The Mulberry Tree

“How far is it from the center of Cole Creek?”

“Spit out the window and you’ll hit the courthouse.”

“How much?”

“Two fifty for the history. Nice moldings.”

“If I sent you a certified check tomorrow how soon can it close?”

I could hear her heart beating across the wire. “Sometimes I almost like Yankees,” she said. “Sugah, you send me a check tomorrow and I’ll get that house for you in forty-eight hours even if I have to throw old Mr. Belcher out into the street, oxygen tank and all.”

I was smiling. “I’ll send the check and all the particulars,” I said, then took down her name and address and hung up. I called my publisher. I was going to buy the house in her name so no one in Cole Creek would know it was me.

I knew I couldn’t leave town until after the twenty-seventh of April when I had to pay the blackmail-reading, so I occupied myself by reading about North Carolina. The realtor called me back and said that old Mr. Belcher would give me the house furnished for another dollar.

That took me aback and I had to think about why he’d do that. “Doesn’t want to move all his junk out, does he?”

“You got it,” the realtor said. “My advice is not to take the offer. There’s a hundred and fifty years of trash inside that house.”

“Old newspapers? Crumbling books? Attic full of old trunks?”

She sighed dramatically. “You’re one of those. Okay. You got a house full of trash. Tell you what, I’ll pay the dollar. My gift.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The twenty-seventh was a Saturday, and I spent three hours answering the same questions at Mrs. Attila’s ladies’ luncheon (chicken salad) as I had everywhere else. My plan was to leave for Cole Creek early Monday morning. My furniture was to go into storage and I planned to take just a couple of suitcases of clothes, a couple of laptops, plus a gross of my favorite pens (I was terrified that Pilot would discontinue them). I’d already shipped my research books to the realtor to hold for me. And Pat’s father’s tools were on the floor of the backseat of my car.

At the luncheon Mrs. Hun told me that Jackie Maxwell was getting married the next day. Smiling—and trying to be gracious and amusing—I asked her to tell Jackie that I’d bought a house in Cole Creek, and was spending the summer there, where I’d be researching my next book, and if Jackie wanted the job, it was still open. I even said she could ride with me when I left on Monday morning.

Mrs. Free Books smiled in a way that let me know I’d missed my chance, but she agreed to relay my message to Jackie.

On Sunday afternoon I was shoving my socks into a duffel bag when there was a hard, fast knock on my door. The urgency of the sound made me hurry to answer it.

What I saw when I opened the door startled me into speechlessness.

Jackie Maxwell stood there in her wedding dress. She had on a veil over what looked to be an acre and half of long dark hair. The last time I’d seen her, her hair had been about ear length. Had it grown that fast? Some genetic thing? And the front of her dress was . . . well, she’d grown there, too.

“Is the research job in Cole Creek still open?” she asked in a tone that dared me to ask even one question.

I said yes, but it came out in a squeak.

When she moved, the dress caught on something on the porch. Angrily, she snatched at the skirt and I heard cloth tearing. The sound made her give an evil little smile.

Let me tell you that I never want to make a woman so angry that she smiles when she hears her own wedding dress rip. I’d rather—truthfully, I can’t think of anything on earth I wouldn’t rather do than be on the receiving end of anger like I saw in Ms. Maxwell’s eyes.

Or was this after the ceremony and she was now Mrs. Somebody Else?

Since I wanted to live, I asked no questions. “What time should I be here tomorrow?”

“Eight A.M. too early for you?”

She opened her mouth to answer but the dress caught again. This time she didn’t jerk it. This time her face twisted into a frightening little smirk, and she very, very, very slowly pulled on that dress. The ripping sound went on for seconds.

I would have stepped back and shut the door but I was too scared.

“I’ll be here,” she said, then turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the street. There was no car waiting for her, and since I lived miles fro

m any church, I don’t know how she got to my house.