Crossing Tinker's Knob

by Cooper, Inglath

  - Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl

  To say the turnout exceeded Grier’s expectations would have been an understatement.

  The conference room at the back of the Inn was full to overflowing, girls between the ages of sixteen and eighteen chatting and giggling with nervous anticipation. Grier decided maybe she’d slightly underestimated the appeal of a date with a duke.

  Gil Martin, the cameraman sent by the network, wound his way through the center of the room. Mid-twenties with an MTV rock star kind of appeal, he looked like a bull who’d just wandered into a field full of heifers.

  “I have one word for you,” Grier said from her stance behind the speaker’s podium.

  “What’s that?” he asked, the words a little dazed.

  “Jailbait.”

  He grinned. “Look but don’t touch, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The estrogen levels in this room must be off the Richter scale.”

  “Let’s hope for your sake it’s not contagious,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I’m a big fan of estrogen.”

  Gil had a nice way of lightening the atmosphere. He’d arrived late last night, leaving a message for her on the room’s voice mail to meet him for breakfast where they’d gone over everything he wanted to film throughout the day, including a clip of each girl’s interview in case she ended up winning.

  “Shall we get started?” Grier said.

  Gil glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock on the dot.”

  Grier tapped on the microphone and said, “If everyone could please take a seat.”

  The girls quickly weaved their way to their chairs, silence settling over the room.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m so glad all of you could be here today. As you know, the KT Network is producing an episode for their show Dream Date called Jane Austen Girl.”

  A nervous round of laughter rose up, followed by a chorus of clapping and a few wolf whistles. Once the group had quieted again, Grier said, “I can see I’m going to have my work cut out for me with so many pretty girls. Timbell Creek must have a secret.”

  “It’s the water,” someone called out, inciting another round of giggles.

  “Well, you sure don’t look like you need any help from me where image is concerned.”

  “Yes, we do!” A lone voice shot up from the back of the room.

  Grier swiped her gaze across the rows, spotting the girl who had thrown out the statement of disagreement. She looked sixteen or so, her straight blonde hair loose about her shoulders, its natural shine one that was hard to achieve even with the priciest of salon products.

  The woman sitting next to her Grier recognized instantly. Priscilla Randall from the coffee shop. The girl resembled her, but her style was much simpler and less polished.

  Priscilla Randall had clearly made looking good part of her essence, the success of her efforts easy enough to see in the pampered smoothness of her skin and the toned muscles in her long arms.

  “Some of us more than others,” Priscilla said with a knowing laugh. She took one of her daughter’s hands and patted it, as if certain there would be no question as to who would be the eventual winner here. She glanced at the rows of girls in front of them with a barely concealed look of pity for the time they were wasting.

  Grier raised an eyebrow, surprised by the woman’s audacity.

  The girl at her side pulled her hand away, looking uncomfortable.

  “So,” Grier said, regrouping, “first of all, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for coming out this morning. This is an incredible turnout. I would guess we’re in the range of one hundred and twenty-five of you?”

  Laughter rippled up and then settled back.

  “Well, he is extremely cute, our George,” Grier said.

  More laughter.

  Grier held up a hand. “So, the question is how do we get there? I’ve been given the task of finding George’s dream date, and the first thing I’m going to do is have you girls fill out a questionnaire to determine whether you’re compatible with this young man. Because if your favorite sport is sumo wrestling, and his favorite sport is polo, it won’t really matter what kind of dress you’re wearing once he gets past how beautiful you are.”

  The room again erupts with nervous laughter.

  “Can you tell us what kinds of things he likes?” a young girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes spoke up from the front row.

  “Well, that would probably color your answers, wouldn’t it?”

  “But we might like polo if we had a chance to experience it.”

  “That’s true,” Grier said, with a small laugh, “but somehow, someway, I’ve got to narrow down his choices. The questionnaires are really just basic stuff. We’ll take an hour to go through them while you girls mingle and get to know one another.”

  Grier handed out the forms to the expectant looking girls who took them from her with polite thank-yous.

  Most of them finished well before the hour was up.

  Grier began collecting the papers and once she had them all, directed everyone to the adjoining room where refreshments had been set up.

  Priscilla and Andy Randall were the last two to leave the room, the look on Priscilla’s face again one of extreme disapproval.

  It was then that Grier glimpsed the woman sitting in the very last row. She wore a faded red sweater, and her once blonde hair was completely grey.

  Grier stared for a moment, stumbling, and then righting herself with the edge of a chair. She stood frozen, then turned for another look, the room again tilting around her.

  Silence swelled for several moments before the older woman said, “Grier. Hello.”

  Grier opened her mouth to respond, but not a single word would come out. Gil stood beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She shook her head, trying to clear the fog, and then took a lurching step forward through the door.

  “Grier!” the suddenly too familiar voice called out.

  But Grier kept going, walking faster and faster and then running, certain that if she looked back again, the pain in her chest would swallow her whole.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Don’t be fooled into thinking there will never be a day of reckoning. The past always catches up with us. One way or the other.

  - Advice Maxine’s grandmother had once given her

  Maxine sat staring at the closed door. Maybe it was true then that the piper had to be paid before anyone left this earth. If so, her tab had definitely come due.

  But wasn’t that the way it worked? Everything eventually coming to full circle? And what had she expected anyway? Open-armed forgiveness?

  “Would you like some water, ma’am?”

  Maxine glanced up, blinking the young girl standing before her into focus. “Thank you.”

  “You look pale,” the girl said.

  “It’s a little warm in here.”

  “I just came back to get my purse. But I can sit for a minute.” The girl took the empty chair next to her. “So how do you know Ms. McAllister?”

  Maxine took a sip of the water, rubbed her still-shaking thumb down one side of the bottle, silent.

  “I noticed that she looked kind of surprised when she saw you,” the girl explained.

  “I’m her mom,” she said in a low voice. “Guess that’s hard to believe, huh?”

  The girl looked at her then, her blue-eyed gaze considering. “She looks a little like you.”

  “Not much similarity now,” Maxine said, pressing one hand to her wrinkled cheek. “I’m Maxine, by the way. McAllister.”

  “Andy Randall.”

  Maxine rolled the name through her memory and said, “Your daddy is—”

  “Bobby Jack,” the girl finished for her.

  “I see the resemblance,” Maxine said.

  Andy glanced down at her hands. “People say I look like him.”


  Maxine nodded. “I haven’t seen him in a while, but from what I remember, looking like him would be a good thing.”

  Andy lifted a shoulder. “No one ever says I look like my mom.”

  “She’s—” Maxine stopped, the name eluding her.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Well, so are you.”

  Andy glanced up, shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  She made a face, the kind teenagers make when they think something an adult has said is particularly dumb. “I have a mirror.”

  Maxine considered this, and then, “Mirrors don’t always tell people the same things.”

  “I know what I see.”

  “What about what others see? Does that count?”

  Andy shifted in her chair. “Sometimes people tell you what they think you want to hear.”

  “That’s a lot of cynicism from someone so young,” Maxine said.

  “It’s true, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe sometimes.”

  Andy folded her arms across her chest and said, “Why was your daughter surprised to see you?”

  “We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

  “She lives in New York City, doesn’t she?”

  “That’s what I hear,” Maxine said.

  “Oh. Well, I, ah, guess she must be awfully busy being so successful and all.”

  “I imagine so.”

  An awkward silence followed the admission. When Andy spoke, it was in a careful voice. “Is she mad at you for something?”

  Maxine remained quiet for a bit before saying, “She is. And rightly so.”

  “What happened?”

  Maxine sighed, wondering why this girl was talking with her. She had long ago stopped believing in coincidence. Everything happened for a reason. And maybe that included the fact that Andy had found something of interest in an old woman who stood out like a sore thumb in this room full of beautiful young girls. “I wasn’t a very good mama,” she said.

  “Oh,” Andy said again. “Why?”

  The pain from earlier that morning stabbed across Maxine’s abdomen. Maxine drew in a sharp breath and then pressed her lips together.

  “Are you all right?” the girl asked, alarm widening her eyes.

  “Yes,” she said, releasing her breath and praying the pain wouldn’t renew its angry tirade. She sat for a moment, eyes closed, resting her head against the wall behind her chair.

  The girl put a hand on her arm and said, “Are you sure?”

  Maxine nodded, tried to look convincing.

  “You don’t look all right.”

  “I will be in a minute.”

  They sat without talking until the pain had lowered its volume to a throb. Maxine spoke then, her eyes still closed. “What about you and your mama? Are you two close?”

  “I guess that depends on what you mean by close,” Andy said. “We’re pretty different.”

  “How so?” Maxine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Andy said, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “Sometimes, I think I’m a disappointment to her.”

  At this, Maxine forced herself to open her eyes and look at the girl. “Now, I can’t imagine there being any truth in that.”

  “Some things are hard to miss. Even when you don’t want to see them.”

  Maxine felt a swell of tenderness for the girl, along with a dizzying sense of regret for the fact that she had never once sat and talked with her own daughter this way when she’d been Andy’s age.

  The door opened, and Andy’s mother stuck her head inside. “Andy, what in the world?”

  “I’m coming,” Andy said, standing.

  “Good luck,” Maxine said.

  “Thanks.” Andy straightened the waist of her slim skirt. “Will you be here when I come out?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay,” Andy said. “You’re all right though?”

  Maxine nodded. “Much better now,” she said.

  Andy left the room then, but not before glancing over her shoulder to give Maxine one of her pretty smiles.

  Maxine sat back again, closing her eyes under the sudden certainty that she did not belong here. She had been wrong to come. Wrong to think that Grier would want to see her. It was selfish, and she didn’t know why she hadn’t let herself realize that before now.

  This trip to Timbell Creek was about Grier, for Grier. It had nothing to do with her. There was so little she could give her daughter. She had nothing of material value to leave her, even if Grier would have accepted it from her. But what she could do for her daughter was leave her alone. Not stir up a past Grier so obviously wanted to forget.

  She could give her that. And she would.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Through the eyes of others, we’re very often significantly off the mark from our own interpretation. Maybe it’s safe to say the truth lies somewhere in between the two.

  - Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl

  Grier locked herself in the toilet stall and wilted against the wall, one hand to her chest. What was her mother doing here? How dare she just show up with no warning whatsoever?

  Fury replaced the confusion inside her, and she felt her face redden with it. She didn’t have to talk to her. She owed her nothing.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing her face again, reliving the shock of it after so many years.

  She looked. . .so old.

  Above all, this shocked Grier the most. Maybe she’d somehow imagined she would be the same. Her vibrant, too-pretty-for-her-own-good-mother. Not this worn out version of her.

  She stood this way for several minutes, aware that she had to get herself together, and fast. But she couldn’t seem to make herself move. It was as if, after all this time, she’d finally hit a solid wall of reality that refused to yield to any delusions she might be willing to entertain about her mother finally getting it together and turning her life around. All she’d needed was that single glimpse to tell her it had never happened. And if it had, it was just too little, too late.

  With the realization came a dousing wave of regret mingled with sadness. She opened her eyes and clawed her way to the top of it, refusing even for a moment to succumb. Harsh reality number one: we all make choices. Her mother had certainly made hers. Grier’s years of therapy had led her to the indisputably logical conclusion that she was not responsible for her mother’s choices. She wasn’t about to throw a hand grenade in the center of the perfectly manicured lawn of reason she and her therapist had spent so much time grooming.

  She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes, then her nose. She had a job to do. And once it was done, she would go back to New York, back to her real life.

  WHEN GRIER WALKED into the conference room a few minutes later, it was to the immediate realization that her mother was no longer there.

  Undeniable relief washed over her, and she felt as if she could finally breathe again. Shame nipped at the heels of the relief, but she pushed it away, unwilling to give it any pull.

  She used the time during which the girls were completing their questionnaires to catch up on voice mail messages from the office, mostly distracting herself from the unexpected encounter.

  Forty-five minutes later, Gil returned with the stack of questionnaires. Snacks had been set up in the other room for the girls during the wait while Grier quickly went through them.

  They had been given extremely specific parameters for an initial elimination. The duke was quite specific in his likes and dislikes. No airheads. GPA 3.4 or above. Dog lovers only. She could like him for that one. No fu-fu girls who disapproved of a few dog hairs, and if they weren’t cool with a dog in the house, then they weren’t the girl for him. That one alone knocked twenty-five out of the running. And then there was the question about why it was nice to have money.

  A: It made getting into clubs easier

  B: It was always nice to pamper yourself

  C
: It gave a person choices

  Surprisingly enough, his preferred answer was C. And that eliminated another twelve girls.

  The last question: what was the most important thing a guy could give a girl?

  A: Flowers

  B: A cool ride for dates

  C: Respect for his mother

  This one really made Grier wonder. What seventeen-year old boy would have written that? Maybe his mother had written it.

  That answer knocked out another sixteen girls, leaving the new total at thirty-two.

  “Well, that does it,” Gil said. “Guess we’ll go from here.”

  Grier felt a little sorry for the ones who would be leaving after this, but the thought of weeding her way through thirty-two determined and likely deserving girls made her wonder if she had been crazy to take this on.

  She put the non-eliminating questionnaires in a folder. “Now for the not so fun part,” she said to Gil. “Shall we bring them back in?”

  Gil went to the adjoining room and signaled that they were ready for them.

  A few minutes later, the girls were all reseated, staring at Grier with the same look in their eyes she had seen in the eyes of American Idol contestants right before their elimination. “Okay, everyone, as I said before, this initial elimination round is based on questions sent by George himself about the kind of girl he feels he’s most compatible with. And while I wish every one of you could be chosen to go to that ball with him, unfortunately, it will only be one of you. If I call your name, please follow Gil outside the room into the lobby area. Jessica Jameson, Holly Munroe, Tara Munson.”

  And so the names went on for another seventy or so, until the room was left with the girls who had not been eliminated. “You thirty-two young ladies will remain for the next round of consideration.”

  A cheer erupted in unison, the girls hugging one another and high-fiving. Grier’s gaze went to Andy Randall, still sitting beside her mother in the back row. Andy’s expression showed no emotion of any kind. Grier wondered whose idea it was for her to be here anyway.