But today, Amos and Avery looked happy, and Andy looked about two inches taller than usual. Even though he was just a sophomore and kind of wiry and small for his age, he outworked the older boys, hauling stuff out to storage and then trotting up the stairs two at a time, looking for more jobs to do. His granddaddy put him to painting, and he lined those edges along the trim boards just as careful and slick as a whistle. Pretty soon, Verl was using Andy as an example to show the other boys how to edge the walls. They took the lessons politely and called him
sir
and
Mr. Anderson
. Andy looked as happy as I’d ever seen him.
When I went downstairs to head back to the café for the supper rush, Donetta had just finished a set and style on a lady who lived up toward Waco.
“You done a good thing, DeDe,” I said, and gave her a little hug. “How you got Verl so fired up is a mystery, but it’s sure nice to see.” I slipped back through the wall with a lightness in my step and a happy feeling in my heart.
All through the supper hour, I made a point to say nice things when the crowd made remarks about Donetta hiring Verl. Thanks to Betty Prine’s gossiping, even the countertoppers were talking about it.
“Hope he don-don-don’t take a snort or two and fall-fall-fall down the stairs, down the stairs,” Doyle joked, and I gave him a dirty look. If there was anybody who should’ve had sympathy for Verl, it was Doyle. Doyle sure enough knew what it was like to be made fun of by other folks.
I turned on Doyle, feeling a little self-righteous, even though not a few hours ago, I’d been saying the same things myself. “Well, he’s doin’ a fine job, Doyle Banes, and we might all do well to remember the Golden Rule here.” I looked hard at Betty Prine, over in the corner with that snoot-nosed husband of hers, Harold. “And besides . . .”
Doyle slid off his stool and started toward the front door. “I’ll be uddd-dogged,” he muttered, looking out the window. “Brothbrother Ervin, ulll-look at that, will-will ya?”
Both Ervin and Harlan Hanson swiveled around just in time to see a big RV truck tool down Main Street. It pulled around the corner beside the café, and we could hear it rumbling in the alley.
“Woo-wee!” Harlan whistled. “Shore ’nuf is a rig, ain’t it? That’s one of the bunch from Miss Lulu’s place, I think.”
Betty Prine stuck her nose close to the glass and tried to see around the corner. “Who’s Miss Lulu got at her place?”
Brother Ervin ignored her and swiveled back around to the counter. “I imagine that’s the people who was out by Caney Creek Church earlier. I hear they asked O.C. all kind of questions about the Andersons.”
Betty cocked her head back, her lips puckering up. “What would a nice motor bus be doing out at Caney Creek, of all places?”
“Ulll-lookin’ for in-information about Am-Am-Amber and her m-m-m-music, uhhh, music,” Doyle chimed in, and I stuck a hamburger basket in front of him to shut him up. The last thing we needed was Betty Prine sticking her pointy nose into this Hollywood business.
Betty gave Doyle a look that could have fried an egg. “Those Anderson children never learned anything at Caney Creek Church but heathenism—all that clapping and stomping around those people do. It’s blasphemy. Every time those Anderson kids came to vacation Bible school, I had to teach them how the Lord’s music is
meant
to be lifted up. I’m happy to see she has remembered at least some of what I taught her.”
“You been keepin’ up with the
American Megastar
show, Betty?” No doubt Harlan said that just to annoy Betty. He knew there was no way Betty Prine would admit to watching a show filled with beerdrinking country songs and, even worse, rock-and-roll music.
“Why, no, of course not!” Betty’s face got red, and she stood up, tossing her napkin on the table. Like a puppet on a string, Harold hopped to his feet and went to pay the bill. “What with being president of the Literary Society, I have
far
too much preparation to do, and besides, Harold and I confine our viewing to programs of moral value. We’d never allow one of
our
daughters to participate in such a show as that.”
“It’s a uggg-good thing th-th-they ain’t been asked-asked then, ain’t it?” Doyle said, then turned around and gave Harlan a big grin. Betty’s two spoiled-rotten daughters were both so mean-spirited nobody’d ever want them on a TV show.
“Well, I think it’s just wonderful what Amber’s doing,” I said. “Some folks might hear about all Amber’s been through and hear her sing and decide to change their lives.”
Betty spit through the gap in her teeth and rolled her eyes. “As if hearing a story is going to change someone’s life, Imagene Doll.”
“Hard to say,” I answered as she gathered up Harold and headed for the door.
“The para-parables in the uuub-Bible are stories,” Doyle pointed out.
Betty didn’t answer. She just went out the door with her nose in the air and Harold trailing behind her.
“Good point,” Brother Ervin agreed.
Harlan turned an ear toward the rumble of the motor home outside. “Wonder what they’re doin’ out there, parked in the alley.”
Bob came back out of the storage room, where he’d gone when Betty mounted her high horse and charged into the conversation. “Can’t tell,” he said. “I just looked out the rear door, and they were unloading something from underneath their bus. I asked if they needed help, but I guess they didn’t hear, or . . .”
The front door burst open before Bob could finish, and in came three people—a lady with short-cut blond hair and two fellas following behind her. Before we knew what was happening, they’d marched through the café all tangled in microphones and cameras, come right behind the counter, and caught Bob at the fry grill.
“Sir,” said the lady with the spiky white-blond hair, “do you have any information about the rumors that Amber Anderson has been selected for the Final Five on
American Megastar
? Any word on plans to hold her hometown reveal during this weekend’s festival?”
Bob stood there like a deer in the headlights, his spatula glinting in the evening sun.
The lady reporter shook the microphone in his face, then brought it back to herself and fired out another question. “Any comment on the rumors that, after a whirlwind romance, Amber is secretly engaged to Justin Shay and they will be arriving here together tomorrow?”
Bob just stood there with his eyes unblinking and his mouth halfway open.
The lady reporter wagged her microphone again. “What about the fact that Amber was recently seen with Shay at a Shokahna rally, and the claim by members of the Los Angeles–based religious sect that Amber intends to convert to Shokahna so the couple can be married in a Shokahna temple?”
Bob didn’t have an answer for that, either. Nothing. Not a word. His lips moved and he made a little gurgle in his throat, but he was choked down like a hot tractor in a July wheat field.
I headed over to the counter. I was starting to feel bad for Bob. I could picture this on
Hollywood Undercover
, which was what the cameraman’s jacket said. If I didn’t do something, the world’s first introduction to Daily, Texas, home of Amber Anderson, would be Bob Turner, fish-eyed with his mouth open and a little stream of spit dripping from the corner. People would think Amber came from a village of simpletons, and all her chances to make a good impression for America would be spoiled.
“Can I help you folks?” I said, and the reporter swung around so quick she almost boxed me in the nose.
“Ma’am, can we get a comment on the reports that Amber Anderson will be arriving here this weekend to film her Final Five show for
American Megastar
?”
“Well . . .” Squinting against the bright light on the camera, I saw my reflection in the lens. My hair was a little off-kilter, and my blouse—double knit with red rosebuds and blue daisies in little baskets—was bunched up above my boobs so that I looked like I had two pair. I was appalled, of course, so I grabbed the shirtwaist and pulled, then patted my hair.
The reporter waved the microphone in my face. I reckon she thought I was froze up, like Bob.
I gave what I hoped was a thoughtful yet friendly look. “I can’t say that anyone in Daily has been contacted with official news that Amber has made the Final Five, but being as she’s a hometown favorite, there has been some speculation. An
un
confirmed report, I believe you’d call it.”
The lady reporter drew back, surprised, I guess, that folks in Daily knew proper TV terminology. “And what about her alleged secret engagement to Justin Shay and reports that her family members are angry about the marriage and have threatened to disown her should she convert to Shokahna in order to marry Shay? Do you think such a conversion would undermine her credibility as a gospel singer?”
“Well . . .” That bit about Amber taking up some flaky Hollywood religion got my back up. “I’d have to say that hearing such a thing certainly would be upsetting to her family and the entire town.”
The lady reporter perked up like a barn cat hearing a rustling in the hay. Having uncovered the tail of a scandal, she was ready to dig down and get after the meat. “Can you elab—”
“On the other hand,” I went on, and she swung the microphone back to me, wheeling her chin toward the cameraman to tell him,
Keep rolling—here’s a lady with a big mouth
.
The camera came a little closer. “Of course, considering that we all know Amber, and have known her all her life, we Daily folks wouldn’t be likely to believe such a thing. Amber Anderson is a fine young lady. There may be some things about city life she doesn’t understand, and a young girl can have her head turned, but I’d stake dimes to dollars that Amber Anderson knows what she believes and no Hollywood playboy’s gonna change that. When Amber sings them gospel songs, they come straight from her heart. She’s got a God-given talent and a pure motivation, and I’m sure that bothers some folks whose motives maybe ain’t so pure.”
The lady reporter drew back so that she was a head taller than me. Her chin curled into her neck, and we had a moment of what’s called
dead air
.
Lucky for her, I was on a roll. “It’s a sad world when folks want to tear down a young girl who ain’t done anything to anybody and is just trying to make the best of herself. Isn’t that a sad thing? I don’t reckon most of us would like to have our lives on the front page. I wouldn’t, would you?”
The lady reporter choked on whatever she was about to say. The fire went out of her eyes, and she stood there looking almost as froze up as poor Bob, the microphone hanging slack in her hand. The cameraman chuckled, and the photographic equipment shook up and down on his shoulder.
“An . . . any other comments,” the reporter muttered.
“No, ma’am, not a thing,” I said. “Y’all have a real nice day, and thanks so much for stopping in at the Daily Café. Can I get you some coffee?”
Signaling to the cameraman to
cut
, the reporter heaved a sigh, then collapsed onto a barstool with her forehead in her hand, like she had a headache. “Make mine a double. To go.”
“Coming right up.” I started for the coffee pot, thumping Bob’s shoulder as I went by. Stumbling forward, he belly-bounced off the counter, let out an
ooof,
then passed gas so loud it made the lady reporter jerk upright and stare in pure amazement.
Since Bob had her attention and he’d finally come out of vapor lock, he decided to introduce himself. He probably couldn’t have picked a worse time. “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Bob Turner, owner of the Daily Café, president of the Chamber of Commerce, and former employer of Amber Anderson. Anything you want to know about Daily, I’m your man.”
The reporter shut her eyes, muttering something about finally getting the chance to do a story on location, and this is where she ends up. I guess Daily wasn’t exactly what she had in mind for her first big news report.
While she was waiting for her coffee, the countertoppers had decided to introduce themselves and see if they could get a little airtime. Doyle stuttered through a description of the lime quarry, told her she ought not to miss seeing those giant rock crushers at work, and offered to take her on a tour if she was looking to see Daily sights.
About the time I delivered her coffee, Harlan was starting into a fine story about how the town got its name. “. . . folks usually do wonder about it. Legend has it that the first thing built on this spot was an old trading post, and the fella that ran it put out a big sign that said
Daily Provisions
. The name stuck over time, everyone who moved here eventually bein’ known as Daily folks, until finally they named the town that. While you’re here, you won’t want to miss seeing Boggy Bend Park. There’s paintings down there done by real live Tonkawa Indians—’course they’re not live anymore, but they was once. Great swimmin’ hole. Spring-fed year-round. Never dries up. Did’ja bring yer swimsuit?”
Slapping a five-dollar bill on the counter, the TV lady grabbed her coffee, then left as fast as her red high heels would go. The cameraman trailed behind her, looking like he thought it was all a little funny. The reporter gave him a dirty look, then slapped open the door, stumbled over the stoop, and marched onto the sidewalk. Ramming her fist into her hip, she glared up and down Main Street, looking for her next victim.
The funny thing was, Amber Anderson’s grandpa was working in the building right next to her and she never even knew it. Brother Ervin grabbed the phone and called around Daily, just to warn folks not to tell her anything.
At the counter, the regulars had a fine time reliving their brush with fame.
“That was a good one about the Indians, Harlan,” Ervin congratulated.
Harlan gave a little bow. “Thank you, brother. I’ve got to say that the Academy A-ward goes to Doyle and his tour of the rock crushers at the lime plant.”
Doyle nodded with the keen eye and straight face of a man who’s gone a long way by being smarter than he looks. “W-well, uuuth-ank you, Erve. If that don’t-don’t-don’t get her to ulll-leave town, n-nothin’ will.”
But out there on the sidewalk, that lady reporter wasn’t going anywhere. As she headed down the street, she had the wily look of a prowling cat that was gonna dig and dig and dig until she snatched that mouse right out of the haystack.