The House on Persimmon Road (2 page)

“Positive. Maybe the back door is open. I’ll go around.”

The windows along the side of the house were huge, with many panes and the look of French doors, but no handles were evident. Justine pushed, but the only thing they gave back was a full-color reflection of herself. She stepped away for a better view.

She brushed hair the color of ripened wheat from her forehead, then touched under her eyes with her fingertips. No lines to speak of yet. A miracle, considering her disrupted life and the hassles of the past months. Young.
Pffft
. Thirty-six didn’t feel young. Anyway, every woman knew aging started in the arms.

She held her arms out. That’s where the flab started. You could almost judge a woman’s age by how long she wore her sleeves. No matter how ageless the face, after the age of thirty, one could add a year for every inch of sleeve. Justine flapped her arms, studying the tender undersides in the glass. Small miracles still abounded. Her’s didn’t jiggle… yet.

Another reflection suddenly mingled with her own. It was brown-haired and dark-eyed, with features sharpened one notch past handsome, and it wore a mustache. The reflection was grinning.

Mortified, Justine lowered her arms and spun about. The man was standing in a straggly bed of blooming jonquils as if he had just sprung up through the earth among them, an aberration of nature. His expression was that of a somnolent wolf, yet she was conscious that in that one lazy glance he was assessing her clothes, calculating her age and weight, and had probably guessed what she ate for breakfast.

“Don’t stop on account of me,” he said, and went back to grinning.

“Who’re you, the local Peeping Tom?”

A gleam leaped into his eyes. “Come now. Be nice. And if you’re wondering, you’ll do.”

“I wasn’t wondering. I was—never mind what I was doing. This is private property. You’re trespassing, unless—” Her heart sank. “Are you the estate agent?”

“Nope, your nearest neighbor. That is, I am if you’re Mrs. Justine Hale.” He held up a set of keys and dangled them. “For the house. Jim Kessler dropped them by, asked me to see that you got them. I heard car doors slam. Figured it was you.”

Justine was at once uneasy. The man was made of rough material, a man who used brawn to do his job. She suspected his work kept him out of doors since he was well tanned for so early in the summer. A ditch-digger or a farmer. Most assuredly a jackass, sneaking up on her like that. And she could tell right off he was the kind of man she didn’t like. He had the look of a man who hoarded superiority like a Scrooge hoards pennies.

Still, the admiring way he was looking at her kept her sharp, standing straight, tummy in, and shoulders back.

“Tucker Highsmith,” he said, and it was a real drawl, so that Justine knew at once that he was generations and genes full of Alabama. He gave a mock bow, “At your service.”

Justine latched on to his innuendo and wondered just how much of her background the estate agent had passed on to Tucker Highsmith. She had not said much, beyond the fact of how many members her family numbered, but Kessler
had
called her references. Who knew what one of them had let slip? Divorcees, she had learned to her dismay, were considered fair game for a roving eye.

Poker stiff, she said, “Thank you for bringing the keys.” Stepping to the edge of the porch, she held out her hand. He dropped them into her palm. They were huge, rusty, and old-fashioned.

“Justine! Oh, there you are,” Pauline said, as she came round the house. She beamed a smile at Tucker. “Why, hello there.”

“Mother, this is Tucker Highsmith, our neighbor. He’s brought our keys. My mother, Mrs. Gates.”

“Just call me Pauline, everyone does.”

Tucker smiled warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“And…so nice to meet you.”

Justine dismissed Tucker Highsmith with a “thank you”, grabbed her mother’s arm and ushered her toward the front of the house without a backward glance. “That was disgusting, Mother. You practically drooled.”

“He’s quite attractive. I love men who don’t part their hair, when they have any, that is. Goodness, Mr. Highsmith didn’t look the kind of man one trifles with, did he? He reminds me of somebody, but I can’t think who.”

“You can’t judge a man by the way he parts his hair. And, you’ve never met a man of Tucker Highsmith’s ilk in your life, unless it was a gardener.”

“Oh, no dear, our gardeners were always ethnic. Gardening is a talent. As far as how I judge a man, by his hair or otherwise, I did pretty well sizing up your father. He never left me to go off to some godforsaken island just so he could shave his head and wear saffron robes like—”

‘That’s enough, Mother.”

“Well, I did try to talk you out of marrying Philip, didn’t I? He was always so stodgy.”

“I loved him, Mother. Can’t you understand that?”

“Actually, no. I always thought you married him because he was the first man you slept with. If only you had studied European art or the romance languages—but no—with you it was math and computers. Subjects like that do not put you in the path of sexy, interesting men.”

“I don’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“There you go again, Justine. Making me feel guilty. I feel such a headache coming on.”

“You timed it just right. There’s the moving van. Do you think you can hold off on headaches until we get settled?”

Pauline sighed. “One can only hope.”

“I don’t have the luxury of hope. I have to deal in realities.”

“Mr. Highsmith looked real enough to me. He isn’t married, you know.”

“What are you now, a seer?” Justine handed her mother the keys. “Go unlock the door. I’ll direct the movers.”

“His shirt had laundry creases. No woman in her right mind sends wash ‘n’ wear shirts to a commercial laundry. So he’s single.”

“Mother,” said Justine, vexed, “I’m still reeling from the effects of one failed marriage. I’m not interested in putting myself through that a second time.”

“Yes, but you
thought
you were happily married. And people who’ve been happily married always—”

“Save your convoluted philosophy for the children, Mother. They understand it better than I do.”

“Justine, dear,” Pauline said, placing a restraining hand on her daughter’s arm. “You need a man. I never thought I’d live to see the day I’d believe in that old adage, but in your case it’s true. You’re better at life when coupled.”

“Coupled?”

Pauline wiggled her eyebrows. “You know what I mean. I just want you to know, I won’t stand in your way. In fact, I intend to encourage you.”

Justine turned away quickly. Hot tears came up behind her eyes. Even her own mother was doing it! Thinking, suggesting, that she could not make it in life without a man.

It was true that she had leaned heavily on Philip. But he had encouraged her to depend entirely upon him; he wanted it, insisted! Now, of course she saw through that. It was his way of proving to himself that he was a man above others.

In the end all he had proven was that he couldn’t bear up under the responsibility of a mortgage, two children, work—a classic case of biting off more than he could chew. He overloaded. His circuits went haywire. He was hoisted on his own petard. When he had crumbled, her entire world had crumbled along with his.

Thinking of Philip caused a churning hurt and anger in Justine’s stomach.

If only it had been another woman.

Or even another man!

She could’ve battled that and won!

But how does a woman fight a man who has decided to abandon his family in favor of becoming a monk so he could wear saffron robes, chant “om”, and go live in Southeast Asia?

There wasn’t a single article in any magazine that told a woman how to cope with that! Impotency, herpes, how to argue effectively—all topics well covered. One thing those women’s rags never delved into was revenge. How could they miss that a woman needed revenge, craved it! Justine sniffed. She got back at them. She had canceled all of her subscriptions, except Martha Stewart—but only until the subscription ran out. The satisfaction had lasted only moments.

While her world collapsed, she had tried not to think or feel, pretending strength and calm she had not really possessed. She was still pretending.

She knew the score. She was only accountable to her dreams in the dark lonely recesses of the bed she no longer shared with anyone.

Pauline’s words threaded their way far into Justine’s brain: “You’re better at life when coupled.”

Deep down in her soul Justine knew she was a woman who thrived on loving and being loved, a woman who longed to be held, enclosed in strong arms, partnered in life and safe from the outer world. But a stubbornness that was entirely Justine Hale kept her from admitting it, to herself—or anyone else.

She lifted her hand to greet the movers and the image of Tucker Highsmith’s lazy sardonic grin crossed her mind’s eye. She blinked, erasing his features.

—  •  —

Lottie Roberts was beside herself with excitement. Inside the old house she flitted from one window to the next, anxious for the new tenants to come inside and unpack. It was always wonderful to peek in drawers, handle the untold and modern treasures people brought with them. She hoped they had a television. Lottie adored television.

The previous tenants used to eat lunch accompanied by the
Tennessee Ernie Ford Show with Molly Bee.
To this day she could still hum a few bars of “Sixteen Tons.” And in the afternoon she had watched
Edge of Night
and
Dark Shadows.
Lottie
liked electric can openers too. Tucker Highsmith had one. The whirring sound reminded her of
The Green Hornet
on radio.
The Green Hornet
used to give her goose bumps.

At least, she imagined she erupted in goose bumps. It was terrible not to have any flesh. She had form, but it wasn’t anything a body could actually see—not that she hadn’t attempted to extend herself. She had. Dozens of times. She had tried everything she could think of from mustard packs and herb teas to strengthening jelly…until the barley ran out.

Thus far, nothing had worked.

Not even the family Bible had been of help and she had spent hundreds of hours scouring it, especially John 11:1-12 to see how Lazarus had done it.

Unfortunately Lazarus had the help of a higher nature. Being in the situation she was, sort of betwixt and between, Lottie didn’t think it behooved her to draw attention to herself from
that
quarter.

Not that she thought even for a minute that she’d sinned enough to be thrust into Eternal Fire, but you never knew. There had been that incident with the Union soldier, howsomever, she hadn’t realized God was on their side until the North had won the war, and by then it was too late to undo the deed.

Of course, she never missed saying her prayers, God-fearing woman that she was. She just never
asked
for anything, most especially for an end to her condition, seeing as with Him it could go either way. Early on, she’d figured it best just to manage getting back on her own.

Anyway, doing for herself had always been her long suit. She reckoned that being strong willed was simply bred into her.

That had always been a thing said of her. Folks from miles around used to joke about it. “You got a mule that won’t pull a plow,” they said, “let it spend a day with Lottie Roberts. Once the fool animal sees what true balkiness is, it’ll be so shamed, it’ll harness itself to the plow and bellow for the farmer to step into the traces.”

Lottie was counting on her will and determination to see her through. Only thing was, once extended and fleshed out again, she would have to know enough of the modern world to get by.

Some modern things frightened her. Automobiles, for instance. You had to be closed up in them and they went so fast. She’d gone off with a tenant once, in a 1917 Oakland, if she recollected right. She had felt certain she was going to be killed twice over. Her heart or the region where she imagined her heart to be—had lunged and pounded so hard she’d thought the rattling might give her presence away.

She had been building up her courage to try it again when another war started and the tenant had gone off to fight.

Like her own Elmer, the tenant had never returned. Lottie sighed. She missed Elmer something fierce.

Oh, it had been so long since the old house had had tenants. And this bunch looked a mixed bag. Surely, among them was one who would be her friend.

The front door pushed open with a bang and a boy came barreling into the house. He raced down the hall, banging open doors.

Lottie bristled and shot up to the ceiling, out of harm’s way.

That’s one scamp needs manners taught!

Next through the door was a slender, elegantly clad woman with silver hair shaped into a perfectly rendered chignon. Lottie surmised the woman was about her own age. Well, not her age now, but before.

A blonde-haired girl hesitated on the threshold until she was given a push by an elderly woman with a cane. Lottie gasped.

The old lady was dressed in various shades of purple and mauve and had tightly permed curls.
Purple
permed curls.

Lottie had never seen hair like it. Trailing cobwebs she moved down from the ceiling and whirled about the old woman for a better look. She wanted to touch the hair, but didn’t dare. The woman hobbled into the parlor and sat in a fiddle-back chair.

Lottie plopped down on the matching stool and stared. She spared a glance for a younger woman who came in and began inspecting the room, but it was the purple hair that kept her enthralled.

“I swear! It’s cold in here,” complained Agnes. “And look.” She shuddered, pointing at Lottie. “Dust and spider webs are literally falling from the ceiling!”

“You don’t exercise enough, Mother Hale,” suggested Justine. Stepping into the wide hall was like stepping into a dusty, cool fortress. “I think it’s quite pleasant. And the agent was right about spaciousness—this house is huge.”

Agnes snorted. “I guess I know cold when I feel cold. Pip, dear,” she said, as he came racing into the room, “open those French doors, and let in some of that nice warm breeze.”