Welcome to Episode 12 of Dancing at The Orange Peel, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Check out: Episode 1 | Full Episode Guide | Extra fun content in THE MAILBAG
Previously: Episode 11, Just As I Am. Sunday, April 7, 1968. Libby envies the attention her older cousin Connie receives from boys and wonders if she’ll ever be noticed that way. Even Granddaddy pays more attention to her. Connie never seems to fret about the possibility of getting in trouble either, and Libby wonders what that must feel like. But she’d never want to disappoint Mama the way Connie upsets her parents. Besides everyone is supposed to behave in church.
Content Note for this episode: Language - The language and attitudes of these fictional characters are intended to be representative of the cultural climate at the time and place of this story. I’ve made every effort to present them in a manner that is historically plausible and yet reduces harm.
Episode 12: THE CAR IN THE CHURCHYARD
After the service, Gwen stood on the church’s wide top step, pretending to listen to Italian cream cake recipe details from Mrs. Smith, the lady who planned the church’s spaghetti dinners. Behind the elderly woman, on the ten-foot-wide concrete porch that extended the church’s full length, members of the congregation clustered, chatting in usual after-church fashion.
Gwen watched beyond Mrs. Smith’s shoulder for her parents to come out the double doors. Libby pushed through them alone, carrying her grandmother’s dress shoes, which she handed off to June, who was right outside the door lecturing her oldest daughter. The challenging one. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
Libby made an I-told-you-so face at Connie, making Gwen smile. What a contrast, those two. Connie was perpetually in trouble—just as Gwen had been all through school. Funny that her niece would take after her, but her own daughter hadn’t. Thankfully. Every time June nagged at Connie, Gwen was grateful Libby was such a well-behaved kid.
She caught Libby’s eye and motioned her over, then returned focus to Mrs. Smith, who still hadn’t taken a breath. “Do that after you add the nuts.” Mrs. Smith turned to Libby. “Well, hello there, young lady.”
“Hi, Miz Smith.”
“Missus,” Gwen corrected. “Say it all.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Libby looked down at her shoes. “Hi, Missus Smith.”
“You helping with the egg hunt for the little ones?” the woman asked.
Libby shrugged. “Guess so.”
“I suppose you’re too old for such things yourself.”
Gwen wasn’t surprised when Libby didn’t answer. Her girl still enjoyed the egg dyeing and hunting every year. But she was growing up fast. As Gwen reached to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Libby’s ears, a shiny, green Toronado turning the nearby street corner caught Gwen’s eye. As it approached the church parking lot, a flush burned her neck and rose to her cheeks. Though Mrs. Smith had returned to reciting recipe steps, she was gazing at her intently. Gwen’s face burned hot. The older lady peered toward the street to see what had grabbed Gwen’s attention. At least Libby didn’t notice the car. But then Gwen remembered Libby had never seen it before, wouldn’t recognize it as Nate’s. Gwen snapped her eyes back to the porch, rested a hand lightly on Mrs. Smith’s upper arm, and then more at her than to her, she blurted, “Uhm . . . , thank you for the baking tips.”
The woman’s cool fingers settled on Gwen’s hand. “You should probably—”
“Yes, Yes.” She pulled away. “I’ll do that.” Tapping Libby on the shoulder, she instructed, “Get that cake recipe from her and we’ll make it for your birthday.” Then clutching her shoulder bag to her hip, she descended the steps hurriedly at first, but then gathered herself and slowed to avoid drawing attention. Nate showing up at her church with all her family, everyone, here wasn’t something she was prepared to face. Yesterday, with June at the apartment, had been quite enough for one weekend.
At the far edge of the parking lot near the turn-in, two boys picked players from a line of kids for a game of Capture The Flags. When one of them whooped to start the game, Gwen held up on the bottom step in hopes his yell would turn people’s attention toward the kids. Strangely, no one on the porch seemed to notice the boy’s shout nor the green car turning into the lot. A familiar but nearly forgotten heaviness sat low in her stomach like she’d gotten in high school whenever trouble was heading her way.
Libby hopped down the steps beside her, Pammy right behind. Gwen glanced down at them. Pandora’s box had been opened yesterday when Libby found out Nate was coming back to their apartment later. Would she be able to understand what it meant to be discreet? Even so, Nate wasn’t going to be secretive about this for long. Despite what he said about knowing how things are in Kent Creek, she’d already seen that he didn’t have patience for the town’s . . . narrow-mindedness. But then, neither did she. Her family ought to know that by now. She took a deep breath and pulled back her shoulders to balance the adrenaline that quickened her heart.
To her relief, the car stopped at the top of the lot near the kids. They were too busy with their game to notice, but Libby spotted it. Nate rolled his window down, releasing soft music just loud enough for them to hear. When Libby realized who it was, she grinned and extended her neck. Gwen grabbed her hand before she could throw it up in a wave.
Pammy shouldered between them. “What’s that colored man doing here? He’s at the wrong church.”
“That’s Nate,” Libby told her.
Gwen’s knees became Jello. “Girls, I—”
Pammy leaned into Libby’s face. “How do you know who it is?”
Gwen hoped a glare would remind Libby of her instructions that morning: keep it between us. But their eyes didn’t meet. Libby lifted one shoulder. “I . . . jus’ do.”
Pammy yanked Gwen’s skirt. “Aunt Gwen, who’s that n———?”
Libby gasped, and heat surged in Gwen’s cheeks. Her eyes darted toward Nate. He was watching, but too far away to hear. She grabbed her niece’s arm. “Young lady, you know better than to use that word.” She popped Pammy’s bottom, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
Pammy wailed. “Oooww! What’re you so mad about? Granddaddy says it all the time.” The girl tried to pull away, but Gwen’s grip was too strong.
Feeling faces turn their way, she spoke through clenched teeth. “That does not mean it’s right.” Then she let go before her niece could squeal again.
Don’t make a scene, stay composed.
Gwen straightened. “That man is a member of the Chamber,” she said, and then swallowed hard. “He’s . . . a new member and deserves respect.” That wouldn’t matter a tad to Pammy, but it might be her best approach for handling this. She drew in a deep breath. “Yes! He’s a new member,” she repeated. “He must have a question.” Lame perhaps, but it was all she had. She motioned for Libby to follow. Best to keep her close. She felt eyes watching them cross the lot but didn’t dare turn back to confirm. Libby trotted to keep up. Looking toward the car, Gwen said, “Keep quiet. Let me handle this.” No reply. “You understand me?”
Libby gave her a breathless, “Yessum,” leaving Gwen unsure if she would play along.
Halfway to the car, Gwen called out a formal greeting intended for the churchgoers to hear: “Hello, Mr. Boniface.” Her loudness suddenly felt embarrassing. Softer, yet with enough breath to reach those on the porch, she added, “What brings you here this fine morning?”
The music from Nate’s car grew clearer as they approached. Some kind of horn. A saxophone? When Gwen and Libby reached the driver’s side, Nate turned down the volume. Gwen stood tall, not too close, blocking the view from the church into his car. Nate’s smile went wide—what Gwen’s mother would say was gen-u-wine, the smile of a happy man. That she and Libby could possibly be part of that made her light-headed for a moment.
Nate spoke softly. “Picnic?” Libby grinned at him, ear-to-ear. He raised an eyebrow and glanced from Libby to her.
“What?” Gwen nearly choked on the word, raising concern in Nate’s face.
The space between his eyes tightened. He pointed to the back seat. “I prepared a basket lunch for three.” When Gwen couldn’t respond, he continued warily, “The lake? It’s too grand a day to waste.”
For an instant, his beautiful eyes held her captive, her mouth agape.
Libby grabbed her arm. “Mama, we’ve not been to the lake yet this year!”
She shook her head in rapid back-and-forths, then turned to Nate. “No. No.”
Another arm tug from Libby. “Please, Mama.”
She kept her voice low, measured. “I mean, thank you.” She glanced at the kids gathered nearby. Connie, having escaped her mother’s wrath, was—thankfully—paying them no attention. “Not today,” she added, realizing she was still shaking her head. How could she let him know she wished they could go? But not now, not this way. “It’s a . . . nice thought.”
Libby, dancing foot to foot, pulled harder this time. “Please, please, please, please, please.”
Gwen wrapped her hand around Libby’s grip and locked eyes with Nate. “It just wouldn’t—”
“Aw, Mama. The laaaake.”
Libby’s voice carried, and when she also lifted a knee to stamp her foot, Gwen again had to temper her response. But she was firm. “Don’t.” Another yank pushed her to her limit. She planted a hand on Libby’s shoulder. “Stop!” She turned back to Nate. “It’s . . . ” Shaking her head, she tried again. “This is not . . .” Libby stared up at her. Suddenly, the way Gwen wanted her daughter to see her in this moment ran headlong into what she knew was expected of her by the people on the porch. The collision wrecked her words. She dropped her gaze to the asphalt.
Nate started to reach for her, then pulled back. Instead, he propped an elbow over the edge of the open window. “What is it?”
Staring at her shoes, she whispered, “I’m sorry. It’s not a good idea.” Trying to salvage the sweetness of his invitation, she added, “Not yet,” then caught herself. She had to be careful in front of Libby. The necessity to be secretive turned her angry, with nowhere to aim it but at him. He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t keep showing up unexpectedly—at her apartment yesterday, now here—catching her off guard. When she looked up at him, he was still smiling, just not as wide as before. Her anger ebbed. She fidgeted with her purse strap.
Turning his gaze out the windshield, he took in a deep breath, then released it slowly. “I clearly didn’t think this through.” He turned back to her. “I’m sorry.” She pursed her lips. The silence after that seemed eternal, broken finally by a wink at Libby as he said, “Another day then,” his words cheery. No sign of rankle or hurt. Gwen slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Awww!” Libby’s degree of disappointment both surprised and touched Gwen.
She squeezed her daughter’s shoulder once more, then dropped her hand, half-smiled at him. “This”—she made a small motion toward the church, then adjusted the purse on her shoulder—“It’s a bit . . .”
“Of course.” One hand on the steering wheel, he stretched his right arm and sucked in another breath. Nodding toward the church, he whispered, “I’m really sorry.”
Wrinkled forehead and hands on her hips, Libby looked from one to the other and back again.
“I can handle it.” Gwen sounded more assured than she felt.
“I just wanted to see you. And Libby. To share this glorious afternoon.”
Her shoulders dropped. “I know.”
But for the music in Nate’s car, all was quiet for a moment. Then, with longing in his voice, he broke the silence with one last, sweet plea. “It is a beautiful day. . .”
“In time,” she breathed. She hoped that was enough to reassure him. Putting an arm around Libby, she turned them toward the church. “Come on now.”
“Gwen?” he called. When she looked back, he didn’t continue, so she stepped toward the car again, bringing Libby between them. His eyes danced. “I’ll not give up easily.”
Her jaw tightened, but a tingle flowed from head to toe. “Please.” The words caught. He held her gaze. “Please, don’t.” She allowed a smile to spread. “Give up, I mean. Just not here.”
He nodded.
Sucking in air, she bolstered herself to face the church. “Goodbye, Mr. Boniface.” Again, the necessary volume embarrassed her, but as she reached for Libby’s hand, she ended with, “I hope I was helpful.”
Libby still seemed perplexed, but shrugged it away when Nate winked at her again. She tossed a hand as a goodbye, then looped it around to wave to the faces surveilling them from the porch, June front and center.
Gwen grabbed Libby’s hand, squeezed it. “Don’t.” She quickened her pace to get them out of Nate’s earshot. “You cannot talk about him. Not to Connie or Pam. Not to anybody.” Libby’s silence left Gwen wondering what her daughter had made of this exchange with Nate. She tried a different approach. “This is our secret, okay? Just between us.”
Thanks for reading! Each episode is a work-in-progress, which means you’re a vital part of my creation process, and the story may expand or contract as I write. I encourage and value your comments.
Jump to: Episode 13 | Episode Guide | THE MAILBAG
DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL is one story in evolving collection called “The Kent Creek Chronicles.” To follow along and receive extra related tidbits from THE MAILBAG…
Thank you. I know it still needs sweaty palms or trembling hands... more physical manifestation of Gwen's unease, but each rewrite gets closer. I appreciate you reading along.
Wonderful tension!!