by V. M. Burns
The alarm system I’d installed this summer startled me and I dropped the books I was shelving. The alarm buzzed whenever a door or window was opened, even if the system wasn’t armed. Nana Jo stepped around to see who had entered and I picked up the books I’d dropped.
I placed the books on a nearby table and headed for the front of the store. I could have sworn I’d locked the door. Just as I came around the corner, I heard Nana Jo.
“We’re closed.”
“Oh, I know. I just thought I’d wait for Dawson.”
I struggled to recognize the voice. As I got to the main aisle, I saw Dawson’s scantily clad girlfriend, Melody. Today’s ensemble included more fabric than the one she wore yesterday, but not by much. A short black skintight miniskirt with a deep V-neck mesh cut top with fabric that barely covered her breasts and red, six-inch heels that Nana Jo’s friend Irma called hooker heels.
“Lord have mercy. What’re you wearing?” Nana Jo stared openmouthed.
The shocked expression wasn’t lost on Melody, who laughed and twirled to insure Nana Jo got the full effect. “You like?”
“Is someone watching your pole?”
Melody flushed and cocked her head and took a step forward as though she were about to say something insulting.
Younger people often thought of the elderly as feeble and weak. However, my Nana Jo was over six feet, two hundred pounds, held a green belt in Aikido, and could shoot a bat off the top of a building at three hundred yards. Don’t ask me how I know that. Despite the difference in their ages, in a fight, my money was on Nana Jo.
“Dawson isn’t here and the store is closed.” I stepped in between the two women. “If you’re looking for Dawson, I suggest you try campus.”
For a moment, Melody looked at me as though I were gum she’d scrapped from the bottom of her shoe.
“What’s going on?”
I was so intent on preventing an altercation between Nana Jo and Melody I hadn’t heard Dawson enter through the back door.
Apparently, Melody hadn’t either. “Dawson. How long have you been there?” She smiled big.
“Long enough.” The chill in his words made me turn to look at him. His eyes were hard and his face was set like granite. “What’re you doing here, Melody? I told you we were finished yesterday.”
Melody kept her smile in place as she sauntered around me. “I knew you couldn’t really mean that. We both said things we didn’t mean yesterday.” She stood inches from Dawson and placed her hands on his chest and leaned close. “Let’s go up to your room and talk things over.”
Dawson didn’t move for several seconds, but I could see the vein in the side of his forehead bulge with each breath. Finally, he grabbed Melody by the wrist.
She winced in pain. “Ouch. You’re hurting me.”
Dawson turned and walked out the way he came, dragging Melody by the wrist along with him.
“I guess he was smart enough to see through that little cheap hussy after all,” Nana Jo said. “I think that’s the last we’ll see of her.”
I hurried to secure the front door. Something in the way Melody looked and a flutter in my spine told me Nana Jo was wrong.
* * *
Normally, Sundays were spent with my mom. Church, lunch afterward, and girl time. This Sunday was no different. Today we were shopping in downtown South Harbor.
Unlike North Harbor, South Harbor had a bustling downtown with picturesque cobblestone streets and brick store fronts that sold everything from fudge and truffles to overpriced coffee. Mixed between quaint soda shops and antique stores were clothing stores with shoes that cost more than a month of my salary when I was a teacher.
“Honey, isn’t this cashmere sweater lovely? It would look great on you.” My mom held up a bubblegum pink garment that looked as though it might fit one of my thighs.
“Mom, I couldn’t fit my imagination in that sweater.”
“They have larger sizes, dear. I really think you need to upgrade your wardrobe. Everything you own is black or brown. You look like you’re still in mourning.” She placed the fluffy concoction up to my neck.
I glanced at the tag and nearly choked. “Are you joking? That sweater costs more than my house payment.”
“You really should put more effort into your appearance. You’ve really let yourself go since Leon died. I think you’re hiding behind your mourning and it’s time you started living again, and maybe dating.”
I stared openmouthed. “Not all of us can live the life of a princess. I don’t have the time or money to waste getting my nails and hair done and buying overpriced sweaters. I have a business to run.”
The salesclerk, who had walked up with a bright smile on her face, turned and walked away.
My mom sighed and replaced the sweater. She walked to the back of the store. That sigh spoke louder than any words could have. Obviously I had disappointed her again. I stood there for a moment and then sorted through the rack of sweaters, looking for one that would fit over my head without making me look like an overstuffed sausage. I could afford the sweater. That wasn’t the problem. Finances had always been tight when Leon and I were working. A cook and an English teacher didn’t buy cashmere sweaters. But I’d sold the house and used the insurance money to buy the building. The bookstore was doing well, not Fortune magazine worthy, but thanks to low overhead, frugal spending, and hard work, it was making a profit. One cashmere sweater wouldn’t break me, and it would make my mom happy. But, as a grown woman in her mid-thirties, I shouldn’t have to buy a sweater I didn’t want to make my mom happy. I wished Nana Jo had come with us today. She would have understood and helped intercede between me and my mom.
My mom was so very different from Nana Jo; it was hard for me to imagine my grandmother gave birth to her. They were polar opposites. Josephine Thomas was tall and hardy. My mom, Grace Hamilton, was five feet, less than one hundred pounds dripping wet, and delicate. My mom was like a dainty porcelain figurine you keep on the tallest shelf behind a glass door, locked away from harm for fear of breaking it. Nana Jo blamed my grandpa, who always called my mom his little princess, for planting the “princess seed” in her head. In her mid-sixties, my mother had never had a job outside of the home. She’d never paid a bill until after my dad died. She was the princess.
I dropped my mom off at her South Harbor condo and headed back over the bridge to North Harbor, where I belonged. I glanced at the pink shopping bag on the seat that contained a white cashmere sweater I would be too afraid of spilling anything on to ever wear and swung my car into the parking lot of a nearby liquor store. I glanced at my watch. Thankfully, it was after twelve, when alcohol could be purchased. I looked at the license plates of the cars parked in the lot, noting the majority were Indiana residents who had escaped across the state line into Michigan, where they could buy alcohol on Sunday. We were all escaping from something, but I didn’t have the time or energy to figure out what at the moment. A bottle of wine would have to substitute for therapy for now.
* * *
During the summer, I saw quite a lot of Dawson. When the fall semester started, we barely saw each other, despite the fact he lived in the apartment over my garage. Twice daily football practices, weight training, and classes took up a lot of his time. But Dawson loved baking and he was really good at it. His apartment was a tiny studio with only a one-burner stove, which made it challenging to bake on a large scale. Dawson had gotten into the routine of using my kitchen to bake enough goodies to get us through the week at the bookstore. So, when I entered through the back door, I smelled a sweet, delicious aroma wafting down the stairs to greet me.
I climbed the stairs without my normal escorts. Snickers and Oreo usually heard the garage door and bounded to the bottom of the stairs to greet me. However, the possibility of a cookie or treat dropping to the floor was a greater enticement than seeing me.
I placed my pink bag on the counter with less care than I used for the bottle of wine. Dawson had his back to me as
he lifted a tray of cookies out of the oven and placed them on a rack on the counter.
“What an amazing smell.” I breathed deeply and allowed the smell of vanilla, almonds, and sugar to fill my senses.
“Thanks. You’re just in time to try one.” Dawson turned to face me.
“Oh my God! What happened to your face?”
He didn’t say anything, merely hung his head. I hurried around the counter and turned his face toward the light to get a closer look. Three red scratches trailed across both cheeks. There was a gash under his left eye and a bruise on his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and dark circles underneath indicated he hadn’t slept.
He tried to turn away, but I held his chin and forced him to look at me.
“What happened to you?”
We stood like that so long, I didn’t think he would answer.
Eventually, the silence grew too much for him. “I’m fine.”
I snorted. “Well, you sure don’t look fine.”
Dawson shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He forcefully, but gently, pulled my hands away and walked to the back of the kitchen. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, providing a barrier.
I took a deep breath and tried to steady my breathing. “Was it your father? Is he out of jail?”
He shook his head.
“Then who?”
He hung his head. “Let’s just say Melody didn’t take our breakup well.”
“You should go to the doctor. Those scratches look deep, you—”
He was shaking his head before the words were out of my mouth. “If I go to the doctor, the newspaper might find out.”
Sad that at nineteen you had to be concerned about the newspapers running a story about a girl who lashed out when her boyfriend broke up with her. But this season the MISU Tigers were getting a lot of publicity, Dawson in particular.
I went to the bathroom and got a cold compress and mercuric acid. He didn’t balk when I made him sit at the dining room table and didn’t say one word when I started to treat the cuts. “Newspapers are the least of your worries. Wait until Nana Jo finds out!”
He winced, but I wasn’t sure if it was the mercuric acid or the thought of what Nana Jo would say.
“What an unusual request. James didn’t have any other information?” Lord William asked as he absentmindedly broke off a piece of his scone and fed it to Cuddles, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel positioned at his feet.
“Not that he told me. Although, I’m sure he’ll fill us in when he gets here.” Lady Elizabeth picked up the knitting she kept nearby, which she said helped her think clearly.
“Is His Grace coming too?” Lady Daphne Marsh picked at an imaginary string on her skirt and avoided making eye contact with her aunt.
“Well, I suppose so, although I didn’t ask him. I just assumed he would.” Elizabeth looked at her husband. “You don’t mind do you, dear?”
“No. No. Of course not.” Lord William tossed the remains of the scone down to the dog and pulled out his pipe. “I’m sure James wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Lady Elizabeth resumed her knitting.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about this?” Lord William asked his niece.
Lady Elizabeth Marsh sighed. Sometimes her husband could be rather slow to read the signs or he would have noticed his niece, Daphne, had said very little since Lord James Browning’s name was mentioned. The two met six months ago when he came to help out his friend and old classmate Victor Carlston, Earl of Lochloren, who was accused of murdering one of Daphne’s beaus. At the time, Victor believed he was in love with Daphne and chivalrously stepped in to protect her by allowing the police to believe him guilty of murder. The duke helped to reveal the true killer and insured his friend’s freedom. Victor was now living in wedded bliss with Daphne’s sister, Penelope, down the road at his family estate, Bidwell Cottage. The Marshes hoped another announcement of marriage would be forthcoming as James and Daphne seemed destined for the altar. However, the duke’s visits of late had been fewer and far between.
“No. I haven’t spoken to James . . . ah, the duke in nearly two weeks,” Daphne said almost in a whisper.
“I suppose you better tell Thompkins and the rest of the staff to prepare for guests,” Lord William said.
“I would, but I want to wait until we’re sure,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Technically, she hasn’t asked yet. I don’t even know how many people to expect.”
“Do you suppose David will come too?” Lord William asked.
Lady Elizabeth knitted. “I have no idea. The last I heard, he was in France.”
“I don’t suppose there will be a problem with the Queen Mother and the rest of the family,” Daphne asked.
“Well, I guess that depends on what type of problem you mean.” Lady Elizabeth knitted silently for a few moments. “Bertie and Elizabeth are still very angry and the Queen Mother is disappointed in David. I still feel rather badly that none of the family attended the wedding.”
Lord William sputtered. “But really, how could we attend? It would have been a sign the family agreed with his abdication to marry a divorced woman—an American.” Lord William waved his pipe while he spoke, flinging ashes across the sofa.
Lady Elizabeth looked up and shook her head. The sofa was starting to show bare patches from the maids brushing off tobacco. It would have to be recovered soon. “Well, I don’t know if the fact she was twice divorced or an American was the objectionable part. I might have considered attending if the wedding were one day earlier or one day later.”
“I agree. It was as though they were thumbing their noses at the family by getting married on King George’s birthday,” Daphne said. “Really, his own father’s birthday.”
“Bad form.” Lord William refilled his pipe.
“Regardless of the circumstances, David and Bertie are brothers, and I believe they’ll work things out in the end,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Besides, James said it was vital to the Crown that she hosts her hunting party here. So, that must mean the king is at least aware of the event.”
Lord William nodded and puffed on his pipe.
“At any rate, it doesn’t appear we’ll find out how the Crown feels about things. The duchess hasn’t called. What if she’s found another place to hunt?” Daphne asked.
Thompkins entered the room silently and coughed. “Her Grace, Wallis Duchess of Windsor is on the telephone for your ladyship.”
