Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) (12 page)
I suggest we take the rollers out of her hair and then help her undo each one. I’ve helped my aunt at her shop a number of times before. Removing curlers from hair is one of the tasks she’s given me to do, so I feel confident now.
Mavey Marie decides that none of the styles in the glossy book suit her. “I might just leave my hair as it is and hope for the best.”
Lona stands, heads over to the mirror by the swivel chair, and combs out her hair. “I think you should just keep the style you’ve always had for the wedding. A wedding is no time to try something new. Eden did, and it was a disaster.”
“I remember that.
Edith Eden and the Edge of Evening
, right?”
“That was the book. I was so young when I wrote it.” She sighs, the comb suspended in her left hand, and peers into the mirror as though her vanished youth is stretched before her, allowing her to view it one last time.
When the cuckoo clock lets out eight chirps, my stomach feels hollow, and I wonder if Sheerly has any food to eat in the shop. I know she makes a thermos of jasmine tea each morning for her customers. Today it’s on the little table beside the bay window. A jar of honey sits next to it, as Sheerly sweetens the tea with honey she purchases from a local beekeeper. She serves the drink in chipped pink teacups she got at a yard sale.
I’m looking in the back room where Sheerly keeps boxes of supplies, hopeful for at least a pack of cheese crackers, when the door opens and in walks Jolene. Jolene is one of Sheerly’s most faithful customers, claiming that if Sheerly were to ever move, she’d move right along with her. Unless Sheerly moves to Alaska, and then Jolene says she might only visit her during the warmer months.
“You found yourself a good man yet?” Jolene asks me when I walk over to greet her.
I paste on a smile.
“I’ve been telling Sheerly about my grandson in Mebane,” Jolene tells the other two women in her sweet southern tone that could soothe even a belligerent child like Zane to sleep. “He is one finelooking boy. He loves that NASCAR and was in Charlotte last year to watch the races live.”
“How old is Jack now?” asks Lona as she continues combing her hair.
“Thirty-nine in December.”
“And he’s never been married?”
“No.” Jolene winks at me. “He’s just waiting to find that right girl.”
The truth is, NASCAR bores me. Sure, I grew up in the South, but my mother’s Asian influence has sunk into my veins. As she puts it, we do not watch “crazy car stuff.” We adore Bruce Lee and martial arts films, most certainly, but not a bunch of high-speed cars driving in circles.
“You need to go to Coronado, California.” Mavey Marie’s eyes find mine.
“California!” exclaims Jolene as though hearing the name of the state makes her shudder. “Why would she do that?”
“It’s on the coast. Looks beautiful. Or Edgewater, New Jersey.” Mavey Marie smiles. “There are more rich singles in those two places than in all of this state!”
“Now, where did you read that?” asks Lona.
“I heard it on the TV.”
“I think women these days need to be careful.” Lona again holds everyone’s attention. “Looking for love in all the wrong places is not what God intended for us.”
“Bingo,” says Mavey Marie. “Girls need to not chase so much, but trust God more. Trust that God will bring the right man.”
When the shop’s phone rings, it’s the UPS driver telling me he won’t be here today. “My truck broke down in Nags Head. I’m at a service shop. Tell Miss Sheerly I’ll get by there tomorrow with all her stuff.”
“Where is Sheerly?” asks Jolene when I hang up the phone.
I start to answer, but Lona interrupts. “She’s singing her heart out. Winning the prize and making us proud!”
I hope she wins because it will make missing my date with Davis more worthwhile.
“Can you paint my fingernails?” Jolene asks. She’s looking right at me. “Sheerly does it for me every Saturday.”
“Bottle of pink in the back of the shop in the broom closet,” Lona tells me. To Jolene, she says, “It’s not Saturday, Jolene.”
“Got plans for Saturday.” She smiles. “Is there any tea left?”
“What plans?”
“Going to visit my best friend in Buffalo.”
“Buffalo! Isn’t that up north?” Mavey Marie asks.
Jolene attempts to pour tea from the thermos that Sheerly usually keeps filled, but only a dribble plops into a cup she holds. “New York. Gonna be there for a week.”
“How’d you get a best friend in Buffalo?” Lona wonders aloud.
“Went to college with her at Queens. We’ve stayed friends ever since. Her husband died just like mine. About the same time, too. So now we’re learning how to pay bills and take care of our cars on our own. Last time, I took two of Sheerly’s tomato pies up to my friend. I flew with them in a leather bag. All the way to Buffalo I smelled those pies. Her friends now call me the Southern Tomato.” She eyes us all. “Isn’t that sweet?” Her face holds a placid grin.
“Well, it makes a good story.” Lona is all about the good stories in life. She’s been known to use a few coastal folk in her mysteries— names and places changed, of course.
Suddenly, Jolene scans the room, her neck bobbing like a rooster’s. “Where exactly is Sheerly?”
“The big song competition,” replies Lona. “She’s gonna win. I feel it. Don’t you, Jackie?”
“Sure,” I say as I carry the nail polish toward Jolene.
Next time, if there is ever another chance to go on a date with Davis, I will not let anything get in the way.
At last, the women stitch up their fragmented conversations and decide to go home. When Lona toddles out of the shop, at last satisfied with her hair, I’m quick to place the Sorry, We’ve Gone Fishing sign on the front door. Sheerly has three signs she uses to state that business hours are over, and my favorite is the Gone Fishing one.
“But you hate fishing,” my aunt said to me the last time I helped her close the store.
“True, but I like that sign because it’s got more spunk to it than just an ordinary closed sign.”
“This shop is officially closed,” I now say to the walls, the pair of hairdryers, the cross-stitched plagues that silently hang, and to the cuckoo clock waiting to chirp the nine o’clock hour.
I wonder if it’s too late to call Davis and suggest we go out for a bit. We could go for coffee or ice cream. From my purse, I take out my cell phone.
But then Sheerly’s words come to mind. The shop is being inspected soon and I’m to dust off the hairdryers and make sure the place looks clean. I walk to the closet for the duster.
“This is what family do.”
My mother’s words always seem to find me, reminding me that my Korean ancestors valued honor, truth, and sacrifice.
As Minnie and Zane leave
to eat at Wendy’s, I hear Zane ask if Popacorn can get a burger and Mountain Doom, too. Minnie looks at me and warns me once again about my date with Davis, saying, “Now, if he’s creepy, you come home right away. Or call me. Do you have your can of Mace?”
I laugh and usher her and her son out the front door. After they’ve left, I note that my heart rate slows, and I am actually able to breathe normally again.
Davis flew in late this Saturday morning to Raleigh-Durham International, got his car at the airport lot, and arrived at his house only two hours ago, but he’s willing to meet. When he casually suggested meeting at Blackbeard’s, I sensed that he didn’t really think I’m going to make the date this time. I understand; I hold a few concerns, as well.
I’ve borrowed some of Minnie’s jewelry—two gold bangles and a pair of red coral earrings. Perhaps if I don’t wear the usual hoops, this date will go better than all of the others. I’ve decided to wear a cream-colored shirt and a pair of black dress pants. As I spray on Minnie’s White Diamonds perfume, I smile into my mirror. The woman who smiles back could almost be called pretty.
The ringing phone makes my breath catch in my throat. I consider ignoring it but can’t follow through with that thought. Hesitantly, I look to see the caller’s name—Mrs. Appleton, my landlord who lives in the duplex across the street.
“Good afternoon,” she says in a voice that vibrates against my ear. “I got your rent money. Did you get your receipt?”
Our landlord is an interesting woman. She insists that we put our check for our rent inside her mailbox each month, saying, “No, don’t waste a stamp on it, just place it in an envelope and inside my box.” Then she places the receipt for the money each month in our mailbox. Then she calls to make sure we got the receipt.
“Yes,” I tell her. “I got your receipt. Thank you.” I wait for her response, knowing it’s coming like an afternoon thunderstorm—predictable and booming.
“Very well, then! Very well. Ta-ta.”
At last, I’m on my way to Nags Head for my date with Davis. My heart hums. It appears a date with Davis Erickson is finally going to happen, although I do realize that I’m still not at the restaurant and something could detain me. A car is pulled over on the side of the road with the hood raised. Two men are deciphering the problem. As I pass them, I hope my truck isn’t planning to break down tonight.
Even as I park at Blackbeard’s, I have the feeling Zane or Sheerly will come rushing toward me, causing this night to end before it gets to begin. I pull a mirror from my purse and check my makeup. My lipstick is still shiny on my mouth, and none of it has smeared my teeth, so I’m feeling good. I take a deep breath, grab my purse and keys, and once out of my truck, practice smiling as I walk toward the large restaurant’s front door. By the door is a flagpole with a black- and-white skull-and-crossbones flag flapping against the evening sky. Bright petunias and asters grow at the base of the pole, forming a little circle, as if they’re holding hands.
Davis, dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a blue shirt, greets me once I open the door. His aftershave is just light enough to make me want to move in a little closer when he asks how my day has been.
“Good,” I tell him. So far, so good.
Davis gently touches my shoulder, shielding me from a large group following the hostess into the dining room.
Being so close to Davis and realizing that we are actually now on a date makes my head feel light. “And how about you? How was your trip back?”
He smiles. “Well, you know, air travel isn’t what it used to be. They don’t serve anything without charging you for it.”
I nod, although I’m not quite sure what he means. I’ve never flown anywhere.
Finally, I’m seated across a table from Davis, a lit votive candle between us, replicas of Blackbeard’s treasures displayed on shelves hanging on the walls. I turn my cell phone off, deciding no one can interrupt this night. I’m glad Davis chose this restaurant and not the Grille, the place of all my bad dates.
“It’s nice to be with you,” Davis tells me as he looks up from his menu, the glow from the candle casting light against his cheeks.
I feel happiness coat me like a soft melody. Somewhere within my heart, flutes are playing.
“Do you know what you’d like to eat?”
Quickly, I open my menu.
“That color looks good on you.”
I feel his gaze on me but don’t look up. “Thanks.”
Later, I think, I will tell Minnie that he was well worth the wait.
He orders a rib eye, well done, and a baked potato. I order chicken cordon bleu, although our waitress tells us the special tonight is spinach-stuffed flounder. “It’s so delicious.” Her smile is much too wide.
After dinner, Davis and I share a slice of key lime pie, one of the desserts that’s put Blackbeard’s on the map. We take turns inserting our forks into the slice. As I chew the last succulent creamy morsel, he looks into my eyes and suggests we take a walk.
Normally, I’d ask, “Where?” but his gestures and gazes at me this evening have removed any sensibility I may have been born with. I feel like a puppy, ready to follow him over any terrain, perhaps like Shakespeare feels about Selena.
As we get up from our table, Roberta, the manager, comes by to say hello. “Tell Selena that the ad we put in your magazine,” she says to me, “has given us more business.”
“I will. Thanks so much for supporting the magazine.” I try not to stare at her eye shadow; the green is heavier than the last time I saw her, making it look like she has two olive slices under her brows.
When we exit—Davis holding the door open for me—I turn to see Roberta look Davis over from head to toe. I imagine that soon everyone I ever went to high school with will know that I was out with the owner of Rexy Properties.
Davis suggests we take his car, leaving mine in the restaurant lot.
I don’t protest; I’ve always wanted to ride in a BMW convertible, although I think to myself that he asked me on a walk, not a drive. He lowers the top as we exit the parking lot. When we reach the Oregon Inlet Bridge, the wind flings my long hair into my face. So this is how the other half lives, I think as I clasp my hair with my hand. My bracelets jingle against my arm. Smiling at Davis, I think, yes, I could live this way.
He parks at a lonely
bait and tackle shop in Rodanthe, and we make our way to the shore. The sun is a red smoldering coal, sizzling into the horizon. Clouds of violet and peach fill the sky, and I feel romance in the air. I feel it in my bones and fingertips. I anticipate Davis’s next move, and sure enough, as we walk along the beach, he reaches for my hand. His fingers lace through mine, and I believe I’ve just crossed over into paradise.