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December 2000, Atlanta
ELIZABETH LANGE COULD hardly believe her luck. Just a few more weeks and she’d be out of this hellhole. Not that she didn’t like Atlanta. There was a wealth of resources here—things to see and do—museums, art, opera, theater, restaurants galore. But there was always traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Unending traffic. Four months ago, she’d decided to drive up into the North Georgia mountains on a quiet Sunday morning. Left at seven, and she’d ended up stuck when a tractor trailer overturned on the interstate after a car about as big as one of the semi’s wheels darted in front of it without seeming to notice that there wasn’t enough room. The resulting pileup blocked all six lanes as well as the shoulders. Liz, along with a couple of hundred cars in back of her and another hundred or so in front of her, were stuck there for six solid hours. Nobody died, thank goodness, not even the jerk in the squashed sports car who’d caused the mess, but by the time Liz got moving again she just turned around as soon as she could and drove back home.
The next day, she started looking at other options, and—she tapped the lists she held—here she was, almost on her way.
She’d figured the search for a practice to buy would not be an easy one. Or a swift one, either.
But she’d been wrong. It couldn’t have been simpler.
Her partner in the dental practice for the past fifteen years loved Atlanta, planned to stay, and wanted to buy out her fifty percent share. At a great price.
The seller of the practice in Martinsville wanted cash. She had cash.
Liz Lange wasn’t dumb. Before she made a firm offer, she checked out the lay of the land, so to speak, when she took a quiet trip to that narrow hard-to-find valley. She visited the office, met the seller. Met his wife, who did most of the office work. Stopped for lunch at a deli on the main street and had one of the best soup and sandwich combinations she’d ever wrapped her mouth around. Couldn’t resist staying for an extra day, which turned into two extra days. Margot, the deli owner, had steered her to a great little B&B called Azalea House. That evening Liz had eaten at a local restaurant, even met Tom, the owner, who had a school there teaching at-risk teenage boys how to run a family restaurant. Everything about the town was perfect. They had a library she couldn’t wait to explore. She’d gone inside to look around and had been greeted by an orange and white tabby cat and a personable librarian. Perfect. There was a tree-shaded square in the middle of town, and she could just picture herself sitting on a picnic blanket on the town green listening to summer evening concerts at the gazebo. Perfect.
Naturally, Liz hadn’t said anything to Melissa Tarkington about why she was there, but she’d hinted that she might be interested in moving to the area and asked about car repair places and eateries, doctors and dentists. Melissa, the B&B owner, who made one of the best coffee cakes Liz had ever tasted—along with a great cup of coffee—raved about everything that was available. An herb shop, a hairdresser, even a movie theater. Then she said she went to a dentist up the valley. She wished she didn't have to travel so far. That was all she’d said about teeth, but it was enough for Liz to put two and two together.
The seller was a sleaze-bag. Too bad, because she’d really liked the guy’s wife. She was pretty sure, though, that she could turn the practice around, once people knew Sleazy was out of the picture.
Before she left Martinsville, she swung by the deli and bought half a dozen cinnamon rolls to go. That was what brushing and flossing was all about, wasn’t it?
Then she drove by the dental office and offered Mr. Sleaze fifty percent of the stated value. He wanted the standard sixty percent, but she had cash, so he accepted it and they took time to call a lawyer up the valley and set a closing date.
Liz had definitely not been at all impressed with the Sleaze. He reminded her too much of some of the fellows she’d hung around with before she finally got serious about her life. All that drinking, all those parties. She tried not to think of some of the stupid things—fun things, but truly stupid—she’d done way back then, but they cropped up in the back of her brain every once in a while.
Like now.
Stupid wasn’t the right word. Carefree, maybe? She’d certainly been that. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to all those buddies of hers. They’d never been friends, just pals. Too much booze, too little sense. Too much partying, too little discretion. How had she ever come out of it intact? She’d never regretted leaving all those buddies of hers behind.
Except for Mozelle Funderburk. Liz was glad they’d stayed friends all these years. The biggest thing was that they’d decided to room together their last two years of college. Otherwise, Liz was fairly sure they both would have flunked out. Then they’d gone to dental school together.
Now, Mozelle lived on the other side of Atlanta, and everybody knew you couldn’t get there from here, not with the way the perimeter traffic moved—or didn’t move as the case might be. She hadn’t seen Mozelle for months.
On a whim, Liz grabbed her phone and called.
When she told Mozelle she’d sold her share of the practice and was moving to Martinsville to take over a dental practice there, the phone went silent for a very long time.
"You still there, Moz?"
"You’re not going to believe this."
Moz always did like to keep her in suspense. "What?"
"I’m retiring for good. I just turned in my two-week notice at work. I’ve gotten so tired of wasting all those hours commuting during rush hour." She paused to let out a dry laugh. "Not that anything rushes at that time..."
"You’re preaching to the choir. I know exactly what you mean." Liz had known for a long time that Mozelle wasn’t happy working where she was. Even with the hassles Liz had owning her own business, it was better than working for somebody else, especially a high-pressure dentist like the one Mozelle had gotten mixed up with.
She didn’t have to think about it for even a minute. "Come to Martinsville with me. The practice is in a house, lots of room upstairs for two people to live. We can try it for a few months—give you some time to figure out where you want to go, what you want to do. We’ll work out the details as we go."
Just like that, Liz had a housemate.
~ ~ ~
BEFORE I COULD WORRY too much about Bob’s boredom factor, Amanda kept reading.
In the meanwhile, the remainder of Margaret’s windows down below are shuttered as well, which seems to suit Margaret’s fancy. She seems to prefer the shutters, but I think even more than that she is sorrowed that such a good man died over her attic windows.
The Surratt house has leaded glass panes, but they are fixed in place and cannot be opened to admit the evening breeze, or any other thing—or person. Remember how I crawled through the shuttered window when I left your house to join my Hubbard?
I looked at Clara, but she didn’t seem to have registered the reference to Hubbard. You’d think, since it was her husband’s name, she would have reacted in some way. Was she even listening?
I myself prefer the shuttering, even though the Surratt’s leaded glass panes are beautiful. I understand that the windows in Margaret’s attic are hinged at the bottom so they may be swung open at the top. Most ingenious.
Just this last month, Brother Adcock was escorted out of town by a major contingent of our men after he was found to have cheated the Widow DeWitt (Margaret’s mother). Alonzo himself led the sally ...
"Farewell, Brother Adcock." Maddy saluted. "I never liked him anyway."
"I wonder where he went after this," Glaze said.
"Keep listening," Amanda said.
...led the sally which not only rid our town of him, but the entire valley as well. The men made a regular jaunt of it and took the disgraced cleric all the way to Russell’s Gap, through which he was sent and enjoined never to return again. Poor Mrs. DeWitt had so little for anyone to steal, I cannot see why Adcock even bothered. It came out eventually that she had not been his only victim. For the past nine years he has preyed upon lone women. I thank Providence that I was not among his victims. His New Church sits abandoned. Good riddance to him, I say.
Of greater import, our colonies are now united as one country, separate from England. These United States, as they are referred to, have, I fear, a long and difficult road to travel, much as our small band had when we tore ourselves from Brandtburg so many years ago. Has it truly been forty-five years since we left? We knew not when we left just how long or how arduous our journey would be, but we weathered the storms along the way, and I trust that these United States will do the same.
I remain well, but my son John has begun to fail somewhat. I wonder if his heart is like his father’s was. I see him rub his chest occasionally in a way that pains me to observe, for I sometimes saw his father make that same gesture. He will not let me dose him—although I must admit I have no herb or poultice in which I place much faith. Even the green liquid that Louetta and Miss Julia concocted all those years ago, the one that was patterned after what the Indian woman used to heal my Hubbard’s face—even that has no apparent effect beyond calming him somewhat when he drinks of it.
I looked over at Clara, wondering if she had picked up this second reference to Hubbard, but she just sat there like a lump. She truly wasn’t listening. Just as well.
Those two women, with great foresight, brewed numerous jugs of that decoction. They are hoarded with great care, and have been responsible for the healing of a number of our townsfolk. I dread the day when we will have no more. And that day will come at some point, for during the drought time several years ago, the plants from which came the most potent of the ingredients died. Despite extensive searches, no further clumps of the plant were found. Attempts to propagate the plant in our kitchen gardens had been totally unsuccessful, so I fear we will eventually be without this resource.
Jerrod grows apace, and will, I pray, be ready to take on the leadership of the town when the time comes for him to do so, but he is as yet far too young. Now that Silas Martin is dead these five years and can no longer serve as an advisor, who is left to counsel the boy? His sister Marella, perhaps? Yes, I know you can hear me laughing over that whimsical thought. Marella should perhaps have been a boy, for she is ever the more adventuresome of the two. Heaven help the town, though, if she should ever lead it!
Despite my seeming lightness of tone, I find myself despairing. Am I to live out my life useless, with no one but Marella beside me?
"I think Mary Frances would have made a good advisor," Pat said. "She certainly seemed to have her head on straight."
"I think I’d better interpret that one before Marmalade even asks," Carol said with a grin.
My dearest friend, I grow maudlin, and I do not want to waste the scant inches that are left of this paper in the complaints of an old woman. Our town thrives. The harvests are consistently bountiful. Our children grow vigorously. The men still harbor some grudges against each other, having taken differing sides in the recent conflict, but time does seem to heal such rifts. The women work together well—particularly now that we are rid of Charlotte Ellis and her venomous thoughts. Her daughters both displayed the same disagreeable curl of the lip that Charlotte always had, but they stayed to themselves—they and their fatherless daughters—ever since Sarah Russell tossed them out of her household. Louisa, of course, is dead now, but the others live together. Their house on the edge of town is little more than a hovel, but I cannot bring myself to wish them relief. Is that unChristian of me? I suppose so. If only they were more pleasant.
Enough of them. I am blessed in my deep friendship with Louetta Tarkington Martin and Jane Elizabeth Benton Hastings, as close a friendship I might say as you and I once had. Closer, in fact. Forgive me, dear friend, but you and I were only girls, with the scant knowledge of girls, while Louetta and Jane Elizabeth and I have weathered our long lives, both the many hardships and the numerous joys. Please know, my dear friend, that I still treasure you close to my heart. Your loving companion, MFB
Amanda waited a moment before saying, "She really had to squeeze those last lines in."
"That’s probably why she didn’t sign the letter," Maddy said, "the way she did some of the others."
"But look at the initials she used," Glaze said. "You did say MFB, didn’t you? For Mary Frances Brandt?"
"It’s about time she acknowledged that," Maddy said.
Anita looked blank, and Clara looked like her brain was elsewhere, but the rest of us agreed wholeheartedly, until Maddy corrected us. "She signed one of the other letters with her full name, remember? Mary Frances Brandt?"
Amanda thought about it. "I think you’re right."
"I know I’m right."
"I wish I could have known her." Ida took the deepest breath I’d ever heard her manage. "I guess we’re down to the last diary entry. Is everybody ready for this?"
"It’s not like it’s the end of the world," Charlie said. "Just go ahead and read it."
I’d always thought that trite expression about looking daggers at somebody was somewhat over-rated, but now I wasn’t so sure. Charlie seemed impervious to Ida’s murderous glare, though. Whoever this Charlie was, I truly did not like her at all. I sure hoped Reebok was getting somewhere with all his phone calls.