“She’ll have the prime rib and I’ll have the swordfish, Gerald.”
After Gerald left, I eyed all my silverware, remembering how Mrs. Tobias had once told me that when faced with a mess of forks, I just had to work my way in.
In minutes, our salads arrived. The plates were heaped with odd-colored spiky lettuce that looked like yard clippings. Timothy started eating his portion and I poked at mine with my fork.
Suddenly a high-pitched voice carried across the Summit Club.
“Timothy? Timothy Hollingsworth? Is it really you?”
A woman hightailed it to our table. She had blond hair styled like a lion’s mane, and she was wearing a black jumpsuit with gold chains around her waist. She was as skinny as a licorice whip.
Timothy squinted at the woman. “Marcie? Marcie Castlewood?”
“Yes!” the woman squealed. Timothy rose from his seat and she threw her arms around him.
“I don’t believe it—”
“How long has it been?”
“Twelve, maybe eleven years. I think the last time was the Willinghams’ barbecue, or was it the assembly dance?”
“The dance, I think. You were wearing that blue—”
Timothy suddenly looked at me, and so did Marcie for the first time. A tight smile flitted over her lips.
“Marcie, I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Elizabeth. We just got married,” Timothy said.
Marcie’s shoes were sharp and dangerous-looking, and they matched her cigar-shaped bag. I could sense her sizing me up. She looked at my flowered print dress and the navy blue pumps with the run-down heels. She took in the cubic zirconium bracelet that spelled out my name and my pantyhose that were suntan instead of nude, because the Bottom Dollar was out of size A in nude.
I’d thought I looked decent when I’d stepped out the door that night, but one glance from Marcie and I knew I was dressed all wrong.
“Timothy Hollingsworth married?” Her bright green eyes flashed at me. “This is a surprise.”
“Marcie and I were neighbors. We also attended the same church,” Timothy said.
“And went to the club pool together and to every party and tennis game and well, just about everywhere. We hung out together when Timothy came home from boarding school. Our friends called us Heckle and Jeckle, we were so close.” Marcie’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look familiar to me, Elizabeth. Are you new to Augusta?”
“I’m not from here,” I said. “I live in Cayboo Creek.”
“Oh, I see,” Marcie said, not trying too hard to disguise her look of disdain. Many people in Augusta regarded Cayboo Creek as some kind of redneck backwater and called it “The Crick.”
“What do you do out there in, uh, Cayboo Creek?” she asked.
“I work in a dollar store,” I said softly.
“She’s the manager of the dollar store,” Timothy added quickly.
“That must be a tremendous responsibility,” Marcie purred. “We have something in common then, Elizabeth. I’m a manager and I also work with dollars. I’m branch manager of Smith Barney Financial planners.”
She opened her purse and took out a business card, which she handed to Timothy. “Now that the two of you are married I assume you’ll be moving to Augusta. Timothy, I’ve heard that you’ve taken over the helm of Hollingsworth Paper Cups.”
“You heard correctly, but Elizabeth and I won’t be moving to Augusta,” Timothy said, giving my hand a squeeze. “We’ll be staying in Cayboo Creek.”
Marcie’s mouth flew open. “You’re going to live in the Crick? Do they even have houses there?” She smiled sweetly. “I mean... other than all those clever manufactured homes?”
“Yes, Marcie, there are homes there, manufactured and otherwise,” Timothy said. “Cayboo Creek is a charming community. You should drive over sometime.”
“Yes, I’ll have to do that,” she said. She snapped her pocket-book shut. “I need to get back to my table. It was wonderful to see you again. Delighted to meet you, Elizabeth.”
“She was pretty,” I said, after she left.
“Pretty snobbish.” He leaned to whisper across the table. “And I thought she looked like she’d just been released from a concentration camp. Why would a woman want to intentionally starve herself down to the width of a guitar string? I can’t imagine it.”
“I could tell she was underwhelmed by me.”
“Then she has terrible taste in people,” Timothy said, pouring more wine into my glass.
“She and I are day and night.” I put down my fork. “Are you sure I’m the kind of woman that you want?”
Timothy was chewing a morsel of fish. He stopped in mid-bite and said, “You aren’t jealous of Marcie?”
“Maybe a little.” I took a stab at my meat with my fork. “I just don’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
Timothy’s eyes glimmered in the soft lights of the candles. “Sweetie, girls like Marcie are as common in the South as kudzu. But there is only one genuine Elizabeth Polk Hollingsworth. Why do you think I took you here? I want everyone to know that you’re my wife.”
His face was so earnest that I believed every word he said.
“What is your mama going to say about you and I being married?” I asked.
Timothy leaned back in his chair and considered the ceiling.
“Actually, Elizabeth, I can’t answer that, because I hardly know my mother. I attended boarding schools since first grade, and before that I had a full-time nanny. During the summer breaks I only spent a few weeks at home and then I was shipped off to camps. When I decided to join the monastery after my first year at Stanford, my parents cut almost all ties with me to register their disapproval. But it was hardly a severe punishment considering I’d never truly been a part of their lives.”
He paused and shook his head sadly. “The only member of my family who’s stayed in touch with me is my Grandma Gracie. As a matter of fact, the first time I saw my mother in ten years was at my father’s funeral.”
My fingers inched across the table to touch his hand and he seized one and kissed my knuckle.
“I used to think my parents ignored me most of my life because I was adopted,” Timothy said.
“You’re adopted? I didn’t know that.”
Timothy nodded. “I don’t think my mother wanted to bother with the time and trouble of a pregnancy. Grandma Gracie says it’s just the way my mother is. She says Mother keeps everyone at an arm’s length.”
“And your daddy?” I asked.
“My father, if anything, was more distant than my mother. He was a workaholic. He was always pleasant to me on the rare occasions that I saw him. Actually, neither of my parents were cold or unkind to me. They just didn’t find me particularly... compelling.”
My heart ached, imagining Timothy as a little boy pining for his parents’ attentions.
“I’m surprised you came back here at all,” I said.
“At my father’s funeral, my mother asked me to come to Augusta and learn the family business. I thought we’d work together and get to know each other.” Timothy laughed, but there was no gaiety in the sound. “That wasn’t the case at all. She’d already left for France by the time I arrived. She just wanted a warm body at the helm of the family company.”
“But you stayed anyway.”
“I stayed,” he said. “You see, just as I was thinking about jumping back on a plane to see if I could regain my spot at the Zen center, I met this dollar-store femme fatale who bedazzled me so thoroughly on our first outing, I knew I was stuck here, as you might say, like a marshmallow on a fork.”
“Really?” My cheeks warmed. “You stayed here because of me?”
“Yes, Elizabeth.”
Timothy signaled to Gerald, who brought Champagne and popped
the top right in front of us, just like in the movies.
Timothy lifted his glass for a toast. “To my wife. Who makes me feel like I’ve finally found a home.”
I clinked my glass to his. “That makes two of us.”
Twenty-One
Thanks to the Cathouse (I’m in the Doghouse with You)
~ Selection C-3 on the jukebox at the Tuff Luck Tavern
Back at the Bottom Dollar Emporium, a box of Uncle Ben’s Long Grain Rice sailed through the air in a perfect arc. I ducked, but not quickly enough.
“Attalee, you’re supposed to throw grains of rice, not the box!”Mavis said.
“Serves her right for not inviting us to the wedding. Besides, it wasn’t going to hurt her.” Attalee leaned down to pick up the box. “It’s empty.”
“What in the world?” I said.
I took in the white streamers hanging from the ceiling and the sound of “Here Comes the Bride” playing on the boom box. Crepe-paper wedding bells hung from the walls, and a single red rose stood in a vase in the break area.
“Happy Wedding Day!” shouted Mavis. She blew a stream of soap bubbles in my direction.
“Oh, my goodness, it’s a party! Y’all are spoiling me,” I said.
“Darn straight we are,” said Attalee. “I told Mavis that you already got a hardcover book for your anniversary. It should be able to double as a wedding present. ‘No,’ Mavis says, ‘Them’s two separate occasions,’ and next thing I know she’s dragging me out to the party store for all this finery.” Attalee stooped down to pick up an enormous wrapped package by her chair. “She even talked me into spending my bingo winnings on a present for you.”
“Well, thank you, Attalee, I’m truly honored,” I said, accepting the gift.
“Be careful with that wrapping paper because I want to reuse it,” she warned. “Also, if you and Timothy bust up before the year’s out, I want my present back.”
“Attalee!” Mavis said.
I patted Attalee’s cheek. “Never mind. It’s the thought that counts.”
“I wonder what it could be,” I said, affecting a mysterious tone of voice. As I unwrapped the box, I found another box nesting inside.
“I think I know where this is going,” I said. Sure enough, as I went along there were several more boxes to open. Attalee hooted every time I opened another box.
“Oh my goodness. I wonder if I’ll ever get to the real present,” I said.
“Who knows? It might take weeks!” Attalee was laughing so hard I was afraid she’d pee her pants. Which wasn’t an idle worry. There’d been several times in the past when she’d gotten overexcited and had to go back home to change her britches.
“I think I’ve finally gotten to the genuine article,” I said. I held up a battered Whitman’s Sampler box in triumph. When I looked inside, I discovered a gift certificate.
“I am very touched, Attalee.” I gave her speckled hand a squeeze. “Look, Mavis, Attalee has given me a full year’s membership in Boomer’s Meat Cut of the Month Club. This is the perfect gift for a bride. Thank you.”
“March is beef shanks and April is whole fryers,” Attalee said. She’d gotten hold of herself and was blowing her nose into a tissue.
“That’s a very generous gift, Attalee,” Mavis said. She reached behind her chair and withdrew a sack. “Here’s another little something.”
“Mavis, you’re too kind,” I said, beholding the two wrapped packages, decorated with foil wedding bells. The ribbons had been specially curled over a blade of scissors. Mavis always had such an attention to detail.
The first package held a bride and groom with bobbing heads and suction cups on their feet so that you could affix them to the dashboard of a car. Mavis blushed when I opened it. “Oh, that was just a gag gift. I didn’t want you to open that first.”
Attalee picked up the bride and groom. “I don’t see anything funny about this at all. This is a dandy-looking knickknack.”
“She’s right, Mavis. It’s precious.”
Mavis flicked her hand at me. “Go on, open the other one. The next one is the real present.”
I pulled off the top of the box and looked inside. There were two white guest towels. One was monogrammed with my initials in gold embroidery and the other was monogrammed with Timothy’s initials.
“Would you look at this?” I exclaimed. “They make me feel so... I don’t know... so married!” I held the towels up for Attalee to see.
“I had to call Timothy to find out what his middle initial was,” Mavis said. “He almost didn’t tell me. He seemed a little embarrassed about it.”
I glanced at Timothy’s towel. The initials were “THH.”
“Can you believe it?” My hand went to my throat. “I don’t even know Timothy’s middle name. Is it Harold? Or maybe Herbert?”
“Horton? Horatio? Hagar?” Attalee guessed.
“Horace. His middle name is Horace,” Mavis said.
“Horace? Horace.” I slid backward into my chair. “My gosh, that’s such a beautiful name.”
“It’s uglier than an army boot,” Attalee said.
Mavis put a finger to her lips and said, “Shush,” while I spread out the towel on my lap.
“Elizabeth Delores. Timothy Horace,” I said, dreamily. “It’s almost like our names rhyme. Oh Mavis, these towels are so wonderful.” A tear rolled down my cheek and I hugged Mavis’s neck.
“Twelve months of grade-A meat and not even a trickle of a tear. Two tiny little towels that wouldn’t dry a midget’s behind and the waterworks are on fall blast,” Attalee muttered.
“Oh, Attalee, it’s not about the towels. When folks are in love, every piddling thing makes them cry,” Mavis said, rubbing my shoulders.
Attalee started warbling “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing,” which was her all-time favorite song, except for “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-Tonk Angels” by Kitty Wells. She had a decent voice, although a little shivery, as old ladies’ voices tend to be.
As I listened to Attalee sing, “In the morning mist, two lovers kissed and the world stood still,” I heard the jingle of the bell on the front door of the Bottom Dollar Emporium. I turned around and saw my ex-fiancé, Clip Jenkins, in the doorway. He took off his hat and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.
“Good morning, I’m looking for Liz. Is she here?” he rumbled in his deep, silky voice.
Attalee lunged at Clip, brandishing her price gun. Clip grasped her skinny arm. “What are you planning to do with this, Attalee? Give me sticker shock?”
He let her loose and Attalee shrank back into the corner of the room, snarling.
Mavis stepped forward. “Clip Jenkins, get on out of here. You’re not welcome at the Bottom Dollar, boy. Ever.”
Clip stayed rooted to his spot by the sunglass wheel. “I came here to see Liz, Ma’am. I need to talk with her.”
I stole out from behind a pyramid of Dr. Topper Sodas.
“I’ll handle this, Mavis, Attalee,” I said softly.
At the sight of me, a grin spilled over Clip’s face. “Liz, you’re here,” he said.
“That’s right, Clip.” My face was a stone mask. “I’m here. I’ve been here for the last few months. It’s not like I’m hard to find.”
I walked over to where Clip was standing. He hadn’t changed much. Same reddish hair shot through with gold. Same way of standing with his hip cocked and his fingers pushed through his belt loops. He regarded me with dark brown eyes, the color of heart pine.
“Could we go out to the truck?” He jerked his head in the direction of the door.
I leaned up against the checkout counter and folded my arms across my chest. “Jonelle know you’re here?”
“It isn’t her business to know where I am.” Clip shifted his wei
ght to his other hip. “We’ve split up.”
I sucked in my cheeks and nodded. He reached out to touch my elbow and I flinched.
His arm dropped to his side. “Liz, please come on out to the truck.”
“No.”
“Just for a minute,” he said.
“Cain’t you hear, hotshot? The lady said no,” Attalee said.
I glared at Clip. “So you and Jonelle have broken up? Did she get real stationery for her ‘Dear Jane’ letter, or did you write it on the back of a fast-food bag like you did mine?”
Clip swallowed. “Look, Liz I never—”
“Wait a minute,” I thumped the counter. “Why am I wasting these words? You couldn’t ever understand how I felt when I found that note. How betrayed and hurt and confused I was.”
He cleared his throat. “That’s why we need to talk. There’s things that need explaining.”
“No, Clip. You need to listen and you need to look.” I pointed at the white streamers on the ceiling and I thrust my left ring finger in his face.
A puzzled look crossed his face. “Liz?” he said.
“She’s married, you ignoramus!” Attalee shouted.
Clip winced like he’d been slapped. “No. That can’t be right,” he said in a raspy voice.
I almost felt sorry for him. Here he’d swept into the Bottom Dollar Emporium thinking he could mend things with his cocked hip and his lazy smile, the way a child thinks Elmer’s glue can fix a broken heart.
He hadn’t changed a bit.
The only thing that had changed was the way I felt in his presence. He’d once made my heart burn in my chest like a sparkler on the Fourth of July, but now there were only cold ashes.
“Good-bye, Clip,” I said.
Twenty-Two
Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.
~ Message in a fortune cookie from Dun Woo’s House of Noodles
I contemplated the pale, uncooked chicken lying on the cutting board. Meemaw was sucking on a Pall Mall. She pushed back a strand of gray hair from her forehead and poked the chicken with her finger.
Bet Your Bottom Dollar (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 1) Page 13
