Creola's Moonbeam

by McGraw Propst, Milam

  “I couldn’t write a book this weird. Nobody would believe such a tale.”

  Mary Pearle went on to explain that our aunt had simply dropped off the planet. After many attempts to reach his sister, our father finally received a short letter from her. In it, Mary Pearle Armstrong made amends, saying she’d found her inner peace and would write again. Sadly, she never did. Not long after, our parents began facing their own battles with failing health.

  The link vanished.

  “It’s tragic when a family simply fades away. Maybe —”

  I hesitated. I must have looked especially forlorn. Mary Pearle eyed me worriedly. “Okay, lady, what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing really, I’m just sad to find out about Aunt Mary Pearle. Wonder if she’s still alive?”

  “Honey Newberry, I can see what you are doing. Stop! Leave well enough alone!”

  “All right, big sister, for now I will. Fact is, I’ve already got way too much on my plate, anyway. Plate? Say, let’s go out and get some breakfast. Seems you and I have talked the sun up.”

  “Are you sure we can eat again after all that food last night?”

  “You know we can.”

  My waffle was practically floating in maple syrup.

  “Aunt Mary Pearle gave away everything she had and moved into a commune,” I said, shaking my head. “My sister is getting married to a younger man she met on the Internet.”

  “Actually, it was through a dating service on the Internet.”

  “Attention, everyone, my sister is officially crazy, just like our, eerrrr, her aunt! Tell me, Mary Pearle, what would Crellie be saying to you about your new boyfriend, emphasis on the ‘boy’?”

  “I think she’s rejoicing. She’s not as narrow-minded as you, and likely approves of Stuart’s youth!”

  “Whoops, sorry about that. You nailed me good.”

  “You’re forgiven. Can I have a bite of your waffle?”

  “Sure.” I mimicked Creola’s sweet, soft voice, “Priceless Pearlie, you are being guided in many ways. Best be paying mind, because someone could be calling to you on this very day. The spirit could be calling to you from deep inside ... deep down inside your laptop computer! The Angel of the Internet speaks her wisdom.”

  “Blasphemy, Honey, you know Creola wasn’t high tech, she would only come to us in a dream.”

  “Mary Pearle, you just might be surprised at the many ways Crellie can communicate!”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Beau the news. First, there was silence. Then his laughter. “Sounds like a plot for one of your books, Honey. You know, you’d introduce two brand new characters, ‘the Mary Pearles.’ You could call it, ‘The Batty Bats in the Butlar Bell Tower!’”

  “Good one, Beau.”

  “Pretty clever, if I do say so myself.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s not allow this to go to your head. In all seriousness, I must tell you that it’s been years since I’ve seen Mary Pearle this jubilant. Of course, I’m uneasy, but I’m also very happy for her.”

  “You don’t think she’s lonely, desperate even?”

  “You sound like me, at first. No, I don’t. She and I talked all night long. I’m afraid she’s not only convinced herself, but she’s convinced me, as well. In fact, she’s bringing Stuart down to the condo in two weeks.”

  “I’ll be there, Honey, in my role as big brother-in-law.”

  “I was counting on that.”

  I am well aware of my husband’s keen ability to size up people. So often I make an acquaintance, introduce that person to Beau, and he’ll warn me to be careful. He rarely makes a mistake. Somehow, knowing that weekend was coming, I relaxed and enjoyed the last days of Mary Pearle’s visit.

  Her secret revealed, Mary Pearle settled down, too. We were able to devote our attention to the Creola book.

  It is always amazing to me that two people can remember things that happen in opposite ways. Identical event, same family, totally different version of same; it boggles my mind.

  Mary Pearle and I delighted in the memory of a most special tea party, one which Creola orchestrated when we were around seven and nine years old. My memory included homemade cookies and a bus ride to the park with Creola hauling a child’s folding table and three chairs to the shade of a big oak tree. I vividly recalled carrying a two-handled picnic basket filled with the cookies, paper cups and linen napkins, and lemonade in a thermos.

  “No, that wasn’t it at all,” argued Mary Pearle. “The awful bus ride was to get the cookies at a fancy bakery. The tea party was in our own backyard. I can’t believe you forgot. It was about the only time we didn’t help Creola bake the cookies. Don’t you remember, neither of us realized that you could actually buy cookies at a store?”

  “The party was in our yard?” I was astounded. “The setting seemed so much more magical than our yard.”

  “That’s because Creola hung Mother’s prettiest sheets on the clothes line — pink ones, some yellow with flowers. Remember, you and I had to find our way through the billowy fairyland to ‘Creola’s Magic Garden Tea Room.’”

  “Yes!” I admitted, “You’re right. And she brought those funny old hats from her home!”

  “Hats?”

  “Hats. Mine was white with a gigantic gardenia.”

  “You’re right! Creola wanted you to look like the moon; you know, Creola’s little Moonbeam. What was mine?”

  “Yours, hmmm? Wait, I know! Priceless Pearlie wore purple. All ‘P’s!’ It was a big, floppy hat with a lavender band covered in tiny seed pearls for ‘Pearlie.’ No detail was left undone.”

  “How could I forget something like that? See, little sister, we need both of our memories to write Creola’s book. How I would love a picture of us with her on that day.”

  “How I would relish having any picture of Creola for this book. But then, maybe not. A memory can certainly be more mystical and intriguing than any ordinary snapshot.”

  In the end, Mary Pearle and I concurred on the details of the afternoon. Years melted like sugar cubes in the party’s hot tea. To us, the most endearing feature of the occasion was our darling Creola’s imagination, her sense of fun, and her love and devotion for us. We sisters knew our parents adored us, but it was Creola who was our Fairy Godmother.

  I decided to dedicate my novel to Creola and Mary Pearle. I would give my sister her own acknowledgement for the story’s writing, but that would remain a secret until its publication.

  As we packed Mary Pearle’s things the night before she was to leave, I exclaimed, “Good heavens, Mary Pearle, I almost forgot to ask you the most important question. What is your new last name going to be? One does need to know her own sister’s new married name.”

  “Honeycutt. I will become Mrs. Stuart Honeycutt. Nice name, don’t you agree, Honey?”

  I laughed. “Your sister’s named Honey and you marry a Honeycutt. Yes, a good sign. We’ll be Honeycutt and Newberry. You and I will sound like something that’s spread on hot English muffins!”

  “It could be worse, lady. What if you were marrying Stuart? You would be known as Honey Honeycutt.”

  “Dreadful. Or what if you were Priceless Pearlie Newberry? It’s a good thing you’re leaving for home, today. I’m being consumed by silliness.”

  “You are so right, Honey. We each have an advanced case of the giggles.”

  “One more time, Mary Pearle. I can’t resist. Your boobs.” I chuckled. “Are they getting bigger?”

  “No, longer.”

  We laughed like teenagers. “Longer” would always remain our favorite punch line.

  I handed her the first draft of the Creola manuscript to take along. I pointed out the dedication:

  This, the story of our beloved nanny, is dedicated to her — Creola Moon — and to Mary Pearle, my big sister and my dearest friend, who shared Creola’s magic.

  Honored, surprised, and truly moved, my sister burst into tears. No words of gratitude needed to be said. Mary Pearle embraced me.
We clung together for an eternity. We cried for what was past and for what was on the horizon. For our sisterhood. For family. For marriages. For four precious children. For deaths, divorce. Books. A wedding. A new book. Another wedding. We cried because we were sisters. We cried because we missed our parents and because we missed our Creola. Mostly, we cried because we felt so blessed to have one another.

  The next morning, I could hardly say good-bye to Mary Pearle. As my sister drove away, I went inside to tidy up the condo. I tossed my sister’s towels and sheets into the washing machine but quickly retrieved them. I wanted to inhale the scent of her perfume one last time. It was sad for me to look where she had posed for a picture. The indentation of her body was still on the living room couch.

  I readied myself for a brisk walk. I would attempt to get back into a healthier routine. The downside of her visit had been our total lack of self-discipline. We were a terrible influence on one another. We started the week out with good intentions, but soon lapsed into eating too much junk food and allowing exercise to go completely by the wayside. I felt guilty, and she felt fat. But, great goodness above, had it been a wonderful time!

  Are your boobs getting bigger? I couldn’t laugh again, not just yet.

  I walked rapidly — all but ran — toward Beatrice’s cottage. I couldn’t wait to see my friend. Even with Mary Pearle’s company, I’d missed Beatrice and thought about her frequently. Other than at the ‘safari’ dinner party and chatting a couple of times on the phone, I’d not spent much time with the dear lady, lately.

  I wanted to tell her about Mary Pearle’s upcoming marriage. I delighted in predicting her reaction. Total surprise? Screams and hugs? Perhaps a cartwheel? It was also possible that Beatrice would be disappointed because there was no longer a need for her as a matchmaker.

  I knocked on her door. No answer. I left a note, but there came no response. After several phone calls that day, I left a message on her answering machine. Beatrice abhorred those messages. Predictably, she didn’t reply. I didn’t worry too terribly much about that, expecting a cheery postcard from her, as before. But none arrived. Where could she be?

  Three days later, Oscar called. By then, I was frantic. He said Beatrice was in Atlanta visiting Jennings.

  “I was just by the cottage and came upon your note. Poor, dear Beatrice, she’s fine, I’m sure. She’d not want to cause you a moment’s concern. The dear left rather in a rush. I ran into her quite by happenstance. Beatrice was getting into a cab and shouted to me that Jennings had finally gotten his big break!”

  “I’m so relieved to hear she’s all right. That’s marvelous about Jennings, too.”

  “I’ll say. It’s been a long time in coming. Never met the lad myself, but Beatrice has always believed in him, so I do as well.”

  “Oscar, you’ve never met her son?”

  “No, have you?”

  “Not yet, but she and I have been friends for such a short time. I assumed you knew Jennings well.”

  “I’m afraid not. In some ways, I’ve known Beatrice for several lifetimes. In other ways, I am no closer to her than are you, my dear.”

  Chapter 15

  Soon, Beau and I met Stuart. Both of us genuinely liked the man. In fact, Beau was so taken with him that he offered to host his and Mary Pearle’s wedding.

  I leapt to my feet when Beau made his generous suggestion. “And we’ll have it right here, right here at the beach!”

  Mary Pearle didn’t know what to say. She’d already made preliminary plans to have a small gathering in her home. Nevertheless, she quickly got into the spirit of the beach venue. She stood up, put her arm around me and, raising her wine glass, roared, “What the heck, I’ll just wear my bathing suit. Stuart and I will march right into the Gulf of Mexico!”

  “That gets my vote,” shouted Stuart.

  On a cool September afternoon with a gentle Gulf breeze blowing and the sun about to set, Mary Pearle and Stuart, her daughters, Katy and Susan, Susan’s husband Matthew, and Stuart’s son, Stuart IV, along with Beau and I and several dear old friends of the bride and of the groom, gathered at the condo. I wanted to invite Beatrice, but she was still visiting Jennings.

  In my view, Mary Pearle had never been as peace-filled.

  My sister had apparently managed to put her life back together. Even Katy, the daughter who wasn’t so sure her mother should remarry, seemed content.

  Creola, I know you are smiling down on us this day!

  As we sipped pre-wedding champagne, I squeezed Beau’s hand and kissed him.

  He smiled at me. “What’s that for?”

  “I’m just glad you and I —”

  The sound of a truck cut me off. It pulled into the condo’s delivery lot with a rumble we could hear four stories up, through the open balcony doors. “Looks like the caterer has finally arrived,” Beau groused. “What did you say, Honey?”

  “I was saying I’m glad I married you, but looks as if you’re more interested in the food.”

  “No, no, I just —”

  “You’re just adorable.”

  I swear, he almost blushed.

  A little while later, a minister led our group to the beach. We gathered at the edge of the tide, in a circle around Mary Pearle and Stuart. As the minister pronounced them man and wife, a wave washed over his feet. Startled, the minister hopped aside — and bumped into Mary Pearle.

  Stuart steadied her by one arm. “Wait a minute, sir, this is my wife. I get the first dance!”

  Laughter.

  The minister recovered. “As I was saying, it is my great pleasure to present Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Honeycutt.”

  Applause.

  Stuart’s son embraced Mary Pearle and welcomed her into the Honeycutt family. Her daughters each gave their stepfather a kiss, Susan’s with more enthusiasm than Katy’s, but hers was a kiss, nonetheless.

  Beau said, “Okay folks, let’s all go inside and celebrate.”

  “Wait, wait, we’ve got to take pictures first!” I quickly gathered the family and friends. As I danced around trying to capture the joy in my sister’s face, I noticed her wrinkles had magically melted away. Snap. Snap. My camera popped off shot after shot. The euphoric couple couldn’t take their eyes off one another long enough to smile directly into my lens.

  “Just look at that sun,” I swooned. The brilliant red sunset was picture perfect.

  “Can we eat now?” pleaded Beau.

  Mary Pearle took her brother-in-law by his arm. “Would somebody please feed this poor, starving man?”

  “What the devil is that?” shouted Beau as he broke away from the bride and hurried up the steps toward the condo’s swimming pool deck. “Scat, get away, damn bird!” The guests ducked as a pelican soared past them. A large cocktail shrimp fell from the pelican’s bill.

  I chuckled, “Seems my pelican, like my husband, took too large a bite!”

  With the successful wedding behind me, and Beau back in Atlanta, I settled into a final few days of intense editing on the first draft of my book. I ate at my computer, dining on my usual diet of caffeine-rich tea and crackers. So much for my “eat healthier” resolve. I replied only to phone messages from family and from the dearest of friends.

  Beatrice called to say she was having the most divine time in Atlanta and that she’d eventually return to her cottage. “We’ll have the grandest reunion of all time! That’s a promise. Do tell me you forgive me for dashing off in such haste?”

  “Of course, Beatrice, I could never be angry with you.”

  “Never is a very strong word, Honey Newberry.”

  As happy as I was for Mary Pearle, I was sorry that Beatrice hadn’t been the person responsible for finding my sister’s Prince Charming. She would have relished the challenge.

  She agreed. “You do know me well. Naturally, I’m filled with joy for your Mary Pearle. Alas, I did miss a golden opportunity to make a match. I’d tentatively considered Sonny Gilmore. Nice looking. Stable. Certainly well read. A tea
cher such as your sister would appreciate that quality in a man.”

  “All good points.”

  “I thought so. I’d fancied inviting him to your Hawaiian party. Don’t you recall, we were going to offer hula lessons? I was to bring my drum!”

  “And, we will have our luau, just as soon as you get back. So do hurry, please.”

  “I miss you, and Oscar, our other lovely friends, the birds, and my Gulf! Oh dear me, I’m so sea-sick. You must know that is a far more serious condition than is home-sickness!”

  “You know the cure.”

  She ignored my remark. “I do want your Mary Pearle to know how truly happy I am for her and for that gentleman of hers, lucky fellow. I’m certain he is every bit as fine a catch as our bookseller would have been. Honey, you do understand the romantic wanderings of my octogenarian mind? Much of what I say is strictly for fun.”

  “You’re a pip, Beatrice. Please bring yourself back here.”

  “As soon as I can,” she sighed, as her voice trailed away.

  “Beatrice, is anything amiss?”

  “Definitely not. Again, dear girl, I’m sorry. This moment I am on my knees begging you to forgive me for leaving without an appropriate farewell.”

  “Beatrice, I’ve been terribly busy myself. Say, wasn’t it you who chastised me for saying too many ‘I’m sorry’s?’”

  “Touché! I miss you most dearly, my honey of a friend. Well, tah-tah for now —”

  “Don’t try to hang up just yet, Beatrice. I’m on pins and needles about Jennings. Do tell me everything about your son’s success. Oscar told me the news.”

  “The announcement will be much better when shared in person. Just as you really wanted to share Mary Pearle’s engagement with me. I must run this minute, but, you, young lady, you keep up your good work.”

  “Wait, wait!”