“Time to go, lovebirds!” Matt called from the stern. She wanted to drown his friend and hug him at the same time.
Walker rubbed two fingers across his mouth, gave her one last longing look, and slipped off the raft with a giant splash—leaving her on fire and drowning in a sea of regret.
Chapter Thirteen
Smokin’
Savannah, Georgia
“That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Rick James, “Mary Jane”
Callie imagined Walker’s grandmother would be like the stereotypical Southern lady—charming, polite, refined. She’d wear a big floppy hat, white gloves, pearls, and a smart dress suit. She’d have finishing school manners, and like him, she’d never say anything crass.
The real Josephine Rhodes sported bright purple glasses, purple flowered leggings, and a shirt that said I’m a virgin, but this is an old shirt. Her white hair stuck out like Einstein’s, and she drank like a fish.
Although judging by the horrified look on Walker’s face, that wasn’t his grandmother’s normal behavior.
“Let’s all sit on the porch and chat,” Josephine had said when they arrived. Evidently that was the southern translation for “Let’s sit in the oppressive heat and watch grandma get soused on sweet tea and bourbon.”
Of course neither Walker nor his grandmother broke a sweat in the Georgia kiln-like weather. She, however, felt like someone had lit her on fire. Sweat dripped down her neck and pooled in her bra. Walker tried to help by turning on the ceiling fan, but all that did was blast hot air in her face like a heater.
An hour later, her brain—deep fried by the scorching weather—stopped working altogether.
“Got a good joke for y’all,” Josephine drawled.
Her grandson winced.
“What’s the difference between a job and a dead prostitute?”
“Jo—”
“A job still sucks.” She whooped out a laugh.
Walker rubbed the back of his neck.
“What do you call cheap circumcision?” She paused for a beat. “A rip-off. Get it?” She scissored her fingers. “Snip, snip.”
He cleared his throat and grabbed the glass from his grandma’s hand. “Think you’ve had about enough of those, Grandma—”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Sugar Bear. Your friend likes my jokes, don’t you?” She patted Callie’s wet thigh. It sounded like she was slapping a raw chicken breast. “If you don’t have a sense of humor, then don’t sit next to me. Right, Callie? I bet you’ve got some good jokes.”
What did she say? It was too hot to hear. Perhaps if she rocked her chair at light speed, she’d manufacture a slight breeze. The Rhodes family stared at her. “Jokes? Hmm. How about this one? A dyslexic walks into a bra.”
Instead of crickets, cicadas rattled. Maybe it was her delivery? She started rocking again.
Josephine turned to Walker. “How ’bout you go to Pie Palace and pick us up a peach pie?”
“I can’t drive that camper downtown, Grandma.”
“Take Sheila.” She tossed a set of keys at him. “Callie and I’ll get to know each other while you’re gone.”
He mouthed an apology to her behind his grandmother’s back.
“Later, tater!” She shooed him away with a finger-wiggling wave.
Soon after, he sped past the house in a cherry-red Cadillac convertible with the top down and his aviators on.
“Sexy,” Callie said, not at all talking about the car.
“Real fuel-efficient too,” Jo said. “Gets eight miles to the gallon.”
“Really? That’s as bad as the Silver Dildo.” She slammed her eyes shut. “Did I just say—”
“Silver Dildo? Sure did. Better than the big toaster though. That’s what I was calling it.” She gave Callie the same dimpled grin as her grandson’s then rocked her chair back as far as it would go and slingshotted her spindly body to standing. “Let’s see if we can’t find some trouble.”
Walker told Callie he didn’t have a lot of money growing up. Surprising because their home was enormous. Maybe he was like one of those faux hippie deadlock kids in LA, who bummed money and cigarettes off people, then drove their Hummers back to their mommy and daddy’s house in Malibu.
Nah, that didn’t seem likely.
Inside the house, the décor was a cross between Gone with the Wind and Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. And Callie loved it.
A massive crystal chandelier floated from the lofty ceiling in the foy-yay (or foyer as most commoners call it), and an oak butt-sliding staircase winded down from the top floor.
Everything else was an explosion of colorful oddities. Purple velvet chairs, a zebra-skin rug, and a dress dummy with a pirate hat were just a few of the items festooning the living room. Above the fireplace hung a stained-glass portrait of Dolly Parton, and on the mantel sat a picture of a handsome man in a William Faulkner suit.
“My late husband.” Jo sighed. “Died before Walker was born. Not great in the sack, but his money made up for it.” She pointed to all the framed pictures. “These are all Walker’s. Boy’s got more talent . . .”
Covering the wall was everything from his elementary school crayon drawings, to his mesmerizing black-and-white photos.
Callie stopped in front of a picture of a weird little kid with braces and pop-bottle glasses. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Walker when he was thirteen.”
She covered her mouth, muffling the “holy shit” she was dying to scream out.
His perfect white teeth and dimples were hidden behind atrocious headgear, and his blue-green eyes were three times larger than normal in a pair of glasses that even the worse geek in the world wouldn’t wear.
“He hates that picture,” his grandma said. “I keep it up there because it makes me laugh.”
“Do you have a copy of this?” she asked, dead serious. “I need it for occasional bribery.”
“Take that one,” she said, not even batting an eye. “He keeps stealing it, so I made several copies.”
Callie slid the photo out of the frame and snorted all the way to her suitcase. Once it was safely hidden, she met up with his grandma, and they went out back to the garden. “Wow. Your yard is TV-landscaping-show beautiful!”
An oak sprawled over the yard with a tree house perched on top. It was the same tree house tattooed on Walker’s arm. She could just see him up there as a boy, all gangly and covered in paint, wearing those ghastly glasses.
They meandered around a stone path, bordered by blossoms and fountains, and made their way to an air-conditioned shed at the end of the property, with a greenhouse attached to the back.
It was air conditioned inside, thank fuck. His grandma sat in a corduroy recliner and motioned for her to take a seat. From behind her chair, Jo pulled out a didgeridoo.
Was she seriously going to bust out and start playing that thing? The bad jokes were awkward enough. She sunk a little lower in the chair. This was beyond her acting capabilities.
Wait a minute . . . It wasn’t a didgeridoo. She was holding a bong the size of a schoolboy!
Mouth gaping wide and eyes probably popping out, she watched Walker’s grandma hum a little ditty and pack a bowl.
Strangely, the woman didn’t seem the least bit concerned about blazing up in front her grandson’s coworker. Au contraire! She fired it right up and inhaled for nine or ten minutes then puffed it out in Callie’s face with a guffaw. Still coughing out smoke, she handed over the bong. “Your turn.”
“Oh, no thanks.” Callie waved her hands frantically. “I’m good.”
“Go on. It’s organic. Grow it myself in the greenhouse. Try it. It’ll help you relax. You’re wound up tighter than last year’s swimsuit.”
“No, really, I can’t.”
“I won’t tell. Go on, take a hit.” She pushed the bong over another inch.<
br />
Talk about your non-peer pressure. Admittedly though, she was a wee bit tense—mostly because of her grandson. But she’d only smoked pot a handful of times with Skip in college. That wasn’t quite like smoking with someone’s grandparent.
Exactly what were the consequences of getting high with his whacked-out grandmother? On the lighter end of the spectrum, she’d chill out and share a few laughs. On the darker end, she’d pass out in her own vomit and make an ass of herself. That said, it was also highly unlikely she’d ever see the woman again.
Fuck it. “Puff, puff pass, grandma.”
Josephine chuckled. “Atta girl.”
She lit the weed, pulled in a mass of stinky smoke, and slowly exhaled. Two more hits and she was higher than . . . eh, who knows. Let’s just say, she was far too high to think. “That’s some good shit.”
Josephine winked. “Grandma’s special blend.”
She burst out laughing. So did his grandmother. They cackled and snickered and grinned at each other for what seemed like hours. Still chortling, Jo said, “So how long have you been sleeping with my grandson?”
Callie choked and pounded a fist against her chest. “I’m not . . . I never . . . Walker and I are just . . . friends.”
“No need to pretend, sweetie. I’m not like most grandmas. I’m much more open-minded.” She threw a pointed glance at the bong.
“We work together. That’s it.” It’s not like they ever made out on a raft or anything. Wait? They did make out on a raft.
“That’s it, huh?” She snorted. “Watch out! Your pants are on fire.”
She gripped her forehead. “Dude, you’re harshing my mellow!”
Josephine hooted. She laughed with her—mostly because she was ripped.
“Can I give you a piece of advice about my grandson, sweetie?”
“Please don’t.”
She kept talking. “Walker doesn’t take relationships lightly. He’s extremely sensitive and doesn’t do the casual sex thing.”
Was she joking? All he did was the casual sex thing. Peals of laughter rolled out of her. “You don’t have to worry about that.” She giggled. “He’s not the slightest bit sensitive.”
A frown deepened the creases around the old woman’s mouth.
Callie groaned. “That didn’t come out right.” Mostly because she was stoned off her ass. “What I meant to say was you don’t have to worry about us. We’re not having casual sex. Or serious sex. Or any sex at all.”
“Not yet maybe, but you’ll be riding on more than that Silver Dildo soon. Mark my word. He looks at you like he’d fight tigers in the dark to get to your tent. And you’re so hot and bothered, your ears smoke.”
Newsflash! Walker looked at every woman like that. He was a professional sexy-look giver.
“All I’m saying, honey, is don’t lead him on. If you’re not serious, let him know upfront. Don’t hurt him. That boy’s the only family I’ve got left.”
Was she in the freaking Twilight Zone? Lead him on? Hurt him? She snickered. “We. Are. Not. Having. Sex. I’m not even sure he likes me.”
Josephine’s cataract-fogged eyes interrogated her.
The situation called for a diversion. Considering how high granny was, anything would work. She pointed out the window and cried, “Is that Ted Turner?”
The old woman’s eyebrow raised exactly like her grandson’s. “I like you, Callie. You’re exactly the kind of woman Walker needs. You’re spunky. And you seem like a smart girl. But you haven’t got the sense God gave an animal cracker when it comes to my grandson. Pay a little attention, sweetie, that boy likes you, and if you’d stop fighting your feelings”—she coughed—“you’d realize you like him too.” She coughed again. That time her face twisted in pain.
Before long, she was in the midst of full-fledged tuberculosis-style coughing fit. Callie jumped up and smacked Jo’s back. “You okay? Need some water?”
“I’m fine.” She wheezed and doubled over, coughing like she was dying.
“Maybe you should lay off the pot? That cough doesn’t sound good.”
“Go see”—she coughed—“if Walker’s back with the pie.”
Pie sounded good. Hopefully, he’d bought four or five. But like hell she’d leave his hacking grandmother alone. Getting her out of there was going to be a chore though. It was easy to recognize she’d met her match in Josephine. While she may be the president of Stubborn, Inc., his grandmother was the CEO.
With the few brain cells she had left, she hatched a plan. Well, not really. In fact, she had no idea what she was doing.
Someone spoke. “I’m not entirely sure I can walk.” Weird, that sounded like her voice. Hmm, not bad. She should have come up with that idea. Oh, wait, she did. “Also, I have no clue where I am.” She laughed her ass off. Probably because she was as baked as a loaf of pot bread. Heh, that was funny. She snorted.
Josephine chuckled and grimaced as she stood. Callie took her arm and pretended she couldn’t walk. Grandma didn’t suspect a thing—mostly because Callie really couldn’t walk.
On the back porch, she jabbed a finger at the old lady. “Say one word about any of this—the pot, the sex talk, anything—and you’ll be the one shouting I’ve fallen and can’t get up.”
She cracked up. “So you don’t want me to tell him you’re in love with him?”
“You should really cut down on the weed, grandma.”
“Whenever I’m asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks, I say it is because we are still able to recognize one.”—Flannery O’Connor
Soundtrack: Michael Franti, “Ganja Baby”
Loopier than a lasso in a hula-hoop contest. That’s how Callie was acting. He’d caught her staring at him with I-want-to-eat-you eyes about twenty-seven different times that night.
That he could relate to. The way she’d tasted the night before—like hot candied sex—made him just as hungry. He bet the rest of her candy shop tasted just as sweet.
But the go-away-come-closer signals had him as confused as all get out. Since the boat parade, she’d been doing an outstanding job of brushing him off and pretending like nothing had happened. After they’d kissed, he thought their relationship would deepen. Deepen, as in him sinking between her thighs. But she’d kept him at arms-length since then.
Maybe she’d had too much to drink during the parade. One thing was for sure, if he ever kissed her again, she was going to be sober as a judge.
Speaking of sober, he’d never seen his grandmother get drunk like that. That had him shaking his head all afternoon. And with Callie acting nutty too? Something was a half bubble off plumb.
He’d lost count of the times she’d commented on the scenery. On and on she went about how amazing the Spanish moss was, and how it “dripped from the trees like green guts.”
Earlier they’d gone to Forsyth Park, and she jumped in the fountain. Right in front of the cops, she climbed over the fence and stuck her feet in the water. He’d had to tell the police she didn’t know any better.
When they visited his art school where his work was still on display, she’d acted like he’d taken her to the Louvre.
They’d had a drink with his buddy Jim, and she wouldn’t stop laughing. Jim was not a funny man.
There was also the non-stop yapping. Normally, she lived in her head, and he had to pry the thoughts from her brain. But that night, every bit of minutia that crossed her mind poured out of her mouth like a fountain of crap.
The woman who’d barely cracked a smile at the beginning of the trip? Nowhere to be found. Her smile was so big it’d stop traffic.
Whatever was going on, the woman was adorable. If she acted like that the rest of the trip though, they’d have to have a serious come-to-Jesus.
Callie stumbled on the sidewalk and crouched. “Are these shells?”
“That’s tabby concrete. Limestone’s scarce around here, so they mix oyster shells in. Some of the houses have it in the walls t
oo.”
“It’s amazing!” She caressed the sidewalk.
He pulled off his glasses and raised an inquisitive brow. “How much did you have to drink today, young lady?”
“Gee, Dad,” she said with teen-aged sarcasm. “When’d you get so tall?” Her skin wasn’t flushed or sweaty, just dewy. Heatstroke couldn’t have been the cause of her strange behavior.
He hooked her elbow with his. “Come on, nutter.”
Farther down the street, she spread her arms wide and danced in a circle as if she were on the set of The Sound of Music. “I love it here,” she cried.
Despite the fact she was losing her mind, he chuckled. “Is that right?”
“It’s so eccentric and charming and old and mossy and hot. Really hot.” She fanned herself with a pretend fan.
They strolled past the first Girl Scout headquarters, and she rambled on endlessly about how the girls should earn patches for things like flipping off cat-callers and not dressing like whores.
A few times he just stopped and stared.
“I wish I lived here,” she said.
“You do, huh?”
“It’s like a writer’s wet dream.”
“I miss it here,” he confessed.
“Are you ever going to move back?”
“Someday. Soon probably. Josephine’s not getting any younger. Plus, I can’t stand New York City.”
Her smile withered.
He stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just”—she picked a speck of nothing off her shirt—“I’ll . . . miss you. You’re the only friend I have, besides Skip.”
He felt a twinge in his chest. “I’ll miss you too, Bluebell.” He’d really grown to like her. If he were really honest with himself, he more than liked her. But when it came to her, he lied to himself on a regular basis. An hourly basis more like it.
He reached for her hand, and surprisingly, she took it. He liked holding hands. He liked holding her hand. After a bit, he paused in front of a two-story brick storefront. “See this place?” he said. “It’s Walt Trainor’s gallery. He’s a famous photographer. Inspired me as a kid.”
Road-Tripped Page 12
