Gone South (35 page)

“Yeah, he was funny. He lived in a dumpy little house and drove an ugly little truck and raised half his own food like he was poor, but he took the ’Vette out a couple of times a week and never griped about putting gas in it. We’d sing along with the radio and play the alphabet game. You know the one I mean, with billboards and stuff? You always have to look for a Dairy Queen for the
Q
and I forget what for the
Z
, and it’s almost impossible to find an
X
. Especially if you’re not a fast reader.”

“I remember playing that game with my mom,” Tish said. “Your grandpa sounds like he was a lot of fun.” He was crazy too, to let his teenage granddaughter drive his hugely expensive car with only a learner’s permit.

“He was a ton of fun.” Mel blinked and looked at her. “A garden club!”

Startled by the non sequitur, Tish shook her head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The networking thing. You want to learn about southern plants anyway, right? Why don’t you look for a garden club? There’s a little local paper that has a calendar section for things like that. George has a stack on the counter. They’re free.”

“I could check it out.”

“You should. It would be good for you to get out of the house.”

“You’re right, and that’s a good quality in you.”

Those big brown eyes got bigger. “What is?”

“You’re going through a tough time, but you’re still interested in other people. You still care about other people. Some people only care about themselves.”

“Oh.” Mel wiggled a little in her chair, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. With downcast eyes, she arranged the potato chips on her plate from smallest to largest, then picked up the tiniest one and ate it. “Grandpa John was like that,” she said softly. “He cared about people.”

“Then he would be proud of you. Love God and love your neighbor. That’s the whole thing, right there.”

Mel didn’t answer, but her lower lip trembled. She picked up another tiny chip and ate it, keeping her eyes on her plate.

About the time George fell in love with the unseasonably warm weather, it broke his heart. A cold snap hit hard on Monday night. Tuesday morning, he wasn’t surprised to see half his customers bundled up in multiple layers although the sun was shining.

Tish, though, strolled up to his counter in jeans and a light sweater. No jacket, no hat, no gloves. No jewelry either, but she didn’t need accessories when she had that smile.

He smiled too, glad for a chance to chat. “I guess this is balmy weather by Michigan standards,” he said.

“You betcha. We’d call it a heat wave and drive around town with our windows down.” Tish’s eyes searched the counter. “Mel told me you always have a stack of these local papers …”

“Like this?” He took one of the freebies and gave it to her.

“That must be it.”

“As a newspaper, it’s a very good fish wrapper,” he said. “It’s mostly ads and coupons. Once in a while, you might find some useful information.”

Mel joined them and slouched against the counter. “That’s the one I was telling you about, Tish. Look on the back.”

Tish flipped it over to the community calendar page and took a moment to read it. “Imagine that. Remember your idea about a garden club? There’s one called the Noble-Muldro Garden Club.”

“Really?”

“And it meets Friday night.”

“Perfect,” Mel said. “You should go.”

Tish kept reading. “It’s a potluck, it starts at six, and it’s followed by a discussion of springtime gardening essentials. Whatever that means. There’s a phone number for RSVPs.”

Mel crowded closer to see. “Call right now, and then you won’t back out. George, you still going to the car show?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Too bad, or you could go to the garden club too.”

“I don’t have a garden,” he pointed out. “Just a scrap of grass for the dog’s business.”

Tish looked up from the paper. “I love car shows. My dad used to take Mom and me to the big show at Meadow Brook Hall in Michigan. Classic cars all over the lawn.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” George said. “This one won’t be in the same class. It’ll have muscle cars instead of Rolls Royces, but I’ll learn a lot from talking with other folks who’ve already restored cars like mine.”

“Is Daisy going with you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Unless you’d like to adopt her for the weekend.”

“No, thanks,” Tish said. “She’s cute, but I’m not a dog person.”

“I am,” Mel said. “Please, Tish? Can I?” She turned to George. “Please, George?”

“It’s up to Tish.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It would make it that much harder to convince her that she doesn’t live with us. Not that we’re making much progress with that anyway.”

Mel gave a little hop. “So does that mean I can? Please, Tish?”

“All right, as long as you’re the one taking care of her. Not me.”

“And don’t let her piddle on those nice floors like she used to,” George said.

“I won’t,” Mel said solemnly, and he believed her.

Tish smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it under her arm. Steadfastly ignoring the black gown on the mannequin, she browsed the rest of the vintage clothing.

“Is there a particular era you’re interested in?” he asked.

“Not really. I just know what I like when I see it.” Tish rifled through the clothes on the rack, wasting no time. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I can afford it. Mostly, I pick up vintage scarves and costume jewelry. And I’ve bought some cute old hankies at yard sales.”

“Handkerchiefs are a popular collectible,” he said politely, although he would never understand the appeal of a used snot rag.

Finished with her perusal of the clothing rack, she turned to the shelves. “Ooh, look what I found.” She went straight to the satchel-style bag he’d picked up for a song at an estate sale. “Not bad,” she said, checking the price tag. “Practical and pretty, and it’s real leather. Made to last.”

“With the right care, it’ll last a long time yet. Those little wrinkles and imperfections are part of its charm.”

“You sound like my mom,” Tish said with a laugh.

George frowned. Was it a good thing to sound like a woman’s mother? No. Definitely not. He’d have to work on that.

Tish held up the purse for Mel to see. “Beautiful, huh? In a retro way. And it’s not very expensive.”

“It’s awesome,” Mel said, coming closer.

“It’s much better than the little purse we picked up at the thrift store.” Tish started exploring the multitude of zippered pockets inside. “Look at the details. It’s great craftsmanship.”

“Yeah, but I need to be supercareful with my money.”

“Do you really like this one?” he asked. “Or are you only being polite?”

Mel ran a tentative finger over the buttery brown leather. “I really do like it. I’m starting to get hooked on old stuff. Antiques are all different, you know? It’s not something you can buy at the mall.”

“Only one girl in town will have one like this,” he said.

Mel sighed. “But it won’t be me. I wish … but it ain’t gonna happen.”

With a pang for the profit he was losing, he pulled the price tag off, tugged the bag out of Tish’s hands, and gave it to Mel. “Happy birthday, a little early.”

Mel’s mouth dropped open. “George, you can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“Thank you! I love it.” It was the only genuine smile he’d seen on her in days.

“You’re going to be twenty-one, right?” Tish asked. “One of those special birthdays. A milestone.”

Mel nodded, keeping her gaze on the bag.

It might be her only birthday gift. Her family would ignore the day. And George couldn’t help. He’d be at the car show.

But Tish gave him a tight smile that told him she understood the situation. The woman who’d charged into Dunc Hamilton’s private lair wouldn’t have any problem coming up with some kind of birthday plan.

She picked up one of the black velvet evening bags, stroked it, and returned it to the shelf. “I’d better go before I find your vintage jewelry and get myself in real trouble. I’ll come back sometime when I have a job. And money. See you guys later.”

But she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily. He opened the door and followed her onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Tish gave him a grave smile. “It was kind of you to give Mel the purse. She needs all the encouragement she can get.”

“She seems to be doing well, though, don’t you think?”

“She’s doing
too
well. Sooner or later, she’ll let herself feel the hurt. That’s
when she’ll fall apart.” Tish twinkled her fingers at him in a wave and left, empty-handed except for the free paper.

George returned to the warmth of the store and scrutinized Mel, who was still rooting through the handbag’s inner pockets. She looked perfectly happy, but he remembered her as a kid, moving easily from a full-blown tantrum to sunshine and giggles—and back again. She’d never been predictable.

She looked up with a grin. “Having a decent purse again will make me feel like, you know, a decent person. Not a loser with nothing but a bedroll. Thanks, George.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Hey, there’s a penny in it.” She held it up.

“That’s for good luck. I never sell a purse or a wallet without putting a penny in it first.”

“Now I need more money to add to it. Lots more money.”

She took the purse to the back room and came out with the Windex and a roll of paper towels. She was humming.

“It was nice of you to steer Tish toward the garden club,” he said as she headed for the front door.

“I already checked out the paper, so I knew they were meeting on Friday, but I had to act surprised so she’d think she found it all by herself.” Smiling smugly, she strolled away in pursuit of fingerprints.

The little schemer. Not that there was anything wrong with making Tish think the garden club was her own discovery, but it was strange.

In the quiet of the slow day, he settled at his computer in the back room and resumed his daily wheeling and dealing online. After checking on a handful of auction items, he dealt with his most pressing paperwork. Then, as a reward, he browsed the Internet for advice on making Greek pizza. He’d been furtively experimenting for weeks, and they were getting better. Better than the Shell station’s offerings, anyway.

Mel’s scream sliced him like a knife. “No!” she shrieked. “Oh no!”

He ran, papers flying. Halfway through the store he pulled his phone from his pocket. It had to be a tragedy. A homicide on the sidewalk? A vehicle mowing down pedestrians? But he’d heard no gunshot, no sound of impact, no scream but Mel’s.

She clung to the door, her face pressed to the glass, the Windex lying at her feet and the paper towels unrolling beside it. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

“What’s wrong?”

Then he heard a distinctive rumble and caught a glimpse of sunlight glinting on a sky-blue fender. Dunc’s ’Vette disappeared around the corner.

“What’s going on, Mel?”

Her shoulders slumped. She faced him, her eyes like black holes. “A young guy was driving. He was laughing. And my dad—Dunc—was in the passenger seat. He was laughing too. You know what that means.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“It was a test drive! That horrible guy will buy it, and I’ll never see it again.”

“Calm down, Mel. Calm down. I found your dad’s ad online, and he’s asking too much. He’ll never sell it at that price.”

Tears crawled down her cheeks. “He’ll sell it. He’ll lower the price, or he’ll find somebody rich enough or dumb enough to pay it.” She sobbed and gulped and sobbed again. “I can never afford to buy it. Never, never, never. But it should be mine.”

“Now, Mel—”

“No, it’s true. Grandpa John told me he was going to give it to me.”

“If he honestly meant to give you the car, then it should have been yours, but—”

“Exactly,” she said fiercely. “It should be mine.”

“But it isn’t.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” A tear reached her trembling chin and fell.

He wanted to give her a tissue and pat her shoulder, but more coddling wouldn’t help. “You’re supposed to go on with your life. You’re not entitled to something just because you want it. If you want something, you have to earn it.”

“What if it’s something I can never earn? Something I can never afford?”

“Then you give up on the idea.”

“You’re telling me to give up?”

“No, Melanie. I’m telling you to grow up.”

“You don’t understand! They took the watch back, but they won’t take me. Now they’re selling the car. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a family anymore.” She ran for the back room, weeping as if someone had ground her heart underfoot the way she ground out her cigarette butts.

This was what Tish had been talking about, then. Finally feeling the pain. Falling apart. His lectures wouldn’t help Mel at all.

He picked up the Windex and paper towels and attacked the fingerprints on the glass. He never should have given her the leather bag. He’d only reinforced her mistaken notion that she only had to wish for something and it was hers.