“What?”
“I want to meet him—the handsome sheriff.”
Maggie shrugged her shoulders and avoided Robbie’s gaze. “I do know where his office is.” She had his number, too.
* * *
Robbie only got a 24-hour window—from Sunday to Monday—but it was enough. She worked until 3:30 on Sunday afternoon, then followed Maggie to the cabin. As soon as she parked, she leapt from her Jeep exclaiming, “Oh my gosh, Mom! Look at this place.”
“You would hardly look at the pictures before I came here.”
“I’m looking now.” She crooned over the fire Mr. Thompson had going in the fireplace, the furniture, the claw foot tub and large shower, the matelassé coverlet. “This would make a great honeymoon cabin.”
“Are you thinking of recommending it to Cal and Yvette?”
“Eew! I don’t want to think about them here. I’m thinking of it for me and Mark.”
Maggie smiled knowing it had been a good idea to bring her daughter here. Robbie was like a kid again, wanting to experience everything the cabin had to offer—the swing, the rockers, the red couch and ottoman, the bath. “How soon before we can walk down the dirt road? Where’d the sheriff find the body? What are you cooking for supper?”
That night, after two slices of Maggie’s Margherita pizza and three sugar cookies, a calmer Robbie lay side-by-side with her mother looking up at the stars through the windows in the ceiling of the bedroom. She lay so still and quiet Maggie thought she’d gone to sleep. But then Robbie said low, “I still don’t like thinking about you out here all alone.”
Maggie had wondered all afternoon if she should tell Robbie about Zeke. But how could she? Robbie’s mind was practical, like Canon Dale’s. Telling her about Zeke would only cause Robbie to worry about her more than she already did. So instead she said, “I’ll never be alone as a writer, Robbie.”
Robbie propped up on an elbow, probably so she could better lecture her mother in the moonlight. “Fictional characters are no substitute for the real thing, Mom.”
“Maybe. But you can make them whatever you want them to be, which is giving me a nice sense of control I confess I’ve enjoyed. Well…except when the characters surprise me.”
“I’ve heard writers say that and I’ve never understood it. Aren’t you the one writing the story?”
Maggie thought for a minute before answering. “I don’t think I’m writing it so much as I’m listening. That’s why it helps to come out here. I hear the words stronger here.”
“Fewer distractions?”
Canon was something of a distraction, but Maggie felt it best not to say so. “Yes.”
Robbie nodded, seemingly satisfied…for the moment. She lay back down and turned her head to the stars. Soon her breathing let Maggie know she was asleep. Maggie listened to the rhythmic rise and fall, thinking how it was her favorite sound in all the world.
24
If a story idea comes floating down the aisle and jumps inside your empty head (like J.K. Rowling says a boy wizard did for her), be the fertile mind most willing to water it.
The next morning Maggie was excited to show Robbie the town she was growing so fond of. They stopped at the sheriff’s office first. Maggie handed Shirley a basket of pumpkin muffins and a card when they walked in.
“What’s all this?” Shirley wore her customary scowl.
Maggie smiled sweetly. She was determined to win this woman over. “My way of saying ‘thank you’ for all you’ve done to help me.”
Shirley had the same sheepish look as Canon’s. She glanced over at Becky, who looked back with a bouncy grin. Once again the women seemed to pass secrets across the aisle.
Canon’s office was empty. Maggie tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she introduced Robbie.
“We heard you had twins, a boy and a girl,” Shirley drawled. She stood and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Robbie.”
“It’s short for Robyn,” Maggie felt the need to explain. “Calvin and Robyn.”
“Nice names,” Becky quipped, offering her hand to Robbie next.
“Canon’s not here,” said Shirley.
“He’s at the library, though,” Becky was quick to add. “Helping Dot change a flat.”
Shirley offered more detail. “Dot Jenkins had a flat yesterday. He fixed it for her and went back over this mornin’ to change it out with the spare.”
“Amos told me about the library,” said Maggie.
Becky turned to Robbie. “It’s a real nice library. If you head over there now, you might catch him.”
“He’d like to meet Robbie, I’m sure.” Maggie thought Shirley’s tone held a note of reluctance. She wished the women a good day and led Robbie from the office. When the door closed, Robbie squeezed her arm, “This is more serious than I thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word of the sheriff’s admiration is obviously out. By the way, how many cherry trees are in this town?”
They’d come up to Main and the trees were a show indeed.
“Wow.” Maggie had noticed, of course, that there were a lot of cherry trees planted around the square, but now with the branches covered in their spring foliage bursting with blooms, she saw there were more than she had realized. Her eyes rolled from corner to corner, counting at least twenty of varying heights and widths. More were hidden by the white Colonial courthouse that sat in the middle.
“What a lovely town!” exclaimed Robbie. They’d come down a side street to the sheriff’s office on Hickory and this was Robbie’s first clear view of the square.
Maggie hooked her arm in her daughter’s feeling smug about the jewel she’d discovered.
“I told you. A virtual Mayberry.”
“And the sheriff is out changing a tire.”
Maggie laughed and walked Robbie down Elm, then Maple, in the direction of the library.
“No wonder they have a festival,” said Robbie. “You have to come. And I want lots of pictures.” When her eye landed on a blue wooden sign at the end of the sidewalk announcing the Marston County Library in curved white lettering, Robbie’s jaw fell open. “Oh, Mom.”
The house the sign pointed to could have made the cover of Southern Living. In fact, it had…twice. Maggie and Robbie stood and admired the blue house and white shutters, the window boxes bursting with purple and yellow pansies, the large willow tree draping over the brick walkway that led to a wide white porch lined with upholstered wicker furniture. It was the kind of porch one dreamed of lounging on to sip tea, read a book, or visit with friends.
When they opened the front door, a gray-haired woman looked up from a desk in the foyer and rose quickly to greet them.
“Dorothy Jenkins, ladies. Marston County Librarian. How can I help you?’
Maggie put out her hand. “My name is Maggie Raines.”
“The writer?”
Robbie looked at her mom as if to say, you have become known.
Dorothy Jenkins, who’d evidently come of age in the sixties and locked in there with her hairstyle and polka dot dress, leaned in for a closer look at Robbie. “You have to be related.”
“My daughter, Robbie, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“I see it! Please, call me Dot.” Then Dot latched on to Maggie like an old friend, taking her by the arm. “You have got to tell some of the stories of this town, Maggie. We’ve been needing a writer like you to come along.”
First Brad Bybee, now Dot Jenkins. Neither had read one word Maggie had ever written.
Dot, an earnest woman with a penchant for word emphasis, was a bit of a close talker. Maggie breathed easier when she let go of her arm and latched on to Robbie’s. “This house dates back to the Civil War. It’s that old. Woman who lived here then lost it to a banking couple. That couple nearly ruined it, but then a couple bought it after them, who only had one son, who sadly was killed in the second World War. It was his widow put up all this wallpaper you see now. Some of her furniture is still here
. That side table.” She pointed.
“Oh, and see this hearth? That man killed in the war? His picture hung here a long time, until his widow remarried. His daughter had the house after that. She never did marry. She was a real industrious woman, though. The hardware store is named for her. Caroline Baker. She only died a couple of years ago. Sad. Alzheimer’s. But before she got too bad she said she wanted this house preserved. Loved books.”
Dot Jenkins let go of Robbie’s arm so she could lift her hands with the joy of this pronouncement. “Had a big collection of books. You would have liked her, being a book person.” Dot gave Maggie a knowing smile, then waved them forward.
“Her most prized books are in this room, the Caroline Baker Room. This other room over here is the tea room.”
The tea room was filled with a collection of small white clothed tables and white painted chairs. A narrow table sat in the middle of the room with a profusion of forsythia in the center.
“Is that not the prettiest forsythia on the main table you ever saw? We set the food on the main table and serve buffet style. Canon, that’s the sheriff, keeps us in those—flowers, that is. Brings flowers for the library every Friday morning in season. He takes flowers by the nursing home, too. A lot of people don’t know that.”
Dot’s voice dropped then like she was telling a secret. “He’s a good one, that Canon. Changed my tire yesterday. I didn’t know who else to call. Canon’ll always come when you need him. No matter what for. Even on a Sunday.”
Maggie opened her mouth to ask where Canon might be, but Dot pointed up a white staircase and kept talking, a well-practiced tour guide. “Those were the family’s bedrooms up there.” She waved Maggie and Robbie toward the next door opening. “Of course, Canon’s had a lot of time on his hands since his wife died. That was so tragic. Now there’s a sad story.”
Maggie and Robbie turned to look at one another in the narrow hallway. When Dot realized she’d lost her audience, she finally stopped talking and turned.
“Canon was married?” asked Maggie.
“Why, yes! You didn’t know? ‘Course it was so long ago. To Rita. She had red hair. Prettiest red hair you ever saw. Kept it curled. She’s the one planted all those flowers at the farm. That’s what got the cherry trees started.”
“The cherry trees in town?” asked Robbie.
“Why, yes! Rita Dale is the whole reason we have the festival. Canon’s the master of ceremonies. He plants a new cherry tree every year in her honor.”
Canon had struck Maggie as a lifelong bachelor. She’d never considered whether he had ever been married. Why had the newspaper article about Canon’s family made no mention of him having a former wife?
“When did she die?” asked Maggie.
Dot leaned in, clutching Maggie’s arm again, talking painfully close. “This will be festival number thirty. There’s been some discussion about how many more the square can hold.”
Robbie cleared her throat. “Tell me, Mrs. Jenkins, is it customary for the sheriff to bring someone with him to the festival?”
“Bring someone with him? What do you mean?” The older woman turned to Robbie, but kept her hold on Maggie’s arm.
“A date,” said Robbie, refusing to meet her mother’s stare.
“Canon?” Dot’s hands gripped tighter. “Well, Lord, no. Many a woman has set her cap for him, but my word. I reckon it near broke his heart to lose Rita. He’s been the town’s most eligible bachelor ever since. I guess he’ll die a bachelor. Sad, too, he’s such a good man.”
“We heard he was here.” Robbie finally looked at her mother. “Changing out your tire.”
Dot nodded. “He was, but he got a call on that hip radio he carries. Right before ya’ll got here.”
Meeting a woman like Dot Jenkins was like hitting the mother lode for a writer, but Maggie was suddenly overstimulated. “Mrs. Jenkins we need to be going, but could I come back later to ask you some questions about the Zeke Thompson trial?”
“Why, certainly! Zeke Thompson.” Dot’s voice dropped low again. “Now that’s a sad story.”
Before she could start telling them more about it, Maggie said, “Tomorrow? At ten?”
“Oh. Well, let’s see, the education committee has a luncheon every Tuesday at noon. You mind if we make it nine-thirty?”
“That’s perfect,” said Maggie.
“I look forward to it!” Mrs. Jenkins finally let her arm go so she could lift her hands with the joyful prospect of Tuesday. Then she saw them to the door. One could tell Dot Jenkins was a stickler for southern hospitality.
Maggie and Robbie were silent as they came back down the walk under the swaying branches of the willow and headed toward the town square. Robbie was the first to speak “You do realize how significant this is?”
Maggie didn’t answer. She wasn’t ready to admit to Robbie all that she was feeling. Surprised…and a little betrayed to think Canon hadn’t told her. But why should he? What was she to him? What were they to one another? Part of her was elated, the other part terrified.
“There’s a cute dress shop I want to show you, Robbie. Next to the flower shop on Main.”
“Don’t think we’re not talking about this, Mom.”
Maggie was in the lead and turned the corner from Elm to Main. She stopped. There stood Canon, a block away, talking to an older gentleman in front of the bank. Maggie did an about-face to go back down Elm as the gentleman turned to leave. Canon noticed her, his shoulders suddenly lifting. “Maggie!”
Robbie took her mother’s arm and turned her back around. Canon came toward them, his eyes quick to note the similarities. “This has to be your daughter.”
“Robbie,” said Maggie, “this is Canon Dale.”
He put out a burly hand. Robbie pumped it, smiling too big. “Sheriff Dale. I’ve heard so much.”
Canon looked at Maggie again. “Yeah? You look exactly like the picture your mom showed me.”
“Thank you for protecting Mother from escaped felons in the night.”
Maggie wondered if Robbie had rehearsed that line.
“She didn’t really need protecting.”
“All the same. It makes me feel better to know you’ve been a…” Robbie’s eyes cut back to her mother, “…steady presence on her visits to the county.”
As Maggie could have predicted, it brought on Canon’s sheepish look. “Well…it’s been my pleasure.” He turned to Maggie. “You in town for the festival?”
“She is,” answered Robbie.
Maggie mashed the toe of Robbie’s shoe to let her know she didn’t need her help to have this conversation. “I was considering it,” added Maggie, for clarification.
But how could she say ‘no’ knowing she might be the first woman Canon had asked to a festival that started because of his deceased wife? Was Canon seriously interested in Maggie? Or was he just being nice, being a good man like Dot Jenkins said he was, hospitable and making a visitor to the town feel welcome?
Maggie’s wasn’t trying to play naïve or coy. But this was new territory, and trust of late was hard for her. She never expected to have feelings for someone so soon after feeling the jerk of a rug. She didn’t want to repeat mistakes she may have made.
“What time and where should she meet you?” Robbie sounded more like a parent than a daughter, ignoring Maggie’s “considering it” comment.
“I could pick you up at the cabin that morning, about ten. Are you coming, too?” He looked at Robbie. “We’d love to have you.”
See? Maggie wanted to say to Robbie. You’re invited, too. It’s not just me.
“That is so kind of you, but I have to get back to work. Later this afternoon, actually. I do wish I could keep my eye on the two of you.”
Maggie swatted Robbie’s arm. “Since when did you become a comedienne? That’s Cal’s job.”
“We are twins.” Robbie smiled at Canon. “You know what they say…twins think alike sometimes.”
It was time to end this
conversation. Robbie was having too much fun. Maggie pulled her arm. “It was nice to see you again, Canon. Robbie and I were headed to the dress shop.”
“We’re free for lunch,” said Robbie.
“Oh, yeah?” Canon took the bait. “You like burgers?”
Robbie grinned. “You know, I haven’t had a good burger in a long time.”
That’s because Robbie was more of a kale and quinoa salad girl.
“Pete’s, down on the corner, has some awfully good burgers. And hand cut fries.”
Robbie looked at Maggie. “Shall we, Mom?”
Maggie offered Canon a look of apology for her daughter’s aggressiveness, but he smiled as if he were looking forward to being scrutinized over lunch. “I need to run by the station.” He looked at his watch. It was eleven. “Meet you there in half an hour?”
“We’ll be there,” declared Robbie.
As he left, Maggie pulled her daughter into the dress shop. “Robbie!”
But rather than taking her scolding, Robbie’s eye landed on a blue summer dress. “Oh, Mom.” She reached for it, holding it up to Maggie. “Try this on. Teal brings out your eyes.”
As Maggie stood looking at herself in the dressing room mirror moments later, noting how the teal dress did, in fact, bring out the brown of her eyes, Robbie whispered from the other side of the curtain, “I like him.”
When Maggie slid the drape to the side, Robbie nodded resolutely. “That’s what you’re wearing to the Cherry Blossom Festival.”
“Why do you like him?” asked Maggie.
“I don’t know exactly. Ask me again after lunch.”
“Please don’t overdo it, Robbie.”
Robbie raised her shoulders innocently. “When have I ever overdone it?”
Maggie pulled the curtain again and took one last look at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t bought a new dress in what…seven months? But should she really show so much of her arms? April weather could go either way—cool or warm. The dress was sleeveless, a soft knit blend that swept the tops of her knees. The skirt hung straight, not too flouncy—she didn’t want something that would lift in the wind. And it had pockets. Maggie liked pockets.
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