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Fresh Start Summer

By Beverly Nault

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Grace Harkins ignored the rush of whispers as her oldest friend stormed from the church. She imagined dozens of angry glares boring into the back of her head while Maggie’s footsteps echoed around the church walls. The door opened to a flood of summer day- light, and shut with a resounding slam.
Pastor cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the film crew will arrive and set up in the Park tonight. Filming begins tomorrow...”
Grace twisted her purse straps while he finished explaining about the movie shoot. It took him forever to finish the weekly announcements and say the closing prayer. She leapt from her seat on the “amen” to hurry outside in Maggie’s wake.
“What was that all about?” Grace’s sandals slap-slapped her acute embarrassment as she headed down the concrete steps to the park benches. “Don’t you think having a movie filmed in Cherryvale will help keep our businesses open and—what?”
“What in the name of granny’s good sense is Pastor thinking?” Maggie stood with a glare and stomped away from the bench where she’d been waiting, taking long strides ahead toward the parking lot. “This town will not be the same when they leave, you watch!”
Pastor Crenshaw descended the steps and stopped to speak with Sam and Abby Madison—owners of the hardware store and Sam, the town’s resident actor.
“Hush, Maggie, they’ll hear you.” Grace managed a tight smile and nodded at them, keeping her own voice hushed. “Our Vacation Bible School can use their donation if we send enough volunteers. He read the script and approved it.”
“Using the Lord’s people for evil gain, that’s what those movie folk are doing. It’s what they always do!” Maggie insisted with a stomp. “Expose our young people to wicked Hollywood influences. And disrupt peaceful communities. You should recall better than anyone.”
Grace gaped. How on earth could Maggie still carry around that ancient grievance? “That was so long ago. Besides, why can’t we be a good influence for them? Cherryvale is the flip side of fast living, after all.”
The first Sunday of her retirement, Grace resisted letting Maggie’s sour mood ruin this glorious, golden summer day. The cherry blossoms had dropped and their sage green canopies swayed and danced in the morning sunshine like young girls showing off new summer frocks. Grace’s winter coat rested in its cedar chest, and even her cotton skirt and light sweater felt too heavy. She pulled sunglasses out of a straw handbag and slid them on.
Twins Cassie and Carson galloped up to them. Like colts escaped from the barn, the kids’ energy levels soared with summer-vacation excitement, a rainbow of laughter over the cloud of Maggie’s gloom.
“Hey, Miz Grace, come play chase with us.” Cassie giggled and chased Carson across the green lawn.
“Not now, honey.” She pointed to her sandals. “Don’t have my run- ning shoes on, maybe later.”
“It’s got that old guy, Jeff Field!” Connie McCoy bounced past, cell- phone glued to her ear, voice squealing in teenage glee. “And Tiffany Lane, too! I loved her in that street-racing movie last year—”
“These kids can’t go ten minutes without those things stuck to their heads.” Maggie switched sermonettes without skipping a page in her impromptu lecture series. “They’re all growing eardrum cancer. I saw a piece on 20/20.”
Grace was glad for the change of subject, even if it was another rant. “Maggie, ever since you moved back to the Vale you’ve been watching too much news and picking out only the bad. My kids got me a cell phone for my birthday and I think they’re handy. See? No butt-dialing here.” Grace slid hers out of a special pocket in her purse and flipped it open to demonstrate. She looked up, but Maggie had launched her own search expedition into Purse Everest—Grace’s nickname for her ever present, enormous bag.
Maggie’s mass of red curls bobbed as she plunged through the deep cavern trolling for the prize.
“All I have to do now is remember to plug it in,” Grace muttered. The low battery indicator flashed at her as she slid it back into its pocket. “Mark wants to know I can call someone if I need to, since he’s at the hospital till all hours.” Her tummy growled, reminding her that it, too, needed recharging. “Where shall we eat this week, the Bypass Buffet or the Lunch Bucket?”
“They’re all pagans.” Maggie’s voice muffled up from the depths of her bag, unwavering from her anti-Hollywood soapbox. “They’ll tram- ple all over town with their Scientology and piercings. And who knows what kind of cigarettes.”
“Hey, Miz Grace.” Connie skipped up to join them and peered over Maggie’s shoulder. “Miz Maggie, that’s the biggest purse I’ve ever seen. Hiding bodies in there?”
Grace stifled a giggle as Maggie shot Connie a uni-eyebrowed glare.
Connie continued, undeterred. “I know I’m supposed to start work- ing at your place tomorrow, but can I maybe start later in the week?”
“Let me guess.” Maggie re-surfaced from her purse dive, eyebrows at half-mast. “You want to be in that movie.”
“I can work today, but could you do without me tomorrow?” Connie’s straight auburn hair framed hopeful brown eyes.
“I certainly don’t want you working if you don’t want to be there.”
Maggie plunged back in. “I expect you on Tuesday morning. Eight AM sharp.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you!” Connie bounced away, thumbs flying over her cell phone. “See ya, Miz Grace.”
“See? It’s started already.” Maggie mumbled from the chasm. “Disruptions. No peace. Who knows what kind of people.”
Grace bit down on her lower lip and shoved her sunglasses up her nose. She’d worked hard all her grown-up life and meant to enjoy her- self this summer—Maggie’s troubles weren’t going to ruin her plans. Instead, she ran her eyes over the sleek, fully restored classic Mustang. “It’s a treat to ride in Baby. You haven’t taken her out of that old out- building all winter.”
Good one, she can’t resist talking about Baby. Grace waited for Maggie to say something but she continued digging through heaven knows what.
“Found ’em!” Maggie jabbed the keys skyward in victory, then punched them into the driver’s-side door. She leaned over and flipped up the lock so Grace could get into the Wimbledon white-with-red- leather-interior 1966 Mustang convertible.
“Joe did such a beautiful job on her.” Grace pulled the seatbelt across her lap and clicked it in place, enjoying the aroma of leather and lemon wafting through the sun-warmed interior.
Maggie kerplunked the carpetbag onto the backseat and reached for her own belt. “We both had our dreams, and restoring Baby was Joe’s. At least he finished before...” A wash of emotion flooded her face before she caught herself. She gripped the wood grain steering wheel at ten and two. “He researched everything to the last detail. I shouldn’t make her stay cooped up in that stuffy shed.”
Grace gave her a moment, admiring the authentic chrome knobs and simulated-wood dashboard. She glanced over at Maggie. A white bandage peeked out underneath the sleeve of her cotton shirt. “What did you do to yourself?”
“It’s just a scratch. That donkey can be quite a mule, but he means well.”
“You’re trying to be a one-woman animal rescue mission.” Grace clicked her tongue. “You need someone around the place to help you. All those animals, especially the larger livestock. What if one of them takes out past abuses on you?” She gestured at the bandage. “Worse than a scratch.”
“Can’t afford anyone else right now.” Maggie shook her curls. “I can barely pay Connie as it is.” She tugged her sleeve down in a futile attempt to cover the wound.
“Then only take small animals, tame household pets turned over because their owners can’t afford them anymore.”
“I’m not about to turn away an animal because of its size, or past. The big, cranky ones need me just as much as the small, polite ones do.” The air in the car suddenly felt thick, strained. “I know it’s the way
you and Joe planned, but—” “Life goes on, Grace.” Maggie lifted her chin, and turned the ignition.
The engine rumbled to a finely tuned hum. “Now where shall we eat?” Grace knew too well the woman’s preference to keep her emotions private. “Baby sounds terrific. Joe would be happy to know you’re enjoy- ing her, Maggs. Let’s see what the line’s like at the Bucket. If it’s crazy, we
can drive over to the Bypass.” Cooler air flowed through the vents as Maggie steered the clas-
sic onto Main. They cruised past 1800s-era reproduction storefronts nestled along brick-edged sidewalks, and rode in silence for a few blocks. The rubber tires rolled over simulated pavers with a rhythmic thock-thock.
Grace remembered not so long ago when the now postcard-pretty Cherryvale had been more suited for a horror film backdrop than a family film.
Along with the rest of the country’s recession, the town’s income thinned into financial drought. Businesses closed and families moved away until Mayor Purcell called an emergency meeting and invited Cherryvalers, or “Valers” as townies called themselves, to brainstorm.
“We can make opportunities out of adversity,” was his rallying cry. Grace, selected chair of the committee for her organizational
skills and keen eye for detail, led the charge in the town’s spectacular renovation.
“The window boxes we put in last fall are starting to bloom nicely.” Grace allowed herself a moment of pride. “Aren’t they going to be lovely?” “More work for the storeowners.” Maggie kept her eyes on the road as she delivered her next prophecy. “They’d better deadhead those
begonias or they’ll be a mess when it rains.” “Sam’s not just a hardware store guy, you know. His set design skills
on the facades really make them special. We spent hours researching old photos in his store room from the town archives to get rid of those ugly 1960’s straight lines and concrete.”
“Looks too much like a theme park if you ask me.”
Grace plowed ahead, determined to sweeten Maggie’s sour mood. “I think they’re European–looking. But you’d know better than me.
“Some things are better left alone.”
Grace drew in a breath and tried to ignore Maggie’s dig. “I know the town’s not anything like it was when you left, but the tourists are back and the economy’s improving. I’m sure it’ll trickle over to your farm soon.” Grace searched Maggie’s face for a sign of softening, but her jaw set firm as the roots of the hundred-year-old cherry trees that circled the town square.
Maggie slowed and Baby idled at the curb in front of the Lunch Bucket. A line snaked from the acrylic pie case, out the screen door, and down the sidewalk. “Bucket’s full. We’ll never get our table.” She craned her neck to find a break in the traffic and pulled back into the flow. “Ever since that travel article, we’ve had no peace. Look at all these cars.”
“It’s not like when we were girls and we could walk down the middle of the street.” Grace checked the line at the Loaves and Fishes deli across the street, but a crowd jammed up against their counter as well. “All these people bring money, better for the town anyway.”
“I guess I can get used to day visitors.” Maggie sniffed. “But this movie, that’s just too much.” She turned the ’Stang toward the highway bypass. “And you mark my words. This town will not be the same after those wackos from the Land of Fruits and Nuts invade.”
“Isn’t that what you want for your farm?” “Wackos?” “You know what I mean.” Grace watched her beloved hometown
sliding by. She barely remembered what it had looked like before the makeover. And none of the changes had begun the last time Maggie came back for a short visit to bury her mother after breast cancer took her. Maggie had flown into town, landed long enough to help her dad with the arrangements, and left again, promising Grace she’d be better about keeping in touch.
When she found out Maggie and Joe were moving back, Grace won- dered how the world traveler would adjust to Cherryvale.
As if she could read her thoughts, Maggie opened up. “I enjoyed our years traveling and living abroad, but I looked forward to moving back to small-town life. Living in big cities with Joe was exciting, but lonely, Grace. You don’t know what it’s like to rub elbows with heads of state and leaders of countries. They can keep their gowns and red carpets. We don’t need throngs of unruly paparazzi and autograph hounds.”
Grace snorted. “No one is going to want our autographs.”
Maggie smirked. Inside, Grace cringed. Not now, not ever had Maggie failed to remind Grace of the glamorous life she’d led before moving back to Cherryvale.
While Grace chauffeured Wendy to ballet class, Ian to soccer, and graded papers for her high school classes, Maggie shopped in Paris and Nice, took photographs on safari in Africa, and relaxed on cruises down the Nile. She’d lived, traveled, and socialized wherever Joe’s job as an energy consultant took them.
Maggie tailgated a crawling SUV. “They called me, you know. “Who?” “Location scouts. Wanted to use my place to film.” She slid the car into neutral and revved the muscle car’s engine to send the poky driver a message.
Grace turned in her seat to look at Maggie. “You should let them— they pay for location shooting. Besides, the publicity for your rescue work—”
Maggie sucked air between her teeth. “Of course I told them no. I don’t care if they offer me a million dollars. I don’t want any part of what they’re doing.”
“No one else remembers what happened except a handful of Valers.” Grace fell back against the leather seat. “That was all so long ago, why can’t you—”
“Let it go? I know. Turning up dirt only digs up old bones.” She leaned on the horn, the blast changing the subject. “Would you look at this chucklehead? Get over if you’re lost!”
The car finally pulled over and Grace managed an embarrassed smile at the other driver as Maggie powered the ’Stang into fourth.
Grace sighed and watched the fence posts of Cherryvale Stables flicking past, wishing she were home digging into that pile of classic novels waiting for her. But friends—even difficult ones—came first. Didn’t they?

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