Gone South (32 page)

“Sometimes, if my mother wasn’t home. What have you got?”

“It’s just a button I picked up at a yard sale. It’s so pretty I thought I could make it into a pin.”

She opened her hand, revealing a metal button about an inch in diameter. A delicate honeybee resting on a lotus leaf. The nature motif hinted that it was Victorian, but the style leaned toward art nouveau.

He pulled his jeweler’s loupe from his pocket. “May I?”

“Sure.” She handed it over.

Under magnification, the details popped—the veins in the insect’s wings, the dewdrops on the leaf. He turned it over. A shank back. No marks.

He looked up at Tish in her bandana and had to smile. He’d never seen her in anything dressier than jeans, yet she’d fallen in love with this little delicacy.

“How much did you pay?”

“Four dollars for a whole tin of old buttons. This is the only really interesting one, so that was probably a ripoff.”

“No, you did well. I’d say it’s from sometime around the turn of the century. Victorian verging on art nouveau. It’s in good condition. You go making a pin out of it, and it won’t be worth as much to a collector.”

“What do you think it’s worth?”

“Retail, as is, probably between forty and fifty.”

Her eyes widened. “Dollars?”

George smiled. “Dollars,” he repeated. She sounded like Mrs. Rose, who’d said the word in the same incredulous tone but for a different reason.

“For one little button?”

“Yes ma’am. If you want to sell it, I’ll pay—”

She snatched it from his fingers. “I don’t want to know. I never said I wanted to sell it.”

George stifled a laugh and returned the loupe to his pocket. “Why did you want to know its value, then?”

“Just to know if I found a bargain, I guess, but I’ll never sell it. I love tangible connections to the past. Even to parts of the past that have nothing to do with me. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not at all.”

“I knew you would understand. You deal in antiques. Connections to the past.”

Her earnest expression compelled him to confess. “I hate to break it to you, but my connections to my merchandise are strictly mercenary. I have no sentimental attachments to anything in my shop.”

“Really? None?”

“None. You’re not too disappointed, are you?”

“Well … yes. Yes, I am.” She examined the button again, then looked up. “What about the Chevelle? Is that just a pile of metal and chrome to you?”

“Of course not. It’s a big, noisy toy—and an investment as well. And if anything should happen to it, now it’s insured to the hilt.” He made his way to the door and stepped onto the porch. “I’d better get out to the garage before Calv starts thinking it’s his toy, not mine.”

Daisy had stretched herself out like the Sphinx, except her posture was more relaxed. She rested her chin on her leash. Too lazy to raise her head, she lifted her gaze, showing the whites of her eyes.

“Come on, Daisy. Let’s go work on the car.”

She blinked, sighed, thumped her tail once, and closed her eyes.

Tish leaned in the doorway. “You can leave her here if you want. She looks perfectly happy.”

“Thanks, but I’d better take her with me. I don’t want to encourage her delusion that this is still her porch.”

Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, George looked down the block. Mel trudged along the sidewalk, her head hanging and her shoulders slumped.

“Here comes Mel,” he said. “And she doesn’t look like a girl who spent the afternoon in the bosom of a forgiving family.”

Tish moved to stand beside him. “Maybe she’s tired.”

“But if they parted on good terms, Stu would have dropped her off at your door. Especially if she was tired.”

Mel turned into the yard and looked up. “Hey, y’all.” Her glum greeting matched her body language.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Well, yeah. Sure. Except—” She met his eyes. “Except they’re selling my car.”

She looked so forlorn that he tried to speak as lightly as possible. “It’s not your car.”

“Yes it is,” she said in a quiet but controlled voice. “Did you know? You knew they were selling it and you didn’t tell me?”

Obviously, the gentle approach wasn’t working. “It was never yours anyway.”

She moved up the steps. “It was. Grandpa John told me it was.”

“Funny thing is, nobody else ever heard him say that.”

“I know, George. I know. Nobody ever believes me.” Her words came faster now, spilling over each other in a small, frantic stream. “Even if he didn’t officially leave it to me, it should’ve gone to my mom, not my dad, but he took it because she never learned to drive a stick, and now he thinks it’s his to sell, but it’s not.”

“Melanie—”

“I’ll never see it again. He’ll sell it to somebody who doesn’t even live around here, because nobody around here can afford it. Almost nobody.” She edged closer to George. “I know you have tons of money. Please, please, buy it back for me. I’ll pay you back someday.”

If it had been anyone else making the ludicrous suggestion, he would have laughed out loud. “I’m sorry, Mel, but I don’t have that kind of money. Not even close.”

Her shoulders drooped. She turned to Tish.

Tish shook her head. “Don’t look at me. I don’t even have a job.”

Mel shifted her gaze to something in the distance. Like a rag doll retrofitted with a spine, she straightened her posture. “I’m not the thief.
He
is.”

Tish tried to wave her inside. “Come on in. Did you have supper?”

“No, but I’m not hungry. I’m tired. I’m going to lie down. Thanks, though.” With a faraway look in her eyes, Mel stepped past them and into the house.

George braced himself for the slamming of a door. He only heard the faint click of a latch as Mel shut the door to the downstairs bedroom that used to be his mother’s.

Tish leaned toward him. “That’s not like her,” she whispered. “Mel’s never not hungry.”

“She must have had a hard day. Emotionally draining.” But his brain marched double-time toward a different explanation. The brat was plotting something.

“She was talking about the Corvette, right? The one she took for a joyride?”

“Yes, and if she knew how much it’s worth, she’d be on a rampage right now.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Ballpark figure? Sixty grand, probably.”

Tish inhaled sharply. “Sixty
thousand
?”

“Yes ma’am. Sixty thousand dollars. It’s nearly mint, it’s rare, and it’s beautiful. And I can’t blame Dunc for selling. Actually, I’m surprised he’s kept it this long.”

“Sentimental value, maybe?”

“Dunc, sentimental? No, more likely he was waiting for the economy to pick up.”

“Didn’t her grandpa make a will?”

“He never got around to it, I guess, or maybe he didn’t want to write one. He was an eccentric old guy who made a killing in the stock market. I think Suzette was always ashamed of her dad even after he made his money, but he and Mel always got along.” George paused, thinking. “Maybe he took a shine to her because her folks named her after him—and that might have been a calculated effort to encourage him to be generous in his will. The will he never wrote.”

“Wait. I thought they named her after Melanie in
Gone with the Wind
.”

“They did, but her middle name is John, for her Grandpa John Hoff.”

“John? As in J-O-H-N? For a girl?”

“Why not? My mother’s middle name was James, after her father.”

“Must be a southern thing.”

He decided to live dangerously. Venture onto thin ice again. “Watch your tone, Yankee woman.”

She smiled. “You’d better be joking.”

The dark humor in her eyes made him want to stay longer, sparring with her, but Calv let out a yelp followed by a long string of unhappiness, the words muffled by distance.

“I’d better get back there,” George said. “It’s not fair to make Calv suffer all the skinned knuckles.”

“If you guys ever need first aid, come on up to the house,” Tish said.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Maybe he could arrange a gently smashed thumbnail for himself.

Tish smiled as if she’d read his mind. “You do that.” She went inside, shutting the door.

Feeling vaguely guilty about something, he picked up the dog. When he was halfway down the steps, his conscience explained itself to him: he
was ashamed of himself for cheerfully flirting with Tish when Mel was miserable.

Carrying the dog down the steps and around the house, he pondered the market for high-end vintage cars in Hunt County. It wasn’t a wealthy area, but Dunc was a dealer. He knew how and where to advertise, and he had connections. He’d find a buyer in no time, and Mel’s crazy little heart would break all over again.

Mel dried a plate and added it to the stack in the cupboard. Her feet hurt from working all day, but her heart hurt worse. She couldn’t stop thinking about the ’Vette. She had to see it one more time. She just had to. But if her dad—Dunc—didn’t want her in the house, he wouldn’t want her in the garage either. He
especially
wouldn’t want her in the garage.

Tish breezed through the kitchen, putting on a pair of funky, dangly earrings and then fluffing her hair. “I’m going out back. To get the latest updates on the Chevelle.”

“Have fun.” Mel could have given her the latest about the wiring harness, whatever that was, but she knew Tish didn’t give a flip about the car. She wanted to see George.

It would be fantastic to be able to talk to the guy you loved, any old time.

With a sigh, Mel dried the last plate and put it away in the cupboard. She was so tired of acting happy. At work, George kept watching her. Not like he thought she’d steal something, but like he was afraid she’d fall apart in the middle of polishing a candlestick or whatever. She’d held it together, though. Even when he acted like he thought she was about to throw a fit, which was exactly what made her want to throw a fit, she’d held it together.

Praying helped. She kept asking God to keep the car from selling, and to help buyers find other cars before they saw Dunc’s ads. She prayed about a million other things too, like money and clothes and figuring out how to get along
without a family and how to go to college when she could hardly read. Last night, instead of crying herself to sleep, she’d prayed the night away.

She hung the towel over the handle on the oven door, then circled around to make sure she hadn’t missed anything to wash or put away.

Tish’s phone lay on the table.

Thinking hard about how to make the most of her big chance, Mel waited for a minute to make sure Tish wasn’t coming back for the phone. Then, keeping an eye out for her, Mel dialed her mom’s number.

Please, God, don’t let Tish look at her call records—

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. It’s me. Mel.”

A brief pause. “Where are you? It’s the wrong area code.”

“I borrowed a phone from a friend.”

“Are you all right? Are you still in town?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I got a job. I’ve been working for George.”

“That’s nice.”

Mel had hoped she’d sound more excited. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to ask about the car. The clothes shouldn’t be a big deal, though.

“I’m not making much money yet,” she said. “And I need clothes. Can I stop by sometime for some of my things?”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“It would only take a few minutes. Come on, Mom. You can throw some things in a bag and leave it by the front door if you don’t want to see me.”

“It’s not that. Your father doesn’t want you on our property. He says you’re a bad influence on Stu’s boys. You know they’re staying with us for a while.”

“Yeah, but how long can it take to remodel a kitchen? Anyway, I don’t even have to see the boys. I can come when they’re in school. Pick a day and I’ll be there. Well, if I’m not working.” Mel swung around to look at the calendar on the wall. “Hey, your anniversary is coming up. Are you planning anything?”

“Yes. Nothing fancy, though. Dinner and a movie in Muldro.”

Mel waited for her mom to say something about a birthday dinner too, but she didn’t. Not one word. And she was the one who always planned things weeks and weeks ahead of time.

“I guess we’re not getting together for my birthday, huh?”

“If you weren’t a bad influence on Nick and Jamie—”

“Don’t give me that.” Mel felt hard and mean inside, as sharp as the blade of her mom’s food processor. “Even if Nicky and Jamie weren’t around, even if they didn’t exist, you’d still wish
I
didn’t exist. And you say
I’m
a bad influence? What kind of influence do you think you are on me?”

Mel ended the call and put the phone back where she’d found it. She picked it up again, wiped it with her shirt, and put it down carefully. No fingerprints. Then she stared out the window at branches bobbing up and down in the wind.

Her parents weren’t going to do a thing for her twenty-first birthday. The big one. She was a stranger to them. A nobody. She was dead to them, but they weren’t crying for her. Well, she wouldn’t cry for them either.

She might cry for Nicky and Jamie, though. And even for Stu.