At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  Now he was smiling. “Not that either. I meant . . . I wouldn’t be kissing you if I were married.”

  My world steadied. “Oh.”

  “I’m divorced.” A strand of hair blew into my eyes, and he brushed it aside with a tenderness that made my throat ache. “And I’m thirty-six, probably older than you.”

  I cast him a rueful smile. “Actually, I’m the one who’s older, but only by a year.” Then what he’d said registered. “You’re divorced?”

  “Five years now. My wife and I married very young. Too young.”

  “No children?”

  “No. We were only together for a couple of years. She rapidly tired of the traveling I did in the early days of my career.”

  “As a stock photographer,” I prodded.

  “Right. I mean . . . that’s what I should tell—”

  “Mom!” cried Rachel as she came bounding up. Monique followed behind, beaming broadly.

  “Yes, Rachel,” I answered, though my heart was pounding and I wanted to scream at having my conversation with Dave interrupted.

  There’s something I should tell you. That was never good.

  “Mom, watch this!” Rachel positioned herself in front of me and Dave, demanding our attention. Then she pulled out knives. Three of them. Which she threw at a nearby oak, one after another, where they quivered in the air but miraculously stayed stuck.

  I gaped at her. My daughter, who couldn’t even brush her teeth without dropping the toothpaste, had thrown three knives at an oak. And had hit it dead on.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, then winced when Rachel’s face fell. “Sorry, sweetie, I only meant . . . well, knife-throwing isn’t a skill I would expect you . . . er . . . anyone in our family to have.”

  A smug look passed over Rachel’s face. “I know.” She went over to the tree and plucked out the knives.

  Dave said something to Monique, and she answered with a spate of French. He shot me a smile. “Monique says that sometimes people who are routinely unaware of their physical surroundings just need a focus for their awareness.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  He leaned close and whispered, “Clumsy people sometimes make good knife-throwers. Depends on why they’re clumsy.”

  “I see,” I responded, though I didn’t really see at all.

  But it was hard not to notice the self-satisfied expression on Rachel’s face. Or the almost parental pride that Monique—and Dave—showed her, as if they’d both had some part in bringing out her hidden talent. Which I supposed they had.

  “Thank you,” I said to Monique, though I meant it for Dave, too.

  Dave translated. Monique smiled, then answered in French.

  “She says it was easy,” Dave told me. “That you raised a very stubborn daughter who was determined to learn.”

  “Can you take a picture of me throwing a knife, Mr. Crogan?” Rachel asked as she aimed at the oak and let fly. She missed that time, but the second one hit its mark.

  “I’d be honored.” He rose and went to the camera. “But only if you’ll do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” she said with the blithe generosity of the young. “Whatever.”

  “Let me steal your mother tonight. I’d like to take her to dinner.”

  As I caught my breath, Rachel swung around to stare at Dave. “Like on a date, you mean?”

  “If you approve.”

  “I do, I do! I’ve been trying to get Mom to go on a date for-ever!”

  As I glowered at my daughter, Dave glanced at me. “Doesn’t she date much?”

  “Never. She keeps saying she’s too busy at the library.”

  “That’s the absolute truth, Rachel Marie,” I protested, “and you know it.”

  “It’s practically your library, Mom. You’re in charge. And it’s not like you don’t have other people who can work.” She planted her hands on her hips in a blatantly rebellious stance. “Besides, tonight’s your night off.”

  I glanced nervously at Monique. “But we have a guest—”

  “Monique and me will go over to the Blackshears’.” I’d never seen my daughter look so determined. “And you can go out with Mr. Crogan.”

  “But only if she really wants to,” Dave said in a quiet voice, and it occurred to me how my protests must sound. “Perhaps your mother has things to do.”

  “No,” I said, so hastily it was embarrassing. When his eyes turned sultry, I added, “I . . . well, it is my night off.”

  And just like that, I had a real date with Dave.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon “helping” him take pictures of Rachel throwing knives, of Monique throwing knives, of me not throwing knives. He would reposition the camera for a shot, and we would fetch or move things. He told Rachel teasingly that she made an excellent photographer’s assistant and offered her a job, but she informed him with the lofty assurance of adolescence that she planned to be a knife-thrower.

  What she ought to be was a spy. In the course of one afternoon she managed to glean more about Dave’s past than the rest of us had done in three weeks. I didn’t know if it was because he couldn’t say no to a child or if he was just finally ready to talk, but thanks to my daughter’s eager questions I found out that he’d been born in Edinburgh to a Scottish photo-journalist father and an African reporter mother. They’d met during their work on a project in Burundi. He’d been educated at George Washington University and had taken his first job at the New York Museum of Modern Art. He had an obsession with American baseball.

  It was a wealth of info. I’d be spending half the night on Google. If I wasn’t too tired after our date. The thought made me nervous and giddy all at the same time.

  After a while the light waned, and Dave started packing up his camera equipment. “Why don’t you ladies head home while I haul these back to the inn?”

  I folded up the blanket. “I can help you carry the equipment to your room—”

  “No,” he said, so quickly it gave me pause. He managed a smile that didn’t stretch beyond the curve of his mouth. “I’m used to handling it on my own. And I must change clothes for dinner. I’ll stop by your place when I’m done at the hotel.”

  “Sure,” I said, though my curiosity was raging. He didn’t even want me near his room? Why?

  “See you in a bit.” Seconds later, he disappeared through the woods, hauling the tripod’s huge silver case, the massive camera, and a canvas bag that held his film and other photographer stuff.

  I tried not to dwell on his behavior as we busied ourselves with cleaning up the remains of our picnic, but I couldn’t help it. Something wasn’t right about our Mr. Crogan, and that unnerved me.

  Monique suddenly exclaimed in French, and I looked over to see her holding up Dave’s jacket. He’d been in such an all-fired hurry that he’d left it behind.

  “You can give it to him tonight, Mom,” Rachel said.

  “Or . . .” I paused. The reason he didn’t want any of us near his room probably had to do with his evasiveness about why he was in Mossy Creek. “Maybe I’ll just run up and give it to him now. He might want it later.”

  Ignoring my daughter’s grin, I took the jacket from Monique, then hurried across the park in the direction he’d gone. When I got to the inn, I took the side door that led right to his hall. But when I reached Room 101, I was shocked to find that his door wasn’t closed, just pulled to. I knocked, but there was no answer.

  The sensible part of me said to go home and give him the jacket later. The nervous part insisted on pushing open the door. “Dave?” I called out when I saw that the inner door to the other room of his suite was ajar. Still no answer.

  Then I spotted the contact sheets spread out on the desk. Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside.

  It too
k me a second to assimilate the images in the black-and-white photos because I couldn’t at first recognize the subjects. Who were these downtrodden people?

  I stared hard at the tired elderly man driving a smoking tractor, the gray-haired black woman with a wild-eyed gaze struggling with a walker, and the boy with the dirt-streaked face sitting cross-legged beneath the town sign that proclaimed our town motto, “Ain’t goin’ nowhere and don’t want to.”

  Then I saw. I saw. These were Creekites—Ed Brady, Sr., Eula Mae Whit, and Clay Campbell. Only I’d never seen them portrayed like this—as sad and demented and dirty denizens of a seemingly dying Southern town. The pictures had the bleak feel of Ansel Adams photos of the Japanese internment camps and migrant workers. They were accurate pictures. And they were utterly untrue. They had no heart. Mossy Creek was vibrant, prosperous and progressive. Our people weren’t miserable or destitute.

  No wonder Dave hadn’t let any of us see his work.

  I’d never felt so betrayed in all my life, not even when Bobby Jackson from ninth grade had turned out to be a dog-kicking, foul-mouthed creep who liked to feel up girls behind the bleachers whether they wanted him to or not.

  And it only got worse from there. Just as I tossed down Dave’s leather jacket and turned to flee, I saw the name printed at the top of one contact sheet. Dave Brodie. Not Dave Crogan. That’s why I hadn’t found him on the web.

  Oh Lord, he was probably famous, with a big New York studio and a reputation for photographic artistry. Not that it mattered. Talk about sharp objects hurtling toward me—Dave Brodie was one giant sharp object. And I must have been insane not to realize it before now.

  “Hannah?” came a voice from the doorway.

  I looked up to see him standing with a bucket of ice in his hand. His gaze flicked to the pictures, and the sudden flare of guilt on his face only got my dander up even more.

  I stabbed a finger at the contact sheet. “Is this how we look to you? Like some stereotype with nothing to offer but rust and dirt and good ole Southern craziness?”

  He looked as stricken as I felt. “No, I swear.”

  “You sure could have fooled me, Mr. Brodie.” When the name made him pale, I stalked toward the door, all but daring him to let me pass or be run down.

  “I was going to tell you my real name,” he said as I pushed past him into the hall.

  “I’ll just bet you were.” I’d worked up a good head of steam, and I was afraid I’d blow if I didn’t get out of there. Especially when I realized that I’d spent the entire afternoon letting him photograph me and Rachel.

  Oh God.

  I whirled around. “Do me a favor, will you? Use all the pictures of me that you want, but if you so much as attempt to use a picture of my daughter, I swear I’ll find you in your fancy studio, wherever it is, and I’ll stake that tripod right through your weaselly heart.”

  That set off his temper. “If I’d meant to use the photos I took today, I’d first have had you sign releases, as I did with everyone else. But I didn’t, because—”

  “—you can’t make us look pathetic enough?” I glared at him. “No, wait—if you could turn sweet little Clay Campbell into a hopeless urchin, it ought to be easy to transform my clumsy Rachel into a c-clown.”

  Cursing the tears coursing down my cheeks, I started to turn away, but he caught my arm. “You have to let me explain, Hannah . . .”

  “I don’t have to let you do anything.” I jerked my arm free, then added peevishly, “And it’s Mrs. Longstreet to you, mister.”

  “Yes, it’s been Mrs. Longstreet from the beginning, hasn’t it?” he shot back. Fury carved lines in his features. “That’s how you stay safe, by keeping that circulation desk between you and the rest of us. Hell, we chatted for three weeks before I even learned that you weren’t married, because you refuse to let any of us close enough to prove ourselves worthy of you.”

  The fact that there was a grain of truth to his words only irritated me more. “What? You accuse me of not letting people close, Mr. Brodie?”

  He winced. “All right, that’s fair. But the thing is—”

  “Mr. Crogan!” called a voice from down the hall.

  Muttering a curse, he turned.

  “I thought I heard you down here.” Mrs. Sikes, the manager of Hamilton’s Inn, bustled toward us with a package in her hand. “That Fed-Ex delivery you been waiting for just came in. Tom said he got held up by an accident, or he would’ve been here sooner.”

  She handed Dave the package, and relief showed in his face. “Great, thank you,” he told her, while I debated how to make my escape without rousing any gossip.

  Although it was probably too late for that, since Mrs. Sikes was already eyeing me with a knowing look. “Tom says he’s swinging by the newspaper, but he’ll be back in a few minutes if you got anything you want to send.”

  Dave stared at her, then me, then her. “I do, thanks. I’ll bring it down in just a second if you can tell him to wait.”

  “Sure thing.” She flashed him a coquettish smile. “Anything for you, Mr. Crogan.”

  I scowled. Apparently I wasn’t the only one to be taken in by “Mr. Crogan.”

  As she waddled off, he ripped the tear strip off with his teeth and then thrust the package at me. When I just glared at him, he said, “Please take it. Look at these pictures, all right? And wait here for me. I’m going to grab my film. I’ll be right back.”

  I took the package numbly as he went through his room into the adjoining one, leaving the front door open. For a minute, I just stood there staring at the package, not sure what to do.

  One thing I did know—I couldn’t stand to see any more of his awful photos.

  I started to toss them through the door. Then it occurred to me that if people had signed photo releases, it had to have been without knowing what they were agreeing to. But if I showed them what he’d done, then maybe they could prevail upon Ida or Amos or somebody to get them their releases back—

  I made a split-second decision. Then I stepped inside his room, scooped up the other contact sheets, stuffed them into the package with the new ones, and fled. Mr. Brodie would never get a chance to print these if I had anything to say about it.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday Night

  The Show Must Go On

  Eula Mae

  I’M SITTING IN MY room reading my Bible Saturday night when Estelle comes in late.

  “How are our guests getting along?” I ask.

  “They’re bickering like they’ve been all day. But, Great Nan, can we expect anything else?”

  “Yes, ’cause I’m planning their wedding. This afternoon I called the mayor and the radio station. They agreed to have everyone assembled at two sharp tomorrow.”

  “Great Nan, there isn’t going to be a wedding. Now I’m going to have to insist you call Mayor Ida back and tell her you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “No, I won’t. There’s going to be a wedding. Cowboy came in a while ago and asked for a dictionary of English words. That means he wants to spell something.”

  Estelle still doesn’t believe me.

  I’m suddenly very tired. “Estelle, I’d like nothing better than to visit with you all night long, but I’ve got to get up in the morning and bake four dozen buttermilk biscuits.”

  “Great Nan, you have four funerals tomorrow?”

  “No. These are to announce my engagement to Mr. Wiley and the marriage of Cowboy and Roxie. I need my rest. Tomorrow I’ve got to look like a fresh sprig of mint.”

  Estelle goes to my door. “I’ll leave after you call Mayor Ida.”

  I’m doing no such thing. “Good night, Clara’s granddaughter,” I say.

  “Great Nan, that really hurts.”

  “Then think positive, Estelle. The best is yet
to come.”

  Ida

  BUBBA RICE’S DINER was a romantic Valentine’s Eve world of candlelight, clinking crystal, and out-of-control mimes. What must have seemed like a good idea at the time—letting Win’s mime guests help out as waiters on one of the busiest nights of the year—had clearly backfired. The mimes—in whiteface—refused to break character. Thus Del and I, like other vaguely annoyed and impatient customers, were reduced to not only pointing silently at menu listings but trying to mime back.

  Halfway through dinner our preciously coy waiter fluttered his hands over his heart at us one time too many—signaling what a darling couple we made or, possibly, that he was suffering from mitral valve prolapse. Del stood with slow, sinister grace. He had finally had enough. Del crooked a finger at the mime, and when the mime leaned close, Del mimed slashing a throat.

  After that, the mime kept his distance.

  Dinner was a lost cause, regardless. The tension frosted our champagne glasses. Everyone in the place kept glancing our way. Twenty years in a small-town spotlight as mayor had taught me to keep a smile on my face even when I wanted to scream. I prodded a piece of chicken and roasted red pepper with Alfredo sauce, one of Win’s signature entrees, with my fork. Del made a good show of looking casual, though the fierce way he sawed his sixteen-ounce prime rib made our waiter-mime turn a shade whiter.

  “Everyone in the place is gawking at us,” Del muttered.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I hoped we’d have a romantic dinner. That we might find some way to be friends, again.”

  “There’s nothing ‘romantic’ about a dinner that will end with you going home to another man.”

  I stabbed my fork into a roll and left it there. Our waiter whisked it away. He must have glimpsed my dangerous stare. “Colonel Jackson, you might like to rephrase that,” I said between gritted teeth. “Before I signal Orlon the mime to bring me an extra-sharp steak knife.” Going home to another man? Del knew I’d left Jayne Reynolds in charge of a small party at my farm in honor of Philippe and his family.

  Del lifted his grim eyes to mine. “I apologize. That was stupid. Ida, I know I’m acting like a bastard.” His throat worked. He cleared it roughly. “But I feel as though I’m losing you, and it hurts.”