Off the Books Read online

  Frances Simms’s beady eyes were enough to make my skin crawl on any given day, but at that particular moment the presence of the incessantly determined owner and editor of our town’s one and only newspaper was enough to frazzle my last nerve.

  “Can’t this wait, Frances? I’m right in the middle of something.” I turned my focus back to my project. Truth was, I could have used a break; my arm was about to fall off from all the scrubbing I’d been doing in my soon-to-be-new storefront. Still, I’d suffer through more scrubbing any day if it meant I could avoid dealing with the bothersome woman. And today, of all days, I didn’t need her pestering presence.

  Frances persisted. “Wait? I’m on a deadline. Especially if you want the ad to run in Tuesday’s issue.” The Cays Mill Reporter, the area’s source of breaking news—or rather, reputation-breaking gossip—faithfully hit the hot Georgia pavement every Tuesday and Saturday. Since I was a new business owner, Frances was hoping to sign me on as a contributing advertiser. For a mere twenty-four ninety-nine a month, I could reserve a one-by-one-inch square on the paper’s back page, sure to bring in hordes of eager, peach-lovin’ customers to my soon-to-open shop, Peachy Keen.

  “This offer isn’t going to be on the table forever,” she continued. “I’m giving you a ten percent discount off my normal rate, you know.”

  “Oh, don’t go getting all bent out of shape, Frances,” my friend Ginny spoke up. Having a slow moment at the diner next door, which she owned with her husband, Sam, Ginny had popped over to check my renovation progress. “This is only Saturday,” she went on. “Besides, Peachy Keen doesn’t officially open for another few weeks.”

  Over the past nine months since my return to Cays Mill, what started as a little sideline business to help supplement my family’s failing peach farm had grown into a successful venture. From that first jar of peach preserves sold at the local Peach Harvest Festival to a booming online business, Harper’s Peach Products had been selling like crazy. Unable to keep up with the demand, I had struck a deal with Ginny and Sam: For a reasonable percentage of profits, I’d get full use of their industrial-sized, fully licensed kitchen after the diner closed each day, plus a couple hours daily of Ginny’s time and expertise in cooking. Since the diner was only open for breakfast and lunch, we could easily be in the kitchen and cooking by late afternoon, allowing Ginny enough time to be home for supper with her family. Then Ginny offered to rent me their small storage area, right next to the diner, for a storefront—a perfect location—which now stored much of my stock until we could open. The deal worked for both of us: I needed the extra manpower and Ginny needed the extra money. Especially with one child in college and her youngest, Emily, finishing her senior year in high school.

  Frances was pacing the floor and stating her case. “That may be true, but space fills up quickly. My paper’s the leading news source for the entire area.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Frances,” Ginny bantered, “it’s the only news source in the area. Besides, that quote you gave Nola is five bucks higher than what I pay for the diner’s monthly ad.”

  I quit scrubbing and quirked an eyebrow Frances’s way. “Is that so?”

  “Well, I’ve got expenses and—” she started to explain but was cut off mid-sentence when the back door flew open and Emily burst inside.

  “Mom!” Emily cried, her freckled face beaming with excitement. She held out Ginny’s purse. “The delivery truck just pulled in front of the boutique. The dresses are in!”

  Ginny let out a little squeal, cast a quick glance toward the window and reached into her bag. “Okay, okay. Just give me a minute to freshen up.” She pulled a compact out and started touching up her lipstick, a shocking red color that looked surprisingly fabulous with her ginger-colored hair. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Emily’s cotillion dress. Can you imagine!” she gushed and glanced my way. “Come on, Nola. You said you’d come with us, right? You’ve just gotta see the gown we ordered.”

  I peered anxiously at the stacks of wood for the unfinished shelving, the loose plaster, and the wood floors that were still only half-refinished. Knowing the renovation was too much for me to handle alone, I’d hired my friend, Cade McKenna, who owned a local contracting business, to help me transform the storage area into a quaint shop. One of the interior walls sported exposed red brick and would add the perfect touch to the country-chic look I wanted. But my vision versus reality didn’t mesh easily; I’d been scrubbing loose mortar from that wall for hours already. Cade said the loose stuff really needed to be removed before he could seal the rest. I sighed and glanced out the window. I’d already known my work would be interrupted later today when the delivery truck arrived; I’d been dragged into my dear friend and her daughter’s excitement since the get-go. But truth be told, I almost preferred flaking mortar to facing up to the debutante issues I knew would soon erupt into a community-wide frenzy. “I’d love to go,” I said. “But I really should keep at it.”

  Ginny waved off my worry. “You’ve been at it all morning. You need a break.”

  “Hey!” Frances turned her palms upward in protest. “I wasn’t done discussing the ad.”

  “Oh, shush up, Frances,” Ginny shut her down. She reached back into her bag, this time pulling out a small bottle of cologne and giving herself a couple quick spritzes behind the ears.

  “You’re fine, Mama,” Emily interrupted. “Let’s get going. I’m dying to try on my dress.”

  Ginny finished primping and shouldered her bag. “All right, sweetie. Let’s go.” Her eyes glistened as she squeezed her daughter’s arm. “I just know you’re going to be the most beautiful debutante at the cotillion!” Then, turning to me, she added with a mischievous grin. “Are ya coming with us, or do you want to stay here and discuss the ad with Frances?”

  Since she put it that way, I decided I could use a little break and proceeded to rip off my apron and remove the bandana covering my cropped hair. I ran my hand through the short strands, trying to give it a little lift, the extent of my personal primping routine, as I made my way to the back door. Opening it wide, I shrugged toward Frances, who was still standing in the middle of my would-be shop, a befuddled look on her face. “Sorry, Frances. Guess we’ll have to talk about the ad some other time.”

  She opened and shut her mouth a few times but all that came out was a loud huff. Finally relenting, she threw up her hands and stormed out the door. I couldn’t help but stare after her with a grin on my face. Usually I didn’t take so much delight in being rude, but ever since Frances’s paper ran a smear campaign on my brother-in-law last August, I’d had a hard time being civil toward her. Who could blame me? At the time, she’d relentlessly pursued, harassed and tried to intimidate information from not only me, but my then-very-pregnant sister, Ida. And when Frances found she couldn’t coerce information from us, she printed libelous half-truths about Hollis—on the front page, nonetheless!—that all but landed him a lifetime prison sentence. Thank goodness all that misery was behind us now. What a relief knowing the only thing Frances could hound me about these days was a silly display ad for the back page of the paper.

  *

  EMILY WAS RIGHT; Hattie’s Boutique was already teeming with a small but enthusiastic pack of giggling debutantes and their equally excited mothers. They were pressing against the main counter like a horde of frenzied Black Friday shoppers while Hattie pulled billows of white satin and lace from long brown boxes. Carefully, she hung each dress on a rack behind the counter. “Ladies, please!” she pleaded. “Take a seat in the waiting area. I just need a few minutes to sort out the orders.”

  One of the mothers, Maggie Jones, the preacher’s wife, was at the head of the pack sticking out her elbows like a linebacker in hopes of deterring the other gals from skirting around her in line. “Did the dress we ordered come in? Belle would like to try it on.”

  Hattie smiled through gritted teeth, once again pointing across the room toward a grouping of furniture. “I’m sure it did, Mrs. Jones. If
y’all would just take a seat, please, I’ll be right with you.” She lifted her chin and kept her finger pointing across the room, making it clear she would not unpack one more dress until we complied.

  With a collective sigh, the group, including Ginny, Emily, and me, sulked to the waiting area. The mothers politely settled themselves on the flower-patterned furniture while the girls huddled off to the side to discuss the latest debutante news. It was a wonder they never tired of the topic. I, for one, could hardly take much more. For months, I’d been hearing constant chatter about our town’s spin on a high society debut: the presentation, what would be served at the formal dinner and, of course, all about how elegantly Congressman Wheeler’s plantation would be decorated for the Peach Cotillion. Usually the whole shindig was held up north at some ritzy country club, but this year, thanks to the generosity of Congressman Jeb Wheeler, who just happened to be up for reelection, the cotillion was staying local with the ball taking place at his family home, the historic Wheeler Plantation.

  “She’s awful pushy for a preacher’s wife, don’t you think?” Ginny whispered.

  I looked over to where the other women were seated. “Maggie Jones?”

  Ginny’s shoulders waggled. “Uh-huh.”

  Leaning back against the cushion, I inwardly moaned. That was why I hadn’t wanted to come; Ginny was taking this cotillion stuff way too seriously. As a matter of fact, the impending cotillion and its accompanying affairs seemed to be bringing out the worst in all the town’s ladies. Like the well-dressed woman across from us who sported an expensive-looking beige leather handbag and an all-too-serious attitude. She was seated with ramrod straight posture and legs folded primly to one side, a proud tilt to her chin as she impatiently—and imperiously—glanced around the room.

  “Who’s Miss Proper over there?” I quietly asked Ginny.

  She glanced over and quickly turned back, her face screwed with disgust. “That’s Vivien Crenshaw. You know, Ms. Peach Queen’s mama.” She nodded toward the group of girls, where a tall blonde with dazzling white teeth stood in the center. She was gushing dramatically about her date for the dance while the rest of the girls looked on in awe. “Her name’s Tara,” Ginny continued. “Emily says she’s the most popular girl in high school. Top in everything: lead in the school play, class president, and head cheerleader … You know the type.”

  Yeah, I knew the type. A picture of my own sister’s face formed in my mind. Ida, the star of the Harper clan, always exceeded everyone’s expectations; whereas I always did the unexpected, keeping my family in a continuous state of quandary. Even to this day, there were things I just couldn’t bear to tell my parents, for fear it would put them over the edge. I shook my head, telling myself not to think about all that right now.

  Luckily, a movement outside distracted me from my downward spiral. Adjusting my position to get a better look, I gazed curiously at the young girl washing Hattie’s windows. She was dressed in sagging jeans and a too-tight T-shirt topped off with shocking black hair that shadowed her features. This must have been the girl Hattie mentioned hiring for odd jobs. She was nothing like the other girls in town. I felt an instant connection to her. As I continued to look on, the girl paused, reached into the pocket of her jeans and extracted a hair band. She pulled back her hair, exposing several silver hooped earrings running along the rim of her ear and topped off with a long silver arrow that pierced straight through to the inner cartilage. Ew. That must have hurt! I felt no connection now. But still, it was fascinating. It reminded me of some of the extreme piercings I’d observed in remote African tribes during my days as a humanitarian aid worker.

  I was about to ask Ginny if she knew the girl when Hattie called out from the other side of the room. “Okay, ladies. I think I’ve got everything straightened out. Now one at a time …” She held up the first dress. “Belle Jones.” The preacher’s wife and her daughter scrambled to grab the dress before heading off toward the dressing rooms. “And, this one’s for Sophie Bearden,” Hattie continued, handing out the next dress to a squealing brown-haired girl.

  Just as Hattie was reaching for the next gown, jingling bells announced the arrival of a short, stout woman dressed in sensible polyester slacks and a scooped-neck top. She removed her sunglasses and unwrapped a colorful scarf from her head. “Lawdy! Can y’all believe this humidity today?” She patted down her tight black curls before using the scarf to dab at her décolletage.

  Hattie’s face lit up. “Mrs. Busby, thanks so much for coming in early.”

  The woman waved off the thanks with, “So how many girls spied that early delivery truck?”

  “Just a few, but if you could pin them up, it’d save having to make extra appointments.”

  “Sure enough. Just send them back to my station.”

  In the back corner of the shop, Hattie had utilized a lovely folding screen with an inlaid floral motif to partition an area for alterations. Behind the partition, a large corner table held an industrial sewing machine, racks of thread spools, a myriad of scissors and a divided box of pins, buttons and clasps. To the side of the workstation, a carpeted platform rested in front of an antique white cheval mirror.

  Hattie disappeared behind the counter again, where she continued opening boxes and checking order slips while the rest of the girls waited impatiently. The first girls were coming out of the dressing room, proud mamas trailing after them and holding up their gowns as they made their way to Mrs. Busby for alterations. After a couple more girls disappeared into the dressing rooms, the Peach Queen’s mother heaved a sigh and glanced disgustedly at her watch. “How much longer is this going to take? I have an appointment at the salon in about ten minutes.”

  Hattie was still behind the counter, tearing through packing material, her expression panicked. “Of course, Mrs. Crenshaw. I’ll be right with you,” she answered with a strained voice.

  Next to me, Ginny shifted and rolled her eyes, quietly mimicking the woman under her breath. “Can you believe how demanding that woman is?”

  Ginny’s usually good-natured demeanor was being stretched thin by the overbearing woman. At the moment, she reminded me of a spark getting ready to ignite and explode. I patted her hand and mumbled under my breath, “Remember why you’re here. To show your daughter the importance of social grace, right?” I shot her a sly grin and stood. “I think I’ll just go over and see if Hattie needs a hand.” Hattie had seemed cool and controlled before but she looked like maybe she could use a bit of help now.

  Just as I reached the counter to offer my assistance, the bells above the door jingled again. This time it was a model-thin woman wearing crisp linen pants and a matching jacket. Her silky silver hair was cut at a precise angle to accentuate her strong jawline and graceful neck. Upon seeing her, Hattie stopped her work, straightened her shoulders and plastered on a huge smile. So did everyone else in the room. It was as if they were all marionettes and the puppet master had just pulled their strings.

  “Mrs. Wheeler! Uh … you must be here to pick up your alterations.” Hattie’s voice was thinning even more and her eyes darted nervously between her waiting customers and a rack of clothing lining her back wall. She took a little shuffle step as if she wasn’t sure which way to go first.

  Mrs. Wheeler glanced over the crowded waiting area and sensing Hattie’s stress, put on a gracious smile and said, “I didn’t realize you were so busy. Please don’t bother with my order right this minute. I’ve got business at the flower shop down the street. How about I stop by when I’m done there? Perhaps things will have settled down by then.”

  Hattie let out her breath and nodded gratefully, promising to have the order ready when she returned. But as soon as the woman left, Hattie turned back to me with an even more panicked expression. “There’s a problem,” she whispered.

  “A problem? What?”

  She nodded toward the box on the floor. “There’s only one dress left.”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re not getting
it,” she hissed, discreetly pointing across the room. “One dress, but two girls.”

  My eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

  Joining her behind the counter, I squatted down and started ripping through the mounds of packing paper. “Are you sure?” She slid down next to me. My mind flashed back to a competitive game of hide-and-seek we once played as kids. Hattie and I crouched together behind the peach crates in my daddy’s barn, suppressing giggles as her big brother, Cade, searched and searched in vain. Only this situation wasn’t fun and games at all.

  She chewed her lip and nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Well, whose dress is it?”

  “Any chance you can hurry things up a bit?” Vivien Crenshaw called out from across the room. “Like I said, I’m on a tight schedule.”

  Hattie raised up and peered over the counter. “Be right with ya!” Then, popping back down, she started to fall apart. “I just don’t know what’s happened … Neither of the numbers on the order forms match the one on the dress, but I think it’s Emily’s. It’s just been so crazy here … Maybe I messed up when I placed the order. What am I going to do? Of all the dresses to be missing.”

  “Relax. Just tell Mrs. Crenshaw there was a mistake. The cotillion is still a couple weeks away. There’s plenty of time to get Tara’s dress shipped and altered. Mistakes happen, right?”

  She nodded, drew in a deep breath and stood up. “Mrs. Crenshaw, would you mind coming over here, please?”

  I busied myself behind the counter, folding up the packing materials, revealing more of the dress that was left in the box. I couldn’t help but smooth my hand over the shimmery satin of the gown. Actually, it gave me a little thrill to finally see the dress Emily had been talking about for so long. But seeing it up close also gave me a little prickle of regret. Due to a tragic, youthful mistake I didn’t really want to think about at that moment, I’d missed my own cotillion, something my mama had never quite forgiven me for. Actually, thinking back on it, I was always a bit of a tomboy and never put much stock in the debutante craze anyway. Charm classes, dance lessons … all that was never really my thing. Of course, being raised by a mama who prided herself in her southern heritage, I understood the reasoning behind such formalities. Like many things southern, it was a ritual passed down since the days before Mr. Lincoln’s war. And, we southerners lived and died by our traditions, whether it was sweet tea, SEC football, or fancy cotillions.