Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(24)

“No doubt,” Canasta answered, “He don’t sound like a body who’d want you weeping and wailing over spilt milk.”

“Charlie? No indeed.” Olivia swallowed the last of her soup and asked if she might have another bowl. Without any realization of what was happening, a strange feeling settled on Olivia as she sat there and gulped down bowl after bowl of okra soup. First, she began to feel lighter. Then her feet seemed to be rising up from her shoes and wiggling around like they were wanting to dance; then it was her arms and hands, and before she toddled off to bed her brain was floaty as a feather.

When she got to her room, Olivia set Charlie atop the dresser and climbed into bed. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she whispered; then she switched off the light and closed her eyes. For the first time in two weeks she didn’t picture Charlie lying face down in a bowl of lobster bisque. Instead, she dreamt of him as he was on their wedding day; she could picture him laughing, chucking her beneath the chin, and teasing her for being the worrisome person she’d turned into. When she woke the next morning, Olivia realized she could hear the trill of a bird and catch the scent of jasmine—both things she’d been unable to do since Charlie’s death. It must be due to some sort of flavoring in the soup she thought, then in the shower she caught herself singing—something that was totally out of character. She pulled on a pair of pedal pushers and hurried over to Canasta’s door. “You suppose I could have a bit more soup for breakfast?” she asked.

The old woman, who on several other occasions had seen her okra soup have the very same effect, smiled. “You most certainly can,” she said and opened wide the door.

For the next five days, Olivia had okra soup for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “There’s something in the soup,” she insisted, “something that causes a person to taste happiness.” Such a possibility certainly appeared to be the case, for day by day she grew a bit brighter. It began with the hearing of song and the smelling of fragrance, then she started feeling the warmth of sunshine and the softness of a down comforter, after that it was the sight of flowers abloom with color such as she had never before seen. When she discovered the right side of her mouth curling into a smile of its own volition, Olivia went to Canasta and begged to have the recipe. “Please,” she said, “tell me the secret ingredient.”

“It’s the having of a friend to listen,” the old woman insisted, but still Olivia continued to harangue her for the secret of the soup. Finally, when Canasta’s ears had grown sore from the sound of the pleas, she told Olivia her secret was the seed of a vine that grew deep in the woods.

“Take me to it,” Olivia begged.

“Impossible,” Canasta claimed, saying she was far too old to go tromping through a thicket of briars. “Anyway,” she said, “no seed is gonna help a person who ain’t regular about visiting with the Lord.” Of course, Olivia swore she’d seen the light and would be attending church every Sunday from now on.

Seven days after she arrived in Hopeful, Olivia happily tucked a packet of seeds into her purse; then loaded Charlie into the trunk of the car and drove off. “I know you’d want me to get on with my life,” she’d whispered apologetically as she wedged the silver urn back behind a carton of souvenirs.

With her gold tooth sparkling in the sunlight, Canasta waved goodbye from the front step of the Main Street Motel. She knew, sooner or later, Olivia, like all the others, would realize the seeds were nothing more than green peppercorns—hopefully by then she’d be on speaking terms with the Lord and would have no need for such foolishness.





Olivia Ann Doyle





Some folks say once a person’s departed this earth, they’ve got no connection to the poor

souls left behind; but I don’t believe such a thing is true. I know without a whisker of doubt, Charlie Doyle was responsible for my landing in Hopeful. He more than likely caught sight of me looking like a person turned inside out and figured I could use a bit of uplifting.





I truly do miss Charlie. You might wonder how a woman married just twenty-one days could come to be so dependent on her husband—I wonder it too—but, the truth is it happened. That night at the Fontainebleau, I felt my own heart dying right along with Charlie’s. When he stopped breathing, my lungs suffered from the lack of air. And when they told me Charlie was gone, I could almost feel my soul slipping out of my body and marching up to heaven right alongside of him.





I know Charlie wouldn’t want me to go on being miserable forever, so I’m trying to see the brighter side of things. The seeds Canasta gave me help a lot. But to be on the safe side, I’ve thrown nickels and dimes into the pockets of every outfit I own—that way, I’ll remember about God providing the spare change to get me through. I’m hoping this pain inside of me will someday ease a bit; but right now, Lord oh Lord, how my heart does ache.





Going Home

With Charlie in the trunk, driving became a bit easier. Olivia set the radio to a station that played mostly country music and she sang along with Patsy Cline through to the top end of Georgia. In South Carolina she switched over to Elvis and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. By late afternoon, she was nearing Raleigh, which is when the convertible took to sputtering. “Oh, dear,” she sighed and eased off to the side of the road. Once the car had rolled to a stop, she climbed from behind the wheel to look the situation over. A flat tire she would have recognized right off, but smoke billowing out from beneath the hood was something else entirely. She pulled the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and read it cover to cover—page after page of information about the horses beneath the hood, but not a word on sputtering engines.