Beatrice Lou says, “Don’t you think I knew he was asking Casey about that boat all summer? I know he made trips to Juniper Lane to check it out and was eyeing my truck, wanting to put a trailer hitch on the back of it.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “I don’t know how he thinks he can keep secrets from me after thirty-three years of marriage.”
I bet she knows about the cigars and donuts, too.
Our smiles are gentle toward her. We look for Ropey to congratulate him, but he and Tiny have taken Zane and gone for a cruise around the inlet. At first, we all thought Zane would not set foot on the boat due to his fear from the way his father died. But Zane said he is in kindergarten now and that he would like a ride. Ropey put an orange life vest on the boy and, holding his hand, guided him onto the boat.
“Ropey is as cool as a cucumber about owning a boat again,” Beatrice Lou says, her gaze focused over the water beyond the dock by Sheerly and Tiny’s. “The power of it, the expense.” There’s a pronounced sigh and then, “You know a boat is a hole in which you toss all your money.”
I look at my aunt, expecting to see fear in her eyes—doubt, remorse, and bitterness. Instead there is resolution, acceptance, even something that looks like love.
“Men and their boats.” Sheerly wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. “I do wonder if there is a bond as strong on God’s green planet.”
I smile and touch Aunt Beatrice Lou on the arm. Her skin feels cool. “You are such a good soul,” I tell her.
“Well, when he crashes into rocks because salt water has impaired his vision, tell me that. Or when his back gives out and he comes crying to me, we’ll see how good of a soul I am.”
I almost say, at least he’ll be crashing while doing something he loves to do, but I stop myself. Minnie told me that a few people gave her that line after Lawrence’s death. “At least he was fishing when he died. He loved to do that.” Minnie says she has yet to find any warmth from that sentiment.
And now her mother is gone. Today, we women take turns hugging her. Even Aggie comments on how lonely it feels now that Irvy and her wheelchair are no longer here. Then she goes into the house, and Beatrice Lou tells us about Aggie’s most recent date.
“Douglas?” I ask.
My aunt nods. “He’s wealthy and available,” she says.
So I’ve heard.
That night I pick up the biography from Davis and read another chapter. The author says that most of Manex Jethro’s songs were written by his blind girlfriend. However, he never gave her credit for any of them. I find that annoying and read the chapter again to make sure I’ve comprehended it all correctly. Instead of crediting the lyrics to the woman who penned them, Manex always told people he came up with them. This girlfriend was just as poor as he was, yet he never let others know about her, even when he began to earn millions of dollars.
I head out to the deck and watch the night sky.
“He is my all-time hero,” Davis said about this man. Did Davis not know about the blind girlfriend, or did he ignore that part?
All-time hero. My skin itches, and I’m not sure if it’s due to mosquitoes or mental irritation.
I take out my phone and text him. When can I get a key to the Bailey House?
By midnight, there is still no reply.
35
Sheerly gives Minnie three days off to go to the nursing home and “tie up the loose ends.” Basically, this means picking up Irvy’s belongings and signing some papers. Minnie says it shouldn’t take more than a few hours, but Sheerly reminds her that “these things take time” and not to rush the process. Then she describes how she felt when her own mother died. “I felt lost, like nothing mattered. I cried each time I picked tomatoes from my garden. How Mama loved a plate of sliced tomatoes, sprinkled with salt.”
After heading out the door, Minnie comes back into the house to retrieve her car keys that she’s left by a vase of limp carnations— funeral flowers.
“I’ll be here when Zane gets home,” I call out to her as she makes her way down the stairs to the driveway. I don’t know if she hears me.
When she backs out of the driveway, I take my flute from the closet and start to play a few weak notes. I think back to the day Irvy asked me to give a little concert with her. She said it would be at her home for a few close friends. For some reason, I agreed to it.
That Friday evening in March, day lilies, tall and tilted, were placed in wide vases around the foyer. We sat in her living room as guests ate little cheese-and-olive hors d’oeuvres and drank punch. I was proud to be giving a concert. Our school had plenty of band concerts in which I played, but this was my first private event. I chose my clothes carefully—black pumps and silky hose. My dress was just above my knees and as black as coal. Minnie brushed my hair for me and put a garland of artificial pink rosebuds around my head.
I played with all the confidence I had within me. Irvy was her usual poised self and played her piano with vigor. I sure hoped I was doing all right, but I was too nervous to make eye contact with her. My fingers pressed hard against each key as I breathed into the mouthpiece; my eyes did not shift from the sheet music.
Later, after her guests left and the last car took off from her driveway, Irvy gave me a white envelope that had my name printed on it. Inside was a twenty-dollar bill and a perfumed card. The sloping words on the card read, “Always play, always practice, always perfect.”
“She liked your playing,” Minnie told me the next day at school. “Everyone did.”
Now I play “Jesus Loves Me,” which I also played last week at the funeral. I hit a wrong note and stop. Suddenly, a jubilant piece comes out. “The Hallelujah Chorus” suits me well today, for Buck is due back. My heart flutters like a sandpiper wanting to soar. With every note, the darkness of Irvy’s death creeps out of my heart, until at last, the wings spread wide and it flies away.
In her room, Minnie tells Zane to be careful. He has one of Irvy’s veiled back hats on his head, balancing it while walking over a strip of scarves he’s laid over the floor. I remember how Irvy sat in the second pew at church wearing that very hat. She wore it in the fall with a peacock blue suit, her feet encased in sleek heels.
Minnie has brought Irvy’s belongings from the nursing home to our duplex. Now I imagine she’ll add Irvy’s things to Lawrence’s. As she opens the heavy chest that holds mementos of her late husband, I pray that this chest won’t have to have any more items added to it anytime soon.
Pausing at the doorway, I wait until Minnie motions for me to enter the bedroom.
Zane has lost interest in the items and picks up two toy trucks and begins to drive them into the hallway.
Minnie’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes dull, and I wonder when the last time was that she ate a good meal. She hands me a square maroon box, tattered, with dingy hinges. “Open it.”
Gently, I peel back the lid and am greeted by an aroma of furniture polish and vanilla. Inside the velvet interior are index cards with writing on them. I take one out. It’s a recipe written in sloping letters for shortbread cookies. The next is for chocolate cake. Then there’s one for lemon cookies. But not just any ol’ lemon cookie recipe; across the top of the card is written The Bailey House Lemon Cookies.
When I look at Minnie, her face shines. The sorrow from the day seems to have evaporated, even if only for this moment. “We found it.”
“This is it!” I read through the ingredients and the instructions. The key for me is the icing made from powdered sugar. Not every lemon cookie recipe has this, and this card tells how to frost the cookies after they are baked, exactly like Mrs. Bailey always frosted hers. I knew that Irvy and Mrs. Bailey were good friends—apparently they were the kind close enough to share recipe cards.
“So now that we have the recipe, we can make them for the new and improved Bailey House.” Minnie amazes me. Even with everything going on in her life, she spends time thinking about our plans for the bed and breakfast. “When is the house going to
be ours, Jackie? When can we start working on it? I’m ready.” Minnie closes the box of recipes and rests her fingers across the lid.
I think of the signed contract, the time I spent with Davis at the Bailey House, the worn walls and kitchen tiles, the need to do a zillion things to the place before we can possibly open it again to the public. I start to tell her that there’s a lot of work to do, but her face is so intent, her eyes so full of something I haven’t seen in months, I just let my smile be my answer.
She grins back at me. “You know, not since Lawrence’s death have I felt this . . . this . . .”
I wait for her to finish.
“ . . . hopeful.”
I decide to make her favorite dinner—grilled pork chops, corn pudding, fried okra, and baked potatoes. Before setting the table, I whisper to Zane that he needs to help Mommy by being a big boy and not complaining about our meal tonight. He looks at me and says, “I’m going to kindergarten, so I can be big.”
Minnie eats her dinner with enthusiasm, commenting on how delicious it all tastes. She thinks we should make a batch of lemon cookies, but I tell her I’m too tired for that.
“Another time, then. I’m so glad Mama had the recipe.”
“Me too.”
“Today I talked to a woman who owns a cleaning business. I got her card. I guess we need to start thinking about people to hire to do the lawn care and cleaning at the Bailey House.” There is lightness to her voice and movements; gone is the weighty shroud she once wore.
Zane and I look across the table at each other and smile. After the dishes are cleared, I give him a big bowl of ice cream, even though he’s eaten only half of his pork chop and folded the okra into his napkin.
But he never whined.
36
Buck is back from California, and the Sunnyside Grille is a place I want to be again. Through the grapevine—or more accurately, the salon—Minnie heard that Buck was due to arrive home last night. Buck’s mother was at the salon two days ago getting a perm and disclosed this information. I nonchalantly nodded when Minnie told me this news, acting as though it didn’t matter to me whether Buck came back or not. But Minnie seemed to know that it did.
This afternoon, when I enter the restaurant, I see two waitresses I don’t recognize. Buck has told me staff members come and go quickly. I glance around the restaurant—tables filled with chattering customers, the computer where the waitstaff enters orders, Pepsi glasses and skillets on the shelves, New Orleans posters on the walls—but I don’t see Buck. Then he pops up from behind the counter, and my heart dances. I look for a vacant seat and find one at the end of the bar.
When Buck comes over, he grins at me and asks what I’d like to eat.
“A bunch of fries with lots of salt,” I tell him. My salt craving tends to be stronger when the weather grows cooler.
He nods, but his eyes don’t have their usual gleam.
I try to tease him. “Can you ask the cook if the fries are fried in vegetable or canola oil?”
Buck doesn’t react. “I can do that,” he says in a monotone. Quickly, he walks to the soda fountain and fills a mason jar with Diet Pepsi for me. He got his hair trimmed and it looks good, but I was getting used to him looking like he did before.
When he hands me my drink, I ask how his time in San Diego was, but he’s gone, headed over to the other side of the counter to take a young couple’s order.
Panic causes my blood to chill. Did I say something wrong? And why do I care? Technically, I’m dating Davis. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but he’s a busy guy. I take a large swallow of my soda, feel it go down too quickly, cough, and reach for a napkin.
“You okay?” Buck brings me a large plate of fries, steam rising from them. “Be careful, these fries are extremely hot,” he says in his best Betty Lynn imitation.
“Something went down the wrong pipe.”
Betty Lynn calls him over, and his attention is no longer on me.
Methodically, I chew a French fry. Looking for the saltshaker, I watch as Buck serves plates of the daily special—clams and shrimp with garlic mashed potatoes and coleslaw—to the couple.
“Need anything?” he asks me when he walks by again.
Something is wrong. He hasn’t called me Hatteras Girl once this afternoon.
“Salt.” I try to make my reply lively.
Buck brings a saltshaker to me, places it in front of my plate.
“Thanks, Jellyfish Boy.” I hope that my teasing will make the light come into his eyes again, but he just nods and turns toward the kitchen, disappearing behind the set of swinging doors.
Something inside me wants to jump up, follow him, and blurt, “I’d love to go kayaking with you again. When are you free?”
When he comes back to the counter, he brings a plastic container of tartar sauce for the couple with the seafood. He walks right past me and I want to cry out, “Buck! Buck! Here I am! Did you miss me?”
Buck doesn’t know that I saw his name in the clouds the other evening as the sun set.
I head back to the office, reaching the front door just as heavy rain pours from the sky. Only Cassidy is here, arranging the layout of advertisements for the November issue. “I’m getting a head start,” she tells me when I say that the October issue isn’t out yet. “I’m tired of being behind schedule and hearing Selena’s voice pounding in my head. Sometimes I even hear her in my dreams, you know.”
Later she tells me, “Did you know there was a study showing that people on diets dream more than those who are not?”
“Really? I wonder if their dreams are all about food.”
“I think so. Mine are.”
At my desk, I pretend to type an interview at my computer, but I’m really making a to-do list for the Bailey House. Minnie mentioned getting a person to clean, and in addition to that, we’ll need a landscaper. I smile, thinking how serene it will be to see the back garden of the bed and breakfast cultivated properly once again, with the honeysuckle bushes clipped and the flower beds cleaned out. Thinking of how dingy the walls of the house are, I stop and phone a painter who owns a shop on Shady Sea Lane. He’s not in; I leave a message.
Taking a break from my computer, I stare at the downpour through the window by my desk. Tree limbs sway under the torrents, and the sky is a sheet of dark gray. The rain beats the windowpane like an angry fist. My mind feels as heavy as the weather.
While I told Davis that I can spare $2,800 each month from my savings, that was before. Now that I’ve seen how much work needs to be done on the property before we can welcome any paying guests, I’m worried I won’t have enough money. What exactly is the landlord supposed to pay for versus the tenant?
Repairs I write on my to-do list. I delete it and type it in capital letters. Minnie has told me she has $2,000 in savings we can use for rent. Then there’s the $2,052 brought in by the fundraiser—will that be enough to complete repairs and updating of the house? I doubt it. Will Davis help pay for cleaning and repairs? I know he wants nothing added or taken away from the old home, but surely he would agree that the place needs paint.
I doodle in my notebook as I think, drawing tiny circles and then petals of geraniums. How will I be able to put work into the house if I have to keep writing for Lighthouse Views in order to make the rent? Should I quit my job? Should Minnie keep one of her jobs? We probably won’t be able to work once the guests start to come. Time and money. I write both words next to my flowers. These are the American people’s two big stresses.
Cassidy says she’s heading home.
“Really?”
“It’s almost five. I get to eat a slice of lemon cake tonight. It’s made from yogurt, rice flour, and lemon extract. Can’t wait.”
She isn’t joking; her face shows that she’s really eager for this piece of cake.
“You look great. Don’t you get to go off your diet soon?” If she lost any more weight, we wouldn’t be able to find her.
“Maintaining.” She says
the word like a drill sergeant. “Don’t want to gain anything back. Plus, after months of diet food, I’ve grown used to this lifestyle.” She walks to the door. “See you tomorrow.”
I am about to tell her to be careful outside in the rain, but my cell rings and I see that it’s Davis.
“Hi, Jackie. How are you?”
“Great.” Just the sound of his voice warms me like a cup of hot tea. “How about you?”
“I am swamped.” He sighs for emphasis.
“Really busy, huh?” I brace myself for what is coming next.
“Look, I’m not going to be able to make dinner tonight.”
My voice is small. “Oh, okay.”
“Try to stay dry.”
Right before he hangs up, I say, “When can I have a key?”
“A key?”
“To the Bailey House. I want to get started on things.” The last time I visited the property on my own, the shutters still had not been removed as Davis had promised he would do.
“Well, I can meet you there if you want to look at it again.”
“I don’t mind going there alone.”
“Well . . .”
The pause is too long for me. Does he think I can’t be responsible in a place that I now rent? “I want to walk around inside again. Make plans. You know me, I love going up and down those stairs.”
“Sure,” he says at last, but I can’t tell if he’s smiling into the phone or not.
“Can I come by your office and pick up the key?” His office closes at five, but I can come by tomorrow morning.
“Of course.”
“In case you aren’t there, could you leave the key with your receptionist?” I can’t seem to remember her name, but I recall it starts with a B.
A long pause; I’m tempted to chatter to ease my discomfort, but I wait. At last, he says, “Okay.”
Somewhere in my head, the U2 song “With or Without You” plays. “I can’t live with or without you.” The line is stuck in my mind. I think it found its way there for a reason.
Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) Page 19