by Lisa Smartt
“Well, Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte aren’t here yet.”
She spit out some of her sweet tea. “So right, Carlie. So right.”
“Matthew, how was work? I mean, are you liking it? Dusty’s Shop can get pretty busy. Everything goin’ okay?”
“Yeah. I like it. It’s busy. But that’s better than being too slow. And it’s a lot better than…well, it’s better than where I have been workin’.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I just smiled and nodded. I took a moment to look at Matthew. I mean, really look at him. In so many ways, Aunt Charlotte was right. He didn’t look like someone off an episode of “Cops.” But he did possess a nervousness, a slight tic almost. He rocked back and forth in the old rocker but it wasn’t a relaxed rocking motion. More fast-paced. His dark hair was short, but not military style. It laid down on one side a bit. His skin was clear except for a small shaving cut on his chin. He looked younger than 35. I found that odd because I figured, well, that prison would have aged him. But no. Somehow he had persevered. About 6 ft. tall. Thin, like Dusty. Brown eyes. His blue jeans were new but the faded kind. He wore a simple black t-shirt with no writing on it, which also looked new. His hands were clean but in the way a working man’s hands are clean. Not lily white clean. No. Rough and scarred a bit.
When Homer Crittenden’s nephew, Jacob, set off some firecrackers about ten feet from the porch, Matthew jumped out of his chair and looked around like a wild animal being hunted. Ashley leaned over the porch railing and told Jacob not to set off any more fireworks because it might scare the kids. But we all knew the truth. It made sense. Fourteen years in prison. Matthew had PTSD.
He apologized. “Sorry. Just been a while since I’ve heard fireworks, I guess. When I was a kid though, I loved it. My dad took us to this huge fireworks display in San Diego every Fourth of July. I used to tell him that someday I was gonna work for that company. I told my sister that when she grew up, she’d be sitting at the park watching the fireworks and I’d be the one down at the pier making it all happen.” He picked up his water glass and smiled as he pointed toward James and Collin who were engaging in some serious “active learning” with two light sabers. “She was so naïve. She probably believed me.”
I saw this as an opportunity, not to find out what he did, but to find out who he is. “You have a sister, huh?”
He stood and pretended to be in a hurry. “Yeah, Mary, two years younger than me. Ashley, I need to use your restroom.”
“Absolutely, first door on the right after you go through the living room.”
When the big front door closed behind him, I had to ask. “So, Ashley, what do you think about our newest Sharon resident? He seems like a good guy, huh?”
“Yeah. Plus, I love the fact that he had no idea who I was. I just said, ‘Welcome, Matthew! I’m Ashley Harrison Robertson.’ And he said, ‘Nice to meet you. Do you work at the bank with Doug?’ I smiled and said, ‘No. I’m busy being a mom to Collin most days.’”
“That was humbling and a little bit wonderful, yes?”
“Yeah. He seems nice though. Sure, a little nervous. But that’s to be expected. Fourteen years…well, it’s a long time. Think of the life experiences you had between 21 and 35. Isn’t it weird to think about being locked up that whole time? Every day. I can’t even wrap my brain around it. When Chester pulled up, Matthew got all their stuff out of the car, helped Mrs. Ida with her cane, and helped us set out chairs under the oak tree. It was sweet really.”
“I don’t guess he said anything about…about what he was in for?”
“No. You mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t. I’m embarrassed to ask Dusty. He already feels like Matthew is under the gun. I don’t want him to think I’m not giving him the benefit of the doubt. Dusty says he’s a good guy. That’s enough for me or it should be enough anyway. Doug always says, ‘He did his time and that’s the end of it.’ But is it the end? I don’t really know.”
Dusty and Clara approached the porch as Matthew swung open the front door. They were smiling in that embarrassed way that parents of one-year-olds smile. Beau was screaming at a glass-breaking decibel and squirming to be released from Clara’s arms. Dusty looked at him with stern commitment, “You can’t play with the big kids, man. You can’t even walk yet. Here, we’ll set your flying saucer thing up here.”
Ashley jumped up from the rocking chair and flung open her arms. “Welcome, McConnells. Welcome!”
Dusty shouted back, “You may not want us today, Ashley!”
“Are you kidding?” She pointed her finger straight at Beau. “I’m not scared of this little guy! I can take whatever he can dish out.”
Matthew put out his hand to shake Dusty’s, even though they’d been working together less than two hours before.
“Matthew, I thought you’d be sound asleep by now, man!” Dusty wrapped his arm around Matthew’s shoulder and loudly declared, “This man put in some kind of day today, Ladies! He’s a work horse!”
Matthew’s face turned red as he put his hands in his pockets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sarah Simpson’s mother, Deloris, carefully placing a 3-layer coconut cake on the food table. Sarah was walking up the driveway carrying a huge Tupperware tray of deviled eggs that Doug, of course, would never eat even though we all trusted the Simpsons’ general commitment to food safety.
“Deloris! Sarah, come on up to the porch!”
“Be there in a minute!”
I can’t help being a matchmaker. Lord knows I’ve tried to not be one. I’m not even saying I’m a good one. I’ve had more failures than successes. But even if I only had failures, I’d still be a matchmaker. It’s kind of like how Aunt Ruth couldn’t help sweeping the front porch every day. It was an obsession. Even when Dr. Harris said she was less than a week from death, Aunt Ruth still hobbled out to that porch and swept it every day because sweeping, well, it was part of her identity. I understand that completely.
Plus, just because a man has done prison time, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need love. It doesn’t even mean he’s not willing to do whatever it takes to maintain love. I don’t know Sarah Simpson that well but I trust her. She’s a third grade teacher. She also teaches James and Collin’s Sunday School class and she never seems angry or impatient. Sarah calls their hyperactivity “boyish charm.” I mean, come on. Any woman who believes Collin and James are full of boyish charm is alright in my book. She’s also one of those women who’s not ridiculously good-looking and not ugly either. It’s weird. Kind of like, well, like Sigourney Weaver or the actress who plays the nerdy woman on “The Big Bang Theory.” You know, the one who used to be on the TV show, “Blossom.”
Sarah is about 5’6, straight brown shoulder-length hair, brown eyes, and an average figure. Sweet smile and disposition. A little more in the behind than in the boob area, but again, that’s probably the national norm. I noticed she was wearing make-up tonight and cute white capri pants that looked like they came from one of those expensive boutiques. Her solid pink top was made out of a thin billowy material that made everything look as good as it could up top, without being immodest. Push-up bra, maybe? Hmm. I wonder if someone told her that Matthew Prescott is the spitting image of the Channel 6 investigative reporter.
“Sarah, hey! Glad you could come! Have you met our newest Sharon resident? Sarah, Matthew Prescott. Matthew, this is Sarah, the best third grade teacher at Sharon Elementary School.”
Sarah laughed and when she did, I noticed she had gotten that chipped front tooth fixed. And she was wearing some serious mauve lip gloss, probably from Emma’s bi-monthly Mary Kay party at the Community Center.
She put out her hand to shake Matthew’s. “Nice to meet you, Matthew. Actually, I’m the only third grade teacher at Sharon Elementary so I guess it’s not hard to be the best one, huh?”
Matthew looked even more nervous than when James broke the glass. He smiled ever so slightly and said in almost a whisper, “Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
Sarah grabbed Dusty’s arm. “I hear you’re workin’ for this guy right here. You could definitely have done worse when it comes to bosses. Probably could have done better too…but still.”
Dusty pretended to push her off the porch. “Well, if Sarah here had been my third grade teacher, I’d have been even worse off.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m a teacher, not a miracle worker.”
Matthew silently leaned against the porch post during the exchange. He hardly moved a muscle. When Dave announced we were gathering out under the oak tree to eat, Matthew stepped off the porch and walked quickly toward the tree never making conversation or looking to see if anyone was beside him. I guess he was used to filing through the meal line, not worrying about social graces. Dave shouted, “Let’s pause for a word of thanks! Dusty, would you do the honors?” Dusty ran forward and put his arm around Matthew. He thanked God for friendship and love and for Matthew Prescott coming to town. Then Matthew picked up a paper plate and walked through the line as though he were not one bit worried about being first. It was odd. When he got to the end of the table he just nervously stood there. Ashley said, “We’ve got these tables set up. Just sit anywhere, Matthew.”
He sat at the table closest to the dessert table and looked over both shoulders before he picked up a piece of fish and started eating. That’s about the time we heard Aunt Charlotte’s loud declaration as she trotted up the driveway. “We’re here! We’re here! Lord, have mercy! You won’t believe what we been through. But we’re here now! Bart’s parkin’ the truck. Hope he don’t get stuck out there.” She had on a light green house dress with cap sleeves and a John Deere apron. She wore suntan knee-hi hose and those comfortable tan shoes old lady teachers wear from the SAS store. As she ran up the driveway, her arm fat and large breasts moved in rhythmic motion, almost like a synchronized swimmer. Well, like a synchronized swimmer carrying a lard bucket of magic pickles and an extra-large loaf of Bunny bread.
Dave ran to retrieve the pickles and bread. “Welcome, Aunt Charlotte! Glad you made it!”
“Oh Lord, Dave, you won’t believe what we been through. Billy Smith, you know…Carl’s boy, not the smart one but the one who don’t got no sense. Well, he done killed our calf! Right there in the street! Killed her dead! I reckon somebody left the backyard gate open and Sunshine got out and into the street. ‘Fore we knew it, tires was squealing and the calf was bawling….oh, it was….” Aunt Charlotte broke down in sobs as Dave grabbed the pickle bucket and loaf of bread. She lifted up the edge of her apron and blew her nose. It sounded like a foghorn on a big cruise ship beckoning everyone back on board.
Uncle Bart came strolling up the driveway wearin’ a white t-shirt and overalls. “Quit blubberin’, Charlotte. Ain’t no cryin’ gonna bring that calf back.” He looked down at the gravel driveway. “What’s done is done.”
When they approached the food table, everyone shared their heartfelt condolences. Ida spoke with unusual enthusiasm. “A few years ago that Smith boy hit a cat on our street and Cora Belle ain’t never been the same since. Said she always felt that calico cat was her grandmother come back to earth in cat form to look out for her and her sister.”
Chester jumped in. “People don’t come back as cats, Ida. You know that. Cora Belle ain’t got no room to talk. She’s more ‘an half crazy. Always has been.”
Every social event is an opportunity for education, that’s what I always say. The Friday night fish fry at Dave and Ashley’s was no exception. By the end of the evening, here’s what I’d learned: Sarah Simpson got her front tooth fixed and wore new capri pants, which makes me think she’s ready for my matchmaking services. Tom Hanks plays Ashley’s wealthy uncle in the upcoming movie. Aunt Charlotte is now mourning the death of a calf she wasn’t supposed to have in the city limits anyway. Cora Belle Mathis pretends to believe in reincarnation even though she’s a Baptist. And Matthew Prescott? He has a sister named Mary. The rest of his life is a complete mystery.
Chapter 6, CARLIE: Matchmaking Principle #1: Don’t Get the Cart Before the Horse (Principle #2: Ignore Principle #1 As Needed)
I don’t like to match people in ignorance. So, in honor of my desire to help Sarah Simpson, I headed out to Dusty’s Shop Monday morning for an oil change and some undercover detective work concerning Matthew. I’ll be the first to admit that my matchmaking attempts are not always successful. Last year I set up Bill Cline, the primary school principal, with Macy Snider, the girl who runs the animal shelter. Turns out he’s allergic to pet dander and was offended that she called her dogs her children. According to her, his last words of the evening were, “I work with children every day, Miss Snider. And trust me. These wiener dogs are not children.” Boom. That closed the casket on any possible relationship. And I reluctantly buried that matchmaking attempt in the backyard.
When I pulled into the parking lot of Dusty’s Shop, Matthew was carrying a tire from the shop to an old truck in the back lot. I waved and he nodded. I realized right then and there why so many women like “worker men” types. I don’t know. There’s just something about a man wearing work boots and greasy coveralls that makes some women swoon. Of course, I’m happily married to a banker so I make it a point to swoon over khaki pants and a navy jacket myself.
“Matthew! Matthew, how’s it goin’? I’m sure you’re ridiculously busy!”
He shouted back, “Just about to take a break!” He dropped the tire next to the truck and pulled a red shop rag from his back pocket, wiping his hands as he headed across the lot. “What brings you to Bradford, Carlie?”
“Just an oil change.”
“We can fix you up.”
“Speaking of fix-ups…” Ooops! Had I just said what I said when I didn’t mean to say it yet?
He smiled as he put the rag back into his pocket. “Fix-ups? Were we speaking of fix-ups?”
“Well, I mean, uh…people probably haven’t told you yet…I mean, why would they? Uh…I’m…well, I’m…”
“Famous. Yeah, I know. Dusty told me. You sold a bunch of books and made a movie and everything. You’ve been on TV and have met a bunch of famous people. And he told me that Ashley’s famous too. I didn’t watch much TV when I was…I’m more of a reader. And I read history books mostly. So I guess I missed your books. And I don’t care much about movies so I missed out on Ashley’s fame too. Sorry about that.”
“Oh, please! No worries. Really. Neither of us care much about being famous so it doesn’t bother us when other people don’t care either. In fact, it’s refreshing.”
“Nobody has called me refreshing in a long…” He laughed. “Well, nobody has ever called me refreshing.”
“I’m sure! Well, here’s the deal and I’ll just cut to the chase. I wasn’t talking about my fame. I was saying people probably haven’t told you I’m a matchmaker. And I was wondering, wondering if you’re interested in meeting people, people in our area?”
“Yeah, sure. I liked going to that thing at Dave and Ashley’s. I went to the barber shop Saturday, met the mayor and a guy who works at Farm Bureau.”
“Well, I’m thinking more along the lines of female people. Dusty says you’re a good guy and I’ll be honest with you. There aren’t a ton of eligible bachelors around here. Are you interested in…”
“Meeting a woman? Yeah. Eventually.” He straightened a pile of tires by the front door and avoided eye contact. “The question is probably, ‘Is a woman interested in meeting me?’ And I can’t see that she would be. Not right now anyway.”
“And why is that?”
He glanced up at me as he squatted down to pick up a candy wrapper that had blown onto the sidewalk. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not kidding. Look, you did something bad. You’re not the only one, y’know? Our mailman takes a nap every afternoon on Mrs. Eula’s back porch. The mayor threw a bottle of syrup at his wife at the Rotary Pancake Breakfast last year. Seriously. It was a full bottle too. The middle school lunch ladies swear up
and down they’re still findin’ sticky spots on the ceiling. The high school football coach got suspended for tackling an official during the Play-offs last year. I mean, put him on the ground and punched his lights out too. And evidently, Cora Belle has paid no attention to her spiritual training because she believes dead people can turn into cats. Stand in line, Matthew. Really. You’re not the only messed-up person around here.”
He stood up and looked right into my face. It was the first time I had really seen him up close and personal. Up close, he did look 35. Deep lines around his dark brown eyes. I doubted they were laugh lines. He shook his head and spoke quietly, “You guys have no idea. Throwing a syrup bottle? That’s embarrassing, yeah. But it’s not a felony.” He looked down. “I’m a felon, Carlie. That doesn’t go away.” He turned and pointed toward the service bay. “Go ahead and pull your car in right here. I’ll get it taken care of.”
“Thanks.” I turned to get into my car but quickly turned back around. “Oh, and guess what, Matthew? The mayor? Reelected the very next year. Seriously. It was a landslide. Wanna know why?”
He laughed as he wiped his sweaty forehead. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. Y’see, Mayor Perkins, he got on the radio the very next morning. Apologized to his wife, Gloria, to the people of Sharon, the Rotarians, the children of the area, school officials. Said there was no excuse for such an angry outburst. Real humble like too. Ida said it made his mama cry. And the people ‘round here? Well, they forgave him, even re-elected him.” I slid into the car seat and rolled down the window. “So really, whatever you did, you didn’t do it to the people around here. Nobody’s cleaning syrup off the ceiling ‘cause of you, Matthew. And even if they were…well, they might be more forgiving than you think. Just remember that.”
He grinned as he directed me into the service bay. “I’ll try.”
Chapter 7, CARLIE: Aunt Charlotte vs. Billy Smith