Reunion at Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  I don’t envy Mac all that work. Patty might not care about status, but she does care about restoring things. If you stand still long enough, she’s liable to slap a coat of paint on you and stencil your forehead. She’s forever finding ‘visionary pieces’ at flea markets and garage sales. That tendency of hers explains why she appointed herself my ‘sister.’ I suspect that I’m a visionary piece to Patty.

  For all her love of restored antiques, she’s not a fussy woman. The house has that lived-in and rumpled designer look that Mac calls ‘shabby chick’ just to irritate her. Personally, I can’t figure out why you should have to work so hard to make new things look like you’ve owned them for a hundred years. Or why it’s chic to be shabby. But I won’t deny it’s a comfortable place. A place where a man can put his feet on the coffee table and not get yelled at.

  A place where children could run wild.

  Or at least dogs. Patty can’t have children, so while they’re waiting for the wheels of adoption to turn, they raise Labradors instead of toddlers. Loud Labradors. The woofing and wailing began as soon as I slammed my car door.

  Patty and the dogs met me on the porch. I’m not sure who looked more excited—Patty or the dogs, Butler and Maddie.

  Butler’s about eighty pounds of black Lab puppy in a three-year-old body. His name has nothing to do with being the Rhett Butler of handsome retrievers and everything to do with his status as a suspect in all manner of mayhem, mystery, and chaos during the first year of his life. When in doubt as to which dog had taken the contents of the kitchen garbage and decorated the living room, it was safe to assume that ‘the Butler did it.’

  Maddie, a seven-year-old creamy yellow Lab, was positioned behind Butler. Her tail thumped noisily against the door jamb. She looks like a law-abiding angel, but technically she should be hauled away to doggie-jail. She breaks the leash law every time her “parents” take her for an evening walk. To be fair, she does have a leash clipped to her collar; there just isn’t anyone at the end of it. She walks herself, carrying the folded leash in her mouth as carefully as a well-trained field dog carries a dove. In a town where pets are expected to be as eccentric as their owners and where Bob The Incontinent Chihuahua made big news when he nearly became snack food for a hawk, Maddie stands out as a class act.

  “Heyya, guys!” I supplied rib-thumps all around and then gave Patty a hug as we all squeezed through the door in a clump.

  She thumped my ribs in return and said, “You haven’t been eating.”

  “I’ve been running more. Running and freezing and hoping the weather’ll keep warming up.”

  “Good! I’m glad to hear you don’t have any objection to things heating up.”

  I let my arm fall and turned around to squint my eyes at her. Something told me I wasn’t going to like this. “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got a surprise.” She grinned and pushed past me into the living room. “Look who’s here! Don’t you remember? Bitsy Cameron!”

  I plastered a smile on my face and whispered just loud enough for Patty to hear. “Et tu, Paté?”

  Stephanie Heather Cameron.

  Bitsy to her friends.

  The unattainable golden girl of my youth. Princess of the doomed homecoming court on the night of the fire. Fledgling cheerleader. She didn’t flirt all the time. Only when she was awake. And she didn’t date underclassmen. Only seniors, which meant I never had a chance with Bitsy. Not until I was a senior at Bigelow High, and by then she was dating Bigelow college men exclusively.

  “Amos.” The smile was still dazzling. “How long has it been?”

  I’m not sure who I had in mind when I thought of finding time to look up heartbreakers and heartthrobs from high school, but Bitsy fit neatly into both those categories. For all of ten seconds, the years rolled back, and I could remember being that lanky tongue-tied teenager carrying around a hopeless crush. But only for ten seconds. Then my brain kicked in, and I remembered that I had it on excellent authority that I was one long, tall collection of mysterious he-man parts.

  So, I smiled back down at her. “Way too long. How’s life been treating you?”

  She grinned and did a little pirouette. “How does it look like it’s been treating me?”

  Patty piped up. “A lot better than the rest of us. Now stop showing off and get your toned tush in here for dinner. I just heard Mac come in the back door with the steaks.”

  For a moment Bitsy tried to look offended, but that’s nearly impossible to do when someone calls your tush toned. So she fell in line and marched in to dinner with the rest of us. When I pinned Mac with a stare over the table, he had the decency to look apologetic. He’d known exactly what I was walking into tonight and hadn’t warned me. Fortunately since the betrayal involved practically plopping Bitsy Cameron in my lap, I was feeling charitable. I forgave him.

  That was a mistake.

  I should have left the jury out a bit longer on Bitsy. The problem created when you’re reunited with the object of a teenage crush is that you aren’t a teenager anymore. Life has a way of changing most of us. Except Bitsy. She still believed the world revolved around her. Somehow that particular trait seemed cute when I was in high school. The fake little pout was cute back then, too.

  Times change. I changed. I found I didn’t like the pout Bitsy managed right before she began to complain.

  “Oh, Patty, you won’t mind throwing the dogs out will you? I just don’t think I can eat a bite with them staring at me like that. They look so . . . well, wild.” She gave a delicate shudder that managed to convey all kinds of insults to Patty’s four-legged children. “I guess it’s all that hunting.”

  Mac snorted. “Hunting? That’ll be the day. The only bird they ever managed to find was last year’s Christmas turkey.”

  I had to smile. “Yeah . . . too bad it was before you carved it. Did Maddie’s wish ever come true?”

  The rigid set of Patty’s mouth begain to soften as she relaxed at our teasing, but I could see Bitsy didn’t get the joke. I explained. “Wishbone. They each grabbed a side of the turkey and pulled.”

  “How . . . cute.”

  “They are that. But don’t worry about ‘em tonight. As long as you don’t baste yourself in Patty’s orange-honey glaze, you should be safe enough from the Holiday Bandits.”

  Bitsy didn’t look convinced and pulled her chair as close to mine as possible. The rest of the dinner just went down hill from there. We discovered that the steak would have been much better if Patty had done something called an ‘expresso rub’ before Mac grilled them. Bitsy was appalled that we were so backward that we weren’t familiar with this noveau cuisine technique.

  When she used my forearm to demonstrate the rubbing technique, I thought Mac was going to choke on sirloin. Patty looked uncomfortable, and I decided reunions definitely weren’t all they were cracked up to be. The idea of a reunion is often much more fun than the reality. A lot more fun.

  Bitsy informed us that she’d taken her maiden name back after the second divorce to symbolically reclaim her sense of identity that had been stifled during her marriages. What I found interesting was that she didn’t give up any of the married surnames in the process. She is officially, Bitsy Cameron Ashworth Tanner Cameron. No hyphens. I haven’t a clue how she manages to sign all of that on her checks, but I figure it looks impressive on the letterhead of her gallery in Atlanta. She sells fine art to fine folks. Of course she refers to them as the ‘best people.’ Emphasis on best.

  Seems good ol’ Governor Ham Bigelow even bought his art from her. She was a big contributor to his campaign since he was part Hamilton, after all, and she owed at least that much loyalty to Mossy Creek. She lowered her voice dramatically to proclaim the man “perfectly dreamy.”

  I sent Mac more than one you-will-pay-for-this looks across the table. His expression implied that he already was—dinner with Bitsy was an obstacle course for his Southern hospitality. Mac disliked frivolous people, hated class distinctions, and h
ad no qualms about thumping anyone who hurt Patty’s feelings.

  Except he couldn’t thump a woman.

  After torturous minutes of listening to Bitsy’s European buying trips, it looked like she might be winding down. “But I’m boring you. What do you care about Europe? Y’all stay close to home. Why, I’m surprised Patty doesn’t already have a gaggle of babies to run around after. Oh! And aren’t those bronze marathon runners of Tag’s just magnificent? Imagine! Finding a sculptor of Tag’s caliber has just been the surprise of my visit. Who knew Daddy’s having that heart attack would turn out to be such good luck?”

  Mac couldn’t take it anymore. “Amos, don’t you and Bitsy need to be going?”

  Since I hadn’t brought Bitsy, I didn’t see how we needed to be going anywhere. I gave him a purposely blank look. “Not really. Sandy’s covering the parade.”

  “But surely you and Bitsy will want to go down to the pub? How would it look if the police chief didn’t turn out for charity? What would Father Mike think?”

  “A charity event?” Bitsy perked up and rested her beautifully manicured nails on my arm.

  “Not your kind of party.” I warned Mac with a look and warned Bitsy with information. “It’s a St. Paddy’s Day karaoke costume party. Father Mike—Michael Conners—is giving two dollars to our Parks and Recreation Fund for every costumed customer and every song.”

  She immediately lost interest until Mac prodded. “Yeah, you gotta wear green. Too bad you can’t get into your old cheerleading outfit. Weren’t the old high school’s colors green and white? That’d be a blast from the past. An instant costume.”

  Patty bit her lip. I bit my tongue. And Bitsy bit the bait. She was extremely proud of her legs and her toned tush. Mac knew exactly what he was doing, because she squared her shoulders, ready for battle. “I’ll have you know that I can certainly still fit in that outfit!”

  “Really? But surely not good enough to wear it in public!”

  I kicked Mac. Hard. I was doomed, but it made me feel better. Made him wince, and the expression on his face made Bitsy think he was wincing at a mental picture of her in her cheerleading outfit.

  “Really,” Bitsy huffed. “In fact, I’ll show you. Come on, Amos. We’ll run by Daddy’s and meet them at the pub.”

  “Right.” I agreed because I had no other choice. But if I was going to suffer then Mac was going to suffer right along with me. “We’ll all go! Mac’s kilt is a green plaid isn’t it, Patty?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Okay then! We’ll meet you there.” I pushed my chair back. “Make sure he brings the bagpipes, Patty.”

  She was grinning. Mac was not. Served him right.

  * * * *

  If it weren’t for Bitsy, the rest of the evening might have been fun. How often do you see a man perform Yellow Submarine on bagpipes? Mac was a huge hit. In between requests, he did his best to get rid of Bitsy, but since each of his attempts involved my having to go off alone with Bitsy, I wasn’t agreeable.

  First he dragged out old stories in which my “manliness” figured prominently. Bitsy couldn’t have gotten any closer to me if you’d painted her on. Then he spun the yarn about our local Bigfoot and suggested that only lovers in the woods ever saw this creature. Even though Josie McClure seemed to have located the Bigfoot and even convinced him to show up for the Valentine’s Day dance.

  Gosh, Mac wondered aloud, why didn’t we (Bitsy and I) go see if Bigfoot was out tonight? Bitsy was all ashiver and atwitter to check it out. I lied about being on call and kicked Mac again.

  Next he convinced Bitsy to sing a painfully horrific karaoke version of that song about liking a man with slow hands. I looked everywhere but at Bitsy, who was definitely singing to me. By the time Bitsy sashayed off the makeshift stage and snuggled up to me again, I didn’t bother to stop her running her stocking foot up inside my pants leg. Bitsy always got what she wanted, and apparently she wanted poison ivy on the bottom of her foot.

  But when she put her hand on my thigh, I shot up from the chair like a six-year-old volunteering to open birthday presents. “Time for me to sing and do my bit for charity!”

  Ida Walker and Del Jackson came in just in time to catch my warm-up and drive home a truth I’d been trying to ignore. I fiddled with the microphone stand for a moment before I admitted to myself that I didn’t much like Jackson. Something about the retired military colonel grated on my nerves, made me bristle. Tonight I figured out why.

  I didn’t like Jackson because Ida flowed into the room at his side.

  She might be in her fifties, but the woman didn’t look that much older than me. She wore a simple gypsy outfit. This was not a woman you’d confuse with the rusty carnival-game gypsy sitting in the foyer of the town hall. Nope. Ida was warm, sensual flesh-and-blood. The long green skirt that cinched in at her waist undulated around her body like a living thing when she moved. Her shoulders slid in and out of view as the classic gypsy shirt slipped off one shoulder and then the other when she waved and returned greetings. Gold earring hoops dangled. It wasn’t so much a costume as a transformation. Ida looked like the genuine article, right down to the unruly auburn hair. I wasn’t put off by the dramatic gray streaks at her temples. Racing stripes.

  She smiled with honest enjoyment at the scene around her, melting into the experience, listening. On the other hand, my unintended date called attention to herself by executing a cheerleading move parody and screaming, “Go Amos!” I looked at Bitsy and then at Ida. The contrast couldn’t be ignored. Or my reaction to it. I didn’t want a Bitsy. I wanted an Ida.

  That’s when Jackson stepped in front of her, meeting my gaze and cocking an eyebrow. My one moment of unguarded emotion had been caught on tape, Jackson-wise. His grim expression said Back off before you get any serious ideas.

  Too late, my man. Too late. The gypsy’s out of the bottle.

  Then Ida pulled his arm, and they threaded their way through the crowd to a table. I finished my song—now I can’t even remember what it was—and decided the night hadn’t been a total loss after all. I’d discovered there was the proverbial dead moose on the table between Del Jackson and me. What we were going to do about it was anyone’s guess. But at least we’d stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

  What Del didn’t know was that I’d had plenty of practice sitting on the bench, waiting for my turn, and wanting things that just weren’t practical. Life is a lot like high school football. If you expect a front row seat, you better show up every day, ready to play.

  And don’t forget that the home team always has the advantage.

  Mossy Creek, Georgia

  From the Mayor’s Desk

  From: Ida Hamilton Walker

  To: Katie Bell

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Katie Bell, if you publish even one more hint of gossip about that scene at O’Day’s, I swear I’ll use you for target practice. Even if you are my favorite third cousin once removed. Even if you do keep me up on certain facts about our citizenry that I, as a concerned mayor, obviously need to know.

  But as for that incident at O’Day’s: I am grown woman and often accused of not acting my age, especially in regards to the opposite sex. So what. Good for me. I encourage no one to act her age. His age. A politcally correct age. Whatever.

  I am still a fine, tall, sensual specimen of a New South Southern woman, as any man over the age of puberty will tell you. I wear my jeans tight and listen to my music loud and occasionally put on a low-cut, braless t-shirt under my business suits. People forget sometimes that I founded the Women Are Not Girls feminist club at the University of Georgia when I was a business major there, or that I swore I’d play the field the way men do—until Jeb Walker sidelined me, and I happily let him. Like all the women in my Hamilton lineage, I expect to remain extraordinarily lithe and alluring well into the eighties. My eighties, that is. Allure, of course, is all about attitude.

  Power to the Allure, Baby.

  But as you well know
, I stopped my heart’s clock the year Jeb died. How he died is not something I can bear to discuss, even now, but all that’s important is that he died young and dearly loved by me and Rob. Our marriage has held me in suspended animation all these years since. Of course I don’t age normally. I’ve become timeless, remembering Jeb.

  So, regarding this rumor of feelings between Amos Royden and myself, well, yes, I’m aware of the subtle tension between him and me, the sassiness of our interchanges, the unspoken but urgent longing. Not that there has ever been any hint of disgrace between us, or even any open admiration that might be misunderstood. We have some sweet and very noble history, but that’s no one’s business but ours. You’ll never pry the details out of him or me, so don’t bother trying

  While he is older than my Rob and I may be a shameless flirt and a gentleman’s woman—that is, in the sense that there are ‘ladies’ men,’ I am a woman who blatantly attracts and enjoys modern gentlemen—but I am not the kind of woman who hires and then seduces her own town’s young police chief. Nor am I the kind of woman who cheats on an established relationship. Thus, Del Jackson’s trust is safe with me.

  I hope I’ve settled the issue. Thank you. Remember what I said about target practice.

  The Mossy Creek Gazette

  215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager

  Dear Vick:

  Sorry to be so long in answering, but I’ve been keeping a low profile since a little tiff occurred between me and the mayor. No big deal, just something I’m not comfortable discussing unless I’m wearing a shotgun-proof vest. Anyway . . .

  Forget our discussion of the Ten Cent Gypsy, the fire, and the reunion plans this week. Jayne Reynolds had her baby on Monday. Her water broke the other afternoon while she was pouring a cup of chamomile tea for Adele Clearwater at The Naked Bean. Old Miss Adele, who has become a big supporter of Jayne’s, shrieked so loud that Jayne’s cat, Emma, went tearing out onto the sidewalk, collided with Ingrid Beechum’s infamous Chihuahua, Bob, and rolled him like a rat in a bag. Bob took off at a dead run for the town square but Emma caught him under the spring azaleas. All anyone heard after that was her growling and him yelping. Suddenly Emma burst out of the azaleas with pink blossoms scattered on her fur and a look on her calico face like something stank and the something was her. She raced back to the coffee shop, leaving moist pawprints on the sidewalk.