Down Home Dixie

by Pamela Browning

  Just the same she sure wished she knew what Kyle Sherman was up to.

  AFTER HE CLEANED OUT the remaining three flower beds and fired up the Weedwacker to trim the overgrown grass at the edges of the driveway, Kyle treated himself to a long cool drink of water from the artesian well on Dixie’s property. The water bubbled up out of a pipe sunk into the earth and into a pool made by piling rocks in a circle. The water was clean and cold and pure, though some of the rocks had crumbled or were missing. They needed to be replaced and arranged in a downhill pattern so the pool could become a pretty little waterfall. He’d like to do that for Dixie if he stuck around long enough.

  He tried to call his friend Elliott, with whom he’d tented at the reenactment. He wanted to let Elliott know that he was okay, but his cell phone was still not working. In the meantime, he noticed that the sky was a bright china blue with no clouds in sight. The lake crested in tiny waves driven by the warm breeze, and after cooling off, Kyle had an itch to get out and about, to explore this place where he had landed through no planning of his own.

  He intended his driving tour to encompass downtown Yewville and leave it at that. Smitty’s Garage and Gas Station seemed to be doing a good business with cars lined up at the pumps. And at the town’s only traffic light, drivers saluted each other by raising a forefinger and nodding solemnly. The one depressing sight was the old Yewville Mill building, closed and shuttered. A For Sale sign hung on the chain-link fence that surrounded it and weeds grew up through cracks in the sidewalk. Someone had scrawled Moved To Mexico on the brick wall in front of the administration building.

  His turn about Yewville took seven minutes total, beginning to end, after which he wasn’t of a mood to go back to his Hobbit cottage. Besides, he was hungry, so he stopped at the Eat Right Café.

  It was a small storefront restaurant with red-and-white checked vinyl cloths tacked to the tables in the booths. The servers, all women, wore pink uniforms with bright handkerchiefs blossoming from their chest pockets, reminding Kyle of pictures he’d seen of 1940s diners. He sat down at the long black counter and checked out the menu stuck between the sugar shaker and napkin holder.

  His waitress, who wore a name tag announcing herself as Kathy Lou, favored him with a great big smile as she came to take his order. “You must be the Yankee who’s staying in that old playhouse out there at Dixie Smith’s new place on the lake,” she said.

  “How’d you know that?” he asked mildly, noting that chicken bog was today’s blue-plate special and wondering what in the world chicken bog could be.

  “Word gets around.”

  “Amazing. What’s chicken bog?”

  “Local specialty,” Kathy Lou said. “Some people calls it chicken and rice, more soupy than the usual. I don’t recollect where the bog came from, ’less it’s because somebody was trying to impress people that we have a lot of swamp around here, though I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that, considering that all the swamp ever produced was Lizard Man, and it was a long time ago anybody saw him.”

  “All right, I’ll order the chicken bog, only if you tell me about Lizard Man,” Kyle told her, and she laughed.

  “Around here we figure the less said about it, the better,” she told him as she dished up a plate of chicken and rice. “It involved a teenager riding home through Scape Ore Swamp with a mess of fried chicken in a take-home bucket on the seat beside him. This thing rushed out of the swamp while the kid was changing a tire, and he said it looked like a cross between a lizard and a man. It tried to steal his chicken dinner. They never found the creature, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She started a fresh pot of coffee as the lunch crowd began to converge on the only eatery in town.

  Kyle thanked Kathy Lou for the chicken bog recommendation and the Lizard Man story before leaving. As he walked out the door, several other servers clustered around Kathy Lou to “ooh” and “aah” over his magnanimous tip. He was secretly amused and made up his mind to leave an even larger one next time he stopped in.

  He rode back down Palmetto Street, spotting Dixie framed in the big window strung across the front of the Yewville Real Estate Company office. She was talking on the phone in an animated fashion, and she was beautiful.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of her. Usually he was a stickler for the accepted pacing of a relationship. In other words, first he’d call the woman in whom he’d developed an interest. Then he’d schmooze her, ask her out, and if his luck held, bed her by the third date. Yet with Dixie, he wanted to move faster than that. Dixie seemed to return his interest four times over, if he was any judge of women.

  As he pondered this, he found himself on the highway driving toward the town of Camden. He smiled at Yewville’s famous peachoid water tower as he passed it his way out of town. Dolly’s, a truck stop out on the bypass, was doing a brisk business. A short distance down the road, a decrepit motel advertised ROOMS $6 AN HOUR WEEKLY $85 CLEAN SHEETS. After that, the countryside was mostly flat and canopied with trees rising lush and green on both sides of the narrow highway.

  Before long, he found himself singing along with the radio station billing itself as “WYEW, Yew-and-Me Country.” When he realized what he was doing, he quit singing, surprised at himself. It had been a long time since he’d spontaneously sung out loud, but it was a release of something pent up inside him for far too long.

  Kyle’s first impression upon entering Camden, South Carolina, was that it offered more small-town sameness of the sort he’d found in Yewville. As a history buff, however, he was aware of Camden’s historical significance in two wars, the American Revolution and the Civil War, so he set out to discover some of its rich history.

  He found the town full of picturesque houses. One of them, the Joshua Reynolds House, was one of the oldest buildings in town. Kyle was interested to learn that it was once owned by Dr. George R.C. Todd, a Confederate surgeon who was also the brother of Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of Abraham Lincoln, a situation that must have provoked more than a few interesting discussions around the dinner table at the White House.

  After his historical tour, it was sheer luck that led him to the polo field. A man who introduced himself as Jarvis Wilfield interrupted his chore of loading horses into a trailer to walk over and talk. He was most interested in what Kyle did for a living.

  “A horseshoer, huh?” Wilfield said, squinting up at Kyle, who towered over him by at least a foot. Wilfield was a stumpy little man with a contagious grin. “We could use a good farrier around here. See, a lot of Northerners come to Camden during the winter because the weather is warmer than New York, New Jersey and some of them other places. They bring their horses, they play polo, they practice jumping or whatever. Some of them, they think more of their horses than of people.”

  Kyle laughed at this, but he admired horses, too, and understood why people connected with them in a special way. “Don’t you have a local horseshoer?” Kyle asked, taking in the wide flat field and miscellaneous outbuildings.

  “Yeah, but Mac McGehee is getting old. Wants to retire, but we won’t let him.” Wilfield smiled. “If you was around, Mac might get to buy that fishing boat and hang out at Santee pulling in bass and crappie hand over fist.”

  “I’d like to talk to him sometime.” Kyle knew there was always a lot to learn from the old-timers in the business.

  Wilfield shot him a keen-eyed look. “You interested in working as his assistant?”

  Kyle shook his head. “I’m a full-time journeyman farrier. I have a business in Ohio.”

  “Ever consider moving south?”

  “Not really.” It’s beginning to seem like a great idea, considering the charms of Dixie Lee Smith.

  “There’s work here if you’re interested.”

  “I appreciate your telling me that,” Kyle said. He liked the guy, who reminded him of his mentor when he’d first started shoeing horses.

  “Maybe you’d better give me your phone number. Mac might like to talk with you.”

&nb
sp; Kyle’s cell phone still refused to work, so he scribbled the number of Dixie’s landline on one of his regular business cards. That morning, she’d left a note instructing him that the back door of the house was always open and to use her phone whenever he liked.

  Wilfield wrote his name and address on a page ripped from his notepad and handed it over. “You can always find me at the stable.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate this,” Kyle said.

  Wilfield waved goodbye and then drove off, stirring a flurry of yellow dust in his wake.

  Afterward, Kyle ambled around the polo field thinking about the man’s suggestion that he take over Mac McGehee’s business. The trouble was, Camden, South Carolina, was a far cry from Ohio. The climate here was different, the food was different, the people didn’t talk the way he did and sometimes he couldn’t understand their accent. He’d be an outsider here. He had a good business back in Ohio. So why would he decide to start anew in a place that was so different from that to which he was accustomed? Adventure? Excitement? Challenge? He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, answer the question honestly.

  A possible move wasn’t what was on his mind during the ride back to Yewville. He was bemused by how eager he was to see Dixie. When he arrived back at the house on the lake, he spotted her through her kitchen window as soon as he pulled to a stop in the driveway. She was wearing an apron, the picture of domesticity. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat of the stove, and a stray curl bobbed over her forehead. In fact, she made such an appealing picture that he hesitated for a moment on the back steps before knocking on the door.

  She threw the door open, welcoming him with a big smile.

  “My goodness, I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “When you weren’t here, I thought maybe you’d left town for good.” If he wasn’t mistaken, that was an expression of relief on her face.

  “No,” he said, gazing down at her and thinking that leaving Yewville would have been even more stupid than kissing her last night, which had turned out to be one of the best things he’d done since he arrived. He was unaccustomed to making a person’s eyes light up when he walked in a room, and he found that he liked it a lot.

  “Then I realized you make friends easily and had probably found something fun to do. So did you go in search of Lizard Man?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Kathy Lou at the Eat Right said she filled you in about our local legend. A couple of other people who were there at the time corroborated that you were mighty interested.”

  Kyle shook his head, amazed at how fast a minor conversation in his life had been overreported.

  Dixie grinned. “Just in case you have any hope of resurrecting Lizard Man, I might as well tell you that a lot of people doubt that he ever existed, me included.”

  “Nope, I wasn’t chasing local legends. Instead I drove over to Camden for the day.”

  “Tell me about it while we eat dinner,” she said as if it was a given that he’d been invited. Thus Kyle found himself sitting at the kitchen table, pouring out the details of his day.

  “So I was thinking,” he said as he wound up his summary, “what are houses going for in the area? I mean, what would it actually cost to live around here?” It was the last thing he’d anticipated asking, yet it seemed perfectly natural.

  Dixie seemed surprised at the question, though she couldn’t be as surprised as he was himself. “How many bedrooms would you need?” she asked. “How many baths?”

  “At least three bedrooms and two baths, I suppose.” He envisioned using one bedroom for himself, another for a den, and setting up the third one for an exercise room.

  Dixie named a price that surprised him; property values here were lower than in Ledbetter, and that meant lower taxes, too. “If you like,” Dixie continued, “I can show you some homes.”

  “Great!” He beamed at her over the dinner table.

  “It’s the least I can do considering the work you did in the yard this morning. I was hoping I’d get a chance to tackle it, but I haven’t had much time lately what with just moving in.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively before getting up and starting to clear the table.

  So far Dixie hadn’t indicated by actions or manner that she recalled what had happened between them last night. Kyle had the urge to walk up behind her and wrap his arms around her, letting his hands mold the soft curves of her breasts.

  No. That wouldn’t do. Coming on strong would turn her against him completely.

  “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “that some ice cream would taste good right now. A big dish of it, your favorite flavor.”

  She blinked like a doe caught in the headlights, or was something else going on here? A wish that they skip the ice cream and find another way to amuse themselves? Of course, this might be hoping for too much. Perhaps he wasn’t reading the situation correctly, though something had changed between them. Dixie’s pupils had gone dark, her lips had taken on a sultry droop instead of curving upward in her usual smile, and she’d dropped the dish towel.

  He’d learned from all those battle reenactments that sometimes you had to sound a retreat to convince the opposing side to move in your direction. “Hey,” he said softly, “if I’m in the way, tell me. I’d rather not overstep any boundaries.”

  “Ice cream sounds great,” she said.

  “What kind?”

  “Pistachio. Or cherry vanilla. I really don’t care.”

  “I’ll surprise you,” he said cheerfully on his way out the door.

  YOU ALREADY HAVE, Dixie thought to the accompaniment of his engine starting and his subsequent departure. Surprised me by broadening my horizons, making me think about things I never considered, such as why reenactors do what they do, and showing me consideration and kindness.

  That was the clincher. In the many snippets of advice Memaw Frances had sent Dixie’s way, her admonition to find a man who was, above all, kind and considerate stuck in her mind. When Dixie was younger, she’d had in mind to find a handsome guy whose genes could be transmitted to their beautiful children. She’d wanted someone who could dance, who liked to laugh and took his financial obligations seriously. All those things were still important, no doubt about that. Still, if a man wasn’t kind and considerate, day-to-day life could get pretty grim. If he didn’t challenge her to think, their marriage would be boring. If he didn’t have a passion for his work or his hobbies, chances were that he wouldn’t be able to muster passion for much else, either. Including, possibly, the woman in his life.

  So. She’d better check her makeup, decide if she needed more lipstick. Break out the mouthwash. Find that bottle of perfume she’d buried in a box of bathroom supplies.

  Thank goodness she didn’t have to worry about eyeliner. Unlike many other things in life, her tattooed eyeliner was permanent. Her teeth were a newly bright and sparkly white. And her hair had never looked better.

  Ignore all that, Kyle Sherman, and you’re crazy.

  When you’d maximized your chances the way she’d done, you had a right to expect results. And she was sure she’d see some—plus a lot of other interesting things—tonight.

  THE BI-LO SUPERMARKET was only a short drive away. Kyle rushed through the store, scooped ice cream out of the freezer and seethed when the customer ahead of him at the checkout insisted on laboriously counting out change.

  When he arrived back at Dixie’s house, she looked as if she’d run a brush through her hair, maybe even refreshed her lipstick. She’d set out two bowls, and he opened the carton of cherry-vanilla ice cream. As he scooped it into the bowls. headlights swung across the trees outside. “Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, figuring the visitor was one of Dixie’s numerous relatives.

  “No,” Dixie said blankly. She moved to the door for a better view. “Oh, drat. I don’t believe it. Of all the bad timing.”

  Playing it casually, Kyle licked a runnel of ice cream from his finger and went to peer at the figure approaching the back step
s. “Who is it, anyway?”

  She darted him a wary look. “My former boyfriend,” she said. “Milo.”

  THEIR VISITOR REMINDED Kyle of something, though at first he didn’t know what it was. Then it occurred to him that Milo resembled his childhood teddy bear after the stuffing had started to get lumpy and fall out. The man had round cheeks, chubby hands and an abundance of curly brown hair, not to mention the beginning of a paunch under his neatly pressed plaid shirt.

  Kyle tried to recall what Dixie had told him about the relationship. He didn’t recall if she’d said why a marriage between them would have been a mistake, yet she’d seemed firm enough in her belief. So what was the guy doing here?

  As Kyle busied himself dishing up a third portion of ice cream for their unexpected guest, Milo apologized for showing up unannounced saying he’d learned where Dixie lived through their mutual friend Bubba who’d suggested Milo drop in to see her. He hoped Dixie didn’t mind.

  Dixie said no, she didn’t mind, not at all, and why didn’t he have a seat at the kitchen table because her living room was piled high with boxes, seeing as she’d moved in only a little over a week ago.

  Through his annoyance and from the gist of the small talk between Dixie and Milo, Kyle gathered that unannounced visits were the norm in the rural South, and if you were considered a really good friend, you never entered through the front door, you went to the back. Where Kyle came from, only family was supposed to use the back door. Everyone knew that, or at least they did up north.

  “And so,” Milo said after finishing his ice cream, “what is it that you do, Kyle?”

  Kyle explained the whole farrier thing. Milo had noticed his truck parked outside and was curious about the customizing. “I’ve got a Dodge Ram 2500 with extended cab myself,” Milo volunteered. “It has a heavy-duty Cummins turbo-diesel engine and oversize tars.”

  At Kyle’s puzzled look, Milo explained. “Those things that go on the wheels.”