Lilac Avenue Read online

  “I done your cards this morning,” Frieda said. “You’re about to fall in love again; with somebody you least expect.”

  Frieda was a devoted Tarot Card enthusiast. She did readings for local people who were willing to pay to sit at Frieda’s wobbly-legged kitchen table, breathe in her secondhand cigarette smoke, pick out some cards from a worn deck, and then hear Frieda’s interpretation of what those cards meant.

  Money and love were the main topics of their inquiries. No one ever believed they’d had their entitled allotment of either, and they were always sure more and better offerings were just around the corner. Frieda was glad to tell them what they wanted to hear, or what would scare them enough to bring them back for another reading, often enough to provide the cash she needed for a carton of cigarettes and a box of red wine.

  “I’m not looking for love,” Claire said.

  “That’s what the cards said,” Frieda cackled. “That’s why it will be a surprise.”

  Before the woman could ask another question, Claire asked, “What are we doing with your hair today, Frieda?”

  Luckily, Claire’s first scheduled customer of the day arrived, so Frieda stopped talking. Frieda Deacon was well aware that the town gossiped about her son, and she wasn’t about to provide any more fuel for that fire. When Claire was finished with her hair, Frieda enthused about how much she loved it, then gave Claire a sheepish look, and said, “I don’t get paid until Friday; could I get back to you then?”

  “It’s on me,” Claire said. “I think once per year I can afford to give my ex-mother-in-law a free hairdo.”

  Claire hoped Frieda would pick up on that ‘once per year’ hint and not try it again for awhile.

  “With all the money you’ve got, you could do a hell of a lot more than that,” Frieda snorted, and then slammed the door behind her as she left.

  “Charming, isn’t she?” Claire said to her next customer. “Sorry you had to wait.”

  Later that morning, after Mamie Rodefeffer had made a surprise appearance, Claire was just getting started with her next client when she happened to look up and see the top of a blond curly head running past the window, with two dog tails following.She ran outside and yelled, “Sammy!” but he kept running. She ran back inside, grabbed her phone, and called Hannah, who turned out to be in her dad’s service station across the street. As Claire ran after the procession of child and dogs she saw Hannah leave the gas station and negotiate traffic as she crossed the street to join her.

  “He’s going down Peony,” Claire called out.

  As she ran, Claire called home, and luckily her mother was there.

  “I’ll head him off,” Delia said.

  Claire’s mother made it to Peony just as Sammy turned down Iris Avenue, and he ran straight into her arms. The dogs danced around her feet.

  “Auntie Dee,” he said. “Me’s coming to see you.”

  When Claire and Hannah caught up to them, they were out of breath.

  “How did you get out of school?” Hannah asked him.

  “They’s going on a feel trip, and I no feels like it,” he said with a shrug.

  “We’ve talked about this,” Hannah said. “You can’t just leave school when you feel like it. It gives Miss Scarberry a heart attack.”

  “Me telled her me was leaving,” Sammy said. “Me said it real quiet.”

  “Oh, Sammy,” Delia said. “Where did they go on a field trip?’

  “Liebarry,” he said. “Me’s ducks don’t fly to the liebarry. They’s shush you in there.”

  “What does he mean about his ducks?” Claire asked.

  “You know how I used to say I don’t give a flying …”

  “Hannah,” Delia said.

  “Well, I can’t use the ‘f’ word anymore,” Hannah said. “So now I say I don’t give a flying duck.”

  “Me’s ducks don’t fly to the liebarry,” Sammy said.

  “It’s pronounced library,” Claire said.

  “Me say that,” Sammy said.

  “I’ll take him back,” Delia said.

  “Tell Miss Scarberry I’m bringing cupcakes tomorrow,” Hannah said, “and hers will have valium in it.”

  “I left the door to the Bee Hive unlocked,” Claire said as she waved goodbye. “There’s a lady sitting in a chair there who probably wonders if I’m ever coming back.”

  At eleven o’clock Mrs. Eugene O’Hare, known as Gigi to her close friends, came in for her appointment. Claire knew Mrs. O’Hare because her son, Eugene Jr., was the same age as Claire, which meant they went all through school together. Mr. Eugene O’Hare Sr. had been some kind of high level administrator at the hospital in nearby Pendleton, so Gigi had always acted as if she were the Duchess of Pine County. Their family lived in one of the larger mansions up on Morning Glory Avenue.

  “Hello, Miss Claire,” Gigi said, as she gave her an air smooch to the side of her head. “Denise said you were covering for her while she’s on maternity leave.”

  Gigi held out her handbag and a shopping bag, and it took Claire a moment to realize she meant for her to take them. She dutifully did so, and placed them on the spare hydraulic chair. Gigi took a seat at the shampoo bowl. Claire whirled her best cape around her shoulders, and fastened it around her neck. Gigi wriggled back and declined herself, her three chins now trapped between her head and her generous bosom.

  Gigi’s light peach-colored hair was styled in a teased roller comb-out style made popular in the 1960s. When Claire wet it down, it immediately matted to her scalp like it was covered in glue; which, in effect, it had been.

  ‘She must wash it once a week and spray it the next six days with firm hold hairspray,’ Claire thought.

  “How’s your mother?” Gigi asked. “I hear your father’s been ill.”

  “They’re doing fine,” Claire said. “How’s Eugene, Jr.?”

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Gigi said. “He’s got his own business, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Claire said. “How impressive.”

  The Eugene Jr. she remembered had crippling shyness, a lisp, a stutter, and a tendency to faint at the slightest stress. He was so pathetic and delicate that even the school bullies left him alone. There was no sport in it.

  “He sells geodes,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “You know, those rocks you think are just clumps of dirt until you break one open and it’s full of crystals? He sells those and tumbled semi-precious stones. There’s quite a bit of money in that, although you’d probably never think it. There are quite a few good geode caves in Pine County. Eugene hires spelunkers to harvest them and then he preps them to sell through his website and on eBay. He has quite a reputation in the market, and people from all over the world order his geodes.”

  “Well, my goodness,” Claire said. “It sounds like he’s doing something he loves and getting paid well for it; that’s a wonderful accomplishment.”

  “We had hoped he would go to Eldridge and then work at the hospital with his father,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “But you know how poor Jr.’s health has always been. That just wasn’t meant to be. Nevertheless, he’s been a good son and a wonderful support since his father passed.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Claire said. “I didn’t know Mr. O’Hare had died.”

  “He was playing golf with his buddies,” she said, as Claire led her over to the hydraulic chair. “On the ninth hole, he just keeled over, dead before he hit the ground, they say. Massive myocardial infarction.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Well, he always said he wanted to go that way,” she said. “I would have preferred he wait until after our fiftieth wedding anniversary; we had cruise tickets and I couldn’t get our deposit back, even with a death certificate.”

  “That’s too bad,” Claire said.

  “Eugene Jr. couldn’t go on account of he’s allergic to air conditioning and synthetic fabrics. So I had to take the loss.”

  “That’s a shame,” Claire said.

 
“I do so worry about who will take care of Eugene Jr. when I’m gone,” Gigi said.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Claire said. “People do what they have to do, and he’s a grown man, after all.”

  “No, he’s pretty much helpless,” Gigi said. “And I should know; I made him that way. I feel bad about it sometimes, and his father used to give me the worst time about it, but when you have a child you just want to do everything for them you can. And he’s so delicate. It’s a miracle he’s lived this long. You’re not married, are you, Claire? Why don’t you go out with Jr.? He’s not much to look at but he’ll be a rich man someday.”

  “I’m too selfish to be a good wife,” Claire said. “And I can’t imagine waiting on anybody hand and foot.”

  Claire quickly steered the subject to Gigi’s hair, and no more was said about Eugene Jr. until Mrs. O’Hare left.

  “I may send Jr. down for a haircut,” Gigi said with a wink. “Who knows, you two may hit it off.”

  “I’ll be glad to see him again,” Claire said, and then held the door for the older woman to leave.

  As Mrs. O’Hare was leaving, a man waited on the sidewalk for her to walk to her car, and then held the car door open for her. Mrs. O’Hare kept giving the man appreciative side glances, and Claire could see why. He was amazing looking.

  Well over six feet tall, with a very muscular build, he wore an ill-fitting business suit with a tie that was way too short and a baggy white shirt, the cuffs of which stuck out far below the sleeves of his jacket. His pants were about two inches too short, and he wore muddy work boots with bright white athletic socks. He had long, silky brown hair streaked golden by the sun, and he kept tossing it out of his face with a sideward head movement. He had a glorious smile, and he knew it, no doubt about it. Claire couldn’t help but smile back before she returned to the Bee Hive.

  “Now if Eugene Jr. looked like that,” she said to herself.

  To her surprise, the man followed her into the hair salon.

  “Hi,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Frank Knap, with a K.”

  Claire shook his hand and introduced herself. His hands were calloused and warm, his grip firm but not painful. Claire felt herself flush and had trouble looking him in the eye. He was so glorious looking that it was too overwhelming to look directly at him at such close proximity; better to concentrate on one beautiful feature at a time.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Knap?” she asked, looking in just one of his topaz-colored eyes.

  “I’m the Farmers Market vendor coordinator,” he said. “I’ve got an appointment at the bank here in a little while to get a loan to buy the place. The current owner wants to sell it, and I’d like to keep it going.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work,” Claire said. “I hope you get your loan.”

  “That’s why I stopped by,” he said. “I know I don’t have an appointment, but I’m desperate to get this loan, and I’ve been told I need to look like a fine, upstanding, conservative citizen to even be considered. I’m hoping you have time to cut my hair.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” Claire said, looking at his beautiful hair.

  Frank smiled, one of those falsely humble smiles that complacently beautiful people bestow upon you as they dutifully accept the flattery to which they feel entitled.

  “I’m willing to do anything to get this money,” he said, and Claire detected a certain licentiousness to his declaration that might have been unintentional or the first hint of an indecent proposition.

  “Look,” Claire said. “I know the loan officer at the bank; her name is Amy and she is a great fan of those bodice-ripper romance novels. You’ll do better with the hair you’ve got, but I gotta tell ya, that suit is a disaster.”

  “My brother loaned it to me,” Frank said. “He’s both shorter and fatter than me.”

  Claire hesitated. Did she really want to get involved with the monetary problems of Farmers Market Frank? The man was trouble, she could tell that. Used to getting his way with the ladies, no doubt. There was that smile, again. Oh well, what else did she have to do? This would be her good deed for the day.

  “How much time do you have?” she asked him.

  “An hour,” he said.

  Claire’s mother, Delia, home from taking Sammy back to preschool, was understandably surprised when Claire called and asked her to bring her father’s red tie, black socks, a needle, and some gray thread to the salon. When she arrived with those items, Delia found Farmers Market Frank sitting in the second hydraulic chair, in just his boxer shorts and a voluminous white dress shirt, while Claire was rolling up Alva Johnston’s hair.

  So taken was Alva with Frank, that Claire had given up turning the woman’s head back to look straight ahead into the mirror. She finally just turned the woman’s chair toward Frank and moved to the side.

  Claire made introductions and Frank bestowed one of his big smiles on Claire’s mother.

  “Your daughter is saving my life,” he said as he jumped up and shook her hand.

  “She has a way of doing that,” Delia murmured, and then sat down in one of the dryer chairs with a pair of Claire’s haircutting scissors and Frank’s suit coat and pants.

  “We can let them down almost an inch and a half,” Delia said. “But that’s all.”

  Just then a pretty, petite blond ran in, breathless, holding a large pair of black dress shoes.

  “Patrick ain’t worn these in a long time,” she said. “I done polished them for ya.”

  Claire introduced her cousin Patrick’s girlfriend, Melissa, to Frank. Once again he smiled and oozed his charm.

  “Y’all are going to spoil me,” he said. “Such wonderful, beautiful ladies.”

  “Dang,” Melissa said. “Ain’t you big.”

  “Thanks, Melissa,” Claire said. “I know you have to get back to work.”

  “I got time,” Melissa said, watching appreciatively as Frank bent over to try on the shoes.

  “He’s going to the bank to apply for a loan,” Alva Johnston said.

  When Frank finally left for the appointment at the bank, he left behind four women waving to him from out in front of the Bee Hive Hair Salon. He blew a kiss to each of them.

  “Lordy day,” Melissa said.

  “I know,” Claire said. “He looks like a superhero.”

  “I’m going to call Amy’s mother,” Alva said. “Maybe I can put in a good word for him.”

  “What do we know about him besides the fact that he’s good looking?” Delia said. “He could be a serial killer, for all we know.”

  “I’ll call Dutch Palmer first,” Alva said. “He owns the farmers market and employs the man; he’ll know what kind of character he has.”

  Claire went back inside, where Frank had left his muddy boots and white socks.

  “Thanks everybody,” she said. “I’ll let you know how he says it went when he comes back later.”

  “I may just drop by the farmers market later,” Alva said. “The green beans at the IGA have just not been good lately.”

  “I’ve been hankering for some sweet corn,” Melissa said. “Y’all think it’s too early for that?”

  “What I’m ready for is a real tomato,” Delia said. “The kind you just slice and eat with salt.”

  Claire smiled as Alma and Melissa left the salon. If Frank did get the loan, he wasn’t going to have any problem attracting customers.

  After the other two women left, Claire’s mother Delia lingered.

  “Has your father mentioned anything to you about Doctor Machalvie and me?” Delia asked her.

  “Like what?” Claire said.

  “Your father has this crazy idea that Doc and I are having an affair,” Delia said.

  “You’re kidding,” Claire said.

  “No,” Delia said. “He really seems to believe it. I just wondered if he’d mentioned it to you.”

  “Not at all,” Claire said. “Where in the world did he get that idea?”

 
; “Doc says it’s part of the dementia,” Delia said. “He may get these paranoid delusions, and they’re real to him, whether or not they are to us.”

  “How awful for you!” Claire said. “And for Doc, too. How will he treat him if Dad thinks this is going on?”

  “We may have to get someone else,” Delia said. “I just thought I better warn you in case he starts talking to you about it.”

  “You poor thing,” Claire said, and hugged her mother. “I hate that this is happening.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here,” Delia said.

  Claire’s friend Kay came in just before noon. She was dressed as colorfully as she always was, today in a bright pink linen tunic and white Capri pants, her toenails and fingernails painted to match her shirt. Her wispy gray hair was held back by large white-rimmed sunglasses, and her pink-and-white polka dot reading glasses hung from her neck on a long string of colorful beads.

  While on the plump side, Kay never let self-consciousness stop her from wearing whatever cheerful outfit caught her fancy. Her confident enthusiasm ignored petty critics while it invited everyone else to share in her generous joi de vivre.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” she said to Claire. “Don’t you look pretty in blue; it brings out those beautiful eyes. I like those heels, sweetie, but how in the world do you stand up in them all day?”

  “I take lots of breaks,” Claire said, and hugged Kay. She smelled like something delicious and fattening, which turned out to be a container of freshly baked cookies she took out of her voluminous handbag and put on the counter.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all morning,” Kay said as she collapsed into the shampoo chair. “Those federal investigators are driving me crazy. They’re looking at all the files and emails going back twelve years, and keep asking me what the mayor was doing on this date or that date … I just want to sit back and get my head scrubbed. Don’t hold back, Claire. Be brutal.”

  The former mayor of Rose Hill, Doc Machalvie’s brother Stuart, had recently been forced by the city council to resign, due to a federal investigation into allegations that he used his position to broker deals for personal gain. Kay, who was campaigning to be the next mayor, had been secretary to every mayor for the past twenty-five years, and not only knew where all the bodies were buried, but who buried them and why.