When Bobbie Sang the Blues (3 page)

“Did you see the bombshell that just left?” Hornsby asked Tony Panada as he sauntered through the back door of his office.

“I saw two bombshells. Which one are you talkin’ about?” Tony was six-three, tall and bony, ears and nose dominating his face. He tried to be fashionably bald, but without a hairline to soften his ears, they stood out like doorknobs.

“The older one’s Bobbie Bodine,” Hornsby replied. “She just rented number 101. Pulled out a wad of hundreds that would choke a horse.”

Tony thrust a Havana cigar in his mouth and flicked open a silver lighter.

“I told you! If you gotta smoke, at least stand in the door and blow the smoke out back,” Hornsby snapped.

“Settle down, Hornsby. I need to have a little discussion with you.” Tony blew smoke rings out the door, his back to Hornsby.

“I assume the discussion involves money.”

“It does.”

Hornsby chuckled. “Greens my favorite color. And the size always fits.”

Tony stomped out his cigar and turned around. His eyes, a faded gray, studied Hornsby. “I could use another unit for my business. What about the one that backs up to Miz Bodine? Is it still empty?”

“Still empty,” Hornsby replied. “But I don’t want any little photography sessions going on back there.”

“Hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a good suggestion. Actually, I have a personal interest in Miz Bodine and her ex-husband. If she’s in Summer Breeze, I figure he’ll be here soon.”

M
iz B’s Family Restaurant hummed with life, as usual. White rocking chairs sat on the front porch of the stucco building, and hanging baskets of flowers and greenery added color and comfort. Miz B’s felt like a big, happy home.

Christy opened the door for Bobbie, and they entered the wide foyer. A thick oak bookshelf stood against the wall and held a hundred cookbooks, well loved and well used.

“Nice touch,” Bobbie said, admiring the cookbooks.

“What a friend we have in Jesus…” A rich soprano voice rolled through the open door of the kitchen. Suddenly the singing stopped, and a woman’s voice yelled, “Junior, I ain’t serving fried potato peelings. There are more potatoes than peelings in the garbage.”

Christy laughed softly and tugged Bobbie’s arm. “Come on,” she said, leading her aunt across the restaurant. She peered around the kitchen door.

Miz B stood in the middle of the kitchen, wielding a paring knife she had obviously taken from Junior, who stared down at his lumpy potato skins.

“Don’t be so hard on the poor guy,” Christy called to her.

Miz B turned—all six feet, two hundred pounds of her. The worry wrinkles in her round, dark face relaxed into a wide smile as she looked at Christy, then Bobbie. She laid the knife on the counter and opened her arms to Christy. After an affectionate hug, she turned her attention to Bobbie, who lingered in the doorway.

“Woman, can you ever belt out the blues,” Miz B said. “Why, you’re a better singer than me.”

“I guess Seth and I got a little loud last night,” Bobbie said, looking embarrassed. “I just like to sing the blues. It’s about all I can sing.”

“Honey, you don’t need to sing anything else.” Miz B wiped her big hands on her purple apron appliquéd with red hats and looked at Christy. “Why didn’t you come out to the Blues Club last night? Everybody was there. Even Dan.” She bit her full lip. “I need to stop my babbling.”

Christy knew the “babbling” referred to her mention of Dan. He had gone to the new club without her. But why not? She hadn’t spoken with him since their breakup three weeks ago.

“Jamie, look who’s here,” Miz B called, leading Christy and Bobbie into the dining room. “You wanna get them something to drink? Coffee?”

Christy and Jamie Browning had become friends when Jamie and her young sons moved to Summer Breeze to escape an abusive husband. Beth, Christy’s mom, had taken them under her wing, enrolling them in her Sunday school class and including the boys, ages six and eight, in activities with other kids their age.

“Let me tell you the best thing we got this morning,” Miz B said, directing them toward a booth. “Country ham with red-eye gravy—not that white mess Shorty makes.” Shorty’s coffee shop had taken a hit since Miz B’s opened. “And grits, of course. Forget the potatoes today. And I’ll top you off with my special buttermilk biscuits.”

“Sign me up,” Bobbie said, rubbing her stomach.

“Me too!” Christy agreed.

Jamie appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee.

“Jamie, I’d like you to meet my aunt, Bobbie Bodine.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jamie said, setting the mugs on the table. “Your niece has been a godsend for me. I moved here from Atlanta and didn’t know a soul. Christy took me right in. And Miss Beth has done wonders for my sons through the church programs.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Bobbie said warmly. “I’m staying with Beth and Grant until I can find a place.”

“What are the boys up to?” Christy asked.

“Getting ready for the retreat to Camp Honeywood,” Jamie said. “They’re so excited, I can hardly live with them. Is your mom going as one of the chaperons?”

Christy nodded. “Dad’s going to run the gift shop on Saturday, and he’s promised to eat out so he won’t burn down the house.”

Jamie laughed and hurried off to accommodate an older man waving an empty mug.

“Grant seems capable of taking care of himself,” Bobbie said with a slight touch of sarcasm that had nothing to do with Christy’s father and everything to do with her mother. Christy had given up trying to figure out the rivalry between them long ago.

“So you’re Beth’s sister?” Miz B asked, her dark eyes glowing as she appraised Bobbie.

Bobbie nodded. “You’d never know it, would you?”

“Well, you look a little bit alike, I reckon. Small build, small features.”

“Yeah, but the similarity ends there,” Bobbie replied. “Beth was the good girl who always said, did, and wore the right thing. I was the rebel. Still am.” She winked at Christy.

Miz B chuckled, her chest heaving behind the purple apron bib. “Well, we’re mighty glad to have you. Let me turn in those orders.”

Jamie passed the table again, balancing several empty plates. “I see Miz B is personally taking care of you, so I’ll stay out of the way.” Her eyes strayed to Bobbie. “Will you be staying here long?”

Bobbie nodded. “I’m opening a shop called I Saw It First.”

“What a cute name for a shop!”

“Oh, honey, it’s just trash I find at flea markets and garage sales, but unlike most people, I look beyond the flaws and see the promise.”

Christy smiled, impressed. “What a great way to put it.”

Bobbie smiled back, obviously pleased by Christy’s comment. “Yeah, I admit I get a lot of satisfaction out of working with things that have been thrown away, taking those objects and making them beautiful and useful again. That’s especially important to families who don’t know what to do with the junk in their attic or a broken dresser that belonged to Grandma.”

“Well, I declare,” Miz B said, having reappeared with two
plates piled with food. “That’s just about the best idea I’ve heard in years. And that gives me an idea. Our Red Hat club meets here on Thursday. The girls would just love it if you could talk to them about restoring old things. We’ve all got stuff we don’t know what to do with, but we don’t want to throw it away.”

“Great idea!” Christy looked across at Bobbie. “You could start drumming up business for your shop.”

Bobbie laughed. “I like the way you think, honey.”

“Eat and enjoy,” Miz B said, placing their breakfast before them.

They ate in silence for a moment, and then Bobbie looked up at Christy. “I saw an old post lying in your parents’ garage. Grant said it came from his mother’s back porch and he hated to part with it.” She stared into space as she munched on a crusty brown biscuit. “I can show the ladies how to turn that old post into a lovely coat tree.” She looked at Christy and winked. “It would look real good.”

Christy had seen the splintered old post and couldn’t imagine it fitting anything but a garbage can, but she merely shrugged. “I just don’t have that kind of imagination.”

“You have a wonderful imagination. I love your mysteries. What are you working on now?”

“The third book in my pirate series. I have to do a ton of research.”

A deep voice floated down from behind Christy’s head. “I’ll take a bite of that biscuit if you put a hunk of real butter on it.”

Christy looked up at a grinning Jack Watson. He had on his usual jeans, and the blue polo shirt he wore emphasized his blue eyes,
bracketed by lifelines. In his case, age only added to his charisma. Sometimes when Christy looked at him, she could see Chad, and her memory rolled back to the good times and hung onto the if-onlys.

“Care to join us?” she asked as his gaze swept Bobbie. “Jack, have you ever met my aunt, Bobbie Bodine?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Bobbie extended her hand. “I never forget a handsome face.”

Jack chuckled and slid into the booth beside Christy. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m Jack Watson. I look out for your niece.” He glanced at Christy and scowled as though remembering something. “Most of the time,” he added.

Jamie paused at the table. “Hi, Mr. Watson. Would you like breakfast?”

“Nah, just coffee. Thanks.”

“I assume you’ve already had your cold cereal,” Christy said, handing him a buttered biscuit.

“She knows me pretty well,” he said to Bobbie.

“I can see that,” Bobbie replied, watching the two of them together. And then her eyes widened as though she had just thought of something. “You’re Chad’s father, aren’t you?”

Fifty-four years beneath the Florida sun had sketched deep lines on Jack’s forehead. Those lines deepened at the mention of his son’s name. “Yeah.” A halfhearted grin worked the corners of his mouth, and he turned to Christy, placing an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her gently. “Since we lost Chad, I’ve claimed this little gal as my daughter. So life hands out a few rewards, I guess.”

Christy felt the warmth of his muscled arm around her shoulders, and she smiled into his eyes, once as blue as the deep water of the Gulf. Sun and age had paled the irises, and now Christy thought of the sky rather than the Gulf when she looked at him.

Bobbie cleared her throat. “Jack, I want to open a shop here. Maybe you’d have a suggestion on locations.”

Jack turned to her. “What kind of shop?”

“I have a little hobby—make that an obsession—for turning trash into treasure.”

“Oh?” Jack munched on the biscuit, studying her carefully. He looked back at Christy. “Maybe she can work on me.”

“Stop it.” Christy swatted his shoulder. “Aunt Bobbie is a very talented lady. She’s won awards in magazines and craft shows.”

“Just a few little awards here and there. I simply love restoring old things. I believe I see the treasure in a trashed object when most people only see the brokenness.”

Jack stared at her. “Well, that’s a real interesting concept. And this area is known for its treasures, especially the buried kind, like you say.” He took a sip of coffee and looked from Bobbie to Christy. “Why don’t we take a little ride and look around? I can think of a couple of places that might work.”

“You two go right ahead,” Christy said. “I’m expecting a call from my editor in”—she glanced at her watch—“exactly ten minutes. I’m stuck on a plot point and need her advice.” She reached for her purse, and Jack stood up to let her out of the booth.

“I’m paying,” Jack insisted, “so scoot.”

“Hey, Christy, I’m singing at the Blues Club again tonight,”
Bobbie called after her. “Donna invited me to do a couple of sets. Why don’t you stop by around nine?”

Christy hesitated, wondering if Dan would be there. Seeing him would be awkward. Still, she couldn’t disappoint her aunt. “Sure. I’d love to hear you sing.”

“Then I’ll see you later, darlin’,” Bobbie said.

Waving to Jamie and Miz B, Christy yelled, “I’m in a hurry—see you later!” She dashed out the door and down the steps.

And smack into the arms of Dan Brockman.

“Whoa,” he said, holding on to her.

Even in jeans and a sweatshirt, Dan epitomized tall, dark, and handsome. But that wasn’t the reason Christy had fallen in love with him. He possessed sound morals, depth of character, and a sense of humor that drew her to him like surf to the shore.

“Hi,” she said, trying to read his expression through the dark sunglasses that protected his blue eyes.

“Hi to you. Don’t you ever return phone calls?” He didn’t sound angry, but he didn’t sound friendly either.

Warm feelings rushed over Christy as they stood for a moment, staring into each other’s faces. She’d met him in February of last year, and since then Dan had changed from the eager-to-please guy fresh out of Iraq with a military haircut and idealistic expectations of himself and others. These days he spoke his mind more quickly, immersed himself in his building projects, and seemed to avoid the subject of a future commitment.

“People are beginning to stare,” he whispered. “But I don’t have a problem with that.”

Christy blinked and stepped back. His arms dropped to his sides. “Didn’t we do this once before?” she asked.

“Yep. After I tried to persuade you to go out with me, and you swore you didn’t have time for dinner. Then I caught you, literally, dashing out of the restaurant with that faraway look in your eyes. Like today.”

“Panic might be a better word. My editor is calling in eight minutes.” She hoped only a couple of minutes had passed. “I hear you met my aunt Bobbie at the Blues Club last night.”

He removed his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. “Yeah, your aunt’s got a terrific voice. You should have been there.” He watched her face.

She hesitated, trying to gather her thoughts.
Why didn’t you invite me?
she wanted to ask. But she forced herself to remain cool. “I’m going tonight,” she said.

“Good. It’s a pretty neat club. No smoking, nice crowd. People should support the place. The new owner just moved here from New Orleans. You should say hello tonight. Her name’s Donna.”

“Donna?” She hated the jealousy that flared inside her.

“Right. She’s modeling this club after the one she and her father owned in New Orleans before Katrina hit.”

“I see,” Christy said, struggling to keep her voice even. Dan seemed to know a lot about Donna. He must have been making her feel welcome in Summer Breeze.

An awkward silence followed. Christy tried to force herself to leave, but her feet felt rooted to the spot.

“Well,” Dan said, glancing toward the restaurant door, “guess I’d better grab a booth. Good luck on meeting that deadline.”