He studied her, not sure what to say. Was she trying to trick him and make him tell another lie? He was scared of her because she lived in the big house and was rich, and he knew people with money could do anything. His daddy said she could make him lose his job and they’d end up in the Poor House. He didn’t know what that was, but it didn’t sound good.
His eyes felt stuck, looking at Miss B while she talked about myth and Save-Anna. His hands got cold so he eased his iced tea glass over on the step below him. It fell over and tea spilled all over the step.
Then she had that stuck look in her eyes. “What happened?” Miss B asked as she looked at the tea running over the step.
“It fell over. The ice was too heavy on one side.”
She reached over to the table beside her and picked up a little bell and rang it. “Will-a-mean-uh.” The brown woman in the white apron came to the screen door. “Fix this boy another glass of iced tea.”
Miss B leaned her head back and kept her eyes closed for so long he wondered if she went to sleep. Then she stirred at the familiar screeching of the screen door as Will-a-mean-uh brought him a fresh glass of sweet tea. He handed her the empty glass. He held the second one with both hands and looked down at the step. His daddy always said, Learn from your mistakes, boy. He’d better not set the glass down there again. He set it on the porch and used a finger to stir the ice so Miss B would think it wasn’t heavy on one side.
“All right,” she said. “While you’re drinking your tea, I want you to think about two things. One, think about that glass of tea falling over. And two, think about that broken slat in the picket fence. Think the strangest things you can about the tea and the slat, then tell me the stories. After that, tell me what really happened. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He could’ve told her the real story right then because when he’d climbed over that picket fence and his foot got caught between the slats, he heard it crack. The story he told her before was about the huge jackrabbit. Bigger than his own daddy. In the story Symon had run at the jackrabbit with his fingers out like claws and his face scrunched up, and that jackrabbit got so scared it tried to jump the fence and got its foot caught and he’d had to rescue it. It hopped away on one foot while it held the other one.
He waited because he liked sitting there with Miss B. She acted like he was in school, and she was teaching him something. He drank his tea while she rocked and waited. After a while he set his glass down real careful. “I’m ready. Can I tell the true ones first? They’re not as good.”
“Yes, that would be fine.”
He took a deep breath. “I set the glass too close to the edge and it flipped over.” He didn’t think school could be any harder than this. He’d rather tell a lie any day. “The jackrabbit didn’t get its foot caught in the fence. I did.”
“Thank you for the truth.” She didn’t look mad, but that fence back there was still broke, and she knew it. “Now your pretend stories.”
He liked that part. “I set my glass down and this thing slithered across my hand and I moved it real quick because a big ol’ copperhead was crawling in that glass so I turned it over so it could get to it quicker.”
Her eyes got bigger and bluer so he leaned toward her a little. He made his voice sound low as he could and scary. He moved his hands in a crawly way like a big copperhead would do. “After that copperhead slurped all the tea it started swallowing the ice.”
He moved his twisting hands over his chest and his stomach and made his eyes bulge. “That froze its insides and it crawled back under the porch.”
Waiting, he watched her looking like that was the greatest story she’d ever heard and she couldn’t wait for the end.
He made her wait. After a long, scary minute he opened his mouth and grimaced. “Then it puked its guts out.”
Her lips did a funny little movement and she put her finger to her lips. He thought she liked his story.
She cleared her throat. Probably, she was thinking about the copperhead’s guts coming out its throat. “Now,” she said, “the fence.”
He reckoned she hadn’t liked the jackrabbit one too much because when he told it before, she made him come sit on the porch. He’d try another one. It was a short one and he didn’t like it as much as the jackrabbit one. “The caretaker got drunk and ran into it with the lawnmower.”
He didn’t know if she liked that one. Her breath came out heavy. “Do you think he learned his lesson and quit drinking on the job?”
“No, ma’am. He just fixed the fence.”
She studied on it for a minute with a finger and a thumb touching her lips. She put her hand back down on her lap. “Well, it’s always nice to have a good ending.” Her eyes slid his way. “When you can.”
The sun went behind a cloud. She stood up. “You run along home.”
Knowing what he was supposed to do when a lady came into a room or stood, he jumped to his feet. “You gonna tell my daddy what I did?”
“We don’t need to say a word about the tea. That was an accident.” Her kind blue eyes turned serious. “Now, about the fence. Have you been told not to climb over that fence?”
Telling stories was easier, but she was standing and didn’t want to hear any more. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you just tell your daddy to get a new slat and fix the fence, that’s all. And some white paint. Then tomorrow, your punishment will be to paint that slat.”
He closed his eyes real tight, trying to look like that punishment would hurt worse than a hickory stick, or even worse than his daddy’s whack. But he was so excited he could hardly wait. He bolted down the steps. “Bye. I gotta go tell Daddy.”
Hearing the pleasing sound of light laugher from Annabelle, Symon returned his focus on the present, and the debt of gratitude he owed Miss B.
“She taught me that it was all right to make up stories and write them down. Then they wouldn’t be lies. When she saw that I began to do that, at first in drawings until I learned to write, she had my daddy buy the best little cherry tree he could find, then she and I planted it together. She told me about George Washington not being able to tell a lie. She taught me to tell the truth. And when I made up a story, no matter how bad, it was to have a good ending. Good always had to win over the bad.” He laughed. “Then it became a contest. Who grew faster, me or the cherry tree.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Annabelle said. “I had no idea you and Aunt B had that kind of relationship. You have a lot of stories like that?”
“Well, let’s see,” he mused, “how many days are there in about eighteen years? I’d say I’d have at least half that many stories. I’d like to put them into a book. Write about her. She was a dominating factor in my life.”
“Mine, too,” she said. “I wasn’t with her a lot when I was growing up, but each time was a special occasion. She always taught me something. But not by lecturing like my parents did. I’m beginning to understand why you want to write about her.”
“What about that book you mentioned? You said you’d tell me later about your profession.” He looked out at the sky and lawn. The moon had risen in the light gray sky. A ball of yellow butter, softening the shadows, spreading over the porch, and over Annabelle as if she were warm toast. There could be something mesmerizing about moonlight, and a pretty girl.
She looked away from him and out into the twilight, reminding him of her reaction after her rhinestone tiara comments. She’d given a short laugh and a shrug of one pretty shoulder and looked away as if the subject were over and she shouldn’t have said it in the first place.
He detected a vulnerability about her that he hadn’t seen when she was a child. But then, maybe even now, he had his prejudices—or was it sensitivity about those living the good life while he and his dad worked for them?
He watched her swallow, mois
ten her lips, take a deep breath and begin telling him about her pretty life.
“I loved it,” she said. “The dressing up, the acting like a big girl, competing, winning, feeling pretty, taking lessons in piano, singing, dancing to see where my talent lay.”
“Where was that?”
Her laugh sounded thin. “My mama said my talent was just being pretty. But I could learn to play the piano and sing enough to enter contests. So...” She spoke rather self-consciously. “I don’t really have a talent.”
“I see,” he said. “Then I suppose your book would be about the girl who succeeded without a talent.”
“No. The title would be Pretty Is as Pretty Does.”
He stared at her. A memory was beginning to emerge like a fish heading toward the bait, and then comprehension bit. “Willamina,” he breathed.
She nodded. “I was about five years old.”
“I would have been ten.”
“I stuck my tongue out at you in the kitchen.”
“And Willamina said that was not pretty.”
Annabelle was nodding. “She said pretty is as pretty does.”
“So that’s what others want you to write about?”
She uncrossed her ankles and her feet moved as if they were thinking of going somewhere. Her voice lowered. “Celeste, the modeling agency director, wants me to write what I teach at the studio. Makeup, etiquette, poise, posture for children and teens. She says it would sell particularly well in studios and for those in pageants or thinking about entering them.”
He agreed. “Sounds like a possibility.”
“I know,” she said. “Women, girls, even guys, want to make a good appearance, improve themselves. But I’d want to take it further. You see.” She cleared her throat and her hand grasped the arm of the rocker. “I speak to church groups, at schools, at modeling shows. But I have to downplay the pretty part. It’s assumed that I’m stuck on myself. I have to say that there are all kinds of gifts and my looks are what God gave me, and winning a beauty pageant paid my way into college.”
She must have noticed his surprise.
“I really did pay my way,” she said. “Because I wanted to. But, if I were to write anything I’d want to include faith and talk about inner beauty. You know, like having Jesus in one’s heart. That’s more important than just looking good. My agency director doesn’t want that included. Says it’s an entirely different subject.” She laughed lightly. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
“Maybe because I have connections with a publishing company,” he said, noticing already her mouth was open and she began to shake her head. He grinned. “Everybody wants to write a book, you know.”
“No, I didn’t even think about that.”
He shrugged. “Well, maybe it’s because I’m easy to talk to.”
She put her hands on her lap and looked at them and rocked gently.
But he thought he knew why she’d opened up to him. He was safe. He was the caretaker’s son. She could be honest. She had no need to try and impress him.
And...okay. She had a fiancé. And she had Christian morals. And the biggest consideration at this juncture in his endeavors was that she was Miss B’s niece.
Probably time for him to return to the cottage and get on with his purpose. After all, he had a public to please.
Punctuating that thought, as he rose from where he sat a sleek sand-colored sedan came up the drive and Annabelle said, “Oh, there’s Wes.”
Symon watched as the car door slammed and the fellow in dress pants and a white shirt and tie hurried along the brick walkway. Wes slowed with surprise on his face when he saw Symon, and his questioning glance went quickly from Symon to Annabelle.
She walked over and introduced them as Wesley Powers-Lippincott and Symon Sinclair, who was a friend of Miss B and staying in the cottage.
Symon extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Wesley,” which Wesley reciprocated with, “You, too.”
Wesley, who was less than remarkable looking in Symon’s estimation, walked up the steps and put his arm around Annabelle’s waist. “Sorry to be so late.” He had light brown curly hair conservatively cut, maybe even a little thin at the hair line. He looked pleasant, kind of like one of Symon’s characters whom you wouldn’t expect would hurt a fly, but who, like SweetiePie, really had a rotten heart and would swat one at less than a moment’s notice.
“I’m just leaving,” Symon said, and lifted his hand as he walked down the steps.
“Thanks, Symon,” Annabelle said.
“You bet.” He walked on, having no idea what she was thanking him for.
For leaving?
When he reached the driveway and veered off toward the cottage, he turned his head to the left and saw Annabelle step back from Wesley as if they’d just broken away from a kiss or embrace.
Then her hands were gesturing as if she were in animated conversation.
Maybe reprimanding him for working late and causing her to take up with the caretaker’s son?
He reached his car. Then he remembered. Her clothes were still in the back.
Chapter 10
As soon as the obligatory kiss ended, Wes still held on to her waist and said, “Who is that and why is he in the cottage?”
“He’s a friend of Aunt B, and he’s doing some work on the property.”
“Sinclair?” he mused. “Wasn’t that the name of—?”
“The caretaker, yes. That’s his son.”
“Why was he sitting here with you?”
She stepped back and lifted her hands. “We were talking.”
“About what?”
She huffed. “What difference does it make?”
He ducked his head slightly and gave her a look from his deep blue eyes that was normally endearing. “You’re my girl,” he said softly.
Not wanting an audience, she said, “Let’s go inside.”
As soon as they entered the foyer, she turned to him, and spoke in a monotone. “Wes, shouldn’t we be talking about us? How was your day? Are you tired? Would you like something to eat? Drink?”
Before he could do more than stare at her, a knock sounded on the screen door. She and Wes turned. She stepped to the screen and opened it.
“You forgot your clothes,” he said. “I thought you might need them.”
“Yes, I—I will.” She took the hanger and the bag from him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Good night.”
She said, “Good night.”
She glanced at Wes, whose eyes questioned. If he had a question, he could just ask it. She stepped past him and walked toward the staircase. “I’ll take these up to my room.”
He said to her retreating back, “I’ll be in the kitchen. I think I would like something to drink.”
“Diet Coke’s in the fridge.”
When she returned he was sitting at the small kitchen table beneath a window that had a moonlit view of the patio. He’d poured her a glass of Coke. She sat opposite him. He began to tell her briefly of his grueling day.
She knew he was waiting. Not angrily. He wouldn’t yell at her. He wouldn’t demand anything. He was level-headed, like a good attorney should be. He would listen to the evidence.
Maybe she’d like for him to be less level-headed at times. But there was no reason to be. They loved each other. They’d known for more than three years they were right for each other. Would marry. They’d do it right.
Their dating had been rather passionate at first. Then her parents had died, and her outlook on precarious life became more serious. In college she was preparing for, running for and then winning Miss Georgia Sunshine, homecoming queen and then first runner-up for Miss Georgia. She’d had to finish college. He finished first and went to law school. He
did not want to be dependent on her trust fund or inheritance. She wanted to have a profession.
They were busy. She was speaking, and holding summer Bible studies for teens at church. She couldn’t very well be promiscuous when telling teens not to be. And living with Megan and Lizzie, not to mention the high standards of Aunt B, her lifestyle had been pretty much fixed.
Nothing had changed. And she had nothing to feel guilty about. And frankly, there was no ring on her finger. But of course they’d talked that over, too. Why rush a ring when they were discussing Aunt B and her future, which would certainly involve them.
So when he finished with his boring account she told about hers, as boringly as she could. But she couldn’t help but laugh again when repeating some of the stories Symon had told her.
Wes listened, smiled politely, nodded, agreed they were cute little stories. But she felt as if they were like some foods warmed over—not as tasty as when fresh. Guess you had to be there.
“Anyway,” she said, “Aunt B asked me to be congenial with her guest. He’s been away for a few years.”
“That’s nice of you, but you don’t know him.”
No, but last night, after turning out the light and looking out the window to see that car across the way, she’d felt safe and secure out here alone in this big house with that familiar stranger in the cottage. Just as Aunt B had said she’d felt when the caretaker had lived there. Annabelle had gone to sleep with a smile on her face.
Another thought occurred to her. “Wes, did I know you when I first went out with you?”
“You knew my family. My background.”
“I know his, too.”
“Yeah. That’s my point. You know...”
“Know what, Wes?”
“Come on, Annabelle. You remember Aunt B’s refusing to fire his dad even after he was too sick to work. Everybody knows his dad drank himself to death.”
“So you’re judging Symon for what his dad did?”
Wesley’s eyes closed. His lips became taut. He shook his head.
She kept on. “Aunt B said his dad was the best landscaper around. And he didn’t drink on the job until his pain worsened. She judged him by his good qualities, not his worst ones. And if you happen to notice, he’s been doing what his dad did. Don’t the yard and flower beds look much better?”
The Caretaker's Son Page 6
