Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When?

by Charlene Baumbich

  “Well now, Lord, I guess Katie and I both need to take a deep breath here, don’t we?” She stopped and inhaled, as did Katie, each woman slowly releasing her breath with intention. “There now, I can think straight and talk calmly. But just the same, You need to know we don’t get it! We do not get why Katie here is trying so hard to make things right for people who are determined to make things hard on her. No Sir, we do not get it.” A rather long silence passed, which Katie was actually glad for, finding herself silently parroting Dorothy’s words.

  “But then I guess the truth is we don’t need to get it, do we? We just need to get You on our minds since You’re the one who’s really in charge here—even though we do not get it! Sorry. I just can’t help myself! But God, You can help us, so get on it. Work Your mysterious ways in us so we can work Your will in this here town. Keep us clear thinking, especially Katie. Send her signs of hope and cheer to let her know that there are people who are for her. For her projects. Help those voices rise up and be heard. And while You’re at it, keep the fine folks in this town from spewing unkind words around about each other like poison spitballs. But most of all, no matter who is mayor or what we’re doing, help us keep our eyes on You. Amen.”

  11

  After Carl Jimson and Colton Craig hung up, Colton decided to take a drive to Partonville to circle the square himself, see if Vitner’s bid for mayor had indeed hit the streets, see if he could get a feel for just how strong a bid it might be, considering the guy’s place of business had toilets in the front yard, which he’d forgotten about until Carl brought it up.

  As he approached the outward edge of Hethrow, he drove along wondering exactly how many pieces of property Kathryn had sewn up throughout Partonville and its eastern outskirts. He’d never before underestimated the sheer guts, will and slickness of that woman, but this time he had. It was time to gather more information and strategize. If he played his cards with the wrong partner, he might end up . . . on the sidelines.

  Not that long ago, he would have bet cold hard cash that Partonville would be dug under by now. But then Development Diva arrived on the scene and blocked his bid to land contiguous Crooked Creek Farm, the gateway to his conquest. Surely she wasn’t doing all of this just to get even with him. But rivaling that thought was one other: surely she hadn’t lost her mind and actually become one of them! No, he could not fathom the thought that that sexy, kick-butt woman had morphed into a Pardon-Me-Viller with some sappy vision to play Robin Hood.

  He decided to take the back roads into Partonville, especially the gravel road that passed by Crooked Creek Farm. Although he hadn’t caught wind of any rezoning proposals regarding the subdivision of Kathryn’s property (which he’d fully expected), in light of what he’d learned from Vitner, it was time to get a firsthand look himself. And what about Wetstra’s twenty-acre land grant to the conservation district for the development of Crooked Creek Park? Was that underway yet? Kathryn had no doubt won the farm’s sale out from under him by writing that sentimental little ditty into the deal. He didn’t remember reading any more about it since the original reporting. Then again, he didn’t often see that rag of a Partonville paper either. Maybe it was time to subscribe. He grabbed his mini-recorder out of his suit jacket pocket and left himself a message to give the conservation district a call. If the mall and the park received grand opening publicity at the same time, Partonville might draw more attention to itself than he cared to read about.

  Then again, nothing wrong with using the press. In fact, there were two people he needed to hook up with: that cute little reporter Sharon Teller who’d once come to his office about a year ago to find out his “intentions” for Partonville, and Sam Vitner. Possibly in that order, possibly not. He wondered if he should also stop by Challie Carter’s farm, see if he could catch him at home, see if everything Vitner told him was true about Challie holding out. After all, Carter owned, leased and farmed more land than anyone else in the area.

  When he passed by Crooked Creek, where he noticed no physical signs of any changes, the sight of the fields birthed a delicious thought. He hoped Carter, whom his scouts had approached numerous times but who loudly dismissed them, was the one who leased and therefore farmed Kathryn’s land. Just one more thing to find out.

  “I noticed you trimmed Ms. Durbin’s hair again,” Cora said to Maggie while Maggie readjusted Cora’s plastic drape, both of them knowing darn well that Katie had left for her spa day in Chicago with longer hair than that with which she returned. “It looks nice.” Cora’d been relentlessly working to present “due cause” to anyone she might be able to persuade to cast their vote for Sam.

  “No. I’ve only cut her hair one time, and that was right before Thanksgiving. And a splendid makeover it was, if I might say so myself.” It hadn’t escaped Maggie’s attention that although Katie had kept the new short hairstyle she’d given her, it wasn’t La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa that got the business for those trims. Yes, it rankled Maggie some, but she wasn’t about to let Cora know that. “After all, just like you always come to me, I’m glad Katie stays loyal to her stylist, since she has that monthly chance.”

  Maggie slid her fingers up the short length of Cora’s hair and began snipping, reaching for another section and repeating the process around the right side of Cora’s crown.

  “That’s an awfully generous attitude to have, especially since you’re working so hard to make a living.”

  “Not generous. Just realistic. Why, look how many years I’ve been traveling to Yorkville to have Marjorie trim my hair! I can’t imagine trying to train someone else how to best handle my natural curl. You know, not everybody knows how to deal with curly hair.” Cora raised her eyebrows. She’d known Maggie Malone since their school days when Maggie’s hair was as straight as a board, which it had been most of her life. She’d obviously received a perm last week, which wasn’t her first cycle of curls. “Keep your eyebrows down, Cora,” Maggie said, grabbing her comb to slick Cora’s bangs straight down her forehead. “I’d hate to have you end up with bangs a half-inch long because that’s where I thought your eyebrows belonged.” What she really wanted to say was, “And please keep your mouth shut too.” But then that wouldn’t be very professional or kind. Then again, it wasn’t very kind of Cora to intentionally goad her over Katie’s hair, which was something she’d been trying to forget. Maggie literally bit her tongue while she finished Cora’s bangs and spun her around to face the mirror again. Cora could just be impossible!

  “I’m just saying that for someone who says she’s trying to keep a town alive by getting people to come here and spend their money, she’s willing to drive . . . how many hundreds of miles elsewhere to spend her own? And she never gets gas from George.” Their eyes locked in the mirror. Maggie knew Cora was trying to read her reaction, so she spun her chair back around until she faced the center of the room, Maggie moving herself behind the chair. She hated that Cora did have a point here, especially since she’d recently overheard George complaining that Katie drove right by his filling station when she went to get gasoline. And he was the only station in town.

  “Maybe,” Maggie said, a note of sternness in her voice (snip-snip went her scissors), “if George Gustafson would turn loose a little of that money he socks away—and I’ll tell you, pretty soon we aren’t going to be able to afford to drive our own cars if he keeps raising his gasoline prices—and upgrade his pumps to accept credit cards, like the ones I used last time I went to Chicago for the hair show, he’d give her a convenient reason to stop in!” (Snip-snip-snip.) “People from the city aren’t used to some of our backward ways, and why should they have to be?” Maggie was always one for progress, which is why she closed her shop every couple of years, painted it with new colors, renamed it and had a grand re-opening with dollar-off coupons in The Partonville Press. “If this town wants to upgrade,” (snip-snip-snip-snip), “that needs to include George Gustafson! Why do you think I
turned my shop into a day spa the last time I remodeled?”

  Cora reached up and grabbed Maggie’s hand to stop the cutting for a moment, which seemed to become more frenzied and erratic the faster Maggie spoke. “Turn me around, Maggie Malone,” she ordered, which Maggie did. Cora wanted to look her straight in the eyes. “And what is it again that makes this place,” she hesitated, casting her eyes around at the small two-chair establishment with only two hair dryers, a rack of aromatherapy products, whatever they were, and a playpen for her great-grandchildren in the corner, “a day spa?”

  Maggie placed her hands on her hips and cocked them. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I make this a day spa, Cora. Spas offer more than haircuts, you know.” She briskly leaned in so close to Cora’s face that Cora could feel her breath on her cheeks, making Cora feel pinned in her chair as she reared her neck back. Maggie’s eyes slowly scanned from Cora’s hairline to her chin. “In fact, if you’d like to make an appointment for a moustache waxing,” she said, stopping to run the end of her pinky finger across Cora’s upper lip, “I’d be glad to oblige you in my day spa.”

  “I have no such thing!” Cora spurted in disgust. “And I also have no reason,” she said, launching out of her chair and nearly crash landing, forgetting Maggie had pumped her up, “to keep coming to a beauty shop that pretends to be a spa just to be insulted!” She yanked at the Velcro neckband until it released, wadded the drape into a ball and tossed it onto her vacated chair. “And on second thought, perhaps I understand why Ms. Durbin travels all the way to Chicago for her services!” Without offering to pay Maggie a cent, she stormed out and slammed the door behind her, leaving Maggie’s chimes wildly jangling.

  Maggie picked up the drape, gave it a shake, wadded it back up and tossed it in her clothes hamper as though shooting a basket. She sat down and swiveled her chair toward the mirror, taking stock of her face to see if it looked guilty. It wasn’t good business to tick off a regular, no matter how many times said regular customer crossed the boundaries of good behavior. But nope, not a trace of guilt. In fact, her face appeared rather satisfied.

  Just after the door chimes finally settled down, they began to tinkle again. It was May Belle. “Did Cora get a call her house was on fire?” May Belle asked as she shucked off her worn trench coat and hung it on the bentwood coat rack.

  “No. Why do you ask?” Maggie queried, although she could guess.

  “She was all but running down the sidewalk with wet hair that only looked half cut.”

  “Really?” Maggie asked, but not really, studying her smug smile in the mirror, then grabbing her eyeliner and carefully adding a tad more under her bottom row of lashes. She stood up and motioned for May Belle, who always arrived early, to take a seat. Although other customers started at the shampoo bowl, Maggie always spent a few minutes brushing May Belle’s hair, the gift of touch pure grace to a woman who no longer had a man in her life to wrap his arms around her, something Maggie was thankful for each time Ben reached for her. “Well, whatever it was,” she said, snapping out a fresh folded drape and securing it around May Belle’s neck, “it gives me a chance to spend a little more time with you today, dear.” Although May Belle was grateful for the extra attention, she couldn’t help but wonder what on earth. . . . It was obvious, however, that Maggie wasn’t going to talk about it.

  Maggie plucked May Belle’s long black hairpins from her hair and lined them up on the counter. She picked up a brush, but then set it down and instructed May Belle to sit tight for a moment. She walked to her aromatherapy display and ran her fingers down the new line of air-freshening products until she spotted the sage. She picked it up, held it at arm’s length and gave it a few spritzes as she turned in a slow circle. “There, that should do it,” she said aloud, although she didn’t say what it was she was trying to do and May Belle didn’t ask—nor had she noticed any offensive odors when she’d arrived.

  Maggie rhythmically began brushing May Belle’s hair, allowing the brush to glide to the very ends of her long silver strands before lifting it to her crown again. After a few cycles, she stopped for the briefest of moments, inhaled a deep breath of sage and slowly exhaled through her mouth. “There now. That’s officially better,” she said, returning to the careful, beautifying art of brushing. In a voice as serene as a gliding swan, she added, “The ancients were right. Sage purifies, no doubt about it.”

  12

  “May I see your driver’s license, Josh?” Sergeant McKenzie asked in a stern voice. Mac, as he was known around town, knew everyone by name. It was his business. Josh undid his seat belt, which he was happy he’d been wearing, leaned forward and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. He rifled through it until he found his driver’s license and passed it through his open window. Although when he’d first been pulled over his instinct was to get out of the car, Mac officially ordered him to remain in his vehicle, causing Josh’s heart to race all the faster, if that was humanly possible. Mac looked the driver’s license over, then asked to see his insurance card and registration. Josh fanned through his wallet again until he found the insurance card, his hands shaking so badly he dropped his wallet twice into his lap before accomplishing the simple task. His mom made him put his registration card in the glove compartment the day it arrived. “Excuse me, Uncle Delbert,” he said as he leaned across the seat to pop open the glove compartment in front of his uncle’s knees.

  “Uncle Delbert?” Mac leaned down to look across the driver’s seat. Although he’d noticed the latched seat belt on the passenger’s side (ready to ticket said offender should it not be fastened), he hadn’t taken note of the passenger, figuring it was one of Josh’s buddies. “Pastor Delbert?” Mac looked stunned.

  Pastor Delbert Carol Jr.’s face turned crimson. It was one thing to be a bad influence as an uncle. But the pastor! “Hi, Mac . . . Sergeant McKenzie. This is not only embarrassing, but you know, this whole incident is really my fault. I . . .”

  “No disrespect, Pastor,” Mac interrupted in an officially firm voice, “but you’re not the one behind the wheel.” Delbert hushed, sitting back like a scolded child.

  “You got that registration there, son?” Josh had momentarily quit thrashing through the glove compartment in hopes his uncle could pull some kind of holy rank with either Sergeant McKenzie or God—or both—to get him out of this mess. No such luck.

  “Here you go, sir,” Josh said after he retrieved the document.

  Mac went back to his patrol car and stayed there for an excruciating amount of time. “What’s he doing back there?” Josh asked his uncle.

  “Calling the county jail to make sure they’ve got a cell open.”

  “WHAT?” Josh’s voice went up an octave and the blood drained from his face.

  “Josh, I’m just kidding, but it wasn’t funny. Sometimes I say dumb things when I’m nervous. He’s probably just checking your paperwork to make sure it’s in order, even though he knows it’s not a stolen vehicle and you’re not on the run.” Josh hung on his uncle’s every word when he wasn’t freaking out over what was sure to be the utter wrath of his mom. How could her half-brother (or half of a brother, as Josh referred to him) have such a good sense of humor about something like this when his mom would likely go berserk shortly before selling his truck and grounding him for life.

  “Listen, Josh, I’m so sorry about this. I feel like it’s my fault for egging you on. After all, I’m the adult here.”

  “Not to mention the pastor,” Josh said, the hint of a smile approaching his lips . . . until Sergeant McKenzie shoved his license and registration in front of him, causing him to jolt back to attention.

  “Sorry. Thought you heard me coming.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t.” Josh started to put the documents away but then said, “Here, Uncle Delbert, would you please hold these for me until we’re through?”

  “Sure.” It was the least he could do.<
br />
  “Son,” Mac said, tipping his hat back with his index finger, “I started following you today when you revved ’er up back there on the highway. I couldn’t have pulled you over for that, since you only got to about five-miles-per-hour over the limit. You know, I was hoping you would prove me wrong, but this feeling I got in my gut—call it natural-born police instincts, if you will—usually serves me well, and something told me you were heading for trouble, so I followed you. Still, I kept hoping that maybe since you’d made it this long without getting into trouble with Challie Carter’s big old V-8, you might be more sensible than most sixteen-year-olds. But sooner or later, I guess temptation wins out.” Josh looked at his hands, his embarrassment not ebbing. “When I saw that truck bed shimmying this way and that, I had no choice but to put a halt to what will officially be termed reckless driving.” Yes, this was bad and getting worse by the moment, Josh thought.

  But putting his ticket, grounding and mother aside, if there was anyone he hated to have disappointed, it was his uncle. Ever since Mom and Uncle Delbert found out less than a year ago that they were related, he longed to get to know the man—whom he even somewhat resembled— better. Because Josh’s dad wasn’t around, and when Josh did visit him his dad spent more time talking about his daily kids (as Josh referred to his dad’s children from his second marriage) than his firstborn child, Josh longed for a relationship with a strong male. He especially hoped to make his uncle feel proud to call him “my nephew.” And now . . . What’s wrong with me! I thought after that dumb Christmas stunt I’d be smarter! During his first solo trip to Chicago after receiving his driver’s license, he’d gotten a little careless and caught himself weaving lanes without even checking side- or rearview mirrors. He was just lucky he didn’t sideswipe anyone. If only I’d have checked my mirrors today!