Page 6 of Full Circle

“Who is that?” I asked Wesley.

He reddened. “That’s my father.” Marla was too busy staring at the man to catch the way Wesley’s shoulders hunched at the admission, but I saw it. It made me want to give his hand a comforting squeeze.

“Your daddy isn’t from around these parts, is he?” Marla commented quietly. She shot me a look that conveyed how amusing she found the man to be as she poured Wesley a glass of water.

Wesley snorted. “My father has never stepped foot outside of a major city until yesterday when he brought me here. He’ll be leaving in a few minutes to head back to Atlanta.”

“Then don’t you wanna go sit with him?” I asked curiously. If my daddy were leaving, I would want to soak up every minute with him I could.

My friend just shook his head. “It’s better if I don’t.”

The statement didn’t make sense to me and I looked to Marla for clues as to what to say. Her shrewd scan of his face as her mouth formed a thin line told me that whatever her thoughts were, they weren’t something she was willing to voice at the moment.

Wesley didn’t seem to mind, however. He grabbed the discarded half of the sandwich Marla had provided me for lunch an hour ago and took an enormous bite. “This is good,” he complimented her, holding up what now amounted to a quarter of a sandwich.

His topic change wasn’t going to deter her. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

He swallowed thickly and kept his eyes trained on the sandwich in his hands as he replied, “Benedict Warner Madden the Third,” through gritted teeth.

Marla’s eyes widened. “As in Madden Markets?” she asked.

Wesley dropped the crust of the sandwich back on the plate as he ground out, “Uh huh.”

Normally Marla would scold someone for responding so rudely, but she looked dumbstruck at the moment. And with good reason. Madden Markets was a chain of general stores that was taking over the South, becoming the biggest rival to Wal-Mart in the country. They were known for their bargain bins that had new deals each morning, sometimes marking the particular item down over 75% off. Marla loved shopping at the one outside Savannah on Sunday mornings when she had the day off from the diner.

It meant my new friend was the heir to a gold mine, in her eyes. I could practically see the gears shifting in her head as she tried to process this information. For once, she was left speechless, no doubt too stunned by the revelation to know the appropriate thing to say.

As impressive as his daddy’s job was to adults, I only cared about Wesley. Who cared that he owned a bunch of stores? We owned a restaurant and nobody acted like that around us. Although we didn’t annoy people by arguing loudly over the phone in the middle of The Comfy Cushion like Mr. Madden was doing now. More than one customer was turning in his direction to shoot him a warning glare.

“Come on.” I pulled Wesley off his bar stool and made to head for the door.

“Wait!” Marla said. She whipped a plate out and slid a slice of strawberry pie on it before setting it at the place Wesley just vacated. “Have a slice, young man.”

He smiled at her, the megawatt smile I wanted him to turn back on me. “No, thank you, ma’am. I don’t like strawberry pie.”

For the second time in just a few minutes Marla was left with her mouth hanging open. No one ever refused a slice of her pie. No one.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at her face. “Let’s go or she’ll never let us leave,” I whispered conspiratorially as I pulled him by his sleeve towards the door again.

“Celeste Hendricks, you better stop and introduce yourself, now!” came Marla’s reprimand.

Since we were going to pass Wesley’s daddy and Miss Shirley going out the door anyway, I figured she was right. I walked up to the edge of their booth and nodded to his great-aunt.

Miss Shirley Jones had resided in River’s Run her entire life, like most of the folks here. Her late husband passed away young, more than thirty years ago, followed ten years later by her only child. She lived alone in a big house on Houston Street that had long since been considered rundown. A tiny thing, Miss Shirley resembled a fourth grader in size and stature, but insisted on wearing a dress with pantyhose and kitten heels each day like she was dressed for church. Her iron gray hair was pulled back into its signature bun, but she gave me a friendly smile now, eyes holding the same pity I expected from everyone.

She grimaced, however, when she looked across the table at Mr. Madden, who was still having a rather heated discussion with someone on the boxy cell phone. Now that I was closer, I realized how stern his face looked, even behind the glasses. His body language suggested he was not someone to be trifled with.

Wesley cleared his throat loudly and gave his father a pointed look. Mr. Madden nodded and barked out an order to the caller before ending the call in a huff.

“You wouldn’t believe the nightmare China is becoming with these imports!” he snapped. With a sharp tug, he removed his glasses to reveal cold, black eyes staring at me. “And who is this?” he demanded of Wesley.

“This is the girl I told you about,” his son began. “Celeste Hendricks.”

Wanting to reflect well on my parents, I smiled brightly at him and held out my right hand for him to shake. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Mr. Madden merely glared at my hand before turning back towards Miss Shirley. “I want weekly updates on his activities. Wesley will maintain perfect grades or I will be forced to send him to Montmeri.”

His rudeness rankled me. I had never met a man with such horrible manners before. Mama would have given him the burnt bacon.

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