“This one,” she says, facing a small store with a light green awning. “This one’s perfect.”
I step toward the window for a better look. The racks and shelves inside are filled with women’s clothing and accessories, and a young woman sits behind the counter, reading a book. Two customers try on straw hats in front of a mirror. I’m not sure what makes this store better than any of the others, but if Momma likes it, that’s all that matters.
“Perfect,” I agree.
Still holding my hand, she gently tugs me away from the window. When we’re out of sight of the people inside, she releases my hand and fans her face with her own.
“You’re going to be great,” I say before nerves can change her mind. “They’re going to love you. They’ll probably even ask you to start today and pay you a thousand dollars an hour.”
“I don’t know.” She opens her purse and pulls out a packet of tissues. “The only job I’ve ever had was at the Curly Creek Nail Boutique. What if everything’s different here?”
I think we learned the answer to that question weeks ago, but know now’s not the time to say so. “Then you’ll learn. No big deal.”
She blots her face with a tissue, then runs a brush through her hair and puts on a fresh coat of pink lipstick. She unbuttons and rebuttons her jacket and flicks an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt. She takes another tissue and bends down to wipe the imaginary dust from her heels.
“Momma,” I say.
She looks up.
“You know how you always tell me I can do anything in the world I set my mind to?”
“Sure do. And you can.”
I hold out my hand for the tissue. “So can you.”
For a second I think she might cry—which would make her mascara run, which would require a trip to the restroom, which would only prolong the stalling—but then she gives me the tissue and kisses the top of my head. “Thank you, baby girl.”
She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. As she heads for the store, I think she’s never looked more beautiful. She’s wearing a black suit and black high heels, which she bought just for the occasion, and a pearl necklace she’d found at Curly Creek Junk ’n’ Treasures years ago. She looks so professional, any store would be crazy not to hire her on the spot. Not wanting to miss this store’s offer, I hurry after her and stand behind a palm tree near the entrance. I also take three pictures of Momma inside the store, since I know she’ll want to remember the exact moment her new career took off.
“Hi there.” Momma’s voice is louder than normal, but not so loud that anyone would automatically know how nervous she is.
“Hello.” The woman sitting at the counter looks up from her book and smiles. “Welcome to EcoChic.”
EcoChic. That makes sense. I learned all about being eco-friendly last year, when Curly Creek started its first-ever recycling program. To get our attention during a school-wide presentation about the importance of reusing what we can, Principal Perkins stood onstage in an old brown potato sack he found in Farmer Cott’s barn. (“As durable as a pair of jeans—and good for the environment too!” he’d declared.) The shirts, skirts, and dresses inside EcoChic are all various shades of tan and seem to be made of light, natural material. They have more shape than a potato sack, but besides that, they look like they could’ve been found in Farmer Cott’s barn too.
“I’m Laurel,” the saleswoman says. “May I help you find something?”
“Why, yes,” Momma says. “Yes, you can.”
Don’t say it, I think, watching her approach the counter. Please don’t say it.
“You can help me find a job!”
I close my eyes. Of course she said it. Momma jokes a lot under normal circumstances, but even more so when she’s nervous. I can only hope Laurel has a good sense of humor.
“I’m Francine Lee,” Momma says. I open my eyes to see her extend one hand. “Formerly of Curly Creek, Kansas, currently of Coconut Grove. It’s a pleasure.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” Laurel shakes Momma’s hand. “But I’m afraid we’re not hiring right now.”
My heart sinks.
“Well, I’m in no rush,” Momma says, and I can tell she’s trying not to sound disappointed. “Maybe I could fill out an application? And you can just give me a buzz when something opens up?”
“We don’t have applications. Clementine, the owner, doesn’t believe in them.”
“How about a résumé?” Momma rummages through her tote bag. “I haven’t worked in very many places, but I’ve done lots of jobs. I can answer phones, and chat up customers, and up-sell a manicure into a manicure, pedicure, and full-body massage.”
I understand what Momma’s trying to say—that she can charm customers into buying what they didn’t think they wanted—but don’t blame Laurel for looking confused.
“I also have a list of references. Please feel free to fire away. These people have known me my entire life and can tell you anything you want to know—including how I celebrated my fifth birthday, what I wore to my high school prom, and how I take my coffee.”
Laurel moves aside a small white cup as Momma places a folder on the counter. I frown when I see a tea-bag tag hanging down the side of the cup. Laurel drinks tea, not coffee. She probably drinks it plain too, and not loaded up with cream and sugar.
“That’s very nice,” Laurel says as Momma slides papers toward her, “and I’m happy to take a look. But you should know that we’ve had the same staff for eight years. We’re not likely to hire anyone anytime soon.”
I duck behind the palm tree as the two women who’d been trying on straw hats leave the store.
“Does she have a hearing problem?” one woman asks the other once they’re outside. “How many times does she have to hear ‘no’ before giving up?”
“And what about that outfit?” the other woman clucks. “All black, from head to toe. She clearly doesn’t know where she is. I almost feel sorry for her.”
I bite my lip to keep from jumping to Momma’s defense. I normally wouldn’t hesitate but don’t want to cause a stir right now, when Momma’s still talking to Laurel.
I peer out from behind the tree again to see Laurel on the phone and Momma leaning against the counter, waiting to continue their conversation. I hate that the pair of gossipy snobs makes me look at Momma’s outfit again . . . but they do. And I would never say so out loud, but unfortunately, I see their point. Compared to Laurel’s ivory linen dress and all the neutral-colored clothes in the store, Momma’s black suit does look a bit out of place.
She catches my eye and winks. I smile.
She still looks beautiful. And EcoChic would still be lucky to have her.
“Here’s the thing,” Momma says when Laurel’s off the phone. She sounds calmer, more like herself. “I understand what you’re telling me, but you should know that I’ll do anything. I’m a fast learner, and I’ll do whatever needs to be done. I’ll answer phones, clean, sell, ship, organize, stock—whatever. Your store’s different from all the other stores here. It’s beautiful, but it also has a purpose beyond selling clothes and accessories. In many ways, it reminds me of home. I would be honored—and grateful—to be a member of the EcoChic family.”
I watch Laurel’s face soften. Just like the gossips, she didn’t give Momma enough credit.
“I’ll tell you what,” Laurel says. “Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go get Clementine? You can tell her everything you just told me. She might not give you a different answer, but I think it’s worth a try.”
“That would be wonderful,” Momma says. “Thank you.”
I give her a quick thumbs-up when she turns to me and grins. Laurel returns to the counter a moment later. An older woman with short white-blond hair is with her. Just as Laurel is about to make introductions, the outdoor music switches from a soft piano ballad to a loud, jumpy pop song. I can barely hear the voices inside the store now, so I dash from my palm tree and squat behind a flowering shrub a
few inches closer to the entrance. Unfortunately, the shrub hides an in-ground speaker, and the music’s so loud here I can’t hear anything but thumping bass and squeaky lyrics. I’m considering dropping to the ground and rolling past the entrance to try a bush on the other side when Momma comes flying out.
I jump up from my squat. “What happened? Where are you—”
“Home, Ruby Lee,” she calls back without turning around. “We’re going home.”
My heart flits in my chest. Does she mean home, home? Kansas, home?
“By the way, love your bag! Where’d you get it?”
I turn to see the woman with short white-blond hair standing in the EcoChic doorway. Laurel stands behind her. They’re both watching Momma, who’s now kicking off her heels in the middle of the courtyard so she can move faster. The only bag she carries is the one she finished knitting last night.
“She made it,” I say.
Clementine looks at me, surprised.
“She makes lots of things,” I add. “She’s very talented. You would’ve found that out if you gave her a chance.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I hurry after Momma before she can. By the time I reach the car three blocks over, Momma’s already taken off her jacket and wiggled out of her panty hose. I want to ask if she’s okay but know there’s really no point. Because she’s clearly not okay. And she definitely doesn’t feel like talking. As soon as we get in the car she cranks up the Grease soundtrack and punches the gas without a word.
For a while, I think we really might be going back to Kansas. We drive for over an hour, taking roads and turns I don’t recognize. I monitor Momma’s emotional state by watching her fingers curl around the steering wheel. They start out white, then slowly turn pink, then tan. I wait until she’s calm enough to drive with one tan hand before speaking.
“Momma?” I say gently. “If we’re going home, do you think we should maybe stop by Nana Dottie’s first? To get our stuff and say good-bye?”
The car slows suddenly, like someone just tickled under Momma’s right knee and made her foot hop off the gas pedal.
“Or we could just keep going,” I say quickly. “We can have our stuff shipped and call Nana Dottie from the road. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Momma releases a sigh so long I wonder if she’s been holding her breath since leaving HauteCoco. After a few seconds, she checks the rearview mirror, steers the car to the side of the road, and stops.
“We’re not going back to Kansas,” she says, looking at me.
“Oh. Okay. You just seemed upset, and then you said we were going home, so I thought that’s what you meant.”
“It wasn’t.” She shakes her head. “Or maybe it was. I don’t know.”
I wait for her to offer more, but she doesn’t. “What happened, Momma?” I ask finally. “What did Clementine say? Was she mean?”
She smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “It just wasn’t the job for me.”
I nod, even though it’s obvious that there was more to it than that.
“Anyway,” she says with forced cheerfulness, “we knew it wouldn’t be easy—and we were right. But when have Ruby and Francie Lee ever run away from a challenge?”
“We’ve taken a few detours before, but we always come back to meet it.”
“Exactly.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “And speaking of detours, what do you say we grab some ice cream before heading back?”
“I’d say there’s nothing a little mint chocolate chip can’t fix.”
Momma gives my hand another squeeze before releasing it. She puts the car in drive, checks the mirrors, and steps on the gas.
The car jolts forward, then stops.
The traffic must be pretty bad for Momma to hit the brake like that. I turn around and look out the back window to help find a good opening . . . but the road’s nearly empty. We’re also in a residential area, so the few cars on the road are moving very slowly.
Momma tries the gas again. We jerk forward a foot, then stop.
“Are we out of gas?” I ask.
“We have half a tank.” She keeps one foot on the brake and steps on the gas with her other foot three times, letting it linger on the last. The engine responds, but softens from a roar to a rumble the longer she holds down the pedal.
“It might be the battery,” she says.
“Do we have a charger?”
“We have jumper cables, but those don’t help without another battery to attach them to.”
She tries driving three more times. On the third attempt, the engine seems to yawn, like it’s preparing for a long nap, and then falls silent.
I look at Momma. Her fingers are white around the steering wheel again. She’s staring straight ahead, not blinking. I would never say so, but I can’t help but think how much easier this situation would be if we had a cell phone. We could call a garage or Nana Dottie, and we’d be back on the road in no time.
“Should we get out and try to find a gas station?” I ask after a long, quiet moment. “Or knock on people’s doors and see if someone will let us use their phone?”
“This isn’t Curly Creek, Ruby.” Momma’s voice is tense. “People here just aren’t as nice as they were back home.”
I frown. Momma always thinks the best of everyone, no matter where they’re from . . . which means Clementine must’ve given her reason to think otherwise.
“Can I help?”
And then, as if he sensed Momma could use a reminder that kindness does exist outside Curly Creek, Oscar smiles at her through the driver’s side window.
13.
I’ve never felt more like Dorothy than when we first enter Oscar’s flower shop.
“This is your office?” I ask, since that’s where he said we were going when we climbed into his delivery van ten minutes ago.
“It has a computer and a phone,” he says, like he doesn’t know why I wouldn’t believe him. Except he’s smiling—so I know he knows why I wouldn’t.
If somewhere over the rainbow really did exist, Oscar’s flower shop would be it. Something magical happens the second your feet leave the ordinary gray sidewalk and step through the doorway. Colors that seemed bright and vibrant outside, like the green of the grass and blue of the sky, fade to black and white as soon as you’re inside. Because the flower shop is filled with color. Red, pink, purple, orange, yellow, blue, green, turquoise, fuchsia, peach, and about a million other shades I’ve never even seen before pop from floor to ceiling. There are roses, daisies, lilies, sunflowers, tulips, lilacs, orchids, and hydrangeas—and those are only the flowers I recognize. There also are flowerless plants with leaves so green they don’t even need blossoms, as well as lemon trees and orange trees. Scattered among the flowers and trees are stone fountains with trickling water and separate, small bird baths with real live birds dancing along the edges.
The other side of the rainbow, with its gray sidewalk and dirty roads, is only inches away . . . but you’d never know it from here.
“Momma, have you ever seen anything like it?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“No, Ruby. I definitely haven’t.” She sounds awed too but then seems to remember why we’re here and turns to Oscar. “If you could just point me toward your phone . . . ?”
“You know, I have some tools in the back,” Oscar says. “I’d be happy to take a closer look at the car so you don’t have to bring someone out.”
“Thank you,” Momma says. “But you already tried jump-starting the battery and were kind enough to give us a ride. I really don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. The van’s always acting up, and after too many trips to the shop I’m trying to teach myself what mechanics don’t want me to know. It’d be good practice.”
This sounds like a great idea to me, but Momma’s not convinced. She’s already weaving her way through the indoor garden, apparently in search of the phone.
“She’s very indepen
dent,” I explain when Oscar looks at me.
“Be sure to check out the pond,” he says as he starts after her. “It’s a work-in-progress, but I think you’ll like it.”
They disappear into a miniature forest of trees with big yellow flowers before I can ask what he means. Deciding to take advantage of the chance to explore, I walk slowly through the store, stopping every few inches to sniff and take pictures. I take so many I finish the roll of film and have to load another—which I’m very glad I have, since Oscar was right about the pond.
It’s in a large room off the main showroom, and if it weren’t for the shaded glass walls and ceiling, I’d think it was outside. It’s about ten feet long by ten feet wide and surrounded by tall grass and pink, purple, and yellow flowers.
Wildflowers. They look just like the ones that line the banks of Curly Creek each spring.
I take a dozen pictures as I walk across a narrow footbridge. I stop in the middle to take more pictures of the brightly colored fish swimming below. A small mountain of white rocks sits at the other end of the bridge, next to a shovel and two bags of dirt. I assume these are for the next phase of Oscar’s work-in-progress.
The pond is so pretty, so peaceful, I’m tempted to sit on the bridge and dangle my feet over the side. But as calm as I feel right now, I doubt Momma feels the same way after her stressful day. So I quickly snap a few more pictures before hurrying across the bridge and into the showroom.
“I don’t understand.”
I slow down when I spot Momma through a wide bouquet of orange tulips. She’s still on the phone . . . and she doesn’t sound happy.
“You have to tow the car? You can’t try fixing it where it is?”
A tree rustles a few feet away. I peek through leaves to see Oscar trimming branches. I can tell he’s trying not to listen to Momma’s conversation, but his frown and furrowed brow give away his concern.
“Okay,” Momma says. “If that’s how you do it, then that’s what we’ll do. How much will the tow cost?”
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