Fools Rush In (30 page)

And the children! I’d never seen so many. Whose kids were these? D.J. had said they were inviting family and a few friends. Who had this many friends?

From across the lawn, a large dog that looked more like a horse than a hound came bounding our way. The monster put both feet up on the window of our car, and Earline called out, “Get down, Bruiser.”

Rosa let out a little cry. “They’ve sicced the dogs on us!” she hollered. “Everyone freeze!”

We did just that, until D.J. snagged the hound and held him at bay. I did my best to calm Precious down, but she insisted on baring her teeth at the beast. We climbed from our cars, and I prayed the day would go well. Oh, if only we could make up for the other night! I fanned myself and prayed for a miracle.

After getting the dog calmed down, D.J. headed my way with a grin. I melted into his arms—“melted” being the key word, what with the temperature being so high. As he held me close, I gazed up into his gorgeous baby blues and whispered, “I’m so glad to see you.”

He responded with a kiss on the forehead. “Not as glad as I am to see you,” he whispered in my ear.

In spite of any past problems, Earline welcomed us with open arms. She took one look at Aunt Rosa in her Statue of Liberty costume, and her eyes misted over. “Oh, thank you for the reminder,” she said, brushing away a tear. “Lady Liberty always makes me cry. Why, all I have to do is see a photograph and I’m a blubbering mess.”

“Me too!” Rosa gave her an admiring look, and I realized they’d just crossed an invisible line into true sisterhood, one that defied all geographical limitations. The Statue of Liberty didn’t care if you hailed from Galveston or Splendora. She didn’t care if you’d come by ship from foreign shores. Her flaming torch welcomed one and all to a land free from persecution and shame.

I guess I had a lot to learn from Lady Liberty. I could barely get my head wrapped around the cultural differences between D.J.’s family and mine. Surely the walls would come down—in time.

“My great-grandparents came to this country from Scotland in the 1800s,” Earline explained. “They told my grandmother a story about seeing the statue for the first time, how overwhelmed they were. They’d always dreamed of a new life in America.” She cleared her throat. “Look at me. I’m an old fool. Getting all sentimental over a holiday.”

“It’s not foolish at all.” Rosa embraced her, and they shared a special moment, then my aunt turned to the flowers in Earline’s garden. “Oh, oh!” She made her way from flower to flower. “It’s just like my garden back home!” She began to explain—in her native tongue—that the Neeley property with its vibrant colors reminded her of the area behind her childhood home in her small Italian village. I’d never seen my aunt so happy, or so animated.

And my mama . . . she politely followed behind as Earline showed off the yard, but I knew she didn’t really care to spend much time in the sun. Surely the makeup she’d spent all morning applying would be running down the sides of her face if we didn’t do something—and quick.

Thankfully, Earline ushered us inside before I could give the matter much thought. Getting inside meant climbing over the dog, who’d now taken up residence on the front door mat. Precious yapped the minute she saw him, but I did my best to keep a dog fight from breaking out.

Within minutes the ladies found themselves inside the seventy-three-degree trailer while the men—minus D.J., who tagged along on my heels—stood perched in front of the barbecue pit in the front yard.

“Do you like sweet tea?” Earline reached for the pitcher, then started putting ice in plastic cups.

As I nodded, D.J. leaned in and whispered, “Be warned. It’s not sweet tea, it’s glucose tea.”

“I heard that.” Earline gave him a stern look as she filled our glasses. “And you’re from the South, boy. We drink our tea sweet in the South.”

“Yes’m. Just wanted to give the ladies a heads-up, after you-know-what happened with you-know-who.”

Well, if that didn’t get my curiosity up! I gazed back and forth between D.J. and his mama until she finally explained. “Sister Jolene neglected to tell me she’s a diabetic. We had a little . . . um . . . incident the last time she came for a picnic. But she’s fine now. Just fine. We prayed her through.”

“Well, I’m not diabetic, so we’re in the clear.” I took my glass of tea and drank it down in a hurry, then handed it back, ready for more. “I’ve gotta have more of that glucose tea.”

Earline smiled and refilled my glass. “There you go, honey bun. You’re a real Southern belle at heart, aren’t you?”

Bella. Belle.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Well then, you’ll love the ice cream I’m making. It’s peach.” As she went on to describe the delectable taste of the homemade ice cream, my eyes wandered to the window. Looked like another car was pulling up. I turned back to Earline, and she glanced outside.

“Well, praise be! It’s Pastor Higley and his beautiful wife, Nelda.” Earline fussed with her hair. “I must look a fright.” She turned back to us for our approval, and we nodded in one accord. “I hope you don’t mind a crowd,” she said. “But I told the folks in Sunday school, ‘Anybody who doesn’t have anybody can come.’ Likely half of Splendora’ll be here within the hour. We usually have a packed house on the Fourth.”

I looked around the yard, trying to figure out where we’d possibly squeeze in our new visitors. D.J. glanced my way, probably wondering what I thought of adding more people to the fray. I must admit, it all seemed a little overwhelming. But I loved the Neeleys, and anything that made them happy made me happy. Besides, getting to know D.J.—his world, his friends, his traditions—could only serve to make us closer.

We ventured outside to add our voices to the ever-growing chorus. After the pastor and his wife visited with us for a few minutes, they meandered off to see about Bubba’s cooking abilities. I turned my attention to a beautiful little girl with dark curls swinging back and forth in the tire swing. Her gleeful squeals filled the air. Behind the swing, someone had set up a Slip ’N Slide for the kids, along with two blow-up swimming pools. The younger kids splashed around in the tiny pool, their mothers standing by, and the older ones—upper elementary, at best—tossed horseshoes.

Deany-boy and Frankie played shy for the first half hour or so, but eventually they started tormenting the girls with a couple of tree frogs they’d found in the field on the side of the trailer. I was glad to see they were fitting in. Now if I could just relax and do the same . . .

At 1:00, just after consuming more hot dogs and hamburgers than anyone should be allowed by law, I heard a couple of familiar voices. Turning, I found the trio of “sisters” approaching. I took another sip of my sweet tea and braced myself for their arrival.

“Yoo-hoo!” Jolene called out to me. “I remember you, you pretty little thing. You came to visit us at church a couple of Wednesdays ago. Aren’t you D.J.’s girl?”

“Hush, Jolene.” Bonnie Sue swatted her on the arm. “It’s not polite to ask folks if they’re dating.” She flashed a winning smile as she turned to face me. “But you are, aren’t you? It’d be a shame not to, what with both of you being so pretty and all.”

I almost laughed aloud. I’d never considered myself pretty and certainly never thought of D.J. as such. Handsome, yes. Pretty? Hmm. Maybe. He did have great lashes, though. And awesome cheekbones. And the best hair I’d ever seen on a guy, sawdust or not.

Yep. He was pretty.

“You two are going to make beautiful babies together,” Twila said, looking more than a little dreamy-eyed. “I can just see them now.”

“Ooo, me too,” Jolene crooned. “They’ll have his wavy hair, I’ll betcha. And look at this!” She reached up with a fingertip to trace my cheek, a gesture so personal it startled me. Her big blue eyes widened. “I declare you’re freckle free. Not a jot or a tittle. Surely your babies will be spot free and wrinkle free!”

I wasn’t sure how to take that, but I offered a weak “Thank you.”

My mama drew near, her jaw dropping as she took in Jolene’s robust peaches-and-cream complexion. “Oh my.” My mother—never one to stay silent long—just stood in awe, staring.

“What, honey?” Jolene’s brow wrinkled. “Have I got something between my teeth?” She jabbed a fingernail between her two front teeth, then turned to Twila for examination.

“Clean as a whistle,” Twila said.

They turned back to my mother, whose cheeks flashed crimson. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . your pores! They’re spectacular.”

“Oh, I know!” Jolene’s face beamed. “And I work hard to keep them that way.”

“Do you exfoliate?” my mother whispered.

“Oh, hon, of course. I discovered the joy of exfoliation three years ago and never looked back. It’s so . . . so . . . cleansing. Almost spiritual.”

I laughed so hard a mouthful of sweet tea came shooting out—unfortunately, all over Sister Twila, who turned to me, flabbergasted.

“I’m sorry.” I giggled. “Just couldn’t help myself. I can’t believe you’re talking about your pores.”

“Oh, honey.” Twila dabbed herself with a napkin. “At our age, we have to. And in the summertime, in heat like this . . . why, if I let things go, I’d have pores the size of pinto beans.”

Thank God I hadn’t taken another sip of tea. I would’ve lost it for sure.

“You should try living on the coast.” My mother fanned herself with an empty paper plate. “It’s so humid. Sometimes I wish I could live up here in the country.”

I turned to her, stunned. “You do?”

“Yes.” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheek. “Your father and I have talked about it dozens of times.”

“You have?”

“Of course.” She nodded, a serious expression on her face. “My face would look ten years younger, I guarantee. And my skin wouldn’t be so oily. It’s so hard to keep the T-zone clean when you live on the coast.” She ran her finger from forehead to nose, then from cheek to cheek. “I’m always perspiring.”

“Glistening, honey, glistening.” Jolene patted her on the arm.

“Country living is so good for the body and the soul.” Bonnie Sue turned to my mother and asked the most dangerous question one could ever ask another woman. “How old do you think I am, hon?”

Now, I knew my mother to be rather blunt, so I shuddered at her potential answer. When she came back with “Fifty-two?” relief flooded over me. In fact, my heart soared with joy.
You go, Mama!

“I’m sixty-five on Tuesday,” Bonnie Sue said with a prideful look in her eye. “I haven’t changed one iota since I was fifty, and I don’t mind sayin’ it’s clean living and exfoliation. There’s no better combination.”

“Why, that practically rhymes,” Jolene said. “Exfoliation . . . combination. I’m going to embroider that on a sampler and hang it on my wall.”

“And I don’t know about the rest of you,” Bonnie Sue continued, “but I’ve found the most heavenly moisturizer.”

“Oh?” My mother looked her way, looking very interested.

“Bag balm,” Bonnie Sue explained. “I use it on my face and my hands. Feet too.”

“Oh my, yes. My fingers used to look a sight. Quilting, you know. But you see how pretty these hands are now?” Twila said, extending her hands. When we nodded, she said, “Bag balm. Every night. And I sleep with tube socks on my hands after I rub it in.” When my mother responded with a sour expression, Twila quickly added, “Clean socks, a’course.”

“Of course.” We all nodded.

“Does anyone have a slip of paper?” my mother asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

Earline sprinted into the trailer and returned a few seconds later with a notepad and pen, which she handed to my mother.

“What did you call that moisturizer again?” Mama asked.

“Bag balm.”

“Hmm. I don’t believe I’ve seen that at Nordstrom’s. I’ll ask my beauty consultant.”

“Nordstrom’s?” Twila laughed. “Oh, honey! You need to go to the feed store to get udder cream.”

“Feed store?” My mother paled. “Udder cream?”

“I hear tell they’re sellin’ it at Walmart now,” Jolene threw in. “You might try there.”

The expression on my mother’s face as she processed this latest information was priceless. I couldn’t blame her for being stunned. In our neck of the woods, women turned to Botox and collagen injections, not bag balm. To Mama’s credit, she scribbled down the words
udder cream
in her notepad, then looked up with a polished smile.

My mother then gave Twila a solid once-over. “I do hope you’ll excuse me for staring, but you have the shiniest silver hair I’ve ever seen. What is your secret?”

“Mane and Tail.”

“M-mane and tail?” My mother scribbled down
main and tale
. “Do you mind if I ask—”

“The feed store.” The three sisters spoke in unison. “Horse supply section.”

“Well, forevermore.” My mother shook her head as she continued to scribble. “Who would have guessed?”

The trio of sisters went on to share the rest of their homemade beauty secrets. Turns out, Crisco was a great makeup remover and even treated psoriasis and eczema. Jolene showed us her elbows as living proof. Hemorrhoid cream worked wonders for wrinkles around the eyes. And Bonnie Sue swore by kitty litter mixed with half a cup of water as a face mask, though she was quick to add we should buy the unscented kind. Twila ended the conversation with her suggestion for the ideal facial peel—Pepto-Bismol.

I’d never seen my mother write so fast. When we finished, she closed her notepad and tucked it back into her purse, then stared at me with a joyous expression. Who could blame her? She’d stumbled across a gold mine of beauty secrets, and I had a feeling they’d cost far less than the things she routinely purchased at the Clinique counter.

Jolene leaned over and whispered, “Did you get all that, honey?”

“Got it,” Mama said with a nod.

“Well then, we have nothing left to teach you.” Jolene gave her a playful wink.

My mother offered profuse thanks for their expertise, and I could tell she meant every word.

As we stood discussing what we’d just learned, a fellow in his early sixties with an extended belly and a winning smile joined us. He nodded at the group and offered a “Howdy,” then turned his gaze to Twila.