Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  “Really?”

  “And it meets Friday night.”

  “Perfect,” Mel said. “You should go.”

  Tish kept reading. “It’s a potluck, it starts at six, and it’s followed by a discussion of springtime gardening essentials. Whatever that means. There’s a phone number for RSVPs.”

  Mel crowded closer to see. “Call right now, and then you won’t back out. George, you still going to the car show?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Too bad, or you could go to the garden club too.”

  “I don’t have a garden,” he pointed out. “Just a scrap of grass for the dog’s business.”

  Tish looked up from the paper. “I love car shows. My dad used to take Mom and me to the big show at Meadow Brook Hall in Michigan. Classic cars all over the lawn.”

  “I’ve heard of that one,” George said. “This one won’t be in the same class. It’ll have muscle cars instead of Rolls Royces, but I’ll learn a lot from talking with other folks who’ve already restored cars like mine.”

  “Is Daisy going with you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Unless you’d like to adopt her for the weekend.”

  “No, thanks,” Tish said. “She’s cute, but I’m not a dog person.”

  “I am,” Mel said. “Please, Tish? Can I?” She turned to George. “Please, George?”

  “It’s up to Tish.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It would make it that much harder to convince her that she doesn’t live with us. Not that we’re making much progress with that anyway.”

  Mel gave a little hop. “So does that mean I can? Please, Tish?”

  “All right, as long as you’re the one taking care of her. Not me.”

  “And don’t let her piddle on those nice floors like she used to,” George said.

  “I won’t,” Mel said solemnly, and he believed her.

  Tish smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it under her arm. Steadfastly ignoring the black gown on the mannequin, she browsed the rest of the vintage clothing.

  “Is there a particular era you’re interested in?” he asked.

  “Not really. I just know what I like when I see it.” Tish rifled through the clothes on the rack, wasting no time. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I can afford it. Mostly, I pick up vintage scarves and costume jewelry. And I’ve bought some cute old hankies at yard sales.”

  “Handkerchiefs are a popular collectible,” he said politely, although he would never understand the appeal of a used snot rag.

  Finished with her perusal of the clothing rack, she turned to the shelves. “Ooh, look what I found.” She went straight to the satchel-style bag he’d picked up for a song at an estate sale. “Not bad,” she said, checking the price tag. “Practical and pretty, and it’s real leather. Made to last.”

  “With the right care, it’ll last a long time yet. Those little wrinkles and imperfections are part of its charm.”

  “You sound like my mom,” Tish said with a laugh.

  George frowned. Was it a good thing to sound like a woman’s mother? No. Definitely not. He’d have to work on that.

  Tish held up the purse for Mel to see. “Beautiful, huh? In a retro way. And it’s not very expensive.”

  “It’s awesome,” Mel said, coming closer.

  “It’s much better than the little purse we picked up at the thrift store.” Tish started exploring the multitude of zippered pockets inside. “Look at the details. It’s great craftsmanship.”

  “Yeah, but I need to be supercareful with my money.”

  “Do you really like this one?” he asked. “Or are you only being polite?”

  Mel ran a tentative finger over the buttery brown leather. “I really do like it. I’m starting to get hooked on old stuff. Antiques are all different, you know? It’s not something you can buy at the mall.”

  “Only one girl in town will have one like this,” he said.

  Mel sighed. “But it won’t be me. I wish … but it ain’t gonna happen.”

  With a pang for the profit he was losing, he pulled the price tag off, tugged the bag out of Tish’s hands, and gave it to Mel. “Happy birthday, a little early.”

  Mel’s mouth dropped open. “George, you can’t do that.”

  “I just did.”

  “Thank you! I love it.” It was the only genuine smile he’d seen on her in days.

  “You’re going to be twenty-one, right?” Tish asked. “One of those special birthdays. A milestone.”

  Mel nodded, keeping her gaze on the bag.

  It might be her only birthday gift. Her family would ignore the day. And George couldn’t help. He’d be at the car show.

  But Tish gave him a tight smile that told him she understood the situation. The woman who’d charged into Dunc Hamilton’s private lair wouldn’t have any problem coming up with some kind of birthday plan.

  She picked up one of the black velvet evening bags, stroked it, and returned it to the shelf. “I’d better go before I find your vintage jewelry and get myself in real trouble. I’ll come back sometime when I have a job. And money. See you guys later.”

  But she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily. He opened the door and followed her onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Tish gave him a grave smile. “It was kind of you to give Mel the purse. She needs all the encouragement she can get.”

  “She seems to be doing well, though, don’t you think?”

  “She’s doing too well. Sooner or later, she’ll let herself feel the hurt. That’s when she’ll fall apart.” Tish twinkled her fingers at him in a wave and left, empty-handed except for the free paper.

  George returned to the warmth of the store and scrutinized Mel, who was still rooting through the handbag’s inner pockets. She looked perfectly happy, but he remembered her as a kid, moving easily from a full-blown tantrum to sunshine and giggles—and back again. She’d never been predictable.

  She looked up with a grin. “Having a decent purse again will make me feel like, you know, a decent person. Not a loser with nothing but a bedroll. Thanks, George.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Hey, there’s a penny in it.” She held it up.

  “That’s for good luck. I never sell a purse or a wallet without putting a penny in it first.”

  “Now I need more money to add to it. Lots more money.”

  She took the purse to the back room and came out with the Windex and a roll of paper towels. She was humming.

  “It was nice of you to steer Tish toward the garden club,” he said as she headed for the front door.

  “I already checked out the paper, so I knew they were meeting on Friday, but I had to act surprised so she’d think she found it all by herself.” Smiling smugly, she strolled away in pursuit of fingerprints.

  The little schemer. Not that there was anything wrong with making Tish think the garden club was her own discovery, but it was strange.

  In the quiet of the slow day, he settled at his computer in the back room and resumed his daily wheeling and dealing online. After checking on a handful of auction items, he dealt with his most pressing paperwork. Then, as a reward, he browsed the Internet for advice on making Greek pizza. He’d been furtively experimenting for weeks, and they were getting better. Better than the Shell station’s offerings, anyway.

  Mel’s scream sliced him like a knife. “No!” she shrieked. “Oh no!”

  He ran, papers flying. Halfway through the store he pulled his phone from his pocket. It had to be a tragedy. A homicide on the sidewalk? A vehicle mowing down pedestrians? But he’d heard no gunshot, no sound of impact, no scream but Mel’s.

  She clung to the door, her face pressed to the glass, the Windex lying at her feet and the paper towels unrolling beside it. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Then he heard a distinctive rumble and caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting on a sky-blue fender. Dunc’s ’Vette disappeared around the cor
ner.

  “What’s going on, Mel?”

  Her shoulders slumped. She faced him, her eyes like black holes. “A young guy was driving. He was laughing. And my dad—Dunc—was in the passenger seat. He was laughing too. You know what that means.”

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “It was a test drive! That horrible guy will buy it, and I’ll never see it again.”

  “Calm down, Mel. Calm down. I found your dad’s ad online, and he’s asking too much. He’ll never sell it at that price.”

  Tears crawled down her cheeks. “He’ll sell it. He’ll lower the price, or he’ll find somebody rich enough or dumb enough to pay it.” She sobbed and gulped and sobbed again. “I can never afford to buy it. Never, never, never. But it should be mine.”

  “Now, Mel—”

  “No, it’s true. Grandpa John told me he was going to give it to me.”

  “If he honestly meant to give you the car, then it should have been yours, but—”

  “Exactly,” she said fiercely. “It should be mine.”

  “But it isn’t.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” A tear reached her trembling chin and fell.

  He wanted to give her a tissue and pat her shoulder, but more coddling wouldn’t help. “You’re supposed to go on with your life. You’re not entitled to something just because you want it. If you want something, you have to earn it.”

  “What if it’s something I can never earn? Something I can never afford?”

  “Then you give up on the idea.”

  “You’re telling me to give up?”

  “No, Melanie. I’m telling you to grow up.”

  “You don’t understand! They took the watch back, but they won’t take me. Now they’re selling the car. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a family anymore.” She ran for the back room, weeping as if someone had ground her heart underfoot the way she ground out her cigarette butts.

  This was what Tish had been talking about, then. Finally feeling the pain. Falling apart. His lectures wouldn’t help Mel at all.

  He picked up the Windex and paper towels and attacked the fingerprints on the glass. He never should have given her the leather bag. He’d only reinforced her mistaken notion that she only had to wish for something and it was hers.

  A few hours after the ’Vette had cruised by, George was desperate for a breath of fresh air untainted by female emotions. He stepped onto the sidewalk.

  Mel was only speaking when spoken to, only smiling when smiled at, and then her smiles were phony. She reminded him of one George Zorbas at fifteen, suffering from his first-ever broken heart, or at least he’d called it that. Mel had been working hard, though. He’d give her that. She must have dusted everything in the store, three times over.

  He glanced across the street, where his fellow merchants seemed to be doing a brisk business. Sometimes he wondered if the anti-Mel and anti-McComb forces had arranged a quiet boycott of Antiques on Main. But that was ridiculous.

  Come to think of it, though, Dorothea Rose hadn’t set foot in the store lately. Trying to remember the last time he’d seen her, he concluded it was the day she’d hidden behind the Luminaire fan and gawked at Tish returning a dog. It was a shame, especially now that he’d read the McComb letters. He would have enjoyed explaining to Mrs. Rose that her grandmother’s tongue-lashing had nothing to do with Mrs. Letitia McComb’s decision to leave town. The old lady should have been ashamed of herself for treating a recent widow that way.

  A flash of movement caught his eye. Tish was running toward him, her hair streaming behind her like a banner. Alarmed, he set off toward her, but when they met on the sidewalk, she was smiling so broadly that he almost thought she’d hug him, right there on Main.

  “I have a job offer,” she said breathlessly. “Well, it’s not an official offer yet, but it’s almost certain.”

  “Congratulations! Where?”

  “In Muldro, at a big construction company. I’ll be the office manager. It’s not much like what I was doing before, but if they’re willing to train me, I’m willing to learn.” Her eyes shone with laughter. “The people I’ve talked to so far aren’t from Noble. They probably don’t know anything about McCombs or Mel Hamilton, so I think I’m in.”

  “When will it be official?”

  “I’ll go back on Monday and meet the owner. I met her son today, and he practically promised me the job. Come on, let’s go tell Mel. She’ll be happy for me.”

  “I hope she will,” he said as they walked toward the shop together. “She’s not having an especially happy day herself. After you left this morning, she saw Dunc go by in the ’Vette with a stranger at the wheel. A prospective buyer, maybe. You’d think it was the end of the world.”

  “Oh, poor Mel. I won’t gloat about my good fortune, then.”

  “No, but there’s no reason you can’t celebrate it.”

  “Later,” she said. “In private.” She downsized her grin to a sedate smile, but her eyes still sparkled.

  She preceded him into the shop. They found Mel staring glumly at her reflection in one of the art-nouveau hand mirrors.

  “I have some news,” Tish told her in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m almost certain I have a job.”

  Mel was minding her manners too. Instead of bringing up her own troubles, she set the mirror down and met Tish with a happy expression. “Yay! Now you can buy that black dress before somebody else does.”

  “I shouldn’t. Not until the job is a sure thing. Last time I thought I had a job in the bag, I was wrong.”

  “This time, maybe they won’t find out you hang out with baddies like me.”

  “Oh, Mel, that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry I made you think it was. And you’re not a baddie.”

  “Whatever.” Mel took Tish by the hand and tugged her toward the mannequin in the snug-fitting velveteen ball gown. “Just try it on. If it fits, you can ask George to put it on layaway. Right, George?”

  “Right. The dressing room is right over there.” He pointed. “I’ll leave you two in peace.”

  He tried to make himself stay on the other side of the store, but within minutes his feet had found their way back to the clothing corner. From his vantage point behind a chifforobe, he sneaked a look.

  Tish had already donned the black ball gown and emerged from the dressing room. Facing the narrow mirror beside it, she held still while Mel stood behind her, tightening the laces.

  “There,” Mel said. “Turn around. Let me see.”

  With Mel blocking his view, he saw only part of a very pretty picture as Tish spun in a circle. She lifted the heavy skirt a few inches, giving him a glimpse of jeans and bare feet.

  “Perfect,” Mel said.

  Tish laughed. “I think I’m in love.”

  Still unseen, George allowed himself a small nod of agreement.

  Mel stepped away as Tish made another turn, giving him an unobstructed view. The bodice was a snug and solid fit, while the skirt swirled gracefully around her.

  “Wow!” The word slipped out unbidden.

  Tish stopped moving as if he’d hit her off switch. The skirt settled, hiding her jeans again. “I didn’t know I had an audience.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He backed up a couple of steps. “You look very nice,” he said, as tame a compliment as he dared to offer.

  “Thank you. I hope you’re not just saying that so I’ll want to buy it.”

  “It’s the truth. It’s a beautiful dress on a beautiful woman. Don’t get skittish, now, just because I’ve expressed my opinion.”

  She presented her back to Mel. “Unlace me, please.”

  George walked away, trying to interpret Tish’s mixed signals. He would never understand her until he knew her better. Chance encounters like this didn’t help, though, especially with Mel hanging around like a gloomy puppy dog.

  Fortunately, Mel was in the back of the store by the time Tish came out of the dressing room with the dress draped over her arm.
She’d somehow knotted her hair tightly behind her head. He resisted the temptation to suggest setting it free again.

  “Would you like to put it on layaway?” he asked, taking the heavy garment from her.

  She sighed, unable to take her eyes off it. “Thank you, but … no. If it’s meant for me, it’ll still be here when I’m sure I can afford it.”

  “Okay.” He took a breath and blurted it out. “Tomorrow night, if you’re free, will you let me cook dinner for you to celebrate the job?”

  She met his eyes. In the dead silence, he heard his own breathing.

  “It’s a little premature,” she said. “The job isn’t a sure thing.”

  “Then we’ll celebrate a possibility instead of a sure thing.”

  She smiled faintly. “You cook?”

  “Some. Nothing fancy.” And wasn’t that the truth.

  “Thanks,” she said evenly. “That would be nice. What time?”

  “Say … seven?”

  “Okay.”

  “You know where I live.”

  “I certainly do.”

  Thinking he saw something sad or wistful or scared in her eyes, he hesitated. “Don’t worry. This time, we won’t discuss carpetbaggers and musty old books.”

  She nodded. “See you then.”

  He would have preferred more enthusiasm. Maybe she’d accepted the invitation only because he’d accused her of being skittish and she wanted to prove him wrong.

  Or somebody, somewhere, had broken her heart. Maybe he needed to let her know she wasn’t the only one.

  He headed toward the back room with the dress. He wanted to give it to her, just as he’d given the purse to Mel, but Mel was like a kid sister, and a purse was only a purse. In Tish’s case, there were proprieties to observe. A gentleman didn’t give a lady anything too personal until he knew her very well. He didn’t know her well enough.

  Not yet.

  He hung the garment on the layaway rack. No need to put a tag on it, as it wasn’t an official layaway, and he certainly wouldn’t forget whom he was saving it for.

  Mel wandered into the back room. “It looked great on her. I’m glad she’ll have money for clothes soon.” She sighed, reaching out to stroke the soft black fabric. “I wish I did.”