Wild Orchids Read online

  During that chaos, I locked myself in the library and refreshed my mind on what had made Frank Yerby’s books sell so well back in his day.

  At one, she knocked on the door and handed me a tray full of food, and at three she knocked again, this time dressed for the party. She had on that white blouse that I’d found for her, and a pair of black trousers with big legs, like something from a Carole Lombard movie, and she looked good.

  “Go get dressed,” she ordered me in the same tone she’d used on the movers.

  I laughed at her, but I also went upstairs and put on a clean shirt and trousers.

  We walked down the street together, saying not a word, and after we rounded the corner of the house next door to the park, we had only seconds to look at the scene before people descended on us. There were picnic tables loaded with food, and probably about fifty people milling about. Musicians were in the bandstand tuning up and getting ready to play. Children, in their Sunday best, were sedately walking about, looking for the second when they could escape their parents’ eagle eyes and do the things they’d been warned not to do. All in all, it looked like a pleasant gathering, and Jackie and I headed straight for the food tables.

  I tried to stay with Jackie because, basically, I don’t like strangers, but she was Little Miss Gregarious and disappeared within seconds.

  I was left to be “welcomed.” This consisted of being overtaken by the mayor of Cole Creek and the head librarian, Miss Essie Lee Shaver.

  Just looking at the two of them made me blink in wonder. The mayor—I’m not sure he had a name but was always referred to as “Mayor”—had on a green coat and a gold brocade vest. He had a huge reddish blond mustache and a body like Humpty Dumpty. His belt must have been fifty inches around, but his legs were as thin as a whooping crane’s, and his tiny, shiny, black shoes would have fit a toddler. He also had a high-pitched voice that I had difficulty understanding.

  I was standing there listening to him, trying to keep my eyes on his and not look him up and down in amazement, when Jackie came by, a full plate of food in her hands, and said under her breath, “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road.”

  After that I had a hard time keeping a straight face, for the mayor did indeed look like a tall Munchkin.

  It was a long time before the mayor wound down, finished his speech of welcome, and Miss Essie Lee took over. She was tall, thin, even flatter chested than Jackie, and she had on an old blouse very much like the one Jackie was wearing. I kept waiting for the mayor to take a breath so I could tell Miss Essie Lee that I liked her blouse—and thereby maybe be forgiven for our disastrous telephone conversation—but the mayor kept talking.

  Jackie was near the two picnic tables that looked as though a couple of cornucopias had been working all night, and she was laughing with about a dozen people. I was torn between jealousy and annoyance. I’d like food and laughter, too, so why wasn’t she rescuing me?

  I was so distracted by the matter of food that I missed what the mayor was saying.

  “So you can see that it was all a mistake,” he was saying. “The kids made up a story to explain what they’d found. And Miss Essie Lee thought you were someone pretending to be the illustrious writer you are and that’s why she hung up on you.”

  There was a woman standing to one side of the picnic tables. She was quite handsome in a way that I liked. She had an oval face and dark eyes, and long, straight chestnut hair that hung to her waist. She was wearing a black T-shirt dress and little sandals. She was listening to something Jackie was saying, and when she turned and glanced at me, I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back but she didn’t break eye contact either. I was about to excuse myself from Mayor Munchkin, when Miss Essie Lee took my arm and led me away. With regret I glanced back at the dark woman by the picnic tables, but she was gone.

  With a sigh, I gave my attention to Miss Essie Lee. She and I were alone now, half hidden from the others by overhanging trees, and she was telling me something she seemed to think I should know.

  It took me several moments before I realized that my worst nightmare was coming true. Miss Essie Lee Shaver was telling me some story she thought I should write. Since this woman ran the local library, the place where I hoped to do some research, I couldn’t be rude and walk away. I had to listen.

  She seemed to think that because I’d bought “dear old Mr. Belcher’s house” that I was dying to hear about the great romantic tragedy of Mr. Belcher’s only child, Edward. She was going into detail about how Edward Belcher was a saint of a man and when he was fifty-three years old, he’d asked the beautiful Harriet Cole, twenty-seven years his junior, to marry him.

  The name “Cole” perked up my ears. I said, “As in Cole Creek?” and that’s when I was told that the town was founded by seven families and, yes, Harriet Cole was a descendant of a founding father.

  As Miss Essie Lee chattered on, a man carrying a plastic cup full of liquid strolled by. I was tempted to offer him a hundred bucks to get me something to drink. Instead, I looked back at the librarian.

  She was saying that the dreadful Harriet Cole had wanted nothing to do with the “lovely” Edward.

  I refrained from making a comment about age and youth not mixing, something I was seeing every day in my own house.

  Seems the beauteous and young Ms. Cole had eloped with a handsome young man who’d come to town to manage the local pottery.

  I stood there waiting for the rest of the story, but that seemed to be all of it. Miss Essie Lee closed her mouth and said not another word. As I looked at her, I thought, Why has she told me this long-winded story about true love thwarted? The word “distraction” came into my mind. Maybe she was using the unrequited love story to entice me away from the devil story.

  If she was, it wasn’t going to work. My assistant had told a murder story as though she’d been there, and days after she entered this town she’d had a vision of the future. No, I don’t think a story of lost love was going to pull me away.

  When Miss Essie Lee stopped talking, I thought, now I can get away. I can go get food and drink and seek out the woman with all that hair.

  But I couldn’t move. I’d heard that writers were cursed with a need to write so, like I had to breathe, I had to hear the end of this story. “What happened to them?” I heard myself ask.

  “Died young, of course,” Miss Essie Lee said, as though she were disappointed that I, a best-selling writer, had to ask. “Love like that can’t live long.” She said this as though it were a given, like water being wet.

  I wanted to ask which love, the love between the two who eloped, or old Edward and young Harriet? But the look on Miss Essie Lee’s face didn’t allow me to ask questions. “Perhaps I could visit your library and you could tell me more,” I said, then was rewarded with a brilliant smile from her. Nice teeth, I thought.

  “Yes, you do that,” she said, then, abruptly, she turned and walked away.

  Freedom! I made a beeline for the food table.

  By the time I got there, most of the food was gone and some people were already leaving. Three five-year-olds were under the bandstand and wouldn’t come out no matter what their parents threatened them with.

  Jackie was talking to two women, but they moved away when they saw me. Being “famous” was like that. Either people pushed and shoved to get near me or they ran away at first sight.

  “It’s a nice group,” Jackie said, lifting up a cloth on a bench to reveal a full plate of food. “I saved this for you. So what did ol’ Starch and Vinegar want with you?”

  Smiling, I took the food. “To distract me with another story.”

  “Let me guess. About the seven—”

  “Founding families,” I said, letting her know that I’d learned something.

  “What was she telling you?” Jackie asked, nodding toward Miss Essie Lee. “She seemed to be very serious.”

  “Old love story,” I said. “I’ll tell you later. Who was the—”

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