When I reached Cottonwood, I stopped by the house and found that Percy had organized everyone and every job. I patted him on his muscular biceps and said, “Thank you, Mr. Percy. I have an errand to run and I’ll be back. In the meantime, you seem to know exactly what I want done.”
Percy appeared more than pleased with himself.
I returned to the car and began a slow trek up Main Street. I stayed well below the speed limit, looking from one side of the street to the other, imagining the town the way it had been and the way it could be, were M Michaels not about to bring it down and start all over again. They, like Ian Nicholby, would destroy much of the old then build the new in an attempt to make the new look old. I felt sad at the thought.
My cell phone rang as I neared the end of the town. It was Mother, as I knew it would be. “What in the world did you say to Ian to have him so upset?” she asked. “He said you practically shunned his work. And what was all that talk about old men and young women?”
“Mother, where is Valentine Bach’s home? I know it’s somewhere past the edge of town but—”
“Valentine Bach? Why would you want to go there? And please don’t tell me you plan to hire him as a contractor, Jo-Lynn.”
“Just answer me, Mother.” I hit the literal end of Main Street and pressed on the brakes. To my immediate left was the old town theater. Just past it, on Railroad Street, which crossed in front of Main, was the old train depot. Though no longer in use, it boasted an abandoned caboose with faded red paint and white lettering: R&C Railroad. “I’m at the end of Main at Railroad. Do I turn left or right?”
Mother sighed so deeply I thought I felt her breath on my ear. “Right.”
“Thank you.” I turned right.
“You’ll drive about a block and you’re forced to turn left. That’s Church Street. Then drive about two or three minutes and you’ll see a narrow dirt road off on the left-hand side of the road. Turn off the paved road and onto the dirt.” She sighed again, and I knew her thoughts without having to think about it. “That’s Old Church Street, though I doubt there’s a sign or anything. Just follow the road. You can’t miss the houses.”
“Houses?”
“Mr. Valentine lives in one; Bettina and her family live in the other.”
“I see the dirt road.” I turned left.
“I can’t imagine what this is about.”
I craned my neck until I spied what I was in search of. “I promise I’ll tell you . . . later.”
I continued driving until the road narrowed and the dirt became packed and rutted Georgia red clay; I slowed my car and leaned toward the steering wheel. Keeping my hands gripped at ten and two, I looked first to the right, then to the left, in search of the houses Mother insisted were there and seeing nothing beyond tall naked trees and bushy pines bound by vines of kudzu. I bounced in my seat for the second time that day, the first time driving the stylish streets of Raymore and now the outskirts of a ghost town in search of an old codger’s home.
The sun, nearing its highest point in the sky, shot light onto the metallic paint of my car, sending beams in the shape of a cross. I glanced up, squinting, then back out, wondering how much farther the Bach/Godwin estate, for lack of a better word, could be. Considering Mr. Bach had earlier walked to the house and back, even at his old age, it couldn’t possibly be too far from Main Street.
Finally, at about two miles from the main road, I spotted the houses, one facing the road, the other slightly behind the first and to the left, facing to the right, almost as though it were keeping tabs on the first. Both were white clapboard; neither had seen a new coat of paint in years. The first was considerably larger than the second. In front of the larger was what appeared to be the remnant of flowerbeds that had blossomed in the fall, the brown and dried remains bent and twisted above the gray earth. Two adult bicycles were lying on their side between the two houses; a shiny red Ford F-10 was parked in the driveway of the larger home next to a slightly older blue Geo with a bent bumper. A four-wheeler was parked near the front door. Two girls—who I surmised to be in their teens—sat on the front porch steps, both with their hands curled around mugs, obviously deep in conversation, which stopped abruptly when they noticed the approach of my car. One stood, leaned her slender hip against the wrought iron hand railing, and crossed one leg over the other at the ankles. The other, nearly identical, remained seated and took a deep swallow from her drink. From around the back of the house the young man I’d seen a couple of weeks ago—the young man Doris had identified as Terry Godwin—lumbered to the front and said something to the girl who was standing. She, in turn, said something back to him. The girl sitting then stood and walked into the house as I drove my car into the driveway and parked behind the Geo.
I stepped out of the car then shut the door behind me. I waited long enough for the standing adolescent to properly size me up before speaking. “Hello. You must be one of the Godwin girls.” The girl standing smiled, and I returned it. I wrapped my coat around my middle and tied the sash. “My name is Jo-Lynn Hunter. I’m looking for Valentine Bach.”
The girl came down the steps as the young man turned and walked toward the smaller house, mumbling, “I’ll get ’im,” as he went.
“I’m Arizona,” the girl said. “Arizona Godwin. My brother Terry . . .” She looked behind her momentarily. “He’ll go get Pappy.” She continued toward me and I stopped, watching her. Arizona moved like the filaments of a dandelion dancing on a warm breeze. Her hair, long and honey blonde, fell in soft waves to her waist and blew in careless wisps across her face. She grabbed at it with one hand, wrapping it around her hand and clasping it into place near her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of worn jeans that fit her small frame well, though loose around the hips and thighs, with a white cotton shirt that dipped to expose one freckled shoulder and scooped at the bodice. She looked like a flower child of the sixties, yet at ease in the new millennium.
When she was close enough I saw the blue of her eyes, recognizing them immediately. They were her great-grandfather’s. “What do you want with Pappy?” she asked. I could smell the coffee on her breath and from the mug she still held in her hand.
Before I could answer, the front door opened, and two women—one a near perfect older version of the two girls— stepped out, Bettina Bach Godwin behind her. Sidestepping Arizona, I walked toward her. “Mrs. Godwin,” I said with a wide smile. “I’m Margaret’s daughter, Jo-Lynn. Jo-Lynn Hunter.”
She ambled toward me, and I met her near the base of the steps, able then to see her better. Bettina, though petite and still shapely, seemed years older than Mother. My first thought was that the difference lay in her clothes. Mother dressed to the nines every day even when she had nowhere in particular to go; Mrs. Godwin appeared to be in Goodwill’s last year’s selection. Or, perhaps it was the lack of cosmetics, the way she pulled her white hair back tight into a bun at the nape of her neck, the sadness in her eyes. These were not her father’s brilliant blues. These were dark brown, flecked in gold, with deep-set lids and thick brows. Bettina Godwin and my mother had their childhood in common, but the similarities ended there.
The older woman nodded at me. “How is your mama? She’s all right, I reckon.” It was as if she asked a question and answered it—sure of the outcome—in one remark.
I pressed my hand against my breast. “Oh, my yes.” I laughed, nervous but unsure why. There was something in this woman’s face and character that unnerved me, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactly what it was.
“That’s good then, I s’pose.” She paused. “Your aunt? How’s she doing?”
“She’s living with her daughter over in Luverne now,” I said. “I think she’s doing okay for a woman who is nearly ninety years old and just lost the love of her life.”
Miss Bettina nodded. “You be sure to tell her I said hello next time you talk to her, you hear?”
“I’m here to see your father, Miss Bettina.”
The younger of the two older women stepped forward then. “Ga-Ga, why don’t you go back inside, hon? Finish that apple pie Pappy’s been hungry for all day.” She spoke in a gentle tone, one that would ever so kindly coax Miss Bettina back into the house.
Miss Bettina nodded at me and said, “My best to your folks,” then turned to go back up the steps just as the other girl stepped out the front door and said, “Here ya go, Ga-Ga,” while holding the door open for her grandmother.
I remained at the foot of the steps, Arizona now right behind me. I turned to her. “Ga-Ga. I’ve never heard that term of endearment for a grandmother.”
“Terry,” she said. “Couldn’t say grandma and it stuck.”
I smiled. “We Southerners sure have a way of calling our kin, don’t we?”
Arizona shrugged. “I guess.” Then she added, “Terry went to get Pappy.”
The younger of the older women, dressed in worn jeans and a long gauzy top with a faux fur vest over it, skipped down the steps then, extending her hand. “I’m Fiona Godwin,” she said.
I took a step back, having no choice, and bumped into Arizona. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I reached for her, stumbling over my own feet.
Fiona reached for me, in an attempt to keep me on my feet. “Are you okay?”
I righted myself. “I’m fine.” I readjusted the belt of my coat and said, “You must be married to Miss Bettina’s son?”
“Junior, yes.” Fiona’s eyes smiled before her mouth did, and I saw that she and the girl whose name I did not know bore a striking resemblance. Both with long light brown hair, highlighted around the face with blonde streaks, both with gentle brown eyes—doe-like eyes—broad noses, and lips that, even when relaxed, appeared to be smiling.
“And these are your girls?”
The girl on the porch and Arizona joined their mother, both standing on one side of her, Arizona slightly before the other. She leaned back, and the other, slightly taller girl draped an arm over her sister, almost protectively, though not quite.
“Arizona you’ve met.” Arizona smiled again, and I thought what a pixie she was. “My other girl here is Annaleise.”
Annaleise didn’t smile as her sister had. She just continued to stare at me as though she didn’t know what to make of me. “How old are you, girls?”
Arizona looked back at her sister, then to me. “Sixteen.”
“They’re twins, though not quite identical as you can see,” their mother explained.
“Mmm,” I acknowledged. “They’re not in school?”
“I homeschool my children.”
I nodded. “Oh, I see.”
“You didn’t say why you wanted to see Pappy. Does this have something to do with the renovation of the old house off of Main Street? Miss Stella’s house?”
“Yes. I want to talk to Mr. Bach about helping with the renovations.”
“Pappy’s the best, you know,” she said, smiling at me again. The knot lifted from around my chest and all but disappeared. “He doesn’t have the physical ability he used to have, but he’s not lost anything upstairs in the knowledge department, I can tell you that.”
From a short distance I heard a house door open and close. I looked to my left and saw Mr. Bach making his way down the steps of his home. “So you found me, did you?” he said as he shuffled toward me. Terry lurked behind him, leaning against the door frame, one leg crossed before the other, and his eyes firmly set on me.
I stared back for a moment, uneasiness causing me to look away quickly and over to the old man. “Mr. Bach, I’d like to talk with you about working at the house.”
“Your city boy didn’t work out like you thought?”
I laughed lightly. “No, sir.”
Fiona put her hand on Mr. Bach’s shoulder. “Pappy, you want some coffee for you and Mrs. Hunter?”
“Please, call me Jo-Lynn. And I’d love a cup of coffee.” I looked at Mr. Bach. “Mr. Bach? How about we go inside and have a cup of coffee and talk business?”
Mr. Bach chuckled again. “Tell you what. Let me go back to my house and get some papers and I’ll meet you in the kitchen directly.” He looked at his great-grandson, who’d remained at the door of his home. “Boy, what’s say you and I start a whole new file for Mrs. Hunter?”
He returned to his home as I followed Fiona up the front porch steps of her home, fully aware that I was about to hire more than a man; I was hiring a family.