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  “If I hafta.” Suddenly, his eyes brightened. “Hey, I have an idea. Maybe Fluffy Anne can spend the night with me every once in a while.”

  Jackpot. I now had my son right where I wanted him. I could see Mrs. Meyerson was ready to say no, so I raised my hand to stop her. “That’s a fine idea if the Meyersons agree and if . . .”

  He looked at me with such hope in his eyes. “If what?”

  “If you get green slips every day for two weeks straight.” Something he hadn’t achieved all year. And I knew, like Dickens, that one day my Charles would look back on his sacrifice and know it was a far, far better thing that he did, than he’d ever done before.

  Even Melanie, however, looked stunned at my stipulation.

  Her mother tapped her finger against her jaw. “And if you’re nice to Melanie at school, on the bus, and in the neighborhood,” she added.

  Charles groaned. “That’s not fair.”

  “Was it fair to take her cat?” I asked.

  “No.” He kicked the corner of the couch, disturbing Biscuit, who jumped down and sauntered over to our neighbors for a sniff.

  “All right,” Charles said, lower lip distended in a pout. “But I get first dibs on any of Fluffy Anne’s kittens.”

  Melanie rolled her eyes not quite with the expertise of Mary Alice, but she had a few more years to perfect it. “Fluffy Anne’s been fixed. Don’t you know anything? Besides, I thought you wanted a dog.”

  Charles slid a pitiful glance over to me, his eyes as big, sad, and round as a puppy. He was going for the kill. No mother can resist that look, not even me.

  Then, I kid you not, ornery old Biscuit purred so loudly even Randy could hear her in the computer nook. The cat rubbed herself against little Melanie, even though the child had Fluffy Anne in her arms.

  Charles looked from Biscuit to Fluffy Anne, then back to me. “Maybe we could trade.”

  “No!” Both Ms. Meyerson and I shouted at the same time, our voices resonating with an identical inflection.

  We looked at each other and smiled. I think we might actually become friends.

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume VII, No. Three • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  The Bell Ringer

  Mossy Creek Rams Say “Bah”

  to Bigelow Schedule

  Biggest Estate Sale Of The New Year This Saturday

  by Katie Bell

  After twenty years without a high school in Mossy Creek, owing to the dastardly destruction by (suspicious, elephant-related) fire of Mossy Creek High two decades ago, our beloved Mossy Creek Rams football team is gearing up for a historic ground-breaking ceremony at the new Mossy Creek High School complex this fall.

  The Rams don’t have a head coach yet, but the assistant coaches say the Rams’ upcoming team promises an exciting new era for the Mossy Creek football legacy against rival Bigelow County High.

  “We’re not too durned thrilled to be playing our first season on Thursday nights in the Bigelow stadium until our digs are finished,” said Mossy Creek star linebacker Tad “Slam” Abercrombie. “But we’ll kick butt in Bigelow ’cause that’s what Creekites always do.”

  The Mice that Roared

  Part Four

  Jayne

  “You’re home early,” Ingrid said as I walked through the door to my upstairs apartment. She was my chief baby-sitter. Was insulted, in fact, if I used someone else.

  “I know. Matt in bed?” I placed my purse on its customary spot, a small chest just inside the door.

  “Just,” Ingrid replied. “I checked on him about ten minutes ago, and he was sound asleep, the little lamb.”

  I dropped onto the overstuffed chair across from the sofa. “Good.”

  “So . . .?” Ingrid said. “How was your date?”

  I shrugged. “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  I nodded. “We weren’t halfway through the meal when I knew there’s no spark between me and Dan McNeil.”

  “That’s too bad.” Ingrid idly stroked Bob’s head.

  The Chihuahua was stretched out beside her leg, his large head resting between his tiny paws, his bulbous eyes sleepily watching me. The little dog had never cottoned to me, although he’d learned to tolerate me. Bob didn’t cotton to anyone much, except Ingrid. And Matt, now, too. Probably because his mistress loved my son so much.

  “Yes, it is too bad,” I agreed after a sigh. “He has such a nice rear en—”

  “No need to get graphic.”

  I chuckled. I never knew when Ingrid was going to go all prudish on me. She was a dichotomy, opposing my use of the word “Naked” then showing up at the closing night party for Sex and the City I’d thrown at The Naked Bean. I didn’t have a liquor license, of course, but since I’d made it a private party, I was able to serve Cosmopolitans instead of coffee. “You know that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda was told that guys don’t call women back because they’re just not that into them?”

  “Of course I do,” Ingrid said. “I’m not senile, you know.”

  “Believe me, I know that. It’s just that that phrase kept ringing in my head all evening. And it went both ways. Dan gave every woman there the once over, and I spent more time thinking about you and Matt than I did talking with him. I brought it up over dessert and he agreed. We even laughed about it. There’s a physical attraction and we could’ve taken it further. But what’s the point?”

  “Well, I’m still sorry,” Ingrid said sincerely. “But you’ll find someone, now that you’ve got it in your head to look. You’re young and pretty and successful. Who wouldn’t want you?”

  I beamed at her across the coffee table. She was as loyal as my own mother. “I love you, Ingrid.”

  She smiled back. “I know you do, Jayne, and I love you, too. And Matt.”

  I nodded. “That’s enough for me for now. I’ll find someone eventually. Or not. I just know I won’t settle for anyone who isn’t totally ‘into’ me.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Any mouse sightings while I was gone?”

  “Four,” Ingrid said, placing her bookmark in the library book she’d been reading. Ingrid loved romance novels. The more raw sex in them, the better. “No, make that five. Two came out at the same time.”

  I groaned. “What am I going to do? Dan seems to think they’ll disappear once all the work’s done. But it’s going to be several months before the apartment is finished, and that’s if everything goes right, which I’ve been told over and over, it never does.”

  “There have been fewer mice in the shops since he finished there. Maybe he’s right.” Ingrid stood, tucked Bob into the crook of her left arm, then picked up her purse.

  “Maybe so.” I got up to let her out.

  “If we have to tent the place, you and Matt can stay with me.”

  “I know. Thanks. It’s looking more and more like that’s what we’ll have to do.”

  “Why are you hesitating, then?”

  “It’s bad publicity. Everyone would know that we have mice. Might keep our customers away. Plus, the poison gets all over everything. We’d be scrubbing for weeks. And what if a mouse died inside the wall? The stink!”

  Ingrid paused at the door. “Why not get another cat? One that will kill the mice.” She glared across the room at Emma, who was curled up in the lap of the largest clown in my husband Matt’s clown collection. Ingrid must’ve taken it down from the shelf above Matt’s bed for him to play with.

  “Trouble is, you never know what kind of cat you’re going to get. If I adopt one, it might take after Emma. Then I’d be stuck with two useless cats.”

  Ingrid brightened. “Borrow one. The Ramseys have a good mouser. I think her name is Scarlet.”

  “Well, now, that’s a possibility. I could pay them. Cat rent.” I grinned.

  Ingrid turned to leave. “They wouldn’t take a dime, I’m sure, but their boy, Keith, sure loves my chocolate chunk cookies. I’d say t
hat would be a good trade.”

  “Indeed. ‘Cats Who Work for Cookies.’ I can see the sign now.”

  “You go ahead and make jokes. I’ll call Emma Ramsey in the morning.”

  I gave her a hug. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Water which is too pure holds no fish.”

  —Ts’ai Ken T’an

  Sam’s Pond

  “Why is it every time I talk to you lately we end up in an argument?”

  “Because you don’t listen, Dad!”

  I watched my seventeen-year-old son stand, the quick angry move sending the ladderback chair crashing to the kitchen floor.

  I stared at him, stunned on several levels. First and foremost was the sudden realization that Joseph Buchanan Greene, or Buck as he’s known in our family, was no longer a little boy. He stood even with my own six-foot-one height and was broad-shouldered. He’d have no trouble sailing through the physical requirements for a West Point appointment. He had the same brown hair color as I did, something I might not have noticed months earlier, before I retired from the Army and grew mine out a little. He had his mother’s lush green eyes.

  The second realization was how differently Buck talked to me than how I did to my father. I cowered in fear before my father and his fists, to be honest. There was a world of difference between my reaction to my son’s defiance and the way my father would have responded. Though I was proud I had a son who wasn’t afraid to voice his opinion, Buck’s outspoken anger and disrespect were pushing all my authority buttons.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Dad,” Buck continued, his voice still loud as he lifted his backpack. “I learned to manage without you for a lot of years. Now you’ve retired from the Army and you treat me like a kid you can order around. I agreed to apply to West Point. I’m doing what you want me to do. But I’m not a raw recruit quaking in my boots.” He walked out of the kitchen.

  “All I did is ask if you’d completed your Candidate Questionnaire,” I said, following him out onto the deck. “Don’t walk away from me, mister. I didn’t say you’re dismissed.” A movement caught my attention and I glanced across the yard to see my wife Meredith and our daughter Grace talking with our new neighbor, Erma. Great. An audience.

  Meredith and Grace, of course, were aware of the way Buck and I seemed to constantly knock heads lately. We’d only been residents here in Mossy Creek for a few short weeks, and I didn’t want to give Erma any fuel for a potential gossip fire. I held up a hand to prevent Meredith from coming over and running interference.

  “Buck,” I said, trying to sound more like a father than a commanding officer. Buck had an opportunity that I wasn’t prepared to let him toss aside. If I had to, I’d fill out the damn questionnaire myself. “Can’t you see that I just want to help you with your future?”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  That declaration stopped me short. What parent wants to hear their child no longer needs them?

  Buck slammed behind the wheel of the truck, gunned the engine and backed up. I thought his temper was going to carry him all the way to school but he stopped by the break in the hedges between the yards and barked, “Let’s go, Grace.”

  I let out a breath when he drove down the driveway more carefully. Not sure what else to do, I walked over to my wife, Meredith, who slipped her hand into mine and squeezed. I looked at our neighbor.

  “Morning, Miz Erma.”

  “Sam. Having a rough morning?”

  “Not one of my better ones, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ve always thought parenting had a lot in common with gardening.”

  I took a long look around, at the bright flowers and green bushes. I knew the names of a few plants. Most I didn’t. From Meredith I knew Miz Erma was a member of the Mossy Creek Garden Club and known throughout the county for her spring garden. Whatever that meant. I did know that Miz Erma’s shirts tended to have enough colorful blooms to rival those in her garden.

  “Then I’d say you’re an expert at both.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know of any parent who claims to be an expert. Mostly they love and tend what they have.” She brushed a hand over a lanky bush filled with bright yellow blooms. “Take this forsythia for instance,” she said and then moved over to another plant, one I recognized as the pink bloom of an azalea. “Any good gardener can clip and trim this bush into a form that’s to their liking. Or. . .” She eyed me. “They can let it grow the way it wants.”

  “How do you know which way is best?”

  “Depends on the plant. And how strong the root is.”

  I took another long look around the garden. “It’s hard to argue with your wisdom.” Then I looked over my shoulder and winced at the barren landscape of our backyard. “The shape of our yard doesn’t say much for either my gardening or my parenting.”

  “I imagine you’ve been busy getting things set to rights inside. You’ve got time yet to get to the outside.”

  “I’ve been asking Erma for some pointers for our garden,” Meredith said.

  “Oh?” I look at her with a smile. “We have one?”

  “I can only wish.”

  I’d been responsible for hundreds of soldiers going into battle. I planned strategy with other Army officers and briefed the President. I faced the grief of families of soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice. I survived my early years with the pain of both fists and words from my own father.

  Hearing the envy now in my wife’s voice presented me with a dilemma I had no earthly idea how to handle.

  I’d be the first to admit I had no skill with dirt and flowers, but this was something Meredith so obviously wanted. The more I thought about it after we returned to our home, the more I knew it would be nice to have something to show off, something that would stand as a visible sign that we’d planted roots here in Mossy Creek. So I did what every person does when faced with the unknown—I searched the Internet. And I found something I thought might work.

  “A garden pond?” Meredith asked when I told her my idea later that afternoon.

  I heard the pleasure in her voice, saw the excitement sparkling in her green eyes. That’s all it took for me. Whatever the odds, whatever the cost, I’d do it for her.

  “Oh, Sam. Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Well, I admit I ran it by Miz Erma, and she seemed to think we have a good yard for it. She said she’d asked some of the other ladies in the Garden Club if they had any advice. And I found all this information on the web.”

  “It looks like an awful lot of work.”

  “What else do I have to do?”

  “Sam? Are you sorry you retired and moved here?”

  “No, it was the right thing to do, the right time. I’m just feeling a little lost with too much time on my hands.”

  “Is that all it is?” Meredith pressed. “Are you sure it’s because you don’t know what to do or is it because Buck won’t do what you think he should?”

  “He says I don’t listen.”

  “You don’t. You expect him to want what you think he should want.” She laid a hand over mine. “Exactly the way you expected the troops under you to follow your orders. Sam, explain to him why it’s important to you for him to go to West Point.”

  I knew she was right, but the discipline and pride the Army had given me made it difficult to do as she asked. Officers didn’t explain orders. The men under me had always delivered a crisp salute, then did as they were told. And since I’d been a General, nearly all the men I came into contact with on a daily basis were under me.

  Until a few years ago, my son had done the same. Then he’d turned into a teenager.

  What was so wrong with my wanting him to apply to West Point? For my wanting the very best in life for him?

  If he only knew what my life had been like before I’d joined the Army. I shuddered to think of what it might have been like if I hadn’t been given that chance.

  The next day I went into town. While I’d collected a good deal
of information from the Internet and could no doubt find more, I decided to do some local reconnaissance. Along the way I hoped to meet and get to know some of my new neighbors. My first stop was Lloyd Pritchard’s Landscaping on the northeast side of town, along the road to Yonder.

  “Been expecting you,” he said when I entered. “Miz Erma told me I should look over that stuff you got from the Internet about the machinery you’re going to need to run the pump for the waterfall and filter. Make sure it’s not heading you in the wrong direction.”

  It had been years since anyone questioned my decisions, and I bristled at Lloyd’s interference. Still, I supposed I’d opened that door when I asked for Miz Erma’s advice about the pond in the first place. And wasn’t that sense of community, the comfort of knowing you had friends and neighbors who cared enough to be aware of your business, one reason why Meredith and I wanted to live in a small town like Mossy Creek?

  “I appreciate you taking the time to do this.”

  “No problem,” Lloyd assured me. “So, you doing this pond ’cause your wife’s got her heart set on one? Or ’cause you’re at loose ends?”

  “A little of both, I guess.”

  “I know if I had a wife as pretty as yours, I’d do whatever it took to keep her happy.”

  I gave him my sharpest do-you-know-who-you’re-talking-to glare. “Is that so?”

  Lloyd grinned, so amused at my jealousy that I couldn’t help but relax.

  “Are you married?” I asked him.

  “Yup. Don’t stop me from appreciating good-lookers, though. ’Sides, it’s more fun to talk about other people than be the one talked about, and since Valentine’s Day there’s been plenty to talk about. We got Sandy Crane and her husband expecting a baby. Her husband, Jess, is a writer just like your wife.” Before I could question how Lloyd knew Meredith was a writer, he hurried on. “Then there’s the fact that Colonel Del Jackson . . .” Lloyd looked up from his workbench. “Did you know him during your Army days, General?”