A ripple of resentment washed through me. “People used to call me that. But I prefer Joyce. Now.”
She gave me a speculative grin, stretching the thin mustache above her red lips. “Come on, Li’l Joy. You ain’t in the city no more; you can let all that proper talkin’ go now. I’m so glad you’re here!”
And then she clobbered me in a cloud of sweat, hair sheen, and sweetness. She meant no harm, and I had to take that into account.
My shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Name’s Mary Buford. You remember me?”
I did. But I’d just walked into my new home. Hadn’t even gotten a moment to take a drink of water. “No, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other…tomorrow.”
“We sure will. Every day. I figured you’d be coming soon. Saw mail come through with your government name on it. Your husband coming, too?”
“No,” I replied even as the question made my gut twitch.
“You a widow?”
“No. Divorced,” I said. The word still scraped my throat on its way out. No sign of that announcement getting any easier.
“Well, that’s one way to solve problems. Sorry to hear that.”
I gave a tiny shake of my head. “Don’t be. It’s for the best.”
Mary sighed. “I suppose it is, sometimes. Menfolk can be triflin’. Anyway, your box got too full, so the rest is waiting in the mailroom. I can bring it all by tomorrow if you’d like.”
Such a kind offer, and such an easy acceptance of the d-word (divorce) made me feel worse for wanting her to leave. “Tomorrow is great.”
“Okay. Well, here’s the stuff everybody’s getting today.” She pressed a wad of junk mail—coupons and sales flyers—into my hand. “You sure you and your husband can’t work it out? Me and my husband divorced and then remarried each other. Cost us a whole lotta money, when we could have stayed married the first time if we’d just ‘communicated’ better, you know.” For some reason, she air-quoted the wordcommunicated.
I didn’t care enough to ask why. “Thanks for the mail.”
Mary took the hint and moved on to another line of inquiry. “You got somebody named Gabriella moving in, too?”
“Yes. She’ll be the second occupant.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Your daughter?”
Here we go again.
“No.” I tensed, remembering that Mary Buford delivered more than just the mail around Robin Creek. The way she looked at me, she was wondering way too hard, ready to fill in the blanks with whatever came to mind. Gabriella might be my nurse, my girlfriend, or my drug dealer by the time the rumors finished racing through the streets.
That was when I decided I’d better use Mary Buford to control the narrative if I wanted to get settled in this small town without causing too much stir.
I grasped my hands in front of my skirt. “My newtenantmoves in tomorrow.”
Mary sucked in her chin. “Oh! Look at you, now, taking in tenants. You always were a smart cookie, according to your grandmother. But you know how grandmothers are—they think all their grands are brilliant and can’t do no wrong.”
Before I had time to wonder if she’d given me a backhanded compliment, she added, “I feel the same way about mine. I just knew all six of ’em were headed to Howard or Harvard.”
“Nothing wrong with high hopes,” I said, landing on a note that I thought signaled an end to our conversation.
But Mary elaborated, “Well, two of ’em went to junior college, one went to Job Corps, and two—the twins—got hired at the Amazon factory in Dallas and left on the first bus smoking.”
“Well, we have our dreams and they have theirs,” I said. Then I remembered she’d said there were six and, without thinking, asked, “What’s going on with the last one?”
Suddenly, her eyes drooped, and I knew.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Mary.” We were definitely past small talk now, and my heart drooped, too.
