Creola's Moonbeam (20 page)

“I promise.” That summer morning, I understood Creola had shared with me a sacred trust.

“Now, Miss Moonbeam, listen carefully and look here.”

She reached into her apron pocket. “Lukus gave me something before he passed. I’ve always wondered what to do with it. Now, I know. Last night, the Angel of Finding Things came to me in a dream. She hovered at the foot of my bed and gave me a message.”

Creola handed me a tiny white box, one yellowed by time and worn from countless openings — and closings. “Go ahead. Open it. I’m giving to you.”

Inside was a gold ring with two tiny hearts.

“For me?”

“Of course, Miss Moonbeam.” A single tear zigzagged down the wrinkles of her cheek. “The angel says it will hold the place until your amethyst comes back to us.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you.”

“My ring is way too big for your sweet hand right now. So I brought this chain with me. You can wear it around your neck ‘til your finger grows bigger. Let’s see how it looks.”

“Oh Crellie, it’s beautiful! Were these hearts for you and your friend?”

“Yes, but now they are for us, you and your Creola.”

“Moonbeam and Crellie forever.”

“That’s right. It looks mighty pretty on you. Much better for my baby to wear it than for it to live forever in that box.” With that she pitched the worn little box into a metal trash can.

I hugged her neck as we both admired the ring. “I almost hope I don’t find my birthstone. I like your ring much better. Oh, Crellie, thank you!”

“Precious child, should we find your ring, we’ll simply say that you are a two-ring moonbeam.”

When Mary Pearle got home from camp, we told her that we got the ring at Woolworth’s to replace my birthstone and to cheer me up while she was away. My sister fell for that, hook, line and sinker!

That ring meant as much to me as any piece of jewelry I’ve ever received.

I kept it until the day Creola died.

For the next two weeks I worked with vigor on my new Creola book. The days literally zipped by. That’s what happens to me when I’m writing with my heart. It was as if Creola was urging me onward. Maybe she was? Maybe she was swooping about the condo with the Angel of Finding Things. I was certainly finding
myself
.

As always, Beau’s three-day visit came and went all too quickly for me, for us. We agreed that I would never again plan a three-month stay away from home.

While Beau was there, we dropped by Sonny Gilmore’s bookstore. My fears quieted as soon as I discovered there was no sale table with my books marked down to a dollar. Quite the contrary, Mr. Gilmore proudly pointed to his special display of Newberry novels, all of which were being sold at the regular retail price. To my delight, there was a vase of yellow roses in the middle of the book-filled table.

“Roses are my favorite, Mr. Gilmore, especially yellow ones.”

“Been meaning to invite you over,” he apologized. “I called in the order as soon as you went to Miss Eugenia’s ice cream shop. I knew Eugenia would fix you up with a place to rent so you’d be spending the summer with us.”

I turned to Beau. “Everyone around here seems to anticipate my decisions well before I make them.”

“Wish I had that knack.”

“I just bet you do.”

He gave me a squeeze. I grinned at Mr. Gilmore. “Your display flatters me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Please call me Sonny.”

“Please call me Honey.” Beau cleared his throat. “Oh, excuse me, darling. Sonny, I want to introduce my husband. This handsome man is Beau, Beau Newberry.”

“Pleased to meet you, Beau.” he extended his hand. “We’ve already sold a good many of your wife’s books. I hope she’ll autograph the ones we’ve got left.”

I nodded. “I brought my pen. This is the one I use exclusively for special events.”

“Now,
I’m
flattered, Mrs. Newberry, errr, Honey. I tried to locate all your books. Got every one of them, too, except for that ‘
Spinster’s Petticoat
.’ Then I finally found it, too. Lucky for me, a feller in Orlando spotted one at an estate sale. Beatrice has folks passing it around. ’Course I’d like it better if they were spending their money in my store.”

“Hope the guy paid more than a dollar for it,” teased Beau.

I kicked at him.

Saturday night, Beau and I had dinner at our favorite spot at the marina. On Sunday, Beatrice joined us for steaks at the condo. She and Beau hit it off like two old friends. When she was getting ready to leave, she gave Beau a kiss on his lips and commented, “If I were two decades younger, Honey, I’d give you a run for your money with this charming man.”

“Well, I’m not so sure I feel very comfortable about Beau driving you home.”

“You’re a smart woman, Honey.”

Beau winked at me as he escorted Beatrice to the car. “I’ll try to be home by daybreak.”

At the end of the weekend it was sad for me to watch as my husband drove from the parking lot. I went back inside the condo, slumped in a chair, and gobbled a still-warm biscuit. “Rally, girl, you have to rally.”

My battle cry worked. By midmorning, I resolutely jumped feet first into
Creola’s Moonbeam
. Besides, I had to justify renting the condo.

A few days later, pleased with the progress, I telephoned my editor.

“Guess what I’m doing?”

“Windsurfing?”

“No! I’m writing a book, one you’ll surely beg me to publish.”

“Hmmm, maybe you should try the windsurfing thing.”

“Uh oh, you’re cranky. Are you dieting again?”

“No, I’m kidding. I’m pleased you are back at work. Good luck, Honey, and
hurry
!”

“What, already a deadline? Some things never change!”

I looked for Beatrice
on the beach the next morning. Sadly, the lady was not there. I took a second walk near sunset, thinking my friend had changed her schedule. I was not so busy that I didn’t have time to be concerned about her. Finally, I went by her cottage and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

I peeked through the window. There was no sign she was home, only her collections of beautiful pieces tempted me to come inside. Walking around peering into her windows proved to me that my friend was nowhere to be found.

I’d sent my short stories to her on a disc, so she could read them on her computer. It occurred to me that my stories were so pathetic that Beatrice had run away to avoid telling me the truth. I’d had reservations about them since the day I tossed the printed manuscript in our garbage.

Creola tsked-tsked in my thoughts.
Don’t be ridiculous, Moonbeam. They weren’t that bad
.

My fears about Beatrice’s critique quickly turned into a gnawing feeling that something was wrong, not with my work, but with Beatrice.

The truth surfaced two days later. A postcard arrived from Atlanta.

My dear Honey,

I’m in the hospital from laughing too hard at your stories. The flamingos! The roofers! The POOL! I read the story about the cock-eyed paper hanger and am still trying to recover. The poor daft fellow hung your striped paper horizontally and explained the problem was because your house, as he put it, “just ain’t squaar.” Guffawing so, I must have broken some ribs!

How about the one where Beau floods the entire first floor trying to unclog the kitchen sink with a garden hose! That doesn’t sound like the capable man I’ve just met!

I will return on Monday.

Love, Beatrice

Beatrice in the hospital? I couldn’t describe my feelings. I pinned a note to her door and anxiously awaited her return.

Two days later, the phone rang. It was Beatrice. “Did you get my postcard?”

“Yes, but, Beatrice, I can’t help but be worried about you. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Deary me, my poorly chosen jest about the hospital alarmed you. Forgive me, Honey. Besides, what could possibly be wrong with this old dame? Lest you forget, I once drank from the Fountain of Youth.”

“Guess that slipped my mind. I’m thrilled to hear your voice.”

“Good, but, dear girl, why is it that you haven’t gotten these charming stories into print?”

“Apparently, Beatrice, you’re more confident about them than I am. Besides, I’m currently hard at work on Creola.”

“Making progress, are you?”

“Yes, indeed, and loving every minute of the writing. I’m nearly finished with the first draft.”

“Good for you, but about these other stories. They
are
simply marvelous.”

“Maybe you like them because you’ve gotten to know me. They’re very personal. Boring?”

“Hardly. Take the story about the fence as an example. Think how many people will relate to that one. And that one about the plumber and, ah hem, the
galvanized nipples
. That’s an attention getter!”

I pooh-poohed my friend’s praise and pleaded with her to allow me to come by. Beatrice, saying she remained worn out from her trip to Atlanta, begged off. Concerned more than ever, I reluctantly changed the subject.

“Did you visit Jennings?”

“Yes, of course. Although I didn’t find a good opportunity to encourage him to visit
you
once you’re back in that fearsome city. For that I apologize. At any rate, he and I had a grand holiday.”

I was delighted that Beatrice was safely home in her beloved cottage. I was also pleased to learn she had enjoyed her Jennings.

Selfishly, I was equally thrilled with my friend’s generous praise regarding the stories. Later that night, I put aside my new project and took a look at the story Beatrice commented on regarding the plumber.

by Honey Newberry

“Sorry to interrupt your meeting, ladies,” said Russell Long as he leaned into the sunroom. “Mrs. Newberry, I’m afraid Bobby and I have found something you’ll probably wanna see.”

Doubt that
. “Of course.”

“The news isn’t good, Mrs. Newberry. Come back here and we’ll explain what’s going on.”

Rising apprehensively from the wicker chair, I fretfully ran my fingers through my newly cut, currently blond hair. My clattering teacup’s frenetic clicking on the saucer confirmed a mounting level of anxiety.

“It seems these nice men need a
quick
word with me,” I chirped hopefully to the women of my writer’s group. A manuscript slid off my lap, its pages dispersed throughout the sunroom like paper napkins in a burst of summer wind. “I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t want to hear bad news from my plumbers. My body’s temperature rose as my neck began to constrict. I suffer from plumbing phobia, which is something akin to one’s apprehension upon going to a periodontist’s office. As we entered the bathroom, my gums began to feel tender. They were puffy, too. I ran my tongue around my mouth. “Hmmm, blood? Maybe not. Maybe I’m just drooling.”