(Here's the next chapter of this book. If you want to read chapter 1, click here.)
Chapter 2
Peace Valley, South Carolina was utterly silent at 1:30 a.m. when I turned onto Main Street and pulled into the dry cleaners parking lot. Beau was sound asleep and drooling onto the passenger seat. As I turned the engine off he slipped into an exciting dream. His paws quivered, his legs shook, and his nose twitched as he chased down his imaginary prey. A stroke on his head settled him, and I reclined my seat and drifted into dreaming too.
I woke as the trash truck slammed its way from business to business at 6:45. The street lights flickered off. I popped my seat back up and straightened my blouse. The long parking lot stretched from one cluster of shops to another – hardware store, thrift store, farm and feed store, bank, county extension office, day care, junk store imagining itself to be an antique mall, a few empty store fronts, and a tired little diner on the corner.
“Coffee,” my brain said to me.
I obeyed my brain. I ran a comb through my hair, popped a mint in my mouth, and moved the Volvo (whose name is Simone) down the street.
“I'll be right back, Beau,” I whispered. “Coffee calls.”
The hours posted in the diner window said, “6:00 am– 8:00 pm daily.” It was now 6:53. However, the stained paper sign hanging crookedly on the door said, “Sorry, we're closed.” I saw movement behind the counter. A head wrapped in a scarf bobbed up and down. I tapped on the door ever so softly.
A gruff voice croaked, “We're not open yet! Can'tcha read the sign?”
In Atlanta this would not be tolerated. But in Small Town, America, the gruff lady behind the counter is the boss of the world, and one didn't argue. I bit my lip and tried the door. It was unlocked. A bell clanged as I slid invisibly through the door and melted into the nearest booth. The scarfed head popped above the counter. I shrunk into the booth corner.
“I said we're not --” she started.
The look on my face must've told her I wouldn't be any trouble. Perhaps the mascara smudges under my eyes? The crumpled blouse? The Volvo seat pattern pressed onto my cheek?
“Hmph,” she said. “I'll be with ya when I'm done with this 'ere machine.”
By 7:30 the Stop-and-Go Diner was hopping. I was two cups of coffee into my day and had met a few of the regulars. One particularly friendly woman sat opposite me in another booth.
“What brings you to Peace Valley?” she asked between bites of bacon.
“My daughter lives here,” I replied. “Karen Kennedy? Maybe you know her? Her husband used to work at the bank.”
After a few seconds of blank ignorance her face lit up. “Sure! Rick who lost his job!” She frowned. “Sorry to hear about that.” She turned to address her biscuits and sausage gravy.
I'd never heard of Peace Valley, South Carolina, until Karen and Rick moved here seven years ago right after they got married. Rick started his job at the small town bank, Karen sailed right into teaching first grade, and life looked grand. Sam and I waited patiently in Atlanta for the first grandbaby to come along.
I never thought I'd be moving to Peace Valley myself seven years later, living in Karen and Rick's guest room decorated with her faded pink furniture from high school. But here I am, starting over. Shrinking into the corner of the diner booth is just a euphemism for my life right now: being small, invisible, fragile. That's what I tell myself on cup-of-coffee #3 after a night's sleeping in Simone. Karen will soon whip all such notions out of me. I really moved to Peace Valley to take care of Karen, who has cancer. Her Hodgkins lymphoma is treatable, but she wanted me to take care of the two boys so she could rest. To be honest, she's been resting her whole adult life. After four years at Wofford College, during which she flip-flopped among three majors, she drifted back home, became a barista, toyed with interior design, and married Rick. One year of teaching ill-behaved six year olds convinced her to have children herself, and she's been at home ever since, figuring out ways to get her friends and their mothers to take care of her. Karen has always been adept at looking pitiful.
It helps that she's tiny. I'm 5' 7” and stout. Karen barely tops 5 feet tall and is slim and blond with pale blue eyes. She has a constant look of sleepiness, so every mother-type she meets says to her, “Sweetheart, you look worn out! Come sit down. Can I get you somethin'?” It does help that she's also truly sweet and unfailingly kind. I believe Karen could get a prison warden to bring her a glass of sweet tea with lemon. It's her gift.
Now she spends most of her time in bed drinking green tea and watching Youtube videos. I know because she calls me most days to tell me what she's learned on Youtube. She's collecting recipes for me to try, cleaning tricks I can implement on her carpets, child-rearing advice as I help her raise the two boys, and a host of craft ideas to enjoy with her to alleviate her boredom. I fully anticipate becoming the full-time shopper, chef, dishwasher, maid, housekeeper, babysitter, gardener and chauffeur. In this respect my job description won't have changed at all from when she lived at home with Sam and me.
When Rick worked at the bank, they took out a nice loan and bought a fine Victorian house a few blocks away from downtown Peace Valley along a shady boulevard. Karen took me on a tour of it right away, walking me around via her cell phone. A deep wrap-around porch softens the lines of two sides of the house. Tall ceilings, tall windows, slow ceiling fans, chair rails, pine floors, creaky antiques, flouncy curtains, and a stunning magnolia tree overhead – Karen had the perfect house until Rick lost his job. Since then, it's been a strain. In order to cope, he decided to double his debt, open a downtown coffee shop with an Air B&B on the second floor, and go into business for himself. Somehow, I don't know how, they are squeaking by.
I do wonder if they'll be charging me rent on the guest bedroom. I don't want to be a mooch. Last week I talked with Karen about my finding a job in Peace Valley.
“Whadya want to do?” she asked between bites of cream cheese bagel. She moved her cell phone to the other hand. I heard her lick the jelly off her finger.
“Oh, anything,” I said.
“Secretarial?” she asked. I hate secretarial work.
“You wanna help in the coffee shop or the B&B?” I also detest waiting tables and cleaning the same space over and over. Then I broached the sticky topic of my recent job pursuit.
“You know, I did just finish at Gupton-Jones. I could always ….”
“Mom!!” Karen screeched over the phone. “Do not even mention that horrible occupation! I will never live it down if you move to Peace Valley and become the local undertaker!” Karen gasped for air and continued. “I haven't told any of my friends about your latest scheme! I liked it better when you wanted to be a lingerie designer for Victoria Secret. At least then they didn't cringe!” She admitted she'd been telling her friends that I was in nursing school. She just failed to tell them the bodies I was working on were already dead.
“But sweetie,” I broke in, “I really enjoy it. It's fascinating work, and hardly any women are in the field. And it's a very people-oriented job, you know --”
“Mother! They're dead people!”
That was last week. I may not bring it up again with her right away, but I'm not giving up on my new career. Even Peace Valley must have its share of dead people, and at some point every family needs a funeral director. I finish my third cup of coffee at the Stop-and-Go Diner. Lottie, the scarf-wearing old woman behind the counter, is slinging fried eggs, grits, biscuits, and fresh coffee around at lightning speed. The counter is full of plump fannies on vinyl seats, and nearly every booth is full. I hate to leave, but it's 8:30. Rick left for work long ago, the boys are at pre-school, and I must go face my daughter. Aside from needing constant care, she has only one fault. She doesn't like dogs.
copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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