I looked at him with surprise, then found myself grinning, too. “It wasn’t meant to be, but thanks. I think.”
We both looked up at the sound of car doors shutting. A light blue pickup truck with WEBER & SON LOCKSMITHS written on the side was parked behind a white Cadillac sedan, circa 1980. A tall man wearing a khaki uniform with a name tag on the front pocket was walking across the lawn, headed toward the front walk, where two older ladies, both with short, permed gray hair and wearing sensible shoes and floral blouses, bore down on the porch carrying casserole dishes. Behind the women, hidden almost out of sight except for a pair of riding pants and sparkly blue Mary Janes, was a little girl who looked to be about Owen’s age.
Owen stood and I quickly followed, impressed with Owen’s good manners. The man took off his cap, revealing an almost marinelike haircut with spiky salt-and-pepper hair. Using his hat, he indicated for the women to precede him up the steps.
Apparently people dropping in unannounced was just something I needed to get used to. Or I needed to spend more time in my back garden, where I couldn’t hear the doorbell. Although that would mean staring at that rabbit monstrosity that had somehow managed to find its home beneath the oak tree.
“Good morning,” the two women chimed in together. “Welcome to Beaufort,” they said in unison, holding out their casserole dishes. The little girl squeezed in between them and held out her own Tupperware container.
“Good morning. And thank you.” I glanced down at my house slippers, appalled to be seen in them. They had holes in the toes, and the navy color had faded to a hospital-room blue. They were hideous, but it was against my New England upbringing to replace them while the soles were still attached to the tops.
“I’m sorry, I would have finished dressing, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.” I reached out and took one of the proffered casseroles, and Owen took the Tupperware from the little girl. Her brown hair was worn in braids on either side of her head, and her bronzed skin was covered with freckles that accented her bright blue eyes. Though slight, she had long, lean limbs like a colt, and looked like she spent a lot of time outdoors. She smiled at Owen, revealing a dimple on each cheek.
“I’m Merritt Heyward, and this is my . . .” I paused, unused to introducing him to strangers.
“I’m Rocky,” he said. “Merritt’s brother.”
The women raised their eyebrows and smiled. The one with the slightly whiter hair and beaked nose looked at me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I wasn’t sure whether she could determine that from my slippers or from the fact that I was a newcomer and wasn’t expecting visitors. “I’m from Maine. My brother and his mother are from Georgia.”
They both nodded in unison, calling to mind dashboard bobble heads.
The one with glasses and tightly permed hair spoke. “I’m Cynthia Barnwell, and this is my sister-in-law, Deborah Fuller. And this”—she placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder—“is my granddaughter Maris Ferro. We’re with the Beaufort Heritage Society, and on behalf of everyone at the BHS, welcome to Lettuce City.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
Deborah, who seemed to be the more serious of the two, and whose skin was brown as leather and heavily lined, as if she spent a great deal of time in the sun, said, “It’s an obscure reference that only us true historians really use anymore, but it dates back to the early twentieth century and the beginning of truck farming in the area. Lettuce was a big crop back then.”
“Oh,” I said, confused. “I was told that Beaufort is called ‘Little Charleston.’”
The two women frowned at me, and I wondered whether they’d both been schoolteachers at some point. I had the sudden urge to find the principal’s office.
Cynthia spoke up. “Actually, for those of us who live here, Charleston is known as ‘Big Beaufort.’ Which is better than ‘Home of the Catfish Stomp,’ which is what they call Elgin.”
She looked serious, so I just nodded.
The man stepped closer. “And I’m Steve Weber. Mr. Williams called me to come look at that door upstairs and see if I can’t get it open and make you a new key.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. I looked around, wondering how to proceed, when Cynthia took the casserole from my hand.
“Why don’t we have Owen lead us to the kitchen so we can put this all in the refrigerator while you show the gentleman where the lock is?”
“Sure,” I said, moving toward the door and opening it. “Just in case you’ve already left by the time I return, thank you for coming. And for the food.”
They stared at me for a moment, and I wondered what I’d said wrong.