Southern Comfort (29 page)

Newland had Natalie half in his lap and Bitty beside him. He felt like the luckiest man in the world.

“Everybody ready?” Aubie asked.

“Yes,” they all said through clenched smiles.

“Everybody say sex,” Aubie said, staring down into the camera screen.

“Aubie, hit the button and get over here,” Natalie grumped.

“Right. Here we go.” Aubie raced around, just getting in front of the camera before the timer went off.

“I hope that’s a good one.” Natalie popped off of Newland’s lap. He hated to see her go, but he knew it was for the best. They still had the picture to deal with and dinner to eat before they could head upstairs to be by themselves.

Aubie grabbed the camera off the tripod and examined the digital picture.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the image.

“What is it?” Bitty asked. “It should have taken four pictures right in a row. Did it not?”

Aubie thumbed through them, an odd look on his face.

“It did but … ” He didn’t finish as he started thumbing through the pictures once again.

Newland went to stand by Bitty as she took the camera from Aubie. Natalie squeezed between them, staring at the tiny screen. “Well, I’ll be,” she said.

“Is that—” Newland asked, unable to even say the words.

“Yep,” Bitty said, her tone matter-of-fact. “That’s the ghost.” She hummed a little as she walked away, leaving Aubie, Newland, and Natalie to stare at the four pictures on the tiny screen.

Newland thumbed through them one more time just to make the small boy, no more than eight in full Union uniform blue smiling at the camera, was in all the pictures.

Natalie turned her gaze to Newland. “Is that a ghost?”

Newland flipped through the pictures again. “I think it is.”

“Wow,” Aubie said.

Bitty took that minute to pop back into the parlor, a sweet, self-satisfied smirk on her face. “I told you he was real.”

Newland laughed and hugged Natalie close. “So you did,” he said. As real as the love they shared.

Amie loves nothing more than a good book. Except for her family ... and maybe homemade tacos ... and nail polish. But reading and writing are definitely high on the list.

Born and bred in Mississippi, Amie is a transplanted southern belle who now lives in Oklahoma with her deputy husband, their genius son, two spoiled cats, and one very lazy beagle. Oh, and don't forget the stray kitty that has taken up residence on her front porch.

When she's not creating quirky characters and happy endings, she's chauffeuring her prodigy to guitar lessons and orchestra concerts. She has a variety of hobbies, but her favorite is whatever gets her out of housework.

An award winning author, Amie is a member of RWA. She loves to hear from readers. You can find her on Facebook, Instagram, Google+, Twitter, Goodreads, and Pinterest. For links to the various sites, check her website:
www.amywritesromance.com
and
www.amielouellenwrites.com
.

(From
Southern Hospitality
by Amie Lillard)

Roxanne stepped from the restrooms at the side of the small gas station as a brand new, midnight blue Cadillac sped away from the ancient gasoline pumps. Its motion stirred up the red dust that coated everything in Western Tennessee, including the rusted tin of the service station roof and the old hound dog napping in front of it. Roxanne waved a hand in front of her face in a futile attempt to clear the air, then pulled at the back of her Cubbies jersey where it stuck to her skin. It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning, and it was hotter than hell. Thank goodness this was just a four-day trip. Between the heat and the dust she didn’t think she could stand any longer than that.

She made her way to the front end of her car and eyed it with dismay. White smoke still billowed from under Mabel’s hood. Roxanne had hoped that after a short trip to the potty there wouldn’t be quite as much smoke. So much for that. The ’64-1/2 Mustang wasn’t in the best shape, and the trunk only stayed closed about fifty percent of the time, but she had never broken down on Roxanne like this. Roxanne had thought there would be no problem with driving the car to Memphis and back.

Mabel was more like a member of the family than a mere mode of transportation. She and her brother Jonas had pooled their money together and bought the car as a seventeenth birthday present for themselves. Even then Mabel had been worse for the wear. Roxanne had inherited Mabel for herself when fall classes started at Minnesota State. Jonas had gone to Northwestern to study psychology, and their father had bought him a new car for the trip. Mabel had become Roxanne’s car. She’d even kept the classic when she was married to Pierce, tucked back from harm in the garage, collecting dust until Roxanne needed her again, the day she walked out.

Expelling an exasperated breath, she hooked her fingers under the hood, then snatched them back with a shake as the tender flesh met scorching metal. Gingerly, she found the release and propped opened the hood.

The white smoked poured from Mabel’s engine as Roxanne turned to contemplate the building whose facilities she’d just used. Cecil’s Gas and Stop, the peeling red paint on the sign announced. Roxanne shook her head. She had taken a doozy of a wrong turn somewhere. That’s what she got for driving all night without a break. She should be in Memphis right now.

She gazed down the lonely, two lane road as the Caddy disappeared from view. The sign she’d passed a couple of miles ago declared this jewel of the South to be Jefferson County, but she had the strangest feeling she was in …

“Help you?”

At the simple country voice, Roxanne jumped, nearly tripping over the toes of her Doc Marten combat boots.

Despite the heat, the long sleeved, industrial blue shirt was buttoned up to his neck. A striped engineer’s cap sat upon his head and a wad of chewing tobacco distorted one cheek. When he leaned down to peer at the engine, she noticed the mandatory pink grease rag in the back pocket of his stained Dickies.

Mayberry. She was in friggin’ Mayberry.

“Yes—” She glanced at the red and white patch on his chest as he straightened—“Arely. I think my car overheated.”

“I think yore right,” he said, then held up an old milk jug. “I brought you out some water.”

Roxanne eyed the grease stained, lidless jug. “For the car?” she asked with a wince.

“Yep.”

Roxanne exhaled in relief. “By all means,” she said with a sweep of her hand.

Arely used his pink rag to remove the cap, then poured the water into the radiator.

Surely that’s all Mabel needed—a drink and time to cool down. “Do you have a map?” she asked the attendant.

Arely straightened, then eyed her suspiciously. “You a Yankee?”

Change Mayberry to hell. She had taken a wrong turn an ended up in hell. That explained the temperature. “I suppose I am.”

He removed his cap and scratched his balding head.

“Do you have a map?” Roxanne asked again.

Arely replaced his cap, then adjusted it a couple of times before answering. “Of what?”

“Tennessee?” she asked hopefully.

Arely spat, then switched the tobacco to the other cheek. “Nope.”

“No?”

“Nope.” He spat again.

“You don’t have a map of your own state?”

“Well, I never much planned on goin’ no place.”

“O-kay,” Roxanne said, certain that Arely was a quart low of brain fluid. “Is there any place in town with a map?”

“I reckon they have one over at the high school.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I bet they’d let you look at it too, beings you asked nice-like and all.”

Make that two quarts.

“You don’t understand,” Roxanne explained. “I want to buy it.”

“Well, now I cain’t say for sure they’d sell it what with the kids nowadays needin’ an education and all.”

Roxanne sighed. Maybe she shouldn’t have used her map to mop up the orange soda she’d spilled early this morning. Yeah, that was about the worst idea she’d had all week. But she was tired and not thinking and still a bit overwhelmed with Newland’s unexpected proposal. But it was done and now the orange stained, sticky mess no longer resembled the Volunteer state. At least the color was right.

“Memphis,” she tried again. “Can you tell me how to get to Memphis?”

“Well now,” he started in that slow southern way that set her fast-paced Chicago teeth on edge. “Take this road here back out of the county the way you come. Then about a quarter of a mile as the crow flies this side of the river, turn back as if you was goin’ on into Missouri—”

“As the crow flies?”

“Yep. Then about a mile or so down the road there’s a big post oak—”

“That’s okay.” Roxanne nodded indulgently. “I’ll find it. Thanks.” Surely she couldn’t be more than a couple of hours from the civilization of Memphis. Though at this point she’d settle for any city.

Smoke no longer poured from her car, so she slammed down the hood. She smiled and nodded to the man, then climbed into the well-traveled Ford.

With a salute to Arely, she turned the key, ready to see the last of this town. Mabel sputtered, wheezed, and spit—then died.

T-riffic
, she must have burst another radiator hose. She tried the key one more time, but Mabel refused to sputter, much less spit, or even wheeze. Roxanne got out and slammed the door. Damn car.

Arely lifted the hood again and poked around the engine.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.

“You cracked the engine block.”

“Is that bad?”

“It ain’t good.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Shore.” He straightened and shut the hood with a thump. “I can fix anything.”

Roxanne checked her watch. “How soon?”

Arely checked the sun. “Next week some time.”

“Next week!” She had a convention to cover starting tonight. “You can’t fix it sooner?”

“Well now, I gotta find an engine for it first.”

“An engine?” Roxanne grimaced. That was gonna cost her.

“You see, ol’ Bert—he own the Parts House—well, he’s done gone to Texas for the bass tournament. He won’t be back till Sunday evenin’. Then we’ll have to order you a rebuilt and—”

“Never mind. What about a junk yard?”

“Not one. Unless you count the cars in Earl Johnston’s pasture.” Arely laughed at this own attempt at a joke, but Roxanne could find no humor in the situation. None at all.

“Where can I get an engine for my car?”

Arely mopped his eyes with his grease rag, his mirth coming slowly under control. “Jackson. Or Memphis.”

“You mean there’s not a single place in this town that sells car parts except for Bert’s Parts House.”

“Yep.”

“What about a rental?” At the very least she could get to Memphis, then come back for her car later. Newland was mad enough at her already. He would be livid if she missed the convention.

“Now if’n you want a movie, you go down to the bait shop and—”

Roxanne didn’t even want to know why the bait shop and the video store were one and the same. Never mind that the town still had a video store. “Car,” she corrected. “Where can I rent a car?”

“Jackson. Or Memphis.”

Brother
.

“Okay, Arely. I have three hundred dollars in my purse.” As if to prove her point she went around Mabel to the passenger’s side window and hauled out her giant leather tote. After a moment of digging around for her wallet, she retrieved the money and waved it in the air between them. “This is for you. All you have to do is find me a motor for my car and have it in by this afternoon.”

“Earliest I could have it ready would be Monday afternoon. And that’s if I can get my cousin Carl to help.”

“Will he do it?”

“If he ain’t fishin’.”

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “What about Cecil?” She pointed to the sign lining the rusted roof. “Is he fishing, too?”

Arely shook his head. “Nope. He’s dead.”

Fabulous
. She wouldn’t have a car till Monday. She would have to call Newland and tell him what was going on. Maybe Newland would come get her and take her to Memphis himself. Little Rock couldn’t be more than two or three hours from here. She’d be late for registration and she would have to face him again after last night, but she could still make the convention.

“All right.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “You get your cousin to help, and I’ll give him three hundred as well. Deal?”

“Deal,” Arely said, reaching for the money.

Roxanne held it over her head and away from the attendant. “And I have my car back by Monday
morning
.”

“Monday morning,” he repeated, taking the bills then ambling into the Gas and Stop. Roxanne reluctantly followed.

The inside of Cecil’s was cool, or rather cooler than it was outside. The old hound dog must have thought so, too, for he followed behind them and collapsed on the smooth concrete floor.

Roxanne watched impatiently as Arely picked up the rotary dial phone that sat on the worn counter.

The call took only minutes—country minutes, that was. Arely had to ask about the wife and the kids and how that sick cow was doing before he finally got around to inquiring about Carl’s plans for the next five days.

“Yore in luck.” Arely hung up the phone. “Carl said he’d help.”

One down, two to go, she thought, as Arely dialed the next number.

“Maybe you ought to buy a lottery ticket,” Arely said as he disconnected the second time. “Earl just happens to have an engine he thinks will do just fine.”

Roxanne ignored his vague affirmation that her car would soon run again and instead focused on the positive. “Is there a restaurant or something where I could wait for my ride?” Assuming Newland was willing to come get her.

“The Corner Café is on the other side of town, ’bout two miles this side of the highway.” Arely vaguely gestured with one hand.

“Is it close enough that I can walk?” Not that she wanted to. The sun was beating down, and the temperature had to be at least ninety.

“Well, now that’s the thing.”

“What’s the thing?”

“Yore better off going over to Len’s Diner. The Corner Café doesn’t open till noon.”