Search Me (2 page)

Motioning his head towards the bound manuscript on my lap, he asked “So what do you think of the new one?”

Even though I was only coming off of my second year of college, Dad trusted me as one of the first people to read his novels before he sent them to his agent and editor. Somehow in middle school I graduated from Harry Potter and dove head first into the gritty world of Dad’s famous Southern detective, Harrison Baylor.

Discarding my phone, I flipped through the pages of his latest masterpiece, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “I think it’s another New York Times solid gold.”

“Really?” Dad questioned, his voice uncertain.

“Of course. And I really like where you’re going with Harrison’s darker side.”

“You don’t think he’s too…oh what’s that word you teenagers use for depression?”

“Emo?”

“That’s it.”

A snort escaped my lips at how utterly clueless Dad was to think his 6’3, 250-pound detective was anything close to teenage angst. “No, I think it’s great. It’s showing the growth of his character since the earlier books.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I was shooting for.”

We zipped along Interstate 515 with the wind rippling our hair and clothes. Digging in my purse for my brush, I readjusted my hair back into a loose twist. Although the air was cooler the farther we got out of the city and into the mountains, it was still a typical stifling June day. I shifted between my mammoth purse and dance bag, trying to get my legs out of the direct sunlight. Despite my dark hair, I didn’t want to be stinging with sunburn later from my ultra-pale skin.

When my stomach started rumbling, I turned my head to survey where we were. As if on cue, a giant sign boasted, “
Maudie’s Mountain Brewery and Orchard. One Mile Ahead”
.

I leaned forward in my seat. “We’re still stopping at Maudie’s, aren’t we?”

Dad smiled. “Of course. If we even tried sneaking on to the lodge, we’d never hear the end of it.”

I laughed. “You’re right.”

“I told your mother to stop off there as well.”

Not only were the mountains Dad’s muse, but they were also the home of Maudie Sinclair—his one-time foster mother. He was only five when he moved in with her and her husband, John, for three years until he was adopted. But he always kept in close contact with Maudie, and she’s always been like a second grandmother to me.

We turned into the store’s packed parking lot. Dad eased into a spot between two cars with out-of-state license plates. Twenty years ago, Maudie had started making jams and jellies as a hobby and to make some extra cash. That progressed to opening a store in a log cabin right off the interstate. But the real breakthrough came after mixing peach and apple juice together, along with some other concoctions, to make the frothy, tart Maudie’s Mountain Brew. It came in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions. Her business kept growing, and now included stores all throughout North Georgia. The main store was still in a log cabin situated just below her house and about a half a mile from ours. One of the best parts of my summers in the sticks was working for Maudie.

Dad didn’t even get a chance to knock on her office door before she bounded out to meet us with Mom close on her heels. “Well hello! I’m so glad y’all finally made it.”

From summer to summer, Maudie never changed. Always outfitted in some kind of gauzy flowing skirt along with a peasant blouse, she had a hippie grandmother look. Her long silver hair was swept into its usual loose knot, and a large turquoise Dream Catcher necklace hung from her neck.

I lunged forward to wrap my arms around her. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against her shoulder, inhaling her comforting fragrance of strawberry. “I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too, Laney-Poo,” she replied, clutching me tightly to her. When we finally pulled away, she wagged a finger at my dad. “Stephen, you better start coming during the winter more. I get mighty lonesome for y’all.”

Dad held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will try. ”

Mom smiled. “It’s my fault really. My teaching schedule makes it hard to get away for more than a few days at a time. And then there’s Lane’s college and dance schedule.”

Maudie smiled and brushed the hair out of my face. “Ah, yes, our little Twinkle Toes.”

“Ugh, you know I hate that nickname,” I protested, playfully nudging Maudie.

“I’m always going to call you that. Even if you make it all the way to the National Ballet, I’ll shout it out to you at one of the performances.”

“The National Ballet? I think you’re setting the bar a little high for me, no pun intended.”

Maudie cupped my chin. “And why not?”

I shook my head furiously. “That’s way too grueling and intense for me. I just want to earn my business degree and one day have my own dance studio.”

“I like a gal with a plan,” she replied with a grin.

“Lane’s a chip off the old Maudie Sinclair shoulder,” Dad mused.

The sound of huffing and grunting behind us interrupted our conversation. Two deliverymen stood balancing a large wooden crate between them. “Where ya want this, Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Ooh, bring it right on into my office, boys,” Maudie squealed, clapping her hands together like an excited toddler. Her green eyes danced with excitement when she turned back to us. “Wait until you see my newest treasure.”

Mom and Dad chuckled at Maudie’s enthusiasm. “I’d wager it’s another piece of Cherokee art,” Mom said.

Maudie had a thing for Native American art, especially Georgia tribes like the Cherokee and Creeks. Her house was practically a museum of sculptures, paintings, and pottery. She had one of the largest collections in the Southeast and was always adding to it.

While one of the men strained to open the top with a crow bar, Maudie sighed with contentment. “I just got it at an auction a few weeks ago in North Carolina,” she told us. Then with a sheepish grin, she added, “I spent way more than I should have. Of course, it didn’t help that there was this obnoxious man trying to outbid me. I just had to put him in his place.”

We laughed along with her. After all, Maudie’s stubborn streak was well known.

As the gilded frame was pulled from the crate, we all leaned forward, peering expectantly. Maudie gave it a loving glance. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Tilting my head to the side, I examined the oil painting. It reminded me of a picture I’d seen in my US History 101 textbook about the Trail of Tears. Instead of several Cherokee Indian men and women, bundled in animal skin and blankets, trekking through snow drifts with anguished expressions, there was only one man. Sorrow etched his heavily lined face as he raised his bloody hands to the sky. At his feet, a fawn lay crumpled in the snow, a crimson river flowing out from her. “I don’t know about it being gorgeous.” Maudie’s jaw drooped in defeat, so I hastily added, “I mean, it’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”

“Why honey, that’s the point! The emotions humming off this are palpable. But it’s not just the drawing that makes it such a rare find.”

“Oh?”

She bobbed her gray head. “This was done by the grandson of a Cherokee Chief. He drew it with firsthand knowledge of what his great-grandfather went through. I didn’t get all the particulars, but it’s supposed to be a symbolic representation of his daughter’s death. It was passed down through two generations until the family fell on hard times and had to sell it.”

“That’s fascinating,” Mom replied, her history professor senses tingling.

Dad and I exchanged an amused glance before bobbing our heads in agreement.

“And I know the perfect place for it, too.” She motioned to the empty wall above her office sofa. “But first, I have to replace the hanger on the back. It doesn’t look sturdy enough, and I’d hate for it to get damaged.” She eased the painting back into the crate and closed the lid. “Now then. How about an early dinner?” Maudie suggested.

Dad glanced at Mom before shaking his head. “No, we really need to get on to the house and get settled in.”

Mom laughed. “What he means to say is Lane and I’ll be doing the settling in while he disappears onto the back porch with his laptop.”

“Exactly,” I replied.

Dad’s face momentarily reddened. “What can I say? I have to work when the muse hits, and I can feel the juices starting to cook.”

Maudie smiled. “I understand. If your muse cooperates, could I pencil you in for a home-cooked meal tomorrow night?”

After Mom and Dad agreed, Maudie turned to me. “So, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning?”

I grinned. “Of course.”

As my tennis shoes crunched down the gravel road toward Maudie’s store, the strains of Mozart’s Concerto 21 still floated in my ears from my morning ballet routine. I’d risen early to escape to the basement. Years ago my parents had converted one of the rooms into a makeshift ballet studio complete with mirrors and a practice barre. It had not only helped me keep up my intense training during the ‘off months’ from my dance school, but it had also been a peace offering for taking me away from the city every summer.

A glance at my iPhone showed it was 8:50, so even though I’d decided to walk, I was still going to make it in plenty of time. After I hauled it down the giant ridge separating the road and Maudie’s store, I dodged between the trucks making their usual morning deliveries. I pulled out my ear buds before calling hello to several of the workers just before I ducked in the backdoor. Maudie’s didn’t officially open until nine, so the store was pretty deserted besides Eula, the baker, and one of the day cashiers.

“Morning!” I called, as I breezed into Maudie’s office.

“Morning sweetheart! Ready to get back into the saddle?”

I laughed. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

After taking a giant swig of coffee, she said, “Why don’t you get started on stacking some jams and jellies? You always know just the right way to work a display.”

“Okay, sounds good.”

I spent the next hour sorting the jam aisle to get ready for the newest shipment. By ten a.m., the store had come alive with customers and most of the day shift. Maudie made her way back over to survey my progress. “Looking good.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

“I ate a granola bar on the way in. Why?”

“Oh, I just saw Eula taking out a pan of her legendary fried apple pies and thought you might be hungry.”

Giggling, I shook my head at her. “You’re a bad influence. Besides, it’s not even time for my break yet.”

She gave me a wink. “It’s all right. I’ll smooth it over with your boss.”

A curly blond haired guy I’d never seen before poked his head up the aisle. With his gaze fixed on the clipboard in front of him, he shouted, “Hey Maudie, that shipment of backordered jam just came in from the Duluth plant!” He glanced up, and at the sight of me, flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to someone.”

Maudie smiled. “It’s quite all right, Drew. This is one of my foster grandchildren, Lane. She’ll be working with us this summer.”

Drew made his way towards us. He thrust out his hand and gave me a bright smile that accented his dimples. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“N-Nice to m-meet you too.” Somehow I always became a complete and total idiot around members of the opposite sex…especially those who I thought were cute. And Drew, with his lanky figure, curly hair that fell over his forehead, and glasses, was seriously cute…well, in a nerdy kinda way.

Our hands stayed glued together until Maudie cleared her throat. Drew gave a quick shake of his head. “Yeah, um, I better get to unpacking the crates.” He started back to the storeroom, but then he turned back around. “Nice meetin’ you, Lane.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

When we heard the sound of the storeroom door close, Maudie nudged me playfully. “I think you two were quite smitten with each other.”

“Oh please!”

“After your break-up, I think a summer fling is just what you need.”

My stomach momentarily clenched at the mention of my ‘breakup’. It had been five months since I broke up with my Eli, my boyfriend of two years. Even though I had been the one to end it, I was still a little gun-shy about a new guy. If I were really honest with myself, it wasn’t Eli who had me gun-shy—it was a glaring mistake from my past that made me unable to give all of my heart to any other guy.