Sullivan.
“Thanks, Nadine,” I said and left it at that.
She’d had a crush on Garvey Sullivan, I’d bet my truck on it. That meant I couldn’t believe half of what she told me about Maple Sullivan. I needed to find a more objective source. Of course, with what she’d been accused of doing, killing the town’s favorite son, that might prove difficult.
When Nadine brought me my late lunch, I asked, “Is Jemima Smith still alive?”
She slapped my bill down on the table. “No, why?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to figure out Maple Sullivan’s story. I thought Mrs. Smith might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Sometimes the past is best left in the past,” Nadine said.
“I’m a history major,” I said, opening my hamburger and grabbing the ketchup bottle. I hit the bottom of the bottle and sent a huge surge of ketchup over my steaming patty. “I believe in studying the past.”
“Some things don’t need studying. They are what they are.”
“I don’t agree. Sometimes things aren’t at all what they appear to be. And if something is wrong, if we can understand how it happened, maybe we can keep it from happening again.” But my words, the words of every student who studied history and sociology, even sounded lame and clichéd to me.
She sniffed audibly, letting me know what she thought of my theory. “I’m a lot older than you and I’ll tell you this. There ain’t no figuring out why folks do mean things. It’s just in some of them to do it. She was a selfish, self-centered woman who wanted what she wanted with no regard to anyone else. I think you’d best leave it all alone.”
“Well, I’d like to, except Edna McClun has talked me into cataloging Maple’s personal effects, so as long as I’m stuck doing that, I’m going to do a little research. I think I’ll go to the library after I eat.”
She shook her head and stuck her order pad in the pocket of her pink polyester dress. “You’re as stubborn as a clingstone peach pit.”
“Which reminds me, is there any peach cobbler today?”
“I’ll wrap it up to go,” she said, turning to walk away.
“That’s okay, I have plenty of time.”
“No, you don’t. You’re due over at Beckah’s Bridal Shop for a fitting at three o’clock. Then you have to go to Costume Carnival to pick up your outfit for the dance Saturday night. And they close at six today because Cathy’s going down to Santa Barbara to fetch some costumes she’s borrowing from her sister. Better eat quick.”
“Shoot,” I said, staring after her. I’d completely forgotten about both appointments. There went my leisurely afternoon in the library. I didn’t even bother to ask Nadine how she knew my schedule. That was like asking someone to paint a picture of the wind.
I pulled my date book out of my purse just to doublecheck. It was right there in my handwriting if I’d bothered to check it this morning. I managed to eat half my burger and take a few gulps of Coke before dashing back through the cafe. I handed a twenty-dollar bill to Nadine, grabbed my papersack of cobbler, and yelled out, “Keep the change.” An eight-dollar tip. That ought to buy me back into her good graces.
I was only ten minutes late to Beckah’s. Elvia was already in her wedding gown, standing in front of the threeway mirror, looking so gorgeous she could have posed for a fashion layout.
“You’re late!” she wailed. Her wedding preparations had acquired the overtones of boot camp and I was, no doubt, her most unresponsive grunt. Next to her in an overstuffed pink brocade armchair, her mother, Señora Aragon, glowed. The bridal consultant, Tia, smiled at me and continued fluffing out Elvia’s full skirt.
I blew my nervous friend a kiss, then went over to hug her mother. “Buenas tardes, Mama Aragon. Como estas?” I flopped down in the armless chair next to hers upholstered in the same stomach-cramping pink. I shifted from one cheek to the other, trying to find a
“Thanks, Nadine,” I said and left it at that.
She’d had a crush on Garvey Sullivan, I’d bet my truck on it. That meant I couldn’t believe half of what she told me about Maple Sullivan. I needed to find a more objective source. Of course, with what she’d been accused of doing, killing the town’s favorite son, that might prove difficult.
When Nadine brought me my late lunch, I asked, “Is Jemima Smith still alive?”
She slapped my bill down on the table. “No, why?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to figure out Maple Sullivan’s story. I thought Mrs. Smith might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Sometimes the past is best left in the past,” Nadine said.
“I’m a history major,” I said, opening my hamburger and grabbing the ketchup bottle. I hit the bottom of the bottle and sent a huge surge of ketchup over my steaming patty. “I believe in studying the past.”
“Some things don’t need studying. They are what they are.”
“I don’t agree. Sometimes things aren’t at all what they appear to be. And if something is wrong, if we can understand how it happened, maybe we can keep it from happening again.” But my words, the words of every student who studied history and sociology, even sounded lame and clichéd to me.
She sniffed audibly, letting me know what she thought of my theory. “I’m a lot older than you and I’ll tell you this. There ain’t no figuring out why folks do mean things. It’s just in some of them to do it. She was a selfish, self-centered woman who wanted what she wanted with no regard to anyone else. I think you’d best leave it all alone.”
“Well, I’d like to, except Edna McClun has talked me into cataloging Maple’s personal effects, so as long as I’m stuck doing that, I’m going to do a little research. I think I’ll go to the library after I eat.”
She shook her head and stuck her order pad in the pocket of her pink polyester dress. “You’re as stubborn as a clingstone peach pit.”
“Which reminds me, is there any peach cobbler today?”
“I’ll wrap it up to go,” she said, turning to walk away.
“That’s okay, I have plenty of time.”
“No, you don’t. You’re due over at Beckah’s Bridal Shop for a fitting at three o’clock. Then you have to go to Costume Carnival to pick up your outfit for the dance Saturday night. And they close at six today because Cathy’s going down to Santa Barbara to fetch some costumes she’s borrowing from her sister. Better eat quick.”
“Shoot,” I said, staring after her. I’d completely forgotten about both appointments. There went my leisurely afternoon in the library. I didn’t even bother to ask Nadine how she knew my schedule. That was like asking someone to paint a picture of the wind.
I pulled my date book out of my purse just to doublecheck. It was right there in my handwriting if I’d bothered to check it this morning. I managed to eat half my burger and take a few gulps of Coke before dashing back through the cafe. I handed a twenty-dollar bill to Nadine, grabbed my papersack of cobbler, and yelled out, “Keep the change.” An eight-dollar tip. That ought to buy me back into her good graces.
I was only ten minutes late to Beckah’s. Elvia was already in her wedding gown, standing in front of the threeway mirror, looking so gorgeous she could have posed for a fashion layout.
“You’re late!” she wailed. Her wedding preparations had acquired the overtones of boot camp and I was, no doubt, her most unresponsive grunt. Next to her in an overstuffed pink brocade armchair, her mother, Señora Aragon, glowed. The bridal consultant, Tia, smiled at me and continued fluffing out Elvia’s full skirt.
I blew my nervous friend a kiss, then went over to hug her mother. “Buenas tardes, Mama Aragon. Como estas?” I flopped down in the armless chair next to hers upholstered in the same stomach-cramping pink. I shifted from one cheek to the other, trying to find a
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