Gone South (5 page)

She drove to the office and turned in her key to a sleepy-eyed desk clerk who pointed her toward the free coffee beside an artificial tree twinkling with ornaments and white lights. In her car again, coffee in hand, she pulled to the side of the parking lot to let the car warm up. A tractor-trailer glowing with lights moved slowly onto the road toward the northbound on-ramp.

If she followed the truck onto the interstate, she might never return to Noble. She might forget how beautiful the house was and how it tugged at her heart. She’d probably end up living in Michigan for the rest of her life.

Dad would buy the McComb house. If he were alive, and if he were able to afford it, he would buy it and not think twice about moving across the country. Despite the fact that Alabama, even at its northern border, was the Deep South. Where a Michigander wouldn’t fit in. She’d be the new kid in town all over again.

She was a McComb, though. That should count for something. Moving to Noble would let her reconnect with her roots, and she could forge new bonds too. She closed her eyes, imagining her dining room table in that house, filled with friends, and her vintage percolator bubbling on the sideboard.

She’d never been good at distinguishing between God’s guidance, her own wishes, and the way life dictated certain choices sometimes. Her pastor said he and his wife always prayed about big decisions until they both had
peace, but sometimes inner peace was only a fleeting emotion. Not something to stake your future on.

Tish didn’t have a husband to pray with, and the Lord wasn’t talking.

She opened her eyes. The Volvo’s sensible engine was still putt-putting away. So quiet and dependable.

“Lord, I’m tired of being quiet and dependable,” she whispered. “But if I’m headed in the wrong direction, please stop me.”

She punched Silas Nelson’s number on her phone before she lost her nerve. It took him five rings.

“Who is this?” he shouted.

“It’s T—oh no!” She stared at the clock on her dash.

“Is this the woman from Michigan?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking of the time.”

“It’s not even six o’clock!”

But it was nearly seven … eastern. Alabama was central.

Her face heated with mortification. “I’m sorry. I forgot what time zone I was in.”

“Never mind time zones. It’s still dark out!”

“Um, yes. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

He subsided into offended grumbling as another tractor-trailer groaned by, the noise of its engine drowning him out. After it had passed, he was still talking.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked.

“I said you’d better have a good reason for waking me up. Why’d you call?” A thin thread of hope stretched taut in his voice.

“I …” Something close to despair wobbled in hers. “I wanted to talk about the price.”

“There’s not much to talk about.”

“But I really can’t go quite that high.”

“That’s a shame, but there’ll be other folks waiting in line.”

Other folks hanging their pictures on
her family’s
parlor wall?

But he probably didn’t have other people waiting in line. He just wanted her to think he did—like she wanted him to think she would walk away if he didn’t lower his price.

“There are other houses out there,” she said. “Lots of other houses.”

“Yes ma’am, and there are other buyers. It’s already a rock-bottom price.”

“But you’ve had it on the market for months, and you still haven’t found a buyer. If you’ll come down just ten percent, I’ll sign the papers this morning.”

She held her breath, refusing to be the one who broke first.

After a long, tense silence, he let out a weary sigh. “All right, all right.”

“You’ll come down ten percent?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “But you’re a thief.”

Suddenly weak, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. “Thank you, Mr. Nelson.”

He sighed again. “Thank you, Trish.”

“Actually, it’s Tish.”

“What’s that?”

“My name isn’t Trish. It’s Tish. Short for Letitia. Letitia McComb.”

Silence again. He must have been hunting for pen and paper to write it down. But she didn’t have all day.

“I know it’s very early, and I’m so sorry, but I’d like to sign that purchase agreement as soon as possible and get on the road.”

He sounded utterly dumbfounded by her request. “You mean right this minute, Miss … McComb?”

“I wouldn’t be in such a rush except I have eleven or twelve hours of driving ahead of me. More than that if I don’t beat the storm that’s coming. I’m in Muldro, so it’ll take me twenty minutes to get to the house.”

“I’ll be here. I might even be out of bed.” He ended the call.

Tish put her phone away. She put the car in gear and pulled onto the road, heading back toward Noble. Back to the McComb house.
Her
house.

She’d have to give notice to her employer and her landlord, apply for a mortgage, pack up her life in Michigan, say good-bye to Stephen one last time …

“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

With Daisy in the crook of his arm, George paused at the top of the stairs that led from the apartment down to the shop, took a deep breath of morning air, and nearly burst out singing. After wrangling over the price for weeks, he’d finally bought a project car. He’d take possession in about a month, after the O’Neill brothers switched out the engine. Restoring the rest of the vehicle would keep him busy for months more—once he’d found a secure garage for the project. And then …

He imagined himself at the wheel, cruising Main while the monster engine made that long black hood vibrate with pent-up power. Or he’d take the car cross country for the pleasure of turning it loose on a deserted stretch of highway out west. Or he’d take it to classic car rallies closer to home and have the chicks falling all over him.

Because a man who took his mother’s ridiculous dog everywhere he went was an irresistible chick magnet.

With a rueful grin, he carried Daisy down the stairs. While she did her business on his scrap of lawn, he studied the parking area and brooded over his situation.

His van stood there, an ugly but reliable workhorse. A ding in the side panel wrinkled the
M
in
Antiques on Main
so it looked more like
Nain
. That didn’t bother him, though. Nor did the trees that rained their junk down on
the van. But when it came to his project car … That baby deserved a proper sanctuary. But he couldn’t even start the project until he had garage space.

He shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to sell his mother’s house, but it was too late now. Two years and two owners too late. And the new owner, rumor had it, was something to be reckoned with.

The jingling of Daisy’s tags jolted him out of his thoughts. Trotting toward the street, she was nearly gone already, her nose in the air. Sniffing freedom.

He chased her, catching up as she rounded the corner onto the sidewalk. He snagged her with both hands and picked her up. She tried to flatten herself against him, her heart beating at an insane pace—which was only appropriate.

“You thought you were on your way again, didn’t you? I can’t have you off your leash for one minute, can I?”

He carried the neurotic little dog to the front door. His uncle Calv had already turned on the lights and put the Open sign in the window. George pushed the door open with his shoulder, activating the bell above him.

“It’s me,” he said, the familiar smells of furniture polish and dust tickling his nose. “Don’t get up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Calv answered from the rear of the store.

George ambled down the narrow aisle, pausing to adjust the hanging price tag on an antebellum kerosene lamp, and entered the back room. He set Daisy on the floor and nudged her in the general direction of her crate. She moved just out of reach and looked over her shoulder, radiating self-pity.

Stooped, lanky Calv sat at the worktable, his dirt-gray hair hanging in front of his suntanned face as he oiled a mysterious mechanical gadget he’d picked up at a yard sale. “I keep telling you, the dog’s depressed. She still misses your mother.”

“No, she doesn’t. The little schemer wants us to feel sorry for her.”

Calv shook his head. “My neighbor’s dog, he got depressed when she kicked her husband out. He moped around for weeks. The dog, I mean, not the husband. He wouldn’t play with the kids. Wouldn’t even eat.”

“Daisy eats. Believe me, she eats. Grain-free, gluten-free, all natural …” George sighed. He’d promised his mother. Now Daisy ate better than he did.

He sat behind his desk in the corner, somewhat cramped but safely removed from his uncle’s messy, greasy project. “I guess you’ve heard the news? Si sold the house to a McComb.”

“Yep. I heard it straight from him, ten times over. I’ve never in all my born days seen him so riled up.” Calv flicked his hair out of his eyes and gave George a solemn stare. “I asked him where she’s from that she don’t know the score, and he said Detroit or thereabouts. Said she had Michigan plates on her car. And an attitude. He said she called him early-early so he’d be half-asleep. She caught him off guard, and then she nagged and nagged until he caved in.”

“Si’s got his knickers in a knot about needing to sell. He’s not trying to put her in the best light.”

George frowned, recalling the woman he’d seen leaning against a white Volvo while she took pictures of the house. He hadn’t noticed Michigan tags, but he hadn’t been looking for them.

“She has exactly the same name,” Calv said. “You think it’s a coincidence?”

“Buying that particular house? It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Especially because she lied about it.”

George gave his uncle a sharp look. “You sure about that?”

“That’s how Si tells it, anyway. She gave him the wrong name from the get-go—Patricia instead of Letitia—and she wouldn’t say her last name until she’d worn him down on the price.”

“That was pretty shrewd,” George said. “Si wouldn’t have budged if he’d known who she was.”

“It was a steal. I know, I know, that doesn’t make her a literal thief, but Si’s got his gussy up. He’s even mad at her for wanting an inspection.”

“An inspection is just standard procedure. Si has really let the place go, too. If I were her, I’d be concerned about some basic maintenance issues.”

“I know, but he says she’s a penny-pinchin’ trash-talker.”

“Even if he’s right, we will be nice to her.”

“Sure we will. She’ll need a good dose of nice. She’s gonna have a tough row to hoe in this narrow-minded town. Besides the obvious, I mean. Si and Shirley’s friends won’t take kindly to her either.”

“I hate to see them lose the place.” George’s guilty conscience circled, flapping its ugly wings, and came in for a heavy landing. “I never should have sold it to them. I should have listened to my gut.”

“It’s not your fault that they came upon hard times. Nobody saw it coming. Poor Si, though. He loved that big ol’ garage. So did I, until your mama put an end to that business.”

“We both loved it.” George shook his head, remembering the day his mother had decided Calv, her youngest brother, wasn’t fit company for her fatherless and impressionable son. So Calv had packed up his tools—

A glorious idea lit George’s brain like fireworks. If the McComb woman was a penny pincher, she might want to get some rent money out of the garage. He could ask her, anyway, if she proved to be decent. It stood too far from the house to do her much good, but the noise and the fumes wouldn’t bother anybody out there. It was huge too. More than enough room.

Everybody would win. It would solve his problem, but it might help the new owner even more, as a sort of goodwill gesture. It would say George Zorbas wasn’t afraid to do business with a McComb. Best of all, it would bring
healing balm to an old man’s heart—if it panned out. He wouldn’t say anything to Calv just yet.

The doohickey slipped from Calv’s hand and crashed onto the floor. Daisy leaped into her crate, her nails clicking, and cowered in the corner.

“Aw, it’s okay, Daisy.” Calv leaned over to pick up the gadget. “Toss her a treat, George. Make her feel better.”

George reached into his top drawer, pulled out one of those outrageously expensive treats, and pitched it into the crate. Daisy blinked several times and finally worked up her courage to inch over to it. She took it delicately in her mouth and crunched, not so delicately.

Life would get interesting once the house changed hands. Every time the dog ran away, he would have to fetch her from the porch of Miss Letitia McComb.