Don't Make Me Choose Between You and My Shoes (2 page)

Dime Box, Texas, July 2006

C
elina Phillips lifted two teaspoons of sugar from the porcelain, rose-patterned sugar bowl and stirred them into her black coffee. As she sipped, she stood at the kitchen sink looking outside through the window at nothing in particular, thinking of everything in general. She felt twitchy. Unsettled. Not at all her usual self. Her usual self was levelheaded and prone to being too serious.

Her restless state of mind puzzled her. She had worked hard and succeeded at reaching her goals. Why couldn't she just be happy with her accomplishments? Why was she now, a short year later, standing here looking out the window, thinking,
Okay, now what?

She moved the flimsy ruffled curtain that veiled her view of the big outside world. Rubbing the fabric between her fingers, she thought back on a dozen different pairs of ruffled curtains that had covered this window over the twenty-three years she had shared this home with her grandmother, Darlene Phillips. Polka dots, gingham, pastels and plaids. Her grandmother's first choice in home décor fit her cute, small home. And Darlene's preference in dress—ruffles and bows—suited her.

Celina couldn't imagine dressing in frills and frou-frou. A bow on Celina Phillips would look as out of place as hair on a frog.

Her father, now deceased, was her grandmother's only child, and like him, Celina was tall and slim with an athletic build. Most of the time she wore her shoulder-length, straight black hair twisted on top of her head, a banana clip holding it off her face and out of her eyes. She used little makeup—only a hint of blush and lip gloss. Her clothing was simple and relaxed. Jeans and T-shirts in spring and summer; jeans and sweatshirts in fall and winter. In spite of her dull attire and her less-than-stylish hairdo and makeup, she had been told often she was the prettiest girl in town.

But exactly how pretty
was
that, in Dime Box, Texas, population 381?

She poured the last of her coffee down the drain, rinsed the cup and placed it on the drain board exactly where she would find it tomorrow morning. Her life was predictable, free of stress.

And dull as a toothache.

“Granny Dee,” she called out in the direction of the hallway, “I'm leaving.”

Darlene “Granny Dee” Phillips appeared in the kitchen doorway. A pink silk scarf, wrapped around her head like a turban, held her silver hair in place. In front it was tied in a perfect bow. She was rubbing cream onto her hands and diligently massaging each perfectly manicured cuticle. “Sweetheart, you be careful, now, and watch out for traffic.”

She said the same thing every morning.

Celina was always careful. And in Dime Box any prospect of traffic had long ago relocated to the larger cities of Houston and Austin. She mumbled under her breath as she let the screen door slam behind her. “Traffic? Heck, I'll be lucky if I don't die of boredom or if the phlegm of tedium doesn't stop my breathing.”

A bit melodramatic, but she didn't care. She loved melodrama. It was better than being dull and easier than comedy.

She fished her car keys from her jeans pocket and yanked open the rusted door of her ancient Volkswagen bug. As she cranked the engine, she looked through the kitchen window and watched her grandmother, the only true parent figure Celina had ever known. Her own mother had run off soon after Celina's birth, never to be heard from again. Not ready for “this motherhood gig,” she had said in her note.

Celina's dad had left too, but returned for brief stints to fill the house with delight. Then he would pack up and leave again. Celina had learned to live with the highs and lows of his comings and goings, sort of like the circus arriving in the
still of the night, setting up tents, entertaining with clowns and animals, then disappearing in the morning light. Ten years back, after a bout with too much booze and too much speed, a late-night collision with a highway road sign had ended his visits. After that, Celina's grandparents became her family, her world.

The words of wisdom Granny Dee had tried to pound into her head or whispered into her ear as sleep overtook her on more nights than she could count came back to her again:
Don't waste your life being ordinary
. Celina realized now with some measure of despair that she hadn't heard her grandmother say those words in a while. Had she given up on her only grandchild? Had she settled on the notion that
ordinary
was what Celina was?

Five dull and uninterrupted miles later, Celina parked in front of Mansfield's Grain and Feed. Beneath the feed store's sign hung a smaller, newer sign that read D
IME
B
OX
P
UBLIC
L
IBRARY
.

The library was Celina's contribution to the town. For four years she had driven the beat-up VW the round trip of sixty-six miles to and from the town of Brenham, getting her degree in library science from Blinn College.

Sheepskin in hand, she had somehow talked Dime Box's three-member city council into not only purchasing three hundred books and a used computer for a town library, but into hiring her as the librarian as well. When Dewey Mansfield stepped forward and announced that Celina could use the entire east wall of his feed store at no charge, she was in
business. Now, customers buying horse liniment, bird feed or pet supplies could stop and check out a book or two.

With a great sense of pride, she had brought the most beloved thing in her life,
books
, to her community family. She dutifully logged the precious books—paperback and hardcover alike—into the computer and organized them on the shelves using the Dewey decimal system. When she told patrons the name of the system and how to find a book by looking at the numbers on the spines, of course they thought she referred to Dewey Mansfield and remarked that they had always known Dewey was smart. She didn't bother to try and explain.

Celina had been raised with a book in her hand. Before she could read for herself, she pestered anyone older than she to read the magic words to her. When she was old enough to read on her own, she escaped to her choice of worlds every night.

As a girl, she had especially loved the Nancy Drew and Robin Kane mysteries, had even dreamed of being a private investigator. But that wasn't what nice girls in Texas did. Nice girls made their families proud, nice girls followed the rules of etiquette, nice girls died a long, agonizing death by boredom. She was a nice girl and rigor mortis was setting in.

“Mornin' Dew,” she said when she saw Dewey—it was the same greeting she gave him every morning.

She heard his deep chuckle. The play on words seemed to please him. He, too, thought the Dewey decimal system referred to him.

She didn't have the heart to tell him the difference, either.

“Mornin', little miss. Sam was in earlier. He was on his way out of town, said he'd call you later.”

Mental sigh. And Sam Crenshaw was perfectly safe in assuming that she would be here. Another reminder of the mind-numbing predictability of her life.

“Okay, thanks,” she said to Dewey, her mind now on Sam Crenshaw.

He was an engineer with a computer hardware manufacturing company in Austin. She had known him forever. They had dated off and on since high school. Well, it couldn't really be called dating. It was more like just going somewhere together because there was no one else to go with. Because Sam and she were seen together often, most people in town had concluded that someday she and Sam would marry.

Not once had Celina ever considered that happy ending. Sam was like her life in Dime Box—comfortable and predictable. And boring. He saw everything in black-and-white and had the imagination of a pancake. She didn't doubt that he felt some sort of affection for her. She felt something for him, too, but it wasn't that white-hot passion she had read about in romance novels. Something could be said for loyalty and dependability, but Lord, what wouldn't she give for a connection across a crowded room. Desire and wild abandon. A part of her refused to give up hope.

She walked past the store's front counter, then the length of the building, to her desk. Well, it wasn't a real desk. It was actually a folding card table on which her computer and a phone sat.

“How's that pretty grandma of yours?” Dewey called after her.

Celina smiled. She knew of the romance growing between Dewey and her grandmother. That was just fine. She was glad her grandmother had found someone. It was cute that both of them thought their big secret was safe. Celina had suspected from the beginning that Dewey had donated the use of his feed-store wall to establish a link to Granny Dee. “Okay, Dew.”

As soon as she had taken care of her morning chores, Celina sat down to surf the Internet, as she always did when the library traffic was slow.
And let's face it
, she told herself.
When was traffic not slow
?

She scanned two news Web sites, catching up on national news, stopped off at a few shopping sites and ended up on the site of the National Association of Private Investigators. The real-life cases, posted for viewers to read, held her as captivated as the Nancy Drew stories had. But the NAPI cases were better. They were true.

It was here, on this day of extreme restiveness, that Celina was hit with an epiphany. In the bottom left-hand corner of her monitor screen was a link inviting her to see more details on the upcoming NAPI convention being held in New York City. Among all the tempting topics were seminars explaining how to start your own investigation service.

Celina shot upright in the chair and squealed. New York City. Her entire life, Granny Dee had spoken about her first great love, the place of her upbringing, New York City. She had been a performer with the Radio City Rockettes when
she fell for a handsome Texas cowboy competing in a rodeo in Madison Square Garden. When the cowboy left New York, returning to the Lone Star State, a leggy Rockette was on his arm.

Still, as much as she loved the Texas cowboy, Granny Dee never lost her love for the Big Apple. She talked of it so often Celina felt as if it were her second home. The opportunity to learn how to be a detective, in the city to which she felt a kinship, had to be kismet.

Dewey leaned over the counter, craning his neck. “You all right back there?”

“I'm fine,” she answered. “Dewey, have you ever been to New York City?”

The storeowner ambled toward her, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “I've never been out of Texas. I joined the Air Force when I was a kid. Intended to see the world. But I never got farther than Dyess Air Force Base in Abilene. Always regretted that, too.”

Celina looked at him with renewed interest. “Really? You do regret it?”

“You bet. I plan on doing some traveling one day, before I get too old.” His face took on a plaintive expression. “If I was your age, I wouldn't let anything stop me. I'd like to see New York. I've wished many a time that I had seen them two towers before they came down.”

Celina looked at Dewey a few seconds more, a plan of action taking root. “How'd you like to come to supper at the house this evening, Dewey?”

His mouth tipped into a shy grin. “Why, that'd be just fine, Celina.”

“Good. You know what a good cook Granny Dee is. Come at seven o'clock.”

He grinned bigger. “Okay. I'll be there.”

Celina couldn't wait to call Granny Dee and tell her. As Dewey ambled up to the front of the store whistling, she picked up the phone receiver and keyed in her home number.

“Celina, honey,” her grandmother said when Celina told her about their guest, “you know I don't mind you asking Mr. Mansfield for supper. Or any of your friends. It's just that you should have given me more time.”

Granny Dee sounded anxious and out of breath. Celina pictured her scurrying about, wiping imaginary dust from the mantel. She knew the invitation posed no imposition on her grandmother, who had recently lost her job of thirty years as teller in the town's only bank. The bank had closed its doors forever. Now Granny Dee cleaned her home, cooked and gardened.

“Granny Dee, it's only eleven o'clock. He isn't coming over until seven. That's eight hours. What in the world do you need to do that would take more than eight hours?”

“I don't have anything laid out of the freezer, my hair is a mess and the house needs a good cleaning.”

Celina lowered her voice. “Granny, Dewey lives in a trailer with two old dogs. He eats pork and beans with Fritos every day for lunch. I'll bet he's lucky to get one home-cooked
meal a year, on Christmas. But if you want me to tell him it's not a good time—”

“No, no. That isn't necessary. I'll just throw something together.”

Celina relaxed into a big smile. Granny Dee never “threw” anything together. By seven o'clock, the dining table would be loaded with delicious home cooking that she would serve with the flair of a four-star restaurant. The house would be spotless and Granny Dee would be beautiful. Celina had figured out long ago that for her grandmother, the protestation was almost as much fun as the preparation and the presentation.

“When I get home, I'll help,” Celina promised.

“Is Sam coming, too?”

“No, not this evening.” The last thing Celina wanted was Sam's voice of reason and good sense interfering with her conversation with her grandmother.

The remainder of Celina's day passed briskly. Dime Box's only beauty salon had started a book club. Each member was to read and report on a different book every Saturday evening. Half a dozen women had been in and out of the library picking up books—except that in Dime Box no one ever simply came in and went out. Gossip was exchanged, weather was discussed and family photos were shown.

Someone usually had a son, nephew or grandson he or she wanted Celina to meet. In the past, she had accepted a few of those “fix-ups,” but nowadays, she politely declined. The men had never lived up to their loved ones' hype, and it was
too awkward explaining later why she and the fix-up weren't becoming a couple.