him to join them for lunch, and he did. He pushed Claire over so he could sit next to her in the booth.
“Smithy,” he said, and shook Claire’s hand.
Smithy smelled like body odor, cigarettes, and beer fumes. Claire quickly lost her appetite. The discussion between the two men moved from tomatoes to beets and then expanded throughout a virtual vegetable garden before finally coming around to what Claire suspected was Smithy’s aim all along: Aquaculture, which meant what Smithy was really interested in growing had less to do with eating and more to do with smoking. Farmers Market Frank was very helpful in this regard, and gave Smithy the names of a number of equipment sources he could look into.
When Claire finished her salad and excused herself, they barely noticed. On her way back down the sidewalk to the salon, she saw Denise using her key to open the door to the Bee Hive. Denise saw her, waved, and then waited for her to arrive at the door.
“Claire, I’m so sorry, but I accepted their offer; I have to close the salon immediately.”
“I understand,” Claire said. “What about the rest of the appointments?”
“I just came to get the book,” Denise said. “I’m going to call everyone this afternoon. I’m really sorry Claire; I would have rather sold it to you but the money they were offering was outrageously good.”
“It’s okay,” Claire said. “Let me get my stuff.”
Claire picked up her hair-cutting shears, her Zen garden, and the bag of rocks Eugene had given her, and then looked around, but everything else belonged to Denise.
Denise had tears in her eyes as she hugged Claire.
“I will never forget how good you were to me when I needed you,” she said. “If you decide to open a new place, let me know; I’ll secretly send everyone to you.”
Claire gave Denise her keys to the place, walked outside, and stood awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what to do next.
Her cell phone rang.
“I’m leaving her,” Carlyle said, and Claire’s stomach rolled.
She started walking toward the Rose and Thorn.
“You are not,” Claire said. “You have too much at stake.”
“Sometimes a man has to do what’s right no matter the consequences,” he said. “What I’m asking is can I come to you? Will you have me?”
“What did she do?”
“What hasn’t she done?” he said. “It’s like living under a microscope, and everything I do is wrong. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going mad.”
“Stand up to her,” Claire said. “She needs you more than you need her right now; she doesn’t want you to know it, but it’s true.”
“I’m going right now to buy a plane ticket,” he said. “I’m leaving her, Claire. I mean it.”
“You think that now, when you’re mad,” Claire said. “Give it a day or two, and, meanwhile, give her a taste of her own medicine. Don’t ask her for permission. Tell her you’re taking some time off. Turn the tables on her.”
“I’ll come there.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”
“You don’t want me to come, then, is what you’re saying,” he said. “Who could blame you, after what I did to you.”
“This isn’t about me,” Claire said. “This is about you and Sloan. You should honor your contract, make the most of it, and get yourself a career out of it. Then if you still want to talk next spring, we can talk.”
“You’re not talking like a woman in love,” he said. “Too sensible by half.”
“You’re not here, so I can stay sensible,” Claire said. “As long as you aren’t within reach I can be strong.”
“I want you, Claire,” he said. “I miss you so much. It’s killing me.”
“So much drama,” Claire said. “Call me later.”
Claire ended the call before she said something she might later regret.
“Are you coming in, or is this just your personal phone booth?”
Her cousin Patrick was leaning on his elbows at the bar, clearly listening to every word of her phone call. The bar was empty but for her and him. Claire set her Zen garden down on top of the bar and took a seat.
“What’ll you have?”
“Club soda with a lime,” Claire said.
“Fine, but you’ll have to cut your own lime,” Patrick said.
He pushed a bowl of lemons and limes over toward her, along with a scarred wooden cutting board and a dull-looking knife. Claire washed her hands in the bar sink before cutting up the lemons and limes into thin wedges.
“Why aren’t you working?” he asked her.
“Lost my job,” she said, and told him about Denise’s mysterious salon buyer.
“Sloan tried to buy the bar, too,” Patrick said. “Had some lawyer call and make me an offer. I told him to tell her she wasn’t that great of a lay and the bar wasn’t for sale. Funny but he never called again.”
“She might have paid quite a lot.”
“There are some things more important than money,” Patrick said. “This place belongs to your parents, to our family, and I’ll be damned if I let some hipster trust-funder put a microbrew-pub in here.”
“You need a waitress?”
“Not you,” Patrick said. “And not that I don’t think you’d do a helluva job. I just don’t think you’d enjoy it.”
“You’re right,” Claire said. “How long before Melissa can come back?”
“She has four more months of her six-month parole, but she isn’t coming back here,” Patrick said. “She took a secretarial course while she was inside; she’s looking for an office job.”
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