Gone South (11 page)

All that good food going to waste at her folks’ house, and she was waiting for pizza that should have gone to rats.

She peered around the Dumpster. The beat-up back door of the convenience store was still closed.

“Hurry up, Hayley,” she whispered, hugging her stomach.

With a sigh, she went back to her uncomfortable spot on the curb. She didn’t have much padding on her rear anymore.

Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the afternoon sunshine baking her face. She wished she could absorb the heat and save it for later. When the sun went down, she’d be freezing again. Especially without a jacket this time.

And she’d thought she was miserable in that crowded little apartment in Orlando. Her roommates hadn’t been the best, but she’d stayed warm, and there’d always been plenty to eat at work.

Hearing footsteps, she opened her eyes and braced herself to run if it was Hayley’s boss.

The Dumpster lid rose. She caught a glimpse of a black trash bag sailing in. It landed with a thud, followed by a clank as the lid fell closed.

Hayley scurried around the corner, curly wisps of hair framing her face where they’d escaped her ponytail. She unzipped her gray hoodie, reached in, and pulled out a plastic bag. “Here. It’s too old to sell, but it’s not too old to eat.”

Mel seized the bag and opened it, her mouth watering. It held two burnt-looking slices of pepperoni pizza. “Thanks, Hay. Wow, you even thought of napkins.” But no drink.

“Sorry, I know you hate pepperoni.”

“No, it’s awesome. I’ll eat every crumb.”

“I can’t believe your dad is so mean. Well, yeah. I can.”

“I should start calling him my ex-dad.” Mel nodded toward the building. “You think they’re hiring?”

Hayley’s dark eyes darted over her. “I don’t think so.”

“Or at least they’re not hiring people who look like they’ve been sleeping in the gutter.”

“Well, yeah,” Hayley said, sounding apologetic. She looked over her shoulder. “Don’t eat here. Go somewhere else. I don’t want to get fired.”

Mel shivered, remembering the big scene at Fishy’s. “No, getting fired is no fun.” She stood, reaching for her bedroll. “I’ll move on. It doesn’t smell great here, anyway.”

“Wow, you’re so thin. And you look cold.” Hayley unzipped her hoodie the rest of the way and pulled it off. “Here. Take it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay. I have more at home.” Hayley stepped closer and draped the hoodie around Mel’s shoulders. “Just go before somebody sees you hanging around. Shoo.”

Mel tried to smile. “Thanks for making me feel like a stray cat.”

“I’m trying to keep my job. Gotta go.”

“Wait—Hayley!”

Hayley turned around. “What?”

“Quick, tell me the news. Like who’s still in town and who’s not. I don’t have a phone so I can’t text or call or whatever.”

Hayley shrugged. “What do you think? The smart ones went off to college. The rest of us are still here.”

“So, what about Darren?”

“He’s around, but don’t tell me you still have the hots for him.” Hayley’s
voice softened. “I know why you’ve got a thing for cops, but guys like him are out of our league, doll.”

“He made it through the academy?”

“Top of the class. What did you expect?” With a quick wave of her hand, Hayley was gone.

Mel sighed. It was all true, including the part about Darren being way too good for her.

At least she wouldn’t starve tonight. She pressed the plastic bag’s fading warmth against her cheek. She’d better hurry up and eat. Not behind a Dumpster, though. Someplace that smelled nice. Someplace with flowers, maybe. She’d pretend she was having a picnic like she and Hayley used to do when they were about eight.

Walking across the parking lot with the hoodie draped around her shoulders the way old ladies did with their sweaters, Mel headed south on Main, toward the park. Even rich people ate in parks sometimes. Too bad she looked like a bag lady.

Waiting for the light to change at the corner of Third and Main, she heard air brakes and a deep rumble. She turned to see the cab of a big truck, trembling with power, edge up next to her. A moving van. She thought about faraway places, about making a fresh start somewhere tropical or exotic. But she’d tried that once already. Now she was back, and her folks wouldn’t even let her take a shower in their house.

They’d let Stu and his family stay, though, while their kitchen was torn up. The boys would have fun camping out in the basement for a couple of weeks. It was practically an apartment down there, with its own mini kitchen, and they’d have plenty of room to hang out.

Mel swallowed hard. She wasn’t about to start crying, right on Main where everybody could see her.

Of course her folks would let Stu stay. He’d always been the perfect son. He hadn’t stolen anything from them like Mel had. Or so they thought. But she hadn’t taken anything that didn’t belong to her, and what she borrowed, she brought back. Even the black jacket, once her dad reminded her.

He didn’t want to be her dad anymore, though.

“Fine,” she whispered. She didn’t want a thief for a dad.

It wasn’t quite ten in the morning, but Tish already wanted to take a break. She’d stayed up past midnight, unpacking and organizing after the movers left, and she’d returned to it at seven. Already, the house was beginning to feel like home. Instead of being too empty, now the living room was crowded with furniture and boxes.

The portrait still leaned against the wall. She wished she’d asked one of those burly movers to hang it for her. At some point, maybe she’d meet her next-door neighbors and see if they could help. Judging by the bumper stickers on the vehicles in their driveway, they were into hunting, fishing, quilting, ’Bama football, and their grandchildren, but she hadn’t laid eyes on their faces yet.

She took a swig of her ice water. Once again she located the utility knife she kept losing. She cut the strapping tape on half a dozen boxes of books. Trying to remember how she’d had the books organized in her apartment, she loaded them onto shelves. She placed her special favorites at eye level:
The History of Clothing. Fashion Through the Ages. Why Flappers Bobbed Their Hair
.

With the boxes emptied, she flattened them and carried them onto the front porch. A brisk wind threatened to blow them out of her arms, but she wedged them between her wicker furniture and the wall.

Energized by the gusts of air, she walked into the yard and looked up and down the street. All in all, it was a great neighborhood. Old but nice, and
within walking distance of Noble’s quaint little downtown area. Only twenty minutes from more practical shopping in Muldro too. The house suited her more and more, and as long as the roof didn’t leak and the furnace held out, she’d be able to make some repairs and decorate a little.

She smiled, thinking of Mr. Farris at the bank. If she landed a job within a few weeks, she’d be on her way to finding new friends and settling into the social life of Muldro and Noble—if they had any.

Catching a movement from the corner of her eye, she faced the house directly across the street. The house with the pansies that matched hers. A woman was cracking the screen door open to let a black cat in.

Tish waved. “Good morning,” she called, good and loud.

The screen door banged shut, followed by the solid sound of the wooden door closing.

With her optimism dissolving, Tish put her hands on her hips. “Well, be that way then,” she said quietly.

It was time to admit the truth. The unfriendliness wasn’t her imagination. She was sure she’d find plenty of friendly people too, like Farris, but a good number of the citizens of Noble and Muldro were hostile toward newcomers.

That woman at the bank, Marian Clark-Whoever, had an attitude. So did the mail carrier. Even the guy at the gas company had acted like he wished she’d go back where she came from. Now, the neighbor.

“I’m staying,” Tish said under her breath.

She turned to run up the steps and stopped short. A tiny white dog sat expectantly by the front door.

“Who are you? You don’t live here.”

Looking more like a toy than a real animal, the dog blinked its black eyes and wagged an unrepentant tail.

“Oh, I remember you. You and the guy in the van. Do you belong to him?”

She’d noticed the shop, Antiques on Main, a few blocks away. She’d driven past at dusk when the ground-floor windows were softly lit. Upstairs, the wrought-iron railing of a balcony stood out against the bright lights shining from behind drawn shades.

Tish knelt and held out her hand. Quivering all over, the dog licked her fingers with a moist pink tongue. The quivering became a whole-body wiggle with most of the movement coming from the hindquarters.

“Aren’t you cute. Here, let me see your tag.” Tish took hold of a pale pink harness and worked the dog’s tags out from a tangle of clean white fur. “Okay, your name is Daisy. You must be a girl.”

Most men didn’t like frilly little dogs, so she probably belonged to a woman. The guy in the van had a wife or a girlfriend then.

Tish pulled her phone from her pocket. Phone in one hand, dog tag in the other, she called the number on the tag.

“Antiques on Main. This is George. If this sounds like a recording, it must be a recording.” His slow drawl heightened the dry humor of his words. “Our hours are nine to five every day but Sunday. If you’d like to leave a message, you know the routine. No texts, please. I don’t do texts.”

Instead of waiting for the beep, Tish closed her phone. “Come on, Daisy.” She picked up the featherweight dog. “You’re the perfect excuse for taking a break, and I love antiques.”

The dog wriggled with joy but didn’t make a sound.

“Well, at least there’s one friendly soul in Noble.” But when Tish started down the steps, the dog whimpered and strained her whole body in the direction of the house.

“Tough luck, puppy,” Tish said. “I’m taking you back to your owner.”

She decided to introduce herself as Letitia McComb, partly to get in the habit and partly to see if this George would recognize the name. It would be an interesting experiment.

Halfway down the block, she realized she’d forgotten to lock up. She slowed for a moment and then picked up her pace again. This wasn’t Detroit. It was a small and peaceful town where most people probably left their doors unlocked. Besides, if anybody had the patience to sort through her ragtag possessions for something worth stealing, they were welcome to it—as long as they didn’t mess with her vintage costume jewelry.

Enjoying the morning sunshine, George sat on the balcony with his coffee and the online version of the Mobile news. Now and then he cast an idle glance down to the street as the town woke up. In thirty minutes he’d have to leave for his appointment with a seller in Huntsville, but Calv had already taken charge of the shop and, thankfully, that blasted dog.

If Calv ever found a real job again, George was up a creek.

Hearing the distinctive sound of an old Corvette, he leaned forward in anticipation of the pretty sight. The mint-condition ’56 tooled around the corner with its V-eight rumbling and its original arctic blue paint gleaming like ice.

Duncan Hamilton was driving, of course. He took the ’Vette out on a regular basis for the mechanical benefits, but he didn’t appreciate the car as his late father-in-law had. Miss Mel had always loved it too. From the time she was a chunky little kid, she’d helped her grandpa when he washed and waxed it. She’d even earned a whipping once for taking it on a joyride.

She’d pitch one of her famous tantrums if she found out Dunc was selling it. She’d find out soon, too, if she was really in town.

Turning a corner, the car disappeared from view. George sighed. He would have endured a whipping too, for one hour at the wheel of the Corvette. His project car was going to be a sorry substitute.

Below him, a shiny red Jeep pulled up and over the curb, one tire gaining
the sidewalk. The driver pulled it back down with a thump. Mrs. Rose climbed out. Cheeks flushed, she checked to see if anybody was watching, then hurried into the shop.

Maybe she’d soothe her embarrassment by finally buying the umbrella stand. But if she didn’t, somebody else would. Sooner or later.