Dr. Stud

“Dusty!” I sing out as believably as possible. “I didn’t see you there!”

She steps out of the doorway of the general store, flicking a cigarette from between her fingertips into the empty parking space in front of her. She blows a plume of smoke out of the side of her orange-glossed lips as she walks toward me with her arms out. I know I can’t escape, so I take the hug, wondering how many times a person can die inside before they die for real.

“JoJo, you look just amazing! I saw you, and I was like, that’s definitely JoJo! And here you are!”

My cheeks hurt from smiling already. I would have to say that in Manhattan we smile approximately 65 percent less. Wrinkles, you know.

“You look amazing!” I singsong, remembering how people talk around here.

We’re definitely expected to lavish each other with gradually mounting volleys of ridiculous, transparently false compliments. It’s sort of our thing.

She grins, her dimples like thumbprints in her cheeks. I remember she always had perfectly straight teeth, making a perfectly natural movie-star smile. It’s a good thing, too, because her people would never have been able to afford braces. I remember in middle school she was on the free lunch program. Actually, I guess a lot of us were.

“So what are you doing here?” she asks. “Just to visit? Did you come to see your mom?”

“Oh, yeah,” I answer quickly, trying to calculate the fastest way to explain the story and then get out of this conversation. “I’m just here for work. Just trying to fix up the old hat shop. You know it?”

She squints down the street, back the way I came, tipping at the waist. Her chestnut-brown hair spills out of a messy ponytail and cascades halfway down her back. If Dusty was in New York, she would have Hannah-like appeal. She’s a natural beauty, totally wasted on Willowdale.

“The hat shop…” she repeats vaguely. “Oh! That old place? What does anybody want with that?”

“Oh… I work in an art gallery in New York, and we needed to expand, so we were thinking since Willowdale is right next to Naples… right on the ocean… You know, with Naples getting so overcrowded...”

She smiles at me again, absorbing the information without needing to form an opinion, just naturally creating the kind of receptive listener people love to be around.

“Dusty, do you want a job?” I blurt out suddenly.

She looks around, up one side of the sidewalk and then down to the other. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she blinks several times and purses her lips.

“Hell, yes, I want a job. Mr. Tandy thinks he’s gonna marry me off to his son.”

I use this as my chance to back away. “Okay! I’ll be back!” I explain loudly as I hustle down the sidewalk. “You’re gonna be great!”

She waves at me with her fingertips as I rush away, her expression totally trusting and pleasant.

That’s right, because I’m the boss, I tell myself. I’m getting stuff done. I’m making things happen.

The front porch door closes with a bang as my mother runs across the porch toward me, her arms flung out wide. I brace myself for impact and can’t help smiling as she hurls herself toward me, capturing me in a sweaty, enthusiastic, heartfelt hug.

“What? You’re here? What is going on?” she babbles, her face buried against my neck.

Immediately she starts dragging me toward the house, like she’s afraid I am going to get away.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I chuckle, swept up in her enthusiasm. “You’re going to trip me, Ma.”

“Oh, I forget you New Yorkers expect to have space,” she sighs dramatically as she untangles her body from mine. “I knew you would forget where you came from, Joanna. I just knew it.”

My eyes sweep back and forth over the wide lawn, the queen palms mixed in with the old oak tree bringing back lots of memories. I know it’s only been four, almost five years, but everything seems bigger.

“I’m not a New Yorker,” I object automatically, although I suspect I kind of am. I certainly have been trying nonstop to be one.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees, punctuating her words by lightly slapping the back of my hand that she refuses to let go of. “And you’re here! How are you here?!”

We walk up the wide front steps and onto the front porch and I automatically breathe in deep, filling myself with this familiar old scent. The cedar, the palms, the breeze from the Gulf. Something changes in me right here, I can feel it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I explain in a hurry. “I didn’t mean to just spring this on you.”

She drags me back toward the kitchen, pointing toward a stool by the counter for me to sit on while she goes through the ritual of br