after Jamal told him of his plans to move to Gauthier, Corey had clued him in on his family’s history in the town. Knowing the way folks here gossiped, Corey figured his friend would be regaled with stories of Decker Anderson’s troublemaking sons within ten minutes of his arrival anyway.
They reached Jamal’s truck first. “So, now that you don’t have to play bad-ass baseball coach anymore, you think you can swing by and help me with some sanding? I’m trying to refinish the banister on the front staircase.”
“Didn’t I warn you against buying that run-down house?” Corey laughed.
Jamal—an architect by trade—had bought a fixer-upper in the old part of Gauthier. Corey had tried to talk him into buying a house in one of the newer subdivisions, but Jamal said he hadn’t moved to a small town just to live in a house that looked as if it belonged in the city. Corey figured his friend was regretting that decision after losing his first several months in town to renovations.
“Don’t talk about my house, man.” Jamal punched him on the shoulder. “The work is going better than I thought. You think you can lend me a hand later today?”
An image of Mya’s distraught face flashed in his mind. Corey shook his head. “I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day. Maybe you should just get a professional over there. Why don’t you call Phil?”
“Who’s Phil?”
“One of the most talented home restoration specialists you’ll ever meet.” Corey pulled out his wallet and searched. “I thought I had a business card, but apparently not. Just do an internet search for Phillips’ Home Restoration.”
“You sure this Phil is good?” Jamal asked. “I want to make sure that banister is preserved. I need this done right.”
“Don’t worry.” Corey smiled. “You won’t be sorry with Phil.”
They bumped fists, then Corey headed for his SUV. He’d wanted to get a couple of projects done at his own place this weekend, but it looked as though he’d have to push those to the side for now. Starting up the Escalade, Corey pulled onto the street and headed for the Dubois house.
* * *
Mya waited at the four-way stop sign at the corner of Water Street and Pecan Drive as a line of kids on bicycles crossed the street. A straggler pedaled up to the edge of the curb. Mya waved him along, grinning as his little legs pumped to catch up with his friends.
She cranked up the air conditioner in Aunt Mo’s car and continued along Pecan Drive, on this all-important errand for her grandmother. The stately homes that lined the broad avenue stood like elegant Southern belles. Their well-kept yards were surrounded by short, wooden picket fences, while others had graduated to the vinyl fencing Mya would love to have installed out at her grandparents’.
Grandma had labeled this neighborhood pretentious, based on the fact that its residents were not allowed to grow vegetables in their backyards. Mya didn’t care how uptight they were. She used to love walking through this area on her way to work at Gauthier Pharmacy and Feed Store, imagining what it must be like to live in what had seemed like mansions to her young, unworldly mind.
Pecan Drive turned into Main Street after the intersection at Pecan and Shoal Creek Lane. As she cruised down Main, Mya was once again struck by how much everything looked the same. It was as if time had stopped.
Main Street had always been this town’s pride and joy. Back when she’d worked here after school, every proprietor had been required to sign an agreement stating that they would paint their storefronts every year. Littering had been a dirty word, and the Gauthier police department had responded to a call for loitering just as fast as one for shoplifting.
Mya pulled into a slanted parking spot in front of Claudette’s Beauty Parlor. Like the rest of the buildings on Main, Claudette’s looked as if it had been lifted from a painting entitled Small-Town Life.
She headed up the wooden steps that led to the wraparound porch. The beauty shop shared a porch with Lou Cannon’s Dry Cleaning and the Main Street Sweet Shop. Across the street was the pharmacy, post office and Emile’s Restaurant, Gauthier’s version of five-star dining.
Mya walked through the door of the beauty shop and smiled in remembrance as the familiar sounds and smells greeted her.
“Hello, everybody,” she called.
“Well, look who decided to step into my shop.” Claudette Robinson set down a curling iron and stepped from behind a salon chair, embracing Mya in a long hug.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk after the funeral,” Mya apologized.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Claudette said, adding an extra squeeze before letting Mya go. “There were so many people at the house, it was impossible to visit with everybody. How is Eloise doing? Did the doctor say when she’d be out of the hospital?”
“She should be home tomorrow. Monday at the latest,” Mya said.
“I knew something was wrong when she didn’t show up for her hair appointment this morning, especially since she knew her new wig was in. She’s been waiting for it for over a month. Deena is finishing it up right now.”
Mya spotted the young girl standing before the mannequin, a comb in one hand, a spray bottle in the other. She spritzed the salt-and-pepper wig and teased the tight curls out of their stubborn position.
“She’s laid up in a hospital bed. You would think she’d have other things on her mind,” Mya said.
“When the new wig she’s been waiting for is at my shop?” Claudette looked at her as if she were crazy. “That New York air has addled your mind, girl. I’m surprised Eloise didn’t order the paramedics to swing by on their way to the hospital.”
“If she were conscious, believe me, she would have.” Mya laughed.
Deena came over with her grandmother’s new wig, and Mya thanked her with a ten-dollar tip.
“You tell Eloise I’ll try to get over to the house once they let her out of that hospital,” Claudette said. “And tell her not to worry about the meeting Monday night. I’ll make sure Margery doesn’t go overboard.”
“You all have a deaconess board meeting?” Mya asked.
“No, that’s on Wednesday nights,” Claudette said. “This is for the civic association. A group of us started it a couple of years ago. Your grandmother is head of the committee for the town’s 175th-year celebration. She didn’t tell you?”
Mya shook her head. “We haven’t had much time to talk about anything outside of Granddad’s funeral.”
Claudette’s smile sobered.
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you keeping Mrs. Margery in line,” Mya said. “It was good seeing you again, Claudette.”
“You too, honey.” Claudette winked as she returned to her customer.
Mya left the beauty shop and climbed back into the car, careful not to smash the curls as she placed the freshly styled wig on the passenger seat. She put the key in the ignition, but her hand halted when she looked up and saw the pharmacy in the rearview mirror. She got out of the car and, with a quick glance from left to right, crossed the two-way street and took a step back in time.
The same bell that had hung above the door when she’d last walked out of it chimed Mya’s entrance into the pharmacy. She’d worked the entire summer before her senior year, her plans for leaving Gauthier already firm in her mind. She’d saved up enough for first and last month’s rent and a plane ticket out of town.
The store hadn’t changed a bit. Next to the door was a hat and umbrella stand, and directly across from the front entrance was a display of the handmade soaps and lotions Mrs. Landry, the pharmacist’s wife, made in her kitchen. Mya picked up four bars of lemon verbena. God, that scent brought back memories.
She