and looked down into her cup.
Who was she? Obviously, Dixie did not recognize every child in town, but one old enough to be left sitting alone in the drugstore would most likely recognize her .
“ You know what I think? ” She reached toward the child, but did not quite actually touch her arm.
“ I ’ m not supposed— ”
“ I think you ’ re not a real little girl, are you? ”
The big eyes blinked at her, the cup sort of sagged in her two small hands until it rested on the hammock created in her lap by her corduroy jumper.
“ I think you ’ re one of those robot toys I ’ ve heard about that says back whatever you say to it. ” She cocked her head first one way and then the other. “ What do people do? Press that bow in your hair to record a message? ”
The girl giggled, her adorably pudgy fingers touching the bow in question.
“ Or do you come with preprogrammed sayings, like— ” Dixie raised the pitch of her voice and tried to copy the child ’ s striking accent— ”‘ Help! This milkshake is so thick it ’ s making my eyes cross to sup it up through this straw! ’“
The girl giggled even more, her eyes shining.
Dixie wished she could nab that little bit of a thing and pull her close in a hug and hold her ‘ til she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that everything was okay. Instead, she kept on at her game, hoping to reach that point where the girl would trust her enough to tell her why such a young thing was sitting in a drugstore all alone. “ Of course, I know you can say that one
thing about not talking to strangers. But in this town, everybody knows me and my whole family. And I ’ m thinking if you were from here you would, too. ”
The girl turned and plunked her cup down on the counter. She sat there looking straight ahead, her jaw thrust forward, her arms folded like the locked gates of Fort Knox.
“ You done with that, sweetie? ” The waitress came by.
The child didn ’ t move or speak.
“ I think she might be waiting for it to melt a little so she can drink it better, ” Dixie volunteered.
She glanced up at the blond waitress and tried to pull the woman ’ s name out of her muddled memory. Noni Philpot was too cheap to spring for nametags because her sunny disposition kept chasing off the workers as fast as she could get the things made up.
The stocky blonde fished a nub of a pencil out from her apron pocket and tapped it on a fresh, fat order pad. “ You made up your mind, Miss Fulton-Leigh? ”
“ I...um... ”
“ Fulton-Leigh? ” The girl ’ s whole face brightened. “ Is that your name? ”
Dixie gasped, so delighted at the unexpected breakthrough that she couldn ’ t help teasing. “ You can say something else besides ‘ I ’ m not supposed to talk to strangers! ’ Or has the fry cook become a ventriloquist? ”
“ I can talk to you now, ” the child announced. “ Because I know who you are. ”
“ I thought so. ” Dixie nodded, feeling just a bit like a minor celebrity. “ I told you, everyone in town knows who I am— ”
“ You ’ re the lady who made my grandma ’ s green sofa. ”
Dixie started to correct that misconception, but didn ’ t have the chance.
“ My daddy is going to start making sofas, too, ” the child rushed on, her face flushed with excitement.
“ He is? ” At that, Dixie forgot about the correction and tried to remember if she ’ d authorized any new hires at the factory.
“ Uh-huh. ” Both her legs began to swing back and forth out of sync and she bounced in place on the lunch counter stool. “ That ’ s why we ’ re moving here. ”
“ You are? ” Dixie and the waitress exchanged looks. This story did not add up and Dixie had a very bad feeling about it. “ And just where is your daddy now? ”
“ He ’ s at the lawyer ’ s. ”
“ Lawyer ’ s? ” She took a deep breath, as if she could draw some calming curative from the smell of old grease on the grill and the musty dankness of the
Who was she? Obviously, Dixie did not recognize every child in town, but one old enough to be left sitting alone in the drugstore would most likely recognize her .
“ You know what I think? ” She reached toward the child, but did not quite actually touch her arm.
“ I ’ m not supposed— ”
“ I think you ’ re not a real little girl, are you? ”
The big eyes blinked at her, the cup sort of sagged in her two small hands until it rested on the hammock created in her lap by her corduroy jumper.
“ I think you ’ re one of those robot toys I ’ ve heard about that says back whatever you say to it. ” She cocked her head first one way and then the other. “ What do people do? Press that bow in your hair to record a message? ”
The girl giggled, her adorably pudgy fingers touching the bow in question.
“ Or do you come with preprogrammed sayings, like— ” Dixie raised the pitch of her voice and tried to copy the child ’ s striking accent— ”‘ Help! This milkshake is so thick it ’ s making my eyes cross to sup it up through this straw! ’“
The girl giggled even more, her eyes shining.
Dixie wished she could nab that little bit of a thing and pull her close in a hug and hold her ‘ til she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that everything was okay. Instead, she kept on at her game, hoping to reach that point where the girl would trust her enough to tell her why such a young thing was sitting in a drugstore all alone. “ Of course, I know you can say that one
thing about not talking to strangers. But in this town, everybody knows me and my whole family. And I ’ m thinking if you were from here you would, too. ”
The girl turned and plunked her cup down on the counter. She sat there looking straight ahead, her jaw thrust forward, her arms folded like the locked gates of Fort Knox.
“ You done with that, sweetie? ” The waitress came by.
The child didn ’ t move or speak.
“ I think she might be waiting for it to melt a little so she can drink it better, ” Dixie volunteered.
She glanced up at the blond waitress and tried to pull the woman ’ s name out of her muddled memory. Noni Philpot was too cheap to spring for nametags because her sunny disposition kept chasing off the workers as fast as she could get the things made up.
The stocky blonde fished a nub of a pencil out from her apron pocket and tapped it on a fresh, fat order pad. “ You made up your mind, Miss Fulton-Leigh? ”
“ I...um... ”
“ Fulton-Leigh? ” The girl ’ s whole face brightened. “ Is that your name? ”
Dixie gasped, so delighted at the unexpected breakthrough that she couldn ’ t help teasing. “ You can say something else besides ‘ I ’ m not supposed to talk to strangers! ’ Or has the fry cook become a ventriloquist? ”
“ I can talk to you now, ” the child announced. “ Because I know who you are. ”
“ I thought so. ” Dixie nodded, feeling just a bit like a minor celebrity. “ I told you, everyone in town knows who I am— ”
“ You ’ re the lady who made my grandma ’ s green sofa. ”
Dixie started to correct that misconception, but didn ’ t have the chance.
“ My daddy is going to start making sofas, too, ” the child rushed on, her face flushed with excitement.
“ He is? ” At that, Dixie forgot about the correction and tried to remember if she ’ d authorized any new hires at the factory.
“ Uh-huh. ” Both her legs began to swing back and forth out of sync and she bounced in place on the lunch counter stool. “ That ’ s why we ’ re moving here. ”
“ You are? ” Dixie and the waitress exchanged looks. This story did not add up and Dixie had a very bad feeling about it. “ And just where is your daddy now? ”
“ He ’ s at the lawyer ’ s. ”
“ Lawyer ’ s? ” She took a deep breath, as if she could draw some calming curative from the smell of old grease on the grill and the musty dankness of the
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