Queen Bee Goes Home Again (12 page)

“Thanks for the tea. I really appreciate it.” I stood, taking my tea with me. “I'm going home to take a cold shower and have a nap. When's supper?”

“How about eight?” she asked.

By then, I'd be ready for bed, but I would set my alarm for seven-thirty to accommodate my mother.

 

Fourteen

On my way back to the garage apartment the next afternoon after cleaning all day, a familiar voice accosted me from the hedge. “Lin?”

Oh, no. Not Connor Allen.

My hair was frizzed, my eyes and mouth were invisible because I didn't have on a lick of makeup, and I was wearing sweaty, grungy cleaning clothes that made me look a mile wide.

Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot!

I considered pretending I hadn't heard him, but by the time I got around to that, he was coming through the hedge, looking all spiffy in a navy golf shirt and khakis.

Seeing my obvious distress, he took a step back. “I'm sorry. If this isn't a good time, I can—”

“No, it's okay,” I said. The damage had already been done. He'd seen me. I swiped at my frizzy hair. At least I'd left my rubber gloves at Miss Mamie's. “How are you?”

“Fine. Fine.” As if to spare my ego, he didn't stare at me. “I just wanted to express my gratitude for your help with finding my house.” Then he looked into my eyes, smiling like a shy young man. “I was wondering if you could come over for dinner tomorrow night. I have a wide selection of frozen casseroles, but it's sort of lonesome in a new place by myself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I figured you'd be eating with your deacons and congregation for at least a month. It's SOP for small towns like Mimosa Branch whenever there's a new minister.”

He grinned. “I gained five pounds the first week, so I asked my congregation to hold off for a month or two, so I could get settled in.”

I sized him up, my eyes narrowing. “You haven't already ticked them off, have you?”

He laughed, then said, “Boy, it's good to talk to somebody who speaks her mind, like I was a regular person. I have to be so careful with whatever I say, but you're a real breath of fresh air. And gorgeous, to boot.”

Alarms went off inside my head, but looking into those crisp, sparkling blue eyes, I ignored them all. Of all times, and of all people for me to lust after.

Goofy from the chemistry that surged between us, I still managed to come up with an acceptable alternative. “Why don't you come over for dinner with us tomorrow, instead?” Chaperoned by my mother, our dinner would be totally respectable. But I was heading down the primrose path by encouraging him. “Miss Mamie is dying to meet you, and she considers it her highest calling to feed the clergy, regardless of denomination.”

He brightened. “Perfect. When shall I come, and what shall I bring?”

Boy, did I love the educated Southern of his cultured accent. “I'll check with Miss Mamie about the time,” I said, “but please don't bring anything. Just yourself.”

Uh-oh. Did that sound as moony as I thought it did?

Connor nodded. “I finally got my phone. My number's 9342.”

How did he know about that? Only the old-timers knew that giving the last four numbers meant the 222 exchange, which had long been Mimosa Branch's only one.

“I see you've learned a lot about us, already,” I complimented.

“Small town is small town, the world around,” he said, his gaze never leaving mine.

I faced him straight on and saw nothing but trouble, trouble, trouble.

My mind said I was too old and too wise to fall into this, but my body just wanted to jump his bones.

Not exactly spiritual.

God, this is cruel, and you know it. Please get me out of this before I do irreparable damage to both of us.

God just smiled, along with Connor Allen.

“You know I'm notorious, don't you?” I blurted out. “Not the sort of woman a man like you should be alone with.”

His eyes narrowed in assessment. “I fail to believe that. I've heard wonderful things about you from several of the ladies in my congregation”—my mother's friends, no doubt—“and from Geneva and Donnie and Shelia.”

“They're my pals, and they understand about forgiveness,” I said. “But a lot of the so-called Good Christian Ladies of Mimosa Branch still hold it against me that I got stoned—completely unintentionally—and tried to have a fling with the new pharmacist—completely intentionally—ten years ago when I had to move back home after my divorce.”

Clearly fascinated, Connor Allen actually laughed. “Nobody said a word about that.” His grin lit up my world. “I can't wait to hear every detail. And I promise not to tape it and put it on YouTube.”

A minister with a sense of humor. My crush deepened.

I shook my head at his naivety. “Boy, do you have a lot to learn about this town.”

“Busted.” His brows lifted. “Frankly, I was hoping you could help me with that. After I hear about the pot and the pharmacist.”

“Not over dinner,” I qualified. “My mother would die.”

“How about on the porch, afterward?” he proposed. “Just the two of us, out in the open where anyone can see.”

Just like Grant and me, ten years before.

But for all I knew, Connor might blab. I'd known several ministers who failed to keep pastoral privilege, including his predecessor.

As if he had read my mind, Connor sobered. “Lin, you can trust me with the truth. I'm not the kind of man who breaks a confidence.”

When he said it, I believed him, even though I knew it was
not
a good idea—for so many reasons—to get involved. Yet my foolish crush answered before I could, “Okay. But it's your funeral.”

“See you tomorrow, then. Be sure to bring that big brain of yours.” Connor Allen backed toward the hedge from whence he had come. “And your sense of humor.”

Nine-three-four-two. That was his phone number.

Mortified that I'd given in to my uncontrollable attraction, I hurried up the garage stairs without looking back.

Once inside, I wrote down his number, then looked in my living room mirror and let out a hoot of horror. I looked a thousand years old, with bad hair, to boot.

Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot.

And I'd said yes.

As a single, celibate Christian woman, I needed to practice my noes, not my yeses. And I needed this stupid crush like I needed a ten-speed racing bike: one slip, and I'd wreck the man's life. And my own.

 

Fifteen

“Ms. Wallace will see you now,” the receptionist at the disabilities office said the next morning.

“Thanks.” I didn't know why I was so nervous, but I was. Maybe it was the whole idea of “accommodations” and “disabilities.”

A very nice-looking woman who looked about my age came out of the little corner office and welcomed me. “Hi. I'm Cathy Wallace. Please come in.”

I was glad when she closed the door behind us before taking her seat. “I want you to know that what we discuss here is strictly personal and confidential. Only qualified staff have access to our records.”

“Good.” That was a relief. “I don't want any students on work grants nosing around in my deficiencies.”

Cathy Wallace smiled, then changed the subject. “Congratulations on your Pell Grant.”

I couldn't suppress a tight chortle. “Thanks. I'm so grateful for it. But, to tell the truth, that's kind of like having somebody say ‘congratulations on your recent destitution.'”

Her gray eyes lit with intelligence as she laughed. “It is, isn't it?” Then she sobered. “I love your honesty. Do you always say what comes into your head?”

“Sorry,” I told her, flushing with embarrassment. “I guess I don't really have many filters left, anymore, outside of work. Living alone, I got into the habit of talking to myself, so what comes up, comes out. I probably need to get a handle on that before January.”

She nodded with good humor. “It would probably help in class, anyway.” She looked at my file. “So, let's see what we can do to make your experience as smooth as possible, here.”

I wondered whether or not to tell her about the words thing.

“It says here that you have trouble filtering voices during background noise.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She smiled. “We can get permission for you to tape your lectures. That should make it a little easier.”

“Great.” Except that the tape would have the same background noises, but hey, why not?

She scribbled more in my file, then looked up. “Any other difficulties?”

She'd probably think I was nuts with a capital crazy, but I confided, “I have this weird word thing with reading.”

She leaned closer, intent. “Can you tell me specifically?”

“Well, it happened after my divorce, which was very traumatic.”

“And when was that?” she asked.

“Ten years ago,” I told her, feeling foolish that I was still affected after so many years, “but this thing hasn't gotten any better. It happens when I try to read for pleasure, which I've done all my life.”

She nodded. “What exactly happens?”

She would definitely write me off as a head case, but never mind. “I'll be reading along just fine, getting lost in the story, when all of a sudden, the individual words just jump out at me. I completely lose my train of thought. I have to reread several times before I can get back into the swing, and then, maybe after a page, or only a few paragraphs, there it goes again. I have no continuity reading for pleasure anymore.” I lifted a finger. “But I can still write just fine.”

Curiosity and professional concern warred in her expression. “That's fascinating. I've never heard of that before.”

Figures.

She made notes in my file, then handed me a card from one of the holders on her desk. “I'd like to have you evaluated over at UGA in Athens, if that's all right with you. Normally it costs five hundred,” she said. “But as a Pell Grant recipient, you'll only have to pay eighty-five dollars. Can you manage that?”

“Yes.” Thanks to my commission for selling Connor Allen the house next door. Connor, who was coming to dinner at eight. I shivered briefly in anticipation. Mama was already cooking. “I can manage it.”

“I'll notify Athens this afternoon. By tomorrow, you can call the number on that card and set up the appointment.” She studied me with a clinical eye. “I'm very interested in what they find.”

“Okay, then.”

“Is there anything else?” she asked as if she hoped there were.

“Not that I can think of.”

She rose to shake my hand. “I'll get back in touch as soon as we get the results. If you qualify, then we can register you for your classes.”

Good. I'd get first crack at the good professors.

If I could find out who they were.

One of the checkout girls in the Kroger went to Ocee. Maybe she could tell me how to find the Web site that gave student evaluations for the professors. But even if I got the good ones, would I be up to starting over now that everything was done by computer?

Lost in a sucking vortex of self-doubt, I forgot I was standing there.

“Was there anything else?” Cathy Wallace gently nudged.

I came to with a start. “Sorry. No. Not at all.” I managed a broken smile as I retreated to the reception area. “Thanks.”

She waved as if she were watching a unicorn disappear into thin air.

Great. Just what I needed. Not only was I sixty, destitute, inappropriately horny, and a college freshman, but I was also a weirdo.

Nothing like starting off on the right foot.

I headed home through the heat to help Miss Mamie cook supper for Connor Allen, determined to convince her we had to eat in the kitchen.

 

Sixteen

It took half that afternoon, but I eventually convinced Mama it was more hospitable to eat in the kitchen with the air conditioning than to entertain our guest at one end of her table for twenty in the heat of our dark, stuffy, cavernous oak-paneled dining room.

The Mame consoled herself by breaking out her finest cutwork cloth and napkins, the best china, crystal, and sterling, and adorning it all with plenty of flowers from her cutting garden. The final table garnish was one of her award-winning triple-layer lemon cheese cakes (an old Southern favorite, which had no cheese, but dripped with tart, translucent lemon icing) elevated in a gorgeous crystal cake plate and dome.

I had to admit, Miss Mamie still set a mighty fine table, and I found it reassuring that some of the bygone customs of Southern hospitality still existed in my mother's heart and house.

Never one to lighten the fare when it came to company, Mama had made a boneless pork roast whose golden shine and rich aroma could summon angels, a Dutch oven full of her trademark pole beans (skinned by me down both sides with a potato peeler, lest anyone bite a string, God forbid), mashed peeled red potatoes whipped into stiff peaks, rich translucent pork gravy thickened with cornstarch, deviled eggs (my contribution), homemade pickled peaches so good they'd make you slap your best friend to get one, and summer squash with tons of butter and sautéed Vidalia onions, all washed down with plenty of iced tea: with caffeine and without, with sugar and without.

She'd started with the cake right after breakfast, but I'd only been helping since noon. A whole day of cooking and preparation, all for a mere hour of eating and some after-dinner conversation. (But there would be plenty of leftovers. Yum.)

In deference to Tommy's sobriety and Connor's being a Baptist, we left off the wine.

“Mama,” I told her, looking at the feast, “this is amazing. How do you do it?”

She laughed like a girl. “I don't very often, anymore, but with your help, it wasn't so hard. It sure feels good to do it right every now and then.”