As the laughter trickled down, Justin stood. With mud painted on both kneecaps, he extended a hand and insisted, “Come down, Hannah. We’ve had our fun but we ought to get back now. Game’s over. We’ve already upset Mary—we ought to go show her you’re okay.”
“No way! Not yet! I am the supreme ruler!” Hannah roared, lifting her arms so that Finley’s shawl dipped behind her, more like a superhero’s cape than a wedding garment.
Now that, Annie thought, is far more like a seven-year-old.
“Ah, well, so much for the classics,” Mark sighed, straightening up behind Hannah. “So much for love stories.”
But that wasn’t right at all. Even if their game was over, love stories weren’t. Not Finley’s. And maybe not Annie’s, either. Maybe—just maybe—Annie’s was just beginning. She edged forward, her feet pounding noisily against the dry ground.
Justin finally glanced her way. His smile gave way to a serious expression. “Yeah, well, supreme rulers are good, too. I like strong, smart women,” he called up to Mark. Annie hoped he was talking to her, too.
“I give up. I don’t want to play anymore. Besides, I’m hungry,” Hannah announced.
Mark gave Justin a thumbs up for a job well done as Hannah’s footsteps thundered against the steps leading down.
Hannah took a deep breath and launched herself from the third step up. Annie lurched, her arms outstretched. But Justin was the one who caught Hannah, placing her securely on the ground.
“Justin and I’ll get you home. It’s getting chilly, fair Juliette,” Annie promised. Already, the words tasted sweet on her tongue: Justin and I.
“We don’t want this to fall apart before we get back, though,” she added, gently slipping the lace from Hannah’s shoulders. As she did, dust flew from the tiny stitches—high into the air, soon to settle in a brand-new pattern across the unsuspecting town of Finley.
A Hundred Julys
Mysterious sightings—and a legend of yet-to-be fulfilled love—draws Finley’s newest resident into the midst of the folklore surrounding the town.
Norma Johnson, owner of Finley’s only antique store, has always felt she was mysteriously drawn to the small town she now calls home. Forced to host the July vintage car show, she bumps headlong into the legend that has surrounded Finley for a century—and in so doing, gains a new perspective on the far-reaching effects of love…
“Really,” Elaine scolded as she lumbered through the packed-tight aisles of Norma’s Relics. “Why would you ever move so far away? Where we can’t keep an eye on you?”
Norma clenched her jaw tight enough to drive a dental crown deeper into her gum. In truth, Norma relished being out of her daughter Elaine’s line of sight—or even her peripheral vision. It made her want to skip-to-malou (that was how that old lyric had always sounded in her mind, anyway—malou—and she still thought of a malou as a regular Shangri-La). Yes, most days of the week (when Elaine had not decided to pay an unannounced visit), Norma could skip to her heart’s content, singing any old song she wanted any old way, with no fear that anyone would correct her—finally, here in her sixties.
Oh, sure, it had felt odd at first, maneuvering through the maze of her days without once having to give thought to another person—their schedules, their needs, all those calendars in her mind; when to give the cat his meds, when to take Elaine shopping for a dress for the eighth grade dance, when to finalize the monthly books for Charlie, garlic on only half the bread because it upset Charlie’s stomach, no mustard in the potato salad because Elaine would make that ridiculous coughing noise, be sure to get the cat home by four-thirty because if he wasn’t, that would mean he was at the neighbor’s house again, the house a block over, eating sausage for dinner—so much, he’d spend the next day barfing and Norma would put him in his cat carrier and bring him to work where she could keep an eye on him and Charlie would tease her about it all day long. Frankly, it had also been odd to suddenly stop thinking of herself as the family car—something her husband and daughter shared, passing the keys back and forth, something that was always still sitting in the same parking space where one of them had left her—easily found, infallibly on time, perpetually ready to whisk them to the airport or the soccer tournament.
Now, Norma worked as long as she pleased, here in the store she’d purchased on the square in Finley. She closed early and did mid-week inventory turnovers until nine o’clock, taking a break to grab something from the Corner Diner whenever she wanted—no longer having to keep to a family’s six o’clock on the dot dinnertime. She ate the same meal twice if it suited her. Once, she cooked Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo, then trashed it in favor of a supreme pizza and beer—something her frugal Charlie would have frowned on as the worst kind of waste. She did the laundry when she was out of bras—and not a second before. She got her hair done on Monday mornings, because that was when she opened later in the day. She watched what she wanted on TV. She slept in the center of the bed.
Not that family life had only been about obligations to be fulfilled begrudgingly. She had loved the vast majority of it. Now, though, she loved her freedom.
Most of the time. Just as her family had once made her feel a twinge of longing for a life all her own, this newfound freedom came with a sliver of—on occasion—loneliness. And so it was with life. There was no choice to be made that didn’t come with its own sliver, sharp as the edge of a knife. Turn the wrong way, get a bit lazy with it, and that sliver’s sharp edge could cut the bejeezus out of you.
But Norma, she reminded herself, straightening her back, was made of tough stuff. She was—what was a material that got stronger the more it weathered? That didn’t rust or wear out? Whatever it was, that was her. Norma. Tougher with age.
And she had a life that was outside of Elaine’s vision. Even if Elaine sprouted side-mirrors from her temples, she would still not be able to watch Norma’s every move, not anymore. Norma actually imagined them—chrome side-mirrors, like the ones on her Mustang—growing out the sides of Elaine’s head. And giggled.
“I mean it, Mother. It’s a lot to take on. Managing a whole store.”
“I’ve been doing it for a year now,” Norma reminded her as she stooped to loop the string of a price tag on a vintage Bakelite radio. “No,” she corrected herself as she stood. “I managed our store—the family store—for nearly four decades. A whole chain of them, actually.”
“Not alone, though. You and Dad were in it together,” Elaine reminded Norma, frowning, her hands propped on her hips.
Barbara, Norma’s porcelain doll of a granddaughter, skipped mindlessly through a section of ceramic planters and Depression glass table settings. Elaine’s frown turned into a regular set of valleys on either side of her mouth. She took hold of Barbara’s hand and tugged her away. “Don’t break Grandma’s nice things,” she scolded.
“She won’t,” Norma said.
“She might,” Elaine corrected, obviously interpreting what Norma’d said not as oh, let her skip; it’s fun; you should try it sometime, too (which was actually how she’d meant it), but as a critique to her own mothering skills.
The door flopped open and Norma smiled. She would be glad to talk to a customer. This was one of the best parts: the new faces. Actually, the dig—scrounging for new inventory to fill the shelves—that was the best part of all. She got all wiggly when she pulled up to a new address, not knowing what she would find inside this seller’s garage or basement or attic. It was so funny sometimes—just a week ago, she’d gone out to a farm and had been guided into a kitchen where a few WWII souvenir pillowcases—those gaudy brightly colored satin things with schmaltzy poems about “Mother”—had been laid out lovingly on the table.
“I thought long and hard about this,” the granddaughter of the recently-deceased admitted. “I mean, they seem like something that should be in a museum.”
Norma had grunted as she’d glanced through the sliding glass door. “What’s in the old barn?” she’d asked.
&nb
sp; “Nothing,” the granddaughter had said. “Trash.”
“Can I look?” Norma’d asked.
“At trash?”
Norma’d grinned. And wound up buying half the contents—a 1930s dresser set and oil cans and petroliana and a piano stool with claw feet and three chairs with needlepoint seats and more than a dozen advertising feed sacks and…well. She bought the souvenir pillowcases too, mostly to be kind. Even though the granddaughter asked more than Norma knew she’d sell them for.
And so it went usually—what people chose to put in their outbuildings and what they kept in their houses, lovingly wrapped and preserved in acid-free paper, was usually all messed up, backward and upside down.
But it wasn’t a customer who had just walked through her door. And it wasn’t either one of the Nathans who could possibly be by: Norma’s son-in-law (currently taking a walk through Founders Park) or the young man who handled her web design.
Ah, yes, web design. Charlie would have been so proud of her for joining the twenty-first century—she could still feel him smiling at her from wherever it was husbands went after they died. She had a hard time picturing heaven itself, but she had no trouble at all picturing the area just outside the pearly gates: She imagined a set of metal bleachers where people sat waiting for their favorites—when their sibling or their best friend or their spouse showed up, they’d climb down from the uncomfortable seating and walk in together. That way, nobody got lost inside. Because if everyone had been going to heaven since the dawn of people, that place had to be crowded worse than one of those awful amusement parks she and Charlie had taken Elaine to on a few summer family vacations.
Yes, she was sure Charlie was on those metal bleachers, waiting for her and watching the rest of her life play out through the breaks in the clouds. Most of the time, that thought made her happy.
She wondered, too, if Jim was up there waiting on her. Or if Sarah, his own wife, had been in the bleachers when he’d passed away. And Jim had taken his wife’s hand and gone ahead through the gates.
She wouldn’t blame him. If that’s what happened. But she wondered sometimes. Who would she choose? Would she go through the gates with Charlie, her husband, the one she’d spent all those decades with, the father of her child, the man she’d vowed to love and honor (how ludicrous, she’d often thought, to pledge your love to someone with a pre-written script), all through the ridiculous mesh of that silly veil? Or would she rather go with Jim, the one who had come to her late in life—he the widower and she the widow at the Granite Ridge Retirement Community? The man she’d spent one single beautiful year with?
Who did she love more? Or was it even a question of “more”? Was it a question of who would be the best partner in the grandest adventure of all—heaven?
One thing was certain: Norma had loved two men. Honestly loved them. Her Charlie. Her Jim. They had loved her, too—she believed that; the words rang in her head without a single echo of doubt.
There would not be another. She was just as certain about that. Lightning never struck three times.
“So, you ready?” the man inside the door asked.
Norma frowned at him, the husband of the woman who ran Cuppa, Finley’s popular coffee palace. She certainly had not made plans with him—with Rob—or was she supposed to be at Cuppa? Sometimes, the owners of the businesses along the square held meetings there—they were all in it together, bound by the small business thing. They were all interested in keeping the town viable. Preserving its history. Making sure the residents were always happy. Ideas for festivals, socials, Christmas spectaculars all got bounced back and forth at one of their semi-monthly meetings like a shuttlecock. Back and forth, back and forth, and if you didn’t smack it right back toward the opposite side of the table, it would land in your lap—you were it, the person officially designated in charge of that particular event.
Norma didn’t want to be it. Of just about anything. The family-raising part of her life was over. She had no more interest in herding cats.
“Ready—?” Norma asked.
“Yeah—you know—for the car show.”
Norma felt her stomach turn over, like she’d eaten bad oysters. “I don’t know anything about a car show. We didn’t—was that at—a meeting, or—?”
“Didn’t need to be,” Rob said, smiling at her over the top of his green Cuppa T-shirt. “The couple you bought the antique store from, they hosted a vintage car thing every summer. Well. It’s not just a car show, see? There’s a race—been going on every year since the nineteen-teens. Three hundred miles. A real test of endurance! And it ends right here, in Finley, with a big celebratory car show. Always has. Last year, it was earlier than usual, because Donnie, the man who ran this place, he loved his car show. It was his favorite part of the antiquing business. ’Cause everybody drives vintage cars in this race, see? And he wanted to get that one last show in before he officially retired. Now, though—we need to get a move on. I mean, it’s already July.”
“Well, I didn’t know about it, and I haven’t done any advertising, so it won’t—”
“Hold on, there. Advertising’s already been done. Same channels as always—website. Facebook. Ads in nearby papers. I already placed the order for you at the printer’s. For the ribbons. Best Restoration, Best All Original. And the trophy! The trophy should be delivered soon. Can’t wait for you to see it. The Finley Car Show Trophy for the winner of the race—it looks like a little miniature version of the statue of Amos Hargrove, town founder—you know, the one out there in Founders Park. The whole thing’s set for two weeks from today!”
Norma’s imaginary bad oysters were crawling up her throat. “How—big is this thing? What—am I supposed to—do?”
“Thousands!” Rob shouted, throwing his arm into the air. “Thousands show up! Well, maybe hundreds. But it’s the most amazing thing that ever goes on around here. Donnie knew how to throw a real shindig.”
“Hundreds?” Norma repeated. She could feel her whole face drooping. She probably looked like a Basset Hound.
“But don’t worry—there’s not a ton to do. The guys who enter their cars will use the parking spots around the square. Your ’Stang will have a place of honor right outside of Relics. Doesn’t matter that you won’t actually be in the race to get here. It’s your show—your judging—and that ’Stang deserves a place of honor. All you have to do is give out competition numbers, give a little speech to kick the event off. You’re in charge of judging.”
“Judging?”
“Yeah—you know, who takes best in all the different categories. Give the congrats. Hand out the ribbons.”
“I don’t know anything about cars.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Rob said, pointing through the plate glass window toward her Mustang.
“I inherited that from—my friend. Jim left it to me—I don’t know anything about cars,” she reiterated.
“Yeah, but just having the ’Stang—that gives you credibility. And all you have to do is remember to leave space thirteen open,” Rob insisted. “That’s really the biggest part of the job.”
“No, it’s not—it sounds to me like the biggest part is actually the judging—or the speech—yick. Who likes to give speeches?”
“Speech isn’t a good word,” Rob pressed. “More like a ‘Welcome to Finley!’ And then you let everybody else start cheering. I’ll help you. It’ll be fun!”
“I’m not the right person—”
“I don’t think it’s the best thing for her to do, either,” Elaine chimed in.
Norma flinched. She’d forgotten Elaine was still in the store. She narrowed her eyes at her daughter.
“Studies show that when the elderly take too much on—” Elaine continued.
“I’ll do it,” Norma announced, her voice firm, insisting that no one told her what to do—she was a woman who made her own decisions. No one had the keys to Norma—no one held complete control over her—not anymore. And especially not Elaine. “I’ll do the car
show.”
∞ ∞ ∞
It had filled Norma with a triumphant sense of rebellion, announcing that she’d handle the Finley summer tradition…at least, until Elaine left, taking her little porcelain doll daughter with her, and reality set in.
She didn’t want anything to do with the car show. It was completely messing up the whole do-what-I-want-to-do-when-I-want-to thing she had going on. She thought about going to the bookstore next door to talk to Jo, her best friend in Finley. She thought about buying a bottle of wine and having dinner with her, the fifty-something woman right next door, who understood Norma in a way that the forty-something cook over at the Corner Diner (with twin ten-year-olds) never would. Fifty kind of drew a line in the sands of time, Norma thought. You tended to gravitate toward other people on the same side of the line, because they saw the world in the same way you did.
Except for maybe Rob’s wife Denise, who spent her days behind the counter at Cuppa. She was over fifty, but her son Michael was at home with his wife, all of them under the same roof, trying to make a go of it together. Denise still had a full house. She was fifty-plus and still chasing family schedules—at least, Norma assumed she was. She’d never really tried much of a conversation with her.
Why would she, with Jo right next door? And Jo fit so perfectly…
The opening of the front door snatched her away from her thoughts. She groaned as two kids entered—the girl in French braids, the boy in a faded college T-shirt. Oh, they weren’t really kids—they’d long ago left behind playgrounds and growth spurts. But were they even yet twenty-five? That age had felt so grown-up once. When she was looking through twenty-five-year-old eyes. Now, they both looked like teenagers to her.
Annie and Justin—she an artist and he a fiction writer and reporter for Finley’s only paper. Both were Finley natives who had apparently reunited with the idea of writing a book on Finley folklore. And both had met Norma several times before.
Forever Finley Page 15
