The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  He says, “This is Lexi Blake. She’s moving here all the way from New York City. She’s buying my family’s old house on Millionaire’s Row.” Then to me he says, “Lexi, this is Shuckie. He’s a local legend and fish-frying genius.”

  Shuckie takes my hand and offers, “I’m mighty pleased to meet you. Welcome to town. You let me know which of the fish you like best.”

  “I’ll do that,” I tell him. Once he goes, it’s just me and Beau while we wait for our food.

  He’s staring at me like I’m a Greek dictionary and he’s trying to decipher the words. I don’t know where to look as his scrutiny is so intense I dare not share it. Finally, I gaze around the restaurant. “I like it here. It doesn’t seem too busy tonight, though.”

  “Business tapers off in the cooler months, which is why Shuckie doesn’t have any servers to help him. In the summer, this place is so packed there’s a two-hour wait for dinner. Folks take their food out and sit on the dock to eat, but even so, the fryer is so backed up that Shuckie often stays open until midnight.”

  “It’s hard to believe I’m really going to live here,” I tell him. “I’m not having second thoughts or anything, but it’s all happened so fast.”

  “You need to get your mama down here,” he says.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing, but that’s easier said than done. Regina is not the most flexible person. Also, she’s mad at my dad and I think she’d see coming down here as an act of forgiveness.”

  “She sounds like one tough cookie,” he accurately states. “You gotta tell her about Myrah.”

  “I will. I can’t imagine her not wanting to meet her family.”

  Then Beau does the most unexpected thing. He reaches across the table and takes my hands. I try to pull away, but he holds onto them tighter and says, “Settle down.” Then he turns my palms up and studies them. He points to the line between my thumb and forefinger and says, “This here’s your lifeline. You see here how it’s broken in two?”

  I nod my head and ask, “You read palms?”

  “Myrah’s taught me a couple of things over the years.” He adds, “When a lifeline is broken, she says it can mean a major illness or a move. It’s always something that irrevocably changes us and puts us on a different path.”

  “So, you’re saying that my move was destined to be?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Our ancestors sure thought it was. So maybe it was.”

  “I don’t have a hard time conceptualizing predestination,” I tell him, “it’s just that I can’t quite assimilate it to real life.”

  “Even after today?” he wonders. “Maybe our problem with it is that we’re tryin’ to make sense of it in terms of the past and future bein’ on a timeline. But what if time isn’t linear and it’s circular instead?”

  I’ve recently thought the same thing. “So, it’s all happening at the same time?” I ask. Before he answers, I tell him, “I’m a big Doctor Who fan, so it’s not that I have a hard time imagining such a thing, it’s just that I have a hard time accepting it as reality.”

  “And yet Elsie knew that one of her descendants was gonna to buy Regina’s house.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a conundrum for sure.”

  He points to a line running down the middle of my palm. “This here’s your fate line. It has to do with your career.”

  He touches the tip of his finger to the base of the line and says, “Myrah says it starts when you’re about five years old. She says that’s the age a person is fully grounded in this life and no longer standing with one foot in heaven.” He gently traces the line up into the center of my palm. Goosebumps form all over my body as primal currents run through me.

  “Right here is about the age you are now, thirty.” Being that he points a third of the way up the line, I guess he’s assuming I’ll live to be ninety. I’ll have to ask Myrah about this.

  “It’s broken like my lifeline,” I say. “What does that mean?”

  “It means a major career change. Your move here makes a lot of sense with both your life and fate line broken at the same place.” Then he moves on and lightly caresses a horizontal line under my pinky finger.

  “What line is that?” I ask.

  He clears his throat before saying, “This is your love line.” His voice is low and rough and causes my insides to drop like I’m being turned upside down on a rollercoaster. I don’t ask what he’s reading in my love line because truthfully I don’t think I’m ready for the answer. But whatever it is, Beau can’t stop staring at it.

  Chapter 41

  Our dinner is so delicious, I could eat here every night of the week. I’d be hard-pressed to pick a favorite fish though, and decide I’ll probably order the sampler every time I come. The beer batter on the fish is so crisp the “crunch” can likely be heard across the county. “Is it this good every time?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s why Shuckie is considered the best. His food is never greasy. It’s always cooked to perfection.”

  We thoroughly enjoy our meal and I eat more than my fair share. When our platter is nearly licked clean, Shuckie hollers across the restaurant, “Beau, Lexi, you want the banana puddin’?”

  Beau shouts back, “You know it.” Then to me he says, “Everyone down here makes banana pudding, but no one makes it like him.”

  “What does he do that makes his so special?” I ask.

  “Rum. I swear Mama has tried to replicate it, but she doesn’t get the proportions right.” Beaus builds the culinary tension by adding, “Shuckie blends fresh banana so it’s creamy and not chunky.” The man himself brings over two half-pint-sized Mason jars filled to the brim. He places them on the table and says, “I got extra if you need it.” Then he goes back to the kitchen.

  As near as I can tell, banana pudding is nothing more than pudding layered with vanilla wafers, topped with whipped cream and more vanilla wafers. Beau is nearly half-way done with his by the time I finish inspecting mine and take my first bite. I groan at the sheer pleasure. In a word, this dessert is heavenly. The rum is significant, but it doesn’t overshadow the banana flavor at all.

  “It’s soft and crunchy,” I announce, knowing that this is exactly what my dad needs to eat in order to fulfill tonight’s texture requirements.

  As soon as I finish, Beau asks, “You want another?”

  “I want six more, but I'd better not. I do want to take a couple of these for my dad, though.”

  Beau signals Shuckie and orders Bertie the same dinner we had as well as two puddings. He explains, “Your daddy will need some protein, too.”

  After Beau pays the check and we collect our to-go order, we start the walk home. He asks, “Is it okay if I tell my family about how you’re related to Elsie, or do you prefer to do the telling?”

  While I’d like to sit with this information and absorb it all for a few days before sharing it with anyone, I want Myrah and Clovis to feel free to talk about what we’ve all just discovered. I know they’re as excited about it as I am. For this reason, and because I can’t imagine doing more than sharing the story with my own parents right now, I answer, “I’d be happy if you’d pass on the news.” Now all I have to do is force my mother to listen to me.

  “Course you know, my family is gonna be over-the-moon excited and will probably drive you crazy with wanting to be a part of it all,” he says.

  “I don’t think it’s possible for them to drive me crazy,” I tell him. “Knowing how our families have been entwined over the years makes me feel like this is supposed to be a joint effort.”

  Beau stops walking and turns to look into my eyes. “I’m happy that you’re buying the house.”

  “Why?” I ask. “What’s changed?” But instead of waiting for his answer, I speed up my pace so that he’s nearly running next to me.

  “Lexi, slow down. What’s the rush?” he asks.

  “I need to get Bertie’s dinner to him before he starves,” I say. Liar, liar, pants on fire.


  When we get back to the factory, Beau unlocks the door for us to go inside and announces, “I’ll see you up.”

  “There’s no need,” I tell him firmly. But he follows me across the lobby anyway. When the elevator comes, I try again. “Thank you for this unique and lovely day, and for dinner.” I stick my hand out to shake his, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he nudges me into the elevator and gets on after me.

  “What’s goin’ on with you? You’re acting as jumpy as a bullfrog during hunting season.” I have to stop and think about that one. I’m not sure why a bullfrog would be jumpy during hunting season unless you were hunting bullfrogs. Oh, my god, do they eat frogs down here? I involuntarily shudder at the thought.

  I ignore his question. When we reach the third floor, I say again, “No need to walk me to the door.”

  He ignores me now and trails after me. Once we get to Bertie’s door, I thank Beau for what I hope is the final time. “Goodnight, and thanks again.” I sound more annoyed than grateful.

  He still doesn’t seem to be ready to walk away. Instead, he turns me so I’m facing him. What I see in his eyes makes my knees go so weak I almost keel over. He pulls me closer, and as his mouth hovers a mere whisper above mine, he tells me in a low voice, “I had a wonderful day, Lexi. Thank you very much.”

  Then, hand to God, the man leans down and kisses me so tenderly, so heart-meltingly, I forget to be outraged and pull away, or smack him for his impertinence. Instead, I lean into him and encourage him. It is the best, most tantalizing kiss I’ve ever been party to in my whole life, and it’s all I can do not to jump into his arms and devour him whole.

  The encounter lasts for a very long time. It begins as a peck, turns the corner on a respectable first date smooch, and quickly enters territory that I’m sure is full of signs that read Danger! Violators Will be Towed! and Trespassers Will be Shot! On and on it goes and I do nothing to stop it. In fact, it’s Beau who finally pulls away.

  When he does, we’re leaning on each other with both of us panting for more. He finally manages to say, “Come down to the office at nine in the morning and we’ll drive over to the house together for the inspection.”

  I make this sort of grunting, growling sound that’s meant to mean, “okay,” but I’m not sure it’s successful. Beau takes the keys out of my hands and opens the door for me. Then he kisses me again, quicker this time, before turning to walk back down the hall.

  I have no idea what just happened. Well, I mean, I know what happened, but I don’t know why I allowed it to happen. I don’t believe in fooling around with someone who’s already taken, so I need to make sure whatever it was, there isn’t a repeat performance.

  If Regina’s taught me one thing, it’s that women are a sisterhood, and we owe it to one another to have each other’s backs, no matter what kind of temptation Beau Frothingham is. And while I know this in my bones, my imagination takes flight, and it only occurs to me later that I am not angry at Beau one little bit. What does that mean? More destiny at play in the universe or just my fantasies taking flight?

  Chapter 42

  Bertie is lying on the ground under his canvas with the lights off when I walk into his apartment. He’s using the flashlight app on his phone to gaze at it from a new angle. It’s still free of any actual paint.

  “Hi, Dad; I’m home,” I announce. “Can I turn on the light?”

  “Sure, honey.” As soon as I do, he sits up and says, “I still don’t know what it’s going to be. Inspiration is building.”

  “Maybe something soft and crunchy will help,” I suggest.

  He enthusiastically bounds to his feet and asks, “Did you have a nice time?”

  “I did.” Because that’s the truth. Even though the evening was fraught with mixed signals, had it been a date, it would have been the best one I’ve ever been on.

  “Your friend Emmie has a nice family,” he says. “Now what did you bring me?”

  I unpack his meal for him, then drag over my air mattress closer to his canvas for him to sit on. “I have huge news.” While I am excited about telling him the story, I’m a little worried he’s going to think the whole town, including me, has lost their marbles.

  “Shoot.”

  “Mom’s family used to work for the original Frothingham family who founded Creek Water.”

  My dad stops opening his food. “Did Emmie or Beau tell you that?”

  “They didn’t know. Beau and I just found out today while we were out looking for furniture for the new house. He took me to a farm out in the country, and I met an old woman who is my direct relation.” Nervously, I tell him about the old fortune-teller Mimi took me to in Harlem when I was a girl. Then I hand him the letter from Regina Frothingham.

  Bertie doesn’t eat one bite while I talk. After he reads what the first Regina wrote to me, he sits in silence for a while, absorbing all of this. He finally tells me, “Your grandmother used to take your mom to the same lady. She hated it.”

  “Mom went?” My mother is too logical and grounded to ever buy into something like that.

  “She didn’t want to go,” my dad replies. “But Mimi loved it, and your mom loved Mimi, so she went.”

  “Did she have her fortune read?” I ask.

  “Several times, but she’d never tell me what it was. She’s said it was all a load of nonsense and there was no point in talking about it, so we didn’t.”

  “I have to get Mom down here,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure how. I don’t know how to make her listen.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling her the truth?” he asks.

  “I would, but it’s so bizarre,” I say.

  “That it is. Let’s think on it, I’m sure the perfect plan will present itself.” As he says this, I realize once again how different my parents are.

  I’m pretty sure my mom is too pragmatic to ever consider that the letter could be real. But, then I think about her relationship with my dad and how that doesn’t make a lot of sense given their differences, and I wonder if she might try.

  While I’m contemplating this, Bertie eats his meal, making all of the yummy sounds I did. “This is the best fish I’ve ever eaten,” he declares.

  “It’s fresh from the river,” I tell him. “Not from the ocean, so you’re perfectly safe.” I’m teasing him about his fear of me eating fish while outside of New York.

  “I had a preconceived idea of what the rest of the country was like, and I’m happy to say that in the case of Creek Water, Missouri, I was totally wrong.”

  “So, after you’re done painting your series, you think you’ll come visit me down here?”

  “I might move in with you for half the year. I’ve never been quite this inspired before.”

  I laugh. “Even though you don’t know what you’re painting yet, huh?” Then I say, “I’m going to meet Beau downstairs at nine tomorrow morning to go over to the house for the inspection. You want to come?”

  I don’t really expect him to break away from his canvas, so I’m shocked when he answers, “I do! I need to see the inside of this house of yours with my own eyes.”

  Bertie devours every last bit of his food, humming while he consumes the pudding. “Exactly what I needed.” After lying down on the floor to stare at his canvas again, he announces, “You know, I always felt like I lived a big life.”

  “Because you were an artist in New York City?” I ask.

  “Exactly. Your mom and I were living our dream in the best city in the world. We were always open to new experiences, and man, did we do some cool stuff.”

  “You did,” I agree. My parents were always off to an art opening or a jazz club or a lecture of some kind. They used to call themselves Urbanistas.

  “But now that I’m here,” he says. “I realize how small that life really was.”

  “Small? How do you figure?”

  “Because we discounted so much of the world. Unless it was a big shiny place with big shiny ideas, we weren’t interested. It
turns out that Creek Water and small towns like it are the places that paved the way for big change. Without them, Regina and I would have never had the life that we’ve had together. It’s a humbling realization.”

  I think about Regina Frothingham’s letter and how thrilled she was by the idea that a woman would ever be able to buy her home, a woman of color no less. I wonder what she’d make of my parents’ relationship. A black/Jewish woman partnering with an eccentric white guy, never getting married, but nonetheless creating a family together. I’m pretty sure it would have blown her mind.

  After my dad heads upstairs to his bed, I take a turn and lie on my air mattress and stare at his blank canvas. It’s the perfect metaphor for life. We can create anything we want on our canvas, and if we don’t like what we make, we can start over until we design the work of art we’re happy with. It’s an exhilarating thought.

  This has been the most eventful and wonderful day of my life. Never in a million years could I have imagined anything like it happening to me. And suddenly I can’t wait to find out what happens next.

  Chapter 43

  I’m a ball of nerves when Bertie and I walk into Beau’s office this morning. When I woke up, I lay in bed reliving yesterday’s whole day together. Of course, the majority of the time was spent rehashing our kiss.

  Beau greets us with a warm smile and asks, “How was your dinner, Bertie?”

  “Delicious,” he replies. “One of these days I’ll have to make you the meal I’m famous for.”

  “Reservations?” I wonder.

  “No, no, no, your mom and I have recently tried something new. We take all the leftovers in the refrigerator and add them to two cans of chicken broth. It’s a little something we like to call garbage soup. But I can’t make it until I get enough leftovers.”

  “As appealing as that sounds,” Beau politely manages, “why don’t you leave the meals to us?”

  Unsure whether he is serious or joking, I grimace at the thought of what those dinners must have tasted like and ask, “Is it ever edible?”