Bet Your Bottom Dollar (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 1)

by Karin Gillespie

  “Just buddies.” She lit her cigarette with her Bic. “‘Just buddies’ does not borrow her mama’s earrings when the last time she wore them was at her engagement party.”

  “Well, I’m not going to deny that I’m a little sweet on him.”

  “I’m not sure that Darlene ever got over her rich beau, whoever he was,” Meemaw said in a forbidding voice. “Sometimes I think she pined for him until the day she died. Your daddy was her rebound man. Not one week after she and that rich boy parted ways, she took up with Dwayne and married him two weeks later.”

  I got up from the bed. “They married that quickly?”

  “Land, yes. Dwayne was flat-out smitten with your mama at the time. She was a big step up for him. Dwayne’s people were true ‘crick’ folks. Living like gypsies and spilling out of a rusty trailer parked up by the creek. Me and your granddaddy were hoity-toity folks, compared to Dwayne’s kin.” Her eyes narrowed again. “So am I going to be meeting this high-powered executive of yours? This fancy Augusta boy that has you running over here for your mama’s earrings?”

  “Of course, Meemaw. But he’s not an uppity boy at all. You’ll like him.”

  Meemaw snorted. “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Fifteen

  Look at life through the windshield, not the rearview mirror.

  ~ Message in a fortune cookie from Dun Woo’s House of Noodles

  When I got home, Maybelline greeted me by jumping up and down and chasing her tail. As I leaned down to scratch her ears, I noticed a single Spaghetti O noodle in the middle of her nose, hard evidence that she had been rummaging through the trash again.

  “Maybelline!” I yelled.

  She knew that tone and scooted under the sofa. I went into the kitchen to survey the damage. Coffee grounds were strewn across the floor, and I found a pair of my underwear that she had dug out from the laundry basket. The crotch of the panties was chewed to bits.

  When I’d set things in order, I sat at the wrought iron table in my kitchen, opened a bag of pretzels, and turned to the first page of my mama’s diary. The crackling of the pretzel bag lured Maybelline from her hiding spot and she stood on her hind legs, begging. I groaned and tossed her a pretzel.

  “You’re just lucky they were my Hanes Everyday. If they’d been Victoria’s Secret there’d have been hell to pay.”

  I opened the diary and started reading.

  Dear Diary,

  I was so excited when you showed up under the tree at Christmas. I need a confidant, someone I can confess my deepest thoughts to without any judgments. I hope that you and I will be friends for life!

  My hands tingled as I held the diary. Finally I would get some firsthand insight into the kind of person my mama had been. I eagerly turned the page.

  The next dozen entries were disappointing. Instead of engaging in any heavy-duty unbosoming, my mama used the pages of her diary as a food journal in which she wrote down everything she ate and tried to estimate the calories.

  I flipped through the pages. Although I was shocked to discover how many calories a Goo Goo Cluster had, I longed to read something more personal—something that would give me a clue about my mother’s personality. As I flipped ahead a few pages, my eyes rested on an entry that was written in red ink.

  The most exciting thing has happened to me. I met a wonderful man at the Tip Top Grill in Augusta, but I’m afraid to talk about him to anyone, even you diary, for fear that you will fall into the wrong hands. For now, I’ll just call him “B.”

  From then on, my mama quit writing about food and focused all her attention on “B.” “B” was the most sensitive, poetic man in the entire world. “B”’s kisses were so passionate that she could get lost in them forever. My mama had fallen hard for “B.” I empathized with her as she described the giddy dizziness that came over her whenever she heard his voice.

  Wherever “B” and I go out together, people stare and it makes both of us nervous. We spend most of the time in his car. Last night while we parked on the bank of the creek, we watched the moon and listened to the crickets. Before I knew it, it was almost midnight. Time disappears too quickly when I’m in in his arms.

  Why, I wondered, did people stare at them? Was “B” much older than my mama? She mentioned he drove a BMW sports car and that didn’t sound like the sort of automobile a high school boy would drive.

  The diary went on to describe a blooming relationship conducted increasingly in secret.

  My mama wrote of receiving expensive gifts from “B” that she hid in a shoe box in the back of a closet. She never let “B” pick her up at her house; instead she met him places. In his car, they had long discussions about their future together.

  “B” has decided that he’s going to talk to his family about me tomorrow. We both fear their reactions. I hope they accept me, but we both know it isn’t likely. “B” says he doesn’t care what they say because he loves me.

  The next few pages were brittle like they’d gotten wet, maybe with my mama’s tears. Then there was this:

  I haven’t heard from “B” in over a week. When I try to reach him, he refuses to come to the phone. On top of all that, my period’s late, and I’m always on time. I’m desperate to talk to “B.”

  My heart thudded hard in my chest and I quickly turned the page. There was no new entry. I went through all the remaining pages, but there was nothing. I couldn’t believe it. How could she leave things hanging this way?

  I knew my mama had gotten pregnant right after she’d married Dwayne. Was it possible that my real father was the mysterious “B” of her diary? Maybe Insane Dwayne wasn’t my daddy after all. Maybe she just passed me off as his daughter. She was certainly in a hurry to marry my daddy. According to what Meemaw had said, they’d gone to the Justice of the Peace just two weeks after they’d started dating.

  The trouble was, there was no way to find out “B’”s identity. The only person who knew his full name was my mama, and she’d been dead for over twenty years. And she hadn’t even revealed his identity to her own diary.

  Questions buzzed in my mind, but I knew it was useless to think about it now. Timothy was due to pick me up in an hour for our date and I hadn’t even started getting ready.

  I took a quick rinse in the shower and by the time Timothy knocked at the door, my face was pink from the warm water and I was spraying a little bit of Vanilla Fields on all of my pulse points. Maybelline was barking and hurling herself at the door.

  “Stop that, girl. It’ll give you brain damage. If you haven’t got it already.” I walked in my stocking feet to the door and opened it.

  Timothy was standing outside, wearing a sweater that picked up the color in his eyes. His khakis were freshly pressed and a shank of dark hair had fallen over his brow. I found myself holding my breath as he brushed the hair out of his eyes. All thoughts of “Who’s my daddy?” scampered right out of my head.

  “Look at you. Not even ready,” he said, glancing at my feet. He took a step inside and as usual Maybelline offered up her white underbelly. Timothy obliged by scratching it.

  “Let me slip into some clogs,” I said.

  I put on my shoes and we went downstairs and got into Timothy’s Volvo. He dropped his keys twice before getting in, and he almost clipped a lamppost as he backed out of the driveway.

  “Anything wrong, Timothy?”

  He adjusted the visor against the brightness of the setting sun.

  “Not a thing. Why do you ask?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think you’re telling me a fib, Timothy Hollingsworth.”

  He hunched his shoulders and his chin dipped to his chest. “I have something on my mind, Elizabeth, but I’ll save it for after sushi.”

  I’d told Timothy that I’d been itching to try sushi, but now that the occasion h
ad arrived, I was nervous. I was used to fried fish served with hush puppies.

  We drove to a restaurant in Augusta called Ito’s Hide-a-way. Timothy decided we’d sit at a table instead of the sushi bar.

  “More private,” he remarked.

  The waitress led us past the sushi bar and glistening slabs of pink, orange, and red fish on the counter. My eyes also caught what looked like the arm of an octopus, studded with suction cups, stuffed beneath the glass.

  The waitress, who was dressed in a gold kimono and had a set of chopsticks pushed through her dark bun, handed us menus with tiny origami paper pressed between the plastic covers. She disappeared behind a shower of beads and came back with rounded enamel bowls filled with a copper-colored broth that had rings of green onion drifting on the surface.

  I opened the menu to read it, while Timothy grasped a stub of a pencil over a piece of paper that the waitress had given him.

  He looked up and, seeing the menu in my hand, said, “Oh, you won’t be needing that. It only has ordinary Japanese fare like tempura and chicken teriyaki on it. Let’s just order from the sushi menu.”

  I shed the paper from my chopsticks.

  “What’s tempura?” I asked.

  “It’s seafood and vegetables that are lightly breaded and then fried.”

  “Sounds like how they do it at Captain D’s,” I said wistfully.

  Timothy was making check marks on the sushi menu. “Let’s see, we’ll start off with some unagi.”

  I didn’t know the Japanese word for squid or octopus, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Timothy, I can’t.”

  He looked up. “Can’t what?”

  “Can’t eat anything with arms and suction cups. I’d heave up—I know I would. I know I said I wanted to try sushi but I’ve lost my nerve.”

  Timothy smiled. “Don’t worry. Octopus is for advanced sushi eaters. I’ll order you some sushi starter food, like a California roll or a fried-shrimp roll.”

  “Fried shrimp?” Relief flooded my body. “Can I have tartar sauce with that too?”

  “They have special sauces that you’ll like even more. I promise. But we’ll ask for tartar sauce, just in case.” His forehead creased in thought. “Now, what to drink?”

  “Iced tea with lemon is fine with me,” I said.

  “Tonight is special, so I’d like to order some Japanese wine.”

  “Wow, this is a special night.”

  Timothy dipped his spoon in the broth. “I’m not a Zen student anymore.” He glanced up to look at me. “Things have changed.”

  “Like what?”I asked.

  “I don’t have to watch everything I eat or drink anymore. Even the Buddha believed in the Middle Way.”

  “The Middle Way?” I repeated.

  “Moderation. Not too much, not too little,” he replied.

  I giggled. “I’ve seen statues of the Buddha in Chinese restaurants and I don’t think he held back much when it came to food.” I bit my lip. “Sorry, Timothy, I didn’t mean to make fun of the Buddha.”

  Timothy chuckled. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He supposedly had a great sense of humor.”

  The waitress stopped by the table, and Timothy handed her our sushi order and requested some sake. While she was gone, Timothy busied himself with unfolding his napkin and pouring soy sauce into a small cup. I regretted undoing my napkin. It was folded to look like a geisha girl’s hand fan.

  We were served a carafe and two cups. Timothy poured the sake, explaining that it was a wine made from rice. I took a cautious sip and felt the liquid’s warmth gradually spread from my throat to the tiniest veins in my fingertips.

  We sipped the sake, looking at each other in a new, more intimate, way.

  Timothy broke the silence.

  “After living as a Zen student all those years, doing everything slowly and mindfully, I’d been used to taking my time with everything. Lately, it’s come to my attention that maybe I’ve been too slow. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  I smiled shyly. “What do you mean?”

  “I got a mysterious fax at work the other day,” he said. He opened his wallet and showed me a folded piece of paper. He handed it to me and I instantly recognized the handwriting.

  Beware: There’s a fox lurking around your henhouse. Time’s a’ wasting. Valentine Day’s around the corner. Take your best girl out and tell her how you feel about her.

  My face turned the color of the business end of a baboon.

  “I can’t believe it. This is Attalee’s doings.”

  Timothy laughed. “I thought it might be her.”

  “Oh, Lord, Timothy, I feel like crawling under this table.”

  He reached across to touch my hand.

  “No, Elizabeth, this is a good thing. It’s time that I told you what’s in my heart. That is, if it isn’t already obvious.”

  My pulse jumped in my hand. “What are you saying?”

  He squeezed my hand and looked directly into my eyes. “Ever since I met you, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “Before we met, I felt so isolated and cut off from my feelings, but then you came along—”

  He licked his lips and studied me with his clear blue eyes. “Do you have any idea what I’m trying to say?”

  I shook my head.

  His voice came out raspy. “What I’m trying to say...” He lowered his eyelids. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  I swallowed hard. I haven’t heard the word “love” too many times in my life. My family was as fond of sentiment as they were of sugar on their grits. My daddy reserved the word for things like hunting and professional wrestling. Meemaw only wrote it on birthday cards.

  Even my fiancé, Clip, had stepped all around the word as if it were a pile of dog poop. He called it the “L” word and I played dumb, saying, “What ‘L’ word? Lima beans? Listerine? Louisiana?” until he was finally shamed into saying it out loud.

  So when I heard the word coming from Timothy’s mouth, in a restaurant with all kinds of people around, my whole body started shaking. It was as if I’d been waiting to hear that word from his lips my whole life and it didn’t matter that I hadn’t ever heard it in a proper way before.

  “I love you too, Timothy,” I said, putting a name to what I’d been feeling for him for the last few weeks.

  The waitress brought our sushi order in a miniature wooden boat, but neither of us could eat a bite. Timothy asked for the check and after he paid, we went to his Volvo and clung to each other like shipwreck survivors. Then the moon slid out from the trees, a full yellow moon, and under its cool, healing light Timothy pressed his sweet lips against mine. I got a kiss from him that put to shame anything I might have imagined before.

  Sixteen

  If you’re not the lead dog, the scenery never changes.

  ~ Graffiti in the men’s bathroom at the Wagon Wheel

  Hank snorted so loud in his sleep that he jolted himself awake. He jerked at the sight of me standing over him and knocked over a jarful of nails with his elbow.

  “Hank Bryson, I could have robbed you blind while you were snoozing,” I said.

  Hank opened his mouth for a retort, but then the black rotary desk phone rang and he answered it, saying, “Bryson’s Hardware.”

  I wandered around his store as he talked. It smelled like a mixture of sawdust and wet dog, although I didn’t see any sign of Lance, Hank’s black Lab mix, who was known to knock merchandise off the shelf with a sluggish wag of his tail. Flies buzzed lazily around the plastic feed bins near the cash register. I peered at the labels, printed in Hank’s own hand: Knuckle purple hull, silver king corn, speckled butter peas, and Clemson spineless okra.

 
; The store was a jumble of junk, with plastic worms displayed next to sharp-tooth saws and bins of bolts scattered over the scarred wooden floors. Mavis had offered to help organize Hank’s stock into departments, but he said he liked things the way they were.

  Maynard Gibbons, who was head cook at the Wagon Wheel, shambled in, flustered to see a woman in what was obviously a man’s domain. He mumbled something about wing nuts and swept past me.

  “Hold up, Maynard. Take one of these and give them to folks at the restaurant.” I handed him a stack of fliers. He rolled them up and shoved them in the pocket of his grease-splattered jacket.

  Hank had since gotten off the phone. His feet were propped up on his desk and he was jawing a plug of Big Red gum. He’d given up dipping into his tin of Copenhagen snuff a couple of years ago when the habit had cost his uncle Jeb part of his tongue.

  “What have you got there, Elizabeth?” Hank asked.

  “Oh, it’s an idea of mine to help the Bottom Dollar Emporium.” I placed a flier on his desk. “You know the Super Saver is opening up in a week? Read it and see what you think.”

  Hank closed one eye and squinted at the paper with the other.

  “Dear Friends and Neighbors of Cayboo Creek,” he read. “Mavis Loomis and her employees at the Bottom Dollar Emporium want to thank you for being loyal patrons for the last twenty years. We hope you continue to be a part of our Bottom Dollar family in years to come. To show our appreciation for your business, bring this flier in for one dollar off of any of your purchases over ten dollars. Please support local businesses and the folks who run them.”

  He pushed the coupon across the desk. “That’s real nice, Elizabeth. A strong sell, but not too pushy. But you’re preaching to the choir bringing one to me. You know I’d come to the Bottom Dollar even if that Super Saver was giving away their merchandise.”