Doug and Carlie: Lessons in Love (Doug & Carlie Series Book 4)

by Lisa Smartt

  I think Dusty was trying to shame all of us. I mean, I think he was hoping all the Rotarians and Kiwanis folks and Lions Club members and, well, everyone in the area who knew him would trust his judgment. Hadn’t they all given him a standing ovation? Weren’t they anxious for their kids to hear his story at the high school last year? If they appreciated Dusty’s story so much, why would they not embrace Matthew and his story? But I think Uncle Bart hit the nail on the head when he said, “Truth is ol’ Dusty ain’t told none of us what this new fella done. Must have been pretty bad to do fourteen years. Prolly killed somebody.”

  Chapter 4, CARLIE: Welcome, Matthew! Oh, And What Exactly Did You Do?

  Doug and I invited the McConnells and Matthew and Chester and Ida to Monday night dinner. James was busy in the living room setting up every Lego set he owned so that Will, Mandy, and Molly would be impressed.

  As I pulled brown pieces of Romaine lettuce out of the salad, I whispered in Doug’s ear. “Okay. Aren’t you curious? Even a little bit?”

  “Curious about what?”

  “Doug, please. About what he did. I mean, fourteen years. That’s a pretty long time.”

  “I figure he’ll tell us if he wants to tell us…when he wants to tell us.”

  “You are the best person in the world. Seriously. You should be married to a woman who is willing to rip all your clothes off tonight and make mad passionate love to you.”

  He started laughing, grabbed my rear end, and whispered, “Lucky me.”

  The doorbell rang at 6:05. I quickly removed my apron as Doug headed toward the door.

  “Dusty, hey! Come in. Will, you’ve grown like a foot in the last week, man.” All nine dinner guests filed through the door. Well, Beau didn’t file in. He rode in on Dusty’s shoulders.

  Chester carried an old lemonade container with a torn paper label barely clinging to the outside. He shook his head and spoke with hesitation, “Charlotte wanted me to bring you this buttermilk. Don’t know the source. Don’t want to know. Just doin’ what I’m told.”

  I quickly grabbed the old jug. “No problem, Chester. Thank you.”

  Clara took the older kids into the living room where James was beckoning their approval of his various Lego projects. Doug had helped him make Hogwarts Castle and they all testified of its majesty.

  Dusty removed his camo cap and said, “Doug, Carlie, I’d like you to meet one of my very best friends. This is Matthew Prescott. Matthew, this is Doug and Carlie. They’re not friends. They’re family.”

  Doug extended his hand, “Welcome, Matthew. Welcome.”

  I reached out to hug him because that’s what I do. I hug strangers. Matthew hugged back but not in a clingy scary way. No. He hugged back like an old college friend who felt comfortable being reunited with us. And he smelled like that expensive cologne my cousin, Jim, always wore. Canoe or Shipwreck or something like that. “Matthew, welcome to our home. It’s chaotic but it’s home. Doug will take you into the living room where Lego magic is happening before your very eyes.”

  He laughed. “Thanks. I’m glad to be here.” He glanced into the kitchen area. “And something smells wonderful.”

  He looked nothing like I envisioned. It was crazy for me to have envisioned Matthew Prescott in the first place. Dusty had never given us a physical description. But somehow I had pictured a large brawny man with scars, a hoarse voice, and hair on his back.

  Matthew looked like a young Hugh Grant instead. He looked like someone who, ten years ago, could have played a teenager on a Disney TV show, even though he would have been 25 at the time. He wore dark blue jeans and a forest green long-sleeve shirt that looked vaguely familiar. I soon realized they were Dusty’s clothes.

  Matthew followed Doug and Chester and Ida into the living room as I discreetly pulled Dusty into the kitchen and whispered, “Aren’t those your clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, he doesn’t even have his own clothes?”

  “No. Not yet. Clara and the kids are taking him shopping in the morning. We have to get school clothes for the kids anyway. We’ll just pick up some things for him then. I’ve got plenty of work clothes he can have. He’ll just need clothes for you know…” Dusty smiled and winked. “…for the many social things he’s gonna get invited to around here.”

  “What about family? Does he not have anybody?”

  “Yes, Carlie. He has people. He has me. He has Clara. He has the kids. He has us.”

  I could tell Dusty was getting impatient. He had declared Matthew Prescott one of his very good friends. Instead of trusting him, I was giving him the third degree. “I’m sorry. Really. He seems nice.”

  “He is.”

  I ran into the living room and announced, “Come and get it while it’s hot! Chicken spaghetti, one of Sharon, Tennessee’s signature foods. Noodles and butter and yard bird! What’s not to love, people? Oh shoot, I left the garlic bread on broil!”

  As I ran toward the kitchen, James bumped into the coffee table and accidentally knocked over Doug’s tea glass. The tall glass made a piercing sound as it shattered on the hardwood floor. Matthew jumped from the couch and shouted a string of obscenities.

  James yelled, “He said bad words, Daddy! He said bad words!”

  When I returned to the living room, Matthew’s face was as red as Aunt Charlotte’s homegrown tomatoes. He reached down to pick up some big glass pieces and said in a quiet voice, “Sorry about that. Just a little jumpy, I guess.”

  Dusty put his arm around him. “No worries, Man. We understand. You’re among friends.”

  But Chester and Ida didn’t look like they did understand. In fact, Chester’s face turned several shades lighter than his normal pasty white. He looked like he was regretting that night Dusty took him and Mrs. Ida to the Sonic in Greenfield for mustard burgers and cheese tots. It sounded like such a great idea when Dusty first told him that Matthew could help with the yard work and the housework. But perhaps all that grease and sodium had dulled Chester’s senses. Matthew Prescott had spent every day of the last fourteen years in a state prison cell…and now he was going to be living in Chester and Ida’s guest room with Ida’s silverware and all the Christmas decorations stored neatly under the bed.

  Doug ran toward the kitchen and then briefly glanced back. “Look, this is no big deal. I’ll grab the trash can in here. Carlie, can you get a big towel? We’ll just make quick work of this.”

  But all of us had forgotten one simple fact. James is five. And five-year-olds, well, they act like five-year-olds. All the time.

  As Matthew was picking up big chunks of glass, James tapped him on the shoulder. “You are in BIG trouble with my daddy, mister.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. My daddy is gonna make you take a bath or go to bed or put all your toys in the closet.”

  “I’ve already had a bath. What if I just help clean up this mess? Do you think that would count?”

  James looked puzzled and then shook his head. “No. That won’t count.”

  Doug broke in, “James, Matthew is our guest and he will not be taking a bath or going to bed while he’s here. He’ll be eating with us. You’re the one who knocked over the glass. We’re not fussing at you, are we?”

  “No.”

  “Right. We’re not fussing at you and we’re not fussing at Matthew either. Accidents happen. Let’s just move on.”

  By the time we all gathered at the table and started eating, calm had been restored once more. Other than two loaves of black garlic bread eternally stuck to a pan on the counter and a pile of broken glass in the trash can, it was a nearly perfect night. But like most seasons of calm, it was all temporary.

  We could all hear Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte’s loud voices as they scurried onto the porch. As they’ve gotten older, their talking has become increasingly louder out of necessity.

  “Now, Bart, don’t go embarrassing none of us! We don’t know he killed somebody! He might have jest maimed ‘em or took somethin�
�� or robbed a bank!”

  “Well, he done somethin’ bad if he served fourteen years! And I aim to find out what it was!”

  Aunt Charlotte knocked on the kitchen door and yelled out, “Yoo Hoo! Anybody home?”

  Doug excused himself from the table and opened the door. “Well, look who’s here.” He smiled and spoke in a tone that was half friendly and half scolding, “Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte, what a surprise! I hope this is a social call. Tell me you brought some of your famous magic pickles for our newest Sharon resident.”

  Aunt Charlotte blushed with embarrassment which was rare. “No, we done forgot the pickles, Hon. But yes, we did figure on meetin’ Chester and Ida’s newest boarder.”

  Aunt Charlotte was wearing a bright pink, floral, sleeveless muumuu. She ran toward Matthew and extended her hand. When she did, her arm jiggled so much it put Santa Claus’ belly to shame. “Charlotte Nelson. Pleased to meet ya. And this here’s Bart. I gotta say you don’t look nothin’ like I expected.”

  Matthew wiped his mouth and smiled. When he smiled, I couldn’t help but wonder if they had provided teeth whitening strips in prison. I guess he had plenty of time for brushing and flossing. Or is floss considered a potential weapon? Not sure. He stood. “And what did you expect me to look like?”

  “Well, I watch all them cop shows and that show about the way criminals think. And, well, they all look like criminals. You look like…I don’t know.” She wrinkled her brow and turned toward the door. “Who does he look like, Bart?”

  “He looks like that fella on Channel 6 news, the one that does all the investigatin’ of bad contractors and plumbers and stuff.”

  Aunt Charlotte beamed. “Don’t he though?” She turned toward Matthew and put her hand on his shoulder. “Honey, Bart’s right! You look just like that fella on the 10 o’clock news. And he’s a good lookin’ fella too. Sarah Simpson is set on marryin’ him even though she ain’t never even met him. And she’s a respectable third grade teacher at Sharon Elementary.”

  Matthew sat back down and laughed as though he felt comfortable playing along. “Well, that’s the greatest compliment I’ve received all day, all year even.”

  I pulled two chairs from the bar to the table. “Won’t you two join us for a little spaghetti?”

  Uncle Bart grabbed a cherry tomato from the salad bowl and said between chews, “We already ate. You ain’t got no ice cream, do ya?”

  “No. No ice cream today. We have Tiramisu in the refrigerator for dessert. How ‘bout that?”

  “Tira-ma-what? Gall darn it, Carlie, you know I don’t eat that crap I can’t even pronounce.”

  I patted his back. “I know. What about a graham cracker?”

  “Got any marshmallow crème?”

  “I do.”

  Uncle Bart looked at young Matthew as though he were interviewing him for a job. “Chester and Ida here are good folks. You’re mighty blessed they saw fit to take you in.”

  “Yes, sir. I think it’s gonna be a good situation for all of us. I like doing yard work and fixing things. I hope I can help them out while they’re helping me.”

  “You like fixing stuff, huh?”

  “I do.”

  “Where did you learn to do that? Your daddy?”

  “No. My dad hired everything out. I don’t think I ever saw his hands dirty. No. I learned how to fix stuff when I was in school. And I did a lot of work around the prison too.” Matthew looked straight at Uncle Bart when he said it. It’s like he wanted it all out on the table. Front and center.

  Uncle Bart spooned a huge glob of marshmallow crème onto a graham cracker and when Matthew said the word “prison” the graham cracker snapped and Aunt Charlotte reached out to help gather the crumbs. She spoke loudly because she only has one volume really. “Yeah, I ‘spect you had a lot of time on your hands. Yes, sir.”

  Matthew leaned back in his chair. “Yes ma’am. I did have a lot of time. Mr. Nelson, I have a question for you. What’s the best thing about living here in Sharon?”

  “I don’t rightly know. I lived here my whole life. So I don’t know if it’s better or worse than other places. I know er’body in town. Maybe that’s the best thing. I know people. Good people.”

  “I figured that’s what you’d say. And I understand, at least a little bit. Mr. Chester and Mrs. Ida have fixed up a nice room for me.” He patted his flat stomach. “And if Carlie keeps cooking like this, I’m going to gain ten pounds. Seems like a good place to be.”

  Aunt Charlotte chimed in, “Where are your people, Honey? Your family?”

  “California.”

  “Then why ain’t you in California, Baby?”

  Doug stood up and put an end to the interrogation. “I think we’ve asked Matthew enough questions for one night. He just arrived in Sharon today. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know him. Why don’t we eat some of that Tiramisu in the living room? Plus, I know Dusty and Clara’s oldest three want to recite their parts for the Soybean Festival Breakfast over in Martin. We can’t wait to hear that, kids. Really. I’ve always wondered about the history of the soybean. Haven’t you, Matthew?”

  He smiled. “Absolutely. I’m all ears.”

  I couldn’t help but respond, “Save your ears for the Sharon Corn and Music Festival. That’s when it really breaks loose around here.”

  Chapter 5, CARLIE: Friday Night is for Rednecks and Movie Stars

  If Ashley isn’t shooting a movie, the Robertsons come to Sharon at least twice a month. I know. You’re wondering why a famous movie star and her ridiculously good-looking husband and child would come to a place that doesn’t even have a movie theater or a Home Depot or even a KFC. That’s easy. People. Plus, they own a modest little log house here that Dave bought back before they were an “item.” After they married, they decided to keep the log house because, well, because it’s in the woods and because it’s near all of us. Plus, everybody knows people buy places out in the country just so they can run around in their underwear and not get caught.

  Ashley was scheduled to shoot a romantic comedy in late October, so they decided to spend most of August and September in Sharon. Dave is busy writing a book about the connection between grief and addiction. I read the first ten chapters and cried like a baby. Between the graphic details of his personal story and the helpful counseling advice, it’s destined to be a best-seller.

  Dave asked Homer Crittenden to cater a big fish fry at their place the Friday night after they arrived. Everyone was to bring sides and desserts. Friday morning Chester walked down to the bank just to ask Doug if he thought they should bring Matthew to the fish fry. Poor Chester. Such a long life. So little wisdom. Doug assured him that, unlike a hamster or a goldfish, which would be inappropriate to bring to a fish fry, Matthew was an actual person and, therefore, was absolutely invited.

  That evening, when we pulled into Dave and Ashley’s long driveway, we could see Matthew, Chester, and Ida already sitting on the front porch with Dave and Ashley. James started yelling, “Where’s Collin, Mama? Where’s Collin?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” James’ sandy brown curls bounced as he ran to the back yard in search of his light sabre-wielding comrade.

  Dave ran from the porch and jumped on Doug like he was an intruder. “Hey, old man! Who invited you and your clan?”

  Doug put Dave in a pseudo-headlock and said, “The law sent me to make sure things didn’t get out of hand out here. Said some poor citified California sap was likely to set the woods on fire.”

  Dave struggled free and lightly punched Doug in the gut. “Uh, yeah, they should be worried. My good looks are producing a lot of heat out here, brother. A lot of heat.”

  Doug rolled his eyes and reached for the cooler in the back seat. Doug will absolutely under no circumstances consider eating potato salad at an outdoor summer event unless it’s been chilled to a temperature that would make Antarctica shiver. I may burn a lot of food, but I know to never leave stuff at room tem
perature because of Doug’s now-famous “1997 Fourth of July Potato Salad Salmonella Story.” Really. It should be translated into a book. A horror story that would make Stephen King blush. So, now our potato salad has to be transported in a huge cooler with massive blocks of ice guarding the health and well-being of everyone we love.

  Dave leaned in and spoke in a quieter voice. “We met Chester and Ida’s house guest. Seems like a good guy.”

  “Yeah, he does. I guess you know…I mean, you know the situation, right? That he’s Dusty’s friend from…”

  “Prison. Yeah. I know. Chester called and talked to Ashley for 30 minutes explaining the whole thing and asking if we were worried about him casing the joint. He literally used those words. It was like a line out of ‘Matlock.’ God bless the old man. I really expected him to show up in a seersucker suit.”

  Doug laughed. “We should be more worried about Chester driving after dark and owning a firearm and eating pinto beans and cabbage after 6 pm than we should worry about Matthew Prescott.” Doug put his arm around Dave and whispered as we approached the porch. “I’m glad he’s here anyway. Matthew. I’m glad he’s found a home here. Speaking of homes, I hear ya’ll are staying a while this time. Good. We like it when our charm lures the famous people back home.”

  I liked Dave and Ashley. We all did. Love them? Sure. But maybe more importantly, we liked them. Ashley was chatting with Matthew like an old friend. She broke conversation just long enough to give me a hug before I sat down in an old wooden rocker. “Matthew tells me he likes Sharon so far. I guess you guys haven’t scared him too much. At least not yet.”