I glance up at my favorite picture of Mama. I put it in a gilded gold frame and hung it behind the register. She’s so happy, her blue eyes sparkling. Mama was a pretty woman, even as she aged and griped about her hooded eyes and forehead wrinkles. She kept those grays covered and dressed fashionably at all times. But it was more than her looks. She was genuinely kind. She cared about all people in a way that made strangers become friends and family when she got done talking to them.
“I’m tryin’, Mama,” I say quietly, aware that talking to my dead mother’s picture might be a bit off-putting, but desperatetimes call for desperate measures. “I’d appreciate you steering me in the right direction.”
She doesn’t answer of course, nor does Caroline come waltzing through the door to beg for her job back. There’s no clap of thunder or ray of sunshine suddenly beaming down into the shop to make me feel like Mama heard me. I may live in Heaven, but I have a feeling God has more important things to do today than help a lost guy know what clothes to buy to make all the ladies squeal with excitement.
The bell rings out suddenly and I jolt away from the counter. It’s Birdie, the town gossiper. And I’m all alone, without a single customer in the shop to offer deflection. Pretty sure Birdie’s going to spread the news by lunchtime that the shop isn’t doing so well. God bless her, she puts more importance on being right than on people’s feelings about her accurate reports.
“Top of the mornin’, dear Silas,” Birdie sings out dramatically, her brightly colored caftan flaring out as she waves. A waft of her perfume fills the boutique. Then she steps aside and I get a look at the woman behind her.
Oh no. It’s one of her grandnieces, Myrtle.
I’ve met her twice, and both times I was reminded of why I gave up on dating apps in my mid-thirties. The only single women left were the Myrtle types. Mousy, shy, odd. Impossible to have a conversation with.
“You remember my lovely niece, don’t you?” Birdie pushes Myrtle forward, almost making her trip over her own feet. Myrtle straightens her glasses and gives me a grimace I suppose she thinks is a smile.
“I do. Nice to see you again, Myrtle.” I will be kind, even if it kills me. I am my mother’s son after all.
Myrtle gives me an awkward head nod and then wanders off, looking through the hangers of clothing. Birdie stalks closerto the register, her beady eyes behind the oversized glasses sparkling in a way that spells trouble.
“You know, you’re forty now.”
I nod, wondering if I could announce we’re closing for lunch. I sneak a glance at my watch and see it’s barely ten thirty. “I am.”
Birdie sniffs, her nose lifting in the air. “One has to stop being so choosy at this age, no?”
My smile amps up. Despite the danger of engaging in conversation with her, I like Birdie. She’s a tough ol’ broad, born and raised in Mississippi, just like her mama before her. Birdie grew up in a time when things looked very different around here and finds a way not to let any of that slow her down. Plus she was kind to my mother, which automatically makes her good people in my book.
“I think being choosy is a great quality, no matter your age. Take you, for example. You don’t choose to be friends with just anyone, right? You’re selective who you spend your time with. I, for one, find that inspiring.”
I stab my finger into the counter for emphasis and Birdie’s smile turns devious. She knows exactly what I’m doing: turning her words around in my favor and complimenting the hell out of her so she doesn’t feel good firing back at me. I see the way she’s having to bite back a smile.
A bullshitter always recognizes a bullshitter.
Doesn’t have a Hallmark ring to it, but the sentiment remains true.
“Your new employee starts tomorrow. Remember, I told you Betsy’s granddaughter needs a job?” As she often does, Birdie switches subjects entirely.
I feel my eyebrows lifting. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I remember now.” Honestly, I don’t remember. I vaguely recall Birdie asking if I needed more help now that Caroline is enjoying new-mom life. Idon’t recall her hiring someone though, considering I’m the only one who can hire someone for the boutique.
Then again, I do need the help. Maybe this granddaughter of Betsy’s will be just what I need to bring back the charm of Harp and Hemline.
“What was her name again?”
Birdie runs her fingers through the bracelets on display next to the register. She already has several on her wrist. “Betsy, actually. You’ll adore her.” She tosses two bracelets on the counter. “I’ll take these, please.”
I ring her up, painfully aware she’s buying them just to help me out. The woman doesn’t need any more jewelry. Birdie could open her own shop with all the costume jewelry she’s obtained over the years. Then again, I need the sale badly enough to see it through. When she and her grandniece turn to leave, I feel grateful for her kindness. Enough so I shoot a wink at Myrtle, who ducks her head and trips on the last rack as they make their way out of the boutique.
That night, once I’ve closed up the shop and gone to see the empty lot Dad has in mind, I pull on a pair of workout shorts and tennis shoes, foregoing the shirt. I need a long run to clear my head. I don’t like being in a negative head space. It doesn’t feel natural, even though it’s happened more and more since we lost Mama.
The evenings here in Heaven don’t offer much relief. The wind is warm and the heat from the sun hitting pavement all day radiates upward. The humidity’s high enough to have me sweating the second I step outside. I douse myself in natural bug spray that doesn’t seem to do much other than smell decent. Mama was big into natural products the years leading up to her death. She got me started on ’em and I can’t seem to stop, even though I get bit to death on my runs.
I’m a mile down the road, out in the rural area just north of the square when a car comes whipping up behind me, oblivious to speed limits or pedestrians. It zooms by me and I swear the wind nearly knocks me over. Goddamn driver almost clipped me!
I raise my hand in the air in protest. “Hey!”
Then it dawns on me it’s a little white SUV. It looks a heck of a lot like the one that nearly barreled into me at the four-way stop and had the audacity to flipmeoff. I shake my head and keep running. It’s gonna take a long time to run off this head of steam.
CHAPTER THREE
