Down and Out in Bugtussle (29 page)

“Yes,” I say. “I did.”

“Beautiful place,” he says.

“It is that,” I tell him. “But I’m very happy to be home.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve tried living in some of my favorite vacation spots and it didn’t work for me, either. Lived in Hilton Head for a while. Moved out to Durango, Colorado, for a few years. But I always came back home. Or as close as I could get.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“It’s just not the same. I mean, you take vacations to get away from your daily routine, but when you live in your vacation spot and it becomes your daily routine, then you get to a point where you want a break from it. Then you realize you have nowhere better to go than where you are and that sucks.” He takes a sip of beer. “At least that’s how it was for me.”

“My experience was actually very similar to that,” I tell him.

“I spent the past five years living in Birmingham. You think I’ve always wanted to live in Birmingham? No. I haven’t. But when I got my priorities straight and got my head out of my ass, I knew I wanted to live close to home. And it’s a great place to live. I actually really liked it there, but I’ve got nieces and nephews here.” He nods
toward the waiting area. “One on the way. I want to live close to my family now. Be here if they need me. Be here for Sunday dinner at Mama’s.” Be here to drive your future sister-in-law insane! I start to giggle. “What?” he says. “Did I say something funny?”

“I was just thinking about Chloe,” I say. And how happy she probably is right now that she’s not having to listen to you jabber. “Aren’t they going to have a pretty baby?”

“But, of course,” Tate says, puffing out his chest. “Coming from this gene pool.”

And there ain’t a thing wrong with your gene pool, Mr. Uncle Tater,
I think. He winks at me again and I just smile. I want to F his brains out.

*   *   *

“Jackson, party of four. Jackson, party of four.”

“That’s us,” he says. He puts his hand on my back as we make our way through the crowded bar, and I’m tickled pink to be one of the Jackson party of four. We meet Chloe and J.J. in the lobby, and then follow a ridiculously attractive hostess to our table. We have a pleasant dinner, with Tate cracking jokes and telling stories about when they were kids. J.J. laughs more than I’ve ever seen him laugh. Chloe even manages a chuckle or two and I’m mesmerized by every word that comes out of Tate Jackson’s mouth.

Tate picks up the entire check for dinner and since I just paid for a fairly pricey plane ticket, I don’t make a huge deal of it. Maybe I can do something nice for him sometime. After dinner, Chloe and I go to the restroom where she accuses me of being flirtatious.

“You like him,” she says.

“I don’t not like him,” I say.

“You want to have sex with him!” she whispers. “I can tell!”

“I don’t not want to have sex with him.”

“Oh my goodness! What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything,” I say, listening to some little old ladies talk back and forth between the stalls. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You had better not have sex with him,” she says, staring at me in the mirror.

“But, Chloe, if I did, then maybe he would start hanging out at my house and wouldn’t be at yours.”

“Ace Jones! You can’t be serious!”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help a friend in need.” I smile.

“You know what?” she says. “I should’ve seen this coming, because if you hated the guys I thought were perfect for you, then, of course, you’re going to love the one I dislike the most. It makes perfect sense in an Ace Jones sort of way.”

“Exactly,” I say, holding the door open for her. On the way home, Tate spots a beer store with a drive-thru and asks J.J. to turn in. He does and pulls up so Tate can order from the backseat. He buys a six-pack of Dos Equis, which we drink on the way home. By the time J.J. pulls up in my driveway, I’m tipsy and mellow and don’t want the night to end. Tate walks me to the door and when we stop on the porch, I’m dying for a good-night kiss. Instead, I get a hug and a quick peck on the cheek.

“I’d kiss you, but we have an audience,” he whispers, smiling. I look up at him as my heart skips about six beats. He smells so good.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. I want to take him inside and have my way with him, but I know I don’t need to do that. “Maybe another time?” he says.

“Maybe,” I say. Maybe hell! How about a hellz bellz yes! “Good night, Tate Jackson.”

“Good night, Ace Jones.”

I walk inside and flop down on the couch, grinning like a goon.

I think about digging a notebook out of my junk drawer and writing “Ace loves Tater” all over it. I take my phone out of my purse and see a late-night text from Logan Hatter. I silence the ringer and go to bed where I have wonderfully sweet dreams about Tate Jackson.

I
wake up Saturday morning to find it’s one of those perfect spring days that makes you want to spend every second of it outdoors. I brew a pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and take it out to the back porch where I relax in one of my loungers. I make myself stop thinking about Tate Jackson.

“This is the day I’ve been waiting for,” I tell Buster Loo when he hops out the doggie door. He makes a show of yawning and stretching, then takes off into the backyard. When I go back inside for a second cup of coffee, I decide to get Gramma Jones’s garden book and study the actual contents instead of analyzing things I find. I go back outside and flip it open to the bloom chart.

“Interesting,” I say. I want more than anything to get out and get to work in the yard, but I have to go to Freddie’s for the much-anticipated makeover of Stacey Dewberry. I sigh, disappointed that I have to spend the best part of this day inside. I flip to the back of
the book and look at the Post-it notes. Don’t do this! But I do it anyway. I stare at the picture of the weeping willow. Was that for that pervert M. Emerson? I know I should just let it go and let whoever that tree was planted for rest in peace, but my curiosity keeps getting the best of me. Maybe this afternoon, I might drive by a few of those addresses from the phone book. Just to see what the places look like. Then a horrible thought comes to mind. What if M. Emerson was married. Maybe that’s why he didn’t spell out his first name. Because he didn’t want to be caught by his own little paper trail. No! Gramma Jones would never do that…. Would she?

My phone buzzes and it’s Freddie Dublin asking if I’ll be at his house today. I text back a “Yes,” save his number to my contacts list, then go inside and get ready.

When I pull into Freddie Dublin’s neighborhood, it becomes obvious that he has another source of income, comes from a wealthy family, or spends every last dime of his paycheck on rent. I park on the curb and, as soon as I get out of my car, I hear the loud rumbling of a sports car. I turn around to see Stacey Dewberry pull up behind me. T-tops out and music blaring, she starts waving like a lunatic when she sees me. She’s still singing “Girl Don’t Go Away Mad” when she gets out of the car. I can’t stop staring because, instead of standing at attention on top of her head, her hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail. A few strands have flown out here and there, no doubt thanks to the T-tops. She’s not wearing any makeup at all. And she’s beautiful.

“You look so pretty right now,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” she squawks. “I’m a wreck. Freddie told me to come over all natural, so here I am.” She looks around. “I’m just glad I haven’t seen anyone I know this morning.
Well, except that carhop who works the breakfast shift at Red Rooster, but she never pays me no never-mind anyway.” She stops chattering, tilts her head to the side, and says, “Hey, what are you doing here?”

I don’t really know what to say and I’m a little confused as to why Freddie needs to keep everyone in the dark about what’s going on all the time. “Freddie invited me,” I say. “Remember, the deal we made about the makeovers.” She looks slightly disappointed.

“So that’s why he told me to come all natural.”

“I guess,” I say. “But this is going to be tons-o-fun fun. I loved it when you guys did my hair and makeup for me.” She looks at me and I swear she’s thinking, Yeah, but you needed that. Clearly, she doesn’t feel that she needs any type of beauty intervention. “I need to get your clothes back to you sometime.”

“You should keep those,” she says. “You looked great in them.”

While we’re standing there, a little red jelly-bean-looking car pulls up and Cameron Becker gets out. At that exact moment, Freddie Dublin appears on his front porch. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and cutoff jogging pants. Unlike my cutoff jogging pants, his appear to have been purchased in the short-legged form. Despite the casual outfit, his hair is styled as usual. I glance at Stacey.

“Did you know Cameron Becker was coming?” I whisper.

“I didn’t even know you were,” she says. I can only assume that Cameron knew that both Stacey and I would be here, because she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us.

“Aren’t we an on-time bunch?” Freddie says. “Come on in.” The three of us follow him into his lovely little home, which looks like it was decorated by a professional. He has cracked-wheat crackers and some kind of weird-looking dip sitting out on the bar.

“Snacks?” he says in his usual unenthusiastic way. I’m not sure what kind of dip it is and I don’t want to ask, so I try a little and find that it’s very tasty. I pick up a pink Vitaminwater, one of the six different colors available to choose from.

“Let’s sit and chat about what we want to do before we get started,” Freddie says. I find myself standing face-to-face with Cameron, and we dance back and forth as we try to figure out who steps where so we can get out of each other’s way.

“Yes, let’s talk first, because I’m kind of nervous about this,” Stacey says.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about, right, Ace?” Freddie says. “Makeovers are fun.”

“So much fun,” I tell her. “Remember how good I looked after mine?”

“You did look great,” Cameron says. I stop eating wheat crackers and look at her.

“I had to show her the pictures,” Freddie says, and I feel so betrayed. For the next few minutes, things feel awkward and forced. Then we start talking about school and, much to my surprise, the conversation flows along smoothly. No one mentions the elephant in the room, and then Cameron and I start talking about what classes we had in college. Turns out we had some of the same teachers at Mississippi State, so we bond over that. Sort of.

Finally, Freddie tells Stacey that it’s time to get started, so she goes and sits at the round glass table in the dining room, which is just behind the living room. Cameron doesn’t get up, so I don’t, either. I watch as Freddie takes the ponytail holder out of Stacey’s hair and starts brushing. Then he turns on a hair dryer. It occurs to me that Freddie orchestrated this get-together so he could work on
Stacey’s hair while I spend some quality time with Cameron and see that she’s not so bad after all, because he certainly hasn’t invited either of us to join him in the dining room. I think about the remark Logan made about him, and then Lilly’s warning rings in my head like a church bell. Am I being had? I wonder. I think about that for a minute and since I don’t know if I am or not, I just sit there and keep talking. Cameron Becker is slightly annoying, but a tad bit funny. I almost kind of like her.

As it turns out, she went through the same process to get her teaching license that I did—got a degree and then took a test—which explains why she’s having such a difficult year. I know from personal experience how tough the transition can be from carefree college student to gainfully employed high school teacher responsible for daily lesson plans and all that business. I remember my first year all too well. Freddie is taking his sweet time working a conditioning treatment into Stacey’s hair, so I resort to telling Cameron some of the worst experiences from my first year of teaching. She laughs until she starts tearing up.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’ve had such a horrible time, and it’s just so good to know that I’m not the only one who’s felt this way.” I resist the urge to get up and hug her. Instead, I tell her everything I learned and every horrible mistake that I made in the five years I had the job that she has now. All of my secrets and all of my tricks—I tell her everything. Who cares if I’m being had? This poor girl needs some help.

“See,” she says after I tell her about the art of assigning great projects, which is to be lenient with the guidelines so the students can show off their own personal style and creativity. “I’ve never even thought about that. That’s brilliant!” She tells me that nine
hours of education classes didn’t prepare her for seven hours a day in the classroom. I tell her that ninety hours probably wouldn’t have prepared me for it.

“Some things you can only learn by experience,” I say, smiling at her like she’s my favorite little pal in the whole wide world.

“Or having someone like you,” she says, smiling that big radiant smile of hers.

Someone like me,
I think.
Fancy that.

Freddie finally comes into the living room, followed by Stacey whose hair is tucked into a polka-dot shower cap.