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Where Wildflowers Grow

By Gail Gaymer Martin

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“P
hooey!”
The steam sizzled from Sandy’s ’2006 Ford Focus. She moaned, flung open the hood of her car, grateful she made it to Fielding before the radiator exploded. But now a neatly printed proclamation on the door of the only garage in town irked her more. Out to Lunch.
Disbelieving, she glared at the intrusive sign. She’d lived away for eons, it seemed, and things had changed for the worse. She eyed the new name on the building, Burdett’s Garage. Years ago Hank Dawson kept the garage open no matter what. Now a new face showed up in town, bought the garage, and apparently closed it for any whim he wanted. Detroit wasn’t perfect, but they had more than one garage. For her own satisfaction, she rolled her eyes, grabbed her shoulder bag from the front seat and slammed the car door.
Something came over her as she stared at her Neon, and she wanted to cry. Getting a grip, she drew in a deep, calming breath. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she muttered. Life had already fallen apart so she should be used to it. But she wasn’t. Why had God let her down again? She’d expected more from Him. She looked into the bright blue sky and answered her own question. She’d been less than devout the past years. The Lord probably expected more of her too. The unseasonable heat seared through her thin blouse, and she wiped moisture from her face with a tissue. Dampness rimmed her sunglasses, and she pulled them off, dabbing them with the same tissue, then slid them back onto her nose, and crossed the dusty highway to Lily’s Café, guessing the garage mechanic was eating there. Lily Jarvis’ small diner served Home Cookin’ as the faded sign read. Lily had the best burgers in town.
Somewhere between Birmingham and Fielding, she’d totally lost her patience. She’d dealt with too many problems recently. Her layoff, her mother’s health, and her crumbled romance pressed on her mind. Three strikes was out, but not her. She needed four strikes.
Now she added her disabled car.
Like cold fingers, the cool air of the café touched Sandy’s skin as she entered. The greasy smell of French fries and burgers assailed her senses. Yet her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since her early morning breakfast. One of Lily’s burger would taste good.
Sandy pulled off her sunglasses and eyed the counter. A man dressed in a faded tee-shirt and oily jeans sat alone at the far end, chomping on a sandwich. His grimy fingernails stood out against the background of white bread. She marched across the floor and slid onto the stool next to his. Looking at the ho-hum way he ate his sandwich, she figured he was in no hurry.
She pulled her shoulders back. “My radiator’s about to erupt at your garage. Can you help me?”
He glanced at her sideways, concentrating on his sandwich. “I don’t think so.” A piece of fried egg clung to his lip.
“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows arched. She didn’t expect him to jump off the stool to help her, but she expected manners. She peered at him again, sensing they’d met before. But the name Burdett didn’t sound familiar.
He looked at her this time. “I can’t help you. You want Clay Burdett. He owns the garage.”
She produced a feeble smile and lowered her arched brows, thinking she needed to wipe the egg off her own face. “Sorry.” Her heart sank. Her energy short-circuited. Tired, and hungry with a trunk full of luggage, all she wanted was to go home. “I’m Burt Carls.” His arm swung toward the window. “Own the grinding shop down the block. Need your lawn mower sharpened, I’m your man.”
That name she recognized. “I’m Sandy Fisher. Our place is over the hill.”
He squinted at her head on. “Joe Fisher was your pa?”
She nodded while a slight grin crept across her face, winning out over her irritation.
“You the school teacher daughter he talked about?”
“Yes. That’s me.” A twinge of nostalgia caused he chest to contract. Her dad’s image hung in her mind.
Before she lost control of her emotions, the kitchen door banged open, and Sandy pivoted toward the sound. Lily burst into the café from the kitchen with an armload of pies. As Lily headed for the pie rack, she spotted Sandy.
“Why looky who’s here. Sandy Fisher. How are ya?” She worked as she spoke, shifting the pies on the rack.
“Not bad.” Not good either. Sandy moved along the counter to the pie rack. “How are you, Lily?”
Lily’s spindly arm reached out to pat Sandy’s hand. “Gettin’ older. Can’t stop old age, but you’d know nothin’ about that now.” She grinned, wiping her graying hair from her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “Comin’ to visit your ma for a time?”
Sandy gave a single nod. “She’s having a few problems.”
“I heard. Her hearts been doing a jig, I hear.”
“I guess that’s one way to describe it.” Sandy clamped her jaw, controlling a grin. How could she forget? Lily knew everything that went on in town almost before it happened. Thought I’d come home for a while and keep an eye on her.” Sandy’s ulterior motive rose in her mind.
“Your ma’ll be happy to see ya. She knows you’re comin’?”
“I called. She’s probably wondering where I am.” Lily’s sharp eyes dropped to Sandy’s ring finger. “Where’s the diamond I heard about?” She lifted her head, her look snapping with curiosity.
Shrugging, Sandy slipped her hand from the counter. “Things happen, Lily.” She should have known if anyone would notice the missing ring, it would be Lily.
“I guess they do.” Lily’s gaze lingered a moment before she grasped a menu from the counter and handed it to her. “You stop for a bite to eat?”
“No, I was looking for the guy who owns the garage.” She gestured toward the street. “My radiator sprouted a hole. I’d fix it myself if I’d had some duct tape.”
Lily slapped the counter with the menu and cackled. “Duct tape. Well, I’ll be. Lucky for Clay you didn’t have any.” She gestured toward the garage. “Clay’ll be back in a bit. He goes home for lunch most times.” She slid the menu back against the napkin holder. “Ya can leave a note on your car with the keys, and he’ll call ya. That’s what most everybody does.”
“I’d prefer to talk with him.” Sandy gazed at the food speckled menu, having second thoughts.
“Then how about a burger while ya wait?” Lily tossed a burger on the grill before she could answer.
Sandy didn’t protest and watched the burger sizzle.
“Most people just leave a note,” Lily arched her brow.
“If he’s not back, I’ll do that.” She opened her purse and pulled out a small pad, scribbling her name and number. “I’ll leave a note and come back in daddy’s car.” The words caught in her throat. “In mom’s car and pick up the rest of my stuff.” She tore off the paper, dropped the note pad and pencil in her bag. Her stomach growled. “That burger does smell tempting.”
“I’ll have this one for ya in a minute.”
Sandy tucked her concern for cholesterol into the back of her mind where all the other unwanted information congealed. “So what’s new in town, Lily?”
“Oh my, let’s see—not much happenin’ lately.” Her face brightened. “Cal Dorset got a case of gout. You know the Dorsetts on Timothy Road?”
Sandy nodded.
Lily snatched up the burger, popping it on a bun. “Burger’s ready.” She smeared it with all the fixings. “Ya can eat it on the way home.” She bound it in a waxed wrapper. “Here ya go —and it’s on the house, a little welcome home gift.”
“Thanks, Lily.” Sandy grasped the burger feeling the warm grease through the waxed paper and her belly growled. “My stomach and I both thank you.”
Lily nodded, a grin stretching her aging face. “Ya take care now. It’s nice to have ya back home.”
Home. The word pegged Sandy’s heart to her chest.
The sun burned through the cloudless sky as Sandy paused to cross the hot cement. To her pleasant surprise, the large garage door shot upward as she hesitated. A well-toned man stepped into the sunlight and hooked a thumb onto his jeans pocket, eyeing her car, then her.
As she neared him, her pulse quickened. He wasn’t only a good-looking guy—one of those with a sculptured jaw and full lips— he had a presence about him, something unexplainable, the way he looked at her with his soft, thoughtful eyes. Sort of sensitive. But so was she. Sensitive about a business owner closing for lunch.
❀
Clay stood in the doorway and watched the intriguing stranger cross the street. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and eyed her slim form dressed in jeans and a pale pink tank top barreling toward him.
She squinted against the sun in her eyes, but when she drew closer, they widened—eyes the deepest indigo blue he had ever seen, glistening like a morning glory uncurling in the dewy dawn.
She stood for a moment, nailing him with her mesmerizing gaze. “You’re Clay Burdett?”
Her face, as lovely as her eyes, inched closer, and he blinked and took a step backward. “Yes.”
“That’s my car there. The Neon.”
Her voice was clear and honed like a well-tuned engine, but her impatience raced like a revving motor. He noticed her shoulders droop almost unnoticeably before she pulled herself up again. “I see it.” He waited, enjoying her impatience. Most people in town were as laid back as he was. She had to be a traveler.
“Radiator troubles. I barely made it into town.”
“Okay.”
“So?” Her frown deepened.
The kind of drama he witnessed in this spunky girl was rare in Fielding. “So.”
She drew her shoulders up in a gigantic sigh. “Never mind.” She slapped a piece of paper into his hand. “Here’s my number. Call me.”
She spun on her heel and marched across the broad driveway to her car. In a moment, she’d grabbed a small overnight case and something that looked like a ledger. A business woman, he figured.
She slammed the car door and headed down the street away from the center of town. He thought to call her back and tell her she’d find no motel that way, but he hesitated. Perhaps, she’d cool off going for a short walk. He grinned. When she came back, he’d tell her where to find a motel.
Clay wandered toward her car, amazed she was still driving a 2001 model car. The company could win an award for a car nearly fifteen years old that still ran. What did she expect?
He checked the back bumper. Michigan plates. Hmm? Maybe she had relatives in town. Whoever she was she had about as much patience as a pea. A grin crept to his mouth giving a rare tug. The paper she’d handed him was covered with greasy finger prints, and his gaze drifted to Lily’s.
Women. He really didn’t understand them. When Marie got edgy or demanding, he thought she was playing a game. Sometimes she flaunted her frailty as if it were a diamond. He had thought she was strong, that her helplessness was all part of the female mystique. But she wasn’t playing, he learned too late. Marie filled his thoughts, and he closed his eyes against the memories. Too late, he understood people need help sometimes. Even he needed help, but he never asked for it. Not anymore. Not even from God.
Years ago he talked to God despite his father’s lessons. “Fend for yourself, young man.” But not anymore, not since God took away the only human he really loved. He didn’t need God or anyone.
The grease-spotted note caught his attention again. He locked the garage door, glanced up and down the empty street, and jogged across the cement to Lily’s Café. Swinging through the door, he was greeted by cooler air and Lily, smiling coyly from behind the counter.
“Who’re you smiling at, Lily?” He headed straight for the counter.
Her crinkled skin pulled into a wise grin. “Who’d ya think? Some old geezer my age? No way, young fella. I’m givin’ you the eye.”
“And I’m mighty flattered.” Lily fluttered behind the counter. “You can’t be hungry, can ya? From what I heard, you already been out to lunch.”
Her reference to lunch sliced into his mind. “Only hungry for you Lily — and a bit of information.”
“Gathered it wasn’t only me.” She gave him a fabricated sulk. “So what information ya lookin’ for?”
He raised his hand holding the jagged piece of paper and shoved it toward her. “Just wondered who this is. The telltale prints tells me she ate here.”
Lily looked at the paper. “Why, aren’t you one of the Hardy Boys? Suppose those grease marks gave it away, huh?”
“The best burgers in town though.” He sidled a glance, watching her usual pleased expression.
“Flattery will get ya everywhere, Clay. You know that, don’t ya?” Lily handed him back the note. “Ya know her folks, Joe and Annie. She’s their daughter, Sandy Fisher. She’s in town for a stay.” She arched a thin eyebrow. “Why ya so curious?”
“I just wondered who she is. She acts as mean as you do.” He managed to hold back his grin.
“She’s home to care for her ma some, I guess. Said she’s having car troubles.”
“That’s not the only thing with obvious troubles.” He gave Lily a wink.
“Be nice, Clay. She’s a pretty one—and single.”
His grin broke free. “And she’ll stay that way if she’s this mean.”
“Someone didn’t think so. At least for a while. Her diamond’s missin’.” She gave a healthy head bounce. “Broke their engagement.”
He failed controlling his head from jarring upward. “Engagement, huh?”
Lily nodded. “Yep, and she’s worth more than diamonds in my mind.”
“But I’m not sure about your taste, Lily. I’ll have to see for myself.”
Lily chuckled. “You do that, Clay.” She gave him a wink. “You do that.”
He ignored her not-very-subtle matchmaking “Suppose, I’d better get back in case someone else doesn’t think I should eat lunch.” He dashed out the door and across the street.
❀
Sandy stood and absorbed the hillside covered with grasses and wildflowers. At the crest grew her favorite gnarled elm tree, and her home lay down the other side. The walk seemed steeper than she remembered, and her face beaded with perspiration.
She felt breathless. Was it from the heat or her age? Thirty-three didn’t seem old. Yet ten years ago, she ran up this same hill with no problem. Vanity helped her conclude it was the heat. She couldn’t face the thought that she was getting older.
Clay Burdett slipped into her mind and she tried to guess his age. About hers, she suspected or a little older. But deep worry lines etched his handsome face. What caused a strapping man like that to have weighty concerns? She shook her head at her silly question. Earlier she’d been complaining about her own problems. Age had nothing to do with it.
She picked up her pace. Her legs tugged through the growth of wild timothy and Queen Anne’s lace. Near the crest, chicory and cornflowers glowed in the bright sunlight, and an unexpected breeze drifted across her dewy arms. At the top, the breeze blew stronger, rustling the grasses, and down below, she could see her home, a misshapened bungalow with pale yellow siding and white shutters. Before she was born the house held four small rooms, but her father added wings and finished the attic.
Today the house stood before her, rambling, yet filled with cozy memories. She thought of her father, and her eyes gathered moisture. She missed him more than she could express, and she had to admit she missed Fielding, her small hometown, despite all her big city talk. She brushed the tears away with her fingers.
The old elm tree towered above her, and she couldn’t resist dropping to the ground to catch her breath and calm her spirit. Here in the breeze, she could think rationally. She’d never handled heat well. Lately she handled nothing well. Too many changes. She leaned against the rough trunk and opened her journal, happy she’d grabbed it from the car. Inside the depths of her shoulder bag, she dug for a pencil.
As a girl, she loved to sit with her back against the ragged bark and read a book or write in her diary, telling it her secrets and dreams. She’d given up her diary long ago, but the urge to write kept nudging her. When she used journal writing to stimulate her fourth-graders, it seemed natural to join them.
Thinking of her students stirred her sadness. After her dad died, she’d struggled with the idea of coming home and giving her mother support, but losing her independence and changing her life style weighted on her. Still, things had a way of happening.
When she learned her mother had an irregular, rapid heartbeat, it concerned her. The atrial fibrillation frightened her mother, and Sandy faced she had to come home, no matter what. Then the pink-slip appeared. Laid-off. She still couldn’t believe it. She wondered if God’s hand had been at work to give her greater motivation to come back to Fielding for a while.
Her feelings poured onto the page—her defunct job, her broken engagement to Brent, and her mother’s illness. A blue jay’s chatter brought her back to the present and glancing at her watch, a feeling of guilt crept over her, and she jumped up. It had been foolish to sit so long. She imagined her mother ready to call out the cavalry.
Looking down the hillside, she made out her mother’s thin frame standing in front of the white picket fence, staring down the street.
Sandy hurried down the sloping path, waving to catch her mother’s attention. When she bounded off the hillside, trying to control her momentum, Annie finally saw her. A look of relief sprang to her mother’s face, and Sandy rushed into her arms gasping and kissed her cheek. “Sorry. You’ve been worried, right?”
“Why my goodness, yes. Where’s your car?”
“I had to leave it at the garage--”
“Glory be, don’t tell me you had an accident?”
“No, mom, it was my radiator. A stone or something knocked a hole in it. I left it with the mechanic.”
“Clay. Did he tell you how long it’ll take to fix?”
“We only talked a minute. I had to wait for him to get back from lunch. Everybody does their own thing here, I guess. I’ll drive back with your car to get my luggage.” Frustration sent a sigh shuddering from her.
“Patience, dear. Patience is better than pride, remember what the scriptures say. I don’t know where you get your impatience? I suppose from your father.”
Sandy frowned. “What do you mean? Daddy wasn’t impatient.”
With a gentle grin, her mother put her arm around Sandy’s waist and guided her down the curved sidewalk into the cool of the house.
Maybe her mother was correct. Impatient, yes. Pushy, yes. Sometimes Sandy even tried to push God around a little. She needed to do a little prayerful knee-bending and straighten herself out.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” She followed her mother through the living room. “Is the medication working better now?”
“Don’t you go worrying about me. Once in a while my heart does a nip-up, but the medicine’s helping.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here before.”
Annie stopped in the hallway in front of the kitchen door. “You have your work, Sandy. You can’t run off from the classroom every time my heart decided to skip rope for a few hours.”
Her ulterior motive pressed against her conscience, but she kept her mouth closed. This wasn’t the time to admit the other reason she’d come home jobless.
Her mom gave her a pat on the arm. “I’m glad you’re here now.” She motioned down the hall. “While you put that case in your room, I’ll get you a glass of lemonade.”
Sandy sighed and walked into the bedroom, feeling guilty and concerned. Strain from the illness marked her mother’s face. Lines she’d never seen before. She looked tired and scared, a rare condition for her mom. Sandy knew whoever pulled the strings to get her home—God or providence—she was glad she’d come. Making the decision to leave her apartment in Birmingham, a Detroit suburb, had been difficult, but it had been for the best.
Placing her overnight case on the vanity bench, she glanced around the room, taking in the pale yellow wallpaper with sprigs of white lilies of the valley tied with pale green ribbon. The scent of lemon furniture polish filled the air.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her usual neat hair curling in a soft halo to her chin now hung in limp straggles around her face. The sun had bleached its hue to a pale flaxen color, darker at the roots. Brent always presumed she dyed her hair, but she didn’t.
She ran a comb through her tangles, then grabbed the strap of her shoulder bag and returned to the kitchen. She’d drink the lemonade her mother offered, then return to the garage for her luggage.
❀
At the slam of a car door, Clay turned from his work. He raised his head from under the hood and eyed the silhouette in the doorway, the bright sunshine glaring behind her. A woman’s shadowed image paused for a moment, peering around the garage until she spotted him.
He recognized her and stifled a grin as she charged into the building. “Well, what do you think?” Tension punctuated her voice.
Clay fiddled with the wrench he held. Her helpless expression tugged at his resistance. When her eyes widened, his heart constricted, the first time in three years, yet he couldn’t resist playing the game. “Think about what?”
“What else?” She let loose a deep sigh and tapped her fingers on the edge of her shoulder bag. “How long do you think it’ll take to fix my car?”
“I haven’t looked at it yet, ma’am. I’m in the middle of a job here.” He gestured to the automobile in front of him. “I only work on one job at a time.”
“But, I need it. I have things to do. It’s important.”
“Everyone’s car is important, ma’am.”
She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her tone had softened. “When will you...when do you think you’ll find time to look at it?”
He shrugged. “As soon as I finish this job.” He patted the quarter-panel. “When I’m free here.”
“And how long do you think that might be?” Her words marched in a slow, measured rhythm. She clasped the edge of her shoulder bag like a life preserver. “You know, I’ve had a very bad day.” Her shoulders heaved upward, and her body snapped to attention. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand. Just tell me how many lunches it will be?”
Lunches? He caught the wrench as it slipped from his hand. Her words were definitely taking the same impatient route as her earlier ones, along with the lunch dig. “I’m not sure. Not until I look at it.”
He was toying with her, enjoying the sparks in her eyes. But he stopped, unable to comprehend what had gotten into him?
“Never mind.” She expelled a blast of air from her lungs. “I’ll just get my luggage out of the trunk. Call me when you look at it. My number’s on the paper.” She took a step backwards.
He’d only meant to tease, not irritate her. But she was riled. He knew women had bad times each month—hormones or something. That’s what Marie always said. His stomach knotted when he thought of her, and he pushed the memory away. He figured he’d chalk the woman’s irritability to hormones. Though Lily had said she was nice, what did she know? He chuckled, knowing that Lily knew everything in town.
The woman’s eyes pinned him. “Did you hear me?”
He hooked this thumb over his belt and nodded. “Sure did.” How could he miss it? As his eyes narrowed, he could almost see the wheels in her head spinning as she searched for her next barbed comment.
“You must be visiting in town?” He didn’t admit he’d already inquired.
“My mother lives on Heather Road, the other side of the hill. I’m Sandy Fisher.”
“Oh, Annie and Joe’s daughter.” He hoped he sounded surprised. The family resemblance was remarkable. Her folks had been an attractive couple, besides being downright nice people. “You look like your mother.”
“I do?” She faltered, taking a step backward and shrugged. “Guess, I do a little.”
Sandy was attractive. He couldn’t deny that, but her disposition was another story. “The question is are you as nice as Annie?”
Her face flushed a deep red. “On rare occasion, maybe.” She edged toward the door. “You’ll call me then?”
“As soon as I can, ma’am. Promise.”
She stood just inside the door, hands on her hips. “Will you hurry, please?” As she turned on her heel, her voice soared over her shoulder. “And it’s Miss.”
Miss. Even if he didn’t know, he could certainly guess why.
She became a momentary silhouette, again, as she passed through the garage doorway, before she appeared outside lit by the brilliant sunlight. His last vision was her sand-colored hair disappearing around the corner.
❀
Outside the garage in the sunshine, Sandy shook her head. He didn’t seem to understand her problem at all. Was he denser than a rock or only teasing? She couldn’t read him at all. A helpless sensation weighted her. Though she could borrow her mother’s car, she didn’t want to tie it up every day while she looked for work.
She paused, wondering if she should go back inside and explain. Even if he understood, he probably wouldn’t care. He seemed to have problems of his own. Again, she’d noticed the fine lines that rutted his brow. She stopped herself. She wasn’t going to let his stress-worn face soften her too much. She had to stand her ground. If he dallied too long, she’d put on a little pressure, if that was possible. He was the most low-key man she’d ever met.
Guilt swept over her. She gazed at her empty ring finger. Having just broken her engagement, she should feel some guilt or remorse, but she couldn’t. She and Brent’s relationship had been doomed from the start, and she wondered why it took her so long to face it. Her values and beliefs were opposite Brent’s and the difference finally made her use commonsense. She’d given back the ring with no regrets and felt as if their relationship had ended months before it had.
Sandy lifted her gaze and focused on the garage door, thinking of the man inside. She needed a reprieve from men, so why today was she curious about Clay Burnett? What difference did his trouble make to her? She had her own problems.
Perspiration beaded her forehead, and Sandy pulled a tissue from the outside pocket of her bag and wiped the moisture from her face. Then bent to unlock the trunk, her hand empty.
She realized she had no keys. She looked at the empty ignition switch. Determined this time to get a grip on herself, she marched back into the garage.
When she entered, Clay looked up again, curiosity showing on his face. He raised his head from under the hood, his broad chest stretching the thin cloth of his tee-shirt. “Ma’am? Sorry. Miss, what can I do for you now?”
His soft husky voice without the barbs touched her ear like music. “My keys. You have my car keys. I need to get my luggage from the trunk.”
He stood, unmoving, with a wrench in one hand and something she didn’t recognize in the other. Finally, he rested the wrench on the edge of the hood and ambled across the garage to his office behind a windowed-enclosure.
She followed him with her eyes, listening to the sound of his boots hitting the cement. Within a second, he returned holding her car keys. His hand surprised her, not broad and calloused with grimy finger nails as she expected from a mechanic. Instead, the keys lay on long, slender fingers like a sculptor’s hand.
She raised her gaze to his as she took the keys. His eyes, a whirlpool of colors like the sea, mesmerized her. She struggled to avert his gaze. “You’ll call me then?”
“Yep.”
Yep. That was what exasperated her. He was uncommunicative. How could she hold a conversation with a fence post?
Sandy stepped backward, wishing she had a comeback, but her mind remained blank. Before she could turn, his arm jutted forward and his hand brushed her face. She gasped, and his finger lay posed on her cheek. Confused, she stared at him.
An apologetic expression swept across his face. He held his finger out in front of her. On the tip lay a piece of white paper. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Tissue. You had tissue on your cheek.” His warm whisper touched her senses, and a heated flush crept up her chest. She’d been strutting around like a fool with tissue hanging from her cheek. “Thank you,” she mumbled and hurried from the garage to make her getaway.

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