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Designed for Love

By Sally Jo Pitts

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CHAPTER ONE
The urgent call came the night before.
“You’ve gotta be here tomorrow.” Bagel shop owner Elaine Robinson’s anxious voice surprised Izzie Ketterling.
After six weeks in Tallahassee helping her mom recuperate from shoulder surgery, Izzie was more than ready to get back home but hadn’t expected being needed at the Hamilton Harbor Commission meeting.
Not that Izzie had any special pull.
What she did have was gumption.
She could be counted on to take a stand. With the windows down on her Suburban, Izzie belted out the words to “Open Up the Heavens” along with the song on the radio. Mulling over downtown redevelopment concerns replaced her worry about passing the National Council for Interior Design Qualification test.
A half hour into the trip, she stopped worrying all together and enjoyed the colors of nature splashed on wild persimmon trees tucked among pine-scented evergreens. Crisp October air, so welcome after a hot summer in north Florida, swirled about her face. She fingered her hair, stiffened with hair gel. Earrings, she’d fashioned out of golf tees, clunked in the breeze.
On the outskirts of Hamilton Harbor, the bright red Tally-Ho Drive-In sign appeared to hang suspended in the gathering thunderclouds. Somebody must have finally located the bulbs to light up all the letters.
Throughout her high school years, the sign read, Tall O. Eight years ago, tall zero could have made an appropriate label to hang on her.
If it weren’t for her rearview mirror, she might have made it past Hamilton Harbor High School and the conflicting memories it brought, but she couldn’t help looking back.
The school’s bigger-than-life wildcat mascot statue stood out front in its mundane tan coat with black stripes. Frozen in his muscular stance, his open mouth brandished sharp teeth to warn all rivals.
She still thought the mascot painted in the school colors of forest green with white spots looked better and made more sense. Principal Johnson and the 1957 alumni, who donated the replica, didn’t have the same eye for school spirit. What she called creative, Mr. Johnson deemed vandalism. And then there was prom … that painful recollection she’d just as soon leave in the rearview mirror.
Her tummy grumbled a feed-me signal. Since she had some time to kill before meeting her friends at City Hall, she wheeled into the Tally-Ho parking lot.
“The town has become divided,” Elaine had said. “The newspaper labeled the two factions oldies and newbies. We might be headed for a not so civil war. We need you to bridge the gap.”
Imagine. Her, Izzie Ketterling, bridging a gap. In high school, she was more like an open draw bridge stuck with no way to cross to either side. She was neither a student from old aristocracy with all the right connections or from the new money on the beach side of town.
“I don’t know about me, an apartment dweller from the blighted neighborhood on Feldman Park, being a bridge.”
“I know. But you work in both worlds.”
“True.”
One world lay across the long bridge that linked Hamilton Harbor to Hamilton Beach. There, high-rise condos and sherbet colored beach houses overlooked pristine white sands and green Gulf waters.
Amidst heavy wallpaper books, paint swatches with exotic names, multi-textured flooring samples, and bolts of crisp fabrics came the call, “Give me something beachy. I want a comfortable place to sit in my second home, away from CEO obligations, and watch the magnificent sunrises and sunsets.” Those out-of-state interior design clients didn’t know or care about her past, only about what she could do to make their beach dwellings amazing get-aways from their own pasts.
Her other world lay on the bay side of the bridge in historic downtown Hamilton Harbor. She lived and worked part-time in the Flower Cottage on Feldman Square, just off Main Street. In this place, she’d developed her own unique melting-pot style that was as individual as each of the tenants she grew up around. It was the place that sparked her spirit and held her soul. The place she called home.
“Financially I’m trapped between the two realms, with both tugging in opposite directions. But downtown holds my heart.”
“That’s why you’re perfect to champion the cause for the oldies.”
“Just remember, I’m the girl voted most likely to talk herself into and out of trouble.”
“I remember. And I’m voting you the girl most likely to plead our case to include historical restoration in the city’s redevelopment project.”
She still wasn’t convinced she was the right spokesperson, but she’d worry about that later. Right now, the smells of Tally-Ho fries and their time-honored grilled burgers beckoned. Besides, she could use a break after the two-hour drive from Tallahassee. As she stepped out of her car, two seagulls screeched and swooped down at her feet, competing for the French fries tossed out of a car parked nearby.
“Hey. Can’t you read?” Zelda, the faithful, shouted at the French fry throwers. She balanced a tray of burgers, fries and drinks in one hand, while pointing to the bold letters painted on the wall underneath the Curb Service sign. “Don’t feed the birds, means don’t feed the birds unless you want poop in your food.” Zelda wore a red Tally-Ho t-shirt, jeans and an apron with pockets on her figure kept slim by carting food orders to cars for as long as Izzie could remember. She strode to the car on Izzie’s right and anchored the tray on the car window.
“Hi, Zel. Some things never change, huh?”
Zelda plunked napkins and straws on the customer’s tray and waved. “Long time no see.”
“Been in Tallahassee. Can you order my usual?” Izzie tossed her request to Zelda on her way to the restroom.
“Fries, crisp like potato chips and a burger heavy on the pickles, light on the mustard, half Coke-half Sprite, heavy on the ice.” Zelda hollered Izzie’s standard as she scribbled down the order.
“You’ve got a first-rate memory.”
“Shug, some orders, just like people, are unforgettable.” Zelda gave her a wink.
In the restroom, Izzie washed her hands and attempted to rub out the grease spot on her yellow capris with orange tassels on the hem. A piece of sausage from her on-the-go breakfast had landed in her lap earlier. She made the postage stamp stain into the size of a lunch plate. Great. She’d be sporting an unforgettable look at the commission meeting. She gave up and tossed the wet paper towel in the trash.
Outside, a silver compact car had pulled in beside her, giving her only inches to open her car door. Izzie cracked her door open, turned sideways and tried to wiggle in.
Whoosh.
A seagull dove, hitting her hand. Izzie swatted the bird away. The bird, wings flapping, shot into the silver car’s open window.
“Hey … what … shoo …”
The bird screeched, then escaped out the driver’s window. Izzie unwedged herself from the door and poked her head through the passenger window of the silver car.
“You okay?”
The guy in the driver’s seat sat stunned. He was a study in handsomeness marred only slightly by the straw on his shoulder and drink lid perched atop his head. The spilled drink had created splatter art on his suit pants and shirt.
Wordless, he reached for his door handle and stepped out of his car. Ice cubes clattered to the pavement. Izzie closed her door and circled his car. Zelda reached him at the same time she did and handed him some napkins.
“Good thing you ordered water. I’ll get you another drink right away.”
Izzie grabbed napkins from Zelda’s apron before she left. She brushed ice from the driver’s seat and tried soaking up the excess water, then turned to face piercing, near-black, eyes. The irked driver had slicked back hair, dark as a moonless night. He stood a good three inches taller than her five-foot-nine and looked like he could play at least second string on a decent college football team.
“What were you thinking?”
“Wha … excuse me?” She stared at his brow knit into a scowl.
“Why did you shove that bird into my car?”
“You think I did it on purpose?”
“You tell me.”
This guy might be long on looks, but he was definitely short on civility. “For your information, I was trying to get into my car without touching yours. You didn’t exactly leave me much room.”
He raised one brow, walked around the rear of his car, and inspected the distance between the cars.
“Plenty of room where I come from.”
“And that would be some wee little kingdom in …” she glanced at the license plate, “… Mississippi? I have every confidence your fellow Mississippians would call this too close.” She pointed to the space between the cars.
He circled his car and inspected the passenger side. “You scratched my car.”
“I most certainly did not.”
He stooped down to inspect the passenger door. “There. A scratch that wasn’t there before.”
“I was squished trying to get in my car without touching yours.” Izzie straightened. “Hold up. I’ve heard of this before—accusing someone of damage already on your car.”
If his look had substance, it would have shot arrows, very sharp ones, in her direction. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in three numbers.
“Reed Harrison. I need you to send a police car to work a car damage incident.”
Zelda walked up behind him, drink in hand.
He turned, waved the drink she offered away and asked, “What’s the name of this place?”
“Tally-Ho.”
A horn blew.
He frowned and repeated the restaurant name as if the words tasted bad. “No. No injuries.”
Zelda left, carrying the drink. Mr. Reed Harrison finished his call.
“You have got to be kidding me. You called 911?”
He shrugged and pocketed his phone.
“You might as well take a closer look. Maybe my car door came unhinged and dinged yours somewhere else.”
He paused at the back of his car. “Don’t go anywhere until the police get here.”
Izzie fisted her hands on her hips. “Fine and just see that you don’t move either. I want the police to see just how close you parked.” She stomped over to the passenger side of her car, got in and slammed the door.
Zelda brought out Izzie’s order, hooked the tray to the passenger window and leaned against her car door.
“Don’t worry. Some people are picky. These things happen. It won’t be the first time we’ve had to deal with car door dents.”
Izzie crunched a crispy fry and sneaked a look in her foe’s direction. “But my door didn’t touch his. I defended myself from a bird attack.”
Zelda smiled. “You stick to that story.”
Izzie’s heart cranked up a few beats. “Story? You think I scratched his car and won’t own up to it?”
“No. Not me. Some might … maybe more than some might, but—”
“Zel. You know what? You may think you’re helping, but you’re not.”
“Just sayin’.” Another horn honked. Zelda shrugged and went to check on her customer. The gray thundercloud overhead decided to release heavy raindrops that hit the tray attached to her window and sprayed her in the face.
“Just sayin’,” Izzie muttered.
Even after eight years, she was proof that it’s hard for people to forget a checkered past. Would she ever be taken seriously in her own hometown?
***
Reed stood under the overhang at the Tally-Ho Drive-In and watched the second hand on his watch make another round. What possessed him to stop at a place like this to begin with? The short-lived rainstorm had come and gone, leaving steam rising from the hot pavement.
He stole a look at the car parked beside his with the striking girl inside. Striking in more ways than one. He huffed a snort-laugh at the notion. She seemed the type who could be just as comfortable featured on the cover of Glamour magazine as she might on the Hit & Miss Roller Derby Magazine, he’d seen in the Memphis airport during his lay over on the flight from New York.
He had about an hour and a half to resolve this matter. Unfortunately, if he was to get any satisfaction on the damage, he had to go through this process. And if what he understood of the South held any truth, the process would be slow-moving.
The black and white police cruiser pulled in the parking lot, and Reed motioned to him. The policeman parked and got out, adjusting his gun belt.
“What seems to be the trouble here?”
“Damage to my car. I want to file a complaint.”
He’d barely started explaining the situation when glamour-roller-derby-girl sprung from her car and strode over on three-inch wedge heeled sandals.
“Jeff,” she addressed the officer, then pointed an accusatory finger at Reed. “He started all this when he parked too close to me.”
Jeff? She’s on a first name basis with this policeman? “I take it, you two know each other.”
“He’s married to my former college roommate.”
Great. Were his chances for a fair hearing doomed?
The officer reached out his hand to Reed. “Jeff Robinson. I’ve known Izzie here for quite a long time.”
Izzie. This outspoken girl dressed in canary yellow capris with orange tassel trim, more suitable for throw pillows, was named Izzie. He’d never met an Izzie.
Officer Robinson reached in his car and pulled out a pen and report form, attaching it to a clipboard. He seemed level-headed. Maybe he could get a fair assessment.
“I’ll take down your complaint first. Name?”
“Harrison, Reed Harrison.”
Officer Robinson wrote.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Izzie asked and cut eyes filled with venom toward him.
“After I talk to Mr. Harrison, then I’ll hear from you.”
“Whatever happened to ladies first?” Izzie huffed.
The officer remained stone-faced and walked over to inspect the damage Reed pointed to.
“So,” Robinson said, “you believe her car door did the damage when she was getting into
“I didn’t do it. The bird did it.” Izzie said.
“After she batted it through my window.” Stupid to argue, but the girl seemed to draw out the worst in him.
Officer Robinson raised his hand. “One at a time. Izzie, you stand over here.” Robinson pointed to a spot behind her car. “Let me get his statement, then I’ll talk to you.”
“Fine. That’s when you’ll get the real story.” She moved to the spot the officer directed. Reed noticed a “Follow me to Hope Community Church” bumper sticker on her car. She crossed her arms and said, “He. Parked. Too. Close.”
This policeman was a master ignorer.
“Your address?”
“1056 G Street, New York, New York.”
Izzie interrupted. “New York? But your tag—”
Reed didn’t have the ignore technique of the officer. “I’m driving a rental car.”
After Reed answered a few additional questions, the officer said, “Now tell me what happened.”
“I arrived, placed my order, the waitress had just delivered my drink when this girl walks between our cars, starts to get in her car then reaches up and swats a bird flying over and flings him into my lap. Either the startled bird or her car door scratched my car. I don’t want to have to pay for something somebody else did.”
“I was defending myself from a crazed bird.” She added foot tapping to her crossed arm posture.
Don’t respond. “The bird wouldn’t have been crazed, if you hadn’t walloped him.” His words made a surprise appearance.
“Please. Hold your comments.” Officer Robinson had patience of gold.
A chubby man, with a mop of wild dirty-blond curls, dressed in a blue work shirt unable to cover his ample belly, walked up and spoke to Izzie.
Reed checked his watch again. An anxious tingle shot through him. He couldn’t be late. Officer Robinson continued filling out his report. If only he hadn’t pulled into this wacky place. “I need a record of the accident and—”
Blue shirt spoke up. “Excuse me Jeff, I don’t mean to butt in, but if it’s just a scratch like Izzie says I can buff it out in a jiffy.”
“Hi Rusty,” Robinson said. Then to Reed, “He’s the best auto-body man around. Mind if he takes a look?”
Did everybody know each other in this town? Not likely there were many auto-body guys to choose from. “I guess not. I have a meeting to attend.”
“Sure. I’ll get pictures. Then get Izzie’s statement.”
Reed watched as Rusty—fine name for an auto-body repairman—inspected his passenger door. The slogan imprinted on his shirt read—We Meet by Accident.
“Ain’t nothin’ to this. Have it rubbed out in no time.”
Rusty looked at the water-spattered rental car paperwork Reed lifted from his front seat.
“I know Susan from that rental company. Got her on speed dial. Want to get her approval?”
“I suppose if—”
He punched a number on his flip phone while Officer Robinson snapped shots of the vehicles. Was he in the midst of some kind of small-town insurance scam?
“Susan, me, Rusty, got a nothin’ scratch on a silver Honda Accord rental. Yeah. Easy buff out. Uh-huh, right here.”
Rusty pressed his phone to Reed’s ear. “She wants to talk to you.”
Susan was saying “...talk to him.”
“Hello?”
“The silver Accord... are you Mr. Harrison?”
“Right.”
“You purchased the insurance, so if Rusty’s there and can take care of it, that’s fine. We’d send the Honda to him for repair anyhow.”
“Okay, but I have to be at a meeting in—”
“Ask Rusty, I’m sure he can get you there.”
Ms. Outspoken straightened from her slouched position against the rear of her car. “What about me having my say? He’s not the only one with a meeting.” Izzie complained to Officer Robinson while Reed handed the phone back to Rusty.
“I’ll get your statement, but we might as well let him drive to Rusty’s garage.” The officer used his pen as a pointer. “Rusty’s shop is just one street over. Will that handle your concerns satisfactorily?”
“As long as I can make it to my meeting.”
“No problem,” Rusty said. “You can leave your car at the shop and I’ll git ya’ where you need to go.”
Zelda arrived with a food tray. “Here’s your order. Want this hooked on your window?” she asked Reed.
“I don’t have time now.”
“I’d be glad to bag it up for you.”
“No. I’m not hungry now. Here, this should cover everything.” Reed plunked a twenty-dollar bill on the tray.
“No siree. No charge.”
“Take it as a tip then, for your trouble.”
“Thanks, but you keep it, doll-face. We want you to come back when you are hungry.” Zelda stuffed the bill into his shirt pocket, wiggled her finger in front of his chest, winked, and hurried off to a car with its lights on.
“Follow me,” Rusty said. “I’m in the blue truck, yonder, with boxes on the back.”
Reed followed the direction his finger was pointing. The truck wasn’t just blue, it sparkled with a fancy finish that shimmered. The eye-catching shine looked suitable for an evening dress, but a truck?
“I’d like a copy of that report when you’re finished,” Reed said as he climbed into his car.
“It will be at the police department.”
Reed cranked his car and backed out. Rusty waved at him to follow. Was this what was meant by Southern hospitality? Or was this called getting hoodwinked in the South?
 

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