And if this Jeep is indicative of their company, we’re going to have problems.
Usually, I’d go meet them, “do the pretty,” as Mama used to say, but life’s been hectic since her funeral. In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve dealt with the bank and lawyers, gotten my sister enrolled in high school, and arranged for my things to be shipped to Texas. My clothes still haven’t arrived. All I have is what I stuffed in my duffel in my apartment in New York when I heard Mama had passed from an aneurysm.
A swell of roaring grief threatens as I twirl Sparky’s purple diamanté leash through my fingers. She’s gone at fifty-five. Too young. My mama. Fighting back the tears, I glare at the majestic two-story white house next door. Stately with Doric-style columns and a fresh coat of white paint on the bricks, the focal point is a big front porch, bookended by fancy wicker swings. The Party People have put a lot of work into the house since I’ve been gone.
My childhood home, by contrast, is a small two-story bungalow in need of multiple repairs. The worst part is I don’t have the money to keep up with the payments. I made September’s, and I have enough until the end of the year, but I don’t know about the future. Mama had savings, but most of it is earmarked for my sister’s college. She did have a small life insurance policy, but it hardly counts, and it may take a few months to trickle in. For the hundredth time . . . what am I going to do? A desperate feeling curls in my stomach. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but a little right now would go a long way to easing my stress.
Anger burning bright at the Jeep, I turn my attention back to the party house. Cars are parked two by two in the long drive. Adding more insult to injury, one of them, a white Mustang, has partially pulled up behind my driveway, blocking Mama’s (my) older-model pink Cadillac.
The front door opens next door, and several women spill out, holding drinks as they line dance in the yard to “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” The girls appear youngish . . . hang on . . . is this a college party? Blue Belle is a small town, but we do have a community college on the west side of town.
My ire rises. I need to establish some rules with my new neighbor. One, invite all the neighbors when you throw a party in the cove (it’s called southern hospitality); two, control your parking situation; three, play decent music; four, don’t let your party go past ten on a Saturday night.
I march toward the house—
“Nova! Wait a minute,” calls a voice from across the street, and I stop and turn. Illuminated by her porch light, Mrs. Meadows stands on her steps, somehow appearing regal in her floor-length blue robe, fuzzy house shoes, and Stetson. In her sixties, she’s tiny, about five feet, with shoulder-length gray-blonde hair. Don’t let the short stature fool you. She’s a powerhouse.
She moves off her stoop and hurries over to me, squinting at Sparky in my arms. “That thing looks like a rat. Oh goodness, why is the skin wrinkly? It looks evil, dear. I like a calico cat, the ones with fluffy tails, but I prefer dogs. I’ve got a little Pomeranian. His name is Bill, after my late husband. He adores hot dogs. I shouldn’t give them to him, but when he begs, I can’t resist.”
I’d forgotten how much she loves to talk.
“Ah. Great. Sparky here is just hairless—but not harmless,” I say, then point to the flower bed. “One of my neighbor’s partiers took out my special rosebush and my sister’s. I can’t let that pass. Aren’t you on the HOA for our neighborhood? These cars are everywhere on the street. That has to be against the rules.”
“Yes, I’m on the HOA, the school board, the beautification committee, and the booster club,” she says proudly, then sighs as she checks out my flower bed. “I’m sure it was just an accident. I’m sorry about Darla, dear. It was so sudden. I came to the visitation and the funeral. She was a good woman.” She winces. “And of course, her jelly was amazing.”
I bite back a smile. Mrs. Meadows and Mama were friends but rivals when it came to food. Mama had taken the blue ribbon at the county fair for her jelly for the past five years: her strawberry versus Mrs. Meadows’s apple.
“Thank you for the casseroles you brought over,” I say. Which reminds me to add thank-you notes to my list of things to do, right next to get a job. With few employment opportunities here, I picture myself driving around town with a Pizza Hut thingy on my car. Worse, I imagine myself delivering to the houses of people I went to high school with. Nova Morgan, homecoming queen, delivering a deep dish right to your front door.