Blue Moon Bay by Lisa Wingate Page B

disconcerting—as if she had control of me, rather than me having control of myself. “It’s a long story,” I replied, instead. “Weather problems.” Let her ponder that and draw her own conclusions as to how that equated to appearing in town on foot.
    She was right about one thing, though. I was a wreck. No wonder the girl who’d just put the smooch on my brother was eyeing me uncertainly. She butted Clay in the shoulder, as in, Introduce me, already . Who’s this Heather person? Apparently she didn’t know anything about me. Strange, considering how familiar they’d looked a few minutes ago.
    Another vehicle rattled up just as Clay was about to begin the introductions. The hearse was a dead giveaway, even from the end of the drive. As it passed through the tunnel of live oaks, I recognized three people in the front seat—two tall, one short. Two gray heads, one sandy brown with the hair loosely pulled back, fly-away strands swirling around her face.
    My mother, Uncle Herbert, and Uncle Charley. Clay waved enthusiastically, in a way that said, Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!
    The hearse had barely skidded to a stop before my great uncles were grunting and creaking their way out of the car, then heading for the porch in stiff-legged shuffles. Mother, sliding over from the middle, was one step behind them.
    â€œWell, praise the Lord and phone the saints. There she is!” Uncle Charley made a beeline toward me, outdistancing Uncle Herbert, who had to hold on to the handrail to make his way up the eight steps to the porch.
    Uncle Charley pushed past the casserole ladies and swept me into a meaty hug. “We just been to the sheriff’s department, finding out how to report you for a missing person.”
    The ladies gasped.
    â€œHuh . . . wha . . . oof!” I stammered and grunted as Uncle Herbert moved in from behind and I was momentarily the filling in an uncle sandwich. The scents of Borax, axle grease, and musty leather flicked at my senses, pulling threads. Memories were tied to those smells—childhood visits to the old family farm with my father, where Uncle Charley gave me pony rides. The dark days after my father’s death. My high school graduation, when all I cared about was getting away from here. I didn’t want the memories that were tethered to these two old men. I wanted to leave this place and everything attached to it.
    Now I felt it all pulling at me again, leaving me confused and lost.
    â€œHeather, where in the world have you been?” My mother’s admonition came from somewhere outside the circle of scents and memories. “We had a call from a man in Dallas who discovered your purse in the trash that was cleaned off of a bus, but you were nowhere to be found. We were scared to death. He said he’d FedEx the purse, by the way.”
    The casserole ladies gasped and twittered and asked questions as I rushed to share the odd saga of my trip to Texas and the lost purse. No telling how big that story would get by the time it circled town a few times.
    Uncle Charley brushed a sandy-sounding something off my jacket. “Looks like Roger got the besta you. Clay, you gotta teach that dog not to mug the comp’ny. He almost knocked Reverend Hay in the drink when we were takin’ the lights off the restaurant after Christmas, and the UPS man is afraid to even come by here. He’s been catching us at the Waterbird when we go for coffee in the mornin’.”
    Uncle Charley took my shoulders and held me away from him. “Let me get a look at ya.” He pulled me into a patch of sunlight and announced to the crowd, “My cow, look at our little Heather! She growed up to be a pretty thang!”
    I was too confused to be embarrassed. Clay and his dog had been in town long enough to frighten off the UPS man and help take down Christmas lights? What in the world?
    Mrs. Underhill wasn’t the