by VK Powell
“Good morning, ma’am. May I be of assistance?” The fingernails-on-chalkboard voice made Emma cringe. “I’m Harriett Smoltz, head librarian. And you are?” Harriett wrung her hands as her prurient eyes searched Emma’s face and then her clothing and shoes.
“Yes, Ms. Smoltz, I’m Emma Ferguson, a freelance reporter, and I’m doing a public-interest piece on the establishment and growth of the town of Stuart. Could you direct me to the historical reference section?”
“A reporter, you say? Anything special you’re looking for? There’s a lot of useless history in those files.” Harriett tucked her hands into deep side pockets and bobbed her head up and down in agreement with her own statement.
Harriett’s determination to be of assistance made Emma more cautious than Ann’s earlier warning had, but since she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, she indulged the librarian’s over-helpfulness. “Just basic information right now, Ms. Smoltz.”
“Please call me Harriett. Makes me feel younger.” Harriett led her to a dark back room that was much cooler than the main lobby and smelled of musty books. “I keep the temperature down and the lights off to help preserve the older copies. The wood and acid combination in paper wasn’t conducive to preservation until after the 1970s.” She pulled on a pair of white gloves, reached for a book just beyond her grasp, and then stepped onto a stool to retrieve the tome.
Emma noticed the well-developed calves of Harriett’s legs when she stood on tiptoes and wondered why she wore such unflattering clothes. If the rest of her body was in as good a shape as her legs, she should be proud. Emma certainly would be. She shook her head. When had she started staring at random women’s legs? Damn you, Carter West.
Harriett started to hand her the book but stopped. “Glove up, please.”
Emma stifled a giggle. Glove up? This wasn’t brain surgery, but she did as instructed and accepted the work Harriett placed gingerly in her hands. “What’s this?”
“The official history of Stuart, Virginia, complete with some impressive illustrations. When you finish that, I’ll get you another great resource. Should keep you busy for a while.”
Emma had the feeling Harriett was trying not only to keep her busy but also to manage the information she received. Maybe her suspicious reporter’s nature was simply working overtime because Harriett Smoltz had been nothing but gracious and helpful. “If I need old documents, do you still use microfilm?”
“Of course. Most of our historical information is still stored that way. Microfilm can last more than 500 years if it’s kept under the right temperature and humidity. It’s a far better archival medium than digital, which can suffer bit rot. I’m so glad I didn’t let the town council talk me into going digital when the craze first hit.”
Archival material and bit rot, indeed. Harriett Smoltz was more current than her outdated clothes and unattractive hairstyle suggested, and Emma respected her acuity a bit more. She’d be a great resource as her story progressed. “Thank you for your help, Harriett. I’ll start reading, and when I’m finished, maybe you could point me in the direction of the historian, Hannah Smoltz.”
Harriett’s tight-lipped smirk reduced her eyes to thin slits. “Why don’t I give you the abbreviated version of Stuart, and you can read this another time?” She took the book and placed it delicately on a table. “Now you come right over here and have a seat. When we finish you won’t need to see Hannah. My sister is a good historian, but she’s not available today.” Harriett stood a little straighter, placed a hand in the center of her chest, and launched into her dissertation. “My family was one of the first to settle here back in the early 1900s…”
Four agonizing hours later, during which her mind wandered frequently to quiet, gorgeous Carter West, Emma extricated herself from the clutches of Harriett Smoltz, having gained a painfully thorough verbal history of the highlights and lowlights of Stuart. She also received the formal address of the Buffkin house on the hill and an editorial comment not to take her too seriously. Fannie, according to Harriett, had suffered a nervous breakdown after her husband died and hadn’t been quite right since. She left the library thinking Ann had certainly given her a gold mine in Ms. Smoltz, if she could just sift through the silt to the nuggets.
Emma walked to the center of town, stood beside a fountain carved out of buff, reddish-brown, and gray sandstone, and turned in a circle. Ann and Harriett had been right about not being able to miss Fannie Buffkin’s home. She debated visiting her immediately, but after her marathon with Harriett, the growl of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten dinner the night before or breakfast this morning. She headed toward the Stuart Diner with its red-and-white awning near the post office.
When she entered the diner, everyone in the place stopped talking and turned to look at her. She’d forgotten how curious people in small towns could be and how unabashed in their expression of that curiosity. She gave her best howdy-y’all smile and headed toward an empty seat at the far end of the counter. Several men smiled, two winked, but the women watched her with almost palpable hostility. Maybe an announcement that she was a lesbian and had no interest in their husbands would help, but that might scare some folks away, and she needed their cooperation.
“Morning, hon. What are you drinking?” A gray-haired, seventy-ish woman with a fantastic smile and popping chewing gum held a pencil in one hand and an order pad in the other. Her nametag read Loretta.
“Coffee, please, lots of coffee.”
“I heard that,” Loretta said, and handed her a menu. “Give me a nod when you’re ready.”
Not a single healthy choice on the Stuart Diner menu. She nodded to Loretta. “I’ll have two poached eggs, hash browns, and crispy bacon.” She signaled for Loretta to lean closer and whispered, “Is it always this quiet in here?”
Loretta straightened and raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Oh, heavens no, hon. The diner is a hotbed of conversation and gossip. It’s never quiet unless there’s someone new. Everybody’s straining to pick up any scrap about the reporter staying out at the Fairy Stone Park. By the time you’ve eaten breakfast, half the town will know what you had, and the other half will be speculating on what you’ll have for dinner. Ain’t that right, boys?” Suddenly the room buzzed with conversation, and nobody was looking at Emma.
“Thank you.” Emma added Loretta to her list of interesting Stuart characters. Ann had topped that list, and Harriett Smoltz came second. None of these women had a problem speaking their minds, which Emma found comforting.
“Here you go.” Loretta set a plate of eggs, hash browns, and bacon in front of Emma, and the aromas wafting off it made her mouth water.
“Guess you’ve met Ann and Carter West?”
Emma reached for her fork and nodded. “When I checked in yesterday.”
“They’re good people. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”
“Why would they?”
“You know, small town, small minds. Some folks hold to old ideas and bad information, but you look smart enough to make your own decisions.”
Emma never resisted exploring a cryptic comment, but another customer called for coffee, and Loretta grabbed the pot and made her rounds at the tables. Emma took the opportunity to inhale her breakfast. The hash browns were a golden shade of burnt, the bacon exactly crispy enough, and the poached eggs were perfection. No wonder the place was packed. Her last bite was a double forkful of hash browns slathered in egg remnants. She almost moaned aloud.
“More coffee?” Loretta asked, waving the pot in her direction.
“Thanks, I’m good, Loretta. If I’m not being too nosy, not that it wouldn’t be encouraged, but why do you work here?”
Loretta laughed, and the loose skin under her neck wiggled with the rest of her. “You mean because I’m older than dirt, because I should be enjoying my golden years in a rest home, or because I should have lots of money saved up from my years working in a now-defunct furniture factory?”
Emma
purposely wrinkled her nose and shrugged as if the options were too complicated to choose.
“Let me save you the trouble of exercising your oxygen-deprived brain while digesting that plateful of food. I love being around people, but not the ones who give up on living. This place makes me laugh. I get to meet new folks and keep up with what’s happening. I’m too young for canasta or shuffleboard. Don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” She couldn’t picture Loretta sitting around in a nursing home. Besides, the people at the diner would miss her motherly humor and overall good nature. “Thank you for a great breakfast and some insightful tidbits.” She placed her money for the bill, along with a hefty tip, on the counter.
When she reached for the door handle, a man in a company shirt bulging with muscles and wearing khakis called out to her. “And be quick with your little project. There’s work to be done around here.”
Emma turned toward him. “Who are you and why are you so interested in my job?”
“I’m the project manager of the construction company that’s going to get rid of that eyesore at the edge of town and replace it with a strip mall and more jobs. Best thing to happen to this place in years.”
“Guess that’s a matter of opinion.” She waved and smiled sweetly as she left the diner and started toward the Buffkin house.
The sprawling residence occupied an impressive piece of real estate overlooking Main Street and the old Thompson Furniture factory that the contractor was so anxious to raze. Harriett had told Emma that Buffkin’s grandfather, Wilbur Thompson, had constructed the home the same year he founded the small furniture factory and built the school at the opposite end of the street. Fannie and a brother were the only two heirs to the Thompson fortune.
As she huffed her way up the steep driveway toward the house, Emma noted overgrown shrubs, untended flowerbeds, and peeling paint, as if the occupant had already given up on the property. Before she could knock on the front door, a stooped, elderly woman flung it open and motioned her inside. The smell of mothballs mingled with pine air freshener hung in the air.
“I’ve been expecting you. Harriett said you left the library some time ago.” Mrs. Buffkin’s appearance in a long evening gown, white gloves, and animal-fur wrap harkened back to Harriett’s comment about emotional instability. “Don’t you just love Harriett?” Without waiting for a response she said, “She’s a sweet person, and she’s been good to me since my husband died.”
“Mrs. Buffkin, I’m—”
“You’re Emma Ferguson, or you better be, and I’m Fannie. Just Fannie.” The blue-haired lady led the way into a formal sitting room in which every surface was populated with dust-covered bric-a-brac and a few expensive-looking pieces.
“I’m looking forward to working on your family’s history. I’ve already started gathering the background of Stuart, and as you said, Ms. Smoltz was very nice and tremendously helpful.”
“Forget all that.” Fannie picked up a picture from the piano and plopped into a huge wing chair. “It’s about time somebody took me seriously around here. Is that going to be you?”
Emma was taken aback by the confrontational tone and accusatory stare. She stood in the center of the room, uncertain if she was staying or going. “I was under the impression you wanted me to—”
“I’m aware of what I said. I’m not senile yet, regardless of what half the people in this town think.” She waved for Emma to sit. “How else was I going to get a decent reporter to talk to me if I didn’t entice you with something? You people are notoriously picky and self-serving.”
“I beg your pardon? I don’t appreciate being summoned under false pretenses and then insulted. You know nothing about me or my professional abilities.”
Fannie smiled and pushed heavy glasses up her nose. “Well, I see that red hair is indicative of something other than good looks. Nice to know.”
“Mrs. Buffkin, there seems to be some kind of misunderstanding. I have principles, and you’ve violated the first one—honesty.” She rose from her chair so quickly, it toppled backward and almost crashed into a table covered with Faberge eggs before she caught it. “Sorry. I’ll reimburse your advance as soon as I return home. I wish you a good day, and I hope you find someone to write your story. A word of advice. When you do, be honest.”
“Don’t you even want to hear what I have to say?”
“I’m not sure I would trust you to tell me the truth, so no. I’m sorry, Mrs. Buffkin.”
Fannie struggled out of her chair as Emma turned to leave. “You’re being impulsive, Ms. Ferguson. At least listen to my pitch.”
Emma headed toward the front door.
“Your father would be very disappointed in you.”
She faltered as Fannie Buffkin’s arrow hit home. No. No more lies. She straightened her shoulders and continued toward Stuart Elementary School at the opposite end of town.
As Emma walked away from Fannie Buffkin’s house, she couldn’t wrap her mind around what had just happened. She’d been deceived, not easy to do in her line of work. She’d taken an elderly woman’s word about why she wanted to meet without conducting proper due diligence. If she’d researched the Thompson or Buffkin families more thoroughly, she’d have been better prepared for Fannie’s abrupt shift of focus, but she’d been distracted by personal issues. One of the first rules of journalism was to know your source. Fannie was right. Her father would’ve been very disappointed, but how would Fannie Buffkin know that?
Her father, Emory Lowell Ferguson, had been one of the first embedded reporters during the Gulf War. His name meant bravery and power, and he’d exhibited both of those characteristics during his storied career as a war correspondent. He’d received journalism awards and, until his disappearance, had written for various newspapers and broadcast media. Near the end of his last tour, her father had been reported missing behind enemy lines while covering a prisoner-exchange story. In spite of all efforts by the family, Emory Ferguson had never been located. His fascinating career, combined with his disappearance, had been the deciding factors in Emma’s choice of a journalism profession.
Had Fannie Buffkin known her father or some other member of her family, or had she just done her homework before their meeting? Damn, she hated being one-upped. She’d been unprepared and appeared incompetent. Double damn. She couldn’t leave now without finding out why she’d been summoned to Stuart and why Fannie felt she had to use subterfuge to get her here. She sighed. She’d listen to Fannie Buffkin eventually, if only to show Fannie she was no quitter…and to make her father proud.
The back entrance of the gym was propped open, and the screams and laughter of children playing poured into the street. She stood beside the door and let the happy noises lift her dark mood. Then she closed her eyes and imagined the scene inside from the sounds—a basketball bouncing erratically across a polished floor, sneakers squeaking in stop-and-go patterns, and the metallic reverberations of the ball bouncing off the rim of the net. As an only child, she’d loved school for the playtime with other kids, free from the pressure to perform in the classroom and at home. If she’d had more recreational time growing up instead of always trying to please her parents and teachers, maybe she wouldn’t be so driven to excel.
“Okay, guys, that’s it for today.” Carter’s throaty voice cut through the laughter, and the space quieted. “Grab a bottle of water and gather around.”
Suddenly Emma felt out of place, like she was intruding on something personal, but she wanted to stay, to learn more about Carter, even if what she was doing amounted to eavesdropping. Interacting with children was a side of the quiet ranger she hadn’t expected. She squatted beside the gap in the door and peered in. Carter sat on the bottom bleacher, and six children sat one up from her, looking down. The kids had the superior position, though she was pretty sure they didn’t understand why Carter had chosen to sit below them.
“Does anyone have anything to talk about today?”
The children were quiet for
several seconds, looking back and forth at each other, some of them staring at their shoes. One towheaded young girl raised her hand and waited until Carter called on her. “Yes, Maddie.”
“I don’t think I play basketball too good.” The little girl fidgeted with her blond curls as she spoke, and Emma’s heart ached for her. She’d been that little girl, clumsy and always picked last for the team, but she’d kept trying because she loved being around the other children.
“What do you think, guys?” Carter threw the question back to the group.
A dark-haired boy spoke up. “She caught a—”
“Tell Maddie, Nico,” Carter said. “Remember, talk to each other, and be honest.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot.” He turned toward Maddie. “You caught a really crappy pass I threw. That was good.”
A small-framed African American boy added, “Yeah, and you always try so hard.”
“Thanks, guys.” Maddie smiled and poked her tongue through a gap in her front teeth. “I do try really hard.”
Carter’s rich, deep laugh filled the gymnasium. “Good job, Nico and Reggie. And that’s what life is all about, guys, doing your best. No one gets it right all the time, but that’s how we learn. Nobody’s perfect, and anyone who tells you different is confused or scared. The real gift is to learn to accept and love each other in spite of our imperfections. Right?”
“Right!” The group answered in unison and pumped their fists in the air.
Emma’s throat tightened and she swallowed hard. How different would her life have been if someone had told her she didn’t need to be perfect? She was very glad these kids had Carter. She stood to leave, lost her footing, and stumbled forward into the gym. When she looked up, seven pairs of eyes were trained on her. The children laughed, but Carter’s expression showed no trace of humor.
