“Hey, Chief! You gonna play, too?” She grabbed my hand and swung it back and forth as we walked back to her dad.
“I think I’m a little too big for your league.”
“Bubba Rice is going to play. He’s as big as you. Daddy promises we can crush Bigelow.”
Win Allen and his alter ego, Bubba, were indeed as big as me. I slowed, let go of Little Ida’s hand. Details I’d ignored suddenly formed a crisp picture in my mind. Little Ida wasn’t dressed for soccer. She had play clothes on. Regular tennis shoes. Her hair wasn’t pulled back. Rob had on sweats and cleats and was expertly herding the ball with his feet as he sprinted over. When he stopped the ball, flipped it up with his foot and bounced it on his knee before snatching it from the air . . . well . . . I knew that Dwight’s definition of hooligans and mine were very, very different.
Car doors slammed behind me. No doubt the rest of the hooligans were arriving. I twisted to get a quick look. Strapping big hooligans, one and all.
While we waited for them to stroll over, I stated the obvious to Rob. “You’re putting together an adult soccer team.”
“Yep.” He didn’t volunteer anything else, just waited.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Nope.”
I nodded slowly—absorbing his answer, checking the faces beginning to line up behind him. They were almost all younger than me. I’ll admit that stung. I didn’t think I was a vain man, but I was more than unhappy at the thought of being officially past my prime. Judging from the vague apprehension on the faces and hastily averted gazes there had at least been some discussion about inviting me to join the team. Win Allen, who had managed to crack the age barrier and uphold our generation’s honor, shrugged as if to say, he’d tried to sway them. He made eye contact with me and very deliberately cut his eyes toward Rob, the only player not the least bit embarrassed.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Rob’d been the deciding factor. Maybe the only dissenting vote. I’d bet money on it. Sometime between last fall and this moment, Rob Walker had taken a dislike to me. A subtle one. I sure hadn’t noticed. Until now. Only one transgression of mine would cause the quiet challenge in the stare Rob directed at me. That transgression was personal and had nothing to do with foot speed. As awkward as the next few minutes might turn out to be, I was more than a little relieved to realize my foot speed was no longer the problem. Hell, I was downright cheery as I crossed my arms and returned his stare.
“Sorry, folks, but we’ve had a complaint.”
That startled them all. “About us?” three or four of them chorused in unison. Even Rob’s expression lost some of its confidence. “About what?”
“You don’t have a permit to assemble on city property.”
Again, the guys responded in disgusted unison. “Dwight.”
Rob tossed his ball at Dan McNeil. “You start practice while I straighten this out.”
Funny. To my ears, the word this sounded an awful lot like Amos. Apparently he was going to straighten me out. If I’d been Battle I might have taken offense. But I wasn’t Battle. I was, however, his son and blood will tell. “Yeah. Y’all hit the field. Rob and I will get a few things straight.”
I think I must have been wearing my “scary smile.” The one Sandy says gets people’s attention. The team took the field so fast I began to believe they could handily crush Bigelow. Dan called for passing drills, and Rob told Little Ida to scavenge runaway balls for them. I watched her take off and then turned back to Rob.
“Which first? Personal or soccer? And let’s walk. Ground’s too cold to stand still long.” I didn’t give him any choice about following.
“I wasn’t aware we had any personal business.”
That made me smile for real. “She’s your mother. I think that qualifies as personal. How’d you guess? I’m sure Ida hasn’t said a word.”
“Not one. You used to tick her off on a regular basis. We’d hear about it at Sunday dinner. And then one day, we didn’t. I wondered why. I watched her. I watched you. I don’t like it. Leave her alone, Amos.”
“Or what? You’ll kick me off the softball team? What are you? Twelve?”
He opened his mouth and shut it. Twice. Suddenly he relaxed his shoulders and called a truce. “It was all I could do to keep you off the soccer team and I only managed that because no one had ever seen you play soccer.”
“That’s disappointing. They should have trusted me to figure it out.”
“Yeah.” His mouth tightened a little. “I know. You put your mind to something and you figure it out. Always have. I don’t know how but you figured out Mother. You got her running scared.”
“As long as she runs in any direction but Del Jackson’s, I can live with that.”
“Current problems aside, he’s a good man.”
“Del’s an idiot. He and that clingy wife of his are a train wreck waiting to happen. I’m angling to pick up the pieces.”
“Angle for a different fish.”
“I got this one on the line.”
He snatched the ball cap off his head and whacked his thigh good, struggling not to say something. Failing. “Dammit, Amos. You’re not that much older than me.”
“Yeah, your mother’s hung up on that, too. Must be genetic.”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. She’s a grown woman, Rob. I am more than a few years older than you. Not that it matters because I couldn’t care less if you approve. I’m not asking for your blessing. I’m just asking you to get out of the way if Ida looks in my direction. Ida will cross just about anybody to get what she wants. Except you.”
He jammed the hat on his head and paced in a circle. “Is she putting up with Del’s nonsense because she’s afraid of what I’d say if she dated you?”
I shrugged and stuck my hands in my pockets. “Ida does what Ida wants. But I wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t think your opinion about the men she dates mattered to Ida.”
A noise similar to a strangling cat came out of his mouth. “Arrgh. Dating you. This could go wrong in so many ways.”
“Absolutely. Want me to list them?” I raised my eyebrows and held up a thumb, ready to go.
“No. I won’t be able to sleep tonight as it is.”
“Out of curiosity . . . you have a talk like this with Del?”
Shaking his head, he turned back toward his players. “Nah.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a good man but he’s not in the same league as my father. His potential to break her heart is limited.”
Rob was ten feet away before I realized my feet weren’t moving. I was still trying to process the bomb he’d dropped. Whatever problems remained between Ida and me, Rob wouldn’t be one of them. He’d paid me what was probably the highest compliment in his arsenal and then warned me not to break his mother’s heart. I had no intention of hurting Ida so I was okay with the unspoken warning.
Unfortunately I still had Dwight and the damned permit to deal with. “Hold up, Rob. We need to talk about the permit.”
Arms spread wide, Rob whirled back to me. “Come on, Amos! The permit nonsense is a bunch of bull. You know that. You aren’t seriously telling me that we can’t practice here. Give us a break. I’ve already ordered team uniforms. And I’ve lined up a corporate sponsor.”
“Let me guess. Hamilton’s Department Store.”
“Being the store’s executive manager and a major stockholder has its perks.”
I looked around. There wasn’t much of anything that could be hurt. Someone could break a leg but the risk wasn’t any greater than over at the baseball diamond. I didn’t roust every bunch of kids taking the field over there. Besides, Dwight’s problem wasn’t the permit or the damage to the football field.
No,
thanks to my own little reaction to being excluded from the soccer club, I had a very good idea why Dwight’s panties were in a bunch. And I was human enough to enjoy dropping a little bomb of my own.
“Rob, you can practice here if you add at least one more man to the roster.”
“You mean you.”
“Nope.”
“Then I don’t need anyone else.”
“Yeah, you do. I bet Dwight’s pretty fast now that he’s been doing all the bike training.”
“Dwight? You want me to ask Dwight? That’s why he complained? Because his feelings were hurt? You gotta be kidding. Asking him is going to make the permit problem go away?”
I shrugged and dug some sun glasses out of my pocket. “Forget the permit. I’d do it because he’d make one nightmare of a goalie. Nothing’s gotten past that man in years. But it’s your call.”
Smiling, I settled my sunglasses and headed to my Jeep. Rob was sputtering behind me, but I kept walking. The phone was already ringing. I’d had the station phone forwarded to my cell. I didn’t have Caller ID but I knew who was calling without looking.
Mercury in retrograde.
AT LEAST THIS CRISIS came with more coffee. Jayne had been vague on the phone. She had something to tell me and a problem she wanted handled. Wouldn’t tell me the something until after I’d handled the problem. Just when I thought she had good sense she joined the ranks of the cryptic. I hated cryptic. Didn’t have much use for shades of gray either.
I saw the problem as soon as I circled around the square. Jayne had a squatter. Right there in front of her store, big as life, was a first-class lemonade stand, only this one sold hot chocolate. Seventy-five cents. Not only was he in front Jayne’s shop, he was competing with the Methodists and the hot chocolate stand at their festival, in the park just across the street.
Poster board was neatly lettered and taped to hang down from the edge of a card table. Several thermos bottles sat to one side of the tabletop along with cups and napkins. I couldn’t tell what, but he had a paperweight holding down the napkins.
I parked the Jeep and watched the kid—the Greevy boy—tidy his business. When I got out he perked up, ready to make eye contact and a sale. Good technique. I had a psychic vision that this one would be class president or die trying. All the Greevys had red hair and glasses. This one had big feet, the kind of feet that would make a basketball coach happy someday. He was mid-chest on me already.
“Afternoon, Chief. It’s a cold one. A little hot chocolate would probably taste good, huh?”
“Pour me up one.” I fished in my wallet and pulled out a buck. “What are you planning to do with your profit? A good cause?”
He hesitated for a second as he made change. “No cause. Well, maybe a lost cause.”
“How so?”
“You know anything about women?”
“Nothing useful.”
I frowned at Jayne through the window. Her face instantly disappeared. “But I’m willing to learn. What’s your problem?”
“Scarlet Masterson.”
I took the cup. “Don’t believe I know her.”
“Wish I didn’t. I didn’t even like girls ‘til her. Now I’m out here in the cold selling hot chocolate so next month I can get her a better Valentine’s present than the other guys in the class. Plus Chip Brown’s cousin, Rory, is in town. He gets all the girls. If I knew Scarlet liked him—or any other guy—better than me, I could just not embarrass myself. But I don’t know, so I’m out here. You know if a girl likes you, she just ought to tell you. There ought to be rules or something.”
“Rules would be good.” We nodded silently, in complete agreement with each other. Then I paid him for his hot chocolate and asked him not to set up shop in front of any food establishments in the future. He said that was a rule he could live with. I left him to pack up and found Jayne.
“Problem solved. Now, cough up the intel.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’ll like it less if you make me wait.”
She actually wrung her hands. “Sandy just reported in from a reconnaissance mission out at Hope Settles’ apple farm. She confirmed what we both suspected. Hope and Marle just got home from North Carolina. Ingrid picked Hope up at the farm, then they met up with Ida. The three of them are headed to Atlanta to confront the governor. The ‘old paperwork’ is the deed to the Sitting Tree property. They found the deed. There’s going to be serious trouble at the governor’s mansion.”
I was dialing before she stopped talking. I had the key in the ignition before the county dispatcher put my call through to the governor’s security detail. I was already on the road when they agreed not to do anything until I got there.
Before this day was done, Ida and I were going to agree on a few rules.
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs, Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ
United Kingdom
Hello, again, Vick!
I’ve got lots more to tell you about our rambunctious winter day, but I just want to mention that there’s no ill will between me and Patty Campbell over that little estate sale incident. I mean, okay, she beat me to the quilt, fair and square. That’s what I get for not working out on the treadmill since Thanksgiving. I was a little off my game. But I’m back in the gym now, and next time Patty grabs for an heirloom quilt, I promise you, she’ll find herself holding nothing but a few threads and a tuft of cotton batting.
I’m very busy in town right now, following up tips and leads on the local New Year’s resolution breakers. You know, it’s strange how people don’t appreciate a friendly reminder that they failed at their good intentions.
More winter gossip coming atcha,
From your quilt-less friend,
Katie
Chapter 7
Never get between a woman and her bad habits.
Resolutionary War
MY NAME IS PEARL Quinlan and I’m a carbo-holic. A fat-aholic, too.
As testament to my addiction, I’d just spent the last five minutes determining how I could sneak a pack of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls out of my sister Spiva’s stash at home without her noticing.
“They were on sale at the Sam’s Club in Bigelow,” was Spiva’s excuse for purchasing a jumbo crate of my all-time favorite snack cake. If caught, lying and blaming my pet ferret, Twinkie, would be my best line of defense. I wondered if Spiva knew ferrets didn’t like sweets.
I glanced up at the clock on the wall behind my register at Mossy Creek Books and Whatnots, then checked my wristwatch. Fourteen minutes to closing. I shut down at two o’clock on Saturday afternoons in the winter. I’d best stop thinking about cream filling and start adding my register.
My store had done a pretty brisk business today, despite the cold, since a lot of people visited the town square for the Mt. Gilead Methodist Church January fundraiser. I realize most churches don’t conduct fundraisers in the heart of winter. They prefer the spring. Creekites, however, like to be different. After all, we are the town with a motto that says we “ain’t going nowhere, and don’t want to.”
Well, before I’d been coveting my sisters’ snack cakes, I’d been trying to put out of mind all the delicious baked goods being offered just across the street from me. Ever since Doc Champion had me on strict orders to lower my cholesterol, visions of fried pies and brownies danced in my head. Not surprising, I know, especially for the woman who usually wins the Bigelow County apple butter contest and has the size eighteen Levi’s to prove that she eats it, too. For the past three weeks though, I’d been making an honest attempt at following Doc’s advice. All short-nosed Quinlans end
up with high cholesterol, and I was going to be the one who won the battle the hard way—through diet and exercise. So far, I’d lost ten pounds and an inch around my considerable middle.
Spiva, who is both my older sister and my roommate, is also a brown-haired, short-nosed Quinlan who packs weight on her middle. She was diagnosed with high cholesterol long before me. And with the way we chow down, it’s no wonder the town thinks of us as the dynamic duo of artery-clogging, gastronomic delights. We did name our charitable organization the Chubby Cherubs with good reason—we are chubby, and we like to do good works.
Although Spiva takes her medication faithfully, what she does three times a week on a dilapidated treadmill Patty Campbell found for her at a garage sale can’t truly be called exercise. She doesn’t even break a sweat. And she continues to eat whatever she wants, which, quite frankly, irritates the heck out of me. The only joy in all of this deprivation is that I seem to be irritating the heck out of her, too.
Doc Campbell told me at the first of November that I might be able to forgo the cholesterol-lowering medications if I cut back the fat and carbs and started exercising. I liked the idea of accomplishing my goal without the drugs and committed to it. Then I ignored the doctor’s advice because I couldn’t start a diet and exercise program with Thanksgiving and Christmas looming on the horizon.
Two days after a snowy, house-bound, full-eats Christmas, I realized that I didn’t have much time left to effect a change in my March blood work. By New Year’s Eve, amid the splendor of the town’s annual gala at the Hamilton Inn and after consuming a plate full of stuffed mushrooms, mini-quiches, shrimp cocktail, and those scrumptious little pigs-in-blankets, the combination of fat-laden foods and the sweet Asti Spumante went to my head. I announced my resolution to one and all. This chubby cherub had seen the light. I would lower my cholesterol by my March appointment with Doc Champion.
A Day in Mossy Creek Page 10
