Palmetto Moon (4 page)

The waitress seems nice and, with the exception of the scowling old man at the lunch counter, all of the eavesdroppers have kind faces. Still, her inquisition makes me blush. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know the embarrassment is traveling down my neck, under the bodice of my sundress. Even my arms are pink. As soon as I say I’ll be here for the school year, I know I’ve made a huge mistake. But it’s too late. The diner noise gushes back like a giant wave, and every soul in here is satisfied that they know my business.

My stomach pulses to match the ache in my chest from the lies I told the woman about who I am and where I come from. While I am sure leaving home was the right thing to do, I hate that my body already hungers for the trappings of my old life. I recross my legs and sit up a little straighter, refusing to be the least bit sorry I ran away.

“I won’t miss a thing about my old life,” I whisper into my teacup, but my cheeks blaze, a telltale of another lie.

I
will
miss Desmond and my beloved Rosa Lee. Just the thought of her makes me ache for her to hold me close, to soothe me and set the world right like she has since the day I was born. But there are some things that even Rosa Lee can’t set right. While she helped me pack, she made me promise to watch for the signs. By the time she helped me sneak out of the house, she was begging me.

This morning, when the principal said I got the job, he seemed genuinely excited, like I was the only person who had ever applied for the position. My first interview, for my first job? That’s a really good sign. My face burned bright when he teased, “Now you’re not related to those rich Hadleys in Charleston, are you?” I was sure the jig was up until he chuckled. “Of course not. If you were, you sure wouldn’t be applying to teach in our little old two-room schoolhouse.”

It was wrong of him to make the assumption that all people who come from my station in life thumb their noses at the small, the ordinary. Granted, Round O is no Charleston, but it’s a nice enough place.

I can’t wait to see Miss Mamie’s face when I tell the old bat I’m staying. Besides, my small room at the boardinghouse isn’t so bad, although I wish I didn’t have to share a bathroom with the three gentlemen boarders, or Claire and her adorable boys. Aside from the children, the best thing about Miss Mamie’s house is there are no haughty neighbors, no pointless parties, and, best of all, no ridiculous expectations because my last name is Hadley.

Just the thought of my last name conjures up images of Mother and Father’s stern faces. I expect they are trying to salvage the marriage they planned before my birth. They probably sent Justin to roam the streets of my favorite cities to look for me, and he’ll go, not to find me. He’ll start in New York, at the Waldorf Astoria, because he loves the city and thinks it’s my favorite hotel. He’ll spend the afternoon searching the shops on Fifth Avenue.

Oh, Mecca.
My fingers travel across the smooth blue gingham silk of my favorite sundress, a reminder that there will be no more trips to the boutiques in New York, and certainly not Paris. Yes, there was a time I thought I would die without the latest goodies in Jacques Fath’s or Nina Ricci’s salons, but I am giving up all of that for my new life, with a job, and dresses from Sears.

My foot peeks up at me from under the table, swathed in the most perfect sandals Salvatore Ferragamo could possibly imagine. He’d called them an artistic fantasy, a mirage of comfort, as he slipped them on my feet. The pang in my stomach hardens into the realization that, aside from a precious few people, what I’ll miss most about my old life is the shoes.

The thought brings back that annoying look that frequents Justin’s face that says he knows
everything about everything.
At this very moment, I’m sure he’s sauntering into my favorite little shop on West Fifty-seventh, fully expecting to find me surrounded by doting salespeople and Charles Jourdan footwear. But Justin doesn’t really know me, and he has never been the diligent sort. He’ll order some custom-made footwear for himself, shrug off his failure, and head to Delmonico’s. They’ll know him because it’s
his
favorite restaurant. After dinner and a show, he’ll chase his failure with a brandy and a smelly old cigar.

Sometimes I think I hate Justin, but I don’t. I know he doesn’t love me, not the kind of love that makes a man search endlessly for a woman. If I were looking for love, that’s the kind I would want. Could I have ever had that in Charleston, with someone other than Justin? Would I ever go back? If and when Charleston high society becomes less high, more practical. Reasonable. After all, who marries two names together without one care about the people attached to those names? It’s barbaric; that’s what it is; a betrayal of love itself, and unforgivable. No matter how perfect the match seems to everyone except me, I will never
love
Justin. Therefore, I can never
marry
him.

For all I care, Justin McLeod can keep right on looking. Not in a million years would he think of looking in a sensible place like Round O.

“More tea, shug?” The waitress’s face is hardened from the years, but her eyes have the fire of a teenager’s. She pours without waiting for permission. Mother would be mortified.

“Thank you.”

“Frank’ll be right out. You are still interested in the postbox, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes ma’am.”

“How were your crab cakes? You like ’em?”

I wonder if her hearing is sputtering on and off, because she speaks in a normal tone and then shouts out questions like I’m the one who’s hard of hearing. “Oh, yes ma’am, they’re wonderful.” But they aren’t like Rosa Lee’s.

If I miss anything about 32 Legare Street, it’s her and the way she poured love into every morsel of food she made for us. And I miss hearing her say,
I love you, child
, out loud and often, making Mother and Father cringe. Not because Rosa Lee is colored. Because they don’t believe in the kind of love that is so big, you can’t hold it inside. Love, like everything else, is reserved.

My parents told me this when I asked them why they never gushed over me like Rosa Lee did. I remember asking them, “Reserved for what?” I didn’t understand then, and I still don’t. But one thing I am sure of, I don’t want to love like that, and I don’t want to be loved like that.

“Sorry, ma’am. My mistake. Tiny said you wanted—never mind.”

I’m not sure how long the man has been standing there; his lips are a thin line, and his green eyes are dark, almost sad. He turns to leave. I shake my head to bring myself back to the life I’ve chosen for myself. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I’m Vada Hadley, and yes, I do want to speak with you.”

His face breaks into a smile, especially his eyes. He is handsome, tall, with broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair. When we shake hands, he cups his other hand over mine, and for a few honest seconds I see all I need to in him. Kindness. Sincerity. But there is something that is broken, and the connection from this simple handshake makes me want more than what is good and proper between two strangers who’ve just exchanged a handful of words.

“Frank Darling.”

My face burns, and I pull away, folding my hands in my lap.

“Darling is my last name. But you can call me Frank.”

“
Oh
.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. Happens all the time. Can I sit down?”

“Yes, please.”

“So Tiny tells me you need a postbox.”

“I’m staying at Miss Mamie’s, and—”

He nods and laughs under his breath.

“Does that mean something?”

“I know Miss Mamie—very well, and she’s—” He shrugs. “Well, she’s inquisitive, for one thing. Mr. Clip, Mr. Stanley, Mr. Mann, and Widow Greeley have had postboxes here for quite a while. So, what’s your story, Vada Hadley?”

His smile is real and heartfelt. This time, I blush again, on purpose, and lean slightly forward. The old booth creaks like I weigh a ton. I unleash my hands because I talk best with them and explain to him that I need a good-size box. He follows their movements with the precision of a world-class musician as I tell him the brief history I’ve created for myself.

“—and a six-month lease will do just fine.”

He tries to hide his disappointment by looking toward the kitchen. He’s sweet.

“Maybe longer.”

“Seven dollars for the year.” That boyish grin. “Otherwise, it’s a dollar a month, and if you leave early—well, if you leave Round O before that, I’ll give your money back myself.”

He puts a tiny brass key on the table. The engraving is nearly rubbed off; Box 24. I don’t like even numbers. While I stymie my compulsion to ask him for an odd-numbered key, he extends his hand to shake on the deal. He has a callus on his palm, below his pinkie finger, that I didn’t notice before, and two more at the base of his ring and middle finger. Rosa Lee and her husband Desmond have calluses like that. The mark of good people, hard-working people.

“A year it is—Frank Darling,” I say and head back to the post office to send my new address to Desmond and Rosa Lee.

Vada’s words are like sweet kisses blown into the air. Sure she’s just repeating his name, but Frank imagines it different.
Frank Darling.

What is wrong with him? Where is all the sap coming from? He was almost a Marine, for Christ’s sake. But maybe it is possible to feel the way he does just from hearing this woman laugh, getting lost in those china-blue eyes. Vada walks back toward the store, picks up some note cards and stamps, and pays Hank Bodette for her purchases. Hank’s all of ninety and comes to work every day to avoid dying. Still, he is utterly charmed by Vada and the womanly power she has but doesn’t seem to be the least bit aware of. She scribbles off a note and gives it to Hank to mail, and by the look on the old man’s face, you’d think she’d just written a love letter to him.

For as long as Frank can remember, he’s wanted nothing to do with the crossroads. His mother was that way and left the place when he was seven. After that, his daddy put him to work in the diner, mostly to keep an eye on him, and he learned to hate this place, too. Yet this woman walks into this decrepit old diner that smells like a lifetime of lard fat and bacon grease, and there is no place he’d rather be.

His heart can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an everyday kind of love from blond, beautiful Vada Hadley and her soft pink lips. He imagines his hands lost in her hair and her eyes closing just before their lips touch. Suddenly, he is painfully aware that he is as hard as a cast-iron skillet.

The diner is nearly empty. Tiny has her back to Frank, so does Joe Pike. Mick Stallings puts a big tip on the table, hoping Tiny will see it, and saunters back to the postboxes to check his mail. If Frank stands up like this, Tiny Medford will turn around and make some crack about the tent pitched in his shorts. She’ll be so loud that both Hank and Vada will turn around to see what the fuss is about, and Frank will die right here in front of Vada.

And Joe Pike? He’d like nothing better than to see the wanting in Frank’s heart so he can squash it like a bug. Joe would do even worse if he saw Frank’s private saluting Vada. Desperate, Frank does what he’s always done at the end of every shift since he resigned himself to a life in Round O. He looks around the old place and asks himself the question that has haunted him since his mother left.
Who marries a diner to a general store to a post office? Who finds the woman of his dreams and then lets her go away forever? Who does that kind of thing? My daddy, that’s who.

The answer never fails to make Frank feel like he is being sucked into a destiny that is not his own. Unavoidable. Unstoppable. He doesn’t have to look down at his pants to know he is shrunk down, way past cold-shower size. He stands without the embarrassment of a horny schoolboy and takes another look around the Sit Down Diner
.
For the first time in his life, he thanks the God he stopped believing in when he was seven for this old place, for sending the woman of his dreams his way. And if God’s not too busy being mad at him, Frank prays He’ll let her love him back.

The screen door on the opposite end of the building slams behind Vada and bounces against the frame a couple times to underscore the fact that she’s gone. The thud in Frank’s gut returns, a different kind of emptiness than when he came to work this morning. But he can almost see the promise of a new destiny and the promise that Vada Hadley will be back for her mail every day but Sunday.