by Rhett DeVane
Couples across the States collectively held their breaths as the United States and China engaged in a superpower pissing contest following the tragic midair collision involving one of our reconnaissance aircraft in route over international waters off the Chinese mainland, and one of two Chinese jets sent out to sniff around the spy plane. For several weeks, we prayed with each newscast that our government would say and do the right things to salvage our chances for adoption. If relations between the two countries ground to a halt, so would our hopes of seeing Sarah Chuntian Lewis. As quickly as it had flared, the tension subsided. Both superpower tomcats stalked to different parts of the alley without losing any fur.
By mid-April, the back bedroom where I’d spent my childhood had been transformed into a cheerful nursery painted pale yellow with a daisy wallpaper border. To allow us to hear any cries from the baby’s room, Holston installed an intercom system similar to the one my parents had owned many years prior. A small crib stood ready in the master suite. Initially, Sarah would sleep close to us.
My nephew, Joshua Mason Davis, 8 lbs., 7 oz., debuted two weeks late on February 14, 2001. Josh was a stoic, mellow baby with Leigh’s black hair and striking blue eyes. His features hinted of the Native American heritage from his mother’s side of the family.
Bobby and Leigh told the story of the late-night truck ride down Bump-nose Lane, an unpaved stretch of washboard country forestry road whose teeth-clattering potholes had finally jarred Leigh into labor. In the two months he’d been part of the family, Josh had acquired a room filled with toys and clothes. An average of one new outfit per week didn’t faze him. He spit up on the designer rags as easily as the inexpensive diaper shirts from the thrift store.
In anticipation of Sarah’s arrival, Evelyn was frantically designing ensembles with an oriental flare. For Sarah’s homecoming, she’d found a buttery-soft daisy print flannel material for a receiving blanket. Josh’s birth, and the impending arrival of Sarah, shook Evelyn from her extended gloom over Karen. Joe reported that her attempts to contact her daughter had almost ceased with the flurry of baby-clothing design.
The official call from our adoption agency came the final week of April. We had one week to pack, make travel arrangements, and prepare mentally and emotionally for the long, exhausting trip. Dr. Paul and Sushan Wong had arranged to meet us at the airport in Beijing. They would be our Chinese guardian angels in a foreign land where we didn’t speak the language or know the customs.
While Holston and I waded through the maze of bureaucracy leading toward the adoption, Jake, Stephanie, and Mandy fought city hall to rezone the Witherspoon mansion and grounds as mixed residential/business. All of the council members were in favor of the move, except for one holdout, Daniel “Hank” Henderson, attorney-at-law. The reasons for his opposition were unclear.
Along with the proposed sale of the golf course to a group of south Florida investors, and the opening of a second bed and breakfast inn, the day spa and salon would provide a draw to weary vacationers looking for a small-town respite from south Florida’s urban sprawl. Chattahoochee was emerging as a warm, friendly Mecca for antique-seeking northerners escaping the harsh winter weather.
After two months of haggling, the zoning change came abruptly, surprising the council and the three prospective spa owners. Behind the scenes, with one brief phone conversation to Hank Henderson, Aunt Piddie had, as she put it, snatched the overblown mule’s patootie by the short hairs. No one knew what markers she had called in. She was tight-lipped, vowing to keep her methods to herself until the Good Lord called her Home.
The double doors to the Witherspoon mansion stood open. A Superior Interiors delivery van blocked the circular drive, so I pulled Betty around to the side entrance.
“Jakey!” I called as I entered the front parlor. I stopped short to admire the transition of the once-formal room into a spacious waiting area, complete with upholstered high-backed chairs, teak occasional tables, oriental area-rugs, and a bubbling rock fountain. The tall windows were shaded with almond-colored plantation blinds. In one corner, an antique armoire housed a small television and stereo system. Two bold modern paintings dominated one wall. The spa’s logo, three gilded C’s connected to form a triangle, was centered on another wall so that it was the first thing a visitor would see upon entrance.
“What’cha think?” Jake asked from behind me.
“It’s like—this place was made to be a resort spa.”
“C’mon, I’ll give you the three-dollar tour. We’re still working on some parts. The old mud room is being tiled so that Steph can set up a wet massage table for full-body sea-salt scrubs and body wraps. If all goes according to plan, we’re aiming to open by the first part of June.”
He shuffled into the dining room. “This will be the reception/reservations desk area. Stephanie found an old mahogany desk and armoire at an estate sale that will go right here.” He pointed to the center of the room. “She also located an antique glass and wood display case for her line of skin care products. And…” He led me toward the rear of the house. “Of course, the kitchen will stay as it is now, and Holston’s private office will remain back there. But, the other four downstairs bedrooms will be used as treatment rooms.”
“The next two rooms will be combined into one large room. This is not a supporting wall, so we’re putting two large, arched doorways in so that it will create the illusion of one room, but with a little privacy for the hairstylists and patrons. Wendel Dixon up at the Antique Mini Mall found the mahogany archways in Cairo, Georgia. They came from an old home that was being demolished. That’s one of Mandy’s wheel and deals. Old Wendel’s probably going to get free haircuts for a year.”
I shook my head. “Mandy got the better end of that pact. Wendel has one of the worst comb-overs in Gadsden County. He has less hair than my new little nephew.”
“Wendel insists that he has a really high forehead.”
I smiled. “Has Mandy found another hairdresser for the shop?”
“She’s interviewing now. Gah! You should’ve seen the strange little woman who came by this morning. She looked like she could’ve been Hannibal Lechter’s mama.”
I laughed. “Maybe she could handle the more extreme styles.”
“I don’t think so! Actually, we all liked this one woman from Naples, Florida who wants to move up to this part of the state. She’s a hoot. Wanda Jean Orenstein. Great New Jersey accent—wonderful sense of humor. All of us think she’d fit right in.”
“Sounds like everything’s falling into place.”
He nodded. “Yeah, about time! Things work out like they should. Now, Stephanie will have the room farthest from the others for massage therapy. She said you could share the room with her if you want to.” Jake raised an eyebrow.
“I like my spot at the Madhatter, unless you get to the point you need the extra room for the flower shop. Besides, who knows what my schedule will be after Sarah’s with us.”
“Speaking of the luckiest, most soon-to-be-spoiled-rotten child in the world, have you heard any news?”
“Yep…that’s one of the reasons I stopped by.” I filled him in on the travel plans. “I hope you can take us to the airport. Leigh and Bobby have Joshua now, and I hate to ask them to get out and about that early with a new baby. Evelyn and Joe have done so much already, and it’s getting more difficult for Piddie to travel.”
“Not a prob-lemo, sister-girl. If you don’t mind letting me borrow Betty after I drop you and Holston off at the airport, I’ll plan to stay at Jon’s over the weekend, and get some things done while I’m over there. Otherwise, I’ll haul you over in the back of the delivery van. Wouldn’t that be a class act?”
“Class positively oozes out of our every pore.” I breathed a tired sigh. “We’ll be ready around 4:30 AM. It’s going to be a long day, Friday. By the way, the two original art pieces in the front parlor—are they—”
“Ruth’s? Absolutely. When I saw the daisy and rainbow spring painting
she did for your wedding present—the focal point of the nursery—I asked her and Patricia if I could commission two paintings for the spa.” He shook his head. “That child is going to be famous! And, you and I have some of her first pieces.”
Jake flipped a business card from his pocket. “Jon designed our business cards. What’cha think?”
The three C’s spa logo was tastefully engraved in gold script on a gray flannel background.
“What do the three C’s stand for?”
Jake grinned. “Cut, curl, and coddle.”
I laughed. “Catchy”
“We thought so.”
The Dragonfly Florist van pulled into the carport on the Hill at 4:00 AM Friday morning.
“Mornin’ glory!” Jake called as he let himself in the back door. “China Express, all aboard!”
I emerged from the kitchen.
“Ewww! Sister-girl! You already look tired. Didn’t you sleep?”
“Too excited. I think I saw every hour on the clock.”
“Maybe you’ll just pass out on the plane. I bet this will be the charmed trip where you’ll finally learn to sleep sitting up on an airline seat.”
“One can hope.”
Jake picked up the small, wheeled duffle. “I’ve seen you pack more bags to go out of town for a weekend.”
“Patricia and Rainey warned us to be prepared for any mode of travel. The less we have to keep up with, the better.”
“Hattie and I are both a bit nervous about carrying so much money on us,” Holston said. “We have to pay the orphanage a cash fee to take Sarah with us. Then, we start the two-week process of getting her visa and papers to bring her back to the States.”
“Lucky that Paul Wong will be over there to help out. Where’s all the dough? Surely not in your carry-on.”
Holston lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal a thick money belt. “Hattie and I are wearing these.”
Jake patted Holston’s middle. “And, here I thought you were both so blissfully happy that you were putting on a spare tire.”
Jake walked with us to the gate. “Atlanta first, of course.”
I rolled my eyes. “Naturally. Then, the cross-country route to L.A., then the nightmarish trans-Pacific trip to Beijing.”
“They haven’t invented the beam-me-up thing yet, sister-girl.” He cut his eyes toward Holston. “I hope you brought loads of sedatives.”
Holston patted his breast pocket. “Benadryl—it knocks her out cold.”
“Give her one before you leave the ground in Atlanta. Then, drug her again—maybe twice—for the last leg of the trip.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not that bad. I can fly without being a whiney puss.”
Jake stared at me like I’d announced I was going to run for political office. “Sure. And I can wax my behind and ski to China.”
Jake grabbed his camera. “Almost forgot! Mary at the Twin City News wants a picture of you two at the gate. Just wave or something. She’s putting a blurb in the paper about your trip.”
Holston and I hammed it up as Jake flashed several angles.
“There. Now, don’t worry about Shammie and Spackle. I’ll take extra time with them. They probably won’t even realize you’re gone.” He paused. “Except for Shammie. The princess puss is going to sling major cat-itude when you come home after two weeks, and with a baby, no less!”
“Tuna packed in spring water seems to calm her down,” Holston said.
“I see she has you trained, too,” Jake said. “Kisses, loves, Godspeed—and all that.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I won’t cry.”
The Delta attendant called for general boarding.
My stomach was a butterfly hatchery. “Well, here we go.”
“Oh! Wait!” Jake fumbled in his pocket and handed me a sheet of copy paper. “I was flipping through the Madhatter’s Guide to Chocolate yesterday looking for Piddie’s best damn chocolate icing recipe, and I noticed the drawing on the very last page. It never meant anything much to me before.”
Many times in the past, I had contemplated the series of coincidences that had led me to this juncture: Mama’s death, Jake’s assault, meeting Holston, and my brush with cancer. Standing at the gate with my husband and my best friend, I looked down at the scratchy line drawing of a little girl kneeling by a spring surrounded by daisies. I understood that there was no such thing as mere chance. Divine order prevailed.
A small orphan girl and a madman had foretold the happy ending.
THE END
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Like the Southern folks in Rhett’s book? Take a look at her other titles available online with Amazon. Find info on future releases and current titles on her website, www.rhettdevane.com.
She thanks you, hon.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you to all of the fine folks who made this work possible:
My family, friend, and patients—for their constant support and encouragement. Leigh Ansley—for yarns about her Big Ma-mer. Michele Burkhead—for sharing tales of her Granny. Talley Morgan—for sharing her story.
Law enforcement experts—Cathy Kennedy, Chris Garrison, Kelly Walker, Dick Barnes, John Walker, Wayne Gellner, and David Turnage. Nursing Experts—Jaye Andreasen RN, Mimi Burkholder RN, Dianne Sutherland RN, Mary Menard RN, and Tonya A. Harris MN, Associate Professor of Nursing (retired). Legal experts—Trial lawyer Deeno Kitchen, and the Honorable George S. Reynolds, III.
Adoptive Mothers—Patsy Eccles and Carol Buckland. My dedicated proofreaders—Ann Macmillan, Thom Saudargas, Talley Morgan, and Joy Hevey. Chattahoochee historian and retired newspaper editor—Grady Turnage. All-time favorite teacher and mentor—Sharon Lasseter. Susan Malone—for her wonderful professional editorial service.
And especially to God, for allowing magic, muses, and angels to exist in this tired old world.
About the Author
Rhett DeVane is a true Southerner, born and raised in the muggy, bug-infested forests of the Florida panhandle. For the past thirty-plus years, Rhett has made her home in Tallahassee, located in Florida’s Big Bend area, where she splits her workdays between her two professions: dental hygienist and novelist.
Rhett is the author of four published mainstream humorous fiction novels set in her hometown of Chattahoochee, a place with “two stoplights and a mental institution on the main drag”: The Madhatter’s Guide to Chocolate, Up the Devil’s Belly, Mama’s Comfort Food, and Cathead Crazy. She is coauthor of two novels: Evenings on Dark Island with Larry Rock and Accidental Ambition with Robert W. McKnight.
“One of the best things,” Rhett says, “is sharing my brand of Southern crazy with others. When I write, and especially when I step in front of a mic, the stand-up comedian that idles inside me snatches the wheel. I never know where that kook will take me.”
Rhett donates a portion of her book royalties to support causes in which she believes. “It is important—no, vital—that I use what life has provided, to help others. Even small amounts over time add up. I may be a tiny ripple in a big pond, but that ripple can still make a difference.”
Rhett writes to stay balanced. The way this world is today, it’s a must. “Humor lifts me. I think it lifts others. As long as I am on this side of the dirt, I will find a way to laugh, and to share that with as many people as possible.”
To learn more about Rhett and her writing, visit her website and blogs:
Rhett’s website:
www.rhettdevane.com
Rhett’s crazy Southern blog:
www.southernhat-titude.blogspot.com
The Writers4Higher blog:
www.writers4higher.blogspot.com
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