Roz Fox - Sweet Tibby Mack

“Snowbirds don’t like the heat, dear heart,” Ralph Hopple interjected. “Neither do they like snow. Hence their name. When the snow flies in their home state, like migrating birds they travel in droves to the sun. But when the desert hits ninety and the snow melts at home, they leave us again.”

Rosamond Gordon sniffed. “We’re not dumb, Ralph; We know what snowbirds are. Some of us were snowbirds once. We settled here permanently, didn’t we?”

Tibby listened to the quarrel heating up around her, growing more distressed by the minute. Her article had created all this discord. Never had she heard her friends disagree so violently. While considering whether to intervene—wondering if she could even make them listen—she saw Winnie Toliver beckon her group to the door.

“Come ladies, it’s time to rethink strategy. Let’s buy a. loaf of Tibby’s zucchini bread and we’ll make a pot of decaf at my house.”

Tibby quickly bagged a loaf and followed them out. “Would anyone be free to watch the store later in the week? I have business in town. I’d like a full afternoon.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Justine offered. “Especially if your business concerns the wildlife issue. I’m so mad at Pete. He can’t see beyond the end of his golf club.”

Tibby worried her lip. “Don’t blame the men. They must get tired of making the drive to Bogey Wells. I’m sure it’s Cole’s fault—for dangling this opportunity under their noses. He should be ashamed. Yale isn’t even cold in his grave.”

The women gazed at one another guiltily. The look went by Tibby. She continued to firm up plans with Justine. Then, as she turned to go inside, Tibby saw Joe Toliver and Fred Feeny measuring the post office. Pete, who obviously didn’t realize Tibby was watching, said in a voice that carried, “What if we jacked her up, put her on skids and sort of scooted her this way? She’s only resting on pier blocks.”

Joe shook his head. “The post office would still be too close to Cole’s property line for the county to issue him a building permit. We’ll have to brainstorm. Come on or we’ll be late. Let’s discuss it in the car.”

Tibby shrank into the shadow of the doorway. How dared they assume they had the right to move the post office her grandmother had built! “No more sweet Tibby Mack,” she vowed, watching them leave. “I’ll find a dog, all right. A guard dog.”

She was still in a foul mood when the man she blamed for the unrest in Yaqui Springs sauntered through her door a few moments later. Tibby finished cleaning up a mess of spilled sugar and crumbs at the coffee bar. Ignoring Cole, she ground beans for a fresh pot of coffee.

“Mm, that smells good.” He came up behind her and sniffed over her shoulder. “Is it for your use only or do you sell that by the pound, as well?”

Tibby turned and found herself at eye level with his chin and gently curved lips. Luckily for her he had his eyes closed and missed the start she gave when her knees caved. “I, uh, sell’a variety of specialty coffees. They’re on the far side of aisle four. This is vanilla bean. I stock almond and raspberry. Great after-dinner coffees. All decaffeinated. Most of the residents have high blood pressure, so they need to avoid things like caffeine. And situations that cause stress, ” she emphasized.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I’m causing them stress? Golf is one of the least stressful activities. It gets people outside in the fresh air. Cardiologists everywhere recommend golf as a method of reducing blood pressure, in case you haven’t heard.”

“You’re a regular medical encyclopedia, O’Donnell.”

He shrugged expansively. “I’m here to buy groceries, not engage in debate. I have a guest coming for the weekend who’s a fussy eater. Do you carry things like feta cheese, fresh basil and bulgur for making tabbouleh?”

“Yes.” Tibby rolled her eyes. “A chef now. It must be nice to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

He leaned a hip against the coffee bar and studied her through half-closed eyes. “Are you aware that the residents refer to you as sweet Tibby Mack?”

Tibby released her breath and spun away. She’d been anything but sweet to Cole since he’d arrived. But when he stood’as close to her as he was now…“You said you came here to shop, O’Donnell. Why don’t you hop to it and quit harassing the management?”

Cole tugged on one ear. Lowering his gaze, he racked his brain, trying to think of something he might have said or done to make her so prickly. In the end he decided the problem, whatever it was, lay with her. Since it was out of his control, he grabbed a cart and started down the aisle.

Glad to be free of the tension stretching between them, Tibby puttered while Cole made his selections. She watered the hanging baskets of fuchsia and geraniums that brightened the dark wood walls. She snapped dry leaves off the pothos and trailing ivy that lent a homey feel to the coffee bar and small beauty shop. Yet she knew at all times exactly where Cole was.

A few minutes later Tibby rang up Cole’s purchases and sent him on his way with one of her most professional smiles. Thankfully it was the last she saw of him all day.

When the golfers popped in that afternoon, they weren’t as talkative as usual. Pete and Fred muttered that as far as the wildlife went, she was making mountains out of molehills. They reminded her there were rabbits on the greens at Bogey Wells.

That night Tibby went to bed with a splitting headache.

It hung on for the rest of the week. A steady stream of travelers kept her unusually busy. So busy, she barely spoke to any of the men who came for coffee every morning.

During a lull that occurred on Saturday—the day Tibby finally decided business had slacked off enough for her to go to town—Cole dashed in. “I forgot to buy candles,” he said. “Do you carry the short fat kind? And I’ll need a bottle of good white wine.”

Tibby directed him to the proper aisles. She didn’t want to serve him today and checked her watch for at least the twentieth time, waiting for Justine. She was eager to get on with her mission.

Time dragged. No other customer came in to offer distraction. Cole walked up to the counter in that easy way of his that sent a whistle of awareness through Tibby’s midsection. Her best defense was to get mad at him and stay mad.

Fortunately he provided the opportunity as he took the first item from his basket and placed it on the counter. “I asked around like you suggested. No one remembers my grandfather donating land for the post office.”

“What?” Tibby stopped feeding prices into the cash register. She gripped a bottle of expensive coastal wine by the neck. “Who’d you ask, for pity’s sake?”

Cole rubbed his jaw. “The group that headed out to play golf this morning. I met them on the road and we stopped to talk.”

“You mean Joe Toliver, Pete Banks and Fred Feeny didn’t set you straight?”

“They were among the people I spoke with, yes.”

Tibby felt a stab of anger. Those men knew the truth. Why on earth wouldn’t they stand behind her? Had they forgotten what it was like driving forty miles to pick up mail? “I know the land was donated,” she said angrily. “So do they.”

Cole tugged a folded paper from his back pocket and dropped it on the counter. “This is a rough layout of the golf course, clubhouse and pro shop. If the interest is what I predict, later I’ll add a restaurant. So you see, I need that property desperately.”

“Need all you want. I wouldn’t start breaking ground if I were you unless you put the clubhouse somewhere else. You aren’t touching that post office, O’Donnell.”