At Home in Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  “No, you were right. This library has been my haven, maybe the same way your Scottish village was for your dad.” I’d used it like a vampire’s coffin, a place where I could avoid seeing that my daughter was growing up. From acknowledging that I did want more in my life than comfort and safety. “But for better or worse, you dragged me from behind the desk, so don’t you go apologizing for it now.”

  “All right.”

  I fumbled with his contact sheets. “So . . . um . . . what are you going to do about the pictures?”

  He gave a strained laugh. “If the museum will agree to a new exhibit entitled ‘Revisiting the South,’ then I’ll use the later ones.”

  “And if the museum refuses?”

  “I’ll take the exhibit elsewhere. I might do that anyway.”

  “Why?”

  He flashed the heart-dissolving smile I was rapidly growing to love. “Because I don’t intend to stay around in New York to oversee it.” Nervously, he thrust his hands in his pockets again. “I’ve been considering leaving the city for some time now to settle in an area more like the Highland countryside where I grew up. And while the mountains around here aren’t quite the same, I begin to think they just might do.”

  My throat felt so tight with joy that I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to speak.

  After a moment passed, he rasped, “For God’s sake, say something, Hannah.”

  I gave him the most brilliant smile I could muster. “Looks like I’ll be ordering a lot of new books for the library’s science fiction collection.”

  His face lit up. “Damned right you will.” Then he stared at me. “I almost forgot—wait here.” He turned toward the door, then paused to scowl at me. “And I mean it this time. Don’t you dare go running off.”

  “I won’t,” I said, feeling suddenly giddy. Never again.

  He was back in a second with a disposable digital camera tied up in a bright red ribbon. He set the camera on the desk in front of me. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  I actually blushed. And I hadn’t done that in close to ten years. “What’s this for?”

  “Now you can take mortifying pictures of me to even the score.”

  “Yes, I noticed that there were few photos of you on the web. Why is that?”

  It was his turn to blush. “Well . . . you see . . . I’m afraid I have an embarrassing confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  A rueful smile touched his lips. “I’m camera-shy.”

  I blinked at him. Then I burst into laughter. And as he laughed, too, I realized that you couldn’t always avoid sharp objects in life—none of us could, not even the famous Dave Brodie. Besides, sometimes it took sharp objects to cut away the old habits, the old comfortable ways of life we fall into because we’re afraid of the next step.

  But I was finally ready for any sharp object life threw at me. What the hey, I might even join my daughter in her new hobby and throw a few sharp objects myself. Just for fun. Just to see if I could.

  I picked up the digital camera. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dave Brodie,” I said and aimed.

  Then I let fly.

  Amos

  CIRCUSES WILL COME and go but Mossy Creek will always be the same. I had only to look at the flyer in my hand to know that for true. I’d pulled it off one of the light poles in the square on my way from the church to check on Tweedle and set him up for the night. As police station mascots go, parakeets are pretty low-maintenance.

  Lost Kitten

  Name: Maple May Murray

  Size: 1-3/4’ feet; skinny, 13 inches.5

  Color: Calaco

  Tip: If you hear a meow look outside

  She eats people food so give her a chereo and if she eats it call

  555-6783

  Owener: Sissy Murray

  Below the words was a hand-drawn picture of a cat’s face. A very happy and well-loved kitten judging by all the evidence. Worth crawling under a house or two. I left it centered on my desk. I’d call the family tomorrow. That done, I browsed my growing collection of Irish folk and whistle music. Tweedle wasn’t originally my parakeet but entrusted to me by a woman who made him a CD of Irish whistle tunes before she died. For a long time I pretended I bought the music for him, but I’d pretty much given up on that personal lie. Celtic music was part of my play list these days. Not that I didn’t appreciate Ida’s rabid attachment to Fleetwood Mac.

  I looked across to the credenza behind my desk, to the near-mint piece of Fleetwood vinyl I’d found on eBay. The day would come I’d be needing that album as proof I paid attention. I didn’t want to be scrambling when the time came. Too bad it couldn’t have been a Valentine’s gift this year. Tweedle chirped at me.

  “Okay, bird brain. What’s it going to be tonight?”

  He chirped again and tapped the cage with his beak.

  “Mary Bergen it is then. Excellent choice.” I popped in the CD and offered him one of the special mail-order seeds Sandy’d bought him for treats. Who knew seeds could cost an arm and a leg.

  As I covered him I heard Mutt come in the door. “Mutt, I told you not to come down. I was closing up tonight, tucking Tweedle in. The bird brain near took my finger off grabbing for his treat. We need a Bird Whisperer.”

  “It’s Del.”

  Great. Nothing says “I’m your big hunk of scary rival,” like putting your parakeet to bed with treats and music. No help for it now. I turned out the light in my office and closed the door. Del waited by the dispatch counter. The look on his face brought me up short. Not sad exactly. Resigned. Not a mood I ever expected to settle over Del.

  “What can I do for you, Del?”

  “All things considered I’m a lucky man. I shouldn’t complain or regret, but I’ve never liked to lose. The thing is, it took me a long time to realize I wasn’t even in the game. You must have had a good laugh at that.”

  I tilted my head. Not certain what he was trying to say. “Come again?”

  “You. You got in the game.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head, radiating disbelief. “God knows I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out how and I can’t. Ida’s not talking. And I’m tired. I can’t fight the both of you.”

  “You won’t have to. The Frenchman’s gone. Like the wind.” I shook my head at his puzzled expression. “Never mind. Bad joke. But he’s gone.”

  Del put his hand on the doorknob. “He’ll be back.”

  I laughed out loud. “He’s a juggler, not the Terminator. He won’t be back.”

  “He’ll. Be. Back. Trust me. I don’t know when and I don’t know why but that Frenchman is going to turn up like a bad penny. What started as a little something to irritate me is going to backfire on you. I’m an expert on the other men in Ida’s life.” He pulled open the door. February’s cold greedily rushed in to the steal all warmth.

  “Whoa. I’ve had a long weekend. I’m not as sharp as usual. What did you come here to tell me, Del? You not making much sense.”

  “I’m finally making more sense than I have in a long time. You get some perspective when you realize you’re out numbered. I’m fighting you . . . and a ghost. You’re just fighting the ghost. I can’t win, and I think you can. That’s what scares her.” Just before he shut the door, he said, “I’m going back to my wife.”

  Ida

  I DIDN’T CRY. I curled up on a deep couch in the front living room of my big, elegant, empty Victorian at Hamilton Farm, and I drank. Two fingers of bourbon in a short tumbler with just enough ice to smooth the edges. I listened to the silence of the house, the quiet solitude of my life. Clocks ticked loudly—heirloom clocks on two fireplace mantels, a cuckoo clock in the kitchen. A massive Grandfather clock in the front foyer chimed five times. Afternoon fading. Shadows creeping. Time passing. Getting older. All alone. Tick.
Tock. Alone.

  I finished the bourbon and didn’t even feel a buzz. Time for another round. As I pushed myself off the couch my eyes caught a flash of movement in the front yard. I frowned as a Mossy Creek patrol car pulled to a stop. When Amos stepped out, I carefully sat my bourbon glass down on a coffee table, took several deep breaths, and walked out on the veranda to confront the unknown.

  He walked through the slanting light of the winter day, stopped at the base of the broad steps, and looked up at me somberly. A trickle of breeze shifted a lock of dark hair off his forehead, such a gentling effect. I glimpsed the teenager who’d consoled me beneath The Sitting Tree. The air quieted and that boy was absorbed inside the man Amos had become.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Del stopped by the station. He told me.”

  I exhaled wearily. “All right. It’s over.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, Ida, but . . . good. And it’s about damn time.”

  “I’m not in a mood to celebrate.”

  “I’m not asking you to. All you have to do is stand there and listen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Admit it. What you’re really afraid of is that you might love me as much as you loved Jeb. That I’m the only man you’ve ever known who might just possibly be able to take his place.”

  I said nothing, agonized.

  “But here’s the thing, Ida. I don’t want to take Jeb’s place. I want to make my own place in your life. He’s a memory, I’m not. Give me a chance and I’ll give you some good memories, too.”

  “And what if you suddenly decide, in a few years, that you want to be a father? Don’t tell me it couldn’t happen. Then what do we do?”

  “I’ll make you a deal. You live to be, oh, ninety or so. You die, and I’ll bury you. I’ll just be in my late seventies then, and I promise to marry a thirty-year-old immediately and have five or six kids. Okay?”

  “You can show them my picture. Tell them I was your grandmother.”

  “You don’t get it. I don’t see age. I see you.”

  “A day will come when I won’t be this . . . perky.”

  “Neither will I. What if I promise to gain fifty pounds, go bald, and wear my pants buckled below my beer gut? People will say, ‘What’s that attractive older woman doing with Homer Simpson?’”

  “I have a different vision: You get silver gray at the temples, develop some great laugh lines, look sexy in hiking shorts, and people say, ‘What’s that hunky older man doing with Granny Clampett?’”

  “As a kid, I had a thing for Granny. I never told anyone before. When she put that little flowered hat on her hair and tilted it just so—”

  “Amos, quit dodging. We can’t have children. Not without a Petri dish. I’m not interested in raising a fungus. Even if it looks like you.”

  “Is there some reason we can’t adopt?”

  “So you do want children.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Battle Royden line should end with me.”

  “Amos, you shouldn’t feel that way about—”

  “I’m just not worried about it.”

  “I am. Amos. I am.”

  “All I need from you today is the promise that there might be a tomorrow. That’s all you have to say, and I’ll leave. ‘I promise you, Amos. I promise you we’ve got a chance for tomorrow.’”

  I struggled, tried to speak, couldn’t. A thousand battles raged inside me. I don’t know long I stood there silently, but Amos’s expression fell. “Sorry. My timing’s lousy. Forget it. We’ll talk again sometime.” He chuckled darkly. “My mistake. I thought if I lit a fire under you, you’d break your silence. Like Win’s mimes.”

  He turned and started down my front walk, toward his cruiser.

  He’s walking away. He’s walking away. If you don’t give him an answer right now you’ll go back in this empty house with nothing but those clocks for company.

  I forced one foot forward. Then the other. The next thing I knew I was running down the steps. Amos pivoted. I halted a few yards from him. That was as close as I could allow myself to come, at the moment. I had to say something, anything. “Mr. Butler?” I said crisply. “Rhett?”

  His mouth quirked. “Okay. Yes?”

  “Rhett. Don’t make me promise you too much tonight. But . . . tomorrow is another day.”

  Slowly, he began to smile. A magnificent, happy smile. I’ve never seen Amos smile that freely, before. After a moment he remembered his boundaries and tempered it with a rakish tilt of his head. Clark Gable would have been proud. He gave a slight bow. He had gotten the answer he’d come for, what he, and I, had been waiting twenty years to give each other. A chance.

  “That works for me because, frankly my dear,” he said, “I do give a damn.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  He nodded. As he walked to his car his broad shoulders seemed comfortable for the first time, square and even with the weight off them. One hand chucked the air just a little, giving a thumbs-up to the future. I laughed at his exuberance. What was this feeling, this youthful emotion we shared? Reckless hope. Carefree joy.

  A chance for happiness. Imperfect, unpredictable happiness.

  Somewhere beyond a distant horizon, St. Valentine’s surely approved.

  Chapter 9

  Monday Morning

  The Magic Still Lingers

  Louise

  MONDAY MORNING I went to the doctor’s office to get my biopsy results. Lisa wanted me to call her with the news, either way. When I got the information, I called her on my cell. “I’m okay,” I said. “False alarm. I want a drink.”

  She laughed. “Keep your balance and keep taking risks, no matter what.”

  I drove home and started my new life, post-circus. Charlie may be confused by the new “me,” but he’ll come around. He’ll learn to stack the dishwasher. I’ll learn to drive the riding lawnmower.

  I feel oddly deprived. I hadn’t realized how much my own sense of self depended on being the only one that could do things right. This week I’m signing up for Tai Chi at the church, and a watercolor class at the junior college down in Bigelow.

  Someday we won’t dodge the bullet. But in the meantime, I’ve let the plates go.

  Recipes from Bubba Rice

  Bubba’s Artichoke Dip

  I tweaked a recipe from an old friend to come up with this one. It goes well with just about any kind of chip or snack cracker.

  4 cups fresh Parmesan cheese, finely grated

  1 cup mayonnaise (or, if you really want to impress someone, how about some homemade aioli mayonnaise???)

  1/3 cup chopped mild green chili peppers

  1 can artichoke hearts, quartered, drained well

  Blend the mayonnaise, chopped chili peppers, artichoke hearts and half the cheese in a large bowl. Pour into an 8” x 8” Pyrex baking dish. Top off with the remaining cheese and bake for 30 minutes at 325 degrees.

  Serves 8

  Prep time: 5 minutes

  Cooking time: 30 minutes

  Bubba’s Broccoli Cheese Soup

  This is a great meal for a cold winter night. It started off as a foiled attempt at broccoli with cheese sauce. After 3 unsuccessful attempts to fix the consistency of the sauce, presto, it’s SOUP!

  16 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, grated

  2 (two) 14 ounce packages frozen broccoli florets

  16 ounces sour cream

  16 ounces heavy cream

  4 ounces butter

  1 tbsp flour

  1 tsp kosher salt

  In a large stock pot, bring the broccoli to a boil in about 6 quarts of water, then lower the heat to a simmer, cover and cook for 5 minutes (it should still be a little bit crisp an
d have a bright green color). Immediately remove from heat and drain. Using the same pot, melt the butter over low heat. Add the flour and salt and stir until the mixture comes to a boil. Add the sour cream and blend well. Add the cheese and stir until all the cheese has melted. Add the cream and the drained broccoli and stir. Cover and cook on low heat (do not boil) for 20 minutes, stir occasionally.

  Serve with hot French or Italian bread.

  Serves 4

  Prep time: 5 minutes

  Cooking time: 45 minutes

  Chicken & Roasted Red Pepper Pasta with Alfredo Sauce

  Another one of those dishes that just “came to me” one night when I was looking in the pantry to see what was for dinner. Simple, elegant and just plain good.

  1 pound chicken breast meat, diced

  1 medium sweet yellow onion, diced

  1 red pepper, roasted, peeled and diced

  2 cups Parmesan cheese, finely grated

  1/4 cup unsalted butter

  1 pint heavy cream

  3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

  1/2 pound pasta (I do this one with capellini, but you can use any kind of pasta)

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Coat the red pepper with 1 tbsp of the extra virgin olive oil and roast for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for 15 minutes. Remove the skin, core and seeds, then dice. Sautee the chicken and onion in the remaining olive oil until the onion begins to caramelize. Add the red pepper and stir until well blended. Remove from heat. While the chicken and onion are sautéing, cook the pasta and prepare the Alfredo sauce.

  Basic Alfredo sauce

  Heat the heavy cream over low heat. Add the butter and melt. Then add the cheese a little at a time and stir until melted. Salt and pepper to taste. When the cheese has melted and the sauce has a smooth consistency (coats the back of a metal spoon), it is done.

  To serve:

  Serve in a bowl (or wear the sauce, it’s up to you). Add some pasta to the bowl, top with some of the chicken/onion/red pepper mixture and cover with the Alfredo sauce.