Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) Read online

  PRAISE FOR AGNES HOPPER SHAKES UP SWEETBRIAR

  Carol Heilman has successfully combined her smooth Southern style with gentle fiction to create a cozy, neighborly read full of memorable characters with whom readers will fall in love.

  ~ Leanna Sain

  Award-winning author of Gate to Nowhere,

  Return to Nowhere, Magnolia Blossoms, and Wish

  Written with a Southern flair, Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar is a captivating story about eccentric and irresistible characters who weave their lives together. Set in a small-town retirement home this book is filled with laughter, suspense, and wisdom. You will find yourself curled up with this page-turner, unable to put it down!

  ~ Judy Dearing

  Author of Chrissy’s Moments

  Carol Heilman’s book makes you feel. I chuckled, I frowned, I was indignant, and I laughed out loud. I learned Southern colloquialisms and fell in love with some pretty outrageous characters. This is a story you cannot put down till it’s over.

  ~ Karin Wooten

  Author of Don’t Tap Dance in the Shower

  When circumstances cause Agnes Marie Hopper to move into the local retirement home, Sweetbriar Manor, she ends up an unwitting sleuth, uncovering deception, embezzlement, abuse, and intrigue. Her independent and protective nature leads to confrontation and a moment of truth, even within her own heart. How Agnes becomes a heroine to the residents and to her special friend Smiley is a story that resonates with humor, intelligence, and a graceful flow of “southern speak,” the vocabulary and language of the South.

  ~ Ann Greenleaf Wirtz

  Author of The Henderson County Curb Market:

  A Blue Ridge Heritage Since 1924,

  Sorrow Answered, Chicken Soup for the Soul,

  and numerous articles and stories for

  the Times-News and The Pulse.

  AGNES HOPPER SHAKES UP SWEETBRIAR BY CAROL HEILMAN

  Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN 978-1941103265

  Copyright © 2015 by Carol Heilman

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Cover illustration by Dark Hues

  Cover design by Third Stage Productions

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:

  www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: http://www.carolheilman.com

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar by Carol Heilman published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Brought to you by the creative team at LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com:

  Eddie Jones, Rowena Kuo, Andrea Merrell, and Brian Cross.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heilman, Carol

  Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar/Carol Heilman 1st ed.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my sister,

  Bonnie Rae (1941-1980).

  Acknowledgements

  I would first like to thank Edith and Charles Guthrie (Bo and Spiz), my mother and daddy. Mother loved me “warts and all” while Daddy thought I could do no wrong. They inspired me with their stories, their sense of humor, and their love of life.

  A special thank you to my husband who thinks everything I write is wonderful. It is not, of course, but I love him for believing in me. Thank you, Sarah and David, our children who cheer me onward.

  I am thankful for writer friends who have walked beside me through the peaks and valleys of a writer’s life. Trish Thayne first believed in my stories many years ago. A writers’ group in Columbia, SC (Betsy Thorne, Carol Williams, Carole Rothstein, Sandra Johnson, and Carrie McCray, now deceased, but who graciously became my mentor) encouraged me to keep writing. The members of my W.O.W. (Weavers Of Words) group in NC (Ann Wirtz, Leanna Sain, Karin Wooten, and Judy Dearing) continue to inspire me and nudge me to reach higher than I ever thought possible. All of these women have encouraged and loved me unconditionally. When I grow up, I want to be like them.

  My heartfelt appreciation goes to Betsy Thorne for her gracious contribution of the poem, A Dry Spell.

  Thank you, Eddie Jones, for listening and taking a chance on a new writer. And thank you, Ann Wirtz, for bending his ear and promoting my work instead of your own.

  And thanks to Andrea Merrell, an exceptional editor and patient instructor.

  The good Lord has blessed me beyond measure.

  Chapter One

  After the fire and smoke cleared, leaving my house in a pile of ashes, I reluctantly moved in with my daughter, Betty Jo—along with my pet pig, Miss Margaret. I was grateful to have a place to lay my head but soon found myself testy with my daughter, treating her like the child she is, even though she’s pushing fifty. “Are you going out?” I’d say. “What time will you be home? Take a wrap. Air’s got a nip to it.”

  Betty Jo, when she spoke to me at all, used her normal, snippy tone. “I’m roasting in this house. Did you turn the heat up? Again?” And then she might add for good measure, “Stay out of the kitchen, Mother.”

  Three months later we came to an understanding, and though it was a gradual, unspoken thing, it was a fact. Neither of us could tolerate living with the other. I needed my own place and she needed … well, to be rid of me, and there was no use trying to beat around any bush.

  So, on a sultry August morning a week after my seventy-first birthday, Betty Jo loaded my few belongings into her shiny, black Buick and carried me to Sweetbriar Manor, Sweetbriar’s senior-care alternative that, according to the brochure, offered a rewarding, enriching lifestyle.

  “If you ask me, there’s nothing sweet about it,” I grumbled under my breath. But of course she didn’t ask me. Only dropped me off, wished me well, and sped away. Well, maybe I’m stretching the truth a little, but that’s how it felt.

  Ten minutes into my stay at this place I knew two things. No, three. One, senior-care alternative was code for, “We don’t care what you do in your tiny room as long as you don’t ring the bell and bother the help.” Two, Sweetbriar Manor would own all my assets in six months if I stayed. And three … oh, fiddle, I can’t remember the third thing, but if you’ll hang around for the rest of the story, I’m sure it will come to me.

  On the day my daughter was to dump me
off, her shrill voice came screeching down the hall. “Are you ready yet, Mother? We don’t want to be late. I have other things to do, you know. We need to get moving.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad; I’m coming. Can’t see why we’re in such an all-fired hurry anyway. If you’d take me to look at some of the apartments I’ve called about, or even that little house down the—”

  “We’ve been through this a dozen times, Mother. You don’t need to be living alone. It’s not safe.”

  Not safe my foot, I wanted to shout back. But I’d show her. I wasn’t about to be left in a place with a bunch of crotchety old people like I didn’t have a lick of sense or shred of dignity. Soon as I got out of Betty Jo’s reach, I’d find me a place to live. Nobody—especially my middle-aged child—was going to tell me what to do.

  “And just so you know,” I added, “I’m taking Miss Margaret with me even if I have to pack her inside a hat box and sneak her in.”

  “No pets, Mother. That’s their policy.”

  “Stupid policy, if you ask me. Pigs keep their mouths cleaner than any dog—or human for that matter.”

  Betty Jo’s answer to my ranting was to head to the car and lay on the horn.

  Of all the nerve.

  I decided to take my time and let her stew a little, so I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusted my hearing aid, and straightened my hat—a wide-brimmed straw and Charlie’s favorite. I asked him what he thought about me moving to such a place. Now, I know he passed to the other side two years and three months ago, but I still ask his advice.

  Before I turned away, clear as anything, he said, “Pumpkin” (he never called me Agnes, always Pumpkin), “it might not be so bad. I predict you’re going to make a passel of new friends.”

  I shook my head so hard my hat flew off. One of these days, like the good Baptist I am, I would have to give up this game, this pretense of talking with my Charlie. But not today. Not when my daughter’s taking me to a retirement home, of all places. With a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, determined to have the last word.

  “I’m not staying, Charlie. Mark my words. I’m getting my own place by the end of the week. And I’m not going to make any friends. Don’t need ’em. Don’t want ’em. I was doing perfectly fine by myself. Will be again. Anybody can have an accident. All this fuss about where to live is unsettling. Just plain unsettling.”

  But now I was talking to myself. Charlie had tuned me out—just like he used to do at times when he was alive.

  Riding the two miles from Betty Jo’s brick ranch, familiar sights held new significance. I read the wooden signs, nearly rotted and poking out of the weeds along the roadside. Free … A Trip … To Mars … For … One Hundred … Jars … Burma Shave. Sweet reminders from a bygone era. It’s a wonder nobody had picked up these old signs and used them for firewood. Maybe they were left there just for me.

  “Might as well be going there,” I muttered.

  Betty Jo smoothed her new straight hairstyle and glanced my way. “Did you say something, Mother?”

  “Most people would kill for naturally curly hair.”

  The silence felt as solid as ham curing in the smokehouse. We passed Gene’s Daisy Queen, recently converted into a Laundromat. Best vanilla shakes in the entire county traded for rows of machines that steamed up the windows and blew balls of lint across the floor. Perfect strangers now sat side by side on plastic chairs while their underwear twirled about for all to see. What a waste.

  All of a sudden, Betty Jo swerved off the road and stopped. A funeral procession led by the sheriff’s flashing lights crept toward us and then turned between the iron-gated walls of Beulah Land Cemetery overlooking Sweetbriar. Headstones, some dating back as far as the time of Daniel Boone, lean peacefully under the shade of ancient oaks. Whenever I decorate Charlie’s grave, I sometimes linger in the old section. Jake and Kate, carved on one stone, is my favorite. Together forever.

  As we watched the hearse from Snoddy Brothers’ Mortuary and the line of cars behind it, snake their way up the hill to the green tent flapping in the hot, dry wind, I said, “Floyd was a good man to put up with that Geraldine.”

  Betty Jo’s eyebrows rose above her sunglasses. “Mother, you didn’t even know Floyd. Not really.”

  We pulled back onto the pavement, but I had more on my mind. “And another thing. Don’t ever let those Snoddy boys get hold of my remains. Never did trust those fellows when they were growing up and still don’t.”

  She didn’t answer, just reached and flipped the air conditioner on high. My shirt puffed up like a balloon, and I grabbed my shirttail. Soon we turned onto Main Street.

  I wondered whether Betty Jo considered the goodness of her own Henry. He owned the Western Auto and worked six days a week. Even on Wednesday afternoons, when he locked his door at two, he didn’t leave until he’d placed special orders and straightened the stockroom.

  There was Henry now, in front of his store on Main Street, balding head bent and shining in the sun. He was fixing a nice display of bicycles and wheelbarrows on the sidewalk.

  “Toot your horn,” I yelled, reaching across and giving the steering wheel a bang.

  The car swerved. “Mother! You’re going to cause me to have a wreck.”

  Henry must’ve heard the tires squeal because he glanced up and gave a quick wave before steadying a bright blue bike.

  Two blocks further we stopped for a red light. I was beginning to feel like a bedsheet hung on the line in the dead of winter.

  “Henry looks bad. Has he seen a doctor lately?”

  “He’s fine, Mother. Just fine.” She glared at me and flipped the fan to low.

  “He would be if you stayed home once in a while and cooked him some collards and cornbread. I would’ve been more than happy to fix him a mess of vegetables, but you wouldn’t let me near the kitchen.”

  A martyred sigh, perfected over the years, filled the car. “Remember what happened to your place?”

  “How could I forget?” I shot back. Not that she would ever let me. Burn a house down, even if it was an accident, and people think you’ve come unglued.

  Betty Jo pulled beside a tree-lined curb and cut the engine. We both sat staring straight ahead, waiting.

  I noticed the sign above us: Unloading Zone. Fifteen-minute limit. “I hear the new deputy’s a stickler. Pull up a little so you won’t get a ticket.”

  My daughter, her nose out of joint, ignored me as usual. She got out of the car and walked around to the trunk, talking the whole time. “I’ll carry your things to the porch and come back for you. Don’t try it on your own. You hear?”

  I rolled my window down and stuck my head out. “Once I get settled, I’m coming back for Miss Margaret.”

  Betty Jo leaned a shopping bag against the stone wall and walked back to the car. She took off her sunglasses and wiped at the beads of sweat that lined her upper lip. “Didn’t Henry promise you he’d take care of that pig? At least until we move?” She turned, picked up two shopping bags, and headed for the wheelchair ramp.

  I yelled out the window, “If she’s feeling sad or bored, she’ll nose the refrigerator door open. Eat ’til she’s sick. Miss Margaret’s sensitive. I’m the only one who understands her.”

  It took three trips up to the porch to carry two boxes tied with string, five hatboxes, and two shopping bags stuffed with shoes. Gave me time to study this place my daughter called my new home. A two-story frame house, lavender and loaded with gingerbread trim, sat as the hub of two single-level buildings, also lavender, angled toward the back. I sure hope my room is downstairs. If not, this place had better have an elevator. Not that I planned to be here that long.

  According to my daughter, each single-level addition held five modern bedrooms carpeted in sea-foam green with floral bedspreads and drapes. “Very tasteful,” she said, upon returning from her inspection tour when she placed my name on a waiting list. When they called to say they had space for me, you would’ve thought
she’d won a free trip to the Grand Ole Opry. “Next week? We’ll be there.”

  Sweetbriar Manor, formerly called Hampton Grove, was an old house with a past, but not the kind that would be recorded in any textbook. Gossip, romantic rumors, a visit from some Yankee general that left it and all of Sweetbriar untouched, was the buzz.

  Years later, it was still a house of ill repute run by a woman named Dakota. When she died, it became a boarding house and then an antique shop. Now it was a home for old people and sported a large sign in the front yard: Sweetbriar Manor, Winner of the Seniors’ Choice Award.

  “Ha,” I mumbled. “We’ll see about that.”

  When I spotted my daughter heading back down the ramp, I gathered my three bags of yarn I’d bought on sale at Rose’s and my best garage-sale purchase ever—a red, genuine-leather purse soft as a baby’s behind. That was back when I drove Charlie’s old pick-up, Big Blue, and went to garage sales every Saturday morning after circling them in the paper on Friday night to map out my route. Now I would be circling apartments and houses for rent. The first thing on my agenda would be to check out the little place I’d spotted on the way here. Not the best section of town, but it might work temporarily. If only I still had Big Blue—and a license.

  I could still picture Charlie’s truck in the side yard beside the porch covered with strings of morning glories. It sat at the end of our lane where he and I tended to our tobacco farm, located about five miles outside Sweetbriar, and not a stone’s throw from where we grew up. We loved it there.

  Betty Jo opened my door, which gave me a start and interrupted my sweet memories. For good measure I added, “Why are you and Henry selling your place and moving into that shoebox anyway. Are you afraid I’ll want to come back?”

  “It’s a townhouse, Mother, perfect for just the two of us. You know Henry’s thinking of retiring and … oh, for heaven’s sake, we’ve been through this enough. Let it rest.”

  I stumbled getting out of the car.

  Betty Jo grabbed my arm. “Mother, be careful. Fall and break a bone and you’ll really be in a fix.” She snatched my bags of yarn.