Page 12

“What’s that?” Miss Jessica frowns at me.

“I know this one!” Mrs. Irene waves her hands. “It’s that band who sings the song about all the small things.”

Chewing my lip, I decide to let that one go. “You know, I wonder if Mr. Hebert is getting dementia. Maybe he forgets which room is his.”

“Pah!” Miss Jessica cries. “Jimmy Hebert has been a hound dog since he was in high school, and he’s a hound dog now. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

I throw up my hands. “Well, I tried.”

Miss Jessica keeps going. “Debbie Turner is a hussy, and Olivia Wilson is dumb as a box of rocks. If we were sixty years younger, they’d both be pregnant.”

“I guess you all’ve known each other longer than I have.” She’s more fired up than I’ve seen her in a while. “I don’t guess I should say anything to Beth.”

I’d like to be charitable, but I kind of relish the thought of informing my childhood nemesis her grandfather is an old man-whore.

“You just mind your own business.” Mrs. Irene pats my arm. “They’ll only turn it around on you.”

Miss Jessica sits on the couch nodding. “I think people need to mind their own business when it comes to love. When I was in high school, I fell in love with a man… best looking thing I’ve ever seen before or since.”

“Oh, I remember him.” Mrs. Irene nods. “Chris Hathaway?”

“He was like moving art. A statue… David…”

“I’ve never heard of him!” I hop on the couch, ready for the whole story. One of my favorite parts of the job is the old stories.

“Well, he didn’t live here long. My parents didn’t like him.”

“Nobody’s parents liked him,” Mrs. Irene interjects. “He was thirty and trying to date all the high school girls.”

“I wanted to do more than date him.”

“Miss Jessica!” I laugh-cry, not really shocked.

“Who knows? He could’ve been the love of my life. I’ll never know now.” She shakes her head and looks off wistfully.

“Is he why you never married?”

“The war is why I never married.” She pats my hand. “But never you mind. I don’t want to bore you with my old stories.”

“I love your old stores! They’re fun!”

Mrs. Irene reaches out, and I catch her hand in mine. “I know your dream is to be an artist.” Her eyes glisten as she speaks. “But your heart is here with us.”

“Maybe.” I slide my fingers over the blue veins in the back of her hand. “Or maybe I’m just a chicken. I know I’m safe here.”

“We love you here.”

I exhale a sigh.

This morning I decided it was time to make a Plan B and stick to it. It’s so easy to keep doing the same thing over and over and finding excuses for why things don’t change.

It’s called being crazy.

“I know one thing.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve got to get working on my art or I won’t have the poster ready in time for the festival.”

For the last five years, the Grower’s Association has commissioned one of my watercolors for the official Peach Festival poster for the year. Residents and tourists alike collect them.

“I can’t wait to see it.” Miss Jessica hugs me.