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I half considered just sleeping for the remaining time I was in Wishing Well, but thanks to the thin walls of the trailer, I could hear all the newlyweds’ activities so that wasn’t really an option. I decided staying in the trailer would be worse for my mental health than venturing out into town.
My first stop after leaving the love shack had been to go see the one person I had, in fact, missed from my hometown. Dorothy Higgins, aka Miss Dottie, lived in the trailer next to my mom’s and had taken over caring for me after Remi joined the Army. On the nights my mom worked or was out on a date, which was usually six out of seven a week, she would have me over for dinner and help me with my homework.
She had a one-eyed cat named Mr. Fluffy, whom she used to sew clothes for. She’d taught me how to sew, how to bake rainbow cakes, and how to play gin rummy. I’d kept in touch with her for the first few years I lived in New York. I sent postcards monthly, and she wrote me letters. Over the past few years, though, our correspondence had dwindled.
Her eyesight had deteriorated, so she stopped writing as much, and I knew it was difficult for her to read, so I just sent her cards for her birthday and Christmas.
I was surprised when I went next door to see her, and the door was opened by Ray Walters, who had apparently moved in after he retired from the lumber yard. He told me that he’d bought the place from Dottie a year earlier, after she moved to Sunset Acres Senior Living.
It irritated me that my mom hadn’t mentioned that Miss Dottie had moved out. But then again, we barely spoke, and when we did, it was usually her asking me for money or complaining about a man in her life doing her wrong. We didn’t really have a typical mother-daughter relationship.
The only thing she said to me after my topless video went viral was that she didn’t think it was a big deal and that I should stop being dramatic. She explained that she hadn’t gotten all upset when Frank, whom she dated the entire time I was in high school, showed his poker friends a photo of her flashing to get beads in New Orleans when they’d visited for Mardi Gras.
I’d thought about pointing out that the two situations were completely different. She’d flashed on purpose, and I was off my head on Molly and didn’t really know what I was doing. She’d also been in an environment where that behavior was totally appropriate, whereas I was on stage in a Broadway show that did not call for nudity. And a half dozen guys had seen her photos—over a million people had seen my breasts. But I knew trying to explain that would be pointless, so I just let it go.
“Tell Dottie I said hello,” Ray called out from the folding chair in front of Miss Dottie’s old trailer, where he was seated drinking a beer at noon.
“Will do.” I waved as I drove past him and headed into town. The senior home was only about two miles away. It backed up to Emerald Cove Lake. I’d worked there part-time when I was in high school. I’d started out as a janitor, but in my senior year, I’d also started teaching art and music classes.
The drive took less than five minutes. As I pulled into the senior living parking lot, I remembered Velma mentioning Kane’s grandpa being here. A flutter of butterflies infiltrated my belly at the thought that I might run into him again, but I quickly quelled the winged creature's excitement.
As a hopeless romantic, my mind always skewed toward my life playing out like a rom-com. But, if the past few months had taught me anything, it was that if my life was a Reese Witherspoon movie, it was more Cruel Intentions than Sweet Home Alabama.
Still, I found myself checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Even though I doubted I’d be running into Kane again, I wanted to look presentable. Word spread faster than an STD at an orgy, and I didn’t want the gossip train to be talking about what a hot mess I looked like.
Was my life a hot mess? Sure. But that didn’t mean I needed to advertise it.
After quickly swiping a coat of lip stain across my mouth and wiping the waterproof mascara I’d applied two days ago out from beneath my bottom lids, I figured that was as good as it was going to get and got out of the car to head inside.
The doors opened, and the familiar scent of cleaning solution and flowers wafted through the air. Soft rock played over the speakers, and Judy Haines sat behind the front desk. Her long brown hair was woven into a braid that rested on her shoulder. She’d traded in her thick, black-framed glasses for a more stylish wire-rimmed frame that suited her oval face.
When she lifted her head, a wide, welcoming smile spread across her face. “Miss Ruby Rhodes, I heard you were back in town, and I was hopin’ you’d stop by.”
“Hi, Mrs. Haines.”
“How you been, sweetie? I’ve been real worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Well, good. I’m glad to hear that. And how’s that handsome brother of yours?”
“Good. He’s still out in California.”
“So what brings you back to town? Is it to celebrate your mama getting’ hitched?” Judy’s brows lifted. It was almost imperceptible, but I knew that expression. Her comment was a fishing expedition for gossip. She was trying to gauge my feelings on my mom’s choice of husband.
“I’m just visiting for a few days before my next job.” I did my best to keep my tone and face as neutral as possible. I would be gone this time next week, but my mom would still be here. She would hear people saying that I wasn’t happy for her or that I didn’t like Randy and didn’t support her decision. Even if all of that was true, there was no way I would add coal to the gossip train.
After realizing I wasn’t going to bite, she asked, “So what plans do you have while you’re in town? Are ya doin’ a tour of your old stompin’ grounds?”
“Actually, I’m here to see Miss Dottie.”
Judy checked the time on her watch. “Well, she’ll about be gettin’ out of art class in about ten minutes.” She leaned across the desk, her bangle bracelets clanking on the wooden surface as she motioned for me to come closer. “I would call her out of class and let her know she’s got a visitor, but today is still life,” she whispered conspiratorially.
“Still life?” I wasn’t sure why that was so scandalous. Usually, still life class subjects consisted of fruit or other inanimate objects.
Judy’s glasses slipped down her nose as she nodded and mouthed, “The male form.”
“Oh…okay.” I had to admit that I was surprised that they would have a nude model, even if it were in the name of art. When I taught here, they’d made me use Kidz Bop versions of songs in my dance classes because they were worried a curse word might slip through the cracks.
