Three Times Lucky

by Sheila Turnage

  And the Colonel? The Colonel missed it all, thanks to Joe Starr. Starr took him to Winston-Salem to unsnarl a host of legal details, and then to the hospital to get checked out head to toe.

  “I’ll never speak to Joe Starr as long as I live,” I told Miss Lana the morning of our Grand Reopening. She handed Dale and me maroon berets, patted her wig into place, and smoothed her shimmering pink dress over her hips.

  “Mo, everything’s fine. The Colonel needs time to get the details of his life straight, and adjust to his memories,” she said. “And jamais say jamais, sugar.”

  “What?” Dale asked, looking at his beret like it was roadkill.

  “Never say never,” she translated, opening the door. “Places, everyone.”

  We were packed by seven a.m. “Bonjour and welcome to La Café, Monsieur Mayor,” I said, adjusting my beret. Dale had already stuffed his behind the jukebox.

  “Bonjour, Mo,” he said. He glanced around the room: Eiffel Tower salt and pepper shakers, catty-cornered tablecloths, lilting accordion music. “It’s nice to be back in Paris,” he said. He smoothed his ice-pink tie over his belly, glided across the tiles to his counter seat, and winked at the Azalea Women.

  “Good morning, Anna Celeste,” he said. Attila and her mother sat by a window sucking down soft-boiled eggs like a couple of well-dressed weasels. “I hope you’re having a good summer.”

  “I am, thank you, Mr. Mayor,” she said, tossing her sun-streaked hair. “We just got back from Myrtle Beach. It’s so nice to get away.”

  I walked by, holding a glass of ice water. Suddenly, I felt shy. “Hey, Anna. I’m trying those blue bottles,” I told her. “Thanks for them, and for … everything.” I smiled at her pinch-faced mother. “Breakfast is on the house today, Mrs. Simpson,” I said. “Go ahead and eat like you mean it. Both of you.”

  Attila glanced at the glass of ice water. “I suppose that’s from Dale,” she said. “Could you please tell him … I’m sorry, but I’m not thirsty.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  Especially, I thought, since it’s not for you.

  She nodded and looked away. A choppy silence stretched between us.

  Without strife, we had nothing.

  “Too bad you can’t go on vacation, Mo-ron,” she finally said. “You look so … I don’t know. Deathly pale.”

  “Pale’s temporary, Attila,” I said, grinning. “Putrid is forever.”

  I spun to the next table. “Hey Salamander,” I said. “I appreciate what you did for me. Thanks.” She smiled and bobbed her head. “Breakfast is on the house,” I told her. I slid the ice water across the table to her. “And Dale sent this over for you,” I said, winking. Across the room, Dale put his hands in his pockets and smiled.

  Sal knocked the glass over, sending a flood toward Skeeter’s law book.

  I’d just handed them a clump of paper towels when Lavender strolled in. “Morning, Lavender,” I said as he sat down with Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton.

  “Morning, Sherlock,” he said, flashing me a wicked grin.

  Sherlock! A pet name!

  “Hey, Dale,” Tinks called. “How about some coffee over here?”

  “Okay-vous,” Dale muttered. “Keep your pants on.”

  I drifted to Lavender, order pad in hand. “We got two specials today. Miss Lana’s breakfast soufflé, and biscuits au red-eye jus. What’ll it be?”

  “Biscuits au red-eye,” he said, stretching his legs out into the aisle and smiling. Lavender knows how to wear a pair of jeans. “When’s the Colonel coming home?”

  I grinned. “Any minute now.”

  “He’s thoroughly unbewildered, then?” Mayor Little asked, and I nodded.

  “I’m so glad for you, Mo. I know you’ve missed him,” Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton said. “And I’ll have Lana’s soufflé, dear, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  The door swung open.

  Joe Starr looked around the room, his eyes the color of a thin winter sky. “Table for two, please, Mo,” he said. I waved him and Miss Retzyl toward a table by the jukebox as Miss Lana strolled in from the kitchen.

  “Welcome, friends,” she sang, tapping a knife against a water glass until folks settled down. “Thank you for coming. There are a few rumors flying around I’d like to address before the Colonel gets home.”

  The café fluttered itself still.

  “You have created some interesting stories about the Colonel and me.” She smiled—though she wasn’t smiling when she first heard them. “I don’t have time to address each one, so I’ll just tell you our true story, to set the record straight.”

  “Feel free to use my Pepsi crate, Miss Lana,” I said.

  “Thank you, sugar,” she said, and stepped up on my tiny stage. “The Colonel and I met in Charleston twelve years ago,” she said. “It was love at first sight. We planned to elope, and honeymoon in Paris.”

  “Oooh-la-la,” Mayor Little said, propping his elbows on the counter.

  “At the time, the Colonel was representing Slate, who was accused of killing a security guard during a holdup. That guard, we now know, was Mr. Jesse’s cousin. Thanks to the Colonel, Slate was found not guilty of first-degree murder, and convicted only of manslaughter and robbery. As he left the courtroom, he told the Colonel to find his loot and save it, or he’d kill every person connected with the case. The Colonel didn’t take him seriously. Slate was going to jail! What could he do?

  “The next morning, the Colonel found his secretary dead.”

  An Azalea Woman dropped a glass. Dale sped by with a broom and dust pan.

  “The Colonel never forgave himself,” Miss Lana said. “He believed his arrogance had cost that woman her life.”

  “No wonder he hates lawyers,” Tinks muttered.

  “The Colonel called me that afternoon. ‘Pack your bags,’ he said. ‘We’ll start a new life in Paris.’ He warned everyone he could think of about Slate, and set out to meet me—even though a hurricane had just slammed ashore. Along the way, I believe he thought of Jesse Tatum and detoured to warn him too.”

  “The Crash Pine,” Thes murmured, and she nodded.

  “When I found him a week later, he held a beautiful baby—and not the first memory of me.” She blinked back tears as she stood there, alone, curls framing her face. For an instant, she looked like the photo of herself as a young girl, prior to blossoming. “I did the only thing I could,” she said. “I stayed, and hoped he would fall in love with me again.”

  Sal dabbed her eyes as Thes raised his hand. “Who killed the Colonel’s secretary?” he asked. “Slate was in the slammer.”

  “Deputy Marla,” I guessed. From the corner of my eye, I saw Dale peer out the window and frown.

  “That’s my theory too,” Starr said. “Slate came here looking for Jesse Tatum. When Jesse said he didn’t have the loot, Slate killed him. Then, when he recognized the Colonel, he hoped he had his money. And he kidnapped Miss Lana, to pressure him into giving it up. Only, the Colonel didn’t remember Slate or the heist.”

  Dale went up on his toes and leaned against the window frame, staring outside.

  Miss Lana’s eyes misted. “And that’s our story. I deceived you, my friends,” she said. “But I acted out of love, and hope you’ll forgive me.”

  The café hung breathless, like a pendulum at the top of its swing.

  “Well, my goodness,” Mayor Little said. “It’s not like any of you have outstanding warrants. Is it?”

  “They do not,” Starr said.

  As the café erupted into cheers, Dale turned to me, waved his arms over his head, and pointed outside. I threaded my way through the crowd. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Follow me.” He barreled through the kitchen, to the side door. “It’s Thes’s stupid cat,” he said, stuffing cooked bacon into his pocket. “He’s headed to the creek.” We tore through Miss Lana’s flower garden, to the creek bank. The flood mark from two weeks before darkened tree trunks a foot above my hea
d. “There he is,” Dale said as an orange blur sped through the reeds. Dale took off like a shot.

  I started after him, but a flash in the creek caught my eye. A bottle bobbed along at a slant, its cap glistening in the sun. “Dale!” I called as the reeds closed behind him. I stared at the bottle.

  Finally, my heart said. Finally.

  It’s trash, my mind argued. Trash knocked loose by the storm.

  I splashed into the creek’s black water and scooped up the bottle. Behind me, Spitz the Cat yowled. “Got him,” Dale crowed.

  My heart went still and quiet as I twisted the cap from the bottle and peered inside. A piece of paper curled there, just like in my dreams. A message.

  It’s what I’d always wanted.

  Or was it?

  I pictured the Colonel pulling me from the flood, smoothing a bedroll beneath the stars, sitting at Miss Rose’s table with his forehead resting in his hands. I pictured Miss Lana struggling in with her arms full of hurricane candy, walking me to kindergarten, writing Mr. Jesse’s eulogy. I pictured them laughing with me and scolding me, and teaching me to hold my own at the café.

  Then I tried to picture somebody different.

  “Mo?” Dale called. He stood on the bank, cradling Spitz in his arms. “Oh,” he said, his gaze finding the bottle.

  I shook the message out and unrolled it, my heart pounding as the dark water lapped against my knees. My hand shook. The words blurred as I read them.

  “What does it say?” Dale asked.

  I took a deep breath. “‘Dear Upstream Mother,’” I read, and my voice floated away.

  He sloshed into the creek to stand by my side. “I’m sorry, Mo.”

  I glanced up as the Underbird wheeled into the parking lot and rocked to a stop in the sycamore’s shade. The Colonel unfolded himself from the car. He stared at the café a moment and stretched, the sun kissing his white shirt and short-cropped hair.

  The café door banged open. Miss Lana ran toward him, her arms wide. He scooped her up and whirled her around as friends and neighbors spilled across the parking lot, laughing and crying, and then clapping the Colonel’s back.

  As I watched them together, my earth found its axis and my stars found their sky.

  I crumpled the note. “Thanks, Dale,” I said. I looked at him. “Thanks for saying you’re sorry. But you know what? I’m not.”

  I splashed to the creek bank and zipped through the garden, Dale at my heels. “Colonel!” I shouted. “Welcome home.”

  He and Miss Lana started toward me. “Thank you, Soldier,” he called, opening his arms. “It’s good to be home.”

  Acknowledgments

  Many people helped create this book, and I am grateful to each of them.

  Thanks to Rodney L. Beasley for his love, and patient reading and rereading.

  Also to author Patsy Baker O’Leary, for her encouragement and advice, and to the members of her creative writing class.

  Thank you to my family and writing friends who offered feedback, love and support, especially: Claire and Mamie; Nancy and Brenda; Allison, Karen, and Eileen.

  Last but not least, thanks to my agent, Melissa Jeglinski of The Knight Agency, and to all the talented people at Penguin/Dial, especially Associate Publisher and Editorial Director, Kathy Dawson, whose skillful editing made this a much better book.