Reunion at Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  When there was a lapse in the conversation, I said, “Beau, let me call Anna Rose and tell her you’re—”

  “No, don’t call her.”

  “But this is absurd.”

  “Let me do it my way.” He glanced at Tag and then back at me. “Both of you have got to promise me that you won’t tell anybody I’m here. Nobody.”

  I shot a look at Tag. He had a peculiar expression on his face, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to.”

  “Thanks. Maggie, can we spend the next few days working on a project of mine? I need some help with a costume.”

  “A costume?”

  “I’ll go get the materials.” He stood and shook hands with Tag again. “Keep this lady occupied until I get back.”

  After he left the porch, Tag didn’t look happy. “What’s he up to?”

  “I really can’t tell you. I’ve given him my word.”

  “You let me drive your mother to the nursing home, but you can’t tell me why Mr. Dimples has come back to town and is setting up housekeeping with you?”

  “I gave my word.” God, how else was I going to keep this from Anna Rose? “It has to do with Anna Rose. That’s all I can say.” She’d slay me with a sword from her prop shop at the theater if she knew I knew Beau was in town and didn’t tell her. “You know, Anna Rose is directing A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Mossy Creek Theater.”

  “Good. Mr. Dimples is an actor. Let him go sleep at the theater.”

  “Oh, Tag, he’s just come home for a little vacation and doesn’t want folks making a nuisance of themselves. He doesn’t want Katie Bell to hear. Good Lord, if she heard about it, first thing you know, every paper in the state would mention it and then every TV station. And then we’d be in a fix. It would be worse than leaf season. There’d be a steady stream of cars through here with folks trying to spot Beau.”

  Tag sighed and shook his head. “I sure as hell don’t like the idea of you staying here all alone with him.”

  “Then you don’t trust me. Why, Tag Garner, I believe you’re jealous of a younger man.”

  “Damn it, Maggie, I’m not jealous. Why should I be jealous?”

  “No reason, but you are. I can see it in your eyes.”

  I’d never had the pleasure of a guy being jealous over me before. I decided it felt pretty good. Especially, when the guy being jealous was a former pro football player and the guy he was jealous of was America’s latest heartthrob.

  Tag turned away and crossed his arms as he approached the window. He stared out for a moment. “Are you really going to let Belmondo stay here? Maybe I should offer my place.”

  “Yes, he’s going to stay here. And I resent your implications.”

  “Now, don’t be turning into Scarlet O’Hara on me, Mags. We’re going together. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Of course it does. You know it does. And Beau has nothing to do with us.”

  That he could even ask such a question really hurt.

  “Nothing? My God, Maggie, am I supposed to like it because a strange man—a strange man that ninety-nine percent of women in the world would love to sleep with—is living in the house with you?”

  “Come on, Tag. Don’t be like this. He’s a friend. I used to babysit him. He needs a place to stay.”

  Tag didn’t move. I took my hand off his arm and walked over to the swing to sit down. Too many things—bad things—were happening, all in the same day. Somehow, I had to come to grips with all of this a little at a time. I never would have suspected Tag of jealousy, but here he was just about to burst wide open with a fit of it.

  “Don’t be like this? Like what?”

  “Like . . . like crazy. That’s what.”

  “Oh, so now I’m crazy?” He strode off the porch. “Have a good time with Mr. Heartthrob.”

  Before I could respond, he was gone through the back flower beds. Brother. Just when you think your life is all laid out before you. Whammo.

  Your mother moves out, a movie star moves in, and the man you’ve fallen in love with tramples your petunias.

  In more ways than one.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, while Beau was upstairs in Mother’s room working on something to do with his “project,” the front door chimed.

  I hurried into the shop from my workroom and found Anna Rose leaning over the herbal soap display. “Hi ya, Maggie. I just had a question about the press release you’re working on for the play . . . What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought maybe Tag might . . . Well, that you might be Tag.”

  “Something wrong in Camelot?”

  What could I tell her? I couldn’t tell her the truth—that Tag and I had had a fight over her old boyfriend who had just moved into my spare room. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just a bit antsy. Mother woke up this morning with this bizarre notion to move into the Magnolia Manor. She even called Tag to come and take her over there. And,” I continued, unable to stop the flood of frustration pouring forth from my blathering mouth, “Katie Bell dropped by a few minutes ago to warn me that Mother staged this whole thing just so she could move into an assisted living apartment next door to some old Romeo.”

  Anna Rose hooted. “Did she say who he was?”

  “No, and I’d really appreciate some thoughtful sympathy from you instead of a howling laugh.”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie, honestly, I am. But I have to confess. I can’t believe you didn’t suspect. Romeo is my Uncle Tyrone.”

  “Uncle? Your uncle?” I nearly fell over. “Are you serious? After all these years?”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself. After all the pushing we’ve done to get them together, they did it themselves. They must figure this is a discreet way for them to live together without saying so.”

  “Damn! I’ve got to go over there and talk to her about this.”

  “Why? What’s she done that’s so bad?”

  “She said she was moving so Tag and I could have some privacy.”

  “Really?”

  “And she said that she thought I needed some ‘good old lusty sex.’ That’s a direct quote. To make matters worse . . . much worse, Tag and I had an argument that started with her and ended with—” I clamped my mouth shut just in time.

  “Oooh, that’s bad,” Anna Rose said with obvious sympathy.

  I could always count on her for support, which made me feel even more guilty for keeping secrets. We’d made a pact when we became friends—no secrets. In fact, I’d been the person she went to first when she was pregnant with her daughter, Hermia, who was now at the University of Georgia. Hermia was following in her mother’s footsteps—an actress right down to her dramatic toes.

  I decided to change the subject. “You know, if Mother wants to live at Magnolia Manor because your uncle is there, I’m glad. I think it will do her good. Maybe it will even keep her from stealing things. Maybe she’ll just steal from him.”

  “That would be great.” Anna Rose grinned. “Do you see a wedding happening?”

  “Do I see a wedding? Anna Rose, I didn’t even know why she was moving over to the retirement center. I thought she was mad at me and trying to get even or something.”

  Anna Rose picked up a freshly packaged bar of soap. “All’s well that ends well. Who knows? That smells divine. Isn’t honeysuckle your signature soap?”

  “Yep, it’s Maggie’s Heart. The scent is soothing.” I darted a glance at the floor above us. If Anna Rose only knew who was up there. . .

  “I need something soothing,” Anna Rose said. “My Bottom is flat.”

  “Wish mine was.”

  “Be serious. I’m talking about the character, not my rear-end. The play opens in just a couple of weeks.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Where am I going to get a Shakespearean ass at this late date?”

  “You should be looking for an actor instead of a
n ass.”

  “Most actors are asses,” she said, laughing, and waved to me as she left the shop.

  I heard a soft sound and looked up the staircase.

  Beau stood at the top, watching her go with quiet misery and devotion in his eyes.

  * * * *

  Life was interesting. Life was hard. Loneliness was something I never really experienced until Tag and I broke up.

  I visited Mother daily at Magnolia Manor, but she was rarely home. I rang the doorbell of her tiny, furnished apartment several times, but got no answer.

  “Mother, it’s me,” I called one day. “Let me in, or I’m calling Amos and telling him I smell a dead body.”

  She cracked the door and peeked out. I glimpsed her chenille robe. The one with the bunnies on it. “Come back later.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Are you sick? Let me in.”

  “Why don’t you meet me down at The Naked Bean in an hour? I need a chance to dress and—”

  “It’s early afternoon. Why aren’t you dressed?” The words were out of my mouth before the answer came to me. Anna Rose’s uncle, Tyrone Lavender, must be inside my mother’s apartment. They’d been having sex. “Mother! In the middle of the day?”

  “Shhh, do you want everybody to know?”

  “I’d say they’ll know soon enough. Are you protecting yourself? What if you get pregnant?”

  “Maggie!” It was her turn to be astonished by something I said.

  “I’m just kidding. I’ll come back some other time.”

  “I’ll meet you for coffee in an hour.”

  I walked back to my car. Life seemed to be just ducky for Mother. Why was mine falling apart all of a sudden? Tag and I hadn’t talked in a week now.

  As I drove back toward my house, my big old lonely house, I passed Tag. He and Giselle were walking down the street past Beecham’s Bakery. I waved. He didn’t see me as he patted the big, fluffy dog. Her tawny fur rippled in the summer breeze as she marched smartly along beside him. Suddenly, she spotted Bob the Chihuahua drinking out of his bowl outside the bakery.

  And the chase was on.

  “Giselle!” Tag shouted, trying to grab the leash that had been snatched out of his hands.

  I slammed on my brakes, shoved the gearshift into park, and bolted out to try to catch Giselle as she raced past me.

  “Giselle, come here, girl!” I shouted, but she didn’t even slow down. Poor Bob’s little legs were churning beneath him as he ran for his life. They disappeared under the azaleas in the park. I followed.

  Tag came loping up behind me, breathing harder than I thought an athlete of his caliber should. “Where are they?”

  “I don’t know.” We stared at the shrubs. “They’re here somewhere. They’ve got to be.”

  “Giselle! You come here this instant. And don’t hurt Bob!”

  “They’re too quiet. Something’s going on. Do you think Giselle killed him?”

  I started listening more carefully. Suddenly, I heard little yipping sounds. “Bob! Where are you?”

  I followed the sounds, expecting to find a Chihuahua much worse for the wear. I peered between two azaleas and started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Tag asked, looking over my shoulder.

  Bob was trapped between Giselle’s front paws. She was licking him on the head. Ingrid Beechum ran up, clutching her throat. “I saw the chase out my window. How badly is he hurt?”

  “Brace yourself,” Tag deadpanned. “He’s being licked to death.”

  Ingrid groaned in disgust, then pulled Bob out and gathered him in her arms.

  He whined, wagged his tiny tail feverishly, and craned his head to look back at Giselle.

  Ingrid sighed. “At least he didn’t pee on himself. Oh, well . . . spoke too soon. Here he goes.”

  Holding him out from her body, she carried the Chihuahua back to her bakery. He left a wee trail of Bob wee as they crossed Main Street.

  “Come here, girl,” Tag called to Giselle. She sauntered from beneath the azaleas, looking forlornly after her tiny, incontinent boyfriend.

  I smiled pensively. “True love waits for a second chance.”

  Tag looked at me. “Do I get a second chance? I’m sorry for everything. I’ve just been waiting for an excuse to say so. This is it.”

  “Excuse accepted.” We threw our arms around each other and kissed. Once, twice, a half-dozen times. Each kiss lasting longer than the last.

  “Maggie! Tag! What are you doing? In public! See, I knew if I moved out, you’d run wild. Good!”

  I looked at my mother’s beaming face. She peered at us from the other side of the azaleas. “Mother, we’re about to make love right out here in the park with the statue of General Hamilton, you, and the chickadees watching. And then we’re going back to my house and make love some more. So don’t change your mind and move back home. Besides, Beau Belmondo is staying at the house for a while. Sleeping in your bed.”

  Mother hooted. “Beau Belmondo, indeed! Beau Belmondo. Hah! And I expect Mel Gibson’s sleeping on the couch. And Sean Connery’s bunking in the storage room. Oh, and the Queen of England is coming for tea. All right, I get the point. From now on, I’ll mind my own business. And I’m not coming home. You can’t trick me with jokes about movie stars. I’ll be back at my apartment with Tyrone when you’re ready to admit Tag’s moving in.”

  She trudged away.

  “Well,” I said, “I tried to be honest.”

  “Take her advice. Admit it, “ Tag said. “I’m moving in.”

  I smiled. “Smart woman, my mother.”

  I took my man and his dog home to make friends with the movie star hidden in Mother’s bedroom.

  The Mossy Creek Gazette

  215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager

  Dear Vick:

  I just had to send you this transcript from our local radio station. I tape Bert’s morning show to keep up with any potential leads on gossip I’ve missed. I’m checking out the newcomer Bert mentions. We can’t be too careful in a year as strange as this one. This new resident sounds suspicious, to me. That French surname, you know.

  A WMOS Welcome

  Good Morning, Mossy Creek! This is Bert Lyman, owner and primetime disc jockey for WMOS, that’s W Moss—Big W, Big M, Little “Oss”—the radio voice of greater Mossy Creek. This morning I’m welcoming Mossy Creek Welcome Club President Mal Purla Rhett.

  “Good morning, Bert, I’m heading out today to extend a warm Mossy Creek Reunion Year Welcome to Jasmine Beleau over on Pine Street. I’ll be taking her a gift basket from Moonheart’s Natural Living and a design consultation certificate from the interior design studios of my sister, Swee Purla, down in Bigelow. Remember, as Swee’s motto says, A classic home tells the world you’re truly worthwhile.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. Mal, thanks to you and the Welcome Club, Jasmine Beleau will surely settle in smelling like a rose and rooted like a water lily in our Creekite community. For fragrance with a psychic purpose, put your heart into it. Moonheart’s, that is. So welcome to Ms. Jasmine Beleau, formerly of New Orleans, Lou-eezy-anna. Do we know any other particulars about Ms. Beleau, Mal?

  “Not yet, but Katie Bell’s given her a survey to fill out.”

  “Well, good. See you next week, Mal.”

  “Thank you, Bert. Welcoming newcomers is my passion. I always say, ‘If you can’t say hello, then say goodbye.’”

  “Too true, Mal. Now, onto the Bereavement Report. Here’s all the news of the dead in greater Mossy Creek. Sponsored by Mossy Creek Funeral Home. Whose motto is, ‘If you’re dead you’ll hear it here, first. . .’”

  JASMINE

  Life’s tricky when you’re used to being an outsider and people suddenly start inviting you in.

  JASMINE

  The New Bad Girl in Town

  Great. I’d set up housekeeping in a town that wanted to know all about me. As if I was going to trust a bunc
h of small-towners with the truth and nothing but the truth. On the other hand, I wasn’t about to stir up trouble by ignoring the local welcome rituals. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by not asking for attention. So here’s what I wrote for the cheesy survey Katie Bell stuck in my hand one day as I was browsing an antique store on Main Street.

  What do reunions mean to me?

  Public answer: Reunions are a lovely idea, a way to celebrate a milestone from the past and catch up with old friends. As a new citizen of Mossy Creek, I hope to become a small part of my new hometown’s tradition.

  Real answer: Not much.

  All the people that I cared about in the past are dead or have outlived their usefulness. So, I’m not a reunion kind of girl. As a matter of fact, the past, as far as I’m concerned should stay in the past. Under a rock. I hope I’ve dashed far enough and fast enough to outrun any possible reunions.

  Life for me is about entertaining myself, about planning lunch for today and buying seeds for the garden tomorrow. About living in small normal ways without grand hopes, elegant schemes—or jail time.

  What is the most hurtful and publicly humiliating thing that ever happened to me in high school?

  Public answer: Oh, that would have to be graduation day when Danny Argenot put a dead crawfish down my back as we stood in line waiting for our diplomas. He slipped it inside my collar and then slapped me on the back to give me the full effect. I had to excuse myself and go to the girls room to get it out. I smelled like dead fish.

  Real answer: I never finished high school. Not legally. But I did sort of graduate . . . from a group home.

  When you reach seventeen and are able to get into adult trouble, you have to leave. Ready or not. And I had to be ready because I had to look out for my sister, Jade. There was a Danny Argenot, and he did smack me on the back. But, instead of squishing a crawfish, he managed to spring open the safety pin which held my ratty, hand-me-down bra together in the back. The impact drove the sharp part of the pin into my skin, and I had to undress in the bathroom in front of three other girls so the house mother could yank the pin out. The rest of the day, the other kids snickered and asked me why there was blood on the back of my blouse.