by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
Tag, still holding the ice bag to his eye, squinted at our police chief for help.
Amos shook his head. I could tell he was observing the stalemate unhappily. He had one of his grim Thankyougladtobehere expressions.
Tag sighed. “Chief, I don’t intend to press any charges. But I do want to go on record—I don’t like being rolled by little old ladies.”
Amos nodded and looked at me. “Maggie, I’ll let her off the hook this time, but you’ve got to do something. We’re getting more and more new people around town—and they don’t know her. If this rumor about Ham Bigelow running for President is true, over the next few years we’ll be swarmed with visitors. Someone will press charges, and then there’ll be real trouble for her. You don’t want her to end up in Judge Blakely’s courtroom, do you?”
I sagged. “No. You’re right.” I faced Tag. “I apologize again, and I swear she won’t steal anything else from you. I’ll find the tiara and return it.”
“Listen, she can keep the tiara. I was planning to donate it to the theater. My ex-wife wore it when she was in a touring company of Cinderella.”
“Oh, your ex-wife played the starring role?”
“Nah, she was one of the evil stepsisters.” He smiled. “Typecasting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I must attract crabby women who like tiaras.”
“Are you saying my mother is evil, too?”
He feigned fear and held up a hand to protect himself. “Please, Daughter of the She-Werewolf, don’t twist my words. Let me live.”
I walked out.
I spent some time wandering the town, looking for mother, but didn’t find her. When I got back home, my beautiful yard roses didn’t seem nearly so lovely. The hot sunshine felt cold. Entering the shop, I breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of vanilla, cinnamon, lavender, and roses. The scents in the shop usually had a calming effect, but they did little to help today.
I walked to the stairs. “Mother! Are you up there?”
No answer. I didn’t really expect her to be back yet. When she went on one of her little shoplifting expeditions, she didn’t usually come straight home. That was the strangest part of her hobby. I never found any of the items she took. Over the years, there had been a toaster, a fancy garter from the Mossy Creek Bridal Shoppe, a golden heart necklace, a pair of lace gloves, and even a small, decrepit trunk from the Up The Creek Flea Market. How could she steal something as big as a trunk and not be seen? Even Battle Royden, Amos’s legendary father and police chief, had never been able to ferret out Mother’s stolen treasures. And, believe me, for years I had searched the entire town myself.
I made a cup of tea and settled down to meditate for a few minutes. All right, I admitted it: My mother might be a Mossy Creek institution, but now she needed to be put in a Mossy Creek institution. I thought of Magnolia Manor, our nursing home. In her better days, Mother had done a lot of volunteer work there. She had known most of the staff and residents all her life. Unfortunately, they knew her, too. Just recently, she’d stolen a flower arrangement from the lobby.
I heard a sound outside and jumped up.
“Mother?” I called and swung the door open. It was Smokey. “Hi. Come on in.”
He leaned down and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Howdy, Mags. What’s up?”
I smiled at him. Tall and lanky with beautiful brown eyes, so comforting, so comfortable. There were times when even I didn’t understand why he didn’t make my heart race. “It’s Mother. She went AWOL, again.” I told him what had happened.
“Anything I can do? You want me to go look for her?” Smokey knew her habits almost as well as I did, maybe better. “I could radio the smoke tower and—”
“No, that’s real nice of you, but unless Mother sets herself on fire, I don’t think your idea will help.”
Smokey looked crestfallen. I patted his arm distractedly. “But thanks.”
“You okay, Mags? You want a hug, or something? You always get this faraway look in your eyes when we talk. Sometimes I think you need your hearing checked.”
For some reason, I was thinking of Tag Garner, wondering why a man like him would set up a studio in a small town like Mossy Creek. He belonged down in Buckhead, Atlanta’s ritzy art district, where rich socialites and country clubbers would quickly pay a small fortune for his work. And what had he said about playing pro football? I rubbed my forehead, trying to remember anything other than the color of his eyes. They were the softest gray.
“Mags?”
“Huh?”
Smokey sighed. “Deaf, again,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry.”
“Look, I know about this Garner guy. About twenty years ago, he played football for the Atlanta Falcons.”
Omigod. Now I understood why Tag Garner was vaguely familiar. Despite my flower-child roots, I loved rock ‘em, sock ‘em sports in general and Falcons football in particular. Smokey watched my face closely. “You want me to go have a man-to-man talk with this smart-alecky Garner? I hear he has a streak of blue in his hair, now. He’s an insult to American sports. He’s some kind of Communist, I bet. I wouldn’t mind punching him if I had to.”
“Don’t you dare. This problem is something I have to work out myself. I’m just trying to take care of Mother. At the moment, in fact, I’m just trying to find Mother.”
“You know, hmmm, uh, Margaret—” he stumbled over his words as he put a hand over his heart—”if you married somebody, uh, like me, uh, I could help you keep her in line.”
“I appreciate the offer, as always, but you and I aren’t even dating.”
“We could. Uh, date. How’s about we take in the new kickboxing movie down at the Bigelow Big Cine-Plex? Or go to dinner and then stop by that big sports outfitter’s place at the Bigelow Mall? We could look at the new deer rifles.”
It suddenly dawned on me that life was full of compromises, I mean, it really dawned, not in the way we mull over thoughts like reciting a quote of the day, but in the stomach-twisting way of long, hard experience and grim reality. I needed help with Mother. I was fifty years old. I needed to start compromising and learn to take my blessings where I found them. I looked up at Smokey with a little twist of defeat in my heart. “You know, I’ll think about going out with you, I really will. Ask me again, soon.”
“That’s a yes!” He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on the forehead. “Hot damn, we’ve got a date!”
My door chimes tinkled. Amos walked in. “Hi, Smokey. Please tell me Maggie’s mother chased a skunk and you found her, too.”
Smokey grinned. I heard another car pull up outside. I looked through the window but didn’t recognize the classic Corvette. I did recognize the driver. Tag Garner. He didn’t look happy. “Uh, oh. Here’s trouble with a black eye and Mother’s denture imprints,” I said.
Tag took my steps two at a time and crossed the veranda quickly. He opened the shop’s door so hard my little chimes jangled violently. “Mommie Dearest came back,” he announced flatly. “And stole Cinderella’s glass slippers.” I groaned. He gave me and my shop a sardonic once-over, then added, “Would you tell her that nobody in her right mind wants my ex-wife’s size ten shoes?”
Tag and I sat on my back porch swing and sipped herbal tea. I fought back tears. I’d sent Smokey and the chief away, so they wouldn’t see me cry. But I owed Mr. Garner some waterworks. I suppose I hoped he’d feel sorry for me and forgive Mother. I felt sorry for myself.
“Don’t cry,” he ordered. “I have a syndrome called, hmmm, Active Sympathetic Knee-jerk Boo-Hoo Condition. I cry automatically when women cry. There’s no cure.”
I wiped my eyes and couldn’t help smiling. “Tell me something. Why the heck did you dye a blue streak in your hair? I mean, if you were a twenty-year-old punk rocker, I could understand—”
“When I hit fifty, I decided to do whatever appealed to me. And I like blue.” He paused. “When I was twenty, I was too busy trying to become the greatest foot
ball player ever. I missed out on just being goofy.”
“You’re not goofy.” I paused perfectly. “Dopey, I think. Or Grumpy. But not Goofy.”
He threw back his head and roared, then sloshed blackberry tea on himself and laughed some more. He nodded toward the shop. “I like this place. Smells great. Brings out the worst in me.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m going to buy some of your potpourri.”
“Are you gay?”
He laughed, again. I warmed up to him. I couldn’t help myself. The only time I’d offered Smokey some potpourri he’d asked me what kind of soup it made. “I’ll mix you a custom bag,” I told Tag. “I see you as a thyme-rose-mint kind of man.”
“Oh? Most women see me as a smelly socks-tequila-burrito kind of man. But only when they’re being polite.” To the sounds of my laughter, he added, “Okay, okay, thyme-rose-mint, then.” He picked up a candle off the windowsill near the swing, and sniffed it like a wine steward sampling the aroma of a fine Bordeaux. “Muskadoodle berry. My favorite.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘muskadoodle berry.’ That’s vanilla you smell.”
“Ah, vanilla. Smells just like muskadoodle. My shop will smell like an ice cream cone. Got any chocolate sprinkles?”
I led him inside and packaged up a candle and some potpourri. “Here, let me give you this, too.” I handed him a fragrance ring I’d soaked in orange oils. I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation about fragrances with a former professional football player who had a blue streak in his pony tailed hair and a sense of the absurd that made me want to tickle him just to hear him laugh. He twirled the fragrance ring around a forefinger. The delicate scent of citrus perfumed the air between us. I found myself smiling at him with giddy enjoyment. “I love oranges,” I said.
His eyes warmed me. “Call me sometime, and we’ll squeeze a few.” I laughed, blushed, then stopped smiling and gazed at him wistfully. He returned the scrutiny and leaned closer. “I don’t know any other way to say this, Maggie Hart, but are you and Smokey engaged or something?”
“Engaged? No, we’re…well, you see, we…” How could I explain an inexplicable relationship? One I didn’t understand myself. “I guess the best thing to say is that we’re comfortable with each other.”
“Comfortable? Hmm. Doesn’t sound very exciting to me. Want to be uncomfortable with a man?”
“I could stand it,” I said in a small voice.
“So what about tomorrow night?”
Red danger lights flashed in my head, warning me against beginning a relationship with another artistic type. But this man was different. Tag was an artistic-ex-footballer type who let my mother beat him up.
“Tomorrow?” I breathed.
“How about I take you to dinner some place?”
“What time?”
“When can you leave?”
“Pretty much anytime. I own the shop. I can let myself off early.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up around four.” He plucked a rose from the water bowl I’d arranged that morning. With a smile that sent the summer heat rippling through me, he tucked it behind my ear, then grinned and walked out. I closed the shop’s glass door behind him and watched him through its Victorian curlicues until he climbed into his Corvette, waved, and drove off. I walked back to my roses and stared into the bowl. What in the world had I just agreed to?
Mother needed stability. If I encouraged Smokey, I’d have a husband. If I gave Mother a son-in-law, maybe her nutty perspective on life would calm down. Maybe she stole things to make up for having no son-in-law and no grandchildren. There wasn’t much I could do about the latter.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted to talk to Mother about life and love and stealing joy.
I wandered into my shop’s office and sat down, staring at a poster of an ivy trellis in a French courtyard. Tangled. Relationships could get tangled so quickly. One date with Tag could insult Smokey and end our potential future together. Maybe I should cancel my date with Tag. That way, everything would remain the same, and I wouldn’t be agonizing over this.
The shop’s front door opened, interrupting my waffling. I darted out of my office. Mother sauntered in, humming quietly. She was a staunch old lady, looking deceptively delicate in white cotton pants and a flower-embroidered t-shirt. “Maggie, dear, I’m home.”
“Mother, why did you beat up Mr. Garner and steal his tiara?”
“Because I was testing him! And he passed! I like him! He’s kind to old ladies even when they bite him!” She settled on a wicker lounge among baskets of dried flowers, and smiled. “I think he’s the perfect man for us.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask where the tiara was.
Tag picked me up in the Corvette, top down, and whisked me away. We drove north, crossed the North Carolina state line, and climbed into mountains so high and rugged they take a person’s breath away. I guided him to a picnic site overlooking miles of mountains and coves. We munched on yummy fried chicken, made by Tag himself, potato salad, and iced tea while we watched a glorious Appalachian sunset. I honestly believe I’ve never seen a more stirring sight. The mauves, golds, and blues were magnificent. Then we marveled at the clarity of each star as it twinkled into view above us. “Can you see?” I asked Tag, studying the way he squinted with his bruised eye.
He smiled bravely. “I can’t quite make out the dip in the Big Dipper.”
I pointed skyward. “There, One Eye, there it is.” We leaned close together, our faces nearly touching as we gazed up at the night sky. My heart raced. “You smell like roses,” I said. “That’s wonderful.”
“Ah hah! The bait works!”
What a great evening it was.
By the time we returned home, I realized that some men just know the meaning of a romantic date and others don’t. Tag did. The light kiss he brushed against my lips left me wanting more. He whistled happily as he went down my veranda steps and then turned to smile. What a smile! What a handsome face—in spite of his black eye.
“Maggie,” he began and then hesitated. He looked as if he were in a mental feud over something. “Aw, hell.” He bounded back up the steps and took me in his arms. Before I could whisper his name, his lips claimed mine in the most sensuous kiss I can ever remember. When he drew away to look down into my eyes, I was gasping for breath. It was as though my entire body molded itself against him involuntarily when he kissed me again.
“You taste good,” he said.
“You smell good.”
“This time, roses. Next time…muskadoodle berry.”
I burst out laughing. He grinned as he drove away.
There was clearly something lacking in my life. Emotions that had been dormant for years sputtered to life. Leaning against the veranda’s railing for support, I tried to decide what to do next. I couldn’t go in, not yet. Going in would mean returning to reality, and I didn’t want reality intruding on feelings I had yet to identify. I settled into the veranda swing and pushed off, letting the swing lull me back into the sweet memory of the evening. I hugged myself and sighed deeply.
All is right with the world, I thought. At least until Smokey finds out about Tag.
Oklahoma! opened the next night. Mother and I always attended premiere performances at the Mossy Creek Theater. I nodded at her excited chitchat as we waited for the curtain to rise, but my mind was anywhere but on the play. Tag waved at me from a row nearby. Mother pretended not to notice.
At intermission, Tag stopped me as I went to the concession stand for drinks. Like a schoolgirl, my pulse raced, and I could hardly speak. He leaned close and, for a moment, I thought he might kiss me.
“You should stop by and smell my studio,” he said.
“So you like the scent of muskadoodle berry?”
“Makes me positively giddy.”
I pointed to his eye. “Your shiner looks much better tonight.”
“I put the orange fragrance ring on it.”
Tag walked me back to my seat, though I warned him that he’d run into Mother. I was wrong. She wasn’t there at all. I soon spotted her sitting with Ida Hamilton Walker. Mother appeared to be talking Ida’s ears off, while Ida listened patiently.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked Tag, knowing Mother wouldn’t return. Ida had the best seats in the house.
He looked at me wickedly. “Are you sure you can stand the public scandal of being seen with someone other than Smokey?”
“I’ll manage.”
So he sat. From that moment on, I don’t know how the show went. For all I know, the actors could have been naked. Tag’s arm, tucked comfortably behind me, was all I could think about. I desperately wanted to rest my head on his shoulder, but resisted. No matter how I felt, I really didn’t want to deal with the gossip. Not yet.
During Oklahoma’s famous dream sequence Anna Rose—playing the part of Laurie—snagged her beautiful wedding gown on an uneven board on the stage’s old wooden floor. Fortunately, the dress’s lace hemming didn’t rip. Anna gracefully bent down and released it before continuing the scene. “That dress is one I donated,” Tag whispered. “My ex-wife wore it in the wedding scene for a dinner theater production of The Sound Of Music. She was such a bad singer that old people threw breadsticks at her.”
“But the dress is gorgeous,” I whispered back. I glanced at Mother. She was on the edge of her seat, gazing at the dress greedily. Oh, no you don’t, I thought. That one’s going to be locked up tight. I’ll make sure Anna Rose knows you’re eyeing it.
Too soon, the show was over, and the lights came up. Tag and I rose with the rest of the crowd for the standing ovation, then filed out into the lobby. I searched the crowd for mother but couldn’t find her. “You look worried,” Tag said.
I glanced around furtively. “Everyone’s staring at us.”
“That’s just because I’m so good looking.”
“I have to take this seriously.”
Tag sighed. “All right. I’ll see you later.” He squeezed my hand and left me there alone. I dodged the curious stares in his wake and spoke innocently to people as they drifted by. Ida waved goodnight as she went past. Where was Mother?
