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Authors: Between a Clutch, a Hard Place
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to the porch, the younger and prettier Blondie got.
She looked up and smiled as I got to the porch steps. “Hi! You must be Myrtle. Papaw Jim said you were coming!”
“Papaw?”
She laughed. “Oh, he’s not really. It’s just that he and my daughter have adopted each other, and now our whole family calls him Papaw Jim . . . even my husband.” She laughed again, and I realized what a sweet little laugh she had . . . sort of like tinkling bells or something . . . . Really. “I’m Cynthia Courte,” she said. “C.C. for short.”
“Well, you guessed right. I’m Myrtle. It’s nice to meet you.”
She patted Matlock’s head. “I’ve heard all about this guy, too. Papaw Jim’s a big-time animal lover.”
“Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“Just a couple miles away. We met Papaw Jim when he volunteered at Mary’s pre-school. Mary fell in love with him; and when we learned he was a widower, we began inviting him to dinner a couple times a week.”
“How very thoughtful of you.”
C.C. shrugged. “It just tears my heart out, you know? The poor guy all alone. I don’t know what he’d have done last night without Lawrence—that’s my husband—to drive him home from the ER.”
I nodded. “I’m glad he has such good friends. How long have you known him?”
“About a year, I guess. Like I said, it’s a shame such a sweetheart as Papaw Jim is alone . . . no wife, no kids.” She smiled coyly. “But, who knows? Maybe he won’t be alone for long.”
I smiled back at her but changed the subject. “How’s he feeling?”
“By now, he’s probably a nervous wreck and in great pain.” She giggled. “I’d better get Mary out of there before she kills him!” She stuck her head in the door. “Mary, darling, come on! We have to get home!”
A miniature version of C.C.—except this one had a halo of flyaway curls—hopped onto the porch. The blue eyes got as big as saucers when she saw Matlock.
“Poppy!” she squealed. “Poppy!” She held out a hand and Matlock licked it. She wrinkled her nose and chortled gleefully.
C.C. picked the child up. “Can you say ‘hello’ to Myrtle? She’s Papaw Jim’s friend.”
Mary looked at me and then pointed to Matlock. “Poppy!”
“You like the puppy?” I smiled and ruffled those silky blonde curls. “She’s precious,” I said to C.C. “No wonder Jim adopted her for his granddaughter.”
“Thank you,” C.C. said. “We’ve adopted him, too.” She shook her head. “It’s so sad. He told us once that he and Flora had always wanted children, but they couldn’t have any.”
“Hmmm. Wonder why they never adopted?”
She shook her head. “Dunno. But, I’d better get home and get supper started.”
“It really was nice meeting you,” I said.
“Nice meeting you, too, Myrtle. I hope we see more of each other.”
She certainly hadn’t hidden the fact that she hoped Jim and I would get married and live happily ever after. As I walked into Jim’s house, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the inconsistencies about Flora. He’d been going to Smiddy’s for over two years meeting different women for dinner; C.C. had known him for a year and thought he was a widower the entire time; and the neighbor had never seen the couple together. Weird.
I stood on the porch and waved at C.C. and little Mary as they drove away, and then I went inside.
“Jim,” I called. “It’s me, Myrtle.”
“Come on in,” he hollered. “I’m in the den . . . down the hall to your right.”
Matlock loped ahead of me, following the sound of Jim’s voice.
“Hey, big fella,” Jim cooed to Matlock in that effeminate dog-talking voice that was really starting to get on my nerves. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
I walked into the den. It had a manlier décor than the living room, and it seemed much cozier; but I still didn’t
She looked up and smiled as I got to the porch steps. “Hi! You must be Myrtle. Papaw Jim said you were coming!”
“Papaw?”
She laughed. “Oh, he’s not really. It’s just that he and my daughter have adopted each other, and now our whole family calls him Papaw Jim . . . even my husband.” She laughed again, and I realized what a sweet little laugh she had . . . sort of like tinkling bells or something . . . . Really. “I’m Cynthia Courte,” she said. “C.C. for short.”
“Well, you guessed right. I’m Myrtle. It’s nice to meet you.”
She patted Matlock’s head. “I’ve heard all about this guy, too. Papaw Jim’s a big-time animal lover.”
“Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“Just a couple miles away. We met Papaw Jim when he volunteered at Mary’s pre-school. Mary fell in love with him; and when we learned he was a widower, we began inviting him to dinner a couple times a week.”
“How very thoughtful of you.”
C.C. shrugged. “It just tears my heart out, you know? The poor guy all alone. I don’t know what he’d have done last night without Lawrence—that’s my husband—to drive him home from the ER.”
I nodded. “I’m glad he has such good friends. How long have you known him?”
“About a year, I guess. Like I said, it’s a shame such a sweetheart as Papaw Jim is alone . . . no wife, no kids.” She smiled coyly. “But, who knows? Maybe he won’t be alone for long.”
I smiled back at her but changed the subject. “How’s he feeling?”
“By now, he’s probably a nervous wreck and in great pain.” She giggled. “I’d better get Mary out of there before she kills him!” She stuck her head in the door. “Mary, darling, come on! We have to get home!”
A miniature version of C.C.—except this one had a halo of flyaway curls—hopped onto the porch. The blue eyes got as big as saucers when she saw Matlock.
“Poppy!” she squealed. “Poppy!” She held out a hand and Matlock licked it. She wrinkled her nose and chortled gleefully.
C.C. picked the child up. “Can you say ‘hello’ to Myrtle? She’s Papaw Jim’s friend.”
Mary looked at me and then pointed to Matlock. “Poppy!”
“You like the puppy?” I smiled and ruffled those silky blonde curls. “She’s precious,” I said to C.C. “No wonder Jim adopted her for his granddaughter.”
“Thank you,” C.C. said. “We’ve adopted him, too.” She shook her head. “It’s so sad. He told us once that he and Flora had always wanted children, but they couldn’t have any.”
“Hmmm. Wonder why they never adopted?”
She shook her head. “Dunno. But, I’d better get home and get supper started.”
“It really was nice meeting you,” I said.
“Nice meeting you, too, Myrtle. I hope we see more of each other.”
She certainly hadn’t hidden the fact that she hoped Jim and I would get married and live happily ever after. As I walked into Jim’s house, I couldn’t help but wonder about all the inconsistencies about Flora. He’d been going to Smiddy’s for over two years meeting different women for dinner; C.C. had known him for a year and thought he was a widower the entire time; and the neighbor had never seen the couple together. Weird.
I stood on the porch and waved at C.C. and little Mary as they drove away, and then I went inside.
“Jim,” I called. “It’s me, Myrtle.”
“Come on in,” he hollered. “I’m in the den . . . down the hall to your right.”
Matlock loped ahead of me, following the sound of Jim’s voice.
“Hey, big fella,” Jim cooed to Matlock in that effeminate dog-talking voice that was really starting to get on my nerves. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
I walked into the den. It had a manlier décor than the living room, and it seemed much cozier; but I still didn’t
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