Miss Julia Hits the Road (21 page)

“Sure he can. Y’all plantin’ bulbs? We got some real nice Dutch tulip bulbs over here. They’ll make a pretty show, come spring.”

“Not today, Mr. Harris. We’re moving some of Lillian’s plants before those bulldozers tear up everything in sight, which I understand will be first thing tomorrow.”

Clabe Harris’s shoulders seemed to sag in concern. “That’s bad doin’s, Mrs. Springer. I was sorry to hear ’bout it. But,” he said, straightening somewhat, “business has to go on. Who knows? Clarence Gibbs may make a real economic impact on the town that’ll benefit a lot more people than the few who have to move.”

“What kind of economic impact?” I asked, wanting to know what he’d heard about Clarence Gibbs’s plans.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but word is that he’s found some kind of spring or well up on the ridge of that field, and Willow Lane’s the only easy access to it.”

“Well, my goodness,” I said, trying to downplay my interest in the matter. “What’s so wonderful about a spring that he has to tear down people’s houses in order to get to it?”

“Word is, he’s gonna channel that water and build a bottling plant. Then he’s gonna put it on the market. I’d kinda like to invest in something like that.”

“Why, Mr. Harris, that doesn’t make sense. There’s already more bottled water on grocery shelves than anybody could want. And I wouldn’t want any of it. Why in the world would Clarence Gibbs think he’s got something the others don’t have?”

Mr. Harris’s eyes slid away from mine, and a flush of color ran up his neck. “I don’t know too much about it, but the way I hear it, that water’s real good for your constitution.”

“Really?” I asked, as if it was all new to me.

“Well, uh, I might’ve heard wrong.”

“Oh, I doubt that. If Mr. Gibbs has to move a bunch of old people out so he can put that water in a bottle, I’d like to hear what makes it so special.”

“Well.” Mr. Harris was finding a shelf of garden pest killer mighty interesting by this time. “Way I hear it, that water acts kinda like a tonic for some folks. Gibbs has had some doctor or laboratory-type person analyze it, and that’s all I know. You might want to ask somebody else, Mrs. Springer. We better ring these things up. I’ll put the liner in the trunk for you.”

And he headed off toward the cash register, leaving me to follow in a state of frustration. That’s the way a bandwagon gets started. Some superstitious nonsense that’d been circulating for years, with nobody really believing it, and now, all of a sudden, a sharp businessman makes noises as if it’s a wonder-working cure-all, and normal, everyday people start opening their checkbooks. For my money, if anybody’s constitution needed help, they could buy some vitamins or take a tonic to clear out their systems.

I huffed all the way to the cash register, thinking that Clarence Gibbs had a nerve depriving Lillian of her home just to get tired people’s hopes up. Of all the snake oil promises I’d ever heard, this one took the cake. It was as bad as all those companies selling cosmetics that promise to cure face wrinkles, and charging you an arm and a leg for it without doing one blessed thing that I’d been able to tell.

The trunk lid bounced and Lillian’s big satchel clanked every time I hit a pothole on the way back to the house. But we’d gotten her plants in the trunk, and I hoped they’d survive the digging, pulling, and shoving that we’d subjected them to. Both Lillian and Little Lloyd were dirt-smeared and worn out by the time we got home.

“There’s Coleman,” Little Lloyd said, sitting up in the backseat as I pulled into the driveway. The garage door was open, and most of Lillian’s household goods had been un-stacked and pulled out in front.

I could see Coleman’s head bobbing up from behind boxes, a chest of drawers, and a rolled-up rug that he’d moved out of the garage.

“Oh, that pore man,” Lillian said. “He been movin’ stuff all day, an’ I bet that clothes box right on the bottom.”

“I hope he’s got enough energy to help with the plants,” I said, somewhat concerned at how tired Little Lloyd looked.

I needn’t have worried, though, for the child hopped out of the car and hurried to help Coleman. Coleman was like a tonic to him, a much better one than any Clarence Gibbs could bottle.

“Lillian,” I said, as we got out of the car, “now that you and Little Lloyd have some help with clothes and plants, I’ll run on in and set the table.”

She nodded and, brushing at her nylon outerwear, went into the garage to search through boxes.

The smell of the pork tenderloin that Lillian had left cooking in the oven filled the house and made my mouth water. I called to Hazel Marie from the dining room as I hurriedly set the table.

“We’re having a meeting tonight,” I said as she came into the room. “I hope you don’t mind, but Mr. Pickens is coming, too. I want to get that Poker Run idea of his moving.” Having run through my mind the number of ladies who’d meet Thurlow’s requirements, I figured it to be our best hope for raising money on a grand scale.

She smiled a little, then quickly became businesslike. “I don’t mind. I’ll give him credit, he’s good at that sort of thing. But do I have to sit next to him?”

“Hazel Marie, I declare, we need to put aside personal animosities and pull together on this. You don’t know what’s at stake here.”

“What?”

“Well . . . oh, there’s the phone. Would you finish the table for me?”

I hurried to the kitchen and answered the phone, only to hear an unwelcome voice.

“Mrs. Springer? Clarence Gibbs, here.”

“Why, Mr. Gibbs, how nice to hear from you.” I glanced toward the dining room door, hoping Hazel Marie would stay behind it. “I hope you’re calling to say that you’ll give us more time, and that you’ve reconsidered your ill-advised proposal concerning my house.”

He didn’t answer right away, but he breathed so that I knew he was there. “No, that’s not why I called. I just want you to understand that I’m going the extra mile for you, and honoring your request to give you until the morning for your decision. I tell you right now, Mrs. Springer, things’re moving, and you’re going to have to, too, if you want to take advantage of this opportunity.”

I felt weak, afraid to make the commitment and afraid not to. “I’m thinking, Mr. Gibbs,” I said. “And one thing I thought of is to offer you a very nice trailer park out beyond Delmont in place of my house. Wouldn’t that be sufficient to hold the Willow Lane property for maybe sixty days?”

“No’m, it would not. First off, three weeks is my limit. And second off, I don’t want a trailer park. It’s your place or nothing.”

“But I don’t understand why you want this house. You already have a lovely home.”

He made a noise that might’ve been a low laugh. “I don’t want to live in it. It’s in a business zone, so I’d tear it down and put up an office building. It’s close enough to Main Street and the courthouse to be fully rented before the paint dries.”

My knees wobbled at the thought, and I had to clear my throat before I could answer. “You’ll have my answer in the morning.” I cleared my throat again and said, “You’re a hard man, Mr. Gibbs.”

He said good-bye with a lilt in his voice, and I do believe he took my comment as a compliment.

I hung up, just so provoked with myself for begging him to allow me enough time to put my own home in peril. But the fact was, I had to make up my mind, and do it soon. That made it imperative that I find out just how effective that water was up on the ridge. And if, by any remote chance, it did have something in it that men would pay good money for, then all the more reason for me to push that motorcycle calvacade for all it was worth.

Mr. Pickens scraped the last crumbs of Lillian’s pineapple upside-down cake from his plate, and said, “I’ve already talked to Red Ryder, and he’s all for it. We decided on the last weekend in the month. That’ll give us time to get notices and flyers’ll out, so we’ll have a lot of riders.”

“I thought he was a cowboy,” I said. I was mentally counting the days, trying to picture the calendar. Three weeks would be up the Monday after the last weekend.

“Who?” Mr. Pickens, his bushy mustache twitching, glanced across the table at me.

“That Red Ryder person you just mentioned.”

He gave me a quick grin. “No, this Red owns a motorcycle shop and restaurant, Red Ryder’s Shop, Stop and Eat, out on 193, this side of Delmont. He organizes several runs every year, so he knows how it’s done. Now here’s the good part,” Mr. Pickens said, leaning on the table so that I got a whiff of his new aftershave—lemon and mint and who-knows-what else—designed, I speculated, to lure Hazel Marie back. From the tantalizing aroma that swirled around my head, he was going to lure not only Hazel Marie but every other woman within smelling distance. I leaned back to clear my head as he went on. “The motorcycle club has agreed not to take a cut of the pot. Every cent will go to the fund, and Red thinks there’ll be a good response. The only thing he asks is that we start and end at his place.”

“And eat there when we get back,” Sam said with a smile. “Well, that’s the least we can do. Food’s not bad, either.”

“I like his barbeque,” Hazel Marie said. I noticed that she’d kept her place next to Mr. Pickens, in spite of what she’d said earlier. Every time he moved, she was being engulfed with waves of that sweet-smelling cologne emanating from him. She’d close her eyes and sway like she was being carried away every time a wave of the stuff broke across her brow.

“It concerns me a little,” Sam said, “that we’re doing this so late in the year. These things’re usually held in the summer, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, usually.” Mr. Pickens finally gave in and helped himself to another piece of cake. “But if the weather holds and we get one of our clear Fall days, they’ll come out in droves.” He forked up a bite of cake. “Only problem is, I don’t think a Bikini Bike Wash would be a good idea, and that’ll be a disappointment.”

“Oh, J. D.” Hazel Marie said, “I wish you’d get bikinis off your mind.”

He grinned at her, then took up where he left off. “But we can count on the beer flowing freely any time of the year, and when the crowd’s had enough, we can pass the hat for more donations.”

“Now, let’s get one thing straight,” I said, deciding that this was as good a time as any. “I do not intend to dine with a bunch of intoxicated and unruly carousers, no matter how much money they give.”

“Why, Julia,” Sam said, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I wouldn’t expect you to drive out there and join us. It’ll just be the riders who come in off the run. Of course, if you want to, you’re welcome to meet us there.”

Lillian slid her chair away from the table and made as if to rise. I declare, the woman couldn’t stand being around deceitful activities of the least kind. I put my hand on her arm to keep her seated.

“I’ll be riding with you,” I said, folding my napkin and laying it beside my plate, as calmly as I would announce I’d be going to church on Sunday.

There was a moment of dead silence, and I felt every eye in the room staring at me. Mr. Pickens’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth and Hazel Marie tipped the sugar spoon she was holding, spilling sugar on the table.

“Oh, boy,” Little Lloyd said, being the first to recover. “We’ll have a lot of fun now.”

“Oh, Miss Julia, are you sure?” This worried question was from Hazel Marie, no less. The one who’d told me I’d enjoy riding if I’d just try it.

Mr. Pickens’s surprised look shifted into that wicked grin, which I was convinced had enticed many a woman off the straight and narrow. “That’s my girl,” he said, so that I couldn’t help but preen a little at his approval. “This is gonna be a ride and a half.”

Sam hadn’t uttered a word, and I’d carefully avoided looking at him. Now, I slid my eyes to him, deciding not to wait for his response.

“Now, Sam,” I said with enough force to brook no argument. “I’m doing this entirely for Lillian’s sake.” I felt her stir in the chair beside me, so I hurried on. “But I want to get back in one piece, so you better get to be a better driver than what I’ve seen so far. And I want a side seat, too. I’m not about to perch myself on the back of that thing.”