Gone South (19 page)

“I hope that’s all it was.” Tish turned toward the car, admiring its sleek lines and glossy black paint. A Chevelle Super Sport in decent shape could be pricey, but George lived in a dinky bachelor pad above his shop. Maybe a nice house wasn’t important to him.

Remembering the Hamiltons’ neighborhood, she frowned. “How well do you know Mel’s parents?”

“I used to know them pretty well, from a kid’s perspective anyway. Her dad was my coach in Little League. Dunc’s a jock. He sells cars for a living, but his world revolves around sports. Suzette—his wife—is a small-town Martha Stewart.”

“And what’s the brother like?”

“Stu? A nice guy, last time I checked, but I haven’t seen much of him the last few years. When Mel was little, she practically worshiped him.”

“Not anymore, huh?”

“Doesn’t sound like it. I’m assuming she hasn’t contacted him since she’s been back. Is she behaving herself?”

Tish nodded. Nothing had gone missing. She’d even dropped a crumpled five-dollar bill in the corner of the kitchen by the trash as a test. Mel had found it and brought it to her immediately. Of course, she might have known it was a test.

“She’s ridiculously grateful for little things,” Tish said. “And she works hard. This afternoon she washed windows for hours and never complained.”

“Hard work might keep her out of trouble anyway.” George stepped away from the car. He crossed his arms and stared. “She’s so pretty.”

It took her a second to realize he didn’t mean Mel. “Very pretty, but she’ll cost you a fortune in gas.”

“It’ll be worth every penny. Calv says it’s my midlife crisis project, a little early.” George checked his watch. “He expects me to bring some eats over to his place, so I’d better get going. Mind holding the dog for a second?”

“Not at all. Come on, Daisy.” Tish picked up the dog, who blinked once and snuggled against her. The warm little butterball certainly wasn’t starving.

George turned off the music and the lights, shoved the heavy wooden door shut, and locked up. He pulled a stocking cap over his head, and they began
walking slowly toward the house. She glanced over her shoulder, recalling the image of Nathan and Letitia setting out on a buggy ride from their carriage house. That notion was tarnished now with harsh realities.

Her shoes crunched on dry leaves in the dark, and then there was the softness of grass again as they made their way around the side of the house. George kept pace with her as if he were shepherding her safely home. A gust of wind blew through from the street, whipping her hair into her eyes.

“Cold?” he asked.

The question made her want to giggle and snatch that silly cap off his head. When she was a kid, she’d run around outside barefoot in colder weather than this.

“It’s a little chilly,” she said.

“Careful, there’s a big exposed root coming up,” he said. “Right about … there.”

Now she saw it, like a pale snake lying across her path. She stepped over it. “Do you know every inch of the yard?”

“Just about. Remember, I grew up here.”

“I keep forgetting that.”

George stopped at the corner of the porch. Amber light from the living room filtered through the blinds. As he reached out to take Daisy, he asked, “Apart from its history, is the house what you’d hoped it would be?”

Was that a hint of sentimentality in his voice? “It has its eccentricities, but I love it.”

“It’s solidly built.”

“So that’s one positive about Nathan McComb. He built a solid house as well as a terrible reputation. I wonder which will last longer.”

“It’ll all work out as long as your descendants hear nice stories about you … a few generations from now.”

Tish laughed. “When I’m moldering underground. That’s a cheerful
thought.” She tipped her face toward the magnolia tree whose leathery leaves were rattling in the wind. “That reminds me. If all the Carlyle sons died in the Civil War, how can Marian at the bank be a direct descendant? Did they leave children behind, or were there daughters too?”

“The sons died young, without heirs, but there were two daughters. Marian’s descended from one of them. Have you tangled with her again?”

“No, but you should have seen the looks I got from the checker at Target. I don’t know if that was about being a McComb, though. Maybe she hated me for being with Mel. It was obvious that they didn’t like each other.”

“That’s no surprise. Mel was never very diplomatic.”

“But she can be sweet too. She tries so hard to please. And she’s so … needy. She didn’t even own a decent pair of socks. She told me she lost a bag full of clothes in Florida. That’s why she wasn’t dressed for the weather.”

“Florida? I thought she went to Vegas.”

“Maybe she went there too. I’m trying not to be too nosy.”

“Be nosy enough for your own good, though.” He started toward his van and then turned around. “The rent money I paid you. The cash. Did you stick it in the bank?”

“No.”

“Keep a close eye on it, then. And on your keys.”

“I’m not stupid about things like that.”

“Of course not.” Shaking his head, he proceeded to his van.

Tish climbed the steps to the porch, wondering once again if she’d hidden her valuables well enough.

George was exiting the Shell station with a pizza box warming his hands when a monster-sized SUV pulled into the parking space directly in front of him. Stu Hamilton climbed out, looking half-asleep as usual, and his two boys scrambled
out of the back. George could never keep their names straight, but he’d sized up their dispositions. They weren’t bad kids, just typical daredevil sons of the South whose tolerant parents used the old “boys will be boys” excuse to cover a multitude of mischief.

It was hard to believe that Stu had kids approximately the same age he and George were when they tackled their first business. A lemonade stand. Stu had made the signs, George had handled the money, and they’d conned his mother into providing the lemonade at almost no charge. It was his introduction to the buzz of making a huge profit and had probably set him on the road to majoring in business.

“Evening, Stu,” George said. “How’s everything going?”

“If I said everything was fantastic, I’d be lying.” Stu offered a weary smile. “We’re staying at my folks’ house while our kitchen’s torn up for remodeling. I thought it was fine the way it was, but I’m not the cook so my opinion doesn’t count.”

“Learn to cook, then. Problem solved.”

“Too late now. Stop that,” Stu told the younger boy, who was kicking white pebbles out of the landscaping strip and into the darkness on the side of the building.

“Yes sir.” The kid hopped backward and collided with the older boy, who shoved him off in a fairly civilized manner.

George glanced at the van, parked a few spaces down from where he stood. Daisy paddled her front paws against the passenger window while she whimpered and carried on. Two more minutes of abandonment, and she’d be in hysterics.

“So Mel’s back in town,” George said. “You must have been glad to see her.”

“Actually, I haven’t—”

The older boy went airborne. “Dad!” he shouted. “You didn’t tell me! Aunt Mel’s so much fun. You gotta call her. I know her number.” He rattled off a phone number.

“Impressive memory,” George said with a smile.

“But the number’s no good,” Stu said. “Sorry, Nick.”

The kid frowned up at him. “Why is it no good?”

“Your grandpa stopped paying her bills when she moved out.”

“Maybe she has a new number. We need to find her.”

“No we don’t,” Stu said. “She’s a bad influence.”

“Huh? No, she’s not. She’s great, Dad. I like her.”

“That’s the problem,” Stu said in a dry tone. “If she wants to mess up her life, that’s her decision, but I don’t intend to let her affect yours. Jamie, stop that.” He grabbed the younger boy’s shoulders and propelled him away from the landscaping pebbles again.

“No fair,” the older boy said. “So she messed up. Everybody does sometimes.”

“And it’s my responsibility to protect you from messed-up people.” Stu pointed to the entrance. “Get moving, boys. We’ll talk about it at home. Nice seeing you, George.”

“You too. See you around.” George continued down the sidewalk and climbed into the van. Daisy flung herself at him, doing the dog version of heartbroken sobs, and nearly knocked the pizza box out of his hands.

“Stop that and sit down,” he said, suddenly reminded of Stu trying to keep his boys in line.

She wept, she whined, she pawed his arm.

He pointed at the floor. “Sit!”

She dived for the floor and sat, trembling.

“Aw, Daisy. It’s okay. Good girl.”

He placed the pizza on the passenger seat. By the time he’d dug his keys out of his pocket, Daisy had jumped up beside the pizza. At least she was sitting next to it, not on it.

All the way to Calv’s place, he tried to process the inner workings of the Hamilton clan. Nick must have been about eight when Dunc kicked Mel out of the family on the heels of those accusations of theft. Now it seemed she was unwelcome at Stu’s place too. No doubt about it, he was right to protect his sons from the influence of their bad-news aunt, but it wouldn’t kill him to reach out to her. Stu was in no danger of being corrupted by his kid sister.

George sighed. Other folks’ problems weren’t his to solve. Still, he hated to see Mel’s family treat her like a pariah.

At the house Calv was renting, George parked at the street and climbed out with the pizza in one hand and the leash in the other.

“You have four good legs,” he told Daisy. “Come on.”

She cast him a resentful look and refused to budge.

There were a few advantages to having a cat-sized dog. He reached down and picked her up, one-handed, shut the door with his hip, and walked across the lawn to the front door, where he engaged in a great deal of juggling pizza and dog in order to manage the doorknob.

He walked in. “Pizza’s here.”

“About time.” Calv messed with the remote, no doubt trying to find his Friday night favorite.

“You keeping track of the hours you’re working on the car?”

Calv turned toward him. “You bet I am, and it’s gonna cost you.”

“If you weren’t the best shade-tree mechanic in three counties—”

“Four. And as I am also your esteemed uncle, you’d better treat me right.”

“Yes sir.” George smiled, seeing his mother in her brother’s eyes. It was good to see him still sober and happy after all these years, proving that her pessimism had been misguided. “Sure is nice to work in that garage again,” he added.

“Work? I didn’t notice you working, Zorbas. I noticed you taking pictures and flirting with Miss McComb.”

“I was not flirting.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Calv said, grinning.

George decided to ignore him.

After turning the dog loose, he set the pizza box on a newspaper Calv had placed in the center of the coffee table alongside chilled Coke cans, paper plates, and napkins. His idea of fine dining was to keep the grease off the furniture.

“I saw Stu and his boys at the Shell station,” George said, popping the top of a Coke.

“Yeah?” Calv found his station, but it was a commercial so he muted the TV. He opened the pizza box, put a gigantic slice on each plate, and handed one to George.

The folks at the gas station advertised it as Greek pizza because they topped it with feta, purple onions, and ordinary black olives. They’d probably never heard of Kalamata olives. George took a bite. As usual, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t Greek. He was beginning to educate himself about such things.

“Stu knows Mel’s in town,” he said.

Calv scratched his chin. “And?”

“That’s all. His son was more interested in Mel than he was.”

“Somebody needs to get his attention, then.”

Whenever Calv said
somebody
in that particular tone, he meant the person he was addressing.

George brooded over the problem for a while, and then tried to put it out of his mind. It would come back to haunt him, probably in the middle of the night.

Daisy sighed deeply. Showing no interest in the pizza, she curled herself in a ball at his feet.

“If she’s not begging, something’s bad wrong,” Calv said.

George nodded. Calv’s comment wasn’t proper English, but it was accurate. “She must have helped herself to somebody’s trash tonight when Mel was supposed to be watching her. Hey, I wonder if the new and improved version of a McComb would like to adopt Daisy.”

Calv frowned. “You’d give your dog away?”

“Daisy isn’t my dog.”

“After two years?” Calv shook his head slowly, putting a world of condemnation into it. “She’s your dog. Stop fighting it.”

“No. If a man’s going to have a dog, it should be useful somehow. What’s Daisy good for besides fattening the vet’s wallet? Every time I take her in, it’s another hundred bucks.”

“You got a cash register where most folks have a heart.”

“And it serves me well.”

“Okay, Moneybags.” Calv handed over the parts catalog with a pizza coupon serving as a bookmark. “Call the 800 number and order the parts I circled. They’ll get here pretty fast. Meanwhile, there’s plenty to work on. Plenty.” He shook his head. “But I hope Mel won’t hang around every night. She makes me nervous.”