Ain’t She Sweet?

“You know you’ll try to nip me if I come after you.” He never went so far as to actually hurt her, but he liked to keep her on her toes.

She watched him trot up the steps to the veranda. “Fine. Do me a favor, and don’t bother to come home.” Contrary to the habits of the rest of his breed, Gordon refused to roam. He liked torturing her too much to hit the open road. She stomped back toward the carriage house. What did it say about a person when even her dog hated her?

She grabbed her purse, stuck an old straw cowboy hat on her head, and set out to search the depot for the painting. But as she tramped down the drive to her car, she found a ticket for unlawful overnight parking tucked under her windshield wiper. Terrific. She shoved it beneath the visor and headed for town.

Purlie’s Auto Shop was still doing business, but an office supply store sat in the space once occupied by Spring Fancy Millinery. Diddie had taken her there every year to buy an Easter bonnet, right up until sixth grade, when Sugar Beth had rebelled.

Diddie’s nostrils fluttered like butterfly wings when she was displeased. “You ungrateful child. Exactly how is our Dear Lord supposed to know it’s Resurrection Day if He sees you sittin’ there in church bareheaded like some heathen? Answer me that, Miss Sugar Baby?”

Sugar Beth had fluttered her nostrils right back. “Do you really think Jesus Christ is goin’ to stay in his grave just because I’m not wearin’ a hat?”

Diddie had laughed and gone to find her cigarettes.

A longing for her loving, imperfect mother welled up inside her so strong that it hurt, but her feelings toward her father were all bitter. “He’s not my real father, is he, Diddie? Somebody else got you pregnant, and then Daddy married you.”

“Sugar Beth Carey, you hush your mouth. Just because your father is a reprobate doesn’t mean I am, too. Now I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again.”

The fact that Sugar Beth’s silver-blue eyes perfectly mirrored her father’s made it impossible to hold on for long to the fantasy of Diddie having a secret lover.

She supposed her parents’ marriage had been inevitable, but they couldn’t have been more ill-suited. Diddie was the extravagantly beautiful, fun-loving daughter of a local storekeeper. Griffin was the heir to the Carey Window Factory. Short, homely, and intellectually brilliant, Griffin was smitten by Parrish’s reigning belle, while Diddie was secretly contemptuous of the boy she considered an “ugly little toad.” At the same time, she coveted everything a union with him would bring her.

Griffin must have known that Diddie was incapable of giving him the adoration he craved, but he’d married her anyway, then punished her for not loving him by openly living with another woman. Diddie retaliated by appearing not to care. Eventually, Griffin raised the stakes by turning his back on the person Diddie most loved… their daughter.

Despite their mutual hatred, they never considered divorce. Griffin was the town’s economic leader, Diddie its social and political one. Each refused to give up what the other offered, and the marriage ground on, dragging a confused little girl in its destructive wake.

Sugar Beth passed a McDonald’s, spruced up since her high school days, and a travel agency sporting one of the downtown area’s new maroon and green awnings. She turned on Valley. The one-block street, which was anchored at the end by the abandoned railroad depot, had escaped the town’s revitalization efforts, and she parked her car on a crumbling patch of blacktop. As she gazed at the dilapidated redbrick building, she saw the place where Colin Byrne had stood for his fuzzy author photo.

Shingles had blown off the depot’s roof, and ancient graffiti covered the splintered plywood boarding up the windows. Cans and broken bottles littered the weeds by the tracks. Why had Tallulah thought it was so important to preserve this old ruin? But her aunt had been obsessed with local history, the same as Sugar Beth’s father, and apparently she hadn’t seen the wisdom of bulldozing the place.

As Sugar Beth got out of the car, she thought of the letter lying crumpled in the bottom of her purse:

Dear Sugar Beth,

I’m leaving you the carriage house, the depot, and, of course, the painting because you’re my only living relative and, regardless of your behavior, blood is thicker than water. The depot is a disgrace, but, by the time I purchased it, I lacked the energy and the funds for repairs. The fact that it was allowed to deteriorate so badly does not speak well of this town. I’m certain you’d like to sell it, but I doubt you’ll have any luck finding a buyer. Even the Parrish Community Advancement Association lacks proper respect for history.

The carriage house is a registered national landmark. Keep Lincoln’s studio as it is. Otherwise, everything goes to the University. As for the painting… You’ll either find it or you won’t.

Cordially,

Tallulah Shelborne Carey

P.S. No matter what your mother told you, Lincoln Ash loved me.

Tallulah’s insistence that she was the great love of Lincoln Ash’s life had driven Diddie wild. Tallulah said Ash had promised to come back to Parrish for her as soon as his one-man show in Manhattan was over, but he’d been hit by a bus the day before it closed. Diddie told everyone the painting was a figment of Tallulah’s imagination, but Griffin said it wasn’t. “Tallulah has that painting, all right. I’ve seen it.” But when Diddie pressed him for details, he’d just laughed.

Tallulah refused to display the painting, saying it was all she had left of him, and she wasn’t going to share it with curiosity seekers or those pompous art critics Ash had despised during his lifetime. They’d only analyze the life right out of it. “The world can gawk all it wants after I’m dead,” she’d said. “For now, I’m keeping what I have to myself.”

Sugar Beth worked the key in the lock. The door was warped, so she had to use her shoulder to push it open. As she stepped inside, something flew at her head. She shrieked and ducked. When her heartbeat returned to normal, she pushed her cowboy hat more firmly down and went the rest of the way inside.

She could see just enough to make her cringe. A putrid crust of bird crap and dirt covered the scarred old benches of what had once been the depot’s small waiting room. Rusty streaks ran down one of the walls, a fetid puddle sat in the middle of the hardwood floor, and pieces of broken furniture lay scattered around like old bones. Beneath the ticket window, a pile of filthy blankets, old newspapers, and empty tin cans indicated that someone had once squatted here. Her dust allergies kicked up, and she started sneezing. When she recovered, she pulled out the flashlight she’d brought along and began to look for the painting.

In addition to the waiting area, the depot had storage rooms, closets, an office behind the ticket window, and public rest rooms that were unspeakably foul repositories of exposed pipes, stained and broken porcelain, and ominous piles of filth. For the next two hours, she unearthed splintered furniture, crates, battered file cabinets, mice droppings, and a dead bird that made her shudder. What she didn’t find was any sign of the painting.

Filthy, sneezing, and grossed out, she finally sank down on a bench. If Tallulah hadn’t hidden the painting in either the carriage house or the depot, where had she put it? Starting tomorrow, she’d have to begin searching out the surviving members of Tallulah’s canasta club. They’d feel duty-bound to cluck their tongues over her, but they’d been her aunt’s closest friends, and they were most likely to know her secrets. Just as dispiriting was the knowledge that she was down to her last fifty dollars. If she intended to keep eating, she had to find a job.

“Charming place you have here.”

She sneezed, then turned to see Colin Byrne standing in the open doorway. He looked as though he might have come in from a stroll across the moors: boots, dark brown slacks, tweed jacket, fashionably rumpled hair. But the cold assessment in his eyes reminded her more of a frontier hunter than a civilized Brit. “If you’re here to assault me again,” she said, “you’d better have your jockstrap fastened up extra tight because I won’t be so polite next time.”

“My body only has a limited tolerance for venom.” He slipped one stem of his designer sunglasses into the open collar of his shirt and took a few steps inside. “Interesting that Tallulah left you the depot, although not surprising, I suppose, considering her feelings about family.”

“I’ll give you a great deal if you want to buy it.”

“No, thank you.”

“It made you a fortune. You could show a little gratitude.”

“Last Whistle-stop was about the town. The depot was a metaphor.”

“I thought metaphor was a weight-loss drink? Do you always dress like a stiff?”