by Meg Moseley
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s okay. I have more at home.” Hayley stepped closer and draped the hoodie around Mel’s shoulders. “Just go before somebody sees you hanging around. Shoo.”
Mel tried to smile. “Thanks for making me feel like a stray cat.”
“I’m trying to keep my job. Gotta go.”
“Wait—Hayley!”
Hayley turned around. “What?”
“Quick, tell me the news. Like who’s still in town and who’s not. I don’t have a phone so I can’t text or call or whatever.”
Hayley shrugged. “What do you think? The smart ones went off to college. The rest of us are still here.”
“So, what about Darren?”
“He’s around, but don’t tell me you still have the hots for him.” Hayley’s voice softened. “I know why you’ve got a thing for cops, but guys like him are out of our league, doll.”
“He made it through the academy?”
“Top of the class. What did you expect?” With a quick wave of her hand, Hayley was gone.
Mel sighed. It was all true, including the part about Darren being way too good for her.
At least she wouldn’t starve tonight. She pressed the plastic bag’s fading warmth against her cheek. She’d better hurry up and eat. Not behind a Dumpster, though. Someplace that smelled nice. Someplace with flowers, maybe. She’d pretend she was having a picnic like she and Hayley used to do when they were about eight.
Walking across the parking lot with the hoodie draped around her shoulders the way old ladies did with their sweaters, Mel headed south on Main, toward the park. Even rich people ate in parks sometimes. Too bad she looked like a bag lady.
Waiting for the light to change at the corner of Third and Main, she heard air brakes and a deep rumble. She turned to see the cab of a big truck, trembling with power, edge up next to her. A moving van. She thought about faraway places, about making a fresh start somewhere tropical or exotic. But she’d tried that once already. Now she was back, and her folks wouldn’t even let her take a shower in their house.
They’d let Stu and his family stay, though, while their kitchen was torn up. The boys would have fun camping out in the basement for a couple of weeks. It was practically an apartment down there, with its own mini kitchen, and they’d have plenty of room to hang out.
Mel swallowed hard. She wasn’t about to start crying, right on Main where everybody could see her.
Of course her folks would let Stu stay. He’d always been the perfect son. He hadn’t stolen anything from them like Mel had. Or so they thought. But she hadn’t taken anything that didn’t belong to her, and what she borrowed, she brought back. Even the black jacket, once her dad reminded her.
He didn’t want to be her dad anymore, though.
“Fine,” she whispered. She didn’t want a thief for a dad.
It wasn’t quite ten in the morning, but Tish already wanted to take a break. She’d stayed up past midnight, unpacking and organizing after the movers left, and she’d returned to it at seven. Already, the house was beginning to feel like home. Instead of being too empty, now the living room was crowded with furniture and boxes.
The portrait still leaned against the wall. She wished she’d asked one of those burly movers to hang it for her. At some point, maybe she’d meet her next-door neighbors and see if they could help. Judging by the bumper stickers on the vehicles in their driveway, they were into hunting, fishing, quilting, ’Bama football, and their grandchildren, but she hadn’t laid eyes on their faces yet.
She took a swig of her ice water. Once again she located the utility knife she kept losing. She cut the strapping tape on half a dozen boxes of books. Trying to remember how she’d had the books organized in her apartment, she loaded them onto shelves. She placed her special favorites at eye level: The History of Clothing. Fashion Through the Ages. Why Flappers Bobbed Their Hair.
With the boxes emptied, she flattened them and carried them onto the front porch. A brisk wind threatened to blow them out of her arms, but she wedged them between her wicker furniture and the wall.
Energized by the gusts of air, she walked into the yard and looked up and down the street. All in all, it was a great neighborhood. Old but nice, and within walking distance of Noble’s quaint little downtown area. Only twenty minutes from more practical shopping in Muldro too. The house suited her more and more, and as long as the roof didn’t leak and the furnace held out, she’d be able to make some repairs and decorate a little.
She smiled, thinking of Mr. Farris at the bank. If she landed a job within a few weeks, she’d be on her way to finding new friends and settling into the social life of Muldro and Noble—if they had any.
Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, she faced the house directly across the street. The house with the pansies that matched hers. A woman was cracking the screen door open to let a black cat in.
Tish waved. “Good morning,” she called, good and loud.
The screen door banged shut, followed by the solid sound of the wooden door closing.
With her optimism dissolving, Tish put her hands on her hips. “Well, be that way then,” she said quietly.
It was time to admit the truth. The unfriendliness wasn’t her imagination. She was sure she’d find plenty of friendly people too, like Farris, but a good number of the citizens of Noble and Muldro were hostile toward newcomers.
That woman at the bank, Marian Clark-Whoever, had an attitude. So did the mail carrier. Even the guy at the gas company had acted like he wished she’d go back where she came from. Now, the neighbor.
“I’m staying,” Tish said under her breath.
She turned to run up the steps and stopped short. A tiny white dog sat expectantly by the front door.
“Who are you? You don’t live here.”
Looking more like a toy than a real animal, the dog blinked its black eyes and wagged an unrepentant tail.
“Oh, I remember you. You and the guy in the van. Do you belong to him?”
She’d noticed the shop, Antiques on Main, a few blocks away. She’d driven past at dusk when the ground-floor windows were softly lit. Upstairs, the wrought-iron railing of a balcony stood out against the bright lights shining from behind drawn shades.
Tish knelt and held out her hand. Quivering all over, the dog licked her fingers with a moist pink tongue. The quivering became a whole-body wiggle with most of the movement coming from the hindquarters.
“Aren’t you cute. Here, let me see your tag.” Tish took hold of a pale pink harness and worked the dog’s tags out from a tangle of clean white fur. “Okay, your name is Daisy. You must be a girl.”
Most men didn’t like frilly little dogs, so she probably belonged to a woman. The guy in the van had a wife or a girlfriend then.
Tish pulled her phone from her pocket. Phone in one hand, dog tag in the other, she called the number on the tag.
“Antiques on Main. This is George. If this sounds like a recording, it must be a recording.” His slow drawl heightened the dry humor of his words. “Our hours are nine to five every day but Sunday. If you’d like to leave a message, you know the routine. No texts, please. I don’t do texts.”
Instead of waiting for the beep, Tish closed her phone. “Come on, Daisy.” She picked up the featherweight dog. “You’re the perfect excuse for taking a break, and I love antiques.”
The dog wriggled with joy but didn’t make a sound.
“Well, at least there’s one friendly soul in Noble.” But when Tish started down the steps, the dog whimpered and strained her whole body in the direction of the house.
“Tough luck, puppy,” Tish said. “I’m taking you back to your owner.”
She decided to introduce herself as Letitia McComb, partly to get in the habit and partly to see if this George would recognize the name. It would be an interesting experiment.
Halfway down the block, she realized she’d forgotten to lock up. She slowed for a moment and then picked up her pa
ce again. This wasn’t Detroit. It was a small and peaceful town where most people probably left their doors unlocked. Besides, if anybody had the patience to sort through her ragtag possessions for something worth stealing, they were welcome to it—as long as they didn’t mess with her vintage costume jewelry.
Enjoying the morning sunshine, George sat on the balcony with his coffee and the online version of the Mobile news. Now and then he cast an idle glance down to the street as the town woke up. In thirty minutes he’d have to leave for his appointment with a seller in Huntsville, but Calv had already taken charge of the shop and, thankfully, that blasted dog.
If Calv ever found a real job again, George was up a creek.
Hearing the distinctive sound of an old Corvette, he leaned forward in anticipation of the pretty sight. The mint-condition ’56 tooled around the corner with its V-eight rumbling and its original arctic blue paint gleaming like ice.
Duncan Hamilton was driving, of course. He took the ’Vette out on a regular basis for the mechanical benefits, but he didn’t appreciate the car as his late father-in-law had. Miss Mel had always loved it too. From the time she was a chunky little kid, she’d helped her grandpa when he washed and waxed it. She’d even earned a whipping once for taking it on a joyride.
She’d pitch one of her famous tantrums if she found out Dunc was selling it. She’d find out soon, too, if she was really in town.
Turning a corner, the car disappeared from view. George sighed. He would have endured a whipping too, for one hour at the wheel of the Corvette. His project car was going to be a sorry substitute.
Below him, a shiny red Jeep pulled up and over the curb, one tire gaining the sidewalk. The driver pulled it back down with a thump. Mrs. Rose climbed out. Cheeks flushed, she checked to see if anybody was watching, then hurried into the shop.
Maybe she’d soothe her embarrassment by finally buying the umbrella stand. But if she didn’t, somebody else would. Sooner or later.
About to click on the sports section, his hand stilled. A woman was marching down the far side of the street with a small white dog in her arms. Couldn’t be Daisy, though. The mutt was in Calv’s custody—wasn’t she?
Directly opposite the shop now, the woman checked for traffic and jaywalked, unaware of her audience on the balcony. In jeans and a red T-shirt, she had her reddish hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.
Daisy lifted her head, locked eyes with George, and let out an apologetic whimper. It was her, all right. Therefore the woman was the new resident of 525 South Jackson. Daisy wouldn’t have gone to any other house.
Yep, it was the woman he’d seen taking pictures of the house, weeks ago. Letitia McComb, the contemporary version. But she had to be a decent person if she took the time to return a stray dog to its owner. He ought to speak up and welcome her to Noble—right in front of Mrs. Rose, whose grandmother had allegedly scared the original Letitia McComb right out of town with a fierce, old-fashioned tongue-lashing.
The woman passed out of sight beneath the balcony. Remembering his crazy idea of renting some garage space, George decided it wouldn’t hurt to try. He’d start with a low offer. Real low.
He gathered his things and went inside, then downstairs and into the shop through the back door. Leaning around the corner into the showroom, he had a good view of Calv and the newcomer in profile. Still holding the dog, she faced him over the counter—and there was Mrs. Rose, peering through the filigree case of the Luminaire funeral fan and eavesdropping for all she was worth—as if its cast-iron pole could hide her from the neck down.
“Good mornin’,” Calv said. “I see you found the runaway.”
“Yes. Are you George?”
“No ma’am. I’m his uncle, Calvary Williams.” He stuck out his hand.
She shook hands, keeping Daisy cradled against her shoulder. “I’m Letitia McComb,” she said with no hint of apology.
Mrs. Rose’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t let out a peep.
“That’s a nice, old-fashioned name,” Calv said.
“Thank you. And Calvary is an unusual name. A meaningful one.”
“Yes ma’am. My daddy was a traveling evangelist,” he said as if that explained everything. “He named my brothers Gethsemane and Zion, or Geth and Zi for short. He named my sister Jerusalem, but she much preferred to be called Rue.”
“Interesting,” Miss McComb said with a smile.
“Yes ma’am, but whatever name your mama and daddy slap on you, it won’t make you a good person or a bad person.”
Afraid Calv would say too much, too soon, George walked into the showroom. “Hello,” he said. “I’m George Zorbas.”
She shook hands with him while Daisy made guilty eyes at him. “Tish McComb. Or—well, I answer to either one. Tish or Letitia.” She thrust the dog into his hands. “Does she belong to you?”
“I’m afraid she does,” he said as Daisy wilted against him. “Thanks for bringing her back. Every chance she gets, she hightails it to her old house, and I have to fetch her back. I swear, my mother named her Daisy just so I’d always be driving Miss Daisy.”
That line usually drew a laugh, but Letitia only frowned. “Shirley Nelson is your mother?”
“No. I’m sorry, let me back up. My mother—who was Calv’s sister, Rue—owned the house until a couple of years ago when she passed away and I sold it to the Nelsons. Daisy thinks she still lives there.”
“That’s an awfully long time for a dog to stay attached to her old home.”
“Si gave her doggie treats. Against my wishes.”
“Oh. I won’t do that, so maybe she’ll stop coming.” She reached over to scratch Daisy’s head. “I’m glad it’s not a terribly busy road, but I hope you’ll keep a better eye on her.”
“Yes ma’am.” George hesitated. He couldn’t assess her character from one casual conversation, but she seemed all right so he plunged in. “I’m looking for some work space to rent for a while. Would you consider renting your garage to me?” He glanced at Calv, whose eyes had gone round.
“My garage?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am. I need a place where I can work on a project car for six months or so. I could pay you … say … a hundred … and fifty?”
“A month?”
He nodded, ready to raise his offer if necessary. “I wouldn’t need more than half of the garage, and I wouldn’t need the upper level at all.”
“I understand the upper level was a hayloft when the building was a carriage house. I can just imagine horses out there …”
“Yes, well, my project car has quite a few horses under its hood, and they would love to stay in the old carriage house for a while.”
She let out a burst of laughter, blue eyes sparkling. “Let me think about it. I’ll never park my car back there because it’s so far from the house, but I might need the storage space.”
George lifted one of his cards from the holder on the counter. “Sure. Think it over and let me know. Here’s my number.”
She reached for the card, her fingernails tipped with pale pink polish, thoroughly chipped. “Okay. The sooner I finish unpacking, the sooner I’ll know if I’ll need the space for anything. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
“Thanks again for bringing the dog back.”
“No problem.” She walked toward the entrance and stopped short near the door. Eyeing the vintage mannequin wearing the black velveteen ball gown from the Helm estate, she reached out to touch the cap sleeve. He’d set the dress in the place of honor, but she’d missed it on the way in.
“Oh my goodness,” she said softly. “That’s gorgeous.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it? Circa 1955 or so. It’s not from a big-name designer, so it’s more reasonable than some.”
She checked the price tag that hung from one sleeve and laughed out loud. “For me, until I find a job, it’s not the least bit reasonable.” She gave the dress a farewell pat and breezed past Mrs. Rose, who turned slowly to watch her exit, then follow
ed her right outside as if she were attached by a tow rope.
George blew out a long breath. “There she goes. The modern-day Letitia McComb.” And she would have looked mighty fine in that dress.
“I’m more interested in the modern-day Letitia’s garage,” Calv said. “Sure would be nice to work there again.”
“We’ll see what happens,” George said. They couldn’t go back to the good old days—and for Calv, they hadn’t been good anyway—but it would be something.
“She has that forward Yankee way about her, but she’s tolerable. And she brought the dog back.” Calv frowned. “I don’t think anybody’s told her anything yet.”
“Nope. Nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news.”
“If you’re gonna move your project car into her garage, maybe you’re elected.”
“Maybe.”
“Now you’d better get off to your appointment. And take that crazy dog. I can’t watch Daisy and the shop both.”
“You had her shut up in the back room, didn’t you?”
“I thought I did. I’m telling you, the dog’s middle name is Houdini.”
“What am I supposed to do with the dog when I’m busy wheeling and dealing?”
“That’s not my problem.” Calv grinned. “Maybe you can arrange a trade.”
“I wish.”
George took his mother’s dog into the back room to gather the leash and other canine accoutrements. It was past time to leave on the ninety-minute drive to Huntsville.
Mel’s fingers made a soft rippling sound against the school’s chain-link fence. As the sunset glowed orange behind the school building, she thought of nasty-nice Amanda, one of the bosses of the playground. She was probably the boss of her whole college by now.
Inside, the lights were still on, so the custodians hadn’t left yet. They’d be mopping hallways or cleaning bathrooms or straightening rows of tiny desks.
The playground hadn’t been much fun since first grade. Mel’s dad was on the school board then, and they’d voted to take out the jungle gym and that scary-fast, old-fashioned merry-go-round before somebody got hurt and the parents sued. Now there were only swings, not-too-tall slides, and a climbing wall so low it wouldn’t be a challenge even for an itty-bitty kid.
