Forever Glimmer Creek

by Stacy Hackney

  Mama stared down at a pile of papers, fingering the gold locket she always wore around her neck. If only Rosie’s father were around, surely he’d take her side when it came to small mistakes like ruining a bench no one cared about.

  “I said I bet my father would support my filmmaking,” Rosie said in a louder voice.

  “Your biological father has nothing to do with your crime spree.” Mama tapped her pen against the desk and muttered under her breath, “He wants nothing to do with anything.”

  Rosie flushed.

  Mama usually avoided talking about Rosie’s father, but she’d also never said anything bad about him … until now. Mama’s mouth pinched in along the sides, and her clear brown eyes went cloudy. She always got this look when Rosie mentioned her father—a worried, sad kind of look—and then she’d change the subject or offer to get Rosie a slice of pie or suddenly remember she needed to pay the bills. But Rosie had so many questions Mama wouldn’t answer. Questions like whether her father agreed with the ending of Citizen Kane (she didn’t), or whether he liked chocolate chips in his oatmeal cookies (she did). Now she had another—did Mama not want to talk about him because she didn’t like him?

  Mama sighed. “I didn’t mean that. It’s been a long day.” She pulled a Tupperware container from her desk drawer, opened it, and set it in front of Rosie, offering up a weary smile. The homemade popcorn glinted with bits of cinnamon and sugar—Mama’s special recipe. “Here, you must be hungry. Cinnamon-sugar popcorn has a way of making most things better, and I’ve heard criminals are starving after they commit a felony.”

  Forcing her own smile and swallowing down her questions, Rosie scooped up a handful of popcorn. “I should probably take the whole container, then.”

  Mama and Rosie snapped together like the two halves of Mama’s locket. They laughed at the same jokes and liked the same old classic movies and the same special foods, like bacon-chocolate-chip cookies and cinnamon-sugar popcorn. Together they made a perfect whole, one that wasn’t worth breaking over a few questions.

  Anna Lee burst into the room and flopped down in the seat beside Rosie. She worked as a part-time clerk in the mayor’s office and attended night school at Gloster Community College. She made a habit of changing her hair color on a weekly basis. Today it was purple.

  “I’m heading out,” Anna Lee said. “I finished typing up that ridiculous report Miss Matilda made about sanitation showing up ten minutes late to collect her garbage.”

  “It’s our job to take these complaints seriously,” Mama said, her mouth twitching in a way that meant she was trying not to laugh.

  “Fine. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Anna Lee turned to Rosie. “Did I see you walk in with Sheriff Parker?”

  “Yep,” Rosie said. “A small set problem came up today.”

  “One that resulted in hundreds of dollars of damage to a poor, unsuspecting bench,” Mama added.

  “The bench wasn’t even in the frame,” Rosie said, leaning on her elbow.

  “So it was the bench’s fault. I knew that bench had a bad attitude,” Mama said.

  “The real problem is that Sheriff Parker has no imagination,” Anna Lee quipped.

  “I know,” Rosie agreed.

  Anna Lee rolled her eyes. “If he’d stop bothering Caroline every five seconds, maybe he’d actually have time to expand his perspective and appreciate real art.”

  “Exactly. I told him he needed to—” Rosie stopped and frowned. “What do you mean he’s bothering Mama? Did he close down Poplar Lane again without telling anyone? What a mess that caused last month.”

  “No, he didn’t. And he’s not bothering me,” Mama said hastily.

  “He’s in here three times a day,” Anna Lee said.

  “He’s the sheriff, and I’m the town manager. We have business matters to work through, and he’s only trying to be friendly,” Mama said, her cheeks flaming strawberry red.

  “But—but he makes your job harder,” Rosie said. “People complain about how he’s mean when taking police reports. He even made Mrs. Green cry when she questioned a parking ticket. He’s the opposite of friendly. You said so yourself.”

  “He barely says hello to me,” Anna Lee huffed. “If you ask me, he has a crush on Caroline.”

  Rosie’s chest tightened as if a fishing line had gotten tangled up inside her. Mama couldn’t possibly like Sheriff Parker. For one thing, he never smiled. For another, he’d given Rosie three separate lectures for the minor, accidental damage that sometimes happened on her film sets. He was much too serious. Mama and Rosie’s favorite romance of all time was Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Sheriff Parker was not as fun-loving as Gregory Peck. He wasn’t fun-loving at all.

  “Sheriff Parker is old,” Rosie said.

  “He’s not that much older than me,” Mama said, laughing.

  Rosie clenched her hands. “I heard his former wife disappeared under suspicious circumstances.”

  “His ex-wife lives in Richmond,” Anna Lee said.

  “He also has bad taste. I asked him who his favorite movie director was, and he said Michael Bay. Who says that? He didn’t even know who Michael Curtiz was.” Rosie’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t know who Michael Curtiz is,” Anna Lee said.

  “He’s only one of the most famous directors of all time. Ever heard of Casablanca, White Christmas, Mildred Pierce, We’re No Angels?” Rosie asked, leaning forward.

  “I’m not obsessed with old movies like you two,” Anna Lee said, waving her hand.

  “We prefer to think of ourselves as enlightened,” Mama replied.

  “That’s right,” Rosie said. “We appreciate the classics, unlike some people.”

  “Though maybe some people don’t know where to start with the classics,” Mama said.

  “Or maybe some people don’t care,” Rosie challenged, lifting her eyebrows innocently.

  “Anybody still here?” The deep voice came from the lobby.

  Anna Lee didn’t get up but yelled, “In the back.”

  Mayor Grant and Miss Matilda swept into Mama’s office, arguing as usual. Mr. Waverman trailed behind, his mailbag slung over his shoulder. All of a sudden, the office was like a puddle crowded with too many minnows.

  Mr. Waverman pushed his way past Mayor Grant and Miss Matilda and placed a bundle of envelopes on Mama’s desk, then held out a letter to Anna Lee. “Got something for you. Didn’t want you to have to wait on this. Best open it now. It’s not good news.”

  Anna Lee looked at Mr. Waverman suspiciously. “Did you read my letter?”

  Mr. Waverman straightened up to his full height of five foot four inches. “I certainly did not. Postal workers are not permitted to open another person’s mail. I can’t help it if I have a gift for knowing whether the mail is good or bad.”

  “So you’re always telling everyone,” Anna Lee said, rolling her eyes.

  “Young lady, I was nearly killed ten years ago while carrying out my duties for the postal service. I was rushing to get Mrs. Lawler her social security check before the bank closed and never saw that Buick coming. The Miracle was the only thing that saved me. Dr. Bentworth himself called me extraordinary.” Mr. Waverman sniffed.

  Anna Lee snatched the letter from Mr. Waverman’s hands, tore it open, and yelped. “My rent is going up again! I’m going to murder my landlord.” She shot Mr. Waverman a chilling look that could have frozen over the river before stomping back to the lobby.

  “Some people never learn.” Mr. Waverman tipped his hat to Mama. “Nothing too bad in your mail. Y’all enjoy your afternoon. I’ve got to deliver a humdinger to Mrs. Gooch. I suspect her divorce is final.”

  Rosie waved good-bye to Mr. Waverman and his bulging mailbag. She sure was glad she didn’t have to knowingly deliver bad news to all her friends. Why, she’d never want to leave her house again, not even for a double movie feature in Gloster.

  Mayor Grant heaved himself over to Anna Lee’s empty s
eat and ran a hand over his shirtfront. “Caroline, I know you’re fixing to head home, but we’ve got something to discuss before the city council meeting tonight. Is that popcorn?” He reached across the desk and grabbed a handful. “I could use a snack.”

  Mama opened her hands wide. “What’s the problem this time?”

  “Marvin Blandstone is the problem. He’s petitioned for a booth at the festival based on another one of his theories, even though we all voted no to his alien reptiles last year,” Miss Matilda said, her dark skin gleaming against one of her signature blue dresses. She was the owner of Sook Diner and the longest serving member of the city council.

  “You have to admit the train treasure is an interesting story though Marvin may be climbing up the wrong tree with his ideas on where it is,” Mayor Grant said.

  “It’s barking up the wrong tree, not climbing,” Miss Matilda said.

  “Now, that doesn’t make a lick of sense. Why would I bark up a tree?”

  “It’s a saying,” Miss Matilda said.

  “It’s a silly saying,” Mayor Grant retorted.

  They were now turned toward each other, faces outraged and red. From behind them, Mama pretended to stick a knife in her chest. Rosie giggled.

  Mayor Grant chewed his popcorn, swallowed, and promptly turned back around to grab another handful. “If Marvin wants to set up a booth about the train treasure legend, we should let him do it. Folks are interested in the treasure, and it could spice up the booth lineup. It is our hundredth year of Miracles, and my last year as mayor. This year’s festival needs to be bigger than ever.”

  Every year, one person in Glimmer Creek got a Miracle. The Festival of the Fish was a celebration of all those good fortunes. Mama also said it brought in tons of money because everyone in Glimmer Creek and the surrounding towns came out to support it. Businesses shut down early, and there were games and music. Rows of booths filled with crafts and food lined the streets, and the town decorated River Bend Park with silver-and-blue banners and twinkle lights. The festival always took place on October twenty-first, the date of the very first Miracle, when all the fish had returned to Glimmer Creek after dying out from a massive flood.

  “What do you think about the train treasure?” Mayor Grant asked Mama.

  Mama smiled. “What’s not to like? It’s the ultimate mystery.”

  Rosie lowered her voice, trying to imitate the narrator voice-over in film commercials. “It was a train robbery gone wrong. Only one thief escaped. His name”—dramatic pause—“was Lonnie Garrett.”

  Mama took up the deep voice. “He stole a fortune in gold and was never heard from again. Legend has it he hid the gold somewhere in the sleepy town of Glimmer Creek.”

  “A fortune worth millions,” Rosie continued.

  “A town shrouded in mystery,” Mama said.

  “Who will find it?” Rosie ended.

  Mama and Rosie grinned at each other. The train treasure would make a great film. It had all the elements of a classic crime drama—robbery, suspense, and an antihero people secretly loved.

  “What on earth are you two talking about?” Miss Matilda said. “We should not be telling our youngsters the story of a common thief.”

  Mama cleared her throat, her mouth twitching again. “From what I know, deep down Lonnie wasn’t a bad kid. He only got involved with that Butler Gang after his parents died.”

  Miss Matilda harrumphed. “Well, no one can prove Lonnie Garrett came back to Glimmer Creek after the robbery.”

  “No one can disprove it either,” Mama said, raising one eyebrow.

  “That settles it,” Mayor Grant said. “I’m voting yes to Marvin’s petition.”

  Miss Matilda heaved out a sigh.

  Mayor Grant leaned toward Rosie. “I heard about the bench.”

  “That bench was real rickety,” Rosie said, suddenly absorbed with a stray pencil.

  Mayor Grant patted her shoulder. “Bless your heart; you still want to be a movie star.”

  “Actually, I want to be a director,” Rosie said.

  “I get it. You want to be on camera,” Mayor Grant said.

  “No, a director is behind the camera—”

  “Sheriff Parker was mighty frustrated today,” Mayor Grant interrupted. “When he gets like that, I can’t talk to him about anything productive. A sweet girl like you should have a less-destructive hobby, like sewing.”

  “Or fishing,” Miss Matilda offered.

  “Now, hold on one minute,” Mama said. “Rosie might have a minor destructive streak when it comes to filmmaking, but she’s also incredibly talented. I’m sure you aren’t suggesting she give up her dream of becoming a director?” Mama was talking in her serious voice, the one she used to tell the city council to simmer down.

  Mayor Grant looked chagrined. “We’d never stop Rosie from following her dreams.”

  “ ’Course we wouldn’t,” Miss Matilda said.

  “Well, good,” Mama said, her voice dipping in volume. “Glad we got that settled.”

  Miss Matilda and Mayor Grant went back to arguing. They didn’t even notice when Mama double winked at Rosie and Rosie double winked right back.

  Rosie snuck a piece of popcorn, savoring the salty-sweet taste on her tongue. Mama always knew what to say to make people listen. Rosie was lucky to have Mama on her side even if she did make her pay for a silly old bench.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Days later, Rosie sat at her desk with its flaking white paint and stubborn drawers. Staring ahead at the rippling blue-gray water, her fingers hovered over the keyboard of Mama’s laptop. The house was silent except for the usual whispered creaks from the floorboards. Beyond her bedroom window, tall trees with gilded coral leaves still clinging to the branches bordered the backyard sloping down to Glimmer Creek. The creek was a half mile across here, and the houses on the other side were dots along the horizon.

  Looking down, Rosie made herself type the letters—Michael Weatherton—into the search bar. After a moment’s hesitation, she pressed enter. Pages of information on her father filled the screen.

  Her father was a professional actor. Mama had told her at least that much about him and that he held small parts on different television shows and films. He lived in Los Angeles, all the way across the country. Between that and working on film sets all over creation, he’d never had the chance to come to Glimmer Creek and meet Rosie.

  Rosie looked Michael up every few months to see what new thing he was working on. She always deleted her search history afterward. It wasn’t as though Mama had forbidden her from finding out about Michael, but Mama wouldn’t like it either.

  Scanning the computer, Rosie clicked on a new article dated last week. The screen filled with a large photo of Michael himself. His lips turned up in a slight smile. Rosie studied every picture, searching to find herself in the slope of his nose or the tilt of his eyes, but she could never see it.

  Leaning closer, Rosie scrolled down the page and read the last few lines from the Hollywood trade magazine:

  A last-minute replacement, Michael Weatherton has signed on to a supporting role in Heartland Pictures’ Revolutionary Threat, the untold story of female spies in the Revolutionary War. Jack Relian will direct the period piece, and Julia Laverne will star as the spy who saved George Washington. Filming began last week in Richmond, Virginia. Revolutionary Threat is scheduled for a spring release.

  Rosie sat back.

  Richmond was two hours away. Two hours! That was shorter than most movies—maybe not Gone with the Wind, but definitely most others. Her father could be here by supper if he got in the car right now.

  But—but if Michael was only two hours away, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he asked to visit? Wasn’t he curious about his very own daughter?

  Rosie’s shoulders curled over her chest, and a thickness coated her throat. Her lip quivered, and she bit down hard to stop it. There was nothing to cry about. She was certain there was a good explanation for why he hadn
’t called. Maybe he was busy with rehearsals for Revolutionary Threat. The article said he was a last-minute replacement, so he must have a lot of catching up to do. After all, movie sets weren’t like going on vacation.

  Sunlight poured through the small round window above her bed and slashed across the bookshelf. There was the porcelain doll Michael had given her for her eleventh birthday, and the elaborate makeup kit for her tenth, and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare that had come one Christmas. None of the gifts was quite right, but at the very center of the bookshelf was the one present that was completely perfect—her camcorder.

  The gleaming Canon XA30 had built-in Wi-Fi, HD recording, and a high-def optical-zoom lens. Mama had looked up the price after Rosie opened it and nearly hit the floor. She’d wanted to send it back, but Rosie had begged to keep it. That was three years ago, and Rosie had used that camcorder every day since. She had never once spoken to her father, but somehow he’d known to send her this perfect gift for her ninth birthday. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

  Opening her bottom desk drawer, Rosie rifled through the tangle of papers and discarded markers until she found the crumpled stack of cards that had accompanied the gifts. She opened them one by one. Michael had taken the time to choose and sign them all.

  The final card was especially ornate, with swirling pink clouds, flying angels, and gold raised letters. She remembered it nestled in the cream-colored tissue paper of the camcorder box. Rosie flipped it open and stopped. She peered closer. There, beneath his signature, was a single sentence in her father’s cramped handwriting: When you use this to make your first movie, I’ll be sure to come see it. Inhaling sharply, she read the sentence again. She’d forgotten all about it. If only she could tell Michael about her movies, he’d want to meet her. This card proved it.

  Rosie deflated as she remembered one problem—Mama.

  Whenever Rosie received gifts from Michael, she asked to call him, but Mama wouldn’t let her. Mama claimed he was out of the country on a film set or in between phone numbers or—worst of all—he wasn’t quite ready to talk to Rosie. Mama always said it wasn’t the right time for them to meet. Though lately Rosie had started to wonder if Mama really knew when the right time was. Maybe Mama never wanted them to meet.