Baby, I’m Yours (2 page)

If they continued driving straight, the road would take them into the center of town, but Emory veered off onto a more narrow road to higher ground, to Clover Ridge where they’d grown up. The ridge was mostly farmland, with an occasional home business here and there—Dottie’s Hair Salon and Mike’s Car Repair. Here the lay of the land was as familiar as his hand…he knew every pothole, every broken fence board, every barking dog.

A few minutes later, he pul ed to a stop in front of the Armstrong home, and Porter jumped out. After grabbing his duffel from the back seat, Porter grinned through the open window.

“So, let me hear what you came up with for the proposal.”

Emory frowned. “I got nothin’.”

Porter laughed. “Wel , hopeful y you’l think of something when the time comes.” He extended his hand and they shook. “Thanks for the ride, man. Good luck.”

Emory watched his friend bound up the front steps of his home and smiled to himself. Porter was a good man, as were his brothers. He was lucky to have grown up next to them. He didn’t have siblings, so he’d spent as much time at the Armstrongs’ place as his own.

When he approached the home he’d grown up in, he slowed for a fond look. His dad had painted the siding and planted a new fruit tree next to the gate. Emory would stop at the older Maxwel ’s office in town later to say hel o, after a little detour.

He drove further out on the ridge and pul ed off onto the side of the road next to the Clover Ridge cemetery. He reached into the backseat for a bouquet of flowers he’d bought when he stopped to get gas, then walked through the arched gate. Emory made his way through the wel -tended graveyard to the Maxwel family plot. His mother’s tombstone read Belinda Maxwel , Beloved Wife and Mother. So true.

He removed his hat and placed the bouquet of flowers on her grave, remembering her sweet face. He’d often come here to talk to her when he stil lived in Sweetness. “I’m home, Mom. Just for a few days, but it’s nice to have a break.” He smiled. “The house looks good, Dad is keeping it up. You’d like the color he painted the shutters.” He twisted the hat in his hands. “I came home to ask Shelby to marry me, Mom. Wish me luck. I love you.” He patted her headstone, then put his hat on and walked back to his SUV.

The wind had picked up, was tossing leaves and twigs across the cemetery. Emory held on to his cap and glanced up at the sky, which stil looked ominous.

A foreboding sense of trouble settled over Emory, the same feeling he’d gotten once on a field assignment just before an ambush. But he dismissed it as nerves and turned his vehicle toward town. And toward Shelby.

One way or another, he’d have his answer soon.

“Shelby to the produce department, Shelby to produce.”

At the summons over the PA system, Shelby Moon paused a split second from checking out Mrs. Cafferty’s groceries to consider what calamity awaited her in the fruits and vegetables aisle. An unripe cantaloupe? Bruised tomatoes?

She smiled at Mrs. Cafferty. “That’l be thirty-one dol ars and twenty-two cents.”

Mrs. Cafferty, dressed in a voluminous flowered dress that hung on her frail frame, squinted and put a hand behind her ear. “What did you say, dear?”

Shelby leaned forward to enunciate more loudly. “Your total is thirty-one dol ars and twenty-two cents.”

The elderly woman frowned. “Did you deduct my coupons?”

“Do you have coupons?”

“What did you say, dear?”

“Do you have coupons?”

“Oh, yes, didn’t I give them to you?”

Shelby smiled and shook her head, then waited while the woman opened her old-lady purse and proceeded to remove every item—Bible, packet of tissues, powder compact, mini photo album—in her search for the coupons.

“I have a new picture of my great-granddaughter,” Mrs. Cafferty said, opening the photo album to show the toddler’s photo to Shelby and to the people in line behind her.

“She’s a dol ,” Shelby confirmed, trying to tamp down her impatience.

Mrs. Cafferty’s eyes twinkled. “How’s that good-looking soldier of yours, dear?”

Just the mention of Emory made Shelby’s chest tighten. She missed him so much at times, she thought she’d never bear it. “He’s fine, ma’am. Stil in Afghanistan.”

Today especial y, he was weighing on her mind, as wel as their last conversation, which had ended in an argument. Nothing new there—he believed her father depended on her too much. And her father felt as if Emory wanted her to turn her back on her only family. She’d woken up this morning feeling blue, but conceded that some of it could be the weather.

The sky was as heavy as her heart.

“Shelby,” said Thelma from the next checkout aisle, “my register is acting up.”

“I’l be right there,” Shelby said, stil waiting for Mrs. Cafferty to find her coupons.

“Shelby to produce, Shelby to produce…
quickly.”

She took a deep breath and counted to five. It wasn’t everyone else’s fault she was in a bad mood today.

Betsy, one of their best part-time employees, parked a row of baskarts and walked over. “I got this,” she offered with a wink, gesturing to Mrs. Cafferty’s order.

Shelby gave her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

She said goodbye to Mrs. Cafferty, then stepped over to inspect Thelma’s register, which didn’t want to open at the end of the sale. The registers, like everything else in the grocery, needed to be replaced or updated.

“It’s a trick,” she said, then smacked the old machine on the side with her hand. The register drawer popped open and Shelby couldn’t help but notice its scant contents.

Revenues were sliding more every month, but she couldn’t get her father to accept the fact that the business he’d built and worked from the ground up was stumbling. Since her mother’s passing, the market had become his life and, consequently, her life. He expected her to stay in Sweetness and help with the business that would pass to her someday. If she broached the subject of the financials, he became agitated and asked her to think about what would happen if they closed the grocery—where would people buy food? Not everyone had the ability or could afford to leave the mountain to shop in other towns.

The fact that her father considered his business a service to the community showed just how big his heart was. She knew for a fact that he sold some staples for exactly what he paid for them to keep from passing rising cost on to his customers. And countless times she’d seen him load up a store van with food baskets and deliver them to needy families. He expected her to carry on the family tradition. She loved him so much, she couldn’t bear to disappoint him.

She didn’t want to disappoint Emory, either.

But it seemed inevitable that no matter what she did, she was going to hurt one of the men she loved.

Shelby wiped her hands on the blue Moon’s Grocery apron she wore and hurried back to the produce section. There she found Mitch, a mild-mannered, gangly stock boy, holding a bag of apples overhead with a panicked look on his face. Flanking him were Myrna Carson and Bonita Fine, arms crossed and glaring at each other.

Mitch saw Shelby and mouthed, “Save me.”

Shelby dished out smiles al around. “How can I help you, ladies?”

Myrna turned to Shelby, her mouth tight. “You can tel Mitch to give me my bag of Winesap apples, please.”

Bonita turned, her eyes flashing. “You mean
my
bag.”

“I had my hand on it, when you grabbed it right out from under me.”

“You snooze, you lose, Myrna.”

Shelby lifted calming hands, then looked to Mitch. “Is there another bag of Winesaps in the basement?”

He swal owed and shook his head.

“I have to have them for a pie I’m making for the county fair,” Myrna said.

“No,
I
have to have them for a pie
I’m
making for the county fair,” Bonita said.

“How about some nice Granny Smiths?” Shelby suggested, gesturing to the piles of other bagged apples. “Or Rome Beauties?”

Myrna frowned. “Everyone knows Winesap apples make the best pie.”

“Right,” Bonita said. “Everyone knows that.”

Shelby exhaled. “Would you be wil ing to split the bag?”

“No.”

“Absolutely not. You have to have at least three pounds of apples for a decent pie.”

“Right,” Shelby said. “But my mother—”

“May she rest in peace.”

“God rest her soul.”

“Thank you,” Shelby murmured. “My mother always used two different kinds of apples in her pies. She said it made for a richer flavor.”

“Carolyn could make a good pie,” Myrna admitted.

“She did win lots of blue ribbons,” Bonita added thoughtful y.

Shelby leaned in. “Why don’t you each take half of the Winesaps, choose a second type of apple for your secret ingredient, and let the judges decide?”

The women looked at each other, then softened.

“Okay, I’l agree to that.”

“Me, too. As long as you don’t spy on what other kind of apple I buy.”

“As long as
you
don’t spy on what other kind of apple I buy.”

Shelby looked at Mitch. “Wil you please split up the bag of Winesaps and re-price them?”

He looked relieved. “Sure thing, boss.”

“Shelby,” she corrected, then spotting her father striding toward them, she gestured. “Here comes the boss.”

But her smile dissolved when she realized he looked…angry.

Walter Moon was a big man with graying hair and a slight stoop from stocking his own shelves for so many years. He was usual y jol y, a favorite with the customers, but not today. “I have to take off for a while,” he said, his voice gruff. He untied his apron and handed it to her.

“Is everything okay, Daddy?”

“It wil be,” he said, then marched off.

Shelby frowned after him, wondering what could have him so upset. Maybe someone from the bank had cal ed. Maybe her father would be forced to face financial facts.

She folded her father’s apron and suddenly, thunder rumbled overhead, vibrating the building’s metal roof. The weather certainly mirrored the mood of the day.

“Shelby to dairy, Shelby to dairy.”

She sighed and muttered, “Coming.”

Emory was pacing by his SUV in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church the Moons and Maxwel s had always attended. Mr. Moon hadn’t sounded too pleased to hear from him, but he’d agreed to meet Emory to talk.

Emory would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. But he figured Shelby’s dad wouldn’t maim him in the parking lot of the church.

At least the rain had held off. The skies continued to rol and pitch, and thunder reverberated against the mountains that contained Sweetness in a lush, green bowl.

He heard Mr. Moon’s truck before he saw it, the engine racing a little too high. The man pul ed in next to Emory’s vehicle. He climbed out, then yanked up his work pants, slammed the truck door, and stomped toward Emory.

Emory noticed Walter had left the engine running—a sign he didn’t plan on staying long. And the big man wasn’t sporting a cordial expression.

Emory stuck out his hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Moon.”

The other man shook his hand with bone-crushing strength. “Emory. I see you haven’t been shot yet.”

Emory’s gaze strayed to the rifle on the gun rack in the rear window of Mr. Moon’s pickup. “No, sir.”

“I’m busy, son. What’s this al about?”

Suddenly he forgot everything he was going to say to convince this man how much his only daughter meant to him. A lifetime of playing and laughing and crying and loving with Shelby scrol ed through his mind. How could he capture and express al of those feelings in a few simple words?

Walter jammed his hands on his hips. “Spit it out, son.”

Emory straightened. “I want to marry your daughter, sir.”

Walter arched a bushy eyebrow. “And?”

“And…I’d like your blessing before I ask Shelby.”

The big man screwed up his mouth. “You planning to come back to Sweetness to live, are you?”

He knew it was a deal-breaker, but he wasn’t going to lie. “No, sir. But wherever Shelby and I settle down, I’l never stop her from coming back to visit you as much as she wants.”

Walter Moon’s face darkened. “Visit?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Moon turned around and walked back to his truck. For a split second, Emory was afraid he might reach in to get his rifle, but instead the man just climbed in and banged the door shut.

Emory strode over to address him through the truck’s open window. “You’re not going to give me an answer, sir?”

Walter looked murderous. “The answer is
no
.”

Anger bil owed in Emory’s chest. “I’m going to ask Shelby to marry me, Mr. Moon, with or without your blessing.”

“Do what you gotta do, son, and so wil I.”

The man pul ed out of the parking lot, spewing gravel.

Emory ground his teeth. If Walter Moon had his way, Shelby would live with him her entire life, waiting on him hand and foot and working in that shabby grocery of his.

He whipped off his hat and slapped it against his thigh in frustration. He had a good mind to cal Shelby and tel her to be waiting, that he was coming by to pick her up.

Then he pul ed his hand down his face. This wasn’t the way he wanted to do things. He wanted to walk in and surprise Shelby, to see the look on her face when she spotted him in his uniform. He doubted if Walter would tel her they’d met—he probably hoped he’d scared off Emory altogether.

But he hadn’t. If anything, he’d made Emory even more determined to get Shelby out of this town.

Angry and exasperated, Emory decided to stop by to see his father before going to surprise Shelby. His dad always gave him good advice.

Dr. Cletis Maxwel had an office in an old building near the town center that he shared with a florist and a bakery. Emory bypassed the patient entrance and walked to the loading dock built to accommodate supply trucks and ambulances. He rang the doorbel and a few seconds later, Nancy Cole, his father’s longtime office manager, opened the door.

Her mouth rounded and her eyes lit up. “Emory!”

He pul ed her into a hug.