by Nancy Moser
Merry felt ridiculously defensive. “It did itself in. All branch and no bud. It doesn’t deserve to live.”
“My, my. Does this indicate a general hatred of roses, or this one specifically?”
Merry checked her attitude. She should be penalized ten yards for unnecessary brusqueness. It had become a bad habit. She leaned the spade on the sidewalk. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m new in town.” The woman held out her hand. “Claire Adams.”
Merry removed a gardening glove and shook her hand. “Merry Cavanaugh. I’m fairly new here too. Four months, next week.”
“An old-timer compared to me. I just got in last night.”
“Quick! You still have a chance to get out.”
“You don’t like it here in Steadfast?”
Merry chastised herself. Bitterness was not becoming. “Let’s just say it’s a little small for my taste.”
“Then why are you here?”
Because I couldn’t stay there. At home. My empty home that used to be full of life. My dead home. She offered her standard answer: “A friend of my mother’s lives here. She told me of a job opening. I moved.”
“That’s nice.”
Merry shrugged and nodded toward the library. “The friend practically lives in the library, and when the old librarian retired…” Blanche felt sorry for me and conspired with my mother to force me toward a new start in a new town.
Claire’s swallow seemed deliberate. “You work there?”
“The sole staff is me, myself, and I. They obviously didn’t mind that I had no experience whatsoever.”
“I’m sure they were thrilled to have—”
“I think Blanche called in some favors. Made people feel sorry for—” She stopped. She hadn’t meant to bring it up. Why did she always bring it up?
“Why would they feel sorry for you?”
Merry looked away, put the glove on, and shoved the spade into the dirt. She leaned it back until the roots tore, then nodded to the flat of impatiens. “I’ll get these out if you’ll put the new ones in.” She glanced at Claire’s hands. Manicured. Sculptured nails. “Sorry, I don’t have another pair of gloves.”
“No problem. How do you want them placed?”
Merry explained the red, white, and blue layout and went back to extracting the rose. Claire tapped the edge of a six-pack against the ground, loosening the plants.
Merry was relieved Claire hadn’t pursued her question of the town’s pity, but still wanted to get the conversation safely headed in a new direction. “What are you doing out so early?”
“Helping you.”
Merry stopped digging and squinted. Apparently Claire was as good at being evasive as she was. “That has got to be the simplest answer I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Oh, let me assure you, it’s a compliment. Nothing seems simple anymore. Not people. Not circumstances. Not life.” There I am, doing it again. “Don’t mind me. I talk too much—or at least say too much.”
“So there’s something you don’t want to say?”
Merry dropped the spade and yanked at the rose bush. The remaining roots tried to hold on, but she ripped them in two with a strong tug. She tossed the gangly mass on the grass. Claire was looking at her, waiting. “I don’t even know you.”
“Hey, as of a few months ago, you didn’t know anyone here. Or don’t they know the details either?”
“Oh they know.” Merry grimaced. “Blanche made sure of that. It’s no secret. Everyone in the world knows.”
Claire’s right eyebrow raised. “Now you do have me intrigued. What was your name again?”
And away we go… “Merry Cavanaugh.”
Claire cocked her head. “It doesn’t ring any bells. Should I know your
Merry sighed. If Claire was going to stick around it was going to come up anyway, so she might as well get it out in the open. “Remember the Sun Fun plane that crashed into a lake seventeen months ago during an ice storm? The helicopter rescue? The—”
“The hero who kept handing off the line to the others? Yes! I remember watching it on TV.” Claire put a hand to her chest, holding some emotion in. “What that man did…it was so moving. It made me wonder if I would have done such a thing. It—” Her expression changed, and Merry could practically see a new train of thought derail her words. “Were you on that plane?”
“I was one of the five survivors.”
“The hero saved you?”
“Henry Smith was his name. Yes, he saved me.”
Claire got to her feet. “Oh my, what you must have been through. To be saved like that.”
“My husband and son died.”
Claire took a step back. “Oh.” Then her eyes showed recognition. “The young mother…you’re her?”
“That’s me. One young mother, off on a pleasure trip to Phoenix to live it up with a college chum. One selfish, dissatisfied, unappreciative wife and mother who didn’t know what she had until she lost them.”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Merry moved to the next rose to sacrifice. “They died, I lived. End of story. Or end of their story. Mine goes on, or attempts to. I’m only thirty. I never considered myself widow material. One of God’s little jokes.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You married, Claire?”
“Divorced.”
“A different kind of widow. A different kind of grieving, but you grieve just the same. Right?”
“I suppose I do.”
Merry swiped the back of her hand over her forehead, feeling speckles of dirt attach to her skin that only got worse the more she rubbed. “Don’t mind me. I’m perpetually weary. I moved to Steadfast to start fresh, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
“At least you’re trying.”
Merry shrugged. How could she feel so old? She was only thirty, but she felt at least a hundred.
“Did you move here permanently?”
Merry glanced at Claire. “Right or wrong, I dropped down roots immediately. Bought an old Victorian over on Maple. Peeling paint, warped doors, and ceilings decorated with brownish rings that look like illustrations of amoebas. It needs fixing up and I need to keep busy. It seemed a good match.” She snickered. “Like I say, I’m weary.”
Claire went back to the flowers and Merry dug up the other roses. Silence separated them, but in an odd way, seemed acceptable. Claire didn’t make her feel odd or bad about who she was or why she’d escaped to Steadfast.
It was a relief.
Jered Manson was late. But it wasn’t his fault. If only Moog and Darrell would quit buying the beer, he’d quit drinking it, and quit being hung over. He’d really wanted to help Merry plant the flowers this morning. He’d intended to be there. He’d even run through yards to try to make it there, not daring to drive and risk waking his dad. But when he turned into the square he saw Merry with another woman, putting the empty flower containers in the back of her van.
It was too late. He was too late. Again.
At that moment, Merry looked up. “Jered!”
He ran a hand through his hair and walked toward her, wishing he weren’t so sweaty from the run.
Merry held her ground, tapping her watch. “You’re too late.”
He felt his face redden. “Sorry.”
Her shrug was a dagger. “I had other help.” She turned to the woman standing next to her. “Claire, this is Jered Manson; Jered, this is Claire Adams. She’s new in town and a very good helper.”
Implying I’m not?
“Nice to meet you, Jered.” Claire shook his hand.
“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
Merry continued. “Jered’s interested in a career in music, being a performer, composing.”
He immediately forgave all insults to his work ethic.
“What kind of music do you like?” Claire asked.
“Rock. Sting, Billy Joel, and Elton John.”<
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“Good choices.”
Merry smiled. “We’ve been researching music companies on the Internet at the library, trying to piece together how Jered should go about pursuing his dream.”
“You have a big dream.”
An impossible dream. “Yeah, well…”
“He can do it.” Merry’s smiled warmed him. “If he ever learns to be on time.”
He accepted her scolding.
She looked back at the flowers. “But since we’re done here, you can go home, Jered.”
When Merry and Claire started chatting without him, he had no choice but to leave. He walked toward the park in the square, taking a seat on a bench. Then, making sure no one would see him, he removed the picture from his pocket. It was half the size of a snapshot—torn in half by his own hand. It was a picture of Merry in a baseball cap, smiling at the camera. Her arm was around the shoulder of a boy, but his face had been torn away as unnecessary. Jered stared at the picture and imagined Merry’s arm around his shoulder. Proud of him. Happy to spend time with him.
At the sound of a horn he looked up. His father drove up, his elbow resting on the opened window. “What are you doing out this early, Jered? I wake up and find you gone, but your truck’s still at home. Since when do you go anywhere without your truck?”
Jered rushed to the side of the car, not wanting Merry to witness him getting in trouble. “There some law against getting up early?”
His father snickered. “Law, no. But face it, getting up before noon is not your usual modus operandi.”
“Huh?”
His father sighed and nodded across the square at the diner. “Since you’re up, let’s eat. I have a favor to ask of you.”
So that’s it. An ulterior motive. Jered was used to those.
Claire swept the last of the dirt off the sidewalk. She arched her back. The effect of the physical labor on her floor-stiff muscles was a mixed bag. Some muscles felt better, some worse. “All done.”
Merry took the broom and tossed it in the back of her minivan. “Thanks for the help.” She dug in her pocket for her car keys. “I’ve got to run home and get cleaned up before work. Can I drop you back at the motel?”
Claire was a little taken aback. She’d never said she was staying at a motel—obviously the motel—but didn’t mind that Merry assumed she was. “No, I’m fine. It was nice to meet you, Merry.”
“You too, Claire.”
And that was that. Obviously, Merry assumed a lot of things. She’d never even asked Claire why she was in Steadfast. As a stranger, Claire had expected a lot of questions from the small-town residents. Maybe Merry hadn’t been overly curious because she was a big-city transplant herself.
But beyond expecting some what-are-you-doing-here questions, Claire had expected helping Merry Cavanaugh would make the eager ache in her gut go away. But her good deed seemed to be only that. A good deed. The gnawing feeling that something important was going to happen held fast. If only she knew whether the upcoming event would be good or bad. She assumed good—since she believed the feeling came from God—but one could never be entirely sure about such things. Unfortunately, Claire had found during her short tenure with God that being in tune to His guidance was an inexact science and too often tainted by her own will, a pesky mood, or whether or not she’d had enough sleep. All she could do was keep her eyes and ears open and try to do the right thing.
Claire looked to the diner across the street. The lights were on. Her stomach cast a vote.
The bell on the door to the café announced her arrival. It was obvious the Plentiful was the A.M. hub of Steadfast. There were only two empty tables. The waitress looked in her direction, and Claire held up a single finger. The waitress nodded toward the table by the window.
A glass of water appeared, as did a menu. Claire handed it back. She knew exactly what she wanted. “Do you have biscuits and gravy?”
“Wouldn’t be allowed in town without it.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
“Coffee? With…?” Cream.
The waitress laughed. “I like a woman who knows her mind—and knows good food. I get tired of fruit cup ladies.”
“Fruit cup ladies?”
“Dieters.” The waitress whispered it as if it were a dirty word.
Perhaps here, it was. Claire noticed a dry-erase board heralding the daily specials. She guessed that the Flapjack Fiasco at $3.99 and the Breakfast Bonanza at $5.99 tasted like heaven but contained double the calories most dieters ate in an entire day.
“Back with your coffee in a jiff.”
Claire turned her attention to the other diners. In a corner was a table of men with farm caps. A discussion of seed corn prices rose and fell. At the counter looked to be a few truckers dining alone, with the rest of the tables made up of people dressed for work.
A man with a stunning shock of slicked-back dark hair was seated in the other window table across from that kid, Jered Manson. Jered’s back was to her, so she didn’t greet him. He probably wasn’t too keen on seeing her again, considering he’d just been chastised for being too late.
The difference in the two males’ attire was striking. The man was dressed a step above the rest of the diners, like some kind of visitor from Hollywood—a dandy in a cream-colored linen suit. The boy wore ragged jeans and a baggy T-shirt. His hair was close-cropped, like it was growing back from being shaved. He had two earrings—in the same ear. The two of them could be featured in a poster showcasing the generation gap.
Help him.
Claire blinked at the inner order. She was supposed to help another person this morning? But how?
She tried to zero in on the conversation the man was having with the teenager.
“I don’t care what your plans are this morning, Jered, nor do I want to listen to your whining about having a hangover. I need you to wait tables for the lunch crowd. End of story.”
“I hate waiting tables for you. I’d rather wait tables where real people eat.”
The man leaned forward across the table, but Claire could still hear his words. “You want to work in a junk diner, fine, get a job here. But I’ve spent years giving Steadfast a fine restaurant, and I’m not going to let you defame Bon Vivant.”
The boy slumped in his chair, his arms crossed. “Let me go home and sleep.”
“I will not. Something got you up this morning—even though you won’t tell me what it is—and you’re not going back to bed. It’s good you’re up when normal people get up, no matter what shenanigans you indulged in the night before. That’s all a part of consequences, Jered. You’ll have to forgive me if I thought it would be nice for the two of us to come here for breakfast. I can’t help if you’re feeling—”
“I thought it was a junk diner.”
The man hesitated. “It is. But they happen to make the best cinnamon rolls in existence. You like them too.”
“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me, Dad. And don’t pretend you came looking for me because you were worried. You just hunted me down to butter me up so I’d come to work.”
“That’s not—”
The waitress stopped at their table. “More coffee, Bailey?”
“No thanks.” He checked his watch. “In fact, can we have the rolls to go?” His face lit up. “Hey, Annie, I’m in a bind today. Want to come wait tables for me? All you need is a pair of black pants and a white shirt. I’ll supply the rest. I’d need you from eleven to—”
“Work a shift here and then work a shift for you?” She snickered. “Dream on.”
Bailey’s shoulders slumped. “Actually, it’s a double shift. One waiter is sick, and I fired the other. I need someone through dinner too.
She pointed the coffeepot at the boy. “Have Jered do it.”
Jered shook his head. “I’m not feeling too good.”
Annie raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Bailey. Can’t help you. But if I run into anyone who wants to run their feet into the ground for ten hours, I’
ll let you know.”
Help him.
Claire shook her head. She was tired. She didn’t want to be a waitress. She’d never been a waitress.
In a minute Annie came back with two Styrofoam containers, and the man and boy moved to leave. Claire avoided his eyes as he walked past. Ah, come on, Lord, can’t we hold off until tomorrow? Can’t we ease into this?
Annie poured Claire’s coffee and pulled some cream tubs out of her pocket. “Food’ll be up in a jiff.”
A question formed. “Who was that man?”
Annie looked toward the door. “That’s Bailey Manson. He owns the fancy restaurant on the edge of town. Bon Vivant.”
“He needs waitresses?”
Annie eyed her. “You a waitress?”
Claire sighed. I am now.
Bailey Manson said all she needed were a pair of black pants and a white shirt. Claire had both. Odd how the black dress slacks had been an afterthought.
But how to get inside the library to retrieve them and change? Sneaking in the back door at one in the morning was one thing, but attempting it during the day was another.
Are you sure I have to do this, Lord?
In response, her stomach swelled with a new dose of anticipation—or was it indigestion from the double helping of biscuits and gravy? Maybe she was misinterpreting its urgency Nothing had happened so far—except she helped Merry Cavanaugh and was now thinking about helping Bailey Manson.
So why this feeling that time was short?
Claire saw Merry’s car in the parking lot but no others. She strolled between the bank on the corner and the library, pretending to take note of the plantings along the edge. Then she slipped behind the building and made a beeline for the back door. She hesitated only a moment. She tried the knob.
It was still unlocked.
She cracked it open and listened. All sounds of activity were muffled, as if they came from the main library.
She peeked inside. The storeroom was empty.
Pooh. “Okay, Lord. Okay.” The whisper followed her as she slipped upstairs to change into a waitress.
As soon as she entered the waiting area, Claire knew Bon Vivant was not the usual small-town restaurant. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes were not on the menu. There would be no free refills of Coke or place mats for children to color while they waited for grilled cheese or chicken nuggets. Each water glass would contain a slice of lemon. She saw damask tablecloths, fresh flowers, and subdued lighting, and she recognized the music of Fauré.
