Mossy Creek
Page 16
“But what about the trophy?” someone in the crowd asked.
The chief looked from one competitor to the other. “The trophy will be shared this year. Six months in Bigelow and six months in Mossy Creek. I officially call this competition a draw.”
A chorus of groans and muttered curses echoed through the room, in anticipation of having to take back the many wagers that had been placed on the outcome, no doubt. A few looked glad they didn’t lose any money, at least.
“Now, I want you all to be sure you pay your bar tabs before you leave.”
“And please don’t forget to tip your waitress,” I added helpfully, as I winked at Regina. “We’ll meet back here next year for a, hopefully, more civilized event.”
Chief Royden looked at the erstwhile Buddy and said, “Buddy, you can put your clothes back on now.”
As I said before, there are a thousand and one stories in Mossy Creek, and, for my part, I hope I never again have to bear witness to Buddy Dailey’s nakedidity.
Next Labor Day, I think I’ll hire a bouncer or put Chief Royden at a reserved table on the front row. That way he can keep an eye on Miss Alameda. And I won’t have to invest in a new baseball bat.
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,
Since the Labor Day brawl, we’ve all been laying low. I swear every time we see a stranger in a dark suit these days we think it’s some spy of Ham Bigelow’s.
By now, you’ve figured out that everybody in Mossy Creek knows everybody else’s business. It’s just an accepted fact that our news flies faster than a chicken being chased by a cat. It used to be that we could just pick up the phone and ask the operator what we wanted to know, like, “What time is it?” or “Who was that at dinner with so-and-so last night?” or “Ask Chief Roydon if he fixed my parking ticket yet, and tell him I’m bringing the homemade fruitcake over in the morning.” That would have been Amos’s ol’ daddy, Battle, not Amos.
But every now and then, something still comes along that surprises us all. Until last month, if you wanted coffee in Mossy Creek you perked it yourself or stopped in at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café for a jolt of plain ground Joe that could scald the grease off an axle. That was before Jayne Austin Reynolds came along. Named after your very own Jane Austen, see? We worried she might not like us if we didn’t drink our brew with our pinkies raised. We are not uncouth people—we like our touches of elegance. After all, we were willing to fight for Isabella’s elegant Englishman! But it turned out that Jayne’s problem with us was right next door, in the form of Ingrid Beechum. You remember Ingrid? Bob the Flying Chihuahua’s mother? Ingrid’s had a bad year, and I won’t pass judgement on her.
I’ll just let the facts do that for me.
Oh, by the way, just disregard the Gazette’s reference to Jayne’s trouble with the nursing home. No charges were ever filed. You’ll appreciate the prank, being English and a tea drinker. In the end, it all worked out. It always does, in Mossy Creek.
Your friend with the upturned pinkie,
Katie
Jayne
The Naked Bean
I arrived in Mossy Creek in late November, possibly the worst time of year to open a new shop. The tourist traffic is sparse then, and the locals hunker down for the winter holidays. Icy rain soaked my new hometown, and fog rolled in from the mountains. Half the citizenry went into hibernation the week I arrived, and I felt alone in a ghostly world. I looked at my name on the shop’s lease. “That Jayne Reynolds must be an idiot,” I said aloud, as if someone else had signed the paperwork. Indeed, I didn’t know who I was anymore. My husband had died only two months before, after a long illness. I was only 34 years old, but felt ancient. I couldn’t bear to tell anyone in Mossy Creek about my widowhood, my grief, or the nourishing secret I had brought with me to my new town; it was easier to live silently among strangers, pretending I was brand new.
I knew only this much: My future depended on beans.
Coffee beans. And human beans.
“God brought us here as naked human bein’s,” my grandmother lectured when I was a child growing up with her in a small town south of Atlanta. “And low or high, naked human bein’s we all remain.” Grandma’s country dialect was abetted by tobacco chaws and a thick drawl, so I thought she was saying naked human beans. I studied the intricate, twining pole beans that climbed her garden stakes every summer. Finally, I understood. Like beans, people were all the same under their tough green hides.
“Promise me,” my husband Matthew said, “that you’ll do something crazy and full of joy after I’m gone. Remember what you’ve told me. We’re all just naked human beans.”
This was that crazy promise—moving to a new town, giving up my safe job as an insurance adjuster down in Atlanta, opening a coffee shop. The joy, however, had not yet come. I cried quietly and often behind the doors of my lonely new business and in the tiny apartment above it, where I lived with my cat Emma.
Next door, the town’s bakery seemed just as gloomy. The owner, Ingrid Beechum, had gone on vacation after Thanksgiving. I heard she was a widow, too. BEECHUM’S, her large, white sign said, as if the whole world knew that name meant fine baked goods. Her sprawling turn-of-the-century brick building made my little two-story clapboard shop feel like a doll’s teacup sitting next to a latte mug.
I wandered over during dry spells and peered through the dark windows. Her bakery was beautiful, with handsome white counters, scrubbed yellow linoleum floors, old-fashioned display cases, and a large menu board listing mouth-watering selections. It radiated a homey success I envied. Inspired, I pasted a handwritten Grand Opening sign to my shop’s wavy glass doors.
Gourmet Coffees And Teas. Pirollines. Biscotti. And A Friendly Cat.
Mayor Walker came by several times to see if I was doing enough business to pay the rent, I suspect, since she was my landlord. “You’ll be fine when the weather clears,” she told me. “Plus the Christmas shoppers will begin to come through town. And you’ll have more traffic after Ingrid reopens her bakery. It’s always crowded.”
“I’m really looking forward to meeting Mrs. Beechum. I’m sure we’re going to be good neighbors. Maybe we can do some advertising together. That’d be perfect. A bakery and a coffee shop.”
Mayor Walker pulled a cashmere scarf higher above the collar of her trim wool jacket, as if protecting her throat. Her mouth flexed. She seemed to be considering some frank answer to my naïve hopes, but then she simply smiled. “Sometimes we Mossy Creekites are a little standoffish at first. Let me know how you get along with her. And don’t worry.” She left without offering another word.
I should have realized that was a warning.
The rain ended, and the skies over the mountains turned a bright, cold blue. My spirits rose a little. As I cleaned the cappuccino machine in the shop’s small kitchen one afternoon, I looked out the front windows and saw a rusty van pull up. Mossy Creek Woodworks. My sign had arrived.
I slung one of my hand-knitted shawls around my tie-dyed sweatshirt—I had learned to knit, quilt, and tie-dye to keep my mind occupied each time my husband, Matthew, was in the hospital—and rushed outside. The handsome hardwood trees of the town square cast sharp, leafless shadows across the van. A shaggy old man wrestled a large, canvas-wrapped rectangle from the van’s open back doors. “Howdy do, good-lookin’,” he drawled at me.
I smiled at his grizzled flirtation. Foxer Atlas was a harmless lady’s man. He looked like Popeye. “I can’t wait to see my sign, Mr. Atlas!”
“It’s almost as pretty as you are.” Foxer tugged at the canvas, and it fell to the ground with dusty drama.
Goosebumps ran down my spine. I gazed lovingly at the walnut wood outlined in white trim around large, scrolled letters in a café-au-lait color. Coffee colors.
“You did a good job, Mr. Atlas,” I said softly. He toed his grimy work shoes together as if Olive Oyl had kissed him. I wiped my eyes. “Would you like a cup of coffee to help me celebrate?”
“Well, sure. I never turn down a treat from one of my girlfriends.”
I hurried inside and fixed him a French blend in a heavy ceramic mug, then poured some for myself in a delicate china cup Matthew had given me one Christmas. When I returned I set a tea saucer full of cream on the sidewalk for my cat. Cats should never be left out of celebrations. They have known since the ancient Egyptians worshiped them that their feline approval equals a blessing from the gods. Fat, irascible Emma did not seem very divine as she slurped from the saucer.
Foxer and I raised our cups to the new sign.”Here’s to The Naked Bean,” I said hoarsely. Oh, Matthew, I miss you.
“Here’s to The Nekkid Bean.” Foxer chortled.
“The what?” a high-pitched Southern female voice demanded. “You named this place what?”
I blinked and looked around. Emma hissed. A wiry woman stood in the open doorway of Beechum’s. Her flour-dusted pink apron swathed her blue jeans and checkered blouse. She planted her fists on her hips. Cold blue eyes didn’t blink beneath a spidery hair net that flattened her thick, graying, brown hair into a stern hair beanie. She made me think of a tightly braided voodoo doll I’d seen once during a New Orleans vacation.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t put up that tacky sign on the town square.” She waved her hand toward Main Street. “What next? Maybe Pearl Quinlan should rename her shop ‘Bare Butt Books.’ And maybe Rosie can change the café’s name to ‘Mama’s Shake Your Booty Lounge.’”
Heat rose in my face. Beside me, Foxer shuffled from one foot to the other. “Afternoon, Miz Beechum,” he said lamely.
“Don’t you ‘Afternoon’ me, Foxer.”
“It’s just a funny little sign. Nothin’ wrong with nekkid.”
“Your judgement doesn’t count for much, you dirty old man.”
So this was my neighbor, Ingrid. “Mrs. Beechum,” I said in a strangled voice. “I think you’re overreacting. Let me explain the name. And let me introduce myself—”
“Oh, I know who you are. The famous author.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “Miss Jane Austen!”
I groaned. My mother was a high school English teacher and a lover of Jane Austen’s novels. “It’s Jayne with a ‘y’, and Austin with an ‘i’,” I explained tightly. “And my married name is Reynolds. So I’m Jayne Austin Reynolds. Jayne Reynolds.”
“I don’t care if you’re Wilma Shakespeare, you’re not putting up that pornographic sign next to my bakery.”
“If you have a problem, take it up with Mayor Walker. She approved my sign.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s too bad.” Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw Emma crouch. She crept toward the open door of Ingrid Beechum’s bakery. I leapt to catch her before she launched herself at whatever was inside the building. I was too late.
Ingrid yelped as Emma zoomed past her. I heard the shriek of a small animal being walloped inside the bakery. A pale brown Chihuahua shot out the doorway, with Emma behind him. She chased him across our side of Main Street, which circled the town square. A pickup truck braked just in time to miss both animals. Emma rolled the tiny dog like a champion wrestler. She boxed him around the head, then pranced with every hair on her considerable body fluffed out and her tail bowed like a cobra’s neck. The Chihuahua, yelping, hid under an azalea shrub.
“Oh, Emma,” I groaned as I ran after her, with Ingrid close behind. I threw my shawl over my maniacal calico cat and hoisted her into my arms.
Ingrid, cursing, pulled her shivering little dog from under the shrub. “Bob, Bob, its all right, Bob, it’s not a hawk, you’re not going to be carried off again,” she crooned. She hugged him to her chest then turned to me furiously. “You’re nothing but bad luck. You and your damned sign and your damned cat don’t belong here.”
“Mrs. Beechum, your dog is, well, he’s peeing on your arm.”
Her face turned beet red. “He’s had a bad year.” She walked back to her shop with Bob, the incontinent Chihuahua, held out from her body like a wet rat. She shut her shop doors. Hard.
I wearily lugged Emma back to my own stoop. Foxer Atlas stood on the sidewalk where we’d left him. He gaped at me. “Cutie, how’d you get Ingrid Beechum so mad at you so quick?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“This ain’t good. She’s got a lot of say-so around here. If she don’t like you, you’re in trouble. You might as well be the town Jezebel, now.” He rushed to his van and drove away, leaving me standing there, alone and confused, on the sidewalk of my new home.
My heart sank.
The next day I dressed in a new skirt and blazer, then set out in my small Honda down South Bigelow Road. As I left town, steep hillsides loomed around me in the shadows of the old mountains. Tiny waterfalls trickled down craggy granite faces rimmed with diamonds of ice. Majestic laurel and rhododendron made dark green islands in the winter forest.
I loved this wild northern end of Bigelow County and the isolated mountain valley that enclosed Mossy Creek. Not long before Matthew died, we drove up from Atlanta to camp in the mountains. After a day or two, I could tell Matthew was more tired than he wanted to admit. I faked a sprain in my back. We got out a map and looked for the nearest town.
Mossy Creek. We loved it from the moment we drove across one of its rumbling wooden bridges. The namesake creek circled all of downtown, making a pretty moat. We spent the weekend at the Hamilton House Inn. We made love and snuggled and felt safe. It was our last, blessed vacation together.
My heart filled with those memories as I reached the driveway at Hamilton Farm. A breathtaking expanse of handsome pastures surrounded me on either side of the road. Milk cattle grazed on the rolling, pale-green vista. I felt very small, and very much a stranger. My resolve began to fail.
I pulled into the farm entrance and stopped my car between two stone pillars half-covered in ivy. What was I going to ask Mayor Walker to do about Ingrid? Ingrid Beechum was a native Mossy Creekite. She’d run the bakery for forty years, and her parents had owned it before that. Who was I? A nobody with a controversial sign and an attack cat.
As I muttered dire warnings to myself my gaze rose to the tall white Hamilton Farm corn silo. It towered nearby, just inside the pasture fence along the road. Painted in fat black letters high on its side, facing traffic headed north into Mossy Creek, was the slogan the town had adopted over a century earlier: Ain’t Going Nowhere, And Don’t Want To.
Maybe nobody in Mossy Creek wanted the town to change. Maybe Ingrid Beechum was the voice of the people. I drove through a patch of forest, then emerged between the wide lawns of the Hamilton homestead. My breath caught. The grand old Victorian house was framed by rounded mountains and shaded by giant, bare oaks. Barns and other outbuildings nestled among apple orchards and vegetable gardens. A small fountain splashed in an old watering trough, carved from solid rock. Softly outlined flower beds—now empty and mantled in thick wood mulch—showed where a riot of blooms would appear the next spring.
Two geese began to honk. A dozen fat dogs galloped from the house’s wide veranda. Several cats stared at me lazily from behind the curtains of tall windows. By the time the housekeeper, a youngish blond woman, opened the front doors and waved at me, I was surrounded by a friendly menagerie. One of the geese pooped on the toe of my loafer.
“Sorry about that,” the housekeeper said in a lilting Scottish accent, as I scrubbed my shoe on a grass welcome mat. June McEvers ushered me into a beautiful foyer decorated with antiques and portraits of Hamiltons. I noticed a collection of framed photographs arranged on a hall table. There was Ingrid, posed in a huge group of men and women on the lawn of this very house. “Is this a family picture of Mrs. Walker’s?”
“
Why, yes. Those are the Hamilton cousins.”
Ingrid Beechum and Ida Hamilton Walker were cousins. I almost bolted. “I suppose a lot of people from the oldest Mossy Creek families are related by blood or marriage. And they must be very loyal to each other. It’s all very private, isn’t it?”
June smiled and nodded. “They’re as thick as thieves. That’s what Madam Ida says.”
Madam Ida. I was being presented to the Queen of Mossy Creek in her own castle. June led me into a wonderful sunroom filled with plants and wicker furniture. A glass-topped table was set with linen and china for lunch. Large, brightly patterned cushions filled the chairs. Ida sat at a thick wooden table to one side. She was dressed in trim jeans and a dark blouse and sweater, with her graying auburn hair swept up in a French braid. Her elegant hands were swathed in greasy cotton gloves. She held a delicate can of oil in one and a large pistol in the other. On the table lay a dismantled shotgun, another pistol, and a number of small tools.
“Forgive me, Jayne,” she said kindly, setting the pistol and oil down. “Let me just go wash my hands. I thought I’d finish cleaning my guns before you arrived for lunch.”
“I don’t mind. Do you like to target practice?”
“Target practice? Why, that’s no challenge.” She laughed, rolled her eyes as if I were making a joke and breezed from the room. Apparently, Hamilton guns were for shooting at real targets. Such as newcomers who crossed the wrong cousin? June touched my arm. I jumped.
“I’ll bring you some tea,” she said.
Ida fixed her hypnotic green eyes on me over chicken salad. I could barely chew. “Troublemaker,” she said, and smiled.
I raised my chin. “I won’t change my sign. It has sentimental meaning to me.”
“Good for you. Ingrid will adjust.”
I stared at her. “You don’t mind that I upset her?”