Hidden Riches (23 page)

That's when the memories came rushing back. The social outcast gay teen he'd been in high school had always found a few moments of refuge and peace in the study room off the guidance counseling center's office. It was Mr. Peterson who always encouraged him to spend as much time as he needed in there. Although officially called a study room, the space was more lounge than study hall. The hard desks and chairs that furnished the high school's other study rooms were absent, replaced by a crate-style sofa, chairs, and a coffee table piled high with college catalogs, military recruitment brochures, and study-abroad pamphlets.

Clayton had spent many an hour in that room crying, hiding, wishing he were dead.

It clicked then.

All of the small kindnesses, the empathy.

“You're gay,” he said. It wasn't a question.

Mr. Peterson smiled. “Don't tell me you're just now figuring that out.”

Clayton's mouth dropped open, but he quickly recovered. “I . . . you know, I guess part of me always knew, but I didn't know. You were kind to me.”

“The world is not always a pleasant place for homosexuals,” Mr. Peterson said. “And a small Southern town can be especially brutal for a young person just coming into his or her sexuality, especially if it's outside society's accepted norm.”

Something, a forgotten memory, nagged at Clayton.

“You knew? About me?”

Mr. Peterson nodded. “Probably before you did,” he said. “I tried, to the best of my ability, to look after my little birds. There were several of you throughout the years. But you, you seemed to struggle the most.”

The nagging memory came back to Clayton.

“But I thought you and Miss Hughes, the librarian . . .” Clayton's voice trailed off.

Mr. Peterson and Miss Hughes were known to be the school's longtime sweethearts. They were even seen out and about on dates in Ahoskie.

Clayton closed his eyes, the reality settling in. Miss Hughes, the pretty and soft-spoken librarian was what . . . Mr. Peterson's beard? It didn't seem to fit.

“Did you figure it out yet?” Mr. Peterson asked gently.

Just as when Clayton was a teen, the guidance counselor guided rather than directed. Then he knew. It did fit. The high school's faculty and staff members would have as much, if not more reason to hide behind shields. Their jobs and livelihoods were at stake.

“She was gay too?”

Nodding, Mr. Peterson confirmed. “My best lesbian friend. She still is and will be delighted to know I've run into you.”

“Tell her I said hello,” Clayton said, then shook his head as if trying to grasp the idea of not one, but two of his high school mentors being homosexual right under everyone's noses. “Why didn't I see this?”

“Don't be too hard on yourself, young man. Most teenagers are so self-absorbed or wrapped up in their own, their families', and their friends' personal dramas that they rarely have time to analyze what's going on in the lives of adults who are not their parents. And that is a fact more true today than it was when you were coming along.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Peterson sipped from his coffee cup. “For what?”

“For being a positive influence even though I didn't consciously realize it.”

The statement apparently pleased the former guidance counselor, because his smile grew broad.

“So how did things turn out for you?”

It was Clayton's turn to sport a wide grin. “It got better,” he said. “Much, much better.”

They spent the next twenty minutes chit-chatting about this and that. Clayton bragged on Archer, and Mr. Peterson congratulated him on his longtime partnership.

Mr. Peterson, who had long since retired to Florida, had traveled to Raleigh for a reunion of high school guidance counselors. He was so close to his old school that he'd decided to make a little side trip to Drapersville to see the old neighborhood.

The conversation made Clayton reassess the entirety of his teen years. Were things really as bad as he remembered?

“Hell, yes,” he said out loud.

But he had both Ana Mae and Mr. Peterson running a sort of interference for him, roles he hadn't even recognized then.

What else may have been right under his nose all along without him realizing?

That question remained with him as he entered the suite upstairs.

Archer wasn't back yet from his shopping, but he'd clearly been hard at work for a while. His laptop was open, and several files were spread out on the desk.

His mind still on what Mr. Peterson said today—and what he hadn't said but what he had done all those years ago—Clayton pulled out the booklet featuring the quilt blocks from Ana Mae's legacy quilt. The lesson from Mr. Peterson was that everything isn't necessarily as it seems at first glance. Look deeper and you'll find new interpretations to old realities.

The quote, one that had stayed with him from a long-ago sermon he'd heard at a Metropolitan Community Church, finally made sense. And maybe it applied to Ana Mae's quilt as well. Maybe the interpretation of the quilt was as simple as it seemed. The blocks were about his sister's life. What else was she trying to tell him?

He opened the booklet to look at the individual images. His sister wanted him to know about her life. Clayton decided it was time he got to know more about Ana Mae.

I
t was Archer, not Clayton, who figured out the block on Ana Mae's quilt that featured the teapot and teacup.

Because he didn't trust anyone except the owner of his favorite tea shop in San Francisco to blend tea properly, Archer had packed enough in a tin to last a good week. So far, he had managed to refrain from bringing his own leaves and infuser into the dining room at the bed-and-breakfast.

This morning, they and another couple were enjoying the last moments of a sumptuously prepared breakfast in the inn's dining room.

The tea the innkeeper brewed wasn't bad, but his refined palette knew the subtle differences. As he watched her place a pot on the table before them, the tea cozy made from the same quilted fabric as a table runner along the sideboard, it dawned on him.

“Clay?”

“Hmm.”

Clayton, absorbed in the booklet featuring the close-up and detail images from
The Legacy of Ana Mae Futrell
, did not even look up.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Archer?”

He found it amusing that the innkeeper Nan March either had apparently given up on trying to pronounce the Dahlgren part of his hyphenated last name or just thought referring to two men as Mr. Futrell more than she could handle.

“As a matter of fact, Mrs. March, there is.”

He reached for the teapot, loosened the cozy, and held it up. “Where do you get the tea you brew? I'm something of a connoisseur, and I have especially enjoyed this breakfast blend.”

She beamed. “I'm so glad you like it. Most of our guests are coffee people, so it is always a special delight to find someone who appreciates a nice cup of tea made the right way.”

Clayton glanced up at all of the sudden chatter. “When he says he's a tea connoisseur, he really means a tea snob. You'd think the man owned stock in the tea shop near our house. He's always there for tastings and parties and is forever bringing home teapots of every shape and size.”

“Really?” Mrs. March said. “Then you must stop by the Carolina Tea Company before you leave. It's where I get the tea you like,” she said, nodding toward the pot Archer now poured from.

“Where is it?” Archer asked.

“Not terribly far, although some people think I'm crazy to drive way over there just for some tea. Carolina's place is just about thirty minutes from here. She has the most darling little tea parties for girls.”

Nan March suddenly blushed, as if she'd inadvertently made a gay slur against her debonair guests.

“I adore tea parties,” Archer said, his voice a little higher and lispier than usual.

Looking relieved, Mrs. March beamed again. “I can get the address and number for you and print off some MapQuest directions if you'd like to visit. Carolina loves to meet people who are as passionate about tea as she is.”

“Carolina is a person, I take it?”

The innkeeper nodded. “Her parents were apparently infatuated with state names. She's Carolina, she has a sister named Georgia, and I think there's a brother named Arizona or Utah or something strange like that. She told me all about their names when I asked how she'd come up with the name of the tea shop. You know, living in North Carolina, it's just perfect.”

“Just perfect, indeed,” Clayton muttered.

“I would love the address and directions, Mrs. March. Maybe we'll be able to make a trip over there.”

Clayton leaned back in his chair and gave a mock groan. “Now you've done it, Mrs. March. We've just lost a day to his infatuation with tea leaves.”

Archer playfully hit Clayton's arm, then gave Nan one of his most charming smiles, the type that made heterosexual women completely forget that he wasn't the least bit interested in them. “Pay him no attention,” he said. “I don't.”

A schoolgirl giggle escaped her. Then, hailed by one of the other guests in the dining room, she excused herself.

Clayton closed his quilt booklet and lifted a brow. “What was that super-gay act all about? You ‘adore' tea parties,” he said, using the same patently and clichéd gay tone that Archer had used on the innkeeper.

“The tea,” Archer said.

Clayton spread his hands in a “what about it?” gesture.

“It's the tea,” Archer said again, reaching across the table for the booklet featuring Ana Mae's quilt and its individual blocks.

He flipped forward until he found the page featuring the teapot and teacup. “The tea,” he said again. “Ana Mae's tea. Don't you remember?”

“I have not the first clue as to what you're babbling about,” Clayton said. “And,” he added with emphasis, “we cannot spend all day at a tea shop. I have clues to . . .”

His words fell off when Archer gave him a pointed look. A moment later, the lightbulb went on for Clayton.

He clasped his hands together on the table, serious now and his voice bearing it out. Clayton said. “Tell me about the tea, Archer.”

“Remember the other day at Ana Mae's house? I found tea. Really excellent tea. A box of those vile bags that people call tea was on the counter, but I found Ana Mae's good tea while hunting for a coffee cup. I'd decided to bear coffee rather than submit to a Lipton tea bag.”

Nodding now, Clayton clearly remembered. “The tea in the tin that Delcine thought was marijuana.”

“Marijuana?”

Clayton waved away the question. “The thing is . . .”

“Where did Ana Mae get tea leaves? Real tea. Really good tea,” Archer finished. “Clearly it didn't come from the Piggly Wiggly or the Food Lion.”

Clayton grinned. “Quilt block number four is about the Carolina Tea Company.”

Archer nodded, grinned, then took a sip from his cup.

Slipping away from both her sister and her husband proved easier than JoJo ever would have thought. Delcine slept like the dead, complete with eye mask and earplugs. When JoJo tried to rouse her to tell her she was running out, Delcine muttered something that sounded like a swear word or two and turned over in Ana Mae's bed.

Lester had been even less trouble when she announced that she needed to go get a few feminine things.

Her rude, crude husband would sooner agree to be given a blow job by a midget in a clown suit in the middle of the Las Vegas Strip than walk into a store and buy tampons. That aversion served JoJo nicely as she gave a final touch to her lipstick, then spritzed her neck and between her breasts with an alluring scent. She blew a kiss into the bathroom mirror, then for extra measure cupped her big breasts and thrust them up in her already low-cut, white-lace-edged blouse. Satisfied, she made her way in kitten heels and tight jeans to Ana Mae's car.

Not long afterward, she parked in the side lot adjacent to Eddie Spencer's junk store and sashayed her way inside.

She didn't worry that he might not be open so early. It was barely nine in the morning. He was, however, expecting her.

And it looked like Eddie had also spruced himself up in anticipation of their get-together. His hair, recently barbered and shaped up, had a nice wave pattern in it. He was clean-shaven and had on a pale blue shirt, jeans, and boots.

“Josephine.”

“Hey, Eddie,” she said.

The hug he gave her included a slight butt grab that made JoJo wince.

Maybe coming here hadn't been such a good idea, after all.

“I was real glad to hear from you, Josephine,” he said leading her through the store.

As they passed through, JoJo caught glimpses of furniture that should have been sent to the dump rather than put up for sale, a lot of dishes and bicycles, and even a couple of lawnmowers.

“To tell you the truth,” Eddie Spencer said, “I didn't think you'd call since you told me you were married.”

He led her into his back office—a space that, unlike the front of the store, was actually decorated with some class. The desk, made of a dark hardwood and truly an antique, as opposed to one of the clapboard pieces for sale out front, gleamed with the care of frequent polishing. A telephone, a tablet and pen, and a laptop computer were the only items on the surface. A nice picture of a flower garden, not a print but made with real paint, hung in a frame that almost matched the wood of the desk. Eddie produced a couple of cups of takeout coffee with the Day-Ree Mart logo and a bag of doughnuts. JoJo sat on the loveseat and angled her body a bit so that she was sitting on the edge while Eddie settled back, getting comfortable. He took a sip from his cup before putting it on the floor and placing a hand on her knee.

“But there are some things I'm still very much interested in,” he said. “You being one of them. I never got over you, Josephine.”

She patted his hand. “Don't be silly, Eddie. We were always just good friends.”

He licked his lips, took her hand in his, and said. “And we still can be. Good friends, that is.”

“I didn't mean that kind of get-together when I called you, Eddie.”

His face fell, and he let go of her hand and bent to retrieve his coffee.

In that moment, JoJo realized two things.

First, he'd gotten a haircut and shave and probably put on clean underwear in anticipation of a romp with her. And second, maybe someplace deep in her subconscious, she really wanted it to be that kind of reunion.

She'd never cheated on Lester—although she couldn't be entirely sure Lester had been faithful to her—and she didn't plan to start breaking her vows now. That would come via a Nevada state judge's signature on a divorce decree. Until then . . .

“Eddie, it's been a long time. I just thought we could catch up.”

So they did, over the next twenty minutes or so, laughing and reminiscing about high school and old friends until JoJo got around to the real reason she wanted to reconnect with Eddie Spencer.

“Since I've been home for the funeral,” she said, “I've been doing some thinking and wondering about something.”

“What's that, darling?”

JoJo glanced at him, shy and hopeful and wondering why it was easier to talk to an old flame about this rather than to her own flesh and blood.

She took a deep breath and then let the words tumble out before she lost her nerve. “Ana Mae left us the house, and I know neither Delcine or Clay will be interested in it. So I've been, well, I've been thinking about moving back here,” she said. “You know, to Drapersville or Ahoskie, or maybe even Murfreesboro or Elizabeth City. I've been in Vegas for a long time. The life there is . . . ,” she shrugged, “well, it's fast and it's rugged, and I think I'm ready for a change.”

“Well, now, Josephine,” he said on a low drawl, “I personally would love to have you back in town.”

“Eddie, I told you . . .”

“I know, I know. Just friends, 'cause you're married. But something tells me that husband of yours might not be all that interested in moving to North Carolina. From what I hear tell, he's a big-city kind of fella.”

JoJo pursed her lips but did not confirm nor deny the speculation.

Eddie Spencer grinned and patted her jeans-clad knee before getting up to go to his desk. Bending over, he started opening drawers.

Not quite sure what he was doing or looking for, JoJo continued, although a bit wary now. Eddie Spencer used to be kind of wild, the sort of guy who knew people who could make things happen to people.

For a moment, she conjured the image of the old-time Vegas gangster. She could easily see Eddie, though he was black, in that role.

Was he looking for a gun?

“I, I was wondering what it's like here now,” she said. “You know, jobs and the economy and whatnot.”

“Somewhere in here is a . . . ah, here we go,” Eddie said. “I knew I hadn't tossed it out.”

He pulled out a pocket-folder envelope with a white glossy cover and handed it across the desk to JoJo. She glanced at the cover and saw both the North Carolina state flag and a couple of logos she didn't immediately recognize.

“What's this?”

Eddie came around and leaned on the front of his desk.

“The Chamber of Commerce put those things together a while back,” he said. “It's like a newcomer's guide to the county, with info about housing and jobs and things to do. They wanted all of us to learn some of the facts and share 'em with customers. As if anybody who comes in here is a tourist.”

JoJo opened the folder and found slickly produced color brochures and multiple rainbow-hued pieces of paper. Flipping through, she saw information about living, working, visiting, and vacationing in Hertford County, North Carolina.