The Poisoned Pen. E. Joan Sims
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was one of his favorites. I’m sure some people are quite well-acquainted with Beatrice and Benedick.”
Mother had taken some of the wind out of my sails, but I refused to admit defeat. “Well, I still don’t want her here. She’s always trying to get me to read her latest attempt at the great American novel. Last week I had to duck into the feed store and hide behind the Bag Balm shelf for twenty minutes until she finally quit gabbing with some poor soul and went on her merry way. I’ve managed to avoid her for months and now my very own mother has invited her into the bosom of my family!”
Mother straightened her shoulders and zoomed in for the kill. “Be kind, Paisley, dear,” she ordered quietly. “More cheese?”
Mother went to bed early, but Cassie and I made ourselves comfortable on the lounges and listened to the frogs and crickets until almost midnight.
“Aren’t you exhausted, Mom?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I love hearing the night songs of all those little creatures. It’s is one of the things I missed the most when we lived in the city.”
“I love the sound, too,” she agreed. “But I hate the thought of all that unrequited love.”
“Lonesome, Cassie?”
“Absolutely not! You may not believe it, Mom, but I practically have to beat ’em off with a stick!”
I smiled in the darkness as I conjured up a picture of my tall, slender, and very beautiful daughter fending off hordes of hopeful and insistent swain. “Is there no one in Rowan Springs worthy of your charming company?” I teased.
“Maybe a couple, but they’re married.”
“You’re kidding! Who are they?”
“Bruce Hawkins for one.”
“He comes on to you?” I was surprised and disappointed. Bruce was Mother’s lawyer. I really liked and respected him, and his wife was one of the few people in Rowan Springs I wanted to get to know better.
“No,” she answered, thoughtfully. “I don’t think you could call it that, but he has been spending a lot of time in the bookstore lately. Then again, Mary usually meets him there after work, and they always seem really happy to see one another. She’s getting a little chubby,” Cassie added, with a smile. “I think she might be pregnant.”
“Well, then you can forget about Mr. Hawkins. Who’s the other one?”
“William Budd.”
“Good grief, Cassie! That funny little man? Whatever do you see in him?”
“He’s sweet,” she protested. “And if he lost the granny glasses and changed his wardrobe a bit he could be really interesting looking.”
“Maybe so…but somehow I think his neck would fall off if he didn’t wear that bow tie.”
“Don’t be mean, Mom.”
I cleared my throat of the chuckle that was threatening. “You said married men. Is Budd married?”
“He wasn’t married for very long. His wife died last year,” she said softly.
“Oh! Sorry. Who was she? Anyone I might know?”
“I never heard her name before. I think she was someone he met when he went away to school. She was ill for several years. He’s not as old as you think. He’s just had a hard time.”
“My God, Cassie! You sound like you’ve fallen for this character.”
“No, Mom,” she stated firmly. “But I do enjoy his conversation, and I can hardly ask one of my best customers to quit coming around.”
“But he’s old! He almost as old as….”
“You, Mom?” asked Cassie, barely suppressing her laughter. “He did mention that he had a crush on you when you were in junior high.”
“See! He’s just a year, or two….”
“No, Mom,” she laughed. “He was six, and you were his baby sitter.”
I slept late the next morning—or at least, I pretended to. For the last couple of years I had managed to arrange my life just to suit me. Perhaps I was spoiled, but I liked having the freedom to decide what I wanted to do and when I wanted to do it. I deeply resented any unwanted changes in my schedule.
When Cassie rapped sharply on my door, I turned over and buried my head under the pillow. “Rats, rats, rats,” I mumbled angrily. “I should have left that snot-nosed little brat in the jungle.”
“Now, now, Mom, you don’t really mean that,” admonished Cassie, as she entered my room and sat down on the edge of my bed. Aggie’s toenails clicked rapidly on the bare wood floors as she ran to join her mistress.
“Go away! I’m asleep! And take that rotten little beast with you. She’s been burying dog biscuits under my pillow again. I had to get up twice during the night just to brush the crumbs off my sheets.”
“Come on, Mom. Miss Davis is here—all bright and shiny as a new copper penny. Looks like she bought an outfit just for this interview. She must really think you’re something special!”
“Then fill her in on the story of the ‘real me,’ and tell her to buzz off.”
“Gran’s loving all of the attention you’re getting,” she said, trying a new tactic. “She’ll be very disappointed if you’re not on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”
I turned over and sat up, propping my pillows behind me. I took the cup of hot tea Cassie had brought me and winked at her.
“Then she’s forgotten that old southern adage: a lady’s name appears in print only twice—when she marries and when she dies.”
“Get dressed, Mom. They’re waiting for you on the patio.”
Chapter Five
Cassie and Aggie had rejoined Mother and her guest by the time I slipped on my favorite sweats and old beat-up Cole-Haan moccasins. Last year, after a tornado cut a swath through our town, Mother took advantage of the situation and cleaned out my closet on the pretext of helping those who had lost everything in the storm. It took me three weeks, but I finally found what I was looking for at the Salvation Army store. In return for a generous donation, I managed to retrieve my comfortable “oldies but goodies” and return them to their rightful place in my wardrobe. I wore them on those special occasions when I wanted to make Mother mad enough to lose her cool.
It worked—almost. Her patrician features, as she watched me walk out to the patio, registered her disapproval, but her words were those of any proud mother.
“Here comes my darling daughter, now,” she announced, with a strained smile. “Paisley, you remember Bethlehem Davis.”
“Bethlehem? I don’t remember that!”
The reporter managed to laugh at what must have been a very tiresome reaction to her unusual name after thirty-something years. The laughter sounded okay; but I noticed her eyes weren’t involved—pale brown, almost amber, they were narrowed against the sunlight in a round face with flat cheekbones and a little pug nose. Her faded brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail and adorned with tired artificial daisies and a paper butterfly. Beth Davis appeared nervous and ill at ease, even though—and perhaps because—Mother was trying her best to make her feel at home.
“Are you sure you won’t have another biscuit, Beth, dear? More ham?”
Cassie was right—Beth did have on a new outfit. A little round “inspected by #23” sticker still clung to the hem of her bright yellow and orange flowered dress. Her liberal use of Crayola colors and her plain, flat features brought to mind a cartoon character, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out which one.
“I’ll have