The Book Charmer

by Karen Hawkins

  Mama G’s face cleared. “Oh yes. Daisy.” She nodded as if that was all she needed to hear, but her face was pink with embarrassment. With a few mumbled words, she walked away, the car door hanging open in her wake.

  Grace bent over the steering wheel and rubbed her aching temples. Mama G’s memory was getting worse. A month ago, Grace had found her standing in the middle of the road in front of her own home, the mail clutched forgotten in her hands as she looked around, confused and unaware that she was less than forty feet from her front door.

  Warm, humid summer air swirled inside from the open door. Grace closed her eyes, remembering the neat, wonderful life she’d led only a few short months ago when she’d stupidly thought she had figured out life, success, happiness—everything. But all that had changed with one phone call from a weeping Mama G, whose every other word had been “Hannah.”

  Grace had gone back to Mama G’s house and together they’d organized the funeral and tried to untangle the mess that had been Hannah’s life. While there, Grace had slowly realized that Mama G wasn’t herself. She kept forgetting things, items had been left in odd places, and doctor’s appointments were made and missed. After finding Mama G looking so confused in front of her own house, Grace had taken her to the doctor, who’d confirmed that the always-strong, never-wavering Mama G was showing signs of Alzheimer’s.

  Grace’s heart, already broken by Hannah’s death, had shattered. Mama G was the rock Grace had built her life upon. And now, quite suddenly, it was Grace’s turn to make things work and to take care of not just Mama G, but the recalcitrant Daisy as well. Grace only hoped she was strong enough to do both.

  At first, she’d hoped she could pack them up and take them to Charlotte with her, but it had taken no more than ten minutes of honest face-the-music thought for her to realize that she couldn’t continue to work eighty hours a week as a financial analyst, raise a devastated and angry Daisy, and take care of Mama G, all at one and the same time. No matter how many times Grace ran the numbers, the reality was grim but clear.

  So, bowed but unbroken, Grace had quit her dream job, cashed in her retirement plan, paid off her lease, and moved back home to look after what was left of her small, tattered family.

  She needed a new job, of course, something with far more flexibility than her previous position. While she’d been searching, one of Mama G’s cousins, a sharp-tongued woman by the name of Mrs. Philomedra Phelps, had called Grace and offered her the job of Town Clerk Level 1 for Dove Pond, North Carolina, Mama G’s old hometown. The position was well below Grace’s skill level, but offered the flexible hours she desperately needed. Attached to the offer was the rental of Mrs. Phelps’s own home at a ridiculously low amount, as she was retiring to Florida.

  Grace hadn’t wanted to move, for the salary was dismal. But two days after Mrs. Phelps’s phone call, a big storm had blown through Whitlow and Mama G’s ancient house had sprung what seemed like a hundred leaks. Almost every pot in the house had been called into service to catch the water as it dripped through the eaves and dissolved the ceiling plaster, raining wet, soggy clumps onto Mama G’s furniture and rugs. When the repairman came to assess the damage, the burly man had reluctantly informed Grace that the old, rickety clapboard house was past fixing.

  The day after this bleak news, the dementia specialist overseeing Mama G’s care made a chance comment that brought Grace back to Mrs. Phelps’s offer. While discussing treatment options, the specialist mentioned how she’d taken her own mother back to her hometown after she’d been similarly diagnosed and that it had seemed to ease the decline, at least a little.

  The doctor hadn’t offered the comment as a cure, and indeed, she hadn’t mentioned it more than once, but the words had caught Grace’s attention. After a long and sleepless night, Grace had called Mrs. Phelps and accepted the job.

  And now, here they were, moving from Mama G’s worn-out house and into another ramshackle eyesore in the picturesque town of Dove Pond.

  Grace wished for the thousandth time that this was all a dream and she’d wake up to everything the way it had been, that Hannah was alive and Daisy not so angry, Mama G’s memory not chipping away like old paint, and—

  Someone knocked on the window. Two men peered at her through the glass. The big man in gray overalls was mover Ricky Bob McLaren, his brown hair slicked to one side as if his comb only worked in one direction. She knew who he was because of the large patch on his shirt. At his side was his helper, a short, round, bearded man with the name TOMMY emblazoned on his much smaller patch.

  Ricky Bob pointed to the truck, then to the house, and then back to the truck.

  Tommy, as if helping his boss, mimicked the movements, but in an exaggerated fashion.

  Grace rolled down the window. “Yes?”

  Ricky Bob held out his hand. “We’ll need the house keys.”

  “Mrs. Phelps should still be home.” Grace turned off the car and climbed out. “I’ll find her. She—”

  “There you are,” spoke a brisk, sharp voice, followed by a clanking noise that gave Grace visions of Scrooge’s Marley. From around the moving truck, a squat, iron-haired woman in a flowered shirt and khaki shorts appeared. She leaned heavily to one side, carrying a tote filled with bottles of margarita mix and tequila, which clanged with each step. The old woman scowled at Grace. “You said you’d be here by three.”

  “I said we’d be here around three,” Grace corrected, adding a smile to soften her words. “It’s barely three thirty.”

  “Which is thirty minutes late. I have hours to drive and a schedule to keep.” The woman walked past Grace, the bag of bottles hanging dangerously close to the cracked driveway.

  Ricky Bob and Tommy scrambled to get out of her way, scattering like chickens seeing a fox.

  Grace swallowed a sharp retort. “The moving men need the house keys.”

  Mrs. Phelps rolled her eyes. “The doors are unlocked.”

  “Thank you,” the men mumbled as they hurried off.

  Grace watched as they made their way into the house, glad to see Mama G and Daisy leave the swing and follow them inside. Grace felt safer knowing they were indoors.

  Mrs. Phelps clanked her way toward the ancient RV. “I never lock the doors and Ricky Bob knows that, but then he’s an idiot.” She set the tote on the ground beside the passenger door of the rusty vehicle. “He was a sight smarter when he was fifteen, if you can believe it. But not now. Too much football. That boy’s had more concussions than most people have had colds.”

  “I was told he was a good mover.”

  “Better than most, providing you keep the instructions simple.” Mrs. Phelps looked Grace up and down. “My, look at you. Where are you going that you’re so dressed up?”

  Grace looked down at her sundress and sandals, both of which were better suited for a day out in Charlotte’s tony Myers Park district than here in tiny Dove Pond. “It’s part of my strategy to win the world. You know—dress for the life you want, not the life you have.”

  “If you dress like that in town hall, you’ll be the only one seeing it. The mayor only comes in for a few hours a day, if that. So, other than tax season, you’ll be pretty much alone.” Mrs. Phelps opened the passenger door, placed her tote on the floorboard, then slammed the door closed. “That’s it, then. I’d better get on the road. I scheduled a pee break at seven o’clock, as I should be near Atlanta by then, and you don’t want to get caught in traffic and need to pee.”

  Grace managed to keep her smile, but barely. “You’re very organized. That bodes well for my taking on your old job. I’d like to talk about that, as the job description was vague. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what the town clerk does.”

  “Every damn thing,” Mrs. Phelps said baldly. She walked around the front of the RV to the driver’s door, Grace following. “You’ll process business licenses, voter registrations, and tax and fee payments. You’ll figure it out.”

  Grace hoped the older woman was right. �
��I’ll call if I have questions. But before you leave, about the house. It’s . . . um. Not good. It’s in worse shape than I expected.”

  Mrs. Phelps stopped by the driver’s door. “She’s solid. Everything works. As we discussed on the phone, I left some of the larger pieces of furniture for you. The rest is stored in the garage, so if you decide you want to use it, just help yourself. You’re welcome to it.”

  “Thank you. I’m worried about the porch, though. It looks crooked.”

  Mrs. Phelps fixed her icy button-bright gaze on Grace and lifted her thick eyebrows. “That porch has been crooked as long as I’ve been breathing, and it hasn’t fallen off the house yet. So long as you don’t load it up with a hundred or more fat people, it should stand for another hundred and fifty years.” Mrs. Phelps regarded Grace with suspicion. “You don’t plan on doing that, do you? Load it up with fat people? When we spoke on the phone, you said you weren’t a partier.”

  “I’m not, and I don’t plan on loading the porch with anyone. I—” Grace bit off the rest of her sentence and took a steadying breath. “I would like to have someone check it out.”

  Mrs. Phelps looked as if she wanted to argue, but a quick glance at her wristwatch made her snap out a reluctant, “Fine! There’s a business card for the Callahan brothers in the kitchen drawer by the stove. They own a handyman business and can fix just about anything. Call them and have them look at it. If they think something needs doing, they’ll know who to bill.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Phelps opened the driver’s-side door, revealing a large, cracked-leather captain’s chair. She hauled herself inside, plopped into the seat, and slammed the door before saying out the open window, “As I told you on the phone, everything is included in the rent but yard care. Better watch that. If you don’t keep it up, you’ll have one of the Dove sisters on your ass about it, and you don’t want that.”

  “The Dove sisters?”

  “They live there.” Mrs. Phelps nodded up the street.

  Grace turned to look. Two houses from them sat what must have been the largest house in Dove Pond. Painted a bold mauve and decorated with more than a usual amount of ornate white trim, it towered over its not-so-small neighbors. But it was the yard that stole all the glory. The grass was a deep, velvety green like that of a golf course, but it was a mere background for the hundreds—no, thousands—of flowers that bloomed in meticulously kept beds around the house, down the walkway, around each tree, and along the street. “That belongs on a movie set,” Grace murmured.

  “They keep the place up,” Mrs. Phelps admitted in a grudging tone. “Unfortunately, they’re busybodies and will notice if you don’t mow.”

  Grace imagined white-haired crones with hooked noses yelling about the height of the grass and demanding that people pick up after their pets. Great. “I can’t abide rudeness.”

  “They aren’t rude. More likely to kill you with kindness, which annoys the crap out of me even more than rudeness. And they’re always watching.” Mrs. Phelps eyed the mauve house with obvious distaste. “I don’t see ’em now. Probably at work. The oldest is never home, as she has her own business. But the youngest, Sarah, is the town librarian, and she’s always at the fence between her house and the one next door talking to Travis Parker. He lives there.” Mrs. Phelps nodded at the smaller, neat-looking yellow house that served as a buffer between her house and the Doves’.

  “I hope he’s a good neighbor.”

  “Not bad,” Mrs. Phelps said, although she didn’t seem happy about it. “Although I can’t stand his damn motorcycle, which he drives like a bat out of hell. He has long hair and tattoos up both arms, but he’s a veteran, so I guess that’s okay. The house used to be his father’s, who died a year or so ago. Trav mostly keeps to himself, which is good.”

  Well, that didn’t sound too bad. Except for the motorcycle. She hoped it wasn’t too noisy.

  “Damn it, look at the time! I’ve got to go.” Mrs. Phelps started the RV, which belched a puff of black smoke before settling into a rumbly hum. “Call if you have more questions. You have my number.”

  “I will. Did you say goodbye to Mama G? She was in the front yard when you came out.”

  Mrs. Phelps’s face softened. “We spoke. She seemed fine at first, talking about the house and the memories she had of it, but then I asked why you all had moved here, and she couldn’t remember. Like it had just slipped out of her mind, a big thing like that.”

  “It’s been happening more often.”

  “Inna was always the smartest one in the room, too. It’s hard to see her like that. She could make me laugh, even when I felt like the world was about to end.” Mrs. Phelps’s blue eyes grew shiny and she fished in her pocket for a wadded tissue. “It’s not so obvious when you talk to her on the phone, but in person . . . Damn.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose before saying in a husky voice, “Take care of her, will you?”

  “I will. I need to find someone to watch after her when I’m at work.”

  “Linda Robinson.” Mrs. Phelps tossed the tissue into the empty ashtray. “She’s good. Her husband, Mark, works at the post office, so just go in and ask. He’ll put you in touch with her.”

  Grace nodded. She tried to think of something else to ask Mrs. Phelps, but nothing came.

  This was it, then. And yet Grace hated to let the old woman leave. As prickly as she was, once Mrs. Phelps left, the move to Dove Pond would be official.

  Finite.

  Permanent.

  No, not permanent, Grace told herself briskly. I have a plan, and if everything goes right, then in a year we’ll move to Charlotte and start fresh.

  She took a deep breath. It felt good to have a goal for the future firmly in mind. It allowed her to look past the dreary, harsh realities of her present-day situation, and focus on a brighter and better future. Still, her feet didn’t move away from the RV. “Good luck in Florida.”

  “Thanks.” Mrs. Phelps looked down the tree-lined street. “I’m going to miss this place. I’d stay here, but my kids moved away, so . . .” She straightened her shoulders as if pushing off pounds of regrets. “Can’t spoil my grandbabies unless I’m there. My daughter’s mother-in-law has already moved there, and she’s had free rein for far too long.”

  “Ah. You’re going to stop her.”

  “Stop her? Hell no! I’m going to join her. Two grandmothers are better than one. Evelyn is a hoot, too. We plan on joining a line-dance class together, maybe even try belly dancing.” Mrs. Phelps chuckled. “My daughter won’t know what’s hit her.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be glad you’re there.”

  “She’d better be. This move is costing me plenty.” Mrs. Phelps revved her engine and removed her arm from the window. “Enjoy Dove Pond!”

  Grace stepped back. “We will. We’ll take care of—”

  But she was speaking to the side of the RV, as Mrs. Phelps was already moving. The old woman maneuvered the creaky vehicle past Grace’s Honda, around the moving truck, and then—with a speed that belied its massive size—whisked the lumbering vehicle down the drive.

  Grace had never been more jealous of a rusty old RV in her life. What she would have given to speed away from this derelict house and the dismal year that lay ahead. If it weren’t for Daisy and Mama G, I’d pay someone to take my place. Or I would if I could afford it.

  But she couldn’t, which was why they were here now, she and Mama G and Daisy, all three of them washed up onshore, shipwrecked victims in Hannah’s destructive wake. Oh, Hannah, why did you—

  “Grace?” Mama G appeared from around the moving truck, her brow furrowed with worry. “The movers are asking where to put things and I don’t know what to tell them.”

  Grace took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Let’s go see what they need.” She slipped an arm around Mama G’s thin shoulders and they walked back to the house.

  Once inside, she settled Mama G and her knitting onto a lumpy, peach-colored divan th
at had been left in the front sitting room and then went to speak to the movers.

  As Grace walked through the rooms, she took stock of their new home. The inside of the house matched the outside—both were lopsided and faded, with hints of long-ago grandeur. The floor was made of wide pine planks that had been scuffed by the rubber and leather soles of a thousand feet. At one time, the plastered walls must have been a golden color, but over the years, in places where the sun hit, pale yellow patches had bloomed. The light fixtures were wrought-iron relics of a time gone by and in need of a thorough cleaning. A wide staircase with a decorative handrail arose from the foyer to the second floor, and Grace could hear Daisy’s quick footfalls overhead as she went from room to room. Here and there were the large, surprisingly ornate pieces of furniture Mrs. Phelps had left in the house—the long, peach-colored divan Mama G was now perched upon, a pair of green-velvet-covered chairs that looked as if they belonged on a movie set, and a cupboard that filled one corner of the sitting room all the way to the ten-foot ceiling.

  Grace joined the moving men where they stood beside the cocoon of tape and blankets that protected her dining room table.

  “It won’t fit,” Ricky Bob announced. “At least not with that in here.” He nodded to a huge walnut buffet Mrs. Phelps had left behind. The monstrosity lined one wall and looked more appropriate for a castle.

  “We can put the table against the far wall.” Tommy scratched his jaw. “But it’ll be tight, so your funk shoe might be off-kilter.”

  Ricky Bob snorted. “Tommy, I done told you about a million times it’s ‘fang sway,’ not ‘funk shoe.’ ” He stripped off the tape that held the blankets in place over the table’s delicate surface and then he and his assistant folded the cotton covers and placed them in a neat pile. “I suppose we could move this buffet to another room, if you want.”

  Grace picked up the blankets. “It’s huge, so I doubt it’ll fit anywhere else. Just leave it there. The table will be fine against the wall.”