In a Moment's Notice (WIP)

Mythology

Three days before school let out, Dalton placed his unopened letter on the sideboard in the dinning room. He never opened mail on its arrival day. A strange custom developed out of rebellion. Except for bills, most people open mail as soon as it crosses their hands, especially his mother. Dalton Peterson wasn’t most people. He was a seventeen-year-old high school student, bright enough to make straight A’s; although his report card sported all C’s. He was an artist. Painting, pencil drawing, photography. Pursuing a more lucrative avenue would have pleased both his parents. “They don’t call ‘m starving artists for nothing.” His father John said.

His nonchalance towards the unopened letter drove his mother crazy, curbing his own curiosity. He had caught her eyeing it several times. Once, she picked it up, holding it high, against the light shining through the window. What would Hillary Wellington, a ritzy businesswoman want with him? Dalton finally opened it the second day of summer vacation, behind the closed door of his bedroom.

Hillary Wellington sent him a contract. A contract with a promise to pay money! Money for his artwork!

One hundred dollars for two street paintings, and another hundred for window art, on unspecified number of downtown shops. He read the letter three times. A meeting, scheduled for June twelfth at eight AM in the morning would finalize the details. Didn’t she know artist like to sleep late??? He took a deep breath and fell stomach first on his unmade bed. Money. For his art. How was he going to tell his parents? Just blurt it out?

Mrs. Wellington was a forty-two year old widower whose husband’s death left her a comfortable amount of money. Since his death, she buzzed around town, organizing silly little gatherings whose purpose was to bring the town together. One such pursuit was the Magnolia Festival. Hillary wanted Dalton to paint magnolia blooms on the streets of downtown. And on some of the windows of downtown shops.

Dalton wanted more than the blooms. He would quickly put together a portfolio and bring it to the meeting scheduled for one week from today. He would impress her, with what, he wasn’t sure. But he knew he would figure it out.

Hinesville, like many small towns, held tight to legends and myths to its birth and growth. Magnolia trees graced the town’s streets. They were everywhere and Hillary Wellington had recently organized the Magnolia Festival to honor them.

Dalton cleared his throat. Then, he chickened out “Please pass the rolls.” He asked his mother. Every Saturday evening, the family ate together. His parents repeatedly said they had eaten with their families every night for dinner. Every night? They must have liked their parents. He and his sister Juliana had learned to keep quiet and eat quickly, close your eyes and swallow, the ordeal will be over soon. Although, lately, Juliana talked more and more. She said their parents weren’t that bad. Yeah, if you didn’t want to be an artist.

Dalton took a bite of chicken and jumped in. “Miss Wellington wants me to paint some things for her. For the Magnolia Festival.”

Silence.

“Sounds nice dear,” his mother said, “What are you going to—

“Is she gonna pay you?” his father interrupted

“What if I just want to volunteer my services dad? Would that be so bad?”

“Not if you want to starve.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Volunteering is nice dear. As long as you want to volunteer.”

”Actually, I’m getting pain.’ His smile reached from ear to ear. She wants me to paint some magnolia blooms on Poplar Street and-“

“Flowers?” the wrinkles in John’s brow deepened.

“Yeah. But I want to paint more. I was on the Internet today, and I learned some stuff about magnolias and this town.”

Juliana kicked him from under the table. She shot him a stern look. He knew of her tradition of the Mini fire, he had gone on occasion, but right now he didn’t care. This was his moment and he was going to revel in it.

In the beginning,” he began. Trying to muster up some drama in his voice and gestures. His father just poked at his plate, only half listening. Leslie stopped eating altogether. Though she had heard the story before, she enjoyed her son’s rendition.

During the 1600’s, when settlers arrived from Europe, a man named Theodore Reeves found himself in Hinesville. Traveling alone, he set up camp just outside of town. He met a native and ended up staying. She was said to have loved magnolia flower, it sweet lemony scent bringing a smile to her face. Theodore made it his mission to plant the trees everywhere. He was a well-liked man and soon opened up a barbershop. The people liked him so much so that they overlooked his relationship with a native. He worked hard, saved his money, determined to build a huge house for his new bride, whom he nicknamed Maggie.

He took pride in building their new home himself. Everyday, she’ come by and bring him lunch, homemade soup and bread. One day, she arrived to see a crowd of workers and towns people gathered around in a circle. Instantly she knew something was wrong. Dropping the food, she dashed to the circle’s center to find her beloved Theo dead, fallen from the roof while working.

She was devastated. She ran around town with a machete slashing the trees he had planted for her. Crying out with an aching heart she ended her own life, brutally, in the middle of the town.

“Her spirit still lurks the alleyways…. so they say.”

Personally, I don’t believe it. But did you know, that during the food fair at the Magnolia festival, the vendors leave her a bowl of soup and home baked bread?”

“You duphus.” Juliana said. She tossed a napkin at him. “Do you know who makes the bread?”

“No.”

“Me and Mom. You’re such a duphus.”

“Nah uh.” He looked over at Leslie. She couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Stop teasing him Juliana.” Then, looking at Dalton, “No. We don’t make the bread. And yes, I’ve heard that story.