Down and Out in Bugtussle (22 page)

I pour a cup of coffee, feeling tremendously guilty because the last time I had sex, it was with Mason McKenzie, the Ex-Fiancé. I try to come up with an excuse for myself, but I can’t. I just did what I wanted to do and that’s pretty much it. I think about all the action movies I’ve seen where the leading man and some hot chick he saves from certain death run for their lives until they end up in a seedy hotel on the edge of town, humping like rabbits. Maybe that can be my excuse: My life is a battlefield where I’m fighting for some peace of mind and I needed some damned relief. I don’t know what Hatter’s excuse is for firing up our old flame. One thing I’ve always liked about him is that he doesn’t even pretend to need an excuse.

I’m on my second cup of coffee when I hear him lumbering down the hall. Buster Loo jumps off the sofa and darts out the doggie door as if he simply can’t tolerate the perpetrator’s presence. When Logan rounds the corner, I notice his hair isn’t quite as thin as it once was. I want to ask him how that happened, but it might embarrass him, so I just sit there and wonder.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I say.

“I can’t believe you took advantage of me like that,” he says. “I was highly intoxicated. What kind of person are you?” He gives me a peck on the cheek.

“The kind who makes coffee,” I say. “Would you like some?”

“Love some.” He walks over to the cabinet. “You moved the cups.”

“Look in the one next to it,” I say, pointing. “I’m a habitual rearranger.”

“That sounds dangerous.” He pours a cup of coffee and joins me at the table. As we chat about the party, I realize I’m a little happier than perhaps I should be to have him sitting here with me this morning. Then it hits me. I love Logan Hatter with all my heart and soul. But not in a romantic I-wanna-have-your-babies kind of way. More like in a let’s-have-sex-and-then-not-worry-about-it kind of way.

“Can I fix you some breakfast?” I ask, like we’re an old married couple.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” he says with a grin. “I haven’t had one of your world-famous omelets in years.” He looks at the pans hanging about my stove. “Need some help?”

“You just keep me up to speed on all the juicy gossip. How about that?”

“That’s an arrangement I can live with.” He gets up to pour himself another cup of coffee, then goes and settles into my recliner.

“Those boxers are nice,” I say, looking at his Pink Panther underpants.

“Thank you. They were a gift.”

“From one of your many lovers?”

“No, from my mother,” he says.

“I’m going to leave that one alone.” When I start frying sausage, Buster Loo somehow finds it in his heart to come back inside and be social. Logan fills me in on all the latest gossip and then we start talking about Cameron Becker dumping Drew Wills. He has the inside scoop on that just like he does everything else, and it’s all news to me because the only two people I talk to on a regular basis at school are Stacey and Freddie. I hardly ever see Lilly during the day and while I do see Chloe a lot, she’s not much on sharing hearsay. We don’t talk about Chloe and J.J.’s situation.

Logan leaves at eight thirty and I retire to bed with Buster Loo who, after being on the receiving end of a full piece of bacon, is totally over his mad spell. I snuggle up under the covers, then roll over and set my alarm for ten thirty because I have somewhere else to be today.

*   *   *

I roll up to the gates of the Waverly Estate at twelve forty-five on the dot. Gloria Peacock is hosting a brunch and quite a few Bugtussle big shots are there to wish Dax well.

Chloe, Lilly, and I found ourselves in Gloria’s social circle for the first time about this time last year when we were in the midst of a terrible jam. Gloria Peacock, a woman of great wealth and status in Bugtussle, proved to be quite nimble at the task of quietly clearing metaphorical waters muddied by small-town scandal. Since then, she’s treated the three of us like family, which we all appreciate, but I probably value the most.

When the gates open, I drive in and park in the space indicated by a smiling man wearing a royal blue polo shirt and white starched shorts. A few people I know from Bugtussle are arriving at the
same time, so we ride together through the splendid expanse of the Waverly Estate on a royal blue golf cart, the rear seat of which is emblazoned with a magnificent peacock in all its feathered glory. Gloria greets us at the door, then shows me to the patio room where I find Gloria’s pal, Birdie Ross, sipping on sweet tea and grinning like a possum. I take a seat next to her and casually work my grandmother’s garden book into our conversation. I know that Birdie was a dear friend of Gramma Jones, and I’m hoping she can shed some light on things for me so I don’t have to go home and read that letter. Because if there’s something to be told, I feel like Birdie Ross will tell it. But when I mention the book, she doesn’t respond. She picks up her glass and takes a long sip of iced tea. Gloria Peacock joins us and as soon as she takes a seat, Birdie looks at her and says, “Someone found her grandmother’s gardening book.”

“Oh,” Gloria says, looking at me. “Have we now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and start to feel ashamed, like the time I hung all of Gramma Jones’s undergarments out on the line just before her lunch guests arrived. I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know she had company coming. Or maybe I knew and forgot. Yeah, that was probably what happened. I look at Birdie who is looking at Gloria, and I see some form of communication pass between the two of them. Nothing spoken—not even a nod—just a look. Almost indiscernible.

“Perhaps you should come to the garden club meeting this Tuesday night,” Birdie says, finally looking at me. “You’re interested in gardening, right? That’s why you mentioned the book.”

“Right,” I say. I feel like a child conjuring up lies about the cookie jar.

“We could use some fresh faces,” Gloria Peacock says. “And Essie Jones kept quite an extraordinary yard.” She and Birdie exchange another look. “I must say I’m pleased with your interest.”

“Yes,” Birdie says. “Most pleased.”

“What’s going on, ladies?” Temple Williams asks, stepping into the room to join us.

“Little Ms. Moppet here has dug up her grandmother’s gardening book,” Birdie says.

“Oh,” Temple says, looking at me. “And what did you find in there?” The directness of her question catches me off guard. I think about the letter and my cheeks start to burn.

“It was the buttercups,” I say, like an idiot. “I saw the buttercups.” I decide to stop talking in an effort to save myself from further humiliation.

“Of course,” Temple says. “It’s always the buttercups. The early bloomers get us all excited.”

“I love springtime,” Birdie says, winking at me. “The sunshine, little green sprouts all over my yard. I consider it a time of great awakening.” Gloria and Temple nod in agreement. I sit there, pretending to get it.

“Yes,” Temple agrees, “because you know something beautiful is stirring just beneath the surface.”

“And then when the flowers blossom and bloom, it’s the most magical realization of hope,” Gloria says. “Miraculous and inspiring.”

“A continuous cycle,” Birdie adds.

“Makes my soul sing every year,” Temple says with a smile.

I want to stand up and scream for them to drop the cryptic veil and tell me what the hell they’re talking about because I’m getting
frustrated and confused. But, of course, I don’t say a word. Perhaps this is part of the game. Part of the initiation into their elite club of hard-earned wisdom and knowledge. For some reason, I start thinking about wrinkle cream.

“You know, some women keep journals,” Gloria begins. “But I never have.” She looks at Birdie, who nods. “My garden keeps my secrets.”

“You can tell a lot about a woman by what she does with her yard,” Temple remarks.

“Indeed,” Birdie says. “That’s why I always plant cockscomb in the same bed with naked ladies.” She looks at me. “With the Clitoria ternatea right in between.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “It’s a climbing plant.”

The three of them have a good laugh at that, and I wonder for a second if Gloria, Birdie, and Temple might have started smoking hash. Grown in their secret-keeping gardens, of course. Or maybe they’ve jointly invested in some medical marijuana. Or perhaps this is their way of telling me that they have answers to the questions I have yet to ask.

“Come to the garden club this Tuesday,” Gloria says. “I think you will find it most helpful as you begin your journey.”

“As a gardener,” Temple says.

“A book can only get you so far,” Birdie adds.

“Sure,” I say. “Okay.” I try to hide my apprehension about attending a garden club meeting. I mean, I’m not that old. Yet. But the Bugtussle Garden Club is invitation only, so I focus on how honored I should feel right now. “Thank you,” I say with as much reverence as I can muster.

“My pleasure,” Gloria says.

“So tell me about your boyfriend,” Birdie chirps.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say. I have a private little freak-out moment, wondering if they somehow know about my sleepover with Logan Hatter. Why would that matter?

“You don’t?” she says. “Well, today is your lucky day.” Oh God! No! I’m so stupid! “I know the nicest guy.” No! Not her, too! “His name is Bo Hammond, and I’ll just go on and tell you that he is some kind of hot-to-trot, little missy!” Shit! Somebody just shoot me, please! “Especially when he takes his shirt off.” Yuck-oh!

“Your yard man takes his shirt off?” Gloria asks.

“But of course, Gloria,” Birdie says. “You know I wouldn’t have one that didn’t.” I can’t help it. I laugh at that. Birdie picks up her phone.

“You don’t have to call him right now!” I say quickly.

“No time like the present,” Birdie says, and Gloria Peacock laughs and shakes her head as Birdie scrolls through her contacts list. I sit there while Birdie carries on with her yard man, thinking that sitting in the gyno’s office in that awful paper dress isn’t half as awkward and uncomfortable as this moment right here.

“Tell him I’m chunky,” I whisper, “so he’s not surprised.”

Birdie disregards my comment with a dismissive wave. She puts the phone on her shoulder. “Friday or Saturday?” she asks.

“Friday, I guess,” I say, feeling as if I have no choice. She chats for a few more minutes, cackles a few times, then asks me where I live. With more apprehension than when I slip my bare feet into the cold steel stirrups, I give up my address. “It’s a date!” she says proudly after ending the call. “He’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

“Can you give me his number in case something comes up?” I ask, getting my wits about me way too late.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll text you the contact, but you better not stand him up!”

“Don’t worry,” I say. I wonder if anyone has ever been flat-out run over by a train without sustaining any broken bones. I mean, anyone besides me. Birdie gets up and goes to refill her tea.

“Do you know what you really need, Ace?” Gloria asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No, ma’am,” I say, trying to be honest. My nerves are shot to hell and if she suggests another blind date, I’m afraid I might start squalling uncontrollably.

“You need to find a man who will dance with you,” she says. “And
you
need to find him.” She points at me. “Not her”—she points to Birdie—“or anyone else can find him for you.” Gloria leans back in her seat. “And when the time is right, I’m sure you will.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling better.

“Are you over here talkin’ about me, Gloria?” Birdie asks when she returns to her seat.

“Oh no, Birdie,” Gloria says. “Of course not.”

*   *   *

Lilly and Dax arrive just after one. Lilly looks smashing in a dark green smock, which I suspect she bought specifically for the purpose of standing next to her soldier. Dax is wearing his army outfit, which I hear several people refer to as “ACUs” and the gravity of what’s going on today makes me want to run screaming into the Peacock woods. Everyone is so proud of Dax, proud to speak to
him, proud to shake his hand. Several people, including a reporter from the Bugtussle Beacon, snap photos of him and Lilly.

Shortly after they arrive, everyone files into Gloria Peacock’s formal dining room and we all sit around a table three miles long. I wish for a minute that I had invited Hatter to come along with me, but maybe it’s better that I didn’t. When we’re all seated, Gloria stands at the head of the table and, after getting everyone’s attention, says, “I would like to say a word, please. Dax, would you please stand? Thank you.” She smiles at him and continues. “This country has now been at war for a decade, and while we all eagerly await an end, the brave men and women of our military continue to faithfully serve their country. In honor of Sergeant Dax Dorsett, I would like to share this passage from the speech given by former president George Bush in March 2003, which was, as we all know, the beginning: ‘My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the world will be overcome. We will pass through this time of peril and carry on the work of peace. We will defend our freedom. We will bring freedom to others. And we will prevail. May God bless our country and all who defend her.’” She raises her glass. “To Sergeant Dorsett.” Everyone raises their glass to Sergeant Dorsett.

“What a fine young man,” Birdie whispers to me. “God bless his good-lookin’ soul.”

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring at Gramma Jones’s garden book. I have the letter in my hand and, after thinking about it for a good long while, I unfold it and begin to read:

“‘Dearest Essie’?” I look down at Buster Loo. “‘Yours’? What does he mean, ‘yours’?” Buster Loo takes off for his secret hiding place behind the love seat. “Who the hell is M. Emerson? What kind of shady name is that?”

I look at the date, June 28, and think for a minute. This was written in the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school, which means that I would’ve been at basketball camp, because I was always there during the last week of June. No wonder Gramma Jones always made sure I went to basketball camp every year. She was getting her freak on with M. Emerson!