The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  “Am I shadowing you, or something?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you are.”

  “Ah . . .” I dashed over to my desk and pulled my reporter’s notebook and a pen from my briefcase. “Will I need these?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you will.” He reached for his hat, slid it onto his head, and tipped the brim low over his eyes. “Let’s rock and roll.”

  I retrieved my purse and said “Nice to meet you” to Alma and Garrison. Seconds later, I clomped behind Will as fast as my pumps allowed. We left by the same way we’d come in. He opened the outside glass door for me, looking down as he did so. “You wearing shoes like that every day you come to work?”

  I paused long enough to hold out one foot. “I guess. Why?”

  He released the door. “They’re pretty, but not practical. Not for this job.” He turned right, ambling toward the side of the building. “By the way, personnel parks over here.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, my recent feeling of belonging fizzling away like the air in an untied balloon.

  “Now you do.”

  I stopped short as Will unlocked the passenger side of his mud-slung truck and opened the door. “Your chariot,” he said.

  “We’re riding in . . . this?”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s not a Jag, I know, but it gets me where I need to go. Come on, I don’t have all day to argue with you.”

  And just what was wrong with a Jag?

  I hoisted myself up onto the bench seat, using my left pump to knock litter aside on the floorboard. The door shut behind me with a squeak and a groan. I started to place my purse on the floorboard, then thought better of it, choosing to place it beside me instead. As Will walked around the back of the truck, I pulled the seat belt, then stopped with it suspended in front of me. The driver’s door opened.

  “Do you mind telling me what’s all over the seat belt?”

  The truck rocked under his weight as he got in and pulled the door to. “What do you mean?” He jammed a key into the ignition and turned it without looking my way. The radio blared something twangy with words about a “beat-up old guitar” as the truck rumbled to life. Will flipped the volume dial until the agony faded to sweet silence.

  “There’s something . . . gooey . . . all over the seat belt. Is it tar? Gum? Peanut butter? I can’t tell.”

  Will revved the engine. “No one has ever complained before, so . . . I have no idea.” He jerked the gearshift into reverse. “You need to buckle up.”

  “Question,” I said, putting my purse in my lap and using it as a shield between me and the soiled seat belt. “When was the last time a female sat in this seat?”

  “Hmmm . . . ,” he said, twisting the steering wheel to drive us out of the parking lot. “I’d have to say the last person to sit in that seat was Buck Johnson’s wife, Minnie.”

  “Minnie . . . and is she a friend of yours?”

  “Not really.”

  “And, by chance, have you ever asked Mrs. Johnson if she liked having goo all over her nice clothes when she sat here?”

  Will rolled the car to a stop at the parking lot exit, looking first to his left, and then to his right. We made eye contact until his lowered, resting on the glove-leather B. Makowsky purse I’d have to scrub clean with alcohol as soon as I got back to the cottage.

  He snickered. “First of all,” he said, pulling onto the street, “Minnie Johnson never owned anything nicer than a new pair of coveralls or maybe a cotton dress she sewed for church on Sunday.”

  “So I take it that’s a ‘no.’ You have not asked her.”

  “Nope.”

  “Figures,” I mumbled.

  “Because, second of all, when I bought the truck from Mr. Johnson, Miss Minnie had already passed six months earlier. Give or take.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Why? Did you know Miss Minnie?”

  “Well, no but . . .” I wiggled a little, feeling uncomfortable with the knowledge that the woman who’d once occupied my seat was no longer alive. Using my thumb, I indicated the gun rack and shotgun hanging behind our shoulders. “Is this necessary or is it a part of your good ole boy persona?”

  Will momentarily glanced over his right shoulder. “Around here you never know when you might need it.”

  I shook my head and looked out the window. “So when do you think I’ll start on the magazine?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Because that’s really why I’m here.”

  When he didn’t comment, I looked his way to catch him cutting a sideward glance my way. “Is it now?”

  In answer, I returned my gaze outward. I wasn’t sure what he knew—that I was really here more to lay claim to my grandmother’s magazine than the one our grandmothers had started together way back when—so I opted for silence. We passed rows of commonplace businesses. Fast-food restaurants. New car businesses. Auto repair shops. An appealing nail salon.

  Note to self: Make nail appointment for next week.

  “Would you be kind enough to tell me where we are going?”

  “To the home of Sarah Flannery. She’s a college grad getting ready to go into the Peace Corps.”

  “And?”

  William eyed me momentarily. “And . . . that’s it. She’s going into the Peace Corps. Got your phone with you?”

  I dug into my purse and pulled it out, showing it to him.

  “It’s pink,” he said.

  “The case is pink.”

  “With little sparkly things on it.”

  I laid the phone on top of my purse. “Did you ask me to take my phone out so you could criticize it?”

  “No. Do you have Internet access?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course . . . all right. Do us both a favor, since I’ve been too busy getting ready for your sweet self to come up here to have a chance to do this myself, and Google the Peace Corps. Let’s see what you can find out before we get there.”

  What I could find out? Well, just wait, Will Decker, I thought. You are about to see a research hound in action.

  7

  Sarah Flannery—all five-feet-two of her—sat on the plaid sofa in her parents’ family room. She wore a pair of khaki shorts, a Peace Corps T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers that looked barely big enough to fit a sixth grader. Her face was fresh-scrubbed, her light-brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her brown eyes were vibrant with anticipation. The fragrance of a pine-scented candle filled the room.

  After I had been introduced to her parents—Darrin and Jean—William and I were led to where the star of the hour waited patiently, smiling. I couldn’t help but see the world of opportunity dancing around her. She was practically giddy.

  William had brought a digital camera in from the truck. While I stood by with seemingly no role in the interview, he took several shots. One of Sarah sitting alone on the sofa. One standing in front of the fireplace with her parents. One of her sitting on top of her suitcase with her elbows pressed against her knees and her chin resting on fists. With a final click of the camera, William stood, ran his hand along a leg of his jeans, and said, “Where’s your brother today?”

  Sarah stood. “Football.”

  William winked at her, which brought a blush to her flawless cheeks. “Like I didn’t know that.” He turned to me. “Start taking notes.”

  Finally, something to do.

  Jean Flannery, who’d been smiling with delight as Will snapped photographs, said, “Please, have a seat,” and indicated a nearby chair, which matched the sofa.

  I did. I took my notebook and pen from my purse, poised and ready to write.

  Sarah returned to the sofa, sitting on one end while William sat on the other. He started off with, “So, Sarah . . . why the Peace Corps?”

  She flashed her pretty smile again. “Lots of reasons,” she said. “Mainly, I wanted to join their Master’s International program. I can fini
sh my education, get help with student loans, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  She nodded. “I do. Senegal.”

  “Tell me a little about what you’ll do there,” William continued.

  Sarah laughed as her parents found their way to a matching love seat on the opposite side of the L-shaped room. “Well, for one thing, I’m going to be living as primitively as Wilma Flintstone.”

  I smiled at the way she pronounced “thing” and “Wilma.” Thang. Wil-mah.

  “We’re still pretty stunned,” Sarah’s father commented. “This is the girl who likes to get her toes done at least every other week.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Daddy . . .”

  I cleared my throat. “The people in Senegal speak French. Are you prepared for that?” I glanced at Will, who looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. “What? Well, they do.”

  “She’s right,” Sarah interjected. “I’ve taken French in high school and minored in it in college. Still, we’ll have several months of training in cultural language.”

  “What other training do you receive?” William asked quickly, letting me know my job was to take the notes, not ask the questions.

  Sarah continued speaking about the level of training she’d receive—language, technical training, cross-cultural training—and that she’d work in the area of youth and community development. When William was finished with her portion of the interview, he turned to her parents and asked, “How long will your daughter be gone?”

  “A little over two years,” Jean answered, tears springing to her eyes.

  Darrin chuckled. “We’ll survive, Mama.”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled.

  The words jarred me. Our focus had been on Sarah. And rightfully so. But what about those she would leave behind? The life she would leave behind.

  I realized then how different Sarah and I were. Not just in the where or how we’d grown up, or in the enough-to-be-content versus the silver-spoon-in-her-mouth. Sarah Flannery had willingly decided to leave all she knew for what she didn’t know and for a good, long time. Her parents worried. Mine had pushed me out of a secure nest I never wanted to leave. And not up to higher branches in the tree—which would have been fine with me—but to a world I knew I wasn’t prepared to be in, much less stay in.

  “Two years,” I said to William after we’d climbed back into the truck. “I thought being gone from Winter Park for six months was a long time.” The easy feeling of six months had changed to a difficult one hundred and eighty days, give or take a day.

  William studied me for a moment before saying, “How’d you know that? About the official language in Senegal being French?”

  I placed my purse back in my lap before pulling the seat belt over and clicking it into place. “I like studying things,” I said. “Geography. Music. Literature. I’ve always been a voracious reader. And, for your information, I love anything classic. Classic movies. Classic books.”

  His brow rose. “Favorite classic book,” he said, more as a challenge than a question.

  “I have a collection of Guy de Maupassant short stories I adore turning to on long rainy days.”

  He turned the key in the ignition. “Hmmm,” he said. “I like anything by Dickens.”

  I hadn’t seen that coming. “I would have expected L’Amour,” I said, making certain a hint of laughter rang through my voice.

  He snickered, but said nothing more.

  For the next five minutes, we rode in content silence until I said, “Tell me more about the paper.”

  He squirmed. Sighed deeply. “Today is Monday. Monday is the only day we don’t release a paper.”

  “So you rest on Sunday?”

  “You got it.” Will pulled his hat off and put it back on again. “Mondays are busy, which is why your being late this morning ticked me off.”

  “I told you . . . I didn’t know where to go. What time to be there. I guess everyone thought everyone else had told me.” I left off the part about oversleeping.

  “I come in early on Mondays. Seven-thirty. No later than. With us not putting out a Monday issue, I come in, work on obits, church news, the community calendar, and check the police beat.”

  I swallowed a smile. One thing we never did in Winter Park was contact the “police beat” for our Parks & Avenues issues. “The police beat?”

  “Who got arrested and why.” He sent an unusual smile my way. “That’s always interesting.”

  I supposed that, when you lived in a town small enough for everyone to know everyone else, “who got arrested” could be quite the morsel of gossip, but I didn’t say so. Instead, I looked out the window at the home-style cutesiness, even on the outskirts of town. “I can’t imagine anyone doing anything illegal around here.”

  “Our sheriff doesn’t stay real busy, Thelma-Lou, but he does carry a gun.”

  “Ha-ha.” I felt myself relax.

  He grinned at me. “And with more than one bullet.”

  All right then. Maybe William Decker wasn’t so bad. And maybe I was starting to figure out how to get along with him. “Okay, so you come in early on Mondays.”

  “Right. We work six days a week, but only forty hours.”

  “Six?”

  “Monday through Saturday. If you have to work late one night, you come in late the next day. Unless, of course, you have a story to cover. Anyway, it’s up to us to set our hours and it’s up to us to make sure they don’t go over forty.”

  Something dawned on me. “Do we clock in? Because if we do, I didn’t.” I didn’t at the magazine, but most of our employees did.

  We were getting close to the office; everything around me became familiar. “Like I said, it’s up to you to keep up with your hours.”

  “The honor system. Interesting.” My stomach growled.

  William looked at me and chuckled. “You hungry?”

  “Well . . . ,” I said. “I didn’t exactly have breakfast.” I looked at my watch. Lunch, if I were on Winter Park time, was in an hour.

  The newspaper came into view, but Will drove past it. I pointed toward the building. “Ah . . .”

  “I could use a little something to eat, too.”

  “So we’re goofing off.” And on a Monday. That would never fly in Winter Park.

  He grinned. “Trust me. You’ll put in your fair share of work around here. Besides, we have to eat.”

  We rolled to a stop at a storefront, Testament Drug Company painted in white across the window. I sighed as William turned off the truck. “Let me guess. Peanuts and a coke?”

  He frowned at me. “You really did watch The Andy Griffith Show.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t hear about this . . . ritual . . . this passage . . . from Andy.”

  William jerked the handle of his door and jumped out of the seat. “Oh, yeah?”

  I got out as well, not waiting for him to come to my side. We started toward the glass door of the business. “Aren’t you going to lock it?” I asked, pointing back to the truck.

  “For what?” Will opened the door to the drugstore for me.

  “Well,” I said, “for one, from someone who might come along and think, ‘Oh, that’s Will Decker’s truck. And he carries a pretty nice camera inside. And I need a camera.’ ”

  “Maybe y’all have that issue in Winter Park, but here in Testament, we don’t worry about that kind of thing. Testament is the one town, lady, where you can still sleep with your windows raised.”

  Blended scents of vanilla, coffee beans, and grilled chicken pulled my attention from the conversation to the room we’d just entered. The front of the store was clearly a gift shop, the back a pharmacy. But to the left was a doorway into another world. Another time. An old-fashioned café, joined at the hip to the community drugstore. I had the same feeling of “happy” that washed over me whenever I went to The Briarpatch café on Park Avenue.

  “This way,” Will said. “I’d wager you like crisp sa
lads . . . grilled sandwiches . . . homemade soups.”

  I breathed in the heavenly aroma. “You’d wager correctly, sir.” We made our way past patrons seated on every single chrome-and-vinyl stool along the bar, and toward the collection of wooden tables, each flanked by four chairs. Many were already occupied. The intensity of friendly conversations was nearly deafening.

  Will easily made his way to a vacant table. Along the way, he stopped to say hello to people who seemed positively thrilled to see him. Especially those of the female persuasion. None of whom he chose to introduce me to.

  “You have a fan club,” I said as he held a chair out for me. “Thank you.”

  Will pulled the hat from his head and tossed it onto the seat of an unused chair. His fingers raked through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

  I couldn’t stop myself from noticing the five o’clock shadow sprouting along his jawline. My breath caught in my throat. I’d never been one of those girls who ogle boys nor a young woman who swoons at the sight of a good-looking man. I’d always been too focused on my life at the magazine to much care about a love life. But something about his look, so early in the day, made me unusually uncomfortable.

  I shook the notion from my mind as Will eased his tall frame into the chair.

  Within seconds, a young woman with long copper-colored hair pulled into a low ponytail approached the table carrying two menus. One she placed before me without so much as a nod, and the other she handed to Will with a smile. “Well, hey there, William . . .” Somehow, coming from her, his two-syllable name drew out to four.

  “Hey there, Brianna,” he returned with a wink.

  “Having your usual?”

  I blinked. Swallowed the almost choking desire to stand, walk out, and walk back to the newspaper. If I could find it. I understood—to some degree—the young woman’s flirtatiousness with William. Even I had to admit that on a scale of one to ten, he hit a nine and a half. But what was I, invisible? And just how was I to achieve my short-term goal of understanding the inner workings of everyday people when a small-town café server didn’t even acknowledge me?

  I took a deep breath. “Hi,” I said.