A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗
- Author: Lynda McDaniel
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When I motioned for him to sit on the couch, he starting laughing, pointing at the large velour recliner. “What’s that?”
“My Barcalounger.”
“You said you’d never be caught dead in something like that. I remember wanting one at our home.”
“Well, when in Rome. Actually, they’re required here. You should get yourself one. I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“Where’s the mini-fridge and massager?”
“They were out of stock, so I took the floor model.” To demonstrate its finer qualities, I reclined at four different angles. Midway I stopped. “This is my favorite. I look due west across the mountains and watch the sunset when the days get longer.”
Tires crunched in the driveway, and I remembered I had a store to run. I told Alex to make himself at home and went back to work. Business was good with folks swinging by after the funeral. Just before closing time, I started to smell an intoxicating mix of garlic, onions, and tomato. I’d missed Alex’s cooking skills, and I was looking forward to being treated to a home-cooked meal—in my own home. His Bolognese sauce was perfect, made even better with some fresh pasta I brought up from the store, along with odds and ends for a spring salad. We polished off a bottle of excellent Chianti and finished with coffee and port.
After dinner, we talked more (me on the couch, Alex in the Barcalounger, which he’d taken to, as Cleva would’ve said, like a pig to a puddle). I’d had enough wine to feel relaxed, so I was comfortable talking about The Day. I also decided to take advantage of Alex’s investigative mind. I showed him the two notes—the one Cleva had given me and the copy Lonnie Parker had slipped under the store’s front door. They were a close match, but something felt wrong to me. Alex couldn’t see it—told me I was just playing “Dragnet.” Then he gave me a hug, and I remembered how dismissive those used to feel.
When the conversation ran out, our silence grew awkward. I pried myself off the couch, gathered bed linens and towels, placed them on Alex’s lap, and told him goodnight. I chose not to let him use the guest room; I didn’t want him to feel too comfortable. It seemed odd to be such strangers to one another, but that was how our lives had played out.
––––––––
The next morning, we ate breakfast in the store, early enough even Abit wasn’t out front yet. Alex sat in one of the rocking chairs circling the wood stove—which I’d lit, as the morning was cool (and to be honest, I wanted to show off my fire-making skills).
I watched as he took in all the provisions neatly stacked on wooden shelves, the barrels of flour and coffee beans underneath. I could tell he appreciated how much of myself I’d put into the store, a mix of practicality and comfort. He sniped about the lemon curd and salt-cured capers, adding his editorial opinion that few people would enjoy such things. He was right in part—I’d eaten a fair share of poor choices in inventory (which was okay with me, up to a point). But Alex was also painfully provincial, thinking no one could enjoy good food unless they ran in elite circles, preferable within the Beltway.
“I bet your friends enjoy visiting here,” Alex said, as he munched on the last crumbs of a croissant. “You’ve got a gorgeous home above a well-stocked store—a hard-to-beat combination.”
No mention of their wanting to visit with me, I noticed. “I did have one friend come up from D.C., but friends at our age are harder to make—and keep.”
“But you do have friends, right?”
I smiled, thinking of my motley new family. “Yes, I do.”
Alex seemed flummoxed by my smile. Knowing him, he’d imagined I’d found a boyfriend or whatever you call them at our age. Gregg O’Donnell had stopped by the other night, a couple of weeks after The Day. He was a good-looking guy, and at fifty-two, he was as fit as a ranger half his age. But I wasn’t ready for that kind of attention. Besides, I was still dealing with the emotional turmoil of our divorce. I thought about how my real boyfriend was Abit, and smiled again. Alex had a serious frown going when we were both startled by an insistent rapping on the front door. I unlocked the door.
“Mornin’ ma’am,” a rugged-looking man said, tipping his Caterpillar cap.
“Mornin’, Dexter.”
“You got any liniment in here?” he asked, craning his neck as though he were afraid to come in.
“Is it for you or Geneva?”
“Geneva. She’s doing poorly. Gone lame.”
“That’s because she’s working too hard,” I said, walking toward the back shelves.
He continued to stand at the door. “I know, I know, but there’s too much to do right now getting the ground ready and tending to the calving.”
“Here’re a couple of choices, but this one sells a lot faster.”
“Yes ma’am, thank you.”
We headed back to the register. “I hope this liniment helps, and please tell Geneva I hope she feels better soon. Take care, Dexter.” When he was out the door, I relocked it and pulled the shade down before anyone else showed up early.
“Yessir, it’s over thar amongst the roots and berries,” Alex mugged.
“Don’t make fun. They think you sound pretty weird with your clipped speech.”
“I’m not making fun of them—just you. Where’d you pick that up?”
“Where do you think? Here. I’ve made a point of talking at least a little more like the locals. It’s called communication. I don’t overdo it, but it helps. I used to see real fear in their eyes when I spoke. Fear of me and fear of being seen as ignorant. Like the time I marveled at the forsythia blooms, and my neighbor Mildred looked terrified. I later realized they call them yellow bells. She seemed really intimidated, so I’ve trained myself to stop and substitute a word here and there.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. As usual, you’re a better person than I am,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
After breakfast, he packed his car—he’d bought a case of Billie’s homemade preserves and a country ham—and headed out the drive toward home.
––––––––
I could feel my mood sour as the day went on. Too much pressure from the murder, the store, and Alex. I took a break after a particularly difficult customer and sat on the bench outside. When I was through griping, Abit asked, “Do you like anyone here?”
“What do you mean?” I stalled. I knew exactly what he meant.
“Well, you complain about everyone.”
“Not everyone.”
“Well, maybe not Cleva. You don’t like your customers, and you hate Brower. And I’ve heard you mumble under your breath about Mama and Daddy. I know you’re trying to take my side, but it still kinda hurts.” I couldn’t speak. I just sat there, not knowing what to say. Then he added, “Do you even like me?”
That stung so badly I had to go back inside. I cursed Alex, thinking Abit and I were both out of sorts because of his surprise visit, but I knew that was only part of the problem. I messed around in the back storeroom for a while, until that wretched day was finally over. When I locked the front door, I noticed Abit wasn’t in his chair. Same thing the next morning. I felt bad enough to entertain the notion of turning around and going back to bed, but I managed to open up and do some business. I checked at noon, still no Abit. I skipped lunch.
As customers came in, I made an effort to be more like what I imagined they wanted me to be. Even so, most just mumbled about what they needed, paid, and left. “Howdy,” “goodbye,” and sometimes, “Thankee, ma’am,” but without any real warmth. There was a disconnect, a distance between us, especially when I was the shopkeeper. I didn’t get it, and I couldn’t fake it. I could sense that they didn’t not like me, but our interactions came down to that impersonal give-and-take that had fueled economies for millennia.
The next morning, about ten o’clock, I heard tap, tap, tap, and my heart skipped. I didn’t get my hopes up, but I opened the door. Abit just stared straight ahead. I went out and sat on the bench.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“What for? I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said, both sad and petulant at the same time.
“No, Mister, it’s all on me. I moved here, and I laid my expectations on a community that didn’t invite me, or even want me. I get that. So thank you for making it crystal clear.”
He just shook his head as he continued to tap against the store. We sat there, silent, until Mary Lou Dockery drove up. For once, there didn’t appear to be any bruises. I helped her find a few things, rang her up, said goodbye.
She turned to leave, then stopped. “Thank you for the other night.”
“What?”
“When you opened up for me. And gave me them chocolates.” She smiled and added, “I didn’t let the kids have a one.”
I walked her out, and when she’d driven away, I sat down on the bench.
“You was smiling when you came out,” he said, still looking straight ahead. At nothing in particular.
“Yeah. I spent a lot of time last night thinking about what you said, and it may sound odd, but I feel better about living here than I have since that first week, before I opened the store.”
“Before you had to wait on us?”
“Hey, not fair. Well, not completely fair. I do like some folks here. Especially you.”
When he starting blushing, I couldn’t help but wonder about the crazy lives we all lived, begging for attention and then hiding—or even running—when we got it. Or moving somewhere new and complaining about it being different.
“I’m not finished thinking about what you said,” I went on. “And I plan to live here and take advantage of this opportunity. Maybe it was a wild hair that made me move down here, but you and Cleva, Mary Lou, the Ledfords, and other folks to come, make me want to learn more about why I chose to live here.”
“I cain’t imagine why you’d list me among your friends after the way I talked to you yesterday. All I can figure is I was jealous of Alex.”
“Well, no need for that,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Besides, you were just being honest. And maybe a little crabby, like I was. Do your parents ever argue?”
“Not much. Mama just gives in to Daddy.”
“Okay, not a good example. What about when you were at school. Did you ever get in arguments with kids but then you were playing just fine
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