by Rhett DeVane
“Look at you, Miz ’Vina!” Jake gushed, air-kissing slightly to the right and left of the old woman’s heavily rouged cheeks. “Don’t you look like one tall cool drink of water on a sultry day?”
Elvina adjusted the silk violet-trimmed white straw sunhat to tip slightly over one eye. “I’m aiming for you to refer to me as a work of art like you did Piddie, but I suppose any compliment I come by at my age is to be valued.”
Jake touched the brim of Elvina’s sunhat. “Did you create this wonderful thing?”
“Surely did. Evelyn made my dress. Fits to a T. We’re collaborating on a line of Easter ensembles for ladies and girls, you know. I’m the walking and breathing advertisement.”
Jon appeared beside Jake, a squirming Elvis tucked underneath one arm. “Come on in, Miz Elvina. Make yourself at home. Jake, get her a glass of tea.” He dabbed at a trickle of sweat on his brow. “Is it hot to anyone else besides me? Heavens, if I’m this warm now, imagine what I’ll be by July!”
Elvina shook her head. “I can’t imagine a person tall and thin as you are ever feeling the effects of the heat. Now, Sharalee Jefferson, she’s the one’s gonna just end up rending down to pure lard one hot summer’s day! Have you seen the size of her ankles, here lately?”
“I really have to leave you two to visit,” Jon interjected. “I’ve got to get Elvis into his party outfit, and I haven’t changed, myself.”
Elvina sniffed. “Am I too early?”
“Oh, of course not,” Jake replied. “Jon’s always on slow time. Reminds me of an old box turtle at times—dawdling and methodical, but he gets there eventually. C’mon inside and we’ll chat until the other guests arrive.”
By the time Evelyn, Joe, and Karen arrived in the Lincoln, the house was filled to capacity with revelers. Jake provided a play area in the front bedroom for Sarah and Josh. The blanket-covered floor was strewn with brightly-colored building blocks, dolls, trucks, and stuffed animals. Elvis stood guard to one side, judiciously avoiding an occasional airborne toy.
The party migrated from the living room and dining room to the kitchen and back garden. Jon spotted Karen sitting alone at one of the bistro tables Jake had arranged underneath the magnolia.
Jon flashed a toothy smile. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing sitting out here all alone?”
Karen shrugged. “I’ve been visiting around a bit, but I just wanted to be outside. It’s so beautiful out here. It’s like I’ve been cooped up for months.”
“I’m so glad you felt up to coming, Karen.” He placed two tall glasses of fresh lemonade on the table and offered his hand. “I’m Jon Presley, Jake’s partner. I’ve been meaning to drop by Evelyn and Joe’s.”
“Mama’s told me all about you. All good, of course. And don’t apologize for not stopping by. I haven’t been up to receiving company.” She reached up and adjusted her pale blue turban.
“I recall feeling that terrible. Chemo surely can suck the energy right out of you.”
Karen studied him. “You had cancer?”
“When I was a teenager. The experience never leaves you. Not totally.”
Karen sipped from the frosted glass. “This is so good. It’s the first thing sweet I’ve had in weeks. Mama’s on the warpath against white sugar, believes it’s the root of all evil, feeds cancer cells, that sort of thing.”
Jon grinned. “Hate to burst your bubble, but this is made with Splenda—kin to sugar, except a little different molecularly. Since it doesn’t break down under heat, you can even use it in baking.”
“Does that mean I can have a piece of that delectable Red Velvet cake without Mama pitching a fit?”
“Certainly does. I’ll be sure to let your mother know it’s approved.”
Jon studied Karen with his trained nurse’s eye. “How are you doing, really?”
She sighed. “The nausea’s been pretty rough. I’ve dropped fifteen pounds already because I just can’t eat. Daddy’s been cooking up a storm trying to find something I can hold down. Anything with the least bit of spice burned my mouth for a few days after I developed mouth ulcers. Pinky Green, Wanda’s friend, bought me some herbal lozenges that really helped. Otherwise, I would’ve steered clear of this lemonade.”
“One day, scientists will figure out a way to use a patient’s immune system to battle cancer instead of poisoning with strong drugs. But for now, we have to use what we’ve got.”
“I realize that, on an intellectual level.”
“Doesn’t help when you’re in the thick of it, does it?”
“No.”
“I’m right around the corner if you need me for anything, Karen—moral support, whatever medical knowledge I have that can help you.”
Karen smiled warmly. “Thank you, Jon. So, how did you come to be a part of this whole Chattahoochee madness?”
“Luck of the draw. Life is just so bizarre, sometimes. I was Hattie’s floor nurse when she had her colon cancer surgery. I met her and Jake then.”
“You don’t do hospital work anymore?”
“Left that rat race behind. I’m a hospice nurse now. I travel a lot locally, but the work’s very fulfilling.”
Karen shuddered. “All that death.”
Jon looked thoughtful. “That’s a part of it, naturally. But more than that, it’s about living until the end and leaving with as much dignity as possible.”
They heard Jake bellowing Jon’s name from inside the house.
“I’d better go see what he needs. Men, they can be so helpless sometimes!”
Karen laughed. A tight knot of anxiety loosened deep inside of her. For the first time in months, she felt alive.
“Remember, you call on me if you need to . . . or just if you want to shoot the shit. Okay?”
Jon leaned down and kissed Karen lightly on the cheek before taking the back steps in two’s.
Carol Burns’s Mama’s
Secret Recipe Chocolate Chip Cookies
½ cup rolled oats, regular or quick
2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
¾ cup firmly packed brown sugar
¾ cup white sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 eggs
3 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
Preheat oven to 350º. Mix together oats, flour, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon. In another bowl, cream the butter, sugars, and vanilla. Add eggs one at a time and beat until fluffy. Stir the flour mixture into the egg/butter mixture and blend well. Scoop round balls of dough onto a cookie sheet (I use the non-stick kind), leaving about a two-inch space between the dough balls. Bake until cookies are slightly browned. Cool completely before storing in a sealed container. Cookies will be soft and chewy.
Chapter Eleven
The quest for information leading to the location of Mary Elizabeth Kensington developed into a full-blown obsession for D. J. Peterson. Initially, his efforts were limited to the just-happened-to-be-looking variety. Then, his investigative urge kicked in, and the casual search turned into a full-scale, room-by-room pillage. Rising curiosity squelched the initial guilt over mistrusting his fiancée to the point of snooping through her possessions. She had been gone for almost two months now, and the lack of a hint as to her whereabouts was quickly sending him over the precipice.
D. J. started each segment of the meticulous hunt by snapping several before pictures with a digital camera. Assured items could be replaced in the same way as he had found them, he riffled through boxes of files, holiday decorations, albums of recent photographs, and shelves of books. Nothing was overlooked.
He found no evidence of Mary Elizabeth’s life prior to her move to Atlanta, as if she had beamed into the city at the age of twenty-one. No baby pictures, family snapshots, or mementos from childhood came to light. Was her life so terrible pri
or to the late seventies that she had effectively erased any traces? Niggling doubts nudged his consciousness.
D. J. stood at the threshold of the master bedroom closet. Tequila regarded him with cold yellow eyes and twirled at his feet.
“This is it, fat cat,” he said, “last chance for your mother to show her true colors . . . or not.”
He clicked several frames with the camera and reviewed the resulting images. Mary Elizabeth was obscenely organized. Any changes to the carefully-scripted lair would be detectable. D. J.’s nose caught the faint scent of her cologne lingering in the row of hanging clothes. He closed his eyes and followed the aroma to a navy wool pea coat and buried his face in the fabric.
“I’m pathetic.” He shook his head and began to remove the contents of the shelves. Two hours later, D. J. stood amidst a tower of shoe boxes and labeled plastic storage containers. The cats dashed through the maze of high heel pumps and belts.
“I give up, Mary E.!”
The two places he could not gain access to were her computer files and the contents of a fire-proof safe in the rear of the closet. Unless he hired a techie hacker or a safe-cracking thug named Fingers, D. J. stood no chance to gaining entrance to either.
By the time he carefully replaced the closet contents, he felt dejected and thoroughly confused.
“Maybe she’s in the witness protection program. That’s it, huh?” He crouched down and ruffled Tequila’s thick mane. “Yeah, that’s it. Your mama saw some drug lord in action, and now the feds are hiding you all. She’s really a farm girl from Kansas.”
D. J. retired to the study with a fresh cup of brewed decaf coffee. Though Mary Elizabeth’s personal files were protected with a password, he could log on under his name and gain entrance to her computer to check the office email. As usual, ninety percent of the electronic messages were advertisements and forwarded nonsense from coworkers. He took pleasure clicking the delete button.
When he turned the computer off and grabbed the armoire doors, he noticed a small brown cardboard box atop a pile of papers. Stuck to one side, “return” was written on a Post-it note in Mary Elizabeth’s ornate script. The sender’s address read: Mrs. E.L. Fletcher, Main Street, Chattahoochee, Florida.
D. J. opened the box slowly. Inside, a delicate gold mountain scene pendant rested on a bed of cotton. A folded note was tucked in the lid.
Dear Mary,
I bought this in Alaska for you. I hope you like it. I have one, too. Hope this finds you well. We’d love to hear from you. Call us collect any time.
With love,
Evelyn Fletcher
Trisha Truman stared blankly at the computer monitor screen. A search of the State of Florida Public Records webpage had yielded a fantastic find.
“Oh, my God. This is rich!”
She moved the mouse to locate the printer icon and clicked the left button with her index finger.
“One copy for me, one for the boss, one for safekeeping, and one for lover boy.” Trisha’s salmon-tinted lips curled.
She patted the stack of copies. “Finally, something to bring the great British bitch down a few pegs.”
Trisha oozed into D. J.’s cramped wood-paneled office and draped her body seductively across one corner of the narrow teak desk. “Hi, sweetie. Why don’t you take a break and treat a hard-working gal to lunch?”
D. J. replied without looking up, “Can’t today, Trisha. I’m getting ready to leave town for a few days.”
“Hmm. I thought your desk looked awfully neat and clean. You slipping off to join your precious Mary Elizabeth?” She placed undue emphasis on her rival’s name.
D. J. glanced up. “You know, Trisha, Mary E.’s never done a thing to warrant your venom, yet you have had it in for her ever since you started here last year. I’d appreciate it if you’d can the comments. They make you look quite unattractive, really.”
“I have certain . . . information . . . that might make you change your tune about your fiancée. Take me to lunch, and we’ll discuss it.”
D. J. grabbed his worn leather briefcase and stuffed a stack of papers and an electronic personal organizer inside. “I can’t fathom you’d say anything I’d want to hear.”
He snapped the briefcase shut, walked around the desk, and left the office.
“Is that so?” Trisha picked idly at a chip on one manicured nail as she spoke to herself in the vacant office. “Maybe somebody else will then, mister.”
She tipped her head upward and the spray-stiff hair vibrated slightly. An evil idea budded.
“Well, why not? The perfect opportunity for me to show my investigative talents presents itself. Who am I to turn it away?”
Small communities were the same across the nation, regardless of geography. Trisha Truman instinctively knew the perfect place to garner inside information. She tapped lightly on Will Cooke’s door.
“Door’s open!”
Trisha stepped inside. “Will, I need a couple of days off.”
Will Cooke snuffed his irritation. Any of his employees—other than Trisha Truman—could refer to him by his first name and elicit no negative reaction. With her, the casual lack of formality smacked of purposeful insubordination. “I don’t believe you have any more annual leave and I know for a fact you don’t have any sick leave.” You call in every time you break a fake nail, for the love of Pete, he thought.
“How about family leave? I haven’t used that at all. My favorite aunt in Ocala has taken a bad fall. They think her hip’s broken.”
“That’s too bad. I hate to hear about older folks falling. It always gets them down.” Will looked up from his computer monitor. “How long do you need, a week, a few days? It’s a little slack right now. I suppose I could spare you if you . . .”
“No, sir. Just tomorrow and Friday will be fine. I’m sure. She has kin down there, too. I just want to show my support.” She offered a saccharine smile. “You’re the best! I promise I’ll find a way to repay your generosity.”
“Just contact me if you get to Florida and your family needs you longer.”
“You got it! I’ve got a couple of calls to make, then I’m going to get on the road.” She blew a kiss on the way out. Will grimaced.
On Trisha’s desk, the results of an Internet Yellow Pages search waited: the phone number for the Triple C Day Spa and Salon in Chattahoochee, Florida.
“My mama was big on eating vegetables, especially during the summer when the yellow squash, beans, peas, corn, okra and tomatoes would come in. Some meals, she didn’t bother to cook any meat—just bowls and bowls of homegrown vegetables and a hoecake of cornbread. We had a one-acre garden out behind the house. Gosh, how I hated to pull weeds in the dead of the summer! Sweat would just roll down my face and burn my eyes. Even in the early morning, it was still hot and humid. But come dinnertime, it was all worth it. And we’d can or freeze the extra vegetables to have during the winter. Creamed sweet corn—I’d have to say that was my all-time favorite, if I had to choose.”
Melody Kaye Allen, nail care specialist
Chapter Twelve
Pinky Green plucked an inchworm from the edge of a glossy green basil leaf.
“Sorry, little feller,” he said as he gently placed the worm on a bush at the periphery of the woods surrounding the herb garden. “You’ll have to do your measuring elsewhere. Now, if you could keep from eating my basil, it would be a different story.”
Wanda watched him curiously, a cup of hot coffee in her hand. “You talk to bugs, too. What an amazing man you are.”
“Wasn’t a bug, for your information, Miss Wanda. It was a tiny green worm.” Pinky’s cheeks flushed. “I reckon I’ve gotten so used to being out here alone, I’ll talk to just about anything. I’ve been known to carry on a lengthy conversation with a pine tree.”
She chuckled and stepped over to ruffle a spike of his red hair. “I talk to my dog. Suppose it’s not that different. I’m fixing some biscuits inside. You hungry?”
“You�
�re cooking?”
Wanda propped one hand on her hip. “You have a problem with that? What, you think you’re the only one around here who can take a turn in the kitchen?”
“No, not at all. I just didn’t think Northerners made biscuits.”
“I spent a lot of time down here during the summers when I was growing up. My aunt was a great cook, and I trailed her around the kitchen like a lovesick puppy. Now, grits, that’s the one thing I haven’t taken a turn at, just yet. I’d much rather have hash browns with my eggs. But biscuits—you can’t beat a homemade biscuit for breakfast.”
“I’ll gather some fresh eggs.”
Wanda slipped her arms around Pinky, careful to not spill the coffee. “My own little farmer. Who’d have ever imagined it?”
“You want to be the farmer’s wife?”
She drew back and studied him closely. “That sounds suspiciously like a proposal.”
“Well?”
Wanda leaned forward and kissed him softly. “You sure you can put up with being married to a Yankee?”
“War’s long over, Wanda Jean.”
“Depends on which one of my exes you ask. Some would say it was only beginning if you tie up with the likes of me.”
Pinky slipped a black velvet box from his pocket and flipped the lid to reveal a small diamond ring. He smiled.
“Good Lord! You’re serious! How long have you been carrying this around?”
“Couple of weeks. Reckon I was collecting the courage to ask.” He ducked his head. “You haven’t answered me. Do I get to stand out here in the middle of our garden looking like a complete fool till the sun beats me down?”
Wanda stuck her left hand forward. “Make it official then, Farmer Green.”
“My goodness!” Mandy remarked, picking at the tangled clumps of over-processed hair. “Not that I’m trying to pry, Miss—”
“Anna. Anna Freeman,” Trisha Truman provided. “Please, do call me Anna.”
