the size of the older woman.
“Pay her no mind, dear,” Miss Hattie whispered over the table. “That’s my next-door neighbor, Beaulah Favish. She’s a good woman, but she’s had some challenges that have troubled her more than a wee bit.”
Ah, Batty Beaulah. Maggie had told Bess about her too. “I see.” Challenges. Boy, could Bess empathize with that. If she didn’t watch herself, when all her challenges settled out, people would be calling her Batty Bess.
“I’m telling you, Leroy Cobb,” Beaulah slapped at her slicker, spraying those seated at the bar, “I saw lights on up in that attic room at two in the morning. Now we both know darn well it wasn’t Hattie up there. Something strange is going on at that inn and I expect you to handle it—better than you handled T. J. busting the cliffs with his hard head.”
Most people would worry about the human head, not the granite cliffs. Bess lifted her brows, and whispered to Miss Hattie. “Our T. J.?”
“Mmm, I’m afraid so, dear.” Miss Hattie’s soft sigh coupled with her concerned look. “Beaulah is a dear woman, but she’s a tad—”
“Eccentric?” Bess suggested, sensing Miss Hattie’s unease, and that her generous spirit wouldn’t permit her to say anything unkind about anyone.
The door opened and Miss Hattie’s friend, Vic Sampson, the mailman Bess had met at the inn yesterday, came inside, hauling his leather bag. Worn and wet, it splotched dark, but he’d fastened the clasps to protect the mail. A moment later, he waved and grinned at her from the stool beside the poor sheriff. Understanding his silent message, Bess smiled back at the spry man who was in his seventies, like Miss Hattie. He was clearly amused—and right. Beaulah certainly did have a strong set of lungs; she barely paused for breath.
Lucy stepped between Bess and her view of the conflict. “More tea, sugar?” She snapped her gum.
“Yes, please.” Bess smiled and moved the red plastic glass closer, so Lucy wouldn’t have to stretch. “You sound Mississippian.”
“I was, but I converted. Now, I’m a hard-core Mainiac, and wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Maggie didn’t mention that, though she did tell me how all the villagers started calling Miss Hattie ‘Miss Hattie’ to keep you out of trouble with your mother.”
“They sure did. Mama’s a true southern belle and a stickler on manners. Back when I was growing up, I was a tad forgetful, which meant without everyone’s help, Mama always would’ve been crawling my backside.”
The villagers had adopted the traditional southern “Miss” to help Lucy remember. The caring in the gesture warmed Bess’s heart, and convinced her Lucy Baker must be special or the villagers wouldn’t have felt so protective of her. It also created a pang of envy. No one considered Bess that special. Not anymore.
Squelching thoughts of John, of the divorce, she watched Lucy pour the tea, then looked at Miss Hattie.
“I’ve been getting a lot of requests for your blueberry muffins lately.” Lucy gave the edge of the table a swipe with a cloth. “I don’t suppose you’d share the recipe.”
Looking pleased, Miss Hattie dabbed at a droplet of tea on the table with her napkin. “I’ll bring it by on my way to Millie’s for the Historical Society meeting tomorrow—provided you don’t draw Bess into your debate with Fred about angels being dead people or spiritual beings.”
“Dang. With her being a shrink, we figured she’d have some lively opinions.” Though disappointment flickered through Lucy’s eyes, she nodded her agreement. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Hattie, but folks would get into a snit if I didn’t grab the chance to get that recipe. Appreciate it.” She grinned and turned to Bess. “Miss Hattie’s pie is a hit around here and everyone’s sick of arranging church socials just to get a sample of her muffins.”
“They don’t.” Flushing a pretty pink, Miss Hattie
“Pay her no mind, dear,” Miss Hattie whispered over the table. “That’s my next-door neighbor, Beaulah Favish. She’s a good woman, but she’s had some challenges that have troubled her more than a wee bit.”
Ah, Batty Beaulah. Maggie had told Bess about her too. “I see.” Challenges. Boy, could Bess empathize with that. If she didn’t watch herself, when all her challenges settled out, people would be calling her Batty Bess.
“I’m telling you, Leroy Cobb,” Beaulah slapped at her slicker, spraying those seated at the bar, “I saw lights on up in that attic room at two in the morning. Now we both know darn well it wasn’t Hattie up there. Something strange is going on at that inn and I expect you to handle it—better than you handled T. J. busting the cliffs with his hard head.”
Most people would worry about the human head, not the granite cliffs. Bess lifted her brows, and whispered to Miss Hattie. “Our T. J.?”
“Mmm, I’m afraid so, dear.” Miss Hattie’s soft sigh coupled with her concerned look. “Beaulah is a dear woman, but she’s a tad—”
“Eccentric?” Bess suggested, sensing Miss Hattie’s unease, and that her generous spirit wouldn’t permit her to say anything unkind about anyone.
The door opened and Miss Hattie’s friend, Vic Sampson, the mailman Bess had met at the inn yesterday, came inside, hauling his leather bag. Worn and wet, it splotched dark, but he’d fastened the clasps to protect the mail. A moment later, he waved and grinned at her from the stool beside the poor sheriff. Understanding his silent message, Bess smiled back at the spry man who was in his seventies, like Miss Hattie. He was clearly amused—and right. Beaulah certainly did have a strong set of lungs; she barely paused for breath.
Lucy stepped between Bess and her view of the conflict. “More tea, sugar?” She snapped her gum.
“Yes, please.” Bess smiled and moved the red plastic glass closer, so Lucy wouldn’t have to stretch. “You sound Mississippian.”
“I was, but I converted. Now, I’m a hard-core Mainiac, and wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Maggie didn’t mention that, though she did tell me how all the villagers started calling Miss Hattie ‘Miss Hattie’ to keep you out of trouble with your mother.”
“They sure did. Mama’s a true southern belle and a stickler on manners. Back when I was growing up, I was a tad forgetful, which meant without everyone’s help, Mama always would’ve been crawling my backside.”
The villagers had adopted the traditional southern “Miss” to help Lucy remember. The caring in the gesture warmed Bess’s heart, and convinced her Lucy Baker must be special or the villagers wouldn’t have felt so protective of her. It also created a pang of envy. No one considered Bess that special. Not anymore.
Squelching thoughts of John, of the divorce, she watched Lucy pour the tea, then looked at Miss Hattie.
“I’ve been getting a lot of requests for your blueberry muffins lately.” Lucy gave the edge of the table a swipe with a cloth. “I don’t suppose you’d share the recipe.”
Looking pleased, Miss Hattie dabbed at a droplet of tea on the table with her napkin. “I’ll bring it by on my way to Millie’s for the Historical Society meeting tomorrow—provided you don’t draw Bess into your debate with Fred about angels being dead people or spiritual beings.”
“Dang. With her being a shrink, we figured she’d have some lively opinions.” Though disappointment flickered through Lucy’s eyes, she nodded her agreement. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Hattie, but folks would get into a snit if I didn’t grab the chance to get that recipe. Appreciate it.” She grinned and turned to Bess. “Miss Hattie’s pie is a hit around here and everyone’s sick of arranging church socials just to get a sample of her muffins.”
“They don’t.” Flushing a pretty pink, Miss Hattie
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