In a Moon Smile

by Coner, Sherri

  Fifteen minutes later, Chesney wiggled into a pale blue cotton sundress, slipped her feet into loose sandals and tied her hair back before adding a few swipes of mascara.

  “I look like a country bumpkin,” she said happily to her reflection. “And I love it.”

  She was taking a break today from all the cleaning. Today she would drive into Bean Blossom, maybe flirt a little with Deke, the hardware store artist, and buy some paint. She climbed into the sensible four-door vehicle with cloth interior and manual door locks. No frills. She had traded that hot little sports car for this granny-type of vehicle, knowing that her new lifestyle would not be friendly toward a cute little two-seat convertible. She parked in front of the hardware store and her stomach grumbled. The delicious scent of fried biscuits wafted from Cathy’s Café. On the corner, the post office shared the town block with a rather abandoned-looking beauty shop called Charm House. Most of the time, ladies with blue-tinted hair walked out of that shop, proudly wearing too-tight pin curls from the 1950s. A video store bait shop combo completed the downtown business district. And all of it thrilled Chesney. She was in love with the simple ways and the smiling yet nosy residents. Subconsciously, she smoothed her hair as she entered Deke’s hardware store.

  “Morning, ma’am,” a lanky young clerk smiled and she tried to hide the disappointment that he wasn’t Deke. “What can I help you find?”

  “Paint,” Chesney smiled back. “Lots of paint.” She happily made her way to the back of the store, excited to be here, ready to make decorating decisions. In Chicago, she shied away from colors. Her home was filled with washed out, socially acceptable beige. Non-threatening. Indecisive. And very boring. Exactly like her relationships with Jack and her family. “I'd like a sunny, lemony yellow,” she said with a giant grin. “I'm painting my kitchen.” The decision just popped into her head and she envisioned a beautiful, cheerful country kitchen. It was a decorating choice Jack would never allow in his fancy apartment filled with shades of gray. If they had married, Jack would have hired a decorator to tastefully merge their belongings into one highly polished blah.

  “Do you like this color?” the young man pried the top off a paint can.

  “A little bit softer,” She peered over his shoulder at the paint.

  “Let's add some white paint to lighten it.” As the clerk turned to mix the paint, he stuck out his hand. “I'm Luke,” he said with a toothy grin. “And you must be Miss Blake. You're Miss Grace's granddaughter, right? And you bought back the old homestead? People in town are talking about you.”

  “You can call me Chesney,” She smiled and he blushed and dropped his eyes. “And yes, I bought Chesney Ridge.” While he mixed the paint, she discovered a surprisingly beautiful selection of wallpaper samples but she didn’t feel quite ready to commit to wallpaper, especially since she was still working to remove so many old layers of it. She tossed a couple of paint brushes on the counter. “So I'm the topic of discussion in town?” Chesney asked lightly as she grabbed two rolls of masking tape.

  Luke's face flushed again. “We don’t mean any harm. Everybody loved Gracie. Some people remember when you came around here as a little girl.”

  “I loved it here,” she smiled again. “And I love that I’m back to stay.”

  “Your family moved north. Then you moved away to New York City,” Luke said. “You married some rich guy. And now, you're divorced.”

  “Wow, Luke, the residents of Bean Blossom have really done their homework,” Chesney said crisply. “But actually, those rumors aren’t all correct. I did not live fulltime in New York. And actually I was only engaged to the rich man. I never married him.”

  “Small town,” Luke said with a shrug. “We don't get many newcomers.”

  She flipped again through the paint samples, considering a deep plum color for the guest bathroom.

  “Why did you buy back the Blake homestead?” Luke asked.

  “Because I love it,” she answered quickly. And then she felt embarrassed. But why?

  Who cares what the hardware guy thinks about my decision.

  “You're right about the paint. You'll need a lot of paint,” Luke said with a laugh. “That place needs a lot of work.”

  Involuntarily, Chesney winced. Everyone noticed only the weaknesses of the house in the country. Why couldn’t anyone see its charm? She chose a few more paint colors and then some nails and a hammer. Luke carried the paint to the front of the store while Chesney stopped to inspect the wooden barrel filled with garden seed and flower bulbs. She wanted to plan gardens. But major interior work had to be priority. So she walked past the barrel toward the counter. “So where’s Deke today?” she asked casually, careful not to make eye contact.

  The last thing I want to admit, even to myself, is that I think Deke’s cute and that I wanted to see him today.

  “He’s helping one of the guys deliver some lumber,” Luke said. “Did you want to leave a message for him?”

  She shook her head, paid for this first of many trips to town to purchase supplies and shuffled out of the door. But a For Sale sign on the windshield of a beat-up old pick-up truck across the road turned Chesney right back around. “Well Merry Christmas to you,” she muttered happily under her breath as she stepped back into the store. Scanning the aisles, she spotted her new friend as he hoisted bags of fertilizer onto an already waist-high mountain and called out, “Hey, Luke, who owns that old pick-up truck?”

  He turned with a toothy grin. “Doyle White owns that old truck,” Luke said. “He wants three hundred dollars for it.”

  “Will you let Doyle know that I want to buy his truck?” Chesney grinned. “And will you please tell him I'd like to have it today?”

  “No problem,” Luke said. “I could help Doyle bring the truck to your place this afternoon.”

  “Perfect,” she nodded.

  “What do you want with that old truck, Miss Blake?” Luke asked.

  “I need a truck,” she shrugged. “So I can haul mulch in it or furniture...”

  “Or paint?” Luke laughed.

  “Or paint,” she said with a nod and a giggle. “And please, Luke, call me Chesney. I’m not very fond of that ‘Miss Blake’ business.” Happily, she spun around to return to the car. The next destination for the day was the grocery store in Nashville. She already knew there would be no freshly baked breads or extravagant cuts of meat. No vintage wines or Brie. No sushi. But what she would definitely find there mattered a lot more than a few delicacies. Watching people stop to chat in store aisles or in the parking lot by trucks made her feel warm and safe. She loved the Southern twang in many of the voices and the slowed way they enjoyed life. She walked through the grocery, eyeing reminders from childhood such as tiny cans of Vienna sausages, which her grandmother plopped onto paper plates with soda crackers for lunch. She saw pound cake, root beer, Pixie sticks, apple butter, pickled bologna, Moon Pies. “City girl loses her mind after break-up,” Chesney muttered as she grabbed a jar of apple butter. “Or is it more like I finally found my mind instead of losing it?” She grabbed a couple of cans of soup, a couple of homemade soy candles, more coffee and some soft drinks.

  “New to town?” asked the cashier, a smiling older lady with beautiful silver hair. Chesney nodded, suddenly noting that she really didn’t feel like chit chat. She was done with the friendly stuff for one day. She was exhausted. Her body hurt from all the cleaning. She was starving to death. A twinge of guilt fluttered over her when she pretended not to hear the cashier’s questions about whether she was visiting or staying. But the lady was staring so intently that Chesney felt uncomfortable.

  “You’re Gracie Blake’s granddaughter,” the woman said finally. “I would know those gray eyes anywhere.”

  Chesney slowly nodded. “I’ve moved back to town,” she said. “Please excuse my rudeness. I’m putting in some long hours.” For a moment, she wondered if she somehow knew this lady. Maybe she had attended one of Chesney’s book signings. She often noticed fa
ces she had seen briefly at different libraries or conferences.

  “I’m Juanita Milburn. Do you remember me, Chesney?”

  That name thumped against Chesney’s little girl memories. She rushed around the check-out counter and wrapped her arms around the woman without even thinking. “You’re Neetie,” Chesney cried happily. “Of course I remember you! You’re my granny Grace’s best friend.” She didn’t want to let go of the woman. She breathed in some familiar scents… lavender, powder.

  “I know Grace is just thrilled that you’re here,” Neetie smiled tearfully as she studied Chesney’s face. “You’ve grown into a lovely young woman, Chesney. Just like I always knew you would. I haven’t seen you since…” her voice trailed off as she tried to recall the past. “I’m thinking I last saw you when you were heading off to high school. Is that about right? And of course we were together during the funeral service for Gracie. My heart was absolutely broken when sweet Grace passed away.”

  “Mine too,” Chesney nodded.

  “I heard you were here,” Neetie admitted. “And I was just telling my son the other day how much I would love to see you.” As Neetie scribbled her phone number on the back of Chesney’s grocery receipt, Chesney asked twice for her to promise that once the house was completely renovated, they would plan a dinner. Then she sprinted out of the store with a full heart. By the time she turned onto the wooded lane, Chesney was so tired her eyes burned. She groaned, realizing that no matter how damn exhausted she felt; she still faced the overwhelming task of unloading all the paint and the few groceries, too. She wished for a couple of extra hands and cursed under her breath as she grabbed the first two five-gallon cans of paint. That’s when Luke drove up in a shiny red Mustang. Doyle White, owner of the old truck, followed close behind. Chesney looked up and waved.

  “Hello Miss Blake…uh…Chesney,” Luke said as he stepped out of the car smiling. “Did you change your mind about the truck?”

  “Of course not,” Chesney smiled and placed the paint cans on the porch before walking out to the drive to greet the two men. “I need a truck, Luke. By the time I get this house in shape, you won't have much stock left on the hardware store shelves.”

  Doyle White, a bulky man who seemed to barely be squeezed into a faded pair of overalls, offered his calloused hand. His puffy blue eyes welcomed her smile and his rosy red cheeks made Doyle look like all he did was grin. “Pleased to meet you,” Doyle said with a shy grin. He nervously rocked back and forth in muddy work boots. “So you're Grace's granddaughter?”

  “The one and only,” Chesney said, just because she didn’t want to share this moment with her hateful sibling, Charlotte.

  “Grace was a fine woman,” Doyle said. “She taught my Sunday school class when I was a kid. I still remember those Christmas sugar cookies Grace baked for all the kids. And every early summer, she invited us to a hog roast out here.” Doyle looked past her as if to relive those years as a boy, enjoying all the ways that Grace Chesney Blake loved the community.

  “Grace was very special,” Chesney said as she instantly recalled her grandmother's knack for baking beautiful cookies then packing them perfectly in decorated tins. “I miss her very much. Every day, I miss her.” Her heart flooded with sadness, wishing she had another Christmas in this house with Grace.

  “We all miss her,” Doyle said. “She was a sweet lady and she moved around Bean Blossom like a busy little bee.”

  For a few quiet moments, their memories of this colorful, petite lady demanded silence. Grace wore beautiful dresses and matching high heels, rhinestone ear rings, too much magenta lipstick, and a twinkle in her gray eyes. She was always in charge of some kind of project. She and Neetie, for example, took it upon themselves every Memorial Day to decorate veteran’s graves with tiny flags.

  “So you want to buy my truck?” Doyle asked and Chesney studied his bushy brown brows. She decided he was trustworthy.

  “I need a truck,” she nodded.

  “It leaks oil a little bit,” Doyle said.

  “That's okay,” Chesney said. “I need a truck.”

  “This place is one of the nicest in the county,” Doyle said. “This old house sits up on this knob like a graceful old lady.”

  Well finally, someone sees what I see.

  Chesney fought the urge to throw her arms around sweet, sensitive Doyle. Instead, she placed three one hundred dollar bills in Doyle's oil-stained hand then he dropped the truck key in hers.

  “Who's helping with renovations?” Doyle asked.

  “I'm meeting with someone in an hour,” Chesney said. “He was recommended by Ruby, the postmistress.”

  To recall the handyman's name, she glanced at a scrap of paper stuck in the pocket of her purse. “Dalton Moore.”

  Doyle nodded. And Luke followed suit.

  “Do you know him?” Chesney asked.

  “Yep,” Doyle said. “He'll do you right.” Then he motioned for her to follow him to the truck. He scooted to the passenger seat and motioned for Chesney to climb behind the dirty steering wheel. Climbing into the truck with stubby, short legs took some effort. The truck cab smelled like hay. It was dusty and dirty. The cloth on the seat was ripped. But Chesney didn't care. She was instantly happy as she struggled to adjust the seat so her feet would reach the brake and gas pedals. “I need to show you a few tips about how to avoid overheating the motor,” Doyle said. “And how to deal with the windshield wipers when they get stuck mid-swipe.”

  After the lesson on truck maintenance, Doyle and Luke were kind enough to help unload the rest of her purchases. Then they disappeared in Luke’s Mustang.

  Chesney was alone again, admiring the dirty old truck. With a paint can banging against her leg, she went inside, grabbed a paintbrush and turned a circle in the kitchen. “I'm looking at a blank canvas,” she said softly. “I am ready to paint my own house. Where do I begin?” After carefully dipping the brush in the lemon paint, she swiped it across a kitchen wall and stepped back to admire the color. “Incredible,” Chesney whispered. “What a difference I can make with a few thousand gallons of paint.” She smiled again, dipped another brush in a soft beige and swiped it on a kitchen cabinet. Again, her heart beat wildly in her chest. She imagined the kitchen, completely repainted. New counter tops. Lace curtains dancing against the windowsills. Some beautiful plates displayed in an antique hutch. “Who needs a man?” Chesney squealed happily.

  “You do...” a voice said from the back door. “Unless of course, you're as talented at carpentry as you are with a paintbrush.”

  The paintbrushes fell from her hand and Chesney nearly tripped over one of the paint cans in her effort to see who was in the kitchen.

  “Sorry to startle you,” a smiling man said. “I'm Dalton Moore. The handyman you apparently don't really need.”

  Instantly, her face and neck heated with humiliation. With wide eyes, she looked at Dalton Moore. And then became even more uncomfortable when she realized that she was staring. He was close to six feet tall, dressed in a snug, white T-shirt and faded low-slung jeans. His arms were deeply tanned. His light brown hair was scraggly. And he needed a shave. He was the most handsome man that Chesney Grace Blake had ever seen in her entire life. “I do need a man...” she stammered. “I mean…I need a handyman. Not a full-time man.”

  “Oh?” he grinned. And she waited for her heart to just stop moving in her flustered chest.

  “I mean…I need some repair work. House repairs. Lots of them.”

  “I see,” Dalton said as he sauntered into the kitchen. “But not full-time?”

  “I need a full-time handyman,” Chesney said.

  “Just not a full-time man?” Dalton's eyes twinkled. He knew she was mortified.

  Chesney nervously smoothed her hair. It was a bad habit. What in the world was wrong with her? She felt like a teenager again. And Dalton Moore was the equivalent of the football team quarterback, the boy who was full of himself.

  “If you’ll look around, you’ll
see some very obvious projects...” She cleared her throat and made an effort to recover, moving backward from Dalton’s beauty while also trying her best to pretend that she didn’t think at all that he was gorgeous. “Let's see,” Chesney said stiffly. “I need a new porch, of course. But I guess you saw that already.” She stumbled around boxes on the floor to get to the hallway. “If you'll follow me, I'll show you a bunch of trouble.”

  “I'll bet you would definitely show me all kinds of trouble,” Dalton said flirtatiously.

  Chesney decided to ignore the comment, even though her cheeks went pink with irritation. “Do you think I need a new roof?” she made a conscious effort to avoid his eyes. “And can you replace the front door? Or at least get it back on the hinges? And what about the plaster in the master bedroom? Do you think we should get drywall? Oh, and also, do you think the fireplaces are safe?”

  “Too many questions,” Dalton said slowly. “You understand, Miss Blake...”

  “Chesney,” she interrupted. “You can call me Chesney.”

  “You understand, this house has been empty for a few years,” Dalton said, never acknowledging her by name. “I need some time to get it back in order.”

  “I understand that,” she said with a snip. Then she wiped dust from her palm to her sundress, wondering why she felt offended. As he walked through the rooms, inspecting every nook and cranny, Chesney decided she was more than pissed off. Dalton Moore seemed to look at her through the same eyes Jack always did. And she didn't like it. Not one bit. Did she hear a condescending tone in this hunk handyman's voice? Well she would immediately let him know that Chesney Blake was not an idiot. No, she certainly wouldn't be treated like she didn’t have a damn brain. She learned from her second cancelled wedding that she was no longer interested in being the designated doormat. No sir. She would not accept being talked to like she was a moron.