Promises of Home (3 page)

Some things—like Clevey’s teasing Ed until a vein popped out on Ed’s forehead—never changed. Clevey’d been coming in daily to the cafe since it reopened last week, but he hadn’t made an appearance this morning— undoubtedly too busy trying to find more interesting news around town for his stories in
The Mirabeau Mirror.

“It’s better he’s not here. He’d probably request a song from Wanda, and I don’t want to hear her warbling ‘Jail-house Rock,’” I said. Sister made a huffing noise and went to wipe her spotless counters.

Junebug shook his head and then glanced around the newly redone cafe. “All these new businesses. Mirabeau’s about to get metropolitan, don’t you think?”

Having left Boston to come home, I couldn’t exactly agree with his assessment of the new Mirabeau. Now, I love Mirabeau; it’s my hometown, and I had willingly moved back close to a year ago to help care for my mother, who’s ailing from Alzheimer’s. Agony was watching Mama’s daily slide down into dementia, but the idea of her in a nursing home was even more painful. I have a horror of those places; they’re the modern-day version of the iceberg, set adrift with the Eskimo elderly. I had no wish to see my mother in an antiseptic-reeking dormitory full of people waiting to die.

In any case, Junebug was plain wrong. The town
hadn’t
changed that much in the years I’d been up North enjoying my career as a textbook editor. The addition of two new businesses hardly signified an economic boom.

The Institute of Elvisology might cater to its special customer base a whole six weeks, I guessed; the newly bought and refurbished Sit-a-Spell Cafe held (I hoped and prayed) a far brighter prospect. As long as its two proprietresses could agree. Right now the future looked bleak.

Having abandoned their only two customers (Junebug and me), the two intrepid entrepreneurs debated with pinched smiles by the kolache counter, the fragrantly steaming fruit pastries sweeter than their words but no less heated.

“Candace, sweetie pie, we’ve covered this already. I am
not
preparing any ethnic dishes aside from Tex-Mex, spaghetti, or French fries,” Sister insisted nicely. She’d finally given up her glamorous job as the cook out at the End of the Road Truck Stop (also known locally as Hell with Twelve Booths). Sister was one of the best cooks in the county and she’d finally realized her culinary talent was wasted on folks too road-tired to use their taste buds. Sister looked right spiffy in her new turquoise T-shirt with Sit-a-Spell Cafe stenciled in white cursive across the front. We can nearly pass for twins, she and I, with our
blond hair and green eyes. I of course have a calmer, more pleasant temperament.

“But my friends in Houston say Lithuanian food is
in
!” My girlfriend, Candace Tully, ran a tired hand through her heavy brown hair. “We need a gimmick, something different to grab customers. Food they can’t get elsewhere in Mirabeau. If we don’t lure ’em, no one’s going to—” She paused for advertising pathos and sang in a tremulous soprano, “Come in and sit a spell.”

This recital fired salvo number two. Sister took a deep breath. “I already told you, Candace, we are not doing that stupid radio ad. If Ed stops making a fool of himself in the street long enough to pitch that off-key jingle again, you just tell him I’m not exchanging a month of free lunches for ten seconds of airtime. He needs to give us a better deal. I’m sure he’s giving himself bargain rates for that fool Elvis store.” Sister crossed her arms. I knew that meant the conversation was over. Candace hadn’t quite learned yet.

“Ladies, ladies.” I stood, cajoling peacefully before Candace could launch a counteroffensive. They both looked up at me like I was aiming to lose myself a testicle. I ignored it; they both love me too much to actually hurt me. “Y’all can’t argue out here in front. Scare off any stray customers that wander in. Go in the back and wrestle in the flour.”

Sister glared. Candace tossed up hands and said, “The problem, Arlene, is that there’s still loyalty to Minerva. People feel funny coming in here knowing she’s gone.”

Minerva Halsey had been the sweet-natured owner of the Sit-a-Spell; according to rumor, Minerva had opened the cafe sometime during Reconstruction and never changed the grease. She’d died in her sleep two months ago, leaving the downtown Mirabeau property to a niece in Victoria who had no interest in running a cafe in a small Central Texas river town. Candace had offered to put up the money (she had it to burn, thanks to her long family history of aggressive capitalism) if Sister would cook the food. Tired of fending off truckers most days, Sister had
accepted. Now all they had to learn was to work together. Considering each was as stubborn as a government mule, this was no small task.

“Fine, Arlene, we won’t offer European cuisine,” Candace demurred, the very soul of compromise. “We’ll copy every other single menu in Mirabeau and see how
that
sets us apart from the competition.”

Sister rolled her eyes and forced a tight smile. “This isn’t one of them city bistros, honey, with tables and umbrellas out front advertising water that makes you belch. I’m going to start cuttin’ chickens for today’s lunch special.” As Candace set about wiping off tables that hadn’t been dirtied by any customers, she muttered about the un-healthiness of fried foods.

I returned to my seat. Junebug frowned again, watching Ed and Wanda Dickensheets argue over their sign. At least Wanda wasn’t still waving that doughnut. “I just wonder if this institute is going to offer degrees in Elvis Studies,” he said.

“Elvisology,” I corrected automatically. I lowered my voice. “I hope this little partnership of Candace’s and Sister’s works out. What am I going to do if it doesn’t? I’ll be stuck right in the middle.”

Junebug shrugged. “It’ll be good for them both. Candace will have a real job for a change, instead of all that volunteering. It’s time she worked for herself. And Arlene, it’ll be nice for her not to slave away at Bubba Jasper’s truck stop.” He paused for a moment, then said gruffly, “I hated her working out there.”

I sipped at my coffee without comment. The burgeoning romance between Junebug and my sister had not been exactly unwelcome, just strange. When two people you’ve known practically your whole life—and who have only had the faintest of friendships because of you—suddenly decide to make a go of romance, it’s quite unnerving. I couldn’t complain that Junebug had come courting; I just would have never put my mouthy sister and my laid-back police-chief friend together. But considering the horrible
history Sister has with men, I thought Junebug made the best possible choice. He was a good man.

Sister hadn’t dated much in the six years since her no-account husband ran off to play cowboy with a traveling rodeo, and I wanted her to find happiness. Mind you, I was not about to be consulted for
my
opinion. They could make goo-goo eyes all they wanted, then if they broke up, guess who’d get caught in the middle? (You only need one try.)

“Bubba’s not too happy about her leaving.” I took his untouched kolache and began munching.

“Yeah, I heard.” Junebug looked stern. “He always was tryin’ to spark Arlene.” He spoke her name with an annoying amount of reverence. I forced myself not to cross my eyes.

“Actually, I wondered how you felt about all this, Jordy.” Junebug stirred his coffee, not looking up at me.

“What do you mean?” Finally, my view on this nascent relationship was going to be asked for. I cleared my throat, preparing my brotherly blessing.

“Well, Jordy, this restaurant’s going to affect you and Candace. I mean, this gives Candace even deeper roots in Mirabeau, and it gives your sister her own business. Does that mean you’ll stay here longer?”

How rude. I’d been expecting a solicitation for advice, not a chance to expound on my own problems. I didn’t want to answer, because I didn’t want to contemplate my future in Mirabeau. I’d given up a promising career in publishing to come back, and while being head honcho at the Mirabeau Public Library was fun and often rewarding, it couldn’t quite compare with the exciting big-city life I’d lived. Now that Sister and I had full-time help to assist with Mama, Sister had abandoned night shifts and started her own business. Why couldn’t I go on back to my old life in Boston, secure in the knowledge that Mama was taken care of?

Two reasons. The first was Candace, with whom I’d fallen in love when she was working part-time at the library. And when I say I’m in love with Candace, it’s a bald statement of fact; she’s become a part of my thoughts
and my breathing, the tempo of my heartbeat. It’s downright scary.

Reason number two was Bob Don Goertz. Loving Candace had been a surprise; the real thunderbolt, though, was finding out in the course of a murder investigation this past spring that Bob Don was my natural father (a fact no one had previously bothered to share with me). I had to deal with the shock of discovering my mother was flawed, with discovering the dead man I’d loved as my father wasn’t my daddy, and with dying to deal with a stranger who desperately wanted to be a father to me. And Bob Don’s not exactly a shrinking violet about what he wants; he has the largest car dealership in Bonaparte County. You don’t build an automotive fiefdom out of shyness.

I sighed. “I don’t know, Junebug. I don’t believe Candace will ever want to leave Mirabeau. She really loves it here.”

“Does that mean you might consider marrying her someday?” Junebug asked idly.

Oh, God, I thought. He’s going to propose we have a double ceremony.

Instead I coughed. “She and I don’t talk much about wedding rings. I used to think Candace was eager to settle down and get married, but she doesn’t seem to be in any rush.” Plus, I was in my early thirties and Candace was in her late twenties, so she was still exploring her options. At least, all the options that Mirabeau offered. There were about four total, and I know, ’cause I counted them one day when I was
real
bored.

Junebug’s walkie-talkie squawked. He answered it, then listened, his face growing grim. “Hell. Emergency out off Old River Road. Gotta go.” He stuck his Stetson over his brown crew cut and stood, scratching at his slight beer gut that was just beginning to form.

“What’s the problem?” I asked politely. Junebug wouldn’t ever admit it, but I’ve been more than helpful in unraveling some local crises. He’s not ungrateful, but I’m not exactly deputized.

“Goodbye, Jordy.” Junebug grimaced. “Thanks for the
coffee, honey,” he called to Sister. He scooted out quick before I could offer to ride along. I sighed, went back to sipping my coffee, and tried not to think about those hard questions Junebug asked me. As a diversionary tactic from myself, I glanced out the cafe window.

Wanda Dickensheets postured beneath the Institute of Elvisology sign, crouching with fake heartbreak as though she’d just finished crooning “In the Ghetto.” Her camera-armed mother, Ivalou Purcell, snapped orders ami what I could only hope were
not
publicity photos. Ed stood, surveying the street, embarrassed at his wife’s shenanigans. Poor Ed.

I wondered, if I asked nicely, could Wanda be persuaded to trill a rendition of “Don’t Be Cruel” and get the hint.

I quit having to worry much about Candace and Sister, as my morning got unduly hectic at the library. The rest of my staff, Florence Pettus and Itasca Huebler, were both out sick with a bad flu that was making early rounds of Mirabeau. So I did the layout for the library newsletter, returned phone calls to people wanting to reserve books or tapes, and listened to a very eager salesman from Austin as he pitched unaffordable booktracking software to me. Determining I’d earned a moment of peace, I enjoyed a cup of coffee out by the periodical tables with the library’s most loyal patron, old Willie Renfro (coffee out on the floor is strictly forbidden, but he and I were the only ones around and we’re extra careful). I was then pleasantly surprised by a visit from my old friend Davis Foradory and his son Bradley.

Davis kept the nickname “Four Door” by becoming a solid kid and plowing through other schools’ defensive lines for the Mirabeau Bees. (Our school mascot comes from a less-than-stylish play on the name of the second president of the Republic of Texas, for whom our fair town is named: Mirabeau B. Lamar. It has cursed all Mirabeau High School graduates with horrible memories of wearing too much yellow and black during our formative teen years.) Davis had kept his owlish look, though, and now
he worked as a lawyer and was also a part owner of KBAV, our county’s only radio station. Not that many men in Mirabeau wear coats and ties on a daily basis, but Davis always looked as sharp as a crease. By Mirabeau standards, you understand. He wouldn’t have kept a single client if he’d represented them in an Armani—too sophisticated to trust at that point. Today he wore a gray suit with a red striped tie. He stood at the counter with Bradley, who did not look too happy.

Bradley’s big for fourteen—he’d gotten his growth spurt early, a gentle blond boy with a smiling face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bradley unhappy; but when life is so very simple as it is for Bradley, I suppose it’s more difficult to be sad.

“Hello, Jordan.” Davis greeted me with his usual cool formality. He’s one of my oldest friends, but he never addresses me by my nickname.

“Hi, Davis. Hey there, Bradley.”

Bradley, for some reason shy, shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Hi, Jordy,” he finally said.

“Jordan, this is a little embarrassing. I found this under Bradley’s bed.” Davis reached behind Bradley’s back and produced a thin children’s book:
Where the Wild Things Are
by Maurice Sendak. It’s a classic. Most boys Bradley’s age are hiding a different kind of wild-thing literature beneath their beds.

“Bradley neglected to return this book when we returned several others a few weeks back,” Davis said, using what sounded to me like his courtroom voice.

“I like it—cool pictures,” Bradley said by way of defense. Nervously, he dragged a hand across the back of his mouth and along a freckled cheek, leaving a wet smear. Bradley salivates more when he’s tense, I’ve noticed.

Admiring a book was a good defense with Judge Poteet. “That’s okay, Bradley. I love books, too. But other people might want to read it, too, and we only have one copy.” I kept my voice real kind. I have a reputation for being sharp-tongued (not sure how I earned that) but I’m genuinely fond of Bradley. I opened the book and peeked at the
due date. Whoops, twenty weeks ago. This one’d slipped through the cracks. Bradley gave me a cautious, toothy smile. Davis looked pained. Breaking rules was not ever on his daily agenda.