by Liz Talley
Frances bit her lip, her gaze zeroing in on the stack of tile one of the guys had placed against the back wall. “One year?”
“I’ll wait. No moving on until this time next year.” Clem slid off the tailgate and turned so he faced her, so her dangling legs brushed his. Pulling her to him, he stood between her legs—a place he’d longed to be many times. But this time it wasn’t about sex. It was about showing her how much he wanted her to be his everything.
“Clem,” she said softly.
He kissed her, making his mouth light as butterfly wings. “I’ll be seeing you, Frannie.”
“You know I’m leaving tonight.”
“Yeah, but I’m hoping you’ll be back … or meet me in Charleston.”
Frances lifted her hand to his cheek. “I can’t make any promises.”
“But if you do, I know you’ll keep them.”
This time he kissed her harder. Like he meant it. One to tide him over for a while.
Or one to tide him over for a lifetime.
The Morning Glory town square was packed with laughing families and people vying for primo spots for the annual Easter Egg hunt and picnic. Since it was a long-standing holiday tradition, nearly everyone in town was there … or at least it looked that way to Frances.
Nervously she pressed her hands against the blue jeans she’d bought in a store in the Village and looked for Sal and Rosemary. Her brother had said they’d be working the booth in front of Sal’s New York Pizzeria, but she couldn’t see through the crowded streets. Around her, kids frolicked, wagging Easter baskets filled with candy and brightly colored plastic eggs. She’d had to park several streets away, trying out her rusty parallel-parking skills in the new Toyota Corolla she’d bought in preparation for her new life.
It had been almost seven months since she’d stood in the town square of Morning Glory. Instead of leaves falling to the ground, there was a new sticky greenness that paired with a coating of fairy-dust pollen. Pretty pansies and snapdragons spilled out of containers lining the sidewalks as if to prove the town had pulled on its Easter bonnet. Blow-up Easter bunnies and pastel eggs anchored the corners of the big stage set up to host the festivities.
People brushed by her with apologetic grins as she made her way toward her brother’s restaurant. She passed a few vaguely familiar faces before running right into Crazy Ted and Martha.
“Whoa, mama, looky who I found,” Crazy Ted said, a smile cracking beneath his bushy moustache.
Martha huffed beside him. “Well, if it ain’t our favorite New Yorker.”
“Ahem,” Sal said behind them.
“Oh, shoot. You know I love ya, Sallie,” Martha said, slapping her brother on the arm. “You make the best gosh-darn pizza I ever have come across.”
“Thank you, Martha,” Sal said with a twinkle in his eye. He shimmied past the two to sweep Frances into a big hug. “I about fell out when Frannie said she was coming for a visit. We got the guest bedroom all made up for you. Come see Rosemary. She’s over at the table selling mint tea and cannoli.”
Frances waved good-bye to Ted and Martha and allowed her brother to pull her toward where Rosemary stood wearing a floral apron, pouring tea and smiling at the line standing in front of their booth.
“What’s going on?” Sal asked her, his voice low. “It isn’t like you to show up like this. You don’t do spontaneous.”
“It’s not spontaneous.”
Of course it was. Sorta. If one considered a woman who’d bought a car and drove almost a thousand miles to take a chance on something that might no longer be there to be spontaneous.
For months she’d mourned the loss of Clem Aiken … and worried herself sick over an empty future. The rational part of her brain clung to her past. It urged her to go to Michael, tell him it was fine he didn’t want to marry. It encouraged her to accept her lot in life. Work at Mama Mello’s, shop at the same places, nestle back into her comfortable world. But the other half of her brain refused to accept mediocre. That half pushed her to be bold. To not settle but instead seek the extraordinary … even if it meant falling on her ass.
When she first arrived back in Manhattan, she’d spent a few weeks doing what she’d always done. She slept in the same bed she’d always slept in and she scheduled her shifts at Mama Mello’s. She avoided giving any details about her time in Morning Glory and engaged in perfunctory conversation with her father. On the outside she looked the same, but on the inside she wrestled with indecision.
After several weeks, she’d asked her mother the question that had been gnawing at her since she’d left Mississippi.
“Ma, you got a minute?” she’d asked, snagging a mug from the cabinets still painted the same shade of green from her childhood.
“Always for you, vita mia.” Natalie Genovese had coal-black hair with a dramatic wing of pure ash dipping into her dark eyes. A sturdy woman, Frances’s mother had spent years in the Mama Mello’s kitchens making pastry until a bad back sidelined her. Now she cooked only for her family … and meddled the rest of the time. She had opinions as strong as the Italian roast she brewed each morning.
“Remember how you always told me to give something a year?”
“Yeah”
Frances poured a cup of black coffee and sank onto the kitchenette with the gold-flaked Formica. They’d inherited the set from Uncle Carlo and never found its obvious wear a reason to drag it to the curb. Four generations of Mellos and Genoveses had sopped up red sauce on that table. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is that your rule?”
Her mother fussed at her bathrobe zipper and shrugged a shoulder. “It’s what my mother always told me when I wanted to quit something. The violin. Eh, I hated that thing. After a year, we sold it to Tommy Vanardo down the street. But other times, I gave something a year and I stuck with it. Like swimming. I set the record for the breaststroke at St. Mathias, you know.”
“I know. I just wondered.”
“What’s with you lately? You come back from down there and you’re all mopey. How you going to get a man and make that stupid Michael insane with jealousy if you walk around like it’s a funeral?”
“I’m not doing that. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Like this business with the deli?”
“Yeah, like that. Pop won’t listen to me or my ideas. He just walks away.”
Her mother made a face. “Well, your father knows what he wants. You’re trying to make that deli into something it’s not.”
“We’re not trying to attract a working crowd, Ma. The deli’s in the Theatre District.”
“Yeah? Like I don’t know?” Her mother smacked lips the color of cinnamon. The woman put on her lips before she ever pushed open the bedroom door each morning. “And who goes to the theatre?”
“A crowd that can afford tickets. They have money to spend. What’s wrong with attracting a more affluent crowd? With trying to elevate our brand into something more lucrative than a slice of pizza?”
Ma shook her head. “Passerotto, you don’t get it. Mama Mello’s is something the tourists like. They come to New York and everyone tells them where to go to get a slice. Your brother Sal, he was frustrated too. Maybe that’s why he ran off and married a Southerner, I don’t know. But your Papa knows what he’s doing. He don’t want fancy chandeliers and froufrou drinks with umbrellas. He wants good food, the kind people know we do. They can get what we serve fast. There’s no shame in our brand. That’s what’s put shoes on your feet for almost thirty years.”
Frances took another sip of coffee and looked at her mother.
Her mother stared hard back at her. “You know, Frannie, there’s nothing wrong with the old ways. You went to school and learned some good stuff, but you forget that we and those who’ve gone before you did something right.”
“I wasn’t implying that.”
“To your father you were. You don’t see it from Big Donnie’s shoes. He’s worked hard to build up his grandpapa
’s vision. He’s the one who opened the place in Brooklyn. He’s the one who had the vision for the deli. When you imply it’s not good enough, it’s like poop in his punch.”
“I wasn’t saying that, Ma. I just wanted to try something new.”
“Sure. Deep down, your father knows that. He’s not an unreasonable man. But men, they’re like little mud babies. On the outside they look strong, but strike them and they crumble to dust. Their feelings are sometimes too big for them, and so they crumple them into balls and eat them.”
“I hurt Pop’s feelings?”
Her mother got up and gave her a hug. “Your father loves you and can never tell you no. So he walks away.”
“Thank you for telling me that.” Frances squeezed her mother’s arms, noting how much her hands had aged. “Ma, I think I fell in love with a guy in Mississippi.”
Her mother stiffened. “You think? Or you know?”
“I think. Or maybe I know. I don’t know,” she said. “It’s silly. I made fun of Sal for doing it with Rosemary, and then I went and let it happen myself.”
Her mother smiled. “Well, that’s the thing about love. So is that what this one-year thing is all about?”
Frances nodded. “I don’t know what to do. My life is so … up in the air.”
Her mother smiled. “Ah, Frances Anne. If your life is not what you want it to be, make it so. If it’s up in the air, pull it down. You cannot give your heart away if your feet don’t know where they’re going.”
So Frances had put her feet on the ground. She’d moved out of her parents’ place the next month and paid her sister Brittany rent for what was essentially a closet, then she’d started researching careers. She’d procured an entry-level job at a marketing firm and made ends meet by continuing to do her father’s books. When she wasn’t gaining work experience, she took a Spinning class, spent time with her friends, and researched Charleston.
Two weeks ago, she’d done a Skype interview with a firm in Charleston for a part-time position that would open up in June, spent some thinking time in Grandmother Sophia’s garden, rolled the dice on serendipity, and loaded her car to head south. On her way to Morning Glory, she prayed that what she’d done was the right thing. Beyond a text or two, she and Clem hadn’t talked. He’d given her more than enough space to figure things out. In fact, he’d given her a whole warehouse to figure things out.
So what if he had moved on despite what he’d said?
What if what he professed to feel for her had been only momentary insanity? Or worse … merely lust?
What if this was a huge, huge mistake?
Sal snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey. It sure seems spontaneous.”
Frances smiled. “Nope. I got my feet on the ground.”
Her brother looked confused. “Okay, whatever.”
Rosemary squealed, then wrapped her in a hug. “Oh my goodness, we’re so glad you came to visit. Sal’s been missing his family so much. We didn’t get enough time in January when we came up.”
“Good to see you, Rosemary,” Frances said, surprised at how true her words were. “Can I help?”
“Sure, but you may want to mosey over to the square. They’re about to do the bachelor auction.” Rosemary pointed at the stage where a plump man in striped overalls was doing a mic check. “It’s always a hoot.”
“Bachelor auction?”
“It’s the 107th Bachelor Auction. They raise money for missions at the Baptist church. It’s kinda hokey and old-fashioned, but it’s how the very first mayor, Stanley Foster, met his wife. It’s just in good fun. Last year Eden bought Skeeter for forty bucks and made him mow her yard.”
“Uh, sounds … interesting.”
“You know what?” Rosemary held up a finger at the next person in line. “Clem’s in it. He always does it. Fetches a lot of money for the mission project. You should go watch.”
“Of course he’s in it. So how much do you think he’ll go for?”
“Couple hundred at least.”
Something wonderful and right bloomed inside Frances. She rifled inside her purse, pulled out her wallet, and counted the bills inside.
Two hundred and eighty dollars.
It would have to do.
Ten minutes later she stood at the back of the crowd, watching as ten men tromped onto the stage. Clem was last.
He wore a pair of khaki pants and a long-sleeved striped shirt. His hair was combed down, and he looked freshly shaved. Shiny boots peeked out from the cuffed hem of his pants, reminding everyone he was still a big country boy even if he cleaned up nicely. Frances felt her heart leap and said a prayer that she’d have enough money to buy the man … and that he’d be happy to, uh, mow her grass.
The auction crowd was spirited and more than generous with some of the offerings. Honestly, Skeeter didn’t look much like he’d last long doing yard work. But since it was for charity and the plump older man had a good sense of humor, he went for more than forty bucks this year.
Finally only Clem remained.
“Okay, what say you, ladies? I got a fine, strapping man here who can chop wood or clean your gutters,” the emcee crowed.
“I’d like him to clean my gutters,” one woman shouted, drawing laughter.
Clem ducked a bow in her direction.
“So an opening bid … Do I hear twenty dollars?” the emcee called.
“Fifty,” the wisecracking woman yelled out.
“Sixty,” from someone else.
A woman with big hair and wide hips yelled, “I’ll give a hundred for him.”
People oohed and aahed. The emcee grinned. Clem blew Wanda Treat, the woman who’d given Frances a cute bob after her hair caught on fire, a kiss.
Frances cupped her hands and called out, “Two hundred.”
“Wooo. Now we got ourselves an auction,” the emcee said.
People turned to look at Frances.
“Two twenty,” a woman called.
“Well, that’s already beat last year’s bid,” the emcee said, clapping his hands together.
“Two forty,” Frances said.
Clem angled his head, trying to see her. For once Frances was glad she wasn’t super tall. She’d worn her Uggs with the jeans because it was still chilly, but she’d bought a seersucker shirt from Talbots and a strand of pearls that peeked out from the collar. She’d tried for Southern chic.
“Okay, fine,” a woman called out. “I’ll go two fifty and not a penny more.”
The emcee looked toward Frances with a questioning look. “You willing to go higher, little lady?”
Frances smiled. She was certain she had a few twenties in the glove box. Or Sal could loan her what she needed. “Three hundred.”
The crowd gasped and then started clapping. The emcee, grinning ear to ear, scanned the crowd. “Anyone else want to bid on ol’ Clemson? It’s your last chance. He won’t be here next year.”
Everyone quieted, but no one called out anything more.
“Okay, going once … Going twice … Sold to … Uh, ma’am, what’s your name?” the emcee asked.
The couple in front of her allowed her to step forward.
Her eyes met Clem’s just as she called, “Frances Genovese.”
Clem whooped then hollered, “Hot damn, it only took her seven months.”
Then he leaped off the stage and headed for her. Frances couldn’t help herself. She started laughing. She could see everyone around her smiling, and by the time Clem got to her and lifted her into his arms, she knew she’d made the right decision when she hugged Ma and Pop bye and climbed into her new car. Well, new to her anyway.
Clem’s lips met hers as she wrapped her arms and legs around him. “I would have been here sooner, but I had to buy a car and get a job and—”
He silenced her with a kiss. And another. And another.
And suddenly nothing else mattered. Because she was here. And she was in his arms. And he was happy to see her. More than happy to see her.
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“Get a room,” someone called out jokingly.
“Hey, leave ’em alone. That’s how that girl fishes,” Crazy Ted called out.
That made Clem laugh against her lips. He pulled back and grinned at her. “Glad you came back, sugar, but I hope you remembered I’m moving next month.”
“That’s why I got a part-time job in Charleston.”
Clem’s answer was another kiss. He started walking, carrying her through the crowded square. A person squealed and scrambled back when he nearly stepped in their chicken salad. But Clem kept going.
“Wait, I have to pay for you, Clem,” Frances said.
“Pay ’em later, baby. I haven’t seen you in months. We got some making up to do.”
They made it to the brick street surrounding the square before Clem set her down. But he didn’t let go of her hand. Sal stood a few yards away, looking confused, but Rosemary stood next to him grinning knowingly. Rosemary gave her a thumbs-up.
Frances waved at her brother and sister-in-law, feeling very much like Samantha from the movie Sixteen Candles when Jake Ryan appeared in his hot red car. She wanted to hop up and down and point to Clem, yelling “This is him. This is my Prince Charming. I came and got him.”
Except as Clem nearly dragged her toward the gargantuan truck sitting in the First United Methodist Church parking lot, Frances realized there wasn’t much charming about Clem.
But that was fine. Prince Charming had always been overrated.
Frances would rather have a big country boy any day of the week.
Clem opened the passenger door of his truck and lifted her inside. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He pinched her.
Frances brought his face to hers and kissed him hard. “Believe it. I finally figured out you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
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