Page 3 of Heart of Dixie
“Something will come up.” Shane laid cash on the breakfast tab—his turn this week—then dropped his cell phone into his shirt pocket and slid out of the booth. “C’mon, cub. Dad’s got to get to the clinic, and Miss Claire will be waiting on you.”
The boy stood on the vinyl booth and hopped onto my lap, putting the family jewels in jeopardy. “Dude, whoa!” I lifted him by the waist and deposited him on the floor, adding a rib tickle to make him giggle. “Help a guy out. I still want a chance to contribute to the McAllister family line.”
And now that Shane put Dixie on my mind, an ancient memory crept in: two anxious teenagers huddled in a motel bathroom far enough from home that nobody knew them. A pregnancy test kit they were afraid to open. Tears of relief when they were granted a reprieve.
Jesus. That had to stop. I pulled a stack of yesterday’s pop quizzes from my book bag and sat back for one more cup of coffee as Cody skipped toward the entrance with my brother following at a more sedate pace. Everything he did these days was at a more sedate pace.
Voices rose and fell in the background, white noise to work by. I eyed those few bites still left of Cody’s waffle. May as well finish that off, too. Fucking Shane would sweat it out of me later anyway, on the mats.
While I waited, I glanced out the window, up and down the street, but no unfamiliar cars caught my attention. Shane had me crazy, watching for Dixie when she was probably nowhere around. Shane and Cody were there, though. Walking down the sidewalk and rescuing Huntley’s bench from Boone, who hopped down, yawned and stretched, then sprawled across the width of the sidewalk. I chuckled as they coaxed the big lug back to his feet and got him moving forward.
The town was only beginning to waken with activity creeping along at a snail’s pace. In a few more minutes I would need to leave for school and my self-imposed summer lockdown. Why again had I thought it a good idea to teach science to a group of hormone-driven underachievers? Who knew? As mysteries went, it wasn’t the biggest in my life.
Dixie, on the other hand, and whether I could manage to avoid her for the time she was back in town—that was a question for the ages.
2
Dixie
Ifollowed Beth through town until she turned off with a short honk and a wave. The city park was just ahead, with its newish looking playground equipment and a bandstand that was built shortly before I left. In the center of it all stood the ancient water tower, blue now—I remembered it as green—and apparently still the locals’ messaging system of choice. Looked like somebody loved Sue G. this week.Damn rednecks.
A yawn stretched my jaw about the same time my phone beeped with a voicemail notification. Must be spotty service around here; I hadn’t heard it ring. The display screen warned me it was Drew again—for the fourth time since I started my trip. I’d held party boy’s hand and made sure he got his extremely fine and popular ass on a plane to Colorado just yesterday. If he was in trouble already I didn’t want to know about it.
I had a turbulent red-eye and fifty—I consulted the dashboard clock; make that fifty-three—minutes crammed in this sardine can of a rental car in my near history. I had no patience left for Andrew Hensley. “Not right now, stud.”Later. Maybe. After about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. I dropped the device in a cup holder.
What I’d seen of my hometown while traveling the last couple of blocks seemed bright and friendly with baskets dripping cheerful petunias dangling from elegant light posts along the length of Main Street. Okay, I was impressed. Some might even find it . . . charming.
Break an Egg, the diner where I’d agreed to meet Beth, was just ahead. I turned in the opposite direction at the next corner, where Mrs. Avery’s pretty Arts and Crafts style home now bore a wooden sign hanging from a signpost in the yard. It was The Book Nook now, with pots of bold geraniums on the deep steps leading to the front porch. The sight of it made me curious what else had changed around town. It wouldn’t kill me to meander around and check it out.
The town had grown, expanded, and I drove aimlessly. Roamed as I reminisced, recognized, and discovered Ruby Valentine in her front yard with a garden hose, soaking her azaleas. She’d given me a job waiting tables at her eatery the summer before senior year, a soft shoulder to cry against when my world seemed bleak, and there was no doubt she’d box my ears if she saw me pass by without stopping to say hello.
I pulled to the curb and got out of the car. And held on to my smile even as Miss Ruby glared from her patch of lawn. “Heard about Cooter. Never figured it would take this long to get you back here.”
The woman had been an off-Broadway hopeful before hooking the dashing Irving Valentine with her lithe and supple figure, but that dancer’s body was a distant memory. Ruby lumbered a little closer. “You planning to stick this time?”
I sensed she’d be disappointed if I told her I was only here for a short visit, and my ears could do without her hands slapping against them, but I couldn’t mislead her. I shook my head. “Notthis time, Miss Ruby. I’m here to take care of Cooter’s funeral, his estate.” That word,estate, nearly had me snickering every time it popped up. “But it’s so good to see you again. You’re one of the few I’ve truly missed.” I let my gaze roam. “Your yard is pretty this summer.” Wide planting beds bursting with color skirted the base of her clapboard house; a neat hedge separated her property from the neighbor next door. And there were the azaleas, ringing the poplar shading the lawn she was now done watering.
“It’s a lot to keep up now that Irving’s gone—four years come fall.” Her gaze swept the yard from the house to the white picket fence I’d walked through a moment ago. “Come on up to the porch, have a sit. Still early enough for coffee, but God, is it warm! I’ll fetch us lemonade and we’ll chat.” She rolled the hose on her beefy arm as she spoke, then turned without waiting for an answer, and dropped the coil near the spigot below the porch before heading inside.
I climbed the painted wooden steps, took a seat in one of the two rocking wicker chairs. Then rose again to remove magazines from the low matching table when she returned carrying a tray. How had I forgotten that a story told in the south never traveled from Point A directly to Point B? We spentseveralpleasant minutes in the shade as Ruby did her civic duty and shared the local happenings—births and deaths, weddings of people I may have known at one time but didn’t remember. “The town council was in the diner for lunch last week. Nothing new there, but they were discussing a tribute to ol’ Coot to be delivered at his funeral, him being the newspaper publisher for so many years and all.”
Everything inside me tightened. My breath backed up as I waited for her barrage of questions—or accusations—until I realized there was plenty to dish on without going into detail about Cooter, or my return, which apparently had tongueswagging. No sense tempting fate, though. I lifted my glass, turned her attention to its contents. “Miss Ruby, this lemonade is delicious. Is that fresh mint?” I held my breath as she paused mid-sentence, her face flushing with seeming pleasure.
“Why, yes, from my herb garden out back. I’ve got all sorts of delectables ripening this time of year. Thought I might have tomatoes large enough to enter in the Founders’ Day competition, but we had a bit of a deluge last month and my plants have been a little temperamental ever since.”
It was all a little Mayberry, but I sipped through my straw, leaned my head against the back of the chair, and pushed off with my toes for a slow sway. “Founders’ Day. I have good memories.” The parade with floats that always seemed to spike the lively imaginations of the local civic organizations—and tear through the town’s supplies of chicken wire and toilet paper. The carnival rides that had children lining up and roasting in the heat, tickets in hand and friendly—or not so—dares echoing, each child hoping they wouldn’t be the first to lose their lunch. And then there were the judging competitions—produce, baked goods, hand-pieced quilts—which seemed to bring out the crazy in otherwise rational seasoned homemakers.
Miss Ruby leaned forward from her cushioned rocker beside me and refilled our glasses. Despite my best intentions, a quiet peacefulness settled over me as she continued to rattle on.
She settled back in her seat and fixed a considering expression on me. “Lots of changes around here since you left. New people, new growth. Imagine you’ll get a chance to notice all that for yourself.”
Again with the ‘You’re all grown up now’ speech. I resisted the urge to squirm. This was Ruby, after all, whom I never perceived as maternal, yet was the closest thing to a mother I had for many years.
“I noticed the sign at Mrs. Avery’s house on the corner.”
“Oh, yes. Those adorable young newlyweds have that now. Bought the house only last year when they gave up on ever having a baby, and then turned it into a bookstore. Kids these days are so impatient.” Ruby paused for a sip and to shake her head with a frown I couldn’t decipher.
“Girl found herself preggers about the same time as the grand opening.” Ruby lowered her voice and glanced around as though the neighbors may be lurking. She seemed almost pained to admit as she spoke behind her hand, “Only made a few changes to the place so far. She doesn’t seem to have much vision. Place could really use some imagination.”
