Gone South

by Meg Moseley

  Nathan wore a multitude of layers: a floppy bow tie over a white shirt under a dark vest under a darker jacket. His black hair fell straight and smooth in a cut that ended at his earlobes, while Letitia’s lighter hair was severely parted down the middle and pulled back tight.

  Tish had always wondered what colors had met the eye of the unknown photographer when he’d settled his subjects for their portrait. Brides hadn’t worn white in those days, and for some reason Tish had always imagined the gown as a soft shade of green. The jewelry might have been green too, even if the stones weren’t emeralds.

  She had no idea what had become of the jewelry. Her dad had known some interesting family stories, but they’d had a lot of gaps. The letters might fill in some of the gaps.

  Settling cross-legged in front of the coffee table, she extracted the packet of letters from the envelope and removed the protective paper. Gently, she spread out a couple of the letters. The paper was fragile, the corners crumbling. Some of the folds had become splits. The ink was faded.

  Most of them were written by Letitia to her mother in that gloriously graceful style … what was it called? Spencerian. That was it. A useless tidbit of information that Tish had absorbed from her dad’s interest in genealogy and historical documents.

  At the top left corner of each letter, Letitia had included her address: 525 South Jackson Street, Noble, Alabama.

  On a warm spring day over five years ago, Tish and her dad had tracked down that very house. He’d knocked on the door, hoping the current residents would offer a tour if he introduced himself as the great-great-grandson of the man who’d built the place. Tish, mortified, had been relieved when no one came to the door. It was bad enough that they’d stood there on the porch while a little white dog yapped at them from a window.

  They hadn’t stayed long. They’d prowled around Noble for a few hours, exploring a used-book store and a cemetery. After supper at a local diner, they’d headed back to I-65 and the return trip north.

  She picked up a letter that was obviously written by someone other than Letitia. Although the penmanship was large and bold, its flourishes made it difficult to decipher.

  My darling Miss Lattimore, as the blessed day of our nuptials approaches, my happiness knows no bounds. I want only to share my joy with you forever, my dear.

  That one must have been a special treasure to Letitia. Years after Nathan wrote it, she’d probably added it to the letters her mother had saved.

  Setting it aside, Tish chose one that Letitia had written. Dearest Mother, Nathan and I are wonderfully happy here.… The tiny writing strained Tish’s eyes, so she decided to put off further reading until she’d used her scanner to make e-files of the letters. Then she could enlarge them on her computer screen. She’d also e-mail the files to herself for safekeeping.

  Unable to resist, she skimmed a few more letters but found nothing especially interesting. She carefully returned all of them to their protective wrapping and slid the packet back into the envelope. Funny how Nathan and Letitia’s correspondence was so ordinary. Maybe it meant that they had enjoyed a happy, if uneventful, life.

  She picked up her smartphone, opened her browser, and typed the address of the house into the search bar. The first result was an online advertisement.

  For sale by owner. Historic home restored and waiting for you. PRICE IS FIRM!!! THIS IS ALREADY A BARGAIN!!! DO NOT TRY AND DICKER AND DO NOT TEXT. PHONE CALLS OR E-MAILS ONLY!!!

  She smiled at the screaming caps and the abundance of exclamation marks, then clicked on the photographs. There were only two. Blurred and dark, they both showed the exterior of the house. It was a shame that the seller hadn’t provided pictures of the interior too. She especially wanted a glimpse of the parlor where Letitia might have sat, keeping up on her correspondence.

  And that was a good reason to drive down to Tampa. On her return trip, she could take a detour to Noble. The town wasn’t too far off the interstate. She could even call the seller and arrange a time to walk through the house.

  It was a crazy idea, like something her fun-loving dad would have come up with. He’d never thought twice about packing up and hitting the road, whether for an impromptu vacation or a move halfway across Michigan.

  With a fond smile for him, she settled in her favorite chair and studied the portrait on the wall. The simple dignity of Letitia’s expression was what Tish had sought to imitate every time she was the new kid in school again, facing bullies on the playground. Holding her head high, she’d managed to keep her fists to herself by imagining that she was the original Letitia, regal and composed.

  I am Letitia McComb. You can’t change who I am.

  The more she thought about taking a side trip to Noble, the more she liked the idea.

  George Zorbas ran up the familiar steps and scooped up the runaway. Her little heart raced as she huddled apologetically against his chest.

  “If you’re not careful, you’ll go to doggie heaven a little early,” he told the tiny white Maltese.

  The dog regarded him with tragic eyes and thumped her tail against his arm.

  His late mother’s last surviving dog, Daisy could live another ten or fifteen years, barring accidents. But after two years, she still ran back to her former home on a regular basis. The way she darted into traffic, she might not make it to a ripe old age.

  “It’s a bad habit,” he said. “You don’t want to die that way.”

  Daisy whimpered as if to say she understood. Not that she ever honored his wishes about anything.

  From his vantage point on the porch, George frowned at the condition of the yard. He had always helped his mother keep the place in tiptop shape, either by the sweat of his brow or by hiring the sweat of someone else’s brow, but Si Nelson and his wife had let everything go after they’d learned they had to sell.

  When Si bought the place, he’d been gung-ho about the yard. Especially those old camellias. Lately, though, he probably hadn’t had the heart to do the yard work himself or the discretionary income to hire someone. But he could have kept up on the pruning and raking, at least.

  The front door creaked open on its elderly hinges. George closed his eyes briefly, wishing he hadn’t dawdled. Now he had to face Si.

  At the moment, with his white hair standing up like the bristles of a scrub brush, the man didn’t look like a pillar of the community. “It’s about time you picked up your dog, Zorbas. She’s been here for an hour.”

  “Sorry. It took me awhile to notice she was gone.” George nodded toward the For Sale sign that had stood on the front lawn for weeks. “Getting any calls lately?”

  “Some, but everybody tries to get me down.”

  “That’s the way it’s done.”

  “Not at this price. It’s already a bargain, and that’s that.”

  George couldn’t argue. The buyers would get a steal of a deal—which would only make him feel guiltier about the hefty profit he’d made when he sold to Si. But business was business.

  Stepping onto the porch, Si scowled at the unkempt yard. “I won’t miss that steep slope. Or the stairs. Or how big the place is. It’s too much to keep up.”

  George was happy to go along with the excuses that might soothe Si’s injured pride. “Yes sir, those creaky old stairs are a pain. You’ll be happier in a smaller house with a smaller yard.”

  “We don’t want a house. We’ll move to an apartment over in Muldro. We aren’t inclined to keep gardening anyway.” But Si moved his glum gaze to the camellias he’d loved to pamper.

  George racked his brain for an encouraging word. “A lot of apartments have nice big balconies. Y’all can still raise a few flowers and tomatoes and—and things.”

  “Sure we can.” Si stared toward the vacant lot next door where the Morrisey house had burned down a few years ago. Last summer, he and Shirley had raised a truckload of vegetables there.

  “Maybe you’ll have some nice neighbors in Muldro,” George offered.

  “Sure we will.�
�� A faint buzzing came from Si’s direction. He dug a phone out of his pocket and squinted at it. “Another text. What’s wrong with people? Can’t they read? When my son put the ad together, he put right in there, ‘Do not text,’ but these idiots text me anyway.” He shoved the phone into his pocket.

  A faint sense of alarm began brewing in George. He didn’t like texts either, because his big fingers didn’t get along with that miniature keyboard. If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a cranky old geezer too, before his time.

  “I’d better get back to minding the store,” he said. “Remember, now, if you need to sweeten the deal for somebody, I’ll donate a dog. You can say she comes with the house, no extra charge.”

  Si snorted. “Who’d want her?” He reached into his pocket and slipped Daisy a doggie treat before George could stop him.

  “Don’t feed her,” George protested as she chomped it down. “No wonder she won’t leave you alone. Please don’t give her any more treats.”

  Si stumped inside without answering and banged the door shut the way George had banged it shut so many times as a boy.

  “Aw, what’s the use?” he muttered. He’d never figured out if Si was hard of hearing or if he only faked it when it was convenient.

  Daisy whined, struggling to leap from his arms to her usual begging post by the door. George took a firmer grip.

  “You don’t live here anymore, dog. Get over it.”

  He wondered if Si would ever get over it, or if he’d spend the rest of his days hating the new owners, whoever they proved to be.

  “Not my problem,” George said, and carried the resentful dog to his van.

  Tish couldn’t get used to it. Orchids just outside the window and Elvis crooning “White Christmas” on the stereo. It was unnatural.

  Finished organizing the highest shelf in the last of the tall kitchen cabinets, she lowered herself to sit on her mother’s granite countertop and pitched another empty box to the center of the room. In only a few days, her mother and Charles were nearly settled. The gray-haired newlyweds worked hard but stopped often to flirt and smooch. It was cute, but only up to a point. Tish could hardly wait to hit the road, even though she’d be driving into winter weather.

  Here in Tampa, it didn’t even feel like December. It was an unreal season in an unreal world. Instead of growing poinsettias in foil-covered pots and planning to toss them when they turned spindly after Christmas, Floridians planted them in the ground. Instead of hanging damp gloves to dry near a wood-burning stove, they hung swimsuits and towels to dry on the backs of their patio chairs—and they didn’t care if their sixty-something bods weren’t quite swimsuit-worthy. Tish grinned, remembering her mom’s quip about vintage items. Their flaws, their charm.

  The glass sliding door to the patio stood open, admitting the gurgle of the pool pump and the fragrance of tropical flowers. Long-legged Charles stood on a stepstool on the far side of the patio, hanging colored lights on a small palm tree against a brilliant orange sunset. He was whistling along with Elvis.

  They would celebrate an early Christmas together before Tish headed north, but it wouldn’t be anything like those long-ago visits to Grandma and Grandpa McComb’s house just outside Detroit when she was little. Her dad would detour through downtown so she could see the Christmas lights. Sometimes it was snowy, sometimes it wasn’t, but steam always rose from the street grates in great white clouds, and her grandparents’ house always smelled of roast turkey, sage-and-onion dressing, and the fresh cranberries that popped in a pan on the stove. Every year, Tish had run to the spare room to check the items on the dresser—an antique hairbrush, an ornate music box, a framed photo of relatives she didn’t know—and sure enough, nothing had changed. Even the smell of the room stayed the same, as sweet and stale as Grandma’s face powder.

  Now, high-rise apartments covered the block where that house had stood. Tenants moved in and moved out. Nothing stayed the same, and nothing looked the same. Tish could never point to a particular spot and say it was where she’d once helped her grandma trim the tree and bake gingerbread men.

  Her mom bustled into the kitchen. “I just found more boxes that we moved straight from the storage shed into the moving van without opening them. There’s no telling what we’ll find, but they can wait.” She started breaking down one of the empties that Tish had tossed to the floor. “Wow, you work fast.”

  “You bet. I can’t stay all week, you know.”

  “I still wish you weren’t driving back when I could have sent you home on a plane.”

  “No, this is perfect,” Tish said. It was time to share her goofy plan. “I’m going to stop in Alabama and see the McComb house.”

  Her mother flattened another box and gave her a puzzled look. “Again? Why? You’ve already seen it.”

  “The address was on Letitia’s letters, so I looked for it online and a for-sale ad popped up. I’ve swapped a couple of e-mails with the seller—”

  “What? When there are so many nice, new homes available? Why would you buy some dilapidated old house, and in Alabama of all places?”

  “Who said anything about buying? I only want to see it.”

  “Oh,” her mom said. “That makes a little more sense.”

  “It’s my chance to see the interior while the owner’s trying to lure prospective buyers inside. When I went there with Dad, we could only admire it from the sidewalk.” Tish made a face. “But I feel bad for the seller. He’ll think I want to buy the place.”

  Her mom chuckled. “Give your conscience a rest. He’s selling his house, so he has to expect a few looky-loos.”

  “True. And I won’t take much of his time. I won’t haggle over the price. I wouldn’t dare. It says right in the ad, ‘do not dicker.’ ”

  “Ha! Then you should dicker your little heart out. Get him softened up so he’ll be willing to bargain with the next person. You’re doing both of them a favor.”

  Tish smiled. “I like the way you think.”

  “Did you give him your name?”

  “My first name, but he got it wrong. He thought I said ‘Trish,’ and I just let it go. Why?”

  “Just wonder what he’d think of a McComb strolling through the McComb house.”

  “Now that you mention it, if he finds out I’m a McComb, he’ll think I have my heart set on buying the place, and he’ll be even more stubborn about the price.”

  Her mom laughed and started in on a story about some long-ago real estate deal, but Tish tuned her out.

  Why shouldn’t she buy the house? For years, she’d been careful with her money. She had enough for a decent down payment. She had excellent credit, and her experience at the insurance company could translate into a managerial position in some other field if need be.

  If she bought a house, she could take up piano again. Her neighbors at the apartment complex had complained about the noise, so she’d hardly touched it. In a house of her own, though—

  “Earth to Tish.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got that dreamy look in your eyes. The one your father used to get when he was cooking up some new scheme.”

  Tish blinked. Of course she wouldn’t move to Alabama. It was a crazy idea, like something her father might have done. She was more like her mother. Organized and practical. Not an explorer or a dreamer.

  “I only want photos, Mom. Photos of the rooms. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Tish pushed herself off the counter and onto the floor, the ceramic tiles chilly beneath her bare feet. “What’s left on your to-do list? Let’s get busy.”

  After leaving Tampa, Tish had made several touristy stops in Florida, then cut across a corner of Georgia and headed for Montgomery. She’d spent the night there. This morning she’d visited a historical museum before returning to the interstate, where heavy rains and other people’s accidents had created the mother of all traffic jams. A four-hour drive turned into six, but the sun had come out, traffic had cleared, and she
was almost there.

  She took the exit for Muldro, a good-sized town that boasted an outlet mall, a multiplex theater, and more chain restaurants and car dealerships than a girl could ever want. Somewhere in that cluster of commerce was the motel where she’d made reservations for the night.

  The mall was a zoo. Everyone for miles around must have decided this was the weekend to finish the Christmas shopping. Except for the lack of snow and the stores that sold Auburn and ’Bama merchandise for sports fans, the mall bore a strong resemblance to the outlet malls she shopped in Michigan. Sometimes she wondered if national chains would blur the country’s regional differences someday, making a homogenized blend.

  Safely past the mall traffic, Tish yawned and flexed her shoulders. Noble would be another twenty minutes down the state highway, but she would still be early for her appointment with the seller. She wished she had more daylight left for exploring the town, though.

  A few miles east of Muldro, the landscape became more rural. Lackadaisical fences separated big country lots. Some people kept chickens or goats; other yards held swing sets or above-ground pools. It wasn’t dark yet, but Christmas lights sparkled on trees and fences and houses.

  She was on the outskirts of Noble now, a small town nestled among green hills. Everything looked much the same as she remembered it from her trip with her father. The state highway became Main Street, and a sign announced the city limits. She had to stay on the main drag and look for South Jackson on the right, past the downtown area.

  Old homes lined Main, many of them converted to commercial use, with a few modern buildings sprinkled into the mix. She passed hole-in-the-wall eateries and local shops, a small park with a gazebo decked out in Christmas garlands, and more businesses. Every light pole held a red bow and greenery. It would be even prettier after dark, with all the lights on.