When Bobbie Sang the Blues Read online

  “It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.” Bobbie laid a hand on his arm. “And I’m afraid we girls will throw our backs out.” She turned to Christy. “I can’t wait to work on that pickle barrel. I haven’t seen anything like it at the flea markets or antique shops.” She inspected the dusty barrel.

  “Neither have I. But then I’ve never even heard of an antique pickle barrel,” Christy said as Hornsby wrestled the barrel from the truck.

  Bobbie slapped the dust from her hands and glanced at Hornsby as he set the last box on the storage unit’s floor. “I’ll call the moving van as soon as I get a place to live, and the rest of my stuff will be delivered. Thank you, Hornsby.”

  He nodded, looking from the women to the items in the unit.

  “Is there anything in those boxes you’ll need?” Christy asked.

  “No. They’re just decorating books and magazines that I packed up at the last minute.”

  “What’s that?” Christy asked, pointing at an object protruding from one of the boxes.

  “A jack handle. That box holds some things I had in my truck, but I’ll leave them here so they don’t rattle around anymore. I was ready to pull my hair out the next time something slammed across the bed of my truck.”

  “You ready to lock up here?” Hornsby asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He pulled down the sliding metal door, and Bobbie inserted a padlock on the handle and turned the key.

  Christy nodded. “Then if we’re done here, how about breakfast at Miz B’s?”

  “Great! I’m starved, aren’t you?”

  Bobbie waved to Hornsby as they got in the truck and slammed the doors.

  “I’ll bet you my line-dancing boots that Hornsby’s the biggest gossip in town,” Bobbie whispered as she started the truck.

  Christy glanced through the back window. Hornsby leaned against Bobbie’s locked unit, one bony foot slung carelessly over the other, staring after them. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “Lesson in character, honey, since that’s your trade as a writer. I never met a human with a real long nose like Hornsby, narrow suspicious eyes, and a mouthful of questions who wasn’t nosy by nature.”

  “Reminds me of Roy Thornberry,” Christy said. “A real thorn in my side. He’s my former boss at the local newspaper. For almost two years, I wrote a weekly column, ‘The Beach Buzz.’ But after Labor Day, when tourist season ended, I resigned. I just couldn’t put up with Roy anymore. He has to know everything that goes on in twelve counties. He claims it’s his business to keep up, but he goes way beyond the call of duty and interferes in private lives.” She recalled how he had pestered her endlessly about her relationship with Dan Brockman.

  Bobbie turned back onto Front Beach Road and studied her reflection in the visor mirror. “Where did you say we’re going for breakfast? Is it somewhere I can tuck my napkin into my collar? I’m awfully messy,” she said, laughing at herself.

  The white truck pulled into a service station with a view of the storage unit. Eddie stopped at a pump and put the hose on automatic. Then he climbed back behind the wheel and watched the road.

  “Who’s that with her?” Roseann asked. “She looks young enough to be her daughter.”

  “Bobbie can’t have children,” Eddie said. “She got pregnant when she was dating me, but a month after we got married, she lost the baby. The doctor said she couldn’t have kids. That’s when her personality changed.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m gonna get us something to drink and stake out that storage facility.”

  Ten minutes later, she left her look-out point near the phone booth at the edge of the service station and jogged back over to the truck.

  “They’re pulling out of the gate and are heading this way,” she told Eddie. “They’ll pass us in a minute.”

  “Get in!” he said. “Quick!” He bent toward the floor as though he were looking for something, and Roseann jumped in the seat and ducked her head. They heard the little red truck rumble past. Eddie had already paid for the gas, and he cranked up the engine and eased toward the road.

  Roseann stared at him, thinking about what he had told her the night before. She cleared her throat. “Last night you said you signed your life insurance over to me last week. Why would you do that? You got a good thirty years left!”

  A wide smile filled his round face. “You deserve it for putting up with me.”

  She smiled. Eager to help Eddie now, she leaned forward in the seat and peered at the truck.

  “So who is that young woman?” Roseann asked again.

  “I don’t know, but if she’s connected to Bobbie, we’re sticking to her like a tick on a hound.”

  As they sped down the highway, Christy wondered how her wild aunt and her proper, perfectionist mother could be related. They grew up in rural Minnesota, but Bobbie had married young and moved away. She had spent most of her life in the South, and as a result, her southern accent sounded as pure as Georgia honey.

  “Miz B’s is my friend Bonnie’s restaurant,” Christy explained. “It used to be a steak and seafood house. Bonnie said there were enough of those up and down the coast, and what we needed was ‘home cookin’. Nobody does that better than Miz B—that’s what we call her since she took over the restaurant.

  “Bobbie, do you mind swinging by my place so I can pick up my car? After we eat breakfast, I need to get back home for a phone conference with my editor. I’m sure you have things to do as well.”

  “Sure,” Bobbie replied good-naturedly. She slowed the truck and turned down Christy’s street. “I’ll follow you. By the way,” she said as the truck whirled into Christy’s driveway, “are there any sharp guys around? About my age? Maybe a little younger?”

  “Did you see the bombshell that just left?” Hornsby asked Tony Panada as he sauntered through the back door of his office.

  “I saw two bombshells. Which one are you talkin’ about?” Tony was six-three, tall and bony, ears and nose dominating his face. He tried to be fashionably bald, but without a hairline to soften his ears, they stood out like doorknobs.

  “The older one’s Bobbie Bodine,” Hornsby replied. “She just rented number 101. Pulled out a wad of hundreds that would choke a horse.”

  Tony thrust a Havana cigar in his mouth and flicked open a silver lighter.

  “I told you! If you gotta smoke, at least stand in the door and blow the smoke out back,” Hornsby snapped.

  “Settle down, Hornsby. I need to have a little discussion with you.” Tony blew smoke rings out the door, his back to Hornsby.

  “I assume the discussion involves money.”

  “It does.”

  Hornsby chuckled. “Greens my favorite color. And the size always fits.”

  Tony stomped out his cigar and turned around. His eyes, a faded gray, studied Hornsby. “I could use another unit for my business. What about the one that backs up to Miz Bodine? Is it still empty?”

  “Still empty,” Hornsby replied. “But I don’t want any little photography sessions going on back there.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a good suggestion. Actually, I have a personal interest in Miz Bodine and her ex-husband. If she’s in Summer Breeze, I figure he’ll be here soon.”

  Miz B’s Family Restaurant hummed with life, as usual. White rocking chairs sat on the front porch of the stucco building, and hanging baskets of flowers and greenery added color and comfort. Miz B’s felt like a big, happy home.

  Christy opened the door for Bobbie, and they entered the wide foyer. A thick oak bookshelf stood against the wall and held a hundred cookbooks, well loved and well used.

  “Nice touch,” Bobbie said, admiring the cookbooks.

  “What a friend we have in Jesus…” A rich soprano voice rolled through the open door of the kitchen. Suddenly the singing stopped, and a woman’s voice yelled, “Junior, I ain’t serving fried potato peelings. There are more potatoes than peelings in the garbage.”

  Christy lau
ghed softly and tugged Bobbie’s arm. “Come on,” she said, leading her aunt across the restaurant. She peered around the kitchen door.

  Miz B stood in the middle of the kitchen, wielding a paring knife she had obviously taken from Junior, who stared down at his lumpy potato skins.

  “Don’t be so hard on the poor guy,” Christy called to her.

  Miz B turned—all six feet, two hundred pounds of her. The worry wrinkles in her round, dark face relaxed into a wide smile as she looked at Christy, then Bobbie. She laid the knife on the counter and opened her arms to Christy. After an affectionate hug, she turned her attention to Bobbie, who lingered in the doorway.

  “Woman, can you ever belt out the blues,” Miz B said. “Why, you’re a better singer than me.”

  “I guess Seth and I got a little loud last night,” Bobbie said, looking embarrassed. “I just like to sing the blues. It’s about all I can sing.”

  “Honey, you don’t need to sing anything else.” Miz B wiped her big hands on her purple apron appliquéd with red hats and looked at Christy. “Why didn’t you come out to the Blues Club last night? Everybody was there. Even Dan.” She bit her full lip. “I need to stop my babbling.”

  Christy knew the “babbling” referred to her mention of Dan. He had gone to the new club without her. But why not? She hadn’t spoken with him since their breakup three weeks ago.

  “Jamie, look who’s here,” Miz B called, leading Christy and Bobbie into the dining room. “You wanna get them something to drink? Coffee?”

  Christy and Jamie Browning had become friends when Jamie and her young sons moved to Summer Breeze to escape an abusive husband. Beth, Christy’s mom, had taken them under her wing, enrolling them in her Sunday school class and including the boys, ages six and eight, in activities with other kids their age.

  “Let me tell you the best thing we got this morning,” Miz B said, directing them toward a booth. “Country ham with red-eye gravy—not that white mess Shorty makes.” Shorty’s coffee shop had taken a hit since Miz B’s opened. “And grits, of course. Forget the potatoes today. And I’ll top you off with my special buttermilk biscuits.”

  “Sign me up,” Bobbie said, rubbing her stomach.

  “Me too!” Christy agreed.

  Jamie appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “Jamie, I’d like you to meet my aunt, Bobbie Bodine.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Jamie said, setting the mugs on the table. “Your niece has been a godsend for me. I moved here from Atlanta and didn’t know a soul. Christy took me right in. And Miss Beth has done wonders for my sons through the church programs.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Bobbie said warmly. “I’m staying with Beth and Grant until I can find a place.”

  “What are the boys up to?” Christy asked.

  “Getting ready for the retreat to Camp Honeywood,” Jamie said. “They’re so excited, I can hardly live with them. Is your mom going as one of the chaperons?”

  Christy nodded. “Dad’s going to run the gift shop on Saturday, and he’s promised to eat out so he won’t burn down the house.”

  Jamie laughed and hurried off to accommodate an older man waving an empty mug.

  “Grant seems capable of taking care of himself,” Bobbie said with a slight touch of sarcasm that had nothing to do with Christy’s father and everything to do with her mother. Christy had given up trying to figure out the rivalry between them long ago.

  “So you’re Beth’s sister?” Miz B asked, her dark eyes glowing as she appraised Bobbie.

  Bobbie nodded. “You’d never know it, would you?”

  “Well, you look a little bit alike, I reckon. Small build, small features.”

  “Yeah, but the similarity ends there,” Bobbie replied. “Beth was the good girl who always said, did, and wore the right thing. I was the rebel. Still am.” She winked at Christy.

  Miz B chuckled, her chest heaving behind the purple apron bib. “Well, we’re mighty glad to have you. Let me turn in those orders.”

  Jamie passed the table again, balancing several empty plates. “I see Miz B is personally taking care of you, so I’ll stay out of the way.” Her eyes strayed to Bobbie. “Will you be staying here long?”

  Bobbie nodded. “I’m opening a shop called I Saw It First.”

  “What a cute name for a shop!”

  “Oh, honey, it’s just trash I find at flea markets and garage sales, but unlike most people, I look beyond the flaws and see the promise.”

  Christy smiled, impressed. “What a great way to put it.”

  Bobbie smiled back, obviously pleased by Christy’s comment. “Yeah, I admit I get a lot of satisfaction out of working with things that have been thrown away, taking those objects and making them beautiful and useful again. That’s especially important to families who don’t know what to do with the junk in their attic or a broken dresser that belonged to Grandma.”

  “Well, I declare,” Miz B said, having reappeared with two plates piled with food. “That’s just about the best idea I’ve heard in years. And that gives me an idea. Our Red Hat club meets here on Thursday. The girls would just love it if you could talk to them about restoring old things. We’ve all got stuff we don’t know what to do with, but we don’t want to throw it away.”

  “Great idea!” Christy looked across at Bobbie. “You could start drumming up business for your shop.”

  Bobbie laughed. “I like the way you think, honey.”

  “Eat and enjoy,” Miz B said, placing their breakfast before them.

  They ate in silence for a moment, and then Bobbie looked up at Christy. “I saw an old post lying in your parents’ garage. Grant said it came from his mother’s back porch and he hated to part with it.” She stared into space as she munched on a crusty brown biscuit. “I can show the ladies how to turn that old post into a lovely coat tree.” She looked at Christy and winked. “It would look real good.”

  Christy had seen the splintered old post and couldn’t imagine it fitting anything but a garbage can, but she merely shrugged. “I just don’t have that kind of imagination.”

  “You have a wonderful imagination. I love your mysteries. What are you working on now?”

  “The third book in my pirate series. I have to do a ton of research.”

  A deep voice floated down from behind Christy’s head. “I’ll take a bite of that biscuit if you put a hunk of real butter on it.”

  Christy looked up at a grinning Jack Watson. He had on his usual jeans, and the blue polo shirt he wore emphasized his blue eyes, bracketed by lifelines. In his case, age only added to his charisma. Sometimes when Christy looked at him, she could see Chad, and her memory rolled back to the good times and hung onto the if-onlys.

  “Care to join us?” she asked as his gaze swept Bobbie. “Jack, have you ever met my aunt, Bobbie Bodine?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Bobbie extended her hand. “I never forget a handsome face.”

  Jack chuckled and slid into the booth beside Christy. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m Jack Watson. I look out for your niece.” He glanced at Christy and scowled as though remembering something. “Most of the time,” he added.

  Jamie paused at the table. “Hi, Mr. Watson. Would you like breakfast?”

  “Nah, just coffee. Thanks.”

  “I assume you’ve already had your cold cereal,” Christy said, handing him a buttered biscuit.

  “She knows me pretty well,” he said to Bobbie.

  “I can see that,” Bobbie replied, watching the two of them together. And then her eyes widened as though she had just thought of something. “You’re Chad’s father, aren’t you?”

  Fifty-four years beneath the Florida sun had sketched deep lines on Jack’s forehead. Those lines deepened at the mention of his son’s name. “Yeah.” A halfhearted grin worked the corners of his mouth, and he turned to Christy, placing an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her gently. “Since we lost Chad, I’ve claimed this little gal as my daughter. So life ha
nds out a few rewards, I guess.”

  Christy felt the warmth of his muscled arm around her shoulders, and she smiled into his eyes, once as blue as the deep water of the Gulf. Sun and age had paled the irises, and now Christy thought of the sky rather than the Gulf when she looked at him.

  Bobbie cleared her throat. “Jack, I want to open a shop here. Maybe you’d have a suggestion on locations.”

  Jack turned to her. “What kind of shop?”

  “I have a little hobby—make that an obsession—for turning trash into treasure.”

  “Oh?” Jack munched on the biscuit, studying her carefully. He looked back at Christy. “Maybe she can work on me.”

  “Stop it.” Christy swatted his shoulder. “Aunt Bobbie is a very talented lady. She’s won awards in magazines and craft shows.”

  “Just a few little awards here and there. I simply love restoring old things. I believe I see the treasure in a trashed object when most people only see the brokenness.”

  Jack stared at her. “Well, that’s a real interesting concept. And this area is known for its treasures, especially the buried kind, like you say.” He took a sip of coffee and looked from Bobbie to Christy. “Why don’t we take a little ride and look around? I can think of a couple of places that might work.”

  “You two go right ahead,” Christy said. “I’m expecting a call from my editor in”—she glanced at her watch—“exactly ten minutes. I’m stuck on a plot point and need her advice.” She reached for her purse, and Jack stood up to let her out of the booth.

  “I’m paying,” Jack insisted, “so scoot.”

  “Hey, Christy, I’m singing at the Blues Club again tonight,” Bobbie called after her. “Donna invited me to do a couple of sets. Why don’t you stop by around nine?”

  Christy hesitated, wondering if Dan would be there. Seeing him would be awkward. Still, she couldn’t disappoint her aunt. “Sure. I’d love to hear you sing.”

  “Then I’ll see you later, darlin’,” Bobbie said.

  Waving to Jamie and Miz B, Christy yelled, “I’m in a hurry—see you later!” She dashed out the door and down the steps.