by Brynn Myers
The irony was not lost on me. It was about time I started to live my life before it was too late for me as well. Short of my aunts and a few friends, I was alone and that needed to change.
“Have you gone off to daydreaming again, Jorja? Vivian just told you that Rhetta’s house was also going to be up for sale and you just sat there in silence.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Heddie. I haven’t had much sleep and you can sure bet at this hour, I’ve yet to make some coffee.”
“Darlin’, what the hell are you waitin' for? You are absolutely awful without coffee,” Heddie quipped. “Get yourself downstairs and make an entire pot if you have to, let what we’ve just told you sink in, then you call us back, because I will not settle for you letting moss grow under your feet with this one, Jorja. I don’t know a single soul who knows more about that estate than you and I also know you have chomped at the bit since college to know exactly what kind of amazing antiques that shrew of a woman had stashed within those walls. Now go. Shower, eat, and get finished with all the rest of that mess you are dealing with because we need you home, young lady,” Heddie said as Vivian concurred.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said collectively to them both before I continued. “If this Mr. Holbrook calls, just let him know that the person handling the estate sale will be back in town later this week. Stall him if you have to. I can’t imagine he could be in that big of a rush considering the circumstances.”
“Well it’s a good thing for you that stalling just happens to be one of my specialties. Now you go and call us later this afternoon. Maybe by then I’ll have finagled more information out of Paxton to share with you,” Vivian said as the bell to the shop chimed in the background.
“I’ll see you both soon. Love you,” I said as I heard Vivian’s voice move away from the phone. I could hear her asking how she could help the person in the background.
“We love you too, Jorja,” Heddie said as the door chimed again.
“Did Vivian leave the door unlocked again because it’s way too early for y’all to have customers?”
“Yes, and now I’ve gotta run, because Lord knows she's too nice to shoo them out of the store. Talk to you later, darlin’.”
As I hung up, I was a mix of emotions. Thrilled to have something to sink my teeth into the moment I returned home, but also frustrated. I’d hoped to have at least a few days, maybe even a week, to settle in before I jumped back into my normal routine. I couldn’t deny though, the excitement welling up in me regarding Rhetta Rhyland’s estate.
The Rhyland estate, in all its grandeur has been sought-after by many for decades. The house was one of the few homes spared when General Sherman’s troops raided Savannah during the Civil War. They had burned all but two plantations leaving our beautiful city a lot less magnificent, but the Rhyland estate stood strong, with minimal damage. It was classic antebellum architecture, reminiscent of the fabled Twelve Oaks from Gone with the Wind, with its huge columns, elaborate friezes, perfectly symmetrical windows and gabled roof. It was the vision one conjured when remembering the days of the old south, the days of hooped skirts and men in frock coats. A time many of us chose to put behind us because of all the pain endured by those whose oppression made it possible.
It was no surprise when folks wanted to capture a piece of history that they’d chosen the Rhyland estate. It was stunning and picturesque. The canopy of lush oaks that lead to the front drive of the house made it the perfect postcard image. But it was the eight-foot iron fence that surrounded the property that made it abundantly clear to visitors that they were not welcome. Rhetta had spared no expense to make certain no one could trespass on her land but when she died, the town viewed it as an open invitation to try and catch a glimpse.
I took another glance at the clock and realized I’d have to reminisce about the estate later. Mrs. Jepson would be arriving in less than an hour and I'd yet to shower, which also meant the lawyers would have to wait until after lunch for their paperwork.
As I entered the shower, I tried to decide which task I was dreading more, dealing with the lawyers or the realtor. Neither was very motivating.
c h a p t e r
THREE
I just finished drying the last dish when Mrs. Jepson rang the bell. I was thrilled the house smelled like fresh brewed coffee and vanilla. Thank God for Yankee Candle and Starbucks––instant hominess, just light the wick and hit the start button on the Cuisinart.
“Hello Mrs. Jepson, please come in,” I said as I opened the door and motioned for her to enter.
“Hello to you too, Ms. Graham. I was so thrilled to receive your call. I’ve been dying to see this property for years,” she replied as she stepped further into the house, her southern accent dripping with saccharine-y sweetness as she scanned the room. “Oh, and I am so sorry for your loss. I know everyone here in town was sorry your mother fell ill so quickly. Did she pass peacefully?” she asked with her back still to me.
I knew full well no one in this town really liked my mother, they only pretended to for fear of her reprisal. There was something scary about her; it was subtle to the untrained observer but once folks got to know her, her personality began to take on a bit of a bite. She too was the master of the sickening sweet southern drawl that charmed some but nauseated others.
“Yes ma’am, she passed in her sleep one night. Peaceful and without suffering,” I replied. “May I offer you a cup of coffee, Mrs. Jepson?”
That wasn’t exactly the truth, but I had no intention of “sharing” anything with this woman other than the specifics of this house.
“That would be lovely, thank you. You know, Eudora really did a wonderful job with the renovations. I remember when your parents bought this house and it certainly didn’t look like this,” she hollered from the living room, her voice clearly audible from where I was in the kitchen.
I walked back into the room, carrying Mother’s vintage tea service set. I wasn’t sure exactly how Mrs. Jepson took her coffee so I brought a bit of everything. Cubed sugar, a few packets of Splenda that I found in the back of the cabinet, and some creamer. When I looked up, I saw her staring at the last family portrait we’d taken before Daddy moved back to Savannah. I was about sixteen in that photo and I could remember the day it was taken as if it were yesterday.
Mother and Daddy had been fighting all the way to the photographer’s studio. Daddy was drunk and she was certain he’d ruin the one thing she’d planned for months. I still couldn't understand why she wanted it so badly, but I assumed it was to prove we were the “perfect family” she’d claimed us to be. All the other women in her bridge club surely had family pictures all over their sitting rooms and mantels. It would’ve been a crime for Mother not to have something to display as well. A message to the world of how perfectly joyful we all were. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. That picture, like most of our time together as a family, was a boldface lie but no one ever knew. Well, no one except my aunts and my best friend, Catarina.
I set the tray on the coffee table and took a seat on the edge of Mother’s most treasured piece of furniture. A 19th century Victorian Era sofa rumored to have belonged to a wealthy European aristocrat. You weren’t supposed to look at the sofa much less sit on it, but I just couldn’t help myself. As I eased onto the sofa, it was as if I could hear Mother's shriek. I smiled then went back to entertaining my guest.
“No, the house had a major facelift that’s for sure, but I can guarantee it was restored to its original grandeur, making certain to keep things within the styling of the period. I personally supervised all the plans myself.”
She turned to me with her brows furrowed. “Do you have experience in restoration?”
“Yes, I have a degree in art history and I’m getting a masters in historic preservation,” I responded.
I picked up the creamer, gesturing to the coffee cup. She nodded her agreement and I poured until it turned a soft brown color. I handed her the cup and saucer and smiled widely.
I wondered if all the women in this town acted like Mrs. Jepson, if they all looked at you with disdain and spoke with a condescending tone. I knew they weren’t though; I’d met many wonderful, charming, normal people in this town and none of them ran in my mother’s circles.
“So how much are you planning on asking for the house?”
Right down to business, yet another one of my mother’s traits, no time for emotion. “Well, I plan to ask nine hundred and fifty thousand with all the furnishings included; turnkey if you will.”
She almost spit the coffee out of her mouth as she stared at me with wide eyes. “Excuse me? That is drastically below market value. This house would easily sell for 2.1 million. This house was built in 1864 and is a Queen Anne/Colonial Revival.” She continued to reel off details I was already well aware of, stuttering almost as she rambled. “And I can only imagine the worth of all these furnishings, Ms. Graham. Why on earth would you sell for such a cheap price? Is there something wrong with the house?”
I smiled inside, knowing the real reason, but for Mrs. Jepson sake, she’d get the politically correct version. “I need to return home, immediately. I have an important client coming into town for a large auction and I cannot delay this sale by hoping a buyer will appreciate the beauty in this house.” She continued to stare at me with confusion plastered on her face, so I decided to give her the answer she was really looking for. “Okay, you got me,” I said with my hands in the air and remorse in my voice. “It’s just too hard to be here since Mother’s passing. I think by going back home, to my place, I’ll be able to grieve in the proper way.”
She nodded her head slightly as if she was finally grasping my need to sell quickly. “But what about all these furnishings? Why wouldn’t you take them with you?”
I put on my best bereaved face. “I’ll be taking the items that have the most memories attached to them, but the reality is that my small townhouse only has so much room. Mother has an extensive collection of exquisite items and I think they may be better suited with new owners who’ll appreciate them the way she did.” I hoped I sounded convincing as I poured another cup of coffee for myself.
She set her cup and saucer on the table and hauled a large legal pad out of her shiny mahogany briefcase. The leather handles made a tiny squeak as she pushed them aside to then pull out a black Mont Blanc pen. As she unscrewed the top, I took a moment to glance at the clock. This was taking much longer than I expected and at this rate, I wouldn’t make it to lawyer’s office before two o’clock.
“What exactly will you need from me to expedite this?” I asked.
“I can have the paperwork ready for you to sign by tomorrow morning. I just have a few questions to ask you, key features about the property, and then we can start the process.”
“That sounds wonderful. I cannot thank you enough for all your help with this,” I said as I picked up the coffee server to refill Mrs. Jepson’s cup.
She thanked me again and then began asking her questions. Another thirty-five minutes and I was finally showing her to the door. Again glancing at all the “personal items” displayed on the built in bookcases, she stopped short just as I turned the handle. “You know, Ms. Graham, you don’t look very much like your parents. Do you happen to look more like another relative? We have that in my husband’s family, his sister looks nothing like their parents but bears a striking resemblance to a second cousin…it’s just odd but that’s family I guess.”
“No, Mother dyed her hair, she wasn’t a big fan of blond,” I lied and smiled sweetly as Mrs. Jepson walked onto the porch, her blonde hair glinting in the sun.
c h a p t e r
FOUR
Yesterday, after Mrs. Jepson left, I'd spent the rest of the afternoon running errands until everything on my “To Do” list was checked off. My last stop before I headed home was to pick up a few boxes, a bottle of wine, and some Chinese take-out. The remainder of the night consisted of me boxing up the last few things I’d planned on taking back to Savannah and piling them near the front door. It felt good to see the stack and it also helped me to decide what was absolutely necessary. I only had so much room in my car and if it wouldn’t fit in there, it would overwhelm me when I tried to put it into my townhouse.
This morning Mrs. Jepson arrived bright and early with a tidy stack of documents needing my signature. She was even gushing that she’d already found a buyer and believed we’d have the house in escrow within the next few days. I smiled; this day was shaping up and it was only ten o’clock in the morning. At this rate, I’d be home in a few hours, barring no traffic on 1-95 South, and back to my daily grind in no time.
Now, with the car almost packed––I just needed to squeeze a few miscellaneous items into the nooks and crannies––I’d be ready to head out. I might only be able to see out one window, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t making this trip again until I had to come back for the final closing and even then, I might opt to finalize the sale via fax.
As I closed the curtains in the front room, I took a moment to look around and offered one last goodbye to the woman who'd tortured my spirit for far too long. “I am truly sorry I was never able to live up to your expectations, Mother. But you know what; I doubt I ever could have.” I leaned down picked up my computer bag and walked out the front door. As the locked clicked, I said in a whisper, "Goodbye, Mother."
I squished my bag into the one square inch of space I had left and closed the door to my car. As I turned the ignition, my heart tightened a bit. I wasn’t leaving for college and I wouldn’t be coming back here to visit for the holidays. This was really happening, my mother was really gone and I was leaving this house and moving home––forever. A mixture of anger and sorrow welled up inside of me. I’d never been in complete control over my life until now and the ironic part was, with everyone else, I was in control. I didn’t waver, didn’t question my abilities or my talent; I only did that here, with her. Time to move on, Jorja. I put the car in reverse and started to back out of the driveway but quickly applied the brakes as my cell phone started to ring.
“Hello.”.
“Ms. Graham?”
“Yes, may I help you?”
“Well, I certainly hope so. My name is Corbin Holbrook and I’ve been told you will be the person handling the Rhyland estate sale.”
My eyebrow arched as I pondered all the ways I was going to strangle my aunts for giving this man my cell phone number. I’d told them to stall him, not give him direct access to my personal number. “Yes, I will be handling the estate once I return to Savannah, which won’t be for a few more days.” I lied––obviously.
“Well the date of your arrival is irrelevant to me; I do, however, want to start discussing the speed and efficiency to which you’ll be able to finalize this sale.”
“I’m sorry, what? Did you speak with my aunts? Did they not inform you that I wouldn’t be available right away?”
“They did, but I will need your immediate attention when it comes to this sale. Are you not able to handle this? Because if that’s the case, I’ll find someone who can.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it like there was an alien on the other end of the line. Who did this jackass think he was? I shoved the car into park, seething with anger. Did I really need this job or should I just tell this arrogant ass where to go? Be nice or don’t be nice…the great debate had begun.
“Apparently I'll need to find someone else then. If I’m able to render you speechless with a simple question, what will happen when I ask you something difficult?”
Jackass!
“Mr. Holbrook, you can attempt to find someone else but I can guarantee you that they will never be able to do the job I can. So you can either wait the next few days until I return home or you can indeed search for someone else. Either way, I will not be bullied into an assignment or un
justly questioned regarding my ability to do an effective job.” I grinned as I sat there, waiting for his response. That was as nice as I could muster under the circumstances.
Moments passed before I heard a gruff sound coming from the other end of the line. “You have three days and then I will be calling again. I do not appreciate your tone, but I can respect your conviction. I can only hope your talent is equivalent to the confidence you seem to have in your abilities. I cannot say it’s been a pleasure, Ms. Graham, but I do look forward to expediting this acquisition.”
His voice was coated with disdain and something else I couldn’t put my finger on but I dismissed it as irrelevant. He was just another arrogant businessman who believed he could push people around to achieve his goals. I was done being pushed around though; today was a new day. I’d opted to take a page from my mother’s playbook when I responded, making sure my southern accent dripped ooey gooey sweetness.
“Well, I have no doubt, Mr. Holbrook, that you’ll be more than pleased with my work. You may even want to offer me a bonus for just how efficient I will be. I look forward to meeting with you soon. In the meantime, please feel free to contact the shop to set up an appointment and if you have any questions before then, I’m certain my aunts will be able to help you. Until then, Mr. Holbrook,” I said with a slight smile.
“Until then, Ms. Graham.”
The line went dead seconds after he spoke my name. I gripped the steering wheel, wondering if I was a magnet for difficult people. This is a great gig. He doesn’t even live in the state. You can do this, Jorja…you can do this. My pep talk wasn’t really working, but I knew the moment I drove down the mile long drive to the Rhyland estate the trepidation I was feeling would fall to the wayside. My aunts were right, this was my dream assignment and I wasn’t about to let some egotistical jerk ruin it.
My phone buzzed and I looked down at the text message from my best friend, Catarina. "I’m bringing your kitty to you tonight. I’ve had enough of her fluffy wonderfulness. See u soon." I laughed out loud. Catarina was many things, but a cat lover wasn’t one of them. She’d volunteered to keep Lulu while I was here, which as far as I was concerned, was above and beyond the call of duty but she’d insisted. She knew I hated the idea of Lulu, my Siamese sweetie, spending six months in a kennel. My mother was adamant about no pets of any kind on account of them being dirty and smelly. And my aunts were dog people so that left me in a pinch. Thankfully, Cat loved me enough to take on the task.
