Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  “Three weeks?”

  “We were so close to starting our life together. Our future had become so real in my mind that it seemed like a parallel life, a road we’d already taken, except it was over before it started.”

  “I can’t even imagine.”

  “Here’s what’s going on, I think. I’ve always blamed the deer for the accident, but I think that was only so I couldn’t blame Stephen. He was always running late, driving too fast whether the road conditions were good or bad.” She took a deep breath. “You can’t forgive someone until you realize you hold something against him. I’ve finally realized I hated the deer so I wouldn’t hate Stephen for ruining our lives. Our dreams.”

  “Aw, Tish.” George moved closer, wanting to pull her into a hug.

  “Here’s the rest,” she said. “I loved Stephen and I lost him. Now I know that when you connect with someone, you risk losing that connection later. Your heart goes dark, and there’s nothing. It’s like … like a power failure.”

  He spoke softly but candidly. “And you’re afraid of going through that again.”

  She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

  Afraid he’d say too much, George hesitated. But he had to say it.

  “I don’t know of anybody who doesn’t use electricity because they might lose it someday, Tish. I’d say it’s worth the risk to have light and warmth while you still can.”

  “I know,” she said with the barest trace of a smile. “That’s why I came back.”

  He took another step closer, and another. She didn’t shrink back.

  He cupped her face in his hands and brushed away a teardrop with one thumb. She leaned toward him, her breathing audible in the silence, and their lips met. Her skin smelled like flowers. Her hair smelled like rain. Her fingers, when they slid past his ear and into his hair, were both soft and strong.

  “I’ve always wanted to play with your hair,” she whispered, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “Not as much as I’ve wanted to play with yours.”

  Somewhere between kisses, laughter won the battle. When he drew back to study her, her eyes shone with something deeper than tears.

  Tish consulted her GPS again and was almost disappointed to be so close to her destination already. The hostess for tonight’s gathering of the Noble-Muldro Garden Club lived in a lovely area of tree-covered hills sprinkled with lakes and creeks. It was a pleasure to drive through such beautiful scenery, even in the failing light, and it was a pleasure to have time alone after spending most of the day with Mel.

  Mostly, it was a pleasure to think about George. She just wished he wasn’t out of town, but he’d closed the shop early and left for his car show.

  She had taken Mel to Muldro to deposit her paycheck, but they’d used the drive-through, so they hadn’t run into either Marian or Farris. Mel was so sweet too, offering to chip in for groceries when she’d hardly made any take-home pay.

  She’d just better remember to take the dog out. If Daisy peed on the floor, it was the last time Mel would be dog-sitting.

  Tish spotted the right number on a roadside mailbox and hit the brakes. A long, winding driveway led through a gorgeous yard studded with magnolia trees. A two-story house blazed with lights in the dusk. She parked on a gravel strip behind a string of other vehicles and climbed out into the chilly evening with her pasta salad for the potluck.

  “Mingle, mingle, mingle,” she said under her breath. She’d mingle for the fun of it, though, not to troll for job leads. If her prospective employer happened to be a member of the garden club, that would be the icing on the cake.

  So much had changed in only a couple of days. She’d had a home-cooked dinner date with George. She’d told him about Stephen. The anger was gone. She didn’t hate the deer, she didn’t hate Stephen, she didn’t hate anybody. And George, suddenly, was more than a friend. A kiss was just a kiss, sure, but a kiss could be a turning point too. Like a house that had lost power and had it turned on again, she’d felt life and light and warmth humming inside every corner of her. Electricity.

  Now she even dared to join a gathering of longtime local residents and introduce herself as a McComb or even as Mel’s friend without worrying about the fallout.

  A pair of young women walked a few yards ahead of her, talking a mile a minute. At the front door, one of them smiled at Tish and held it open for her.

  “Thanks,” Tish said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and went on chattering with her friend.

  Scouting out the crowd, Tish knew she was underdressed. She’d thought most gardeners would wear something along the lines of jeans with a nice top, as she had, but these were high-class gardeners. Pillars of the community. Everyone around her had somehow achieved some combination of being fashionable yet comfortable. She felt about as fashionable as a hobbit—but she honestly didn’t care.

  I am Tish McComb. You can’t change who I am.

  The house was picture perfect. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling of a foyer that opened to an elegantly appointed living room on the right. On the left, the chairs had been removed from around a dining room table that was set up for a buffet. The tasteful assortment of beautiful serving dishes would make Tish’s practical plastic container a country bumpkin in a crowd of porcelain-skinned princesses.

  She didn’t care.

  A buxom, blond-gray woman bore down on her. Wearing a grandmotherly apron over a stylish dress, she jingled with jewelry. “Are you Tish? The gal who called for directions yesterday?”

  “Yes, I’m Tish.”

  “Thought so. Welcome, hon. I’m Becky.” She put a hand on the arm of a woman walking by. “Samantha, take her dish off her hands, will you?”

  Samantha gave her a quick hello and whisked the salad off to the buffet table.

  Tish smiled at her hostess. “Thanks for having me.”

  “I’m glad you came. Gardeners are the best kind of people, always willing to share. Didn’t you tell me you’re from up north somewhere?”

  “Yes, I’m from Michigan.” Warmed by Becky’s welcome, Tish felt herself relax.

  “And where do you live now, hon?”

  “In Noble, on Jackson.”

  “There are some wonderful old homes on Jackson. Which end of the street?”

  “I’m on South Jackson, where it starts to curve around the hill. Five houses from Main. The yard needs some serious cleanup, but I haven’t done a thing with it yet.”

  “You’ll have a lovely garden in no time, especially if you join tonight. Then you can jump right into the online forum and our classes and meetings. The perennial swaps are the best meetings of the year. Each person brings a box or two of extra plants, and we trade around. Everybody goes home happy. It’s only open to members, but my goodness, you’ll make back your dues with one swap. It’s only ten dollars a year.”

  “That’s a bargain. Where do I sign up?”

  “Let’s track down our secretary-treasurer. She was in the den a minute ago.” Becky checked her watch. “Then I have to run back to the kitchen and pull my cheese grits out of the oven.” She set off through the crowd. “How do you like it down here so far?” she called over her shoulder.

  “It’s like any move. There are pros and cons. The pasture always looks greener on the other side of the fence, but then you learn there are cow pies there too.”

  “The cow pies are the fertilizer, darlin’. They help make the grass green.”

  Tish glanced into a cozy den and did a double take. Steel-gray hair. A tall and trim figure. Marian Clark-Whoever was leaning over a low table to rearrange a bouquet of calla lilies in a gigantic crystal vase.

  “Sometimes I think I’m a cow pie in another person’s pasture,” Tish said with a nervous laugh.

  Becky laughed too, slowing her mad dash. “Oh, there she is. Marian! Stop playing with the flowers and sign up a new member. Tish, this is Marian. I’ll leave y’all to it and check on the food.” She hurried away.

&
nbsp; Marian finished tweaking the flowers before she straightened and turned around. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but her smile remained in place. “Hello, Letitia. Or do you prefer Tish?”

  “You can call me Tish. How are you?”

  “Just fine, thanks.”

  Tish considered asking her if she’d read the copies of the McComb letters. No. It didn’t matter. Ancient feuds didn’t have any place in a modern garden club.

  “I’d like to pay my dues,” Tish said, pulling her wallet from her purse. “Ten dollars, right?”

  “Correct.” Marian reached into a big canvas tote bag sitting on a wing-back chair. She pulled out a receipt book and a pen, flipped the book open, and started writing.

  Tish dug out a ten. “I guess I don’t have to tell you how to spell my name,” she joked.

  “You certainly don’t,” Marian said briskly. “I’ll write my e-mail address on the receipt. E-mail me with your phone number and address, and I’ll add you to the roster and give you the password for the forums.”

  “Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying the house and the yard. Si and Shirley certainly did. They used to be members here, you know. Poor Si. He loved all those perennials and flowering shrubs. Especially those gorgeous old camellias. Now he’ll hardly have room for a geranium on their balcony.” Shaking her head, Marian pulled the finished receipt from the pad.

  “I hope they’ll be able to buy a home again someday,” Tish said. “I really do.”

  Marian handed over the receipt like a ticket to board the train for a guilt trip. “Here you are,” she said in a grim tone.

  “Thanks.” Tish tucked the receipt into her purse. “I’m looking forward to being part of the group.” Especially the plant swaps, as long as Marian didn’t try to send her home with poison ivy or stinging nettles.

  Walking out of the den, Tish began to comprehend her situation. She was among Si and Shirley Nelson’s loyal friends, who saw her as the woman who practically stole their house from them, then sullied it by installing that incorrigible Mel Hamilton in the guest room.

  Tish entered the dining room where fifteen or twenty women and a handful of men formed two straggly lines on either side of the table. They seemed to have divided themselves by age, with younger people on the left and their elders on the right.

  A chill ran down her spine. It was entirely possible that one of those formidable older women was her prospective employer.

  Tish took her place at the end of the line on the left. No one joined her there, and the woman ahead of her didn’t turn around.

  She didn’t feel bullied; she felt ignored. Snubbed. It was the more refined version of her uncomfortable experiences at Bag-a-’Cue. The hostess, Becky, was kind, but Tish hadn’t seen her since she’d disappeared to tend to those cheese grits.

  With her plate filled, Tish scouted out the living room for available seats. Like the new kid in the cafeteria, she hated to butt in where she wasn’t wanted. She settled on a padded folding chair in a corner. As she ate, she listened to the conversations swirling around her.

  She would tough it out and stay for the whole evening, but she would keep her mouth shut. She’d be less conspicuous that way. Less likely to make enemies.

  I have not failed, not once. I’ve only discovered a whole mess o’ folks who don’t want to be my friends.

  Mel was freezing by the time she turned the corner onto Rock Glen Drive, coming in from the back of the neighborhood. She pulled the hoodie’s zipper up so high that it nicked her throat, and she pulled her hood low over her eyes. It was so dark now that it probably didn’t matter. Keeping to the back streets had added some time to the walk, but it was better that way. If she’d walked down Main, half the town might have noticed her under the streetlights. Even her parents might have seen her. They would have driven down Main on their way to Muldro and their anniversary dinner.

  She bit her lip, wondering if they’d gone to Carlita’s, her favorite Mexican place. They went there for her seventeenth birthday, and the whole family had laughed and talked and kept their waitress hopping. Jamie and Nicky had made cute, sloppy “Happy birthday, Aunt Mel!” cards.

  Nick, she reminded herself. He was ten now. And he knew too much about her plans. He wouldn’t have forgotten, either. He never forgot anything.

  She planned to take his advice. She wouldn’t take much, so her folks would never notice anything was missing.

  She had plenty of time. They were going to a movie, so they wouldn’t get home until at least ten. Tish might have an earlier evening than that, though, and Mel needed to get back first.

  She’d brought her purse, and it held gloves, a borrowed flashlight, and two shopping bags. She wouldn’t take more than she could fit into the bags.

  As her feet crunched through dry grass, the code kept repeating itself in the same rhythm: 3808, 3808. In a few minutes, she could forget it forever. She would never go back.

  A dog barked somewhere down the street. She told herself not to worry about it. He wasn’t barking at her.

  That reminded her of Daisy, all alone in that big old house. She’d better not have an accident. Tish would want to know why. Where were you? Why were you so busy you couldn’t let the dog out?

  There was the house she’d grown up in. They’d left those bright security lights on. A single light shone above the doors of the stand-alone garage, farther back on the lot, and more lights glared down from each corner of the attached garage. She’d have to move fast and pray the neighbors wouldn’t look out at the wrong moment.

  She didn’t belong there anymore. Even her memories seemed like they were from somebody else’s life. It must have been somebody else who’d climbed off the school bus at the corner every afternoon. Some other little girl had had a playhouse in the backyard and a Shetland pony in the field behind the yard. He was named Boswick’s Big Boy, the dumbest name ever, so she’d called him Buddy. Her mom said that was an awfully redneck name for such an expensive pony, but Mel didn’t care. Buddy was a good name for a good pony. They sold him to a family in Muldro when she was thirteen, and she’d made them promise to keep calling him that.

  Walking quickly, she crossed the lawn. She slowed down when she reached the shelter of the bushes. Hiding there, she checked out the situation. There weren’t any cars in the driveway, and there weren’t many lights on in the house. Just the dim ones they always kept burning.

  She reached into her purse for those stretchy little knit gloves. Pulling them on, she felt like a burglar. A criminal. But she was only rescuing a few things that belonged to her. She wasn’t stealing.

  “God, help,” Mel whispered, eyeing the little black box that covered the keypad. “Help me pull it off. Please.”

  She hurried across the driveway. Wishing she had an invisibility cloak, she raised the black box on its hinges. A soft light came on, shining on the keypad. She typed the code and hit Enter with her gloved fingertip, then held her breath.

  The garage door rose—quietly, of course, because the Hamiltons always bought the very best—and the overhead light came on, shining on her mom’s car. The other spot was empty, so they’d taken her dad’s vehicle.

  The moment the door rose high enough, she ducked inside. She tiptoed past the car to the door that led to the kitchen and hit the button on the wall. The garage door slid down.

  Her legs went weak. She’d made it in. The rest would be easy.

  The door to the kitchen was unlocked, as usual. She stepped inside and hurried to her bedroom. Once she was there, the night lights weren’t enough to go by. She had to use the flashlight.

  Leaving the gloves on, she shone the light into one drawer after another. She chose jeans, a sweatshirt, two T-shirts, and a few pairs of her superwarm socks, the expensive kind. Then she went into the closet and shone the light over her hanging clothes. She grabbed some dressy pants and shirts for interviews plus a little knit dress that wouldn’t take up much space, and two pairs
of shoes.

  This was her last chance. With everything packed into the shopping bags, she flashed the light around the room. Her jewelry tree glittered. She pulled off a pair of plain silver hoops and a silver chain and dropped them to the bottom of her purse. Nobody would miss those. It felt wrong to take anything to pawn, so she didn’t.

  She played the flashlight beam over the window, remembering how many times she’d climbed in after curfew. Remembering, earlier than that, how Grandpa John had helped her paint the walls that soft blue.

  She backed out of the room. She didn’t want to look at anything else. She didn’t want to remember being a little girl in that house, having a ton of toys and grandparents who came over to help her play with them.

  In two minutes, she was outside again, the garage door sliding down behind her. She re-armed the security system and closed the box over it. She was good to go.

  The night had turned cold. Nobody was out, and nobody was driving by. The stillness of the neighborhood made her feel as if she were the only person in town who hadn’t gone out with friends or family on a Friday night. Maybe she was.

  Glancing toward the smaller, newer garage, Mel wondered if the ’Vette was already gone. Maybe the test-drive guy had bought it, or maybe he hadn’t. She had to know.

  Her dad always used the same code on both garages because he was too lazy to memorize different codes, so she’d probably be able to get in and take a peek.

  The blinds and drapes at the neighbors’ houses were still closed. She still didn’t see anybody around.

  She walked down the short driveway that veered off to the left, leading to the second garage. Horribly exposed by the security light, she lifted the keypad’s cover with her gloved fingers and entered the code a second time.

  The door began to rise. The overhead light came on. Clapping one hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying, she watched the blue Corvette come into view. The chrome glinted like silver, bringing back memories of helping Grandpa John polish it.

  She ducked inside, hurried to the driver’s door, and bent over to look through the window. It seemed like yesterday that she’d sat there, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, while Grandpa John told his corny jokes and sang along with the radio. All that moldy-oldy music like the Beatles and the Beach Boys. He’d loved their dumb songs about cars. “Melly, you can drive my car,” he’d sung, and something about fun, fun, fun in a T-Bird.