by Webb, Peggy
o0o
Mattie had already read the note three times. Hugging the teddy bear, she read it again. "Be careful, Mattie. Bears eat people."
Her hand clenched the note. "Please let this mean what I think it does," she prayed aloud. "Please let Hunter still be my teddy bear man."
She lifted her head in a regal gesture. Hunter was coming. That was all she needed to know. She'd won him twice. She could do it a third time.
Placing the teddy bear on her bedside table, she began her preparations for the very special concert.
o0o
Mattie shimmered when she walked onstage. Her fire-and-gold hair was swept up and caught with a diamond clasp. The champagne-colored bugle beads on her dress—the one Hunter loved—shot prisms of light around her.
She was proud, elegant, poised. She was Mattie Houston, queen of jazz. Turning toward the audience, she smiled.
Hunter's hopes soared. The smile was for him, and him alone. He swiveled his head to assure himself that he was correct. A sea of empty seats met his gaze. He was not only the guest of honor; he was the only guest. There was no doorman, no box-office manager. He glanced upward. There was nobody working the lights. He and Mattie were completely alone in the concert hall.
He leaned forward in his seat as she began her first song. The melody seemed to flow from her. She leaned over the piano, caressing the keys. Her body moved with the rhythm. She was beauty, she was magic, she was music.
And the song she played was Summer Wind.
Every note vibrated in Hunter's heart. It was their song. This wasn't good-bye. It was hello. It was commitment. It was forgiveness. It was the future.
He had to restrain himself from running onstage and taking her in his arms. He had to be sure this time. He settled back in his seat. A lifetime couldn't be built on a song. He would wait.
When the song ended, Mattie rose from the piano bench and bowed.
Hunter clapped. The sound was hollow in the almost-empty auditorium.
Mattie stood onstage and waited. Her heart was hammering so against her rib cage, she could barely breathe. He would come forward now, she thought. The song was significant. He would know.
Hunter's fists clenched as he sat in his seat, waiting.
She shaded her eyes against the spotlight. "Hunter? Are you still out there?"
"I'm here, Mattie."
"The song was for you."
"Was it?"
She stilled the panic that rose in her. She would not lose Hunter now. "It's our song, Hunter. It's always been our song."
"We can't build a marriage on a song." Still quelling his urge to run onstage, he stood and faced her. "That is what you're talking about, isn't it? Marriage? A lifetime commitment?"
"Yes."
"Then say the words."
Waiting, they faced each other across the vast emptiness—the teddy bear man and his summer jazz woman. Hunter's face softened.
"I loved the clever way you had the invitation delivered, Mattie. I love being the only guest at a special concert. But no more games. Just the truth."
"I've reconciled myself to the past, Hunter. I read Daddy's diary. It made so many things clear. I've forgiven my mother. I've forgiven myself for all the wasted, empty years." She took a step forward. "I love you, Hunter, and I'll never, ever forget that again." She took another step, and another. "I need you, Hunter."
He was already in the aisle, and then they were both running toward each other. Hunter was quicker. He caught Mattie on the steps of the proscenium.
"I've waited a lifetime to hear you say that," he said as he hugged her to his chest. His lips were in her hair, on her cheek, on her throat. "I’ll never let you go again."
She clung to him, smiling. "Remember that summer ten years ago? This is the end of our dreams, Hunter."
He lifted his head and smiled at her.
"The end?" His mouth covered hers, and after a very long time he looked at her again. "Mattie, the dream is just beginning."
He scooped her into his arms and carried her back up the steps. "The prelude was yours. The encore is going to be mine."
He set her on her feet and reached for her zipper.
She smiled as the dress landed in a shimmering heap at her feet. "Onstage, Hunter?"
He pulled her back into his arms. "I've always wanted to be the star of your show."
Her hips rubbed against his. "You call that a star? I'd call it—"
He lowered her to the stage floor. "Be quiet or you'll miss the music."
o0o
Chapter Excerpt from Where Dolphins Go
By Peggy Webb
Chapter One
Forgetfulness came quicker if he mixed bourbon with his beer.
Paul left his chair by the window, proud of how he could hide his condition as he walked to the closet where he kept his waders. He swayed a little at the door, then caught the knob to steady himself.
"Whoa, boy. Can't have Bill find you like this . . . good old Bill." He opened the door and reached inside the deep rubber boot. His hand closed around the bottle.
"Be mad as hell if he caught his good old buddy having a little afternoon boilermaker."
Carrying the whiskey close to his chest, he made his careful way back to the desk. His hand shook only a little as he poured the liquor into his can of beer. Whiskey sloshed over the side of the can and pooled on the scarred desktop.
Paul stared at the stain awhile, as if it affronted him. Then he shrugged and lifted the can to his lips.
"Physician, heal thyself."
He closed his eyes, waiting for the warm gray fog to settle over him, waiting for the blessed numbness to overtake his brain. The only thing that overtook him was the certainty that the next day he'd have a hangover.
In the holding pen outside Paul's window, a huge dolphin surfaced and slapped his tail in the water.
"Not today, Ferguson. Can't come out and play today."
The great tail hit the water once more, and Paul turned to look out his window. Ferguson circled round and round in the pool, occasionally rising up in a fountain of spray, his body glinting silver in the bright hot summer sun.
Across the pool Bill McKenzie stood with his back toward Paul, talking to a woman. She was half-hidden behind Bill, but Paul could see enough to know that she was fair and slim, bordering on skinny, and that she had a quiet face with big earnest eyes.
For a moment Paul's curiosity was stirred.
The woman talked with her hands. Her body language was urgent, almost intimate; and her movements were graceful and eloquent, like music come to life.
Music come to life? He was drunker than he thought— or perhaps not drunk enough.
Paul saluted the woman with his beer can. "Here's to you, whoever you are." The beer had gotten piss warm, but he didn't care. As long as it anesthetized.
He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another shot down the small elliptical hole. Might as well make sure.
Outside in the holding pen, Ferguson began to chortle and squeak. What was Bill doing? They had done vocalization studies with Fergie that morning.
Paul turned back to the window. The first thing he saw was the child, a tiny tousle-haired boy sitting in his stroller, pale and motionless as a porcelain doll. His head lolled to one side, and his arms and legs stuck out as if they had no relation to his body. He looked like a Tinkertoy put together wrong.
Paul clutched his beer can so hard, the sides began to buckle. The child gazed into the water, helpless, while the woman with the solemn face leaned toward Bill.
The little fact was so still, so still.
"For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!"
Caught in a time warp, Paul stared out the window.
As the aluminum gave way under the pressure, liquid ran down his hand, his arm. He didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the child, the silent, needy child.
A wave of dizziness came, followed by nausea. Even in his semi-anesthetized state, P
aul knew it wasn't the boilermaker at work: it was the past with its ghosts that wouldn't let go and its memories that crawled out of the dark corners of his mind when he least expected them.
"No . . . God . . . no." He stood up fast, knocking his chair over. With his fingers still sunk into the sides of the beer can, he went to the refrigerator and leaned his forehead against the cool door. An image of the child wavered, faded, then came back with a vengeance.
Paul clutched his stomach and heaved. Nothing came up except guilt and pain—and the memory of a tiny face, looking up at him with big pleading eyes.
"Paul?" The outside door to the combination office-feeding room clicked shut behind Bill. "Are you all right?"
Paul felt the hand on his shoulder, large, warm, the hand of friendship and compassion. He had promised Bill he would do better. And he really had tried. Oh, Lord, how he had tried.
He turned to face his friend. "You don't deserve this, old buddy. I'll give you my written notice tomorrow."
"Like hell you will. You can't keep running."
"I can't keep accepting your charity."
"This is not charity, it's a job. And you're going to stick with it until you can pull yourself together."
Bill's pale red freckles nearly disappeared in the color that flushed his face as he pried the can from Paul's hand. "Dammit, Paul. I'm not going to let you kill yourself—at least not on my turf."
Bill strode to the desk, jerked up the bottle, and flung it into the garbage can along with the beer. Metal clanged against metal. Broken glass tinkled. Bill stared into the wreckage, his chest heaving.
Paul was not too far gone to see past his friend's anger into his pain. He didn't like to see Bill hurting. More than that, he didn't like to be the cause.
"I'm sorry, Bill. I tried to wait until I got out of here." Paul ran his hands through his hair, hating the way they trembled. "Sometimes life seems so damned . . . useless."
Bill hung his head and cursed the floor until all the anger went out of him. Then he sagged, like a sack of potatoes settling into place.
He put both hands on Paul's shoulders. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You, of all people, should know better."
"Guilty, as charged.”
"You need a challenge . . . something more than feeding dolphins."
"The dolphins don't expect much of me except a few buckets of fish. I like it that way."
"I don't. It's a waste, Paul." The air around Bill seemed to stir and hum as he made his way to the swivel chair. Hurricane Bill, employees at the center fondly called their director. He picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. "You're wasting your life here at the center, and I can't seem to do a damned thing about it."
"It's not your place, Bill. You and Maggie have been wonderful to me."
"You'd do the same for me if you could." Bill studied the gaunt man leaning beside the refrigerator, then threw the pencil onto the desk. It bounced and rolled across the concrete floor, stopping inches from Paul's feet.
Paul picked it up and put it back on the desk. "You dropped this."
"Son of a gun." Bill grinned. "Half-crocked and still trying to get me to control my temper."
"It's bad for your blood pressure."
"Maggie will thank you. Probably with one of her chicken casseroles." Bill doodled around the edges of the desk calendar, turning the one into a stick figure, putting ears and a tail on the eight. Then he sat back in his chair, tapping the pencil against his teeth and studying his artwork.
Paul waited. He had nothing else to do except go to bleak bare walls and functional furniture, an empty space that didn’t even deserve to be called home. Bill would insist on driving him, and Paul would consent. He had no intention of adding highway murder to his list of" sins.
"A woman came to see me today," Bill said. "A woman and a little boy."
Paul went very still.
"Her name is Susan . . . Susan Riley. She knew about the center from that article in the newspaper last week."
There had been many articles written about Dr. Bill McKenzie and the research he did with dolphins. The most recent one, though, had delved into the personality of the dolphins themselves. An enterprising reporter had done his homework. Dolphins, he had written, relate well to people. Some even seem to have extrasensory perception. They seem to sense when a person is sick or hurt or depressed.
"Here little boy has a condition called truncus arteriosus." Bill squinted in the way he always did when he was judging a person's reaction.
Paul was careful not to show one. Truncus arteriosus. A condition of the heart. Malfunctioning arteries. Surgery required.
"Bill, I don't practice medicine anymore."
"I'm not asking you to practice medicine. I'm asking you to listen."
"I'm listening."
"The boy was scheduled for surgery, but he had a stroke before it could be performed."
For God's sake, Paul. Do something. DO SOMETHING!
Paul held up his hand. "Don’t go any further with this, Bill.”
"Just listen, Paul. The child is depressed, doesn't respond to anything, anybody. She thought the dolphins might be the answer. She wanted to bring him here on a regular basis."
"You told her no, of course."
"I'm a marine biologist, not a psychologist." Bill slumped in his chair. "I told her no."
"The child needs therapy, not dolphins."
"That's what I thought, but now I’m not so sure.” Bill gave Paul that squinty-eyed look. "You're a doctor, Paul. Maybe if I let her bring the boy here during feeding times…”
"No. Dammit, Bill. Look at me. I can't even help myself, let alone a dying child and a desperate mother."
Bill looked down at his shoes and counted to ten under his breath. When he looked up Paul could see the pity in his eyes.
He hated that most of all.
o0o
Chapter Excerpt, Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble
(Fourth Southern Cousins Mystery)
Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on the Valentines, Manicures, and Mooreville’s Royalty
Ever since I used my famous nose to crack the Memphis Mambo Murder Case, things have gone to the dogs around here. And I don’t mean to a musical genius in a basset hound suit, either. (That would be yours truly.)
To hear my human mom tell it (that would be Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop this side of the Mason Dixon Line), life just couldn’t get any better. She thinks she’s happy since she said “The Last Farewell” to Jack (my human daddy) up in Memphis, but I know better. When she’s not giving New York hairdos to Mooreville’s finest and doling out the dough for her mama’s little gambling escapades – and every other kind of escapade Ruby Nell Valentine can think of – she’s sitting on the front porch swing with a faraway look in her eyes that says, “Stuck on You.”
Listen, I know she believes Jack is finally going to give her a divorce so she can have her heart’s desire with somebody who won’t spend more time in the world’s underbelly avoiding bullets than he does in the gazebo with Callie and her “Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hounddog” best friend. (I’m not even going to talk about Hoyt, that ridiculous cocker spaniel pretender to my throne, and the seven silly cats who took up residence with us when Callie rescued them and dragged them home.)
Believe me, Jack’s face said it all when Callie and the rest of our gang headed home from Memphis - “There Goes My Everything.” A man that smitten is not going to let his woman go, no matter how noble he thinks the gesture might be.
I’m trying to teach Jack and Callie to be thankful for what they’ve got – each other plus a suave, famous Rock ‘n’ Roll King who is content to live a dog’s life in order to make his humans happy. Instead, they’re intent on turning everything upside down to get what they think Callie wants. A child. Otherwise known as a short, not-too-bright little person who makes car noises all day long, smears peanut butter on my pink satin guitar-shaped pillow, pulls my mismatched
ears, runs Tonka trucks up the legs of Callie’s customers, and generally has turned everything upside down here at Hair.Net.
This particular little person is David. He was part of the package when his mom, Darlene, (Callie’s new manicurist) moved in lock, stock, and uppity Lhasa Apso.
That would be William, who claims he’s the Dalai Lama reincarnate. He’s prancing around here, even as I speak, acting like he outranks the King. I thought he’d get the message when I howled “The Great Pretender,” but he just did his silly Lhasa flop that made Callie say, “Isn’t he the cutest little dog?”
Cute, my slightly crooked hind leg. “Don’t Step on my Blue Suede Shoes” is what she ought to be saying. That silly fuzz ball’s motto is “Rip It Up.”
Mine is “Suspicious Minds.” Listen, you can’t trust a dog with a bushy tail. What’s the use of a tail that can’t point rabbits? Or thump the floor like a drum? Or whack your human mom’s legs to let her know you love her?
Wait till Callie finds out William sneaked into the beauty shop closet and chewed the toe out of her favorite Steve Madden moccasins. She loves her designer shoes.
But even with that dumb dog chewing up everything in sight and trying to steal my spotlight and David trying to pull my tail, I’ll have to admit business has picked up around Hair.Net. Ever since Fayrene’s daughter moved back home with her entourage (which includes a cat named Mal that I’m not even going to dignify with a comment) and started dispensing Atlanta nail art, we’ve been booked to the hilt. Everybody who is anybody comes here to have Darlene paint witches and pumpkins on their toes. And while they’re at it, they end up getting a new hairdo for Halloween.
Business is popping over at Gas, Grits and Guts, too. People have been coming from Mantachie and Saltillo and even as far off as Red Bay, Alabama, to admire Fayrene and Jarvetis’ disco ball dance trophy. They hung it over the pickled pigs’ lips then proceeded to spotlight it so it would send rainbows over the Vlasic pickles and Lay’s potato chips. My best friend, Trey (Jarvetis’ redbone hounddog), tells me that Fayrene and Jarvetis (Mooreville’s answer to royalty), are acting like lovebirds these days in spite of the fact that work is progressing on the séance room he said she’d build onto the back of their convenience store over his dead body.