Creola's Moonbeam (28 page)

“I missed you, too. Even though you visited a couple of times, a whole summer away is too long for this gal.”

“And for her man.” Beau stepped back. “I can’t do it, Honey.”

“Can’t do what?”

“While I was waiting for you to get here, I went over to the new house. It’s in the historic district and has those high ceilings you’ve always wanted and those porches all around. It’s a great house. But, I, I can’t leave this one.”

I smiled. “I know, Beau, just look around, these walls tell our family’s story. Or, perhaps, it’s actually the
lack
of walls that says so much about us.”

“I’m surprised the whole damn thing never collapsed.”

“I guess we got lucky.” I hugged him again. “Tell you what, Beau, do you want me to go and see the house with you? I don’t want us to miss out on a potential dream home.”

“Honey, we’re standing in my dream home.”

“I agree.” In truth, given my rather impetuous nature, I really didn’t want to put myself in temptation’s way. “So, Mr. Newberry, what do you say that we go out and get some dinner?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Beau walked me out onto the deck. I smelled his feast cooking on the grill.

“Yum!”

“Welcome home, Honey.”

I took a long, lingering look at the backyard. “I’m so glad to be home. Why, I hardly miss the Gulf.”

“It must be my cooking!”

It felt fantastic
to be getting back into the limelight. The publisher scheduled the release of
Creola’s Moonbeam
the next spring, just in time for one of my favorite book festivals. The event was one where I was sure to come across many fellow authors, some of whom were close friends.

I immediately ran into the charming Southern gentleman, J. Kershaw Cooper, whose short stories made him the toast of his proud South Georgia town. I found Jerry Lee Davis standing next to his table, where, as usual, he was talking to people. There’s always a crowd around Jerry Lee. A talented and genial young man, he had written a number of successful projects, including a novel, two plays and a documentary film.

I was delighted to meet up with my dear friend, Jacklyn White, who for months had e-mailed and telephoned with gentle but firm suggestions to get busy. A retired police officer and multitalented author, Jackie writes true-crime books — perfectly researched stories about famous and infamous Georgians — and most recently had embarked on fiction. She does everything well.

This feels like a homecoming
, I told myself, as I slowly made way to my booth. I wondered why it had taken me so long to get back into the swing of things.
It’s just the way you are. Don’t beat yourself up; enjoy the moment
. I sounded like an affirmation tape.

As abundantly thankful as I was for the three months at the Gulf, for visits from Beau, the children, and Mary Pearle, and for her beach wedding, I was equally jubilant that the vacation had birthed my book. Well, best make that “our” book, since Mary Pearle would surely correct me about that oversight. My sister remained appreciative and overwhelmed by the credit I’d given for her input into
Creola’s Moonbeam
. Mary Pearle had become the toast of her town — Birmingham, Alabama — with her new husband Stuart on one arm and our book on the other.

How proud you must be, Creola of us, your girls, Mary Pearle and me
.

My thoughts then turned to Beatrice. Friendship with the charismatic woman was the dessert of my summer’s memories.

Rounding a corner, I spotted a familiar face in a booth to my left. It couldn’t be. Could it?

“Beatrice!”

“Hello, there!”

She was seated behind a booth table. I rushed to her side, bent down, and threw my arms around her. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You have only yourself to blame.”

“I can’t imagine what you are talking about. But for whatever reason, I’m beyond happy to see you! How did you know I’d be at the festival today?”

“An old bird like me knows more than you’d think. I always had faith in your Creola Moon and even more so in her Moonbeam. Actually, I was more surprised to find
myself
here.”

“Do I hear humility creeping in? We must exhibit more confidence in ourselves, young lady!” I mimicked gently.

“Yes ma’am,” Beatrice replied primly. She pointed to a chair beside her. “You’d best have a seat, young lady. I have something to show you.”

Curious, I obeyed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some books stacked on the table’s end, but paid no real attention. It was on Beatrice I focused.

Speaking as if a teacher to her student, Beatrice cleared her throat and began, “Of course, you remember how I badgered you to publish not just your stories about Creola, but your stories about your own life?”

“How could I forget?”

“But, dear heart, you’d given up. ‘Use them to fire up your barbecue,’ said you.”

“Guilty.”

Beatrice pursed her lips and fluttered her eyelashes. “I simply took the bull by the horns, as my former husband, ah yes, as Carlos used to say. Take a look at
this
.”

Beatrice took a book from the top of the stack and presented me with it. The bright yellow cover framed a pretty watercolor painting of a suburban ranch house. Its front yard was filled with a flock of pink plastic flamingos surrounding a family of four. The author’s name was concealed by a sticker reading
Autographed Copy
. But the title left no doubt what this book was.
Honey’s Beeswax
.

I looked at Beatrice. “I’m simply thunderstruck!
Honey’s Beeswax
. I don’t know what to say.” I shook my head and frowned. “Beatrice, you never
would
admit you’re a writer. You’ve blown your cover now!”

“I’m
not
a writer. I merely made a few mental notes about the crazy things you told me as we walked on the beach. Then, after I read the stories you sent me on the computer disc, I merely added some organization and some artwork.”

“
Merely
? I’m speechless.”

“Thank goodness you weren’t speechless last summer, or we’d not be sitting here today.”

“You make a valid point.”

“Look inside, see my drawings? You are permitted to give me a great deal of acclaim for these!”

“Oh my goodness, yes, I certainly will!”

“Yes, indeed. There’s the scene with the bomb squad and your son’s hand grenade.”

“How I love the look on the neighbor’s face! That’s Bruce, perfectly!”

“And surely you remember the raccoon in your attic?”

“Wish I
could
forget. That poor, frightened creature! His hair is standing on end.”

I thumbed through the beautifully detailed pen-and-ink drawings accompanying each chapter. As I’d suspected during my very first visit to her cottage, drawing was Beatrice’s forte. “Your artwork is amazing.”

“Of course, it is.”

“Author, artist, and you’re modest, as well.”

“One can’t be too humble.” Beatrice pointed to the story about Beau and I getting locked in the cemetery. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“I love the expression you drew for Beau when the bolt cutters broke.”

“Captured his shock, I thought.”

“He’ll appreciate that.”

I turned to the chapter about the roof work. “I can almost feel rain on my face.”

“Honey, I’m so glad you are pleased. Just remember, you did all the telling, dear girl. I simply put it down on paper. It took me about three weeks, perhaps four. No, I must be completely honest with you. The compilation, I’ll not call it ‘writing,’ was a good five weeks of off-and-on work. I did take time to do other things, but only to avoid making you feel too guilty. I know how you are.”

“You
do
know me well.”

“I added a few sketches and made a phone call to an old friend who owns a printing company.”

“A former husband?”

“Heavens no, not even a boyfriend. But, Honey, don’t you see? Your personal stories are now, finally, a book.”

“With more than a little help from you. Thank you, my friend.”

Was I surprised? Definitely.

Embarrassed? Some.

Angry? Maybe a little. I was angry with myself for not sticking to the task of completing my own work. I thought back to the morning when I pitched all the stories in the garbage.

But no, anger wasn’t exactly what I was feeling either. In truth, it was gratitude. Beatrice had accomplished something that I couldn’t or simply
didn’t
do for myself. I was feeling sincerely grateful for her perseverance.

“I was right on one point, my talented friend. You are a terrific artist.”

“Merely a hobby, mine are only doodles, my dear.”

“Will you look at this one!”

Several years prior, Beau had had it with a cottonwood tree that sprouted into a real Jack in the Beanstalk tree. The gargantuan plant seemed to grow two feet every time Beau turned his back on it. Within a few years, the cottonwood towered over our house, stretching its limbs over half the roof. The wicked tree produced round, nut-like fruits which it rained down on our driveway. We took our lives in our hands every time we carried out the garbage. It was like navigating a field of greased marbles.

Armed with his chainsaw, Beau climbed atop our roof and attacked. “Tree, you are
mine
.”

There was something strikingly fiendish about my husband’s intensity. One by one, branches dropped to the ground. The man was in his glory, but the tree fought for one last victory. It conjured up a curse. Beau had cut all but the last three limbs when suddenly he started to slip. Only a strong gutter kept him from a serious injury. Because he didn’t get hurt, the scene in my story was very, very funny. So was Beatrice’s sketch of it.

“Beatrice, you really captured Beau’s panic. Look at the stark terror in his eyes! I love how you drew the ends of his fingernails flying off as he’s desperately trying to grip roof shingles.”

Thanks to Beau’s new fear of heights, the tree, which had assumed a palm-like shape, was eventually taken down by a professional. It became kindling which, try as we did, would never burn.

In that way, I suppose, the tree did triumph.

“And look at this sketch! Thank you, Beatrice, for making me appear rather fetching in this drawing with the kitchen mop. Why, you made me almost svelte. I still can’t believe my inventive and
usually
successful husband actually attempted to unclog the sink using the garden hose.”

Beatrice laughed. “Get towels, lots of towels,” she said in a deep voice, mimicking Beau. “I’ve broken the whole damn house!”

“What a disaster. Though it wasn’t a laughing matter that night. It was almost eleven o’clock before Beau gave in and called a plumber. The only one we could find at that late hour rolled in, literally
rolled
in, around midnight. Weaving and bobbing like a buoy, the aged hippy was as drunk as a skunk.”

“Speaking of skunks.” Beatrice flipped pages to one of the last chapters. “I included the ill-fated creature who got himself lodged in your heat vent. I’d never before drawn a skunk’s eyes! Took me a few tries to capture his glower. I eventually turned back to one of my sketches of Beau for inspiration.”