her laughter. “He did mention that he had a crush on you when you were in junior high.”
“See! He’s just a year, or two….”
“No, Mom,” she laughed. “He was six, and you were his baby sitter.”
I slept late the next morning—or at least, I pretended to. For the last couple of years I had managed to arrange my life just to suit me. Perhaps I was spoiled, but I liked having the freedom to decide what I wanted to do and when I wanted to do it. I deeply resented any unwanted changes in my schedule.
When Cassie rapped sharply on my door, I turned over and buried my head under the pillow. “Rats, rats, rats,” I mumbled angrily. “I should have left that snot-nosed little brat in the jungle.”
“Now, now, Mom, you don’t really mean that,” admonished Cassie, as she entered my room and sat down on the edge of my bed. Aggie’s toenails clicked rapidly on the bare wood floors as she ran to join her mistress.
“Go away! I’m asleep! And take that rotten little beast with you. She’s been burying dog biscuits under my pillow again. I had to get up twice during the night just to brush the crumbs off my sheets.”
“Come on, Mom. Miss Davis is here—all bright and shiny as a new copper penny. Looks like she bought an outfit just for this interview. She must really think you’re something special!”
“Then fill her in on the story of the ‘real me,’ and tell her to buzz off.”
“Gran’s loving all of the attention you’re getting,” she said, trying a new tactic. “She’ll be very disappointed if you’re not on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”
I turned over and sat up, propping my pillows behind me. I took the cup of hot tea Cassie had brought me and winked at her.
“Then she’s forgotten that old southern adage: a lady’s name appears in print only twice—when she marries and when she dies.”
“Get dressed, Mom. They’re waiting for you on the patio.”
Chapter Five
Cassie and Aggie had rejoined Mother and her guest by the time I slipped on my favorite sweats and old beat-up Cole-Haan moccasins. Last year, after a tornado cut a swath through our town, Mother took advantage of the situation and cleaned out my closet on the pretext of helping those who had lost everything in the storm. It took me three weeks, but I finally found what I was looking for at the Salvation Army store. In return for a generous donation, I managed to retrieve my comfortable “oldies but goodies” and return them to their rightful place in my wardrobe. I wore them on those special occasions when I wanted to make Mother mad enough to lose her cool.
It worked—almost. Her patrician features, as she watched me walk out to the patio, registered her disapproval, but her words were those of any proud mother.
“Here comes my darling daughter, now,” she announced, with a strained smile. “Paisley, you remember Bethlehem Davis.”
“Bethlehem? I don’t remember that!”
The reporter managed to laugh at what must have been a very tiresome reaction to her unusual name after thirty-something years. The laughter sounded okay; but I noticed her eyes weren’t involved—pale brown, almost amber, they were narrowed against the sunlight in a round face with flat cheekbones and a little pug nose. Her faded brown hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail and adorned with tired artificial daisies and a paper butterfly. Beth Davis appeared nervous and ill at ease, even though—and perhaps because—Mother was trying her best to make her feel at home.
“Are you sure you won’t have another biscuit, Beth, dear? More ham?”
Cassie was right—Beth did have on a new outfit. A little round “inspected by #23” sticker still clung to the hem of her bright yellow and orange flowered dress. Her liberal use of Crayola colors and her plain, flat features brought to mind a cartoon character, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out which one.
“I’ll have a biscuit, Mother,” I said, as I flopped unceremoniously down on the chaise, “and stuff it, please.”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, raising one elegantly curved eyebrow.
I winked at Cassie—only to receive a warning glare from my daughter in return. “Please put a slice of ham inside, thank you, Mother,” I sighed, deciding there would be hell to pay later if I didn’t act at least a little civilized now. I got some hell, anyway.
“I’ve been telling Bethlehem about your daring rescue of little Nell Jane, Paisley. Do you have anything to add to the story before you change into something more appropriate for your photograph?”
Beth had me pose under the magnolia, on top of the old well, and finally, on the white wrought iron bench in my moon garden. The last picture was a favor for me. My beautiful, newly landscaped moon garden with it’s heirloom white roses and all white flowers was a private place, and not for prying eyes.
With Mother out of the way, Beth loosened up and we actually had a rather pleasant conversation—especially pleasant for me because she had read and enjoyed all of Leonard’s books.
“He’s such a devil, that man! He frightens me—and yet, thrills me at the same time!” she confided in a voice full of barely suppressed excitement. “You have such a command of the English language, Paisley. You’re a veritable magician of the imagination, truly a conjurer….”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, stopping her from digging any deeper into her mental thesaurus.
A faint blushed stained her plain cheeks, making her briefly more attractive. “Sorry,” she mumbled apologetically, “I do tend to go on when I wax enthusiastic.”
I felt instantly contrite. For some strange reason, I was beginning to like this young woman, and not just because she admired me.
“How’s your own book coming along?” I asked, biting my tongue so I wouldn’t say more than I intended.
Two hours later, I stood by her car holding four pounds of tattered manuscript bound together by several thick rubber bands and waiting impatiently for her to leave.
“Oh, Paisley! You don’t know how much this means to me—to have you, a true word smith—a laudable literary lion—reading, nay critiquing, my puny efforts!”
I sighed deeply, trying to maintain the semblance of a smile. My warm feelings for Bethlehem Davis were rapidly turning tepid. “Don’t expect feedback any time soon,” I warned her sourly. “I’m….”
“I know! I know!” she cried gaily. “Busy, busy, busy! But just being able to think that you are the temporary caretaker of my tome gives me such a thrill! You’ll never know how much I appreciate this.” She pointed to the first page of fully packed, single-spaced sentences. “I do hope it isn’t too hard on your eyes. We poor aspiring young novelists have to save on paper, you know.”
“And printer ink, too, I noticed,” I added dryly.
She smiled and blew me a kiss as she turned her little yellow Volkswagen bug around in the drive and headed out to the highway. I had started up the walk when I heard her slam on the brakes and back up rapidly, scattering gravel
