Palmetto Moon (7 page)

Suddenly it occurs to Frank; she’s ashamed of this boat he’s driving. Maybe it’s the khakis. Hell, maybe she’s ashamed of him and would probably die if she saw someone she knew there. He ought to kick himself; of course she’d die if that someone she knew was her boyfriend. “The truth is, I wanted to take you there because Charleston is a pretty grand place. I thought you’d like it.”

“Oh,” she says softly, the color coming back to her face. “Really, Frank, we don’t have to go that far.”

Now he feels his face, blushing hot like a child’s. “I guess I was trying to impress you.” She puts her hand on his; his heart turns cartwheels against his chest. “Silly, huh?”

“It’s not silly at all, but I don’t want to go that far; we’d get back late, and we’d have Miss Mamie to contend with. Couldn’t we just go somewhere else? Someplace closer?”

“There are a couple of good eating places in Walterboro, if that’s okay. They even have a picture show.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she says, inching a little closer. He’s glad she doesn’t know he emptied out the coffee can for gas money and a fancy supper. He had no idea what things cost in Charleston, but he’d be damned if he’d not given her the moon and then some on their first date. She nods and smiles, and he’s certain this will be the last first date for the both of them.

As he turns the car around and heads in the opposite direction, her smile puts the pretty blue sky to shame.

“I’m glad you asked me out, Frank Darling.” His heart sings every time she says his name. “But you don’t have to impress me.”

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to go there because—I thought maybe you had somebody there. A boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Frank.”

He grins at Vada, making her blush. “I’d sure like to fix that.”

My breathing returns to normal. I smile as we pass a pretty field, but inwardly I am scolding myself for being so transparent. Why, I might as well have been wearing a great big sandwich sign that says, “I ran away to escape the tyranny of my parents.” Just the thought of Father sitting behind that huge, gaudy desk in the study, planning my capture and marital demise, is enough to make me sick again.

No, he won’t take my leaving lightly. Not at all. And when his pawn, Justin, comes back empty-handed, he’ll take matters into his own hands. But even
he
won’t think I’m actually working, something Hadley women do not do.

Besides, Father was never good at hide-and-seek. Not that he ever tried to look for me when I begged him to play. Father always sent Desmond to find me, because he didn’t have the first clue as to where to look. Desmond always knew, just as he knows where I am now. But he loves me like a daughter; he’d never betray me. The game is on a larger scale now, and I have the upper hand.

The car veers off the road for a few seconds because Frank looks at me a lot while he drives. Really, it’s sweet, but I don’t think it’s very safe at all. The car groans to a stop at a stop sign. A woman at a tiny roadside vegetable stand looks up hopefully. A little girl is on her knees, playing jacks in the dirt, and another is chasing a pair of boys who look like twins. The children stop what they’re doing and wave wildly, motioning for us to pull into the yard.

Frank lets the car idle. He’s smiling at me, making me feel like a schoolgirl before he steps on the gas again. The woman cranes her head downward as she sorts through a basket of peaches. She’s just like Claire, head down, always working. It’s hard to imagine Claire ever felt the way Frank makes me feel, but I know she misses her husband, misses being adored, feeling beautiful, special.

“You’re awful quiet,” Frank says.

“That woman at the crossroads reminded me of Claire.”

“A friend of yours?”

“No, silly, Claire Greeley from the boardinghouse. She’s such a dear woman, and those children are adorable. It’s terrible they can’t live in a proper house, or at least someplace the children aren’t encouraged to play in the street.”

“Widow Greeley is nice—”

I press my lips into a thin line, trying to keep my mouth shut, but I can’t. “Please don’t call her that.”

“Well, she is nice.”

“No. Don’t call her the Widow Greeley.”

“Well, she is a widow, and her last name is Greeley. What would you have me call her?” He’s smiling, teasing.

“Her name is Claire, and she’s not much older than me. Widow Greeley sounds, well, old, very old, and she’s not. Claire is young and beautiful.”

I turn to face Frank. He almost runs off the road, so I turn around to watch the road for myself. He may be handsome, very handsome, but he is not a good driver. The car slows as we enter the small town. Frank turns down Washington Street and pulls into a space in front of Harold’s Southern Diner and puts the car in park. “I hear Mr. Stanley is sweet on her.”

“Really?” I spit the word out. “You can’t be serious.”

His look is defensive, but there’s a hint of a smile. “I don’t mean to rile you, but a woman in her position doesn’t have many options. Especially with those three boys.” I move away from him and his voice softens as he pleads his case apologetically. “I wish things were different for her, Vada, really I do, but that won’t make it so.”

I get my white tea gloves out of my purse and put them on absentmindedly. “I offered to share a house with her.” Oh, this isn’t a stuffy sit-down dinner. It’s a diner, for goodness’ sake. I yank them off.

“
No,
” his eyes nearly bug out of his head, “you can’t—you don’t want to do that.”

“Yes. Yes, I know, the Boston-marriage thing.”

Frank looks around and lowers his voice. “You know about that?”

“Claire told me because she was horrified when I offered to share a house with her and the children. But that doesn’t matter, Frank—”

“But it does matter, Vada. Round O is a small community and you’re a schoolteacher.”

“Even if I was an actual participant in this so-called Boston marriage, which I am not, it wouldn’t affect my teaching skills one iota. The whole idea of Claire trapped at the boardinghouse with the children breaks my heart, and I know it’s breaking hers, too.”

He rubs his knuckles across my cheek and smiles at me. I can’t help but smile back. Without thinking that we are sitting in broad daylight, in front of a busy restaurant, he leans toward me. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I watch his lips moving closer to mine. A horn honks, startling both of us, and he sits straight up with a look on his face like he can’t believe what he’s almost done. I squeeze his hand to let him know I hope I won’t wait long for our first kiss.

A
Charleston Evening Post
newspaper rack just outside the restaurant door catches my eye. I fumble in my pocketbook for some change.

“Allow me,” Frank says. He inserts a nickel, opens the box, and hands me a newspaper. “Hope you’re not so bored already you’re planning on reading the paper during dinner.”

I laugh and fold the paper in half and put it in my purse, intent on combing through it when I get back to the boardinghouse to see if there’s anything about my disappearance. Although I am reasonably sure my father wouldn’t use the police to find me; he’d use his own resources to be discreet.

I’m not sure if this place really smells better than the Sit Down Diner, or if I’m just hungrier than I was this morning after my interview. The restaurant is bigger than Frank’s place, much busier, loud. The portly cook behind the counter wipes his round red face and turns up the radio. The whine of Bill Monroe crooning “Blue Moon of Kentucky”
quiets the crowd a little. People look at us and nod, tapping their toes in time to the music.

We walk past the line of shiny red Naugahyde stools at the lunch counter. Frank’s hand brushes the small of my back, guiding me toward the only table for two, near the powder room, away from the clatter, the most romantic one in the diner.

He pulls my chair out for me. In the tight space, I can feel his breath on my hair, like he’s breathing me in before he sits down across from me. His face is dreamy: high cheekbones, suntanned skin, blond hair slicked back with pomade. Quite dapper.

“I’ve thought it a million times all the way here,” he smiles and my heart flips over in my chest, “hell, since the second you walked into the diner this morning, but I haven’t said it—”

“Said what?”

“That you were beautiful.” He shakes his head, then looks at me with those gorgeous green eyes. “You are beautiful.”

Neither of us acknowledges the waitress who puts the menus on the table and waddles back toward the kitchen. I feel my face blaze.

“You’re blushing like I said it for the heck of it, but it’s true. Truer than anything I know.”

“Thank you, Frank.” I want to tell him I think he is beautiful, too, and he is, but it seems rather silly.

The waitress returns with her order pad and, without even asking, pours two glasses of sweet tea. “We got chitlins for the meat-and-three special.” She looks back toward the kitchen and lowers her voice. “Don’t order the meatloaf, and if you do, don’t eat it. Y’all look like y’all need a minute,” she says and walks off again.

“That’s My Desire” comes on the radio, and the cook turns the music down.

Frank puts his glass up to his lips and takes a sip.

I breathe out a dreamy sigh. “I love Frankie.”

Frank almost spews his drink. “Excuse me?”

“That song, before the cook turned it down. It was Frankie Laine’s ‘Desire.’”

“Oh.” He looks relieved. He gets up and walks over to the kitchen. The cook doesn’t seem to know him, but Frank says something to him and the man mops his brow with the towel slung over his shoulder and they shake hands. The man looks at me, smiles, nods, and then turns the song back up.

Frankie Laine’s silky voice wraps around the orchestra’s music, making me want to dance. Frank returns with a thin smile that makes me feel like he’d do anything for me.

Too soon, another country tune comes on the radio, and the toe tappers pick up their pace, nodding their heads to the music as they eat.

“I don’t know this song, Frank.”

“It’s Moon Mullican and the Showboys. ‘Jole Bion’s Sister.’”

I laugh at the singer’s hard twang and gross mispronunciation of the French words he’s attempting to sing. The song is about a woman who caught a man’s eye, until he saw her nine children. Could Frank be right about Claire, and there really are no prospects for her other than Mr. Stanley? Surely not. If Justin’s looks can make someone overlook his myriad of flaws, I’m positive someone young and handsome will fall in love with Claire.

“I see those pretty wheels turning. What are you thinking about?” And before Vada can answer, Frank hears the chorus of the song and nods his head. “You’re thinking about Claire?” Vada smiles because Frank called the widow by her given name. “If I could, I’d make the world what you want it to be.” He reaches for her hand, runs his thumb across the soft ridges of her knuckles.

She squeezes Frank’s hand like she believes him.

“Are y’all going to order? ’Cause if you’re not, you’ll have to leave. This place is for paying customers only.” The waitress looks irritated. Frank looks down at the menu that is a minefield of bad choices. Cabbage and sausage? Gas. Spaghetti? He can smell the garlic all the way here from the back of the restaurant. Liver and onions. Definitely not food for lovers, but the chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes looks safe. He switches out the side of grilled onions for green beans. Vada glances down at the menu for a second.

“Crab cakes,” the waitress repeats after Vada.

Frank raises his eyebrows. Is this a challenge? Vada gives him a playful smile. “With grits, if you have them.”

“’Course we have grits.” The woman huffs. “What kind of place do you think this is?”

“Well, your sign out front says ‘best eats around,’ and to be completely honest, I’m not sure I believe it. The menu also claims your crab cakes are the best, but I had some stellar ones for breakfast this morning, so we’ll see.”

The woman hoofs it over to the kitchen, and the cook nods and looks at Vada like she’s thrown down the gauntlet.

“Why, Miss Hadley, are you disputing Tiny Medford’s word about my cooking? Tiny wouldn’t take kindly to that, but, for your sake, I swear I won’t tell her.” She laughs. He looks into her face. God she’s beautiful. He wants to know her, know everything about her. “So, where are you from?”

“I love this song.” She ignores the question and sways to the easy beat.

He starts to ask again but gets distracted by her face, her smile, her fluid movements. “You want to dance?”

She stops and blushes. “Here? Now?”

“After the crab-cake contest. There’s a dance hall at the end of the street. I’ve been there a time or two; it’s a nice enough place.”

The food is on the table too soon, and Frank can’t eat until he watches her judge it. Her lips part for the fork. No scrunching shoulders or blissful face. She rocks her head from side to side like they’re okay and eats. Frank’s so proud, he’s about to burst. If Vada Hadley doesn’t know anything else about him, she knows he’s a damn-fine cook.

He inhales his food to get on with the date, to feel her swaying in his arms on the dance floor. She takes dainty bites like she’s in no hurry and sets her fork down.

“Can I tell you something, Frank?” She looks at him with those blue eyes, and all he can do is nod. “I have a secret.”

Frank has a secret, too. He’s fallen hard for Vada Hadley and her blue eyes, her soft pink lips that smile when she says his name. So damn hard. Could he possibly be the luckiest man in the world because she feels the same way?

“You can tell me anything, Vada.”

She picks up her fork again and smiles as she pushes the food around on her plate, and he is completely lost. “I need your help, Frank Darling.”

This doesn’t sound like she’s going to tell him she loves him back, but she did say she needs him. Sort of. At least she needs his help.