by Tamara Leigh
It’s not the first time I’ve highlighted Psalm 103:10–12, nor the first time I’ve double underlined rebellious acts. Each time I do so, I feel a strong kinship with the psalmist, David of Goliath fame—the same David of Bathsheba shame. A forgiven man.
Just as you’re forgiven, Harri.
Right. I close Bible #8, a pink, bonded-leather copy, then rise from the kitchen table and cross into the living room. At the corner bookcase, I slide my gaze over Bibles #1 through #7, each read front to back and gussied up with alternating highlighter colors. With a satisfied sigh, I slide Bible #8 alongside #7.
Showered, dressed, fed, and my daily reading of God’s Word under my belt, I’m ready for the day. What could go wrong? Well, there is Dumplin’. I eye the hallway. No sign of him, and I’d be worried if sometime between my shower and Bible study he hadn’t christened the litter box. Never thought I’d be excited by a clump of waste.
Five minutes later, I step out into a gently warmed morning and pause to draw a breath of air and survey the day. Maddox would be so proud of me—
What is the matter with you, caring about what Maddox thinks? I hasten down the stairs and walk my bike to the lane. However, as I start peddling down Red Sea, I’m once more struck by wistfuless. It’s a beautiful day—looks good, smells good, feels good. The way God intended.
Just past Maddox’s mobile home, I brake so hard that the back end of my bicycle skids. The pink flamingos are gone, as are the plastic evergreen shrubs. All that remains are rings of dead grass where each had stood.
Maddox. He did this! Probably thought the flamingos and plastic shrubs clashed with his “he-man” motorcycle. Wait until I get my hands on him! Wondering if it’s possible to do so before today’s staff meeting, I pedal hard out of the park, harder past the church, and squeal to a stop at the rear of the café.
Calm down, Harri. Gloria’s counting on you to make the customers’ visits pleasant, especially the park crowd, who are likely more upset than you. I push my bike into the rack alongside the door and enter the kitchen.
Ruby, the cook, looks up. “Mornin’, Harri.”
That’s it? Nothing about the flamingos? Glancing at the others whose hustle attests to the large Saturday crowd, I retrieve an apron. “So… a typical Saturday morning?”
Ruby flips an omelet. “Not happy about the flamingos, hmm?”
I do a double take. “You heard?”
“’Course I heard.”
“The older folks are real upset, hmm?”
“Only Bea Dawson, far as I know.”
Only Bea?
“She lit outta here a half hour ago, so I haven’t heard much since.” She turns to her waffle batter. “You’d best get out there and pick up the slack.”
In something of a daze, I step into the dining room. I half expect to find myself in a foreign land, but the usual crowd occupies the tables—half of whom are from the park, none of whom are trying to catch my eye and wave me toward their tables.
“Rose, Dogwood, and Tulip.” Gloria appears at my side. “And Pansy—he specifically requested you.”
I follow her nod to a man who appears more at home than he has the right to.
Same table, same chair as when he joined Stephano for breakfast.
“He’s been waiting ten minutes,” Gloria says.
As I stare daggers at him, he glances up from his newspaper. And smiles.
I press my shoulders back. “Then I’ll start with Mr. McCray.”
Gloria leans in. “They were tacky.”
Though I’m to believe that no one but me and Bea are upset over the desecration of our flamingos, everyone seems to know about it. “Tackiness is not the issue.”
She sighs. “Just don’t forget that the man tips well.”
I head for the Pansy table.
“Harri,” Jack says as I pass.
I back up. “Good morning, Jack.” I turn my regard to his grandson, whose mouth is full of raisin french toast—no doubt about that. “Hey, Bill.”
“Hiya, Harri.”
Jack touches my arm. “My guess is you had a bit of a surprise this morning.”
“Didn’t we all?”
He shrugs. “Threw me for a moment, but it does look nicer.”
A conspiracy. I lift my pad. “I’d better get to my tables.”
Mr. and Mrs. Feterall and Lum and Elva catch my eye as I near Maddox, but there’s no urgency in their expressions. Cannot believe they’re okay with this.
I halt alongside the Pansy table’s single occupant, press my palms to the table, and lean in. “Okay, what have you done with our flamingos and shrubs?”
Maddox considers me. “Your flamingos and shrubs? How’s that?”
If I had feathers, they’d be ruffled, but in that moment I realize how ridiculous my argument is going to sound. “It’s… tradition. The guest mobile home is where all the flamingos go when the residents remove them from their yards.”
“Is that right? A kind of retirement community within a retirement community. For plastic pink flamingos.”
Heat rising in my face, I straighten. “Something like that.”
“And what about the plastic shrubs?”
I glance at where Harriet’s neighbor, Ross, sits. It was he who donated the plastic shrubs when he removed his Astroturf and sod and installed real shrubs five years ago. “They’re a nice touch.”
Maddox leans back. “No, they’re not. They’re dog magnets, the same as the flamingos. Surely you noticed the dead grass around every one of them?”
He has a point.
“They’re in the storage space under the mobile home. When my work is done at First Grace, I’ll put them back if that’s what the residents want.”
I blink. “Oh.”
He smiles. “So, how’s Dumplin’?”
My scowl returns in force. “He gave me a present last night.”
“Cats can sense when they’re not welcome.”
He’s saying it’s my fault?
He reaches for his menu. “If you’re ready, I’ll place my order now.”
Shortly, I hurry away from Maddox’s table—correction!—the Pansy table.
“He’s baaaack,” Lisa intones as I enter the kitchen, and she heads out carrying plates loaded with omelets and hash browns. She smacks her lips. “Nice catch. Let me know if you decide to throw him back.”
I stalk over to Ruby and stick Maddox’s ticket under her nose. “Can you put a rush on this?”
“That church consultant, hmm?” Her eyes twinkle. “The one who asked to be seated at one of your tables.”
Lovely. Thanks to Maddox and his special request, Lisa isn’t the only one who thinks I’ve reeled in a prize fish.
“He’s n-nice,” Melody says behind me.
I whip around.
She retreats a step. “You mad, Har… ri?”
Why am I letting that man get under my skin? “No.” With an apologetic smile, I give her arm a squeeze. “Just a little frustrated—and not with you.”
Her shoulders ease. “I get frust… ed too.” From her pocket, she produces something small and red and white. “This make you feel not so frust… ed.”
I swallow hard to keep from drooling at the sight of Jelly Bellys.
“Mad… ox gave it to me.”
Mad ox. As an image of a raging ox with steam billowing from its nostrils rises, I press my lips to hold back laughter for fear Melody will believe it’s directed at her.
She shakes the packet inches from my nose, and I declare I can smell those delectable little beans right through the cellophane. “Want some, Har…ri?”
“You bet, but let’s wait until the morning crowd thins.”
“Okay.” She drops the packet in her apron pocket and, with a bounce, heads out.
“About Mad ox’s order…,” Ruby says.
With a hopeful smile, I turn. “Help me out?”
She catches the assistant cook’s eye. “Two eggs over easy, and make it snappy.”
“Thanks, Ruby.”
She comes closer. “About the time you take over this place is about the time I’ll be due for a raise. Don’t forget that, hear?”
I meet the gaze of one of the few who knows of my arrangement with Gloria. “Gotcha.”
Ruby resumes her place at the counter. “By the time you bring me more orders, Mad ox’s breakfast will be up.”
Twenty minutes later, Maddox is chatting with Gloria as he pays his bill. And now the question in everyone’s mind is: did he or didn’t he?
I watch for him to make the drop, but when he walks out the door, there’s no evidence that Gloria has another packet of Jelly Bellys waiting for me.
“Har…ri! Look!”
I turn to where Melody stands next to the Pansy table.
She waves a red and white packet. “He gave you one too!”
I’d be thrilled if not for the entire café watching.
“Well, look at that,” Harriet says as I stand frozen alongside her table. “Your favorite! Mm, mm, mm. A man who takes the time to find out what a woman likes.”
I am so embarrassed.
I try to look away, but what’s happening on the other side of the conference table is fascinating. Hardly appropriate for a pre-Sunday meeting, but fascinating. And I’m not the only one who should be giving First Grace’s treasurer my undivided attention but instead am watching Chip smoosh a purple ball with jiggly spines. Harriet’s also watching, as is Stephano, whose dismay turns pained when Chip compresses the ball so hard that it births a translucent purple bubble out the side—right on top of the table.
Mouth forming an O, Chip leans around the little guy in his lap. Eight-month-old Radnor tears his eyes from the deformed purple ball to take in his daddy’s face, then beams and rubs his chubby hands together.
Sooo cute! Certain I’m not the only one who thinks so, I glance around. Stephano still looks pained. Okay. Harriet gives me a toothsome smile and winks. See!
I start to sweep past Bea only to back up. Her pinched mouth of minutes earlier is relaxed and the corners slightly tilted. Unfortunately, once she becomes aware of my attention, her lips compress and lids narrow.
You’re not fooling me, Beatrice Dawson! I move on to the man who occupies the chair beside the vacant one between him and our organist.
Maddox is also watching Chip, Radnor, and the spiny purple ball. But like Bea, he becomes aware of my regard, and for an unguarded moment, we smile at each other.
Pink flamingos, Harri!
Radnor shrieks, causing our aged treasurer to fall silent.
At the cessation of Joe’s droning—something about a new procedure for counting the Sunday offering—all eyes that weren’t already on Chip and son turn to them to find that the purple ball has birthed a bubble out the other side.
Our youth pastor grimaces. “Sorry.” He picks it up. “Isn’t this the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Bea harrumphs, but Joe nods. “Never seen anything like it.”
Chip smiles all around, then pushes his chair back and, gripping Radnor, rises. “We’ll just…” He juts his chin at the back wall. “… stand over there.”
Ten minutes later, whether or not any of us are involved in the handling of the Sunday offering, we’re clear on the new procedure. Then Oona’s running us through a set of glossy children’s Sunday school materials under consideration to replace our outdated ones. As always, she’s articulate, organized, and maddeningly suited for church leadership. Unlike some of us. But, God willing, this time next year someone more qualified will step into my shoes and I’ll be running the café.
“You’re up, Harri.”
I gaze at Pastor Paul. “Uh… right.”
Lord, please help me to speak clearly and present the movie night event with enthusiasm and confidence. And if they hate it, help me not to take offense. It is, after all, Maddox’s idea.
I snatch up the bulletin inserts for Friday’s miniretreat and hand them off to my right. As I do so, Stephano catches my eye and smiles, something he’s done a lot lately, and it’s getting to me. He has such a nice smile.
Once everyone has a flier, I explain how this movie night will differ from others and what they can do to help promote the event. With the exception of Bea, whose low grunts let it be known that she couldn’t care less, the event is received with interest. To top it off, Oona and Chip commit to coordinating the child care.
Maddox smiles encouragingly, and I stand taller. “So let’s get the word out, hmm?”
All rise, bringing an end to the meeting.
I bend to retrieve my purse and catch sight of the red and white bag in the front pocket. Time to celebrate. As the conference room empties, I pull out the packet and carefully open the seal to prevent a spill that would leave me Jelly Belly-less. The little yellow one nestled atop the others calls to me. Lemon. Always a winner.
“Harri?”
I return the packet to my purse, then look to where Stephano leans a shoulder against the door frame. “Yes?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
Once again, I war with myself—wanting to bite but afraid of the sharp hook that could prove difficult to remove.
“Um…”
Maddox appears in the doorway. “Excuse me, Stephano.” He meets my gaze. “Just wanted to say good job, Harri.”
I glance from Maddox, who’s smiling, to Stephano, who has lost his smile. “Thanks.”
Stephano straightens. “Have a nice evening, Harri.”
I’m half relieved, half annoyed. “You too.”
As he turns away, Maddox steps farther into the room.
Why do I have this feeling that his return was calculated? Narrowing my lids at him, I pop lovely lemon in my mouth and crush it between my teeth. Then I’m gasping. That was no lemon. That was mango. In disguise!
I practically leap the table to reach the wastebasket next to the door. Spit. Spit. Hack. Hack.
“Are you sick?”
I shake my head, scrape my tongue with my teeth, and spit some more.
Maddox’s shoes come alongside me. “Something you ate?”
I jerk my head up. “A mango Jelly Belly.” I bend forward again.
“You ate a mango? I thought you didn’t like them.”
“I don’t! The little bugger was impersonating a lemon. Not a green fleck in sight. It happens, you know.” I shudder in remembrance of the few times I’ve been tricked.
He chuckles. “I’ll get you some water.”
Why didn’t I think of that? I watch him cross to the side table where a water pitcher sits. Feeling just this side of stupid, I spit some more.
“Here you go.” Maddox thrusts a cup beneath my nose.
I gulp down the water, but despite my efforts, the mango taste lingers. “I don’t suppose you have any gum—of the mint variety?”
“Always.” He pulls a pack from his pocket. “Doublemint.”
Recalling the night outside my mobile home when he offered me a choice between Juicy Fruit and Doublemint in lieu of a cigarette, I accept the piece he hands me and chew it for all it’s worth.
“Better?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I guess this means you owe me one.”
“What?”
He nods at the packet that peeks from my purse. “A Jelly Belly, one of my choosing.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Remember our deal? That mango you ate was mine, so you owe me one.” He sticks out a hand.
“Fine.” I drop my precious supply of Jelly Bellys into his palm. Please don’t pick an orange sherbet, or chocolate, or strawberry cheesecake—
“Root beer,” he says.
Or root beer.
He picks out a brown bean and hands me the packet.
“If you want, I’ll sort out the beans you like, and you can take them with you.”
“Nah, I’ll get them later.”
I return the packet to my purse. “Well, thank you for the tip thi
s morning—Jelly Belly and monetary—and for giving Melody her own stash of beans.”
“I’m glad it made her happy.” Maddox leans back on his heels. “I was impressed with your presentation.”
“Thank you. And thanks for the idea…and the flier…” I frown. “You should have been the one to present it. I was just along for the ride.”
He shrugs. “It was a team effort, but speaking of rides, once my work at First Grace is done, I’d like to take you out on my motorcycle.”
I gape at him. “I told you, I’m not into motorcycles. They’re dangerous.”
“Look, Harri, it’s only an 800 cc—”
“No, it’s a 1298 cc…”
I’ve seen Maddox grin before, but the light in his eyes has never been so bright. “Just checking to make sure you knew it as well.”
I put my hands on my hips. “All right, so at one time I was into motorcycles, but that part of my life is in the past, and that’s where it’s going to stay.”
“Chicken.”
I will not succumb to peer pressure. Even though it would be a good excuse to feel the wind in my face again—
Oh, no you don’t!
Maddox pushes his hands into his pockets. “So about your pink-plastic-feathered friends… Forgive me?”
I make a face, then turn and, over my shoulder, say, “Maybe.”
He follows me into the corridor. To my relief, he heads in the opposite direction, but not before tossing at my back, “Maybe’s halfway to yes. I can live with that.”
Harri’s Log: • Day of the showdown between Bea and the invaders
• 5 days until the “Oldies but Goodies” miniretreat
• 5 days until the next rerun of The Coroner (must locate VCR manual)
• 20 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (Thank goodness for Maddox’s “tips”)
• 204 days until the completion of Bible #8
The removal of the pink flamingos is a blip in the lives of most park residents. Sure there were a few calls on my answering machine following yesterday’s meeting, but no one’s up in arms. Except Bea…
I look up from my hymnal to where she holds court at the front of the church, and I offer up a silent prayer that last week’s showdown won’t repeat itself.
