Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis

  I assured myself that lots of people make lists and keep up with their favorite candidates when they watch beauty pageants. Logically, a woman who prioritized mail messages according to a mysterious system couldn’t resist listing and shuffling the local beauty pageant entries as well. Right?

  Too bad, a quiet voice in my head—one that sounded like a suspiciously amused Ida Hamilton Walker—kept whispering, All the signposts on the road to hell read “Denial.”

  I consoled myself with the fact that Josie McClure—one of our own local girls, since the Bailey Mill community is considered a suburb of Greater Mossy Creek—was still dead last on Sandy’s list of likely winners. That made me feel marginally better about whether accepting the chess pies had raised hopes where I shouldn’t have. All the same, I resolved that pie number four would be declined.

  So, with a semi-clear conscience, I donned a tux and prepared to do moral battle at the Bigelow High School Auditorium. As I waited for the pageant to begin, I smiled and nodded and tried not to wince when the high school’s concert band tuned up. I had honed the phrase, “ThankyouGladtobehere” into the perfect generic response to almost any comment.

  “Great tux!”

  “Good to see you!”

  “We appreciate you stepping in!”

  “We’re so happy you came back to Mossy Creek!”

  “Cheer up. It’ll be over soon.”

  “ThankyouGladtobehere.”

  Worked like a charm until Dwight Truman shook my hand. “I won’t forget how you helped my daughter out,” the chamber bigwig said.

  Since I hadn’t helped Sissy Truman with career plans or anything else, I’m sure my stare was as blank as my mind. “Beg pardon?”

  “Well, now, that disappoints me. Yes, it does. I thought you were a quick one. I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you.” He looked furtively over his shoulder to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard. The man looked like a guilty Ross Perot. “Surely you were aware that Battle and I always came to an understanding about these things?”

  I had better manners than to call him a liar, but liar he was. Battle would sooner have made a pact with the devil than Dwight Truman. Not because Dwight’s grandmother was a Democrat turned Republican. Not even because Dwight sold insurance and sucked up to Ham Bigelow, Georgia’s newest governor. Battle had a much stronger, if less concrete, reason than any of those.

  I remember joining him inside the voting curtains as a kid. He hesitated over the lever with Dwight Truman’s name for city council before finally flipping a different one. When I asked him why he changed his mind, he said, “Don’t matter how much sense he makes. You can’t vote for a man if you honestly think he’s capable of drowning a bag of kittens.”

  Staring into Dwight’s sunken-cheeked face, I decided Battle had a very good point. If I were a betting man, I’d guess Dwight had bullied small children for lunch money as a kid.

  He was about to shake me down as well. Or try. This would be interesting.

  Dwight sighed. “Look, Amos, I kept hoping the pageant would turn out as a landslide victory for Sissy, and that we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I’m nothing if not honest. Point of fact—this race is too close to call. That means you and I need to come to a little agreement, so we can make Mossy Creek and Sissy happy.”

  “Chances are that’s not going to happen in this lifetime.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m the budget chairman on the council. I don’t mind tellin’ you that we’ve got to make some cuts this year. That means that Sandy Crane’s job may well be on the casualty list. You’re going to be coming to me asking for a favor about that clerk of yours, boy. You’d best think about that.”

  “Oh, I’m thinking,” I assured him. Being the chief of police didn’t make me immune to violent impulses. Right now, I wanted to deck the weasel and haul him out of the auditorium by his ankle like the trash he was. But I had a contest to judge, so I clamped down on my temper and smiled at him. Must have been a miserable attempt, because he backed up a step as I answered.

  “What I’m thinking is that you’re going to find a seat and be very glad that I’m reluctant to embarrass your daughter by arresting you for trying to blackmail a judge.

  “When this pageant is over, I suggest you sharpen your budget pencil and find the money for my dispatcher. Otherwise, Sandy’ll be working for the Bigelow County sheriff, and you’ll be explaining to Miss Ida how that happened. Are we agreed?”

  Truman never got to answer. Ida did that for him. “Oh, I think we understand each other.”

  I stiffened and wondered where the hell she’d come from. Sly witch. Shrewd mayor.

  “Now, run along, Tru. I need to speak to our chief.”

  We watched him go and carried on a conversation without looking at each other. “The answer is the same for you, Ida.”

  “Yes, but you have to admit that my technique is vastly superior.”

  “Agreed, but you’re Southern and a woman. I believe that constitutes an unfair advantage.”

  “Why so it does.” She waved at her son Robert and daughter-in-law Teresa who were holding her seat. “You know, Battle would have handled Tru the same way. Made that same deal to avoid haulin’ him off to jail.”

  “I think I know that. And I’m sure if he were here, he’d have had an I told you so for me.”

  As the house lights began to dim, she looked at me finally, that slow, confident smile tipping up the corners of her mouth. “No. Battle would simply say we picked the right man for the job. Welcome home, Amos.”

  I smiled as the lights dimmed around us in the auditorium. “Thank you. Glad to be here.”

  The Bellringer

  by Katie Bell

  A weekly column of the Mossy Creek Gazette

  …Put away your guns. Stop egging the chief’s car.

  Some days the best you can hope for is a tie with Bigelow. That’s exactly what we had last Saturday night when the dust settled at the high school. Despite being contenders, Bigelow and Mossy Creek both lost with equal style and grace. And just as publicly.

  Bigelow’s Tiffany Clarkson showed plenty of “physical fitness” in the swimsuit competition. Our own Sissy Truman shined in the talent portion. (All bias aside, I’d have to say that girl picks a guitar and sings like a Dixie Chick.)

  But the evening gown competition was won by Rhonda Clifton from Yonder. Not only was she stunning, but she’d designed and sewn the dress herself.

  Three events. Three front-runners.

  There hasn’t been tension like that in the high school since…well, there’s never been that much tension. It came down to the all-important interview question.

  I don’t mind telling you that my sources report that first-time judge Amos Royden looked a bit unhappy most of the night. A lot of us think he had an easy job. That his vote should have been a slam-dunk for one of our Mossy Creek girls. But I’ve been giving this a little thought. Can you really blame the man for handing Rhonda Clifton the crown?

  Think about it.

  When asked to name the television character she most admired, the clever Rhonda promptly replied, “Andy Griffith, because you’ve got to admire a man who’s strong enough to take on a whole town. Even when the folks put him into the worst situations, he always cared about them and seemed glad to be there for them.”

  Personally, I think if she can think that fast on her feet…maybe it was time to send the crown out Yonder’s way.

  The Mossy Creek Gazette

  215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager

  Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope

  Cornwall, England

  Dear Lady Victoria,

  Like I’ve told you before, once you dip your toe in Mossy Creek, our magic claims you, and sooner or later, you come back home—unless Bigelows have put a price on your head, the way they did with Isabella and Richard. But more news on that as I get it organize
d.

  Anyway…about a year ago Dr. Hank Blackshear’s daddy died and Hank took over the Blackshear veterinary clinic. Hank’s young—only in his late twenties—but he’s already got a brand of Jimmy Stewart ‘aw, shucks’ kindness and wisdom about him. Used to be a real loner, a little homely and shy, wonderful with animals, but didn’t know how to fit in with people. Our librarian said when he was growing up he read Catcher In The Rye so many times she had to order a new copy.

  The last thing anybody in Mossy Creek expected was that he’d marry Casey Champion. Casey is a real looker and used to be the best athlete in the county. Most popular girl at Bigelow County High, daughter of Mossy Creek’s family doctor, Dr. Champion—a golden girl, you know? Not the bookish type, like Hank. If she ever read anything other than Glamour or Sports Illustrated, I don’t know it.

  Didn’t matter. They fell head over heels in love, but life’s handed them a pretty tough road to share. That road brought them both home to Mossy Creek. You’ve heard that saying, “It takes a village to raise a child?” Well, around here we like to say, “It takes a town to remember a child’s dream.”

  And this year, we tried to help Hank and Casey remember theirs.

  Your friend,

  Katie “Play Ball” Bell

  Casey

  Casey At The Bat

  We had a dry summer in Mossy Creek the year I turned fourteen, and the leaves were coloring early. The woods would soon look like they’d been splatter painted with deep reds and bright yellow. Above the Blue Ridge Mountains, the September sky was so blue I wanted to swim in it. I didn’t know it then, but that afternoon my life was about to follow a path that would change it forever.

  I threw my head back and filled my lungs to bursting with the private joy of the moment. As I ran along a hiking trail up in the mountains just north of town, I felt a blinding rush of excitement. My legs took flight. I was Mossy Creek’s finest girl athlete, the best softball player anyone could ever remember. People were already predicting I’d make a college team someday, and maybe even the Olympics. “Here I come world, ready or not,” I shouted, and felt the breeze snatch the words right out of my mouth, erasing them before they’d been given sound.

  That’s when I plowed into Hank Blackshear, the son of our local veterinarian. He loved the hiking trails, too. I tripped him just well enough for him to go headfirst down a slope covered in head-high, thorny blackberries. I scrambled down after him and gasped in horror when I found him laying face down, covered in small red scratches. I thought he was dead. The headlines of the Mossy Creek Gazette flashed in my mind: Local Doctor’s Daughter Found Guilty Of Murder. I knelt beside him.

  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you,” I babbled. “Are you hurt? Can you walk? I’ll help you down to the road. I’ve got a bicycle. Maybe you can sit on it, and I’ll push you into town.”

  He untangled himself, stood up, and grinned. “Thanks for the help, kid, but I’m leaving for the university this afternoon. I’m fine, honest I am.”

  That’s when it happened. As sappy as it sounds, I knew what love at first sight meant. Of course, we’d grown up in the same town, so I had seen him over the years. But suddenly I was on the verge of womanhood, and Hank looked different. I started to smile in return. I couldn’t help it. This tall, lanky seventeen-year-old wearing skimpy running shorts simply looked at me, and my heart melted.

  “You’re leaving town?” I said.

  “Yeah, kid, I am.” He looked happy about it.

  Kid? Here I was falling in love with a boy who had eyes the color of that September sky, and he was looking at me as if he thought I was some ponytailed teenybopper.

  Didn’t matter. At three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, on the side of a mountain overlooking Mossy Creek, my life changed forever. I fell in love with Hank Blackshear.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “I’ll wait.”

  He gave me an odd look, ruffled my hair, climbed back up the slope, and jogged away.

  Looking back on that day, I don’t know why I ever thought it would be simple to catch up with him by the time I was old enough to earn more than a pat on the head. But then, I’d never let common sense stand in the way of my dreams. I was Casey Champion, daughter of Mossy Creek’s beloved family doctor, Dr. Chance Champion, who had once played minor league baseball. Since Daddy loved baseball, when I was born he talked Mama into naming me Casey, after “Casey At The Bat,” the famous baseball poem. Someday, I was going to be chosen for the Olympic softball team and make Daddy proud. And someday I was going to marry Hank Blackshear.

  A few years later, about the time I graduated from high school, Hank received his undergraduate degree from the University of Georgia. His father had a mild heart attack, and Hank returned to Mossy Creek to help out at the Blackshear Veterinary Clinic all summer. I fell even more madly in love with Hank. But he was busy and worried about his father and the struggle he’d gone through. He planned to enter veterinary school at the university that fall. He still saw me as a little girl. Nothing had changed.

  Didn’t matter. I followed him around, anyway. He was very patient, explaining that he was too old for me, too poor compared to a doctor’s daughter, and he had a lot of hard work in his future. No time for dating. He didn’t say I looked like a high-maintenance kind of girl, but I’m sure he thought it. He finally gave up being Mr. Nice Guy and bluntly told me I was a distraction he didn’t have time for. My heart was broken, but I still didn’t give up on him. For the first seventeen years of my life, I’d gotten everything I wanted, except Hank. And I wasn’t done yet.

  With a name like Casey Champion, it never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t accomplish what I’d set out to do. After all, I’d won a softball scholarship to the university. I had the Olympics in my future. Hank wouldn’t ignore me when I wore a gold medal around my neck.

  That August, I packed my belongings and drove down to the university in my new convertible—a graduation present from my father. I was a college freshman, now. Not a kid, anymore. Away from Mossy Creek, Hank would see me differently. I was sure of it.

  But Hank was busy in vet school classes and working the part-time job he needed to pay his tuition. He headed the other way every time I got close to him. All right, so I’d get his attention on the softball field. By the time I was a sophomore in the school of education and he was a second year vet student I was making a name for myself playing fast pitch ball for the UGA women’s team. I was a star.

  Hank remained oblivious.

  Then, one morning at the university track, fate stepped in. I was out for my morning run, head down, going full steam. You guessed it. I ran into him, again. I took him down like an NFL tackle. I fell on top of him. He was wearing running shorts and no shirt. I noticed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, planting my hands on either side of his bare chest. “Are you hurt?”

  “You again?” he said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t plan this. I swear.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “I give up. I can’t avoid you, and I can’t forget about you.”

  “It’s about time.” I caught his face in my hands and kissed him.

  He laughed helplessly and kissed me back.

  From that point on we were together—and wildly in love. The next year, Hank accepted an internship with Angel Memorial Hospital in New York City, where he’d specialize in research and surgery. My coach recommended me to an Olympic scout. It was May. The world was in bloom, all pink and white and sweet.

  That’s when I proposed.

  “Hank, let’s get married.”

  “We will,” he promised.

  “I mean now. Tonight. You know Mother will want a big wedding, and that will take weeks. Since I’m going to be trying out for the Olympic team, I may not be able to finish my classes early and graduate along with you. And I’m not going to let you go to New York without me.”

  “Look, I know you say I’m too practical-minded, but I’m right this time
. You stay in school and play on the Olympic team. I’ll go to New York, and we’ll make it work out. Then we’ll have the big wedding and all the trimmings. I love you, Casey. I want everything in our lives to be solid.”

  I knew he was smart, but I refused to give up. “Dr. Blackshear, there are three things I want in my life: I want you. I want to see the world, and I want to play on the USA Olympic Softball Team. I’m scared something will happen if we wait. Let’s get in my car, find a place that allows quickie weddings, and get married tonight. We practically live together, anyway. Think of the money we’d save.”

  “I’m thinking of you being Casey Blackshear,” he said gently. “I’m thinking that just once I’m going to do something that isn’t practical. Because I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than marry you right now.”

  I kissed him and cried. “See? Just listen to me, and we’ll both get everything we want.”

  “I’ve got you,” he said. “That’s everything I need.”

  The justice of the peace who performed the ceremony was late for a dance at the American Legion Hall and rushed through the service. It was simple. It was quick, but it was glorious. Hank and I couldn’t have been happier in a fine chapel with a thousand guests watching.

  Mentally, I marked off the first of my three life objectives—marrying Hank. Moving to New York took care of another dream. All I had left was the Olympics, and that was straight ahead.

  On the way back to the university, we put the top down on my convertible and let the sweet scent of honeysuckle fill the air. The world was ours—until Hank swerved to avoid a deer that dashed across the highway in the darkness. He lost control, and the convertible shot off the road into a grove of oaks. I remember him flinging one arm out to hold me, but too late. My side of the car slammed into a tree. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. I was thrown from the car.