Bobby Jack stared at his ex-wife for several long moments, completely at a loss as to where to take the conversation from here. How he had ever imagined the two of them compatible enough to actually marry was beyond him. But then he’d had a different rating scale back then, the basis of which had little to do with lifelong compatibility.
“Do you for one minute actually think that hoax is for real?”
“Why, yes,” she said, splaying a hand on one hip. “Yes, I do.”
“Are you still trying to tell her the tooth fairy’s for real, too?”
This got him a look of real annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bobby Jack.”
“The tooth fairy’s ridiculous, but this isn’t?”
“Not when it has an honest-to-God TV network and a well-known image consultant backing it.”
She made the pronouncement as if the President himself had signed off on the whole proposal. Bobby Jack shook his head, speechless. “She’s a straight A student, Priscilla. She could go to any Ivy League school of her choosing if she keeps her grades where they are now, and you think this is how she should be spending her time?”
Priscilla circled the salon, flipping on lights. “She’s also a girl, Bobby Jack. Something I think you’d do well to notice once in a while.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. You take her out working with that obnoxious crew of yours like she’s just another redneck with a hammer.”
“That ‘obnoxious’ crew of mine happens to be a good bunch of guys, so I’d appreciate it if you’d table the slander. And Andy helps out because she wants to.”
Priscilla picked up a brush, began pulling out excess hair and dropping it in a trashcan. “Maybe when she was twelve. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s no longer true.”
“Did she say something to you?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“Oh, you’re a mind reader now?”
“A mother senses these things.”
That statement alone was enough to send Bobby Jack off on a tangent. “I advise you not to go there, Priscilla.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. “I know what kind of mother you think I am, Bobby Jack. But Andy is my daughter. And I do love her. Whether you like it or not.”
“Since when do loving mothers run off and leave their baby?”
Priscilla made a sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You cannot let it go, can you?”
“Actually, no, I can’t. I don’t see why I should have to. You’re the one who made the choices you made, Priscilla. Nobody forced you to leave and spend the next eleven years pretending you were still a teenager.”
“People get divorced every day,” she said, her voice heating up. “And people find a way to make it work. But not you, Bobby Jack! You’re so all-fired convinced that you’ve been wronged, you let that bitterness eat away at you a little more each day. Pretty soon, there’s not going to be anything even recognizable of the old you left. You’re just going to be this dried up old fart who rides around with a hound in the front seat of his truck instead of a woman!”
“I didn’t come over here to rehash our history,” he cut her off in a sharp voice. “I came over to tell you to quit filling Andy’s head with nonsense!”
“First of all, I don’t take orders from you. And second of all, she doesn’t see it as nonsense. Did you ever think she might want to know that you believe in her, Bobby Jack?”
“I do believe in her. I believe she can do great things with her life. And that’s what I want for her.”
“As long as those things fall under your definition of great, right?”
He started to answer, then stopped. He didn’t have to listen to this crap from the woman who had conveniently dropped him and their daughter three years into their marriage, as if they were yesterday’s old newspapers. “You know what, Priscilla? This was a complete waste of time. As talking to you always is.”
Flo got up and trotted after Bobby Jack just as Priscilla threw out, “Come on back again when you don’t have such a bee in your bonnet. You could use a good hair cut!”
Chapter Three
The state of your closet is a direct indicator of the state of your life. Trousers mixed in with dresses? Summer clothes mixed with winter? A shoe missing in action? If this sounds familiar, it’s a good bet chaos is ruling outside the closet as well.
– Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl
By the time Marty towed Grier’s car into the garage, it was almost four-thirty, and she’d all but wilted from the events of the afternoon. Even Sebbie drooped and showed definite signs of needing a nap.
Amy had reserved a room for her at the Mockingbird Inn where the selection process would take place. The ever-accommodating Marty drove them over in the tow truck and dropped them at the front with a promise to have Grier’s car up and running again by tomorrow. He’d recommended giving it a check-up just to be safe.
With Sebbie at her side, she rolled her suitcase into the small lobby and headed for the registration desk. A friendly young man with slightly bucked teeth checked them in, the name Beaner Purdy stitched across the pocket of his burgundy uniform.
“I believe you’re here for the Jane Austen Girl auditions, aren’t you, ma’am?” he asked, smiling a big blinding smile.
“Yes,” she said, following along with Sebbie as Beaner pulled her suitcase to the elevator.
“It’s got the whole town buzzin’.”
“I hope that means we’ll have a good turnout for the auditions then.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I expect you’ll fill the place up. My sister, Edith? She’s a shoe-in for your makeover. If it weren’t for the wart on her chin, she’d look just like that actress with the tattoo on her shoulder. The one who adopted all the children?”
“Really?” Grier said.
“I keep tellin’ her she oughta get one of them laser doctors to take that thing off. But she just gets on her high horse and starts sayin’ how men are all about the superficial.”
“Hm,” Grier said, not sure what to add that would be anything remotely resembling diplomatic.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
Beaner stepped out and beckoned for Sebbie and her to follow. “You and your buddy are right down this way, Ms. McAllister.” At her door, he took the card and slid it into the lock. She stepped inside, removing Sebbie’s leash. He made a beeline for the king-size bed, hopping up and making himself at home among the quartet of pillows propped at the headboard.
Beaner pointed out the room’s amenities, mini-bar, TV, and pullout couch should she need it for any reason. “If you want anything at all now, you just buzz the front desk and ask for me.”
“Thank you so much,” she said, handing him a five.
He nodded, grinned and then ducked his head once before letting himself out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Grier collapsed onto the bed next to Sebbie.
Her feet literally throbbed, and she held one foot in the air, managing to gingerly remove the strappy sandals before letting them drop to the floor. “Ah,” she said, thinking she might actually cry with the relief.
Sebbie cracked one eye as if to make sure she was all right, then buried his nose beneath a pillow and resumed his nap.
Her cell phone rang. She considered not answering it, then grabbed her purse off the floor and fumbled through the outside pocket until she found it.
Amy’s number flashed on the screen. “Hey,” Grier said.
“You’re there,” Amy Langley said on what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I’ve been calling for hours.”
“The service here seems to be somewhat intermittent,” Grier said, collapsing onto the bed again.
“You sound funny. Are you all right?”
“I had a little car trouble. Sebbie and I both are out of gas.”
“Tell him I miss him terribly.”
“I will,” Grier said, smiling.
“Is your car fixed?”
“It’s in the shop.”
“Should I get you a rental?”
“If it’s not ready by tomorrow. I won’t need it tonight.”
“How does it feel to be back home?”
“Strange.”
“Everything look the same?”
“Yes and no.”
“Seen any old boyfriends yet?” Amy asked, cheeky.
“Unfortunately.” She immediately regretted the admission, not wanting to get Amy started on her find-a-man-for-Grier campaign.
“Really?”
“It was no big deal.”
“High school flame?”
“Sort of.”
“Ah. Is he married?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Grier said, eager to change the subject. “I won’t be seeing him again.”
“Too bad,” Amy said. “I thought for a second there you might be ending your dating drought.”
“I like my dating drought.”
“Grier, they’re not all like. . .”
“My last ten dates?”
Amy laughed. “They weren’t all bad.”
“Bad enough.”
“You just haven’t met the right one.”
“And I’m not looking.”
“Well, it’s been like ages since you went out with anyone.”
“Have you heard me complaining?”
“No, but. . .”
“All right then. Gotta go. Busy here.”
“It’s not normal!” Amy managed to get in before Grier ended the call, flopping back on the bed and folding herself around a pillow. She wasn’t lonely. She’d turn herself into the Sahara desert of loneliness before she ever gave Darryl Lee Randall the satisfaction of knowing she’d given him a second thought in the years since she’d last been home.
When the rumbling of her stomach began to disturb Sebbie, who made his displeasure known with breathing sounds that could only be equated to a heavy sigh, she got up and headed for the shower. She stood under the warm spray for a good twenty minutes, her feet finally coming back to life along with the rest of her.
She dug some running clothes out of her suitcase, opting for comfort over style, and then left Sebbie still sleeping while she went in search of food, heading out of the Inn and walking the two blocks that led to Main Street. At almost four o’clock, the sun was still hot so she pulled off her running shirt and tied it around her waist, the white tank top she’d put on underneath much more pleasant.
She dropped her head back and breathed deep. Amazing that a place could have its own scent, Timbell Creek’s signature blend of freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle. She thought she could identify it anywhere. These streets were familiar to her, too. She’d once known them as well as she now knew Manhattan. Better, actually.
Maple led to Sycamore. Sycamore to Hampton. And then across to Main where she turned right and headed toward the center of town, hoping Angell’s Bakery still sat in the same place. With the smell of fresh baked bread, she grew hopeful. But the name had changed. It was now the Maple Leaf Bread Company. The aroma promised good things though, so she went inside and stood at the front counter, reading the menu behind the register.
A teenage boy with a nice smile popped out of the back, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll have a tomato and Havarti on rye with a little mustard.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Iced tea, please.”
“Sweet tea?”
“Why not?” she conceded.
The front door opened, the bell hanging above it jangling once. Grier glanced over her shoulder at the tall blonde woman who’d just come in.
“Earnest,” she said, “you got any more of that cinnamon raisin bread y’all made up yesterday?”
“Just baked some fresh loaves, Ms. Randall.”
At the name, Grier’s ears perked up, and she gave the woman a sideways assessment. Darryl Lee’s Ms. Randall?
The woman turned and looked at Grier, her smile wide and white. Grier smiled back, trying not to show her curiosity, then glanced away.
But she reached out to press a hand to Grier’s arm. “Oh. My. Goodness. Are you the lady doing auditions for that show tomorrow?”
“Ah, yes,” Grier said. “I am.”
“Well I sure never expected to run into you here.” She stuck out a hand that featured perfectly manicured nails. “I’m Priscilla Randall.”
“Grier McAllister.”
“So nice to meet you.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My daughter is auditioning. Poor baby, her daddy is just dead set against it. I’ve been tellin’ him what an exceptional opportunity this is for her. She’s always been a bit of a wallflower, and to tell you the truth, I was more than a little surprised when she agreed to put herself in the running.”
“Ah, well,” Grier said, not sure what else to say.
“Any tips you could throw her way?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
Grier shrugged, forced a smile. “I’m sure everything will be covered tomorrow.”
Earnest returned from the back with her toasted tomato and Havarti sandwich. She pulled some money from her pocket and paid him, a little uncomfortable under Priscilla Randall’s continuing stare.
“I own the beauty shop just across the street,” Priscilla said. “Not to be nosy, but there was a rumor circulatin’ there today that your mama is Maxine McAllister. I said a woman who looks like you couldn’t possibly have a mama who. . .” She stopped there, as if suddenly thinking better of the remainder of her comment.
For a moment, Grier could think of absolutely nothing to say, her mind a complete blank. She had forced herself not to think about her mama on the drive down since she had no intention of seeing her while she was here. A wave of shame rose up inside her for the fact that her mother had chosen men and booze over her.
On the heels of that old shame, though, came another feeling. An unexpected desire to defend her mother. But as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. After all, if Priscilla Randall knew her, any defense Grier had to offer would be so much smoke.
“My cousin Emma-Ann works out there where your mama’s stayin’. Somebody like you coming in there would sure cheer everybody up.”
“What place?” Grier asked before she could stop herself.
“The Sunset Years Retirement Home over on 38.” Priscilla Randall made the pronouncement with careful enunciation, as if Grier’s ability to process the information had suddenly become suspect.
“Oh,” Grier said, her face flaming with instant mortification.
Priscilla cocked her head and said, “You didn’t know she was there?”
“I—of course,” she stammered, hearing the lack of conviction in her own voice.
“I’m sorry,” Priscilla said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Picking up her sandwich, Grier turned to leave. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Randall. Wish your daughter luck for me.”
“I certainly will!” Priscilla called out.
Grier walked back to the Inn as quickly as she could, her hunger gone, and in its place, an absolute certainty that she never should have come back to Timbell Creek. Eagle be damned. Her decision to do so had been about nothing more than pride and a false sense of being so far beyond what she’d left behind that it could never hurt her again.
On that, however, she didn’t suppose she could have been more wrong.
Chapter Four
This baby will be special. I’ve always believed that unexpected things usually are. I’ll be a good mother. Who’s to say we have to follow the example we’ve been given? I’ll give my baby what I never had. I’ll do better than my own parents did. I will.
– First entry written in the baby book given to Maxine McAllister for her daughter Grier
For a long time, Maxine McAllister counted the number of days. Then she counted weeks. Months. And finally, years
. Nineteen, now.
Nineteen since Grier had left Timbell Creek.
Maxine stared at the newspaper photo, a glamorous headshot with a photographer’s credit in the lower right hand corner. She studied her daughter’s features. Wide green eyes, full lips so like hers, clear, unlined skin that spoke of a care she’d never given her own.
Grier. What a beautiful woman she’d grown up to be. In a way, Maxine felt as though she were looking at a stranger, even as she saw remnants of the little girl she’d once rocked to sleep at night.
An ache set up in the center of Maxine’s chest, a painful throb of remorse and regret. She let the newspaper collapse onto her lap, her right hand gripping the arm of her wheelchair in an attempt to steady against the sudden dizziness swamping her like an ocean wave.
She closed her eyes and fought it back.
“That must be your young’un.”
Maxine stayed as she was for a few moments, not answering. When she finally opened her eyes, Hatcher Morris stared at her from the seat of a wheelchair exactly like hers, arthritic hands laced together in his lap, his fingers so gnarled with the disease they were painful to look at. “Yeah,” she said, surprised. “How’d you guess?”
“McAllister’s not the most common name around,” he said, his voice coarse evidence of the decades of cigarettes to which it had been subjected. “And one of the nurses mentioned she thought you had a girl named Grier.”
“Had,” Maxine agreed, putting her gaze back on the picture.
“Don’t you ever see her?”
“Not for a very long time.”
“Mind if I ask why?”
Maxine shook her head, unable to answer. Hatcher Morris was about the only friend she had in this place. On the first day they’d met, he’d read her history in the lines of her face the same as she’d read his in the yellowed whites of his eyes and the distended stomach beneath his faded flannel robe.
“Well, I don’t expect it’s any of her business, anyway,” Hatcher said.
“It’s not that,” she finally managed, lifting a hand and waving it once.
Hatcher reached for the newspaper, looked at the article, and then in his gravelly voice, read, “Image Consultant Comes Home to Find Date for a Duke. Sounds like a big undertaking.”
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