Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3)

by Wisler, Alice J.

  The temptation to close the door and drive off taunts me.

  Sheerly stretches up to kiss my cheek. Her pearl necklace grazes my shoulder. “Lona’s under the dryer. And Mavey Marie called to say she’ll be in to pick out a hairstyle for next week’s rehearsal dinner.”

  “What dinner?”

  “Her grandson’s getting married in Duck on the beach so she needs a style that will withstand all the wind.”

  Mavey Marie’s grandson used to spit in my milk in fifth grade.

  “And did I tell you that Lona is under the dryer?” She slips into her pink Mercedes with the personalized plate—SHEERLY.

  “You did.”

  “She ate French toast at Breakfast at Andrew’s this morning and the food made her sleepy. Don’t let her sit too long.” She cranks and then revs the engine. Three times.

  “I won’t,” I reply, although I know that Sheerly cannot hear me.

  All the other relatives think she’s damaging the engine by treating it like it belongs in a race car. Sheerly says Mercedes, like women, can handle just about anything.

  With a wave, she’s gone, driving north to Kitty Hawk, hopefully with a winning song in her head.

  15

  Slowly, I get out of my truck. A night at the salon is a poor substitute for a date at Evan and Julia’s, seated across from the handsome Davis Erickson, a glowing candle between us. I phoned Davis on my way over here, hating to tell him the news.

  “Your family needs you,” he said after a while. “We’ll get a date in one of these days.”

  I thanked him for being understanding.

  Sure enough, inside the scented salon, Lona is seated under the pink dryer on the left, reading the latest issue of People magazine. I check her hair, feeling the locks that are wrapped around wide metal curlers.

  She smiles at me, says something I can’t hear due to the whir of the dryer; I just smile back.

  In addition to providing the community with all their hair care needs, Sheerly also displays sayings, cross-stitched and framed, around her shop. “The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook” hangs above the set of dryers. This saying is attributed to William James. Another plaque, stitched in blue, reads, “Age is something that doesn’t matter unless you are a cheese. —Billie Burke”

  I find a wooden stool by a tiny window, sit down, and let bits of my recent phone conversation with Davis warm me. I can see the Sound from my view; the water is crystal blue and the sky is a canvas of wispy clouds with a sun preparing to retire from a hard day of work.

  When I turn off the hairdryer, Lona says, “Nearly fell asleep. Had too much to eat today.” She yawns, using one large hand to cover her mouth. “That French toast at Breakfast at Andrew’s is just too good to pass up. And the pancakes with all that maple syrup just make me sleepy.”

  “Did you eat them both?”

  “Had a bite of the pancakes off of Mother’s plate. They were topped with blueberries, just delicious. I did eat the whole plate of French toast.” Lona takes her mother to Breakfast at Andrew’s every Friday morning before she heads to the golf course in Nags Head. I know this because I’ve known Lona since she moved here when I was eighteen. Her first murder mystery had just been published, and the salon’s regulars were eager to meet a real author. Sheerly’s song about Lona, the mystery maven, actually has a nice beat to it.

  The door’s overhead bell tinkles and in walks a wrinkled woman with white hair teased into the highest beehive I’ve ever seen. Mavey Marie has had this hairstyle since she was born, I think. I wonder why she needs to choose another to withstand the winds of Duck. This one looks like it could stand up to any hurricane.

  “I just loved Death Dutifully Defines Dorothea,” Mavey Marie says when she sees Lona. “I liked it better than Roger Rochester’s Revenge.” “Thank you, thank you.” Lona looks up from the magazine and beams like the shining light at Cape Hatteras. After another yawn she says, “Some days I think I’ve lost it, can’t write another.” “I just don’t know how you do it.” Mavey Marie sits on a chair by a shelf of hardback hairstyle books. She’s wearing her favorite color— lemon yellow. She and Sheerly went to one of those color parties, and ever since Mavey Marie found out her skin tone and eyes make her suited for spring, she has bought all yellow clothing. Sheerly says she’ll wear pink no matter what the color charts label her as. “At this age, do you think I’m going to change myself ?” she asked us one Sunday at lunch.

  “I really like that line about romance.” Mavey Marie picks up a book and flips through pages of sleek hairstyles on women who look like they have overused their makeup brushes.

  “Which line is that?” Lona stretches her short legs that, to me, resemble Asian radishes.

  As though she’s reading it from one of Sheerly’s cross-stitched masterpieces, Mavey Marie quotes, “You want a man to adore you so much that his heart is only satisfied when you are with him.” Mavey Marie’s sigh fills the shop.

  Lona nods, seeming to recall that she did write that line in a novel. “And when he closes his eyes, you are the only one in his dreams.” With a sudden fling of her hand, she snorts. “I wish Sylvia would realize that. I thought I raised her to be independent and not fall for the first man who gave her a second glance.” Sylvia is Lona’s only child. She and I were in a church youth group together.

  “Well, if she read your third mystery, she would see that Benedict was never in love with Amelia. He only used her to get to his dream of being the president of the company.”

  Looking at me, Lona says, “Jackie, you’ve always been wise. I know you won’t fall in love for the wrong reasons.”

  I’m not sure what to say. I give her a vague nod.

  “Develop who you are. How can these young girls expect to find a man when they don’t even know what they want?” I don’t think she’s intending this question to be for me; I think Sylvia is still on her mind. “I fell for the wrong man. He left me after five years. Just like that!” She snaps her fingers for emphasis.

  Mavey Marie just shakes her head, and Lona and I watch her tower of piled hair move like a barge through a sandbar.

  Lona has a faraway glint to her eyes. “To thine own self be true.”

  “Shakespeare!” Mavey Marie’s smile curves. “He did know a thing or two about life and love.”

  “Right now, I don’t know,” Lona says as she searches in her leather bag and takes out a tube of hand lotion.

  “What don’t you know?” Mavey Marie has opened a book on hairstyles for weddings.

  “Whether to kill the neighbor off or just let him be maimed.” Lona rubs her hands together. She eases the other woman’s confusion by explaining, “In the mystery I’m writing now.”

  Mavey Marie peers over the top of the book. “Is he a good neighbor?”

  “He lets his grass get too long before mowing.”

  “Is that all? Doesn’t sound too bad.” Mavey Marie adjusts the collar of her yellow blouse.

  “He doesn’t mow his grass because he’s spending too much time with his girlfriend.”

  “Is she in love with him for the right reasons?”

  “She doesn’t know he’s married.”

  “Heavens! Oh, kill him off,” Mavey Marie squeals.

  “I could let him be attacked by the wild boars in Alabama.” She stares at the ceiling as though the boars and her character are fighting up there. “I could let him live.” The hand lotion is back in her bag, and now she buffs her nails with a file she’s found on one of the tables by the hairdryer. Her nails are clipped short, so the process doesn’t take long. “I think he will learn his lesson. Sometimes people need to be put in their place.”

  I suggest we take the rollers out of her hair and then help her undo each one. I’ve helped my aunt at her shop a number of times before. Removing curlers from hair is one of the tasks she’s given me to do, so I feel confident now.

  Mavey Marie decides that none of the styles in the glossy book suit her. �
�I might just leave my hair as it is and hope for the best.”

  Lona stands, heads over to the mirror by the swivel chair, and combs out her hair. “I think you should just keep the style you’ve always had for the wedding. A wedding is no time to try something new. Eden did, and it was a disaster.”

  “I remember that. Edith Eden and the Edge of Evening, right?”

  “That was the book. I was so young when I wrote it.” She sighs, the comb suspended in her left hand, and peers into the mirror as though her vanished youth is stretched before her, allowing her to view it one last time.

  When the cuckoo clock lets out eight chirps, my stomach feels hollow, and I wonder if Sheerly has any food to eat in the shop. I know she makes a thermos of jasmine tea each morning for her customers. Today it’s on the little table beside the bay window. A jar of honey sits next to it, as Sheerly sweetens the tea with honey she purchases from a local beekeeper. She serves the drink in chipped pink teacups she got at a yard sale.

  I’m looking in the back room where Sheerly keeps boxes of supplies, hopeful for at least a pack of cheese crackers, when the door opens and in walks Jolene. Jolene is one of Sheerly’s most faithful customers, claiming that if Sheerly were to ever move, she’d move right along with her. Unless Sheerly moves to Alaska, and then Jolene says she might only visit her during the warmer months.

  “You found yourself a good man yet?” Jolene asks me when I walk over to greet her.

  I paste on a smile.

  “I’ve been telling Sheerly about my grandson in Mebane,” Jolene tells the other two women in her sweet southern tone that could soothe even a belligerent child like Zane to sleep. “He is one finelooking boy. He loves that NASCAR and was in Charlotte last year to watch the races live.”

  “How old is Jack now?” asks Lona as she continues combing her hair.

  “Thirty-nine in December.”

  “And he’s never been married?”

  “No.” Jolene winks at me. “He’s just waiting to find that right girl.”

  The truth is, NASCAR bores me. Sure, I grew up in the South, but my mother’s Asian influence has sunk into my veins. As she puts it, we do not watch “crazy car stuff.” We adore Bruce Lee and martial arts films, most certainly, but not a bunch of high-speed cars driving in circles.

  “You need to go to Coronado, California.” Mavey Marie’s eyes find mine.

  “California!” exclaims Jolene as though hearing the name of the state makes her shudder. “Why would she do that?”

  “It’s on the coast. Looks beautiful. Or Edgewater, New Jersey.” Mavey Marie smiles. “There are more rich singles in those two places than in all of this state!”

  “Now, where did you read that?” asks Lona.

  “I heard it on the TV.”

  “I think women these days need to be careful.” Lona again holds everyone’s attention. “Looking for love in all the wrong places is not what God intended for us.”

  “Bingo,” says Mavey Marie. “Girls need to not chase so much, but trust God more. Trust that God will bring the right man.”

  When the shop’s phone rings, it’s the UPS driver telling me he won’t be here today. “My truck broke down in Nags Head. I’m at a service shop. Tell Miss Sheerly I’ll get by there tomorrow with all her stuff.”

  “Where is Sheerly?” asks Jolene when I hang up the phone.

  I start to answer, but Lona interrupts. “She’s singing her heart out. Winning the prize and making us proud!”

  I hope she wins because it will make missing my date with Davis more worthwhile.

  “Can you paint my fingernails?” Jolene asks. She’s looking right at me. “Sheerly does it for me every Saturday.”

  “Bottle of pink in the back of the shop in the broom closet,” Lona tells me. To Jolene, she says, “It’s not Saturday, Jolene.”

  “Got plans for Saturday.” She smiles. “Is there any tea left?”

  “What plans?”

  “Going to visit my best friend in Buffalo.”

  “Buffalo! Isn’t that up north?” Mavey Marie asks.

  Jolene attempts to pour tea from the thermos that Sheerly usually keeps filled, but only a dribble plops into a cup she holds. “New York. Gonna be there for a week.”

  “How’d you get a best friend in Buffalo?” Lona wonders aloud.

  “Went to college with her at Queens. We’ve stayed friends ever since. Her husband died just like mine. About the same time, too. So now we’re learning how to pay bills and take care of our cars on our own. Last time, I took two of Sheerly’s tomato pies up to my friend. I flew with them in a leather bag. All the way to Buffalo I smelled those pies. Her friends now call me the Southern Tomato.” She eyes us all. “Isn’t that sweet?” Her face holds a placid grin.

  “Well, it makes a good story.” Lona is all about the good stories in life. She’s been known to use a few coastal folk in her mysteries— names and places changed, of course.

  Suddenly, Jolene scans the room, her neck bobbing like a rooster’s. “Where exactly is Sheerly?”

  “The big song competition,” replies Lona. “She’s gonna win. I feel it. Don’t you, Jackie?”

  “Sure,” I say as I carry the nail polish toward Jolene.

  Next time, if there is ever another chance to go on a date with Davis, I will not let anything get in the way.

  At last, the women stitch up their fragmented conversations and decide to go home. When Lona toddles out of the shop, at last satisfied with her hair, I’m quick to place the Sorry, We’ve Gone Fishing sign on the front door. Sheerly has three signs she uses to state that business hours are over, and my favorite is the Gone Fishing one.

  “But you hate fishing,” my aunt said to me the last time I helped her close the store.

  “True, but I like that sign because it’s got more spunk to it than just an ordinary closed sign.”

  “This shop is officially closed,” I now say to the walls, the pair of hairdryers, the cross-stitched plagues that silently hang, and to the cuckoo clock waiting to chirp the nine o’clock hour.

  I wonder if it’s too late to call Davis and suggest we go out for a bit. We could go for coffee or ice cream. From my purse, I take out my cell phone.

  But then Sheerly’s words come to mind. The shop is being inspected soon and I’m to dust off the hairdryers and make sure the place looks clean. I walk to the closet for the duster.

  “This is what family do.” My mother’s words always seem to find me, reminding me that my Korean ancestors valued honor, truth, and sacrifice.

  16

  As Minnie and Zane leave to eat at Wendy’s, I hear Zane ask if Popacorn can get a burger and Mountain Doom, too. Minnie looks at me and warns me once again about my date with Davis, saying, “Now, if he’s creepy, you come home right away. Or call me. Do you have your can of Mace?”

  I laugh and usher her and her son out the front door. After they’ve left, I note that my heart rate slows, and I am actually able to breathe normally again.

  Davis flew in late this Saturday morning to Raleigh-Durham International, got his car at the airport lot, and arrived at his house only two hours ago, but he’s willing to meet. When he casually suggested meeting at Blackbeard’s, I sensed that he didn’t really think I’m going to make the date this time. I understand; I hold a few concerns, as well.

  I’ve borrowed some of Minnie’s jewelry—two gold bangles and a pair of red coral earrings. Perhaps if I don’t wear the usual hoops, this date will go better than all of the others. I’ve decided to wear a cream-colored shirt and a pair of black dress pants. As I spray on Minnie’s White Diamonds perfume, I smile into my mirror. The woman who smiles back could almost be called pretty.

  The ringing phone makes my breath catch in my throat. I consider ignoring it but can’t follow through with that thought. Hesitantly, I look to see the caller’s name—Mrs. Appleton, my landlord who lives in the duplex across the street.

  “Good afternoon,” she says in a voice that vibr
ates against my ear. “I got your rent money. Did you get your receipt?”

  Our landlord is an interesting woman. She insists that we put our check for our rent inside her mailbox each month, saying, “No, don’t waste a stamp on it, just place it in an envelope and inside my box.” Then she places the receipt for the money each month in our mailbox. Then she calls to make sure we got the receipt.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “I got your receipt. Thank you.” I wait for her response, knowing it’s coming like an afternoon thunderstorm—predictable and booming.

  “Very well, then! Very well. Ta-ta.”

  At last, I’m on my way to Nags Head for my date with Davis. My heart hums. It appears a date with Davis Erickson is finally going to happen, although I do realize that I’m still not at the restaurant and something could detain me. A car is pulled over on the side of the road with the hood raised. Two men are deciphering the problem. As I pass them, I hope my truck isn’t planning to break down tonight.

  Even as I park at Blackbeard’s, I have the feeling Zane or Sheerly will come rushing toward me, causing this night to end before it gets to begin. I pull a mirror from my purse and check my makeup. My lipstick is still shiny on my mouth, and none of it has smeared my teeth, so I’m feeling good. I take a deep breath, grab my purse and keys, and once out of my truck, practice smiling as I walk toward the large restaurant’s front door. By the door is a flagpole with a black- and-white skull-and-crossbones flag flapping against the evening sky. Bright petunias and asters grow at the base of the pole, forming a little circle, as if they’re holding hands.

  Davis, dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a blue shirt, greets me once I open the door. His aftershave is just light enough to make me want to move in a little closer when he asks how my day has been.

  “Good,” I tell him. So far, so good.

  Davis gently touches my shoulder, shielding me from a large group following the hostess into the dining room.

  Being so close to Davis and realizing that we are actually now on a date makes my head feel light. “And how about you? How was your trip back?”