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Chapter 14
I felt guilty that in all my weeks in Peace Valley, I'd only been to Rick's coffee shop once. He'd done a classy job of renovating an old building on the corner of Main St. and 3rd Ave., refitting the facade in a 1920's Art Deco look. The inside was a little Spartan, a little industrial, but still warm and inviting. I'm not certain rural South Carolina was ready for his sense of style, but slowly the younger set seemed to be finding him. His coffee out-classes all other coffee in the county, even in Newberry, and the pastries that are baked in-house are luscious. I don't feel like I'm cool enough for this place.
At 1:00 p.m. Rick's place, which he'd named Cream, Two Sugars against Karen's best advice, was nearly empty. In the family, we just called it “The Cream” for short. The temperature outside had risen to 82 degrees, and I walked into Rick's air conditioning thankfully. The bell ding-a-linged and he looked up from crunching numbers at the register.
“Hi, Rick.”
“Hi, Mom-in-law. How's life?”
“Hot. I can feel summer coming already. How long did that spring last? Three days maybe?” He laughed.
“You want a danish? Cinnamon roll? Pain au chocolat?”
I looked longingly at the case of pastries now fading after breakfast and up for grabs. “Oh, man. I really shouldn't. Patty Goyle just gave me a dressing down for all the donuts and ice cream Karen's been pawning off on me.”
He slipped a cream cheese danish from the case and onto a dish. “Here.” He added a cup of fresh coffee with generous dowsings of half-and-half. How could I refuse?
“How's business?” I asked.
“It's picking up a little,” he said hopefully. “Each year as summer approaches the beach traffic picks up along the highway. Families drop in. It helped a lot when I put up that billboard last year. They drive into town to find us now.”
“That's good.”
A woman came through the kitchen door at the back of the shop. She was short, brown, and quick, a young grandmother type. She whipped her apron over her head and tossed it into a basket in the cleaning closet. Then she squared her shoulders and headed to where we stood. Rick smiled.
“Adele, I'd like you to meet Karen's mom, Ivy Monson. Ivy, this is Adele, my pastry chef.”
I had just taken my first bite of danish. A few crumbs of crispy pastry crust crumbled from my mouth and onto my shirt-front. “H'lo,” I mumbled, and reached out a slightly-sticky hand to greet her. She laughed.
“Rick, I done tole you I ain't no pastry chef. I ain't no chef atall. I'm just an ord'nary cook.” She shook my hand.
I stuffed another bite into my mouth and said, “I beg to differ, Adele. This danish is --” and I rolled my eyes and said, “Ymmmmm.”
“Thank you, Ms. Monson.”
“Call me Ivy. I'm so glad you're helping Rick out.” I looked at my son-in-law. “I love him to pieces, but I've eaten his pancakes, and I know he doesn't have a chance with pastry dough!”
“I've been cooking all my life, Ivy, at my mother's knee. Been livin' here in Peace Valley all these years and nevuh had a chance to bake real pastry and get paid for it.” She smiled broadly at Rick. “I'm real thankful for this young man. Our town needed this place.”
Adele walked toward the door to leave, but her words caught in my mind, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her.
“Adele,” I said, and I pulled her over toward a table. “You said you've lived in Peace Valley all your life.”
“Yes, I have.”
“So you must know just about everybody?”
“I s'pose so, Ivy. I think I've worked for nearly every family in town, one way or th'other.”
I sat down and invited Adele to join me. Rick brought us both fresh coffee. Adele pulled a bag of Cheetos from her purse and began munching.
“Do you happen to know a woman, oh about 40 or 50 years old, named Bobbie Deckson? I asked.
Adele munch a bit. “Bobbie … Deckson.” A light flashed in her eyes. “Oh, you must mean Barbara Dixon. Yes, she goes by Bobbie too. I think her school friends called her that. Yes, I know Ms. Barbara.”
“Dixon!” I exclaimed. “No wonder I couldn't find her online!” I turned back to Adele. “How do you know her?”
“She worked over at the elementary school years back, in the lunch room. Sweetest lady you'd ever hope to meet. She worked there right up until she got her cancer the first time, and then she left.” Adele paused and thought. “And she went back workin' there a bit later, but not for long.” She looked at me pitifully. “She's had an awful battle, that woman has. I've nevuh seen anybody fight cancer so hard for so long.” She shook her head and ate some more Cheetos.
“And is she still living?” I asked.
“Oh, my, yes. Just barely.” She leveled a sad gaze across the table at me. “She may be comin' to visit you soon over there at the undertaker's.” And a deep frown collapsed her face.
At that point Adele relaxed in her chair, crossed her legs, and proceeded to tell me the long tale of Barbara Dixon's cancer. She relayed the details of the first melanoma and the second melanoma, the colon surgery, and nodules on the lungs, and finally the cancer in her liver and bones. Barbara Dixon had very little time left.
“She's riddled with it, they say,” Adele continued. “She's just gone on hospice, but she's still at home.”
“And does she still live here in Peace Valley, or has she moved away?”
“Oh, no,” Adele said as she drank the dregs of her coffee. “She's still in the house.”
“The house?”
“Her aunt and uncle's house, over on Elm St. Nice little bungalow.”
“She inherited the Gillespies' house? The house Anita Wagner grew up in? I asked.
Adele's eyes narrowed and she tensed.
“Well, that's a name I haven't heard in a while.” She clasped her hands around her coffee cup and tapped it on the table. “Yes, Anita. That's Barbara's cousin. I'd forgotten.” She stood and picked up her purse. “There was a fallin' out in that family, years ago,” she said, “Pretty bad. That's how Ms. Barbara ended up with that house. She didn't want it, really.” Adele leaned down across the table, putting her face close to mine, and whispered, “It was that vile husband of hers, Myron. He drove a wedge between her and all her family.” She put her hand on her chest. “Broke Ms. Barbara's heart, I think.”
After she left I nursed my coffee a few more minutes and reflected on all the conversations I'd had, all the gossip I'd heard. I pondered Bobbie Dixon. If I could see her and talk with her, she might be the key to it all – a family member who could tell me what Anita Wagner was really like, why nobody seems close to her, and where her birth family lived. And maybe I'd be one step closer to finding out how that tattoo mysteriously appeared on her foot.
To read chapter 15, please click here.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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