Chasing Down a Dream Read online

  “Have you?”

  “Is that what you teach your students? Answer a question with a question?”

  His smile showed above the rim of his cup. “How about Hawaii?”

  “How about New York City?”

  “Really?”

  “Always wanted to go there. See some shows. Times Square. Lady Liberty. Take the subway.”

  “Then let’s do that.”

  She angled away and met his eyes. “Really?”

  “Rock, if you wanted to visit a garbage dump in Kokomo, I’d do my best to get you there. I want our marriage to make you happy.”

  “You’re sweet, do you know that?”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “Did Eva say that, too?”

  It always surprised him when she brought up his late wife’s name. “Yes, she did.”

  She viewed him silently for a few moments. “Does my asking about her make you uncomfortable?”

  “Sometimes, because I’m never sure why you do.”

  Again, the silent study before she explained, “Because she loved you and I know you loved her. I don’t ever want you to feel you have to erase her from your memory or your heart because we’re together.”

  Her words touched him so intensely, tears stung the corners of his eyes.

  She whispered, “Okay, Professor?”

  He hugged her tightly. “Okay, Rock.” He considered himself the luckiest man in the world to have been loved by two different but similarly amazing women. “I love you, Rochelle Dancer.”

  She stood and took his hand. “Good thing because now comes the part with the leather you like so much.”

  Grinning, he let her lead him into the bedroom.

  Chapter 4

  As Tamar sat on her front porch sipping coffee in the early Saturday morning quiet, she was determined to ignore the date on the calendar because of the painful memory the day held. Instead, she watched Jack’s pickup drive by her place, heading out to July Road, and smiled knowingly. Rocky’s trailer, along with ones occupied by Reverend Paula and the Acosta family, sat on the back of her land, so she assumed he’d spent the night there. She didn’t judge. Rocky was owed some happiness after all she lived through, and Tamar thought Jack the perfect choice. However, having known Rocky since she was born, Tamar prayed she didn’t get cold feet and break Jack’s heart.

  The next truck she saw heading out to the road had Reverend Paula Grant behind the wheel and Paula’s seventeen-year-old cousin Robyn riding shotgun. Paula tooted the horn as they drove past and Tamar waved. The good reverend was also one of the blessings of the new and improved Henry Adams. Her work with the town’s kids and with Rocky earned her a special place in Tamar’s heart. She worried about the incredibly shy Robyn, though. Considering the girl had grown up under the abusive hand of her recently incarcerated grandmother, Della, it was no wonder the teen barely spoke a word. Della’s trial for the murder of Robyn’s mother would be taking place in the fall. Tamar had yet to hear a more tragic and twisted tale.

  Intending to go inside and warm up her coffee, she stood, then paused upon seeing a black town car slowly making its way up the dirt road to the house. For a moment, she thought it might be T. C. Barbour, Bernadine’s driver, who’d recently married longtime resident Genevieve Gibbs, but as the car drew near, she realized it was a different model and that the driver was White. Curious, she waited. After it stopped, the chauffeur stepped out. Clad in a smart black suit he gave her a polite nod before hastily moving to open the car’s back door, and her best friend, Mable Lane, stepped out. Tamar was pleased to see her even though the reason she’d come had to do with the date on the calendar she’d been determined to ignore. Moving slowly on her cane, Mable was dressed in her signature cashmere twinset, green today, and a nice pair of slacks. “Morning Tam. What’re we drinking?”

  Tamar smiled. “Coffee for now, May.”

  “That’ll do. We can break out the hard stuff later. Do you still hate the bastard?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Happy Anniversary. Let’s hope Joel Newton is enjoying hell.”

  At ninety-two years of age, Mable Franklin Lane was as outrageous as ever and Tamar loved her with every beat of her heart. Joel Newton was the bigamist who’d broken Tamar’s heart on this date, over sixty years ago.

  Inside, they sat across from each other at the kitchen table and sipped the brew in their cups. “When did you get in?” Tamar asked.

  “Last night. Flew back here to meet with a consultant Lyman’s hired to try and get Franklin back on its feet.” She quieted for a moment before asking, “Did you ever think we’d live this long?”

  Tamar shook her head. “Not really.” And she hadn’t, even though the Julys were known to be long-lived.

  “Yet here we are, the oldest hens in the pen.”

  They’d been childhood friends at a time when segregation and Jim Crow ruled the nation, yet their mothers hadn’t tried to keep them apart. They’d met in school at age six. In spite of the teacher doing his part for Jim Crow by relegating Tam and her brother Thaddeus to seats in the back of the classroom, the girls formed an instant connection.

  “How’s life been treating you?” Mable asked.

  “I’m okay. Feeling my age, though, I suppose.”

  “Meaning?”

  Tamar shrugged. “Just wondering if I’ve outlived my usefulness.” And because she’d always been able to tell Mable anything, she confessed her reaction to Marie’s remarks about the old days being gone. “I’m the matriarch, dammit. When did that stop being important?”

  “I don’t think it has, Tam. Marie’s right about Henry Adams’s growth, though. Bernadine has done some amazing things. Would you rather go back to the days when the town was dying?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then decide what’s more important? A living and growing Henry Adams or your ego?”

  Tamar’s lips thinned.

  “Hey. We’ve been joined at the hip since we were six and we’ve always told each other the truth. We’re way too old to start lying about things at this point.”

  Tamar sighed.

  Mable said, “Think about it this way, Tammy. You’ve kept the Dusters’ dreams alive into the twenty-first century. You’ve made sure the history has been passed down. When God decides to call you home, you’ll be leaving behind a damn fine legacy, my friend. Me? I’m leaving behind Astrid.”

  They laughed at that.

  Tamar thought back on all the turmoil Astrid caused: the kidnapping of poor Tommy Stewart, the fights she picked with Bernadine, the riot that caused so much damage to the rec center. “You were right to replace her with Lyman Proctor. Trent says he’s doing a great job.”

  “He is. When I moved to Miami fifteen years ago, I was feeling a bit like you are now. I’d had the stroke and was questioning my own usefulness. Never thought I’d have to fly in like Wonder Woman to save my town from my greedy, boneheaded granddaughter.”

  “I hear she’s not happy working at the gas station, or living in the trailer park.”

  “No, she isn’t, but the alternative was making license plates in prison. Speaking of family, how’s Thad?” Mable asked.

  Tamar shrugged and thought about her brother. “Okay. Since Trent and Lily’s wedding I talk to him more than I used to.” The aforementioned Joel Newton had been a friend of her brother’s, and Tamar held Thad directly responsible for the disaster Newton brought into her life because he neglected to tell her that Joel was married. “I thought we’d worked things out until the morning he and his wild clan left and I found Olivia turned upside down and stripped of her tires.”

  “It’s good you two are speaking again, regardless of Olivia.”

  Tamar had her doubts, but didn’t argue.

  “I talked to him recently,” Mable said. “And he explained his reasoning. He didn’t want to tell you about Joel because he knew it would break your heart. He didn’t know what to do.”

  “So instead he le
t me get gussied up for the wedding and be humiliated in front of the entire town when Joel’s wife stood up during the vows and screamed he was already married to her.” It was the most horrible day of Tamar’s life. Then to find out a month later that she was pregnant . . . “It was the smug smile on his face when he slunk out of my parents’ yard with his wife that I’ll never forget. Or forgive.”

  “I know. Could be worse, though. He could’ve turned out to be a Klansman like the asshat I married.”

  Tamar chuckled softly. “We sure could pick them.”

  Mable shook her head and raised her cup. “To better choices in the next life.”

  “Amen. How long will you be around?”

  “I’m meeting the consultant Lyman’s hired on Monday, and if all goes well, I’ll be flying back home on Wednesday. I need to see my other grandkids in Franklin while I’m here too, to make sure Astrid isn’t giving them grief.”

  “Do you want to come for dinner before you leave?”

  “Most certainly.”

  Tamar walked her out to the porch. They shared a strong hug.

  “You matter,” Mable whispered. “Never doubt that.”

  Watching her drive away, Tamar was thankful for their friendship, and wondered how much longer they’d have before the ancestors called them home.

  Walking into Clark’s grocery store for her shift, Gemma was glad Wyatt would be taking Lucas and Jasmine with him to Pizza Saturday at Leah and Tiffany’s house, a monthly kids’ gathering instituted by their uncle T. C. Barbour. Because she’d had to take off from work the day before, not coming in again was impossible. She’d been worried how the kids would spend the day but thanks to T. C. Barbour that wasn’t an issue. Her mood was dragged down when she entered the employee lounge and saw assistant store manager Alma House, aka Sergeant Ma’am, a no-nonsense, by-the-book former Army sergeant. She’d been dubbed Sgt. Ma’am by Amari July, a member of the night crew, the son of the mayor, and also the town’s unofficial head of nickname-bestowing. Standing with Alma was her mini me, head cashier Sybil “Rhymes with Witch” Martin.

  “Gemma,” Alma said, glancing at the watch on her wrist.

  “Alma. Sybil.”

  “Ten more minutes and you would’ve been late.”

  Gemma sighed internally at the ridiculousness of the statement. “Good thing I’m here now, then.”

  “Yes, it is.” The woman had the coldest gray eyes Gemma had ever seen. “Mr. Clark says you’re taking night classes.”

  “I am.”

  “In what?”

  “Business.”

  Sybil snorted disdainfully.

  Gemma held on to her temper.

  “Don’t think you’ll be given any rescheduling considerations.”

  “I haven’t asked for any.” Not wanting this to play out any longer than necessary, Gemma added, “I need to punch in.”

  “You do that.”

  Walking away, she felt Alma’s glare burning a hole in her back. She knew the woman disliked her but didn’t know the reason. Alma originally hailed from Franklin too, but she was a good ten years older than Gemma’s forty-five, and Gemma had never met Alma before working at the store. She assumed Sgt. Ma’am must know about her past and if that was the case so be it. Gemma refused to allow it to dampen her enthusiasm for her job or wanting to improve her life by going back to school.

  After clocking in, she took the long way to the front of the store in order to say good morning to her fellow employees: Candy Stevens, the recently hired butcher who was all of twenty-two years old and had bright purple hair, and Otto Newsome, the short, balding head of produce who always asked after Wyatt. She waved and smiled at manager Gary Clark, the baggers, stockers, and the other cashiers, particularly, her partner in crime, Edith Greenwood, a sixty-year-old firecracker who’d taken Gemma under her wing the day she was hired and was raising a grandchild of her own. She also gave a wave to Colonel Barrett Payne, the head of the store’s security, a former Marine, and one of her neighbors. But Gemma gave the dairy department a wide berth. Wilson Hughes headed up that department. Like Gemma he was in his mid-forties. Unlike her, he was obsessed with Elvis. In fact, when he wasn’t stocking milk and cheese, he moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator. He was tall, had dark, Elvis-styled hair, and was supposedly a big hit when he performed. There were those who found him attractive but he was a bit too smarmy for her taste. He was what her friends back in Chicago called a legend in his own mind and she supposed that was the reason he refused to believe Gemma didn’t want to go out with him. The first time he asked, she politely turned him down. He responded by giving her his patented oily smile and said in a bad imitation of Elvis’s voice, “Come on, baby, let the King treat you like a queen.”

  She was not impressed. In the months since, he continued to press his case. Edith said he was going to keep at it until he wore her down, but hell would freeze over first. Gemma had no room in her life for a dollar-store Elvis prone to seedy blue suede shoes and dingy white jumpsuits. Hoping to get through the day without him crooning “Love Me Tender” whenever she walked by, she joined the other cashiers.

  Ringing up the purchases of her first customer, a lady from Franklin, Gemma made small talk with her as she scanned and bagged each item.

  The woman said, “I really like coming here. All the cashiers are so nice.”

  Gemma slid a package of frozen broccoli over the scanner. “That’s good to hear.”

  “At some places the cashiers act like they’re doing you a favor just saying hello.”

  “We try and be friendly and efficient because no one wants to be in line all day.”

  “You all do a good job.”

  Gemma rang up the final item, a jar of hand cream, and waited while the customer went through the motions with her debit card. Once done, the customer gave Gemma a smile. “See you next time.”

  On Saturday afternoons, the store was always crowded, and this day was no exception. All six lanes were packed and she and the other cashiers were doing their best to keep up. When she glanced at the people waiting in her line and spotted Mrs. Ora Beadle, Gemma sighed. Mrs. Beadle was an elderly lady known for picking up two bottles of wine, drinking one while she shopped, stashing it in the restroom when it was empty, and insisting she only had the unopened one when it came time to check out. Because she was a repeat offender, the moment she entered the store, security went on alert. With a bevy of high-tech cameras powerful enough to read the face of a twenty-dollar bill, it was easy to view her guzzling her way through the aisles. Since Gemma was hired, Mrs. Beadle had been escorted from the store by deputies at least five times, always loudly and drunkenly proclaiming her innocence and threatening to sue the store and the county for false arrest.

  There were three people ahead of Mrs. Beadle in line and as Gemma greeted the next customer a member of the store’s security team approached the white-haired, blue-eyed Mrs. Beadle and Gemma assumed she’d been busted again. He spoke to her quietly only to be told, “How dare you accuse me!” Her words were slurred, her voice loud. “This is senior citizen profiling and I will not put up with it one more minute.”

  A buzz went through the people waiting to check out. Then the deputies showed up. She was still shouting her innocence when they led her out to the patrol car.

  At lunch, Gemma sat with Edith at a table in the employees’ lounge and they chuckled over Mrs. Beadle. “I had Beadle, you had Pettigrew.”

  Edith shook her head. “Wallace Pettigrew.”

  His claim to fame was his attempts to pass off old coupons and bottle slips he’d dug out of the store’s trash cans as new. “Mr. Clark keeps telling him to stop going through the trash. If he cuts himself on a piece of broken glass the store will be liable.”

  Gemma didn’t understand the man’s thinking at all. “And it’s not like he’s going to run up on a coupon that’s any good.”

  Butcher Candy Stevens came over. “Can I sit with y’all?”

  Gemma liked the new
lady butcher and her Georgia accent. “Sure, join us.”

  She took a seat. Opening a small red cloth tote, she took out a wrapped sandwich and a small container of yogurt. She looked over at Gemma. “What is this I’m hearing about you finding two kids yesterday?”

  As always there were no secrets in Henry Adams, so Gemma told her the story.

  “Oh, that’s so sad. You were a blessing.”

  “I’m hoping to foster them.”

  “Awesome.”

  “State’s not going to allow it.”

  They all looked up. The negative opinion came from Elvis impersonator Wilson Hughes. He had on his required white grocery coat and a pair of blue suede shoes shiny from age and wear. His pompadour was styled to the max.

  Gemma asked, “And you think that, why?”

  “Racial. You’re White and they’re not from what I heard.”

  Edith said, “That’s not going to make a difference.”

  He sat down even though he’d neither asked permission nor been invited. “Sure it will. Blacks foster Blacks. Whites foster Whites. The social services people are going to give you the whole song and dance about you being unable to bring them up with their culture—whatever that means,” he said dismissively.

  Edith, who bore a startling resemblance to the late great Ella Fitzgerald, said, “That might have been the way things were in the past, but times have changed, even here in Kansas.”

  Wilson bit into his sandwich. “I know you think you know, but you don’t.”

  Gemma thought he was full of crap, but didn’t argue because he considered himself an authority on everything.

  He added, “And you know Gem-Gem, it’s going to be even harder for you to find a man with those two kids in your life. Lot of men around here don’t like the whole race mixing thing.”

  Gemma hated his nickname for her. “Does that include you?” she asked coolly.

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Then I’ll make sure to adopt them.”

  He smiled smugly. “You know you could do worse than this hunka hunka burning love.”