by Kate Young
“What do you think you’re doing?” I shouted over the band to the coverall-clad man with grease-stained hands and leathery skin.
Not an ounce of empathy was visible on the man’s face as he handed me a slip of paper. “I have an order here to repossess this vehicle.” I didn’t even read the specifics, stunned by the name Peter Hutchinson scribbled at the bottom of the order slip.
“That lowlife high-handed jerk!” Apparently, my ex’s reach extended to the island. “My things are in there,” I choked out.
“Marygene! You didn’t unpack when you first got home?” my sister asked.
I said frantically, “I haven’t gotten there yet.” Now I was second-guessing my decision to visit the diner first. My face began to burn and the crowd around the diner grew.
“Can’t she at least get her stuff out of it before you haul it off?” Jena Lynn asked the man, her tone demure and annoyingly calm.
Surely he would show some compassion, but my hopes were dashed when he spoke. “Once it’s loaded, I can’t unload it until I reach the destination on the work order.” He spat a wad of chewing tobacco near my feet. “Sorry. Just doing my job here, ladies.”
I poked him in the chest with my finger. “Well, your job just plain sucks!”
The man literally shrugged me off and stalked around the truck, his heavy work boots pounded against the street. His nonchalant disposition added fuel to the flames. I glanced back toward Jena Lynn and Betsy then to the flatbed. My sister was vehemently shaking her head. Betsy gave me an enthusiastic two thumbs-up.
Up the side of the flatbed I went. The doors were locked but I’d left the windows down.
“Hey! Get off there!” the man bellowed as I crawled through the passenger-side window. I reached into the backseat and flung what clothing I could grab out toward Betsy. She was scooping up the items as fast as I was throwing them down.
“Not without my stuff!” I shouted back as he revved the engine, threateningly.
Our eyes met in the side mirror. I narrowed mine in a silent dare. He dared. The truck lurched forward, flinging me into the dash. Determined not to be beaten, I scrambled back over the console and made another grab for my belongings. Betsy screamed my name, shouting something about the deputy sheriff right before I was flung forward again. I deemed it wise to bail on the rescue mission. I hit the ground with a thud, glad to have landed on my feet. Betsy and I high-fived. Ha!
My victorious mood lasted for less than a minute. All eyes were on me. Half of Peach Cove Island’s population had just witnessed my breakdown.
Chapter 2
Betsy and I shoved everything I’d retrieved into the backseat of her car. “Y’all go on! Ain’t nothin’ to see!” Betsy shouted as I tried desperately not to lose my stomach’s contents.
Heat was radiating off my face.
“It’s going to be all over the island now,” Betsy told me, the corners of her mouth turned down as she gave a regretful sigh.
“I know,” I groused. “That was one of the things I never missed.” Living on a small island had its disadvantages, like everyone always knowing your business.
“Well, if anyone asks me, and I suspect they might, being the most important witness and all,” Betsy wrapped an arm across my shoulders, “you are a total rock star.”
I certainly didn’t feel like a rock star, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“I’ve had just about enough of this,” Mr. Ledbetter said when I walked past Felton Powell, the deputy Betsy had warned me about a few moments ago.
I snorted, not making eye contact with them as Betsy hustled me into the diner.
“Oh, honey,” Heather Lawson said as she rushed through the front door after us, nearly colliding into two tables. She enveloped me in a massive hug. Heather graduated a year behind Betsy and me, but our mamas were close friends. She was tall, dark haired and too thin these days. As The Peach’s fill-in waitress, she eagerly worked every shift Jena Lynn had available.
I hugged her back, taking care not to squeeze too hard—her edges were sharper. “I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch” was all I could think to say.
Heather released me and immediately cut me off with a “Pfft. Don’t you start that. You went off to spread your wings—good for you, I say. But it’s mighty fine to have you back home with us. Jena Lynn has kept us apprised of your life.” Concern etched her brow as she noticed the bruise on my neck. Startled, I stood like a deer in the headlights as my hand covered the evidence. “You decide you want me to send some boys to put a beatdown on that ex of yours, you just say the word.” She leaned in and whispered, “I’m so proud of you for leaving. You ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” She raised her hands. “No pressure, though. And my offer still stands.” Heather gave me a wink I interpreted to mean she would gladly send her brood of brothers over to put a hurting on Peter. They were probably the reason her ex was MIA. I must admit, it was tempting.
“Thank you. I’ll keep your offer in mind,” I whispered, and she gave me a solid pat on the back.
“Was the car in his name?” Jena Lynn asked, her eyebrows raised, causing that little wrinkle between her brows to deepen.
I nodded and she gave me an admonishing look. She didn’t have to quote the words of my Nanny. They rang loud and clear. You can’t trust a man to take care of you. You’ve got to take care of yourself, child. Nanny was right, and that was what I was attempting to do. “It seems I’m still a work in progress.”
“Y’all go on back to your tables. A round of peach rolls on me!” As of this moment, Betsy was my hero.
I was relieved when everyone had gone back to their respective tables to finish their meals. Several customers paid their checks and took their freebie to go. I received several pats on the shoulder in passing. Pity—I hated it. I scrounged up a smile for them.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said to Betsy, overwhelmed with her generosity.
“Don’t worry. Jena Lynn won’t make me pay.” She folded her hands in a praying fashion toward my sister, who reluctantly gave her a nod of agreement before she laughed. Betsy had that effect on people.
I reclaimed my seat at the counter next to Mr. Ledbetter. Seemingly unaffected, he was devouring his BLT quite happily now. He clapped me on the back and pulled me closer, not quite in a hug but near enough, without it feeling awkward. The old man was heavyset, with gray hair. In his day he’d always had a reputation of being a ladies’ man. To look at him now, you’d never have guessed it.
“Take my advice,” his raspy tone lowered, “play hardball. Take the man for everything he’s worth. Make a statement you won’t be played for a fool.” He leaned back. The metallic taste of anxiety was in my mouth. He took a sip from his mug. “The past always has a way of coming back and biting you in the keister.”
* * *
Betsy took a right on Orchard Street, which had rows of grand, historic colonial-style homes with large front porches. It was picture-perfect, with nice manicured lawns and budding flowering trees. There was comfort here, along with the stability that couples sought out when they were ready to settle down and start a family. Mr. Johnson was picking up sticks out of his driveway that had fallen off his large oak tree, much older than my twenty-seven years. He threw his hand up in my direction, and I responded in kind. The smell of fresh-cut grass marked the coming of summer, and I had to smile. Today was one of those balmy days on the island, with a clear blue sky and lots of sun that made me glad I lived in the South. The air was thick down here most days, but our saving grace was that wonderful breeze coming off the Atlantic.
“When did Felton Powell get back into town? And get a job with the department?” I asked. “Last I heard he was living in Savannah.”
“He’s only been back home a couple of weeks. Your daddy was awful nice to hire on another deputy.” The Peach Cove Sheriff’s Department consisted of two officers, including the sheriff, my biological father, Eddie. The other was Betsy’s cousin Alex. With Felton n
ow aboard, that made three. It was ample; the crime in Peach Cove mainly consisted of petty thefts, with teenage perpetrators.
Honestly, I was surprised Felton had returned to the island. Of all the kids I grew up with, he had the most difficult childhood. He was always making noises about getting off this island.
“He and Heather hooked up a few days after he got back,” Betsy said.
I nodded, not really caring. Betsy took a right onto Cloverdale, the winding sandy road compacted with shells, which Mama insisted we never pave. Slowly, she navigated through the canopy of Spanish moss–covered trees until the old farmhouse that had been in our family for ages came into view.
“Weird, huh?” Betsy put the car in park.
“Yeah,” I agreed as we both began gathering up my salvaged belongings from the backseat.
Two stories of peeling white wood siding stood before us. The large wraparound front porch had been restored two years before Mama died. It looked good. The hanging baskets were now barren of late spring blossoms, and the grass needed a mow. The yard guy was scheduled for tomorrow morning, so Jena Lynn had informed me. The old brown late-sixties model Chevy pickup that had belonged to my late Paw-Paw still sat off to the side. Jena Lynn had offered it to me to drive. I stared at the rusty, muffler-less behemoth and sighed. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would get me from point A to point B.
“You gonna be okay financially?” Betsy asked when we reached the front porch.
“Yeah. I’ve got my savings account at the community bank here in town. I can get by on that until the divorce is finalized, then I’ll buy a new car.” I inserted my key into the front door and gave it a good nudge. Humidity did a number on everything around here.
I took a stifling breath of stale air into my lungs and stood for a moment in the foyer. Jena Lynn had updated a few things and painted the wood paneling white, which brightened the living room up a great deal. Mama’s old plastic-covered red-and-blue plaid couch and loveseat remained, as did the La-Z-Boy recliner.
Everywhere I looked I saw my mother. “I can almost feel Mama.” A little shiver slithered down my spine.
“Yeah, it’s creepy.”
Betsy and I strolled into the kitchen. I glanced up at Mama’s picture in the hallway. Why she had left the old place to me, I’d never know. The business was in Jena Lynn’s and my name, why not the house? I’d been floored at the reading of the will. I was sure thankful to have it now.
The kitchen sure could use some sprucing up. The hardwood floors gleamed, but the green Formica countertops were an eyesore. I’d probably have to gut the entire kitchen if I ever decided to sell the place.
A quick peek into the bag Betsy had brought revealed several bottles of wine, assorted cheeses, cold cuts, an array of olives, and a good loaf of French bread. I smiled approvingly and went in search of a corkscrew. Her decision to run into the market before she drove me home had been an excellent idea. I could use a glass, or three, of wine.
She moved into the living room with our cheese board. “Marygene, you bringing the wine?” Betsy called and I carried two glasses and a bottle into the living room.
“Your ex going to contest the divorce?” Betsy asked.
“He says he won’t if I can see reason, but let’s talk about something else.”
I sank down onto the couch just as Betsy said, “Hey, did Jena Lynn mention your daddy today?”
“Of course. She was disappointed that my biological father and I hadn’t already had a joyous reunion.” I took a deep sip from the glass. “How am I supposed to have a healthy relationship with the man?” I was the daughter of Edward Carter, a fling of Mommy Dearest when she and Jena Lynn’s father were having problems and again, when Daddy died—correction, Jena Lynn’s daddy died—when I was eight. She and Eddie had had a tumultuous relationship for as long as I could remember. Clara Brown believed a relationship with a plebeian—the town’s sheriff—to be beneath her. Once considered to have a lineage of aristocracy, the Brown family fell from grace when Nanny’s husband lost himself and his fortune in moonshine and gambling. My enterprising Nanny used her talents and the money she had left to open The Peach. Still, Mama always pretended she was a cut above. It was ironic that what had saved Nanny then was saving me now.
“Well, he did finally tell you,” Betsy reminded me with a snicker.
“Right, because dropping a bomb on a sixteen-year-old the way he did was completely normal.” I poured myself another glass and suppressed a shudder at the memory of a red-faced Eddie stomping out of the house when my half-brother Sam and I came home from the movies.
“Well, at least he didn’t catch you making out with your brother.” Betsy shoved two slices of capicola into her mouth.
“Yuck. That would have never happened, even if Sam and I weren’t related.”
Betsy laughed so hard she nearly choked. I supposed the situation was funny, if it had happened to someone other than me. I laughed anyway.
* * *
“Wake up!” Mama shouted at my ear.
“I’m tired,” I groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blankets over my head.
“Marygene Francis Brown, I’m not telling you again,” Mama said.
I jolted upright, suddenly aware my mama meant business. Wait a minute, Mama was dead. I rubbed my face with my hand, feeling the grittiness of dried mascara. “Lord help me, what a nightmare.” Mama was about to bless me out for something or another. In her mind, I had always been guilty of something.
“This isn’t a dream, child,” Mama flipped on the lamp next to her. She was sitting in the beige Queen Anne chair across the room, wearing her yellow dress with white daisies and matching yellow belt. Her brown hair was curled and styled closed to her head like she always wore it.
My scalp tingled.
“I see I have your attention.”
I didn’t speak, completely amazed with how vivid this dream was.
“I don’t have much time, so I’ll be brief.” That was Mama all right. She was efficient. “There’s going to be a murder at the diner tomorrow.” She leaned forward. “Close for the day.”
“What? Close the diner?” I covered a yawn with my hand. Am I really seeing this?
“Listen to me, young lady! Neither you nor your sister needs to go to work tomorrow.” She faded away.
I blinked hard and stared at the empty chair.
Chapter 3
To my surprise, the rust bucket fired to life after I turned the engine over a mere six times. Ugh. Massive amounts of smoke billowed up from the nonexistent exhaust pipes, burning my lungs and nearly suffocating me. I had to keep the windows rolled down to allow some fresh air into the cab, since obviously the truck didn’t have air-conditioning. It wasn’t even seven in the morning, and already my thighs were sticking to the cracked black vinyl bench seat. As I attempted to shift gears on the steering column, I longed for my climate-controlled Prius. Shells and sand spun out from under the tires on my long driveway, clanging against the sides of the truck. I had no idea how fast I was going because the speedometer was no longer functional. I’d have to simply guesstimate.
The gawking commenced when I turned onto the square and circled it to try and find a vacant space near The Peach. My only saving graces were the giant dark glasses and head scarf I’d taken out of Mama’s room. In this disguise, I prayed no one would recognize me. When I finally found a space, I cut the engine off, tossed the scarf and glasses onto the seat, and darted from the truck. I gave the door a giant bump with my backside and hoped it would close. Not that I waited around to see if it latched. If someone wanted to steal it, more power to them. A coughing fit took hold as I dashed through the cloud of smoke toward the diner. So much for arriving incognito.
The second I crossed the threshold, Sam came rushing around the counter, grill spatula still in hand. He was famous around the island for his Sam’s Surf and Turf Burger, which he obviously named after himself. He charged right past me toward the window and shouted, “You dro
ve Mad Max!”
Great, now everyone in the diner would know it was me polluting the square. The name he’d given the truck in his teens, around the time he’d begged Mama to give it to him, never rang true from my perspective. Rust Bucket was far more suitable.
“Hi, Marygene. So nice to have you back home.” I put my hands on my hips and glared in his direction. “Wow, you’re looking well. Have you lost weight?” I asked in a mock falsetto. “Why thank you, Sam, and yes, I think I have lost a few pounds. Stress, you know.”
He flushed. “Sorry. I am glad you’re back,” he said and gave me a side hug before rushing back around the counter toward the grill.
“And FYI,” I called after him as I tossed my purse on a vacant stool at the bar, “I’ve changed his name to Rust Bucket.”
That got a few chuckles from a couple of elderly men at the counter having their breakfast.
Sam peeked through the open service window to give me a horrified look. “You blaspheming female. How dare you defile my baby?” He winked before he disappeared from sight.
I gave my head an amused shake. If Rust Bucket was his baby, no wonder he was still single.
I tied on an apron, poured myself a mug of coffee, and waved at Heather, who was hustling this morning, before heading back into the kitchen.
“Marygene!” my sister called. “Is that you?”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled around a mouthful of coffee.
Sam was flipping a stack of pancakes and tossing a potato waffle on the waffle iron. My mouth watered as I gazed longingly at the shredded potatoes, cheese, and herbs closed into the iron. He tightened his American-flag bandana on his head. He had aged some. Tiny crow’s-feet were visible now. He pulled out the waffle, plated it, and sprinkled chives and extra cheddar cheese before placing it in the open window. He certainly was a pro now.
“What’s new with you?” I asked with genuine interest.
“Same ole stuff mostly. Though, I bought me a fishing boat last spring.” His countenance lit up like a lightning bug.
