“She truly is,” I said. “I would have been lost without her.”
“But?” Mavis asked.
“But what?”
Mavis shrugged. “I don’t know. There was an odd note in your voice just now when you mentioned her.”
“She’s been such a peach. I couldn’t ask for more,” I said, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. “But... in some ways I feel like she’s just going through the motions, helping me out like she is. I don’t think her heart’s in it.”
“Pshaw,” Attalee said. “That’s just the way it is between wives and mother-in-laws. They’re natural enemies, like cats and mice. Besides, you don’t need her heart in this, just her wallet. She’s got the dough to throw Glenda the grand funeral she deserves.”
“I’ll agree with you there,” Birdie said. “I’d love to see our dear Glenda go out in style. By the way, Attalee, I brought you that mask I wore to the masquerade party last year.” She handed Attalee a paper bag.
“What’s this? Halloween coming early?” I asked.
“You’re not the only one who has marketing ideas,” Attalee said, removing the mask from the bag. “During our big clearance sale, I won’t be Attalee Gaines, assistant manager of the Bottom Dollar Emporium.” She perched the mask on her nose. “I’ll be the Mark-down Mistress,” she said in a mysterious voice.
“Mark-down Mistress?” I asked.
“I’ll wear this mask and a black cape just like Zorro. But instead of waving a sword, I’ll slash prices with my black Magic Marker,” Attalee said.
“How clever,” I remarked.
“How racy, you mean,” Attalee said. She lowered her voice and glanced warily at Mavis who was dusting a shelf. “To attract the male bargain hunters, I’ll also be wearing fishnet hose and a bustier.”
“I heard that,” Mavis said. “And as I’ve already told you, you will not be wearing either of those items. This is a family establishment, not a Hooters restaurant.”
Attalee snorted. “I keep trying to tell Mavis that sex sells. But she just won’t listen. What do you think, Elizabeth?”
“I think the Mark-down Mistress idea is a stroke of genius,” I said. “But when it comes to being sexy, I think less is more. Instead of the bustier and the fishnet hose, why don’t you have a rose between your teeth? That’s very alluring.”
“A rose?” Attalee nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll just do that. I was having a heck of a time finding a pair of fishnet panty hose with tummy-control panels.”
“I’m borrowing my grandson’s P.A. system,” Birdie said. “I’ll be announcing the Mark-down Mistress’s specials over the microphone like this: ‘Come to the home accessory department, where toilet bowl brushes are marked down to two for fifty cents.’”
“Hank will be on hand as a bouncer,” Attalee said. “In case the crowd gets out of control.”
“It sounds like everything is coming together,” I said. “The Everything-Must-Go sale is sure to be a big success and before you know it, the Bottom Dollar Emporium will have a whole new look.”
Thirty-Three
When an old person dies, a library burns down.
~ Message in the Methodist Church Bulletin
Seeing how she’d been a member there for over fifty years, Meemaw’s funeral was held at the Rock of Ages Baptist Church. Reverend Hozey stood at the pulpit in a dark robe, and per my request he did not pound his Bible or use the word “heathens” once in his sermon. Instead he talked lovingly of Meemaw, referring to her as a lamb who’d returned to Jesus’s flock.
Mrs. Hollingsworth had programs made up, with Meemaw’s name on the cover and her birth and death dates in gold letters.
It had been such a relief to have someone handle all those little details.
The pews were packed with friends and neighbors gathered to pay their respects to Meemaw. Boomer was there with his mother, who wore a nubby purple hat stuck through with a pin that looked like a third eye. She kept snapping her handkerchief at Boomer every time he got emotional during the service.
Most of the Methodist congregation had come, as had a half-dozen ladies from Meemaw’s ceramics class. They all sat together like a flock of birds and sang in their quavery voices. Patsy Ann sat in the back with a few of Meemaw’s other neighbors.
Timothy, Mrs. Hollingsworth, Mavis, Attalee, and I all sat in the front row, reserved for family members. Before the service began, I motioned for Boomer to come up to join us, but his mama hung onto his arm so hard that I guessed he was staying put.
My composure wobbled during the service. We sang all of Meemaw’s favorite hymns, like “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” and “Shall We Gather at the River?” while I fought to keep my chest from heaving. Timothy and Mrs. Hollingsworth were on either side of me, supporting me as we sang.
After the service, Timothy and I received guests. He looked so sharp in his dark gray suit that all of Meemaw’s friends blushed right through their face powder as he shook hands and flashed them that shy smile of his. I was a little nervous when Patsy Ann came up, because I hadn’t yet found time to tell Timothy about my mystery heritage, but she just squeezed both of our hands and dabbed her eyes with a hankie as she passed through the line.
A lady named Emmy from Meemaw’s ceramics class approached me and handed me a wrapped package. “Glenda had been working on this for a while. She didn’t get a chance to paint it, so we did it for her.”
I tore off the tissue paper and discovered a plate with a picture of praying hands in the middle. Praying hands were Meemaw’s favorite thing to make in ceramics class; she had half a dozen of them lying around her house. Below the hands were my name, and Timothy’s name, and the date of our wedding.
“Thank you, Emmy,” I said. “We’ll treasure it always.”
I ran my fingers over the grooved letters of our names. Here was Meemaw’s way of reaching out from the grave and giving Timothy and me her stamp of approval on our marriage.
Boomer came over to pay his respects. He looked colorless and somehow smaller, wearing a salmon-colored suit instead of his usual loud shirt. He bussed my cheek with dry lips and whispered, “Hey there, Toots,” in a sad voice, empty of his usual teasing fun. “I better go,” he said meekly. “It’s time for mother’s nap.”
After a reception in the fellowship hall and a drive out to the cemetery, Timothy and I went home. I sat on the floor of the den, sifting through all the cards, and I saw Mrs. Tobias had sent an arrangement.
I went into the kitchen to speak with Timothy.
“Timothy? Did you tell your grandmother about Meemaw?”
He looked up from the salad he was tossing. “Yes, I did. I knew she wouldn’t forgive me otherwise. I didn’t tell her about our wedding. She’s due back home from Hilton Head soon and I thought the two of us could tell her together. She’s going to be so pleased. She’s crazy about you.”
She’s got a strange way of showing it, I wanted to say, but didn’t. I figured there was no point in telling Timothy what his grandmother had done. Not until I had had a talk with her myself.
I stole an olive from the salad and popped it in my mouth. “I’m surprised your mother hasn’t told her.”
“Mother isn’t close to anyone, not even her own mother,” Timothy said. “I have to admit, I’m so pleased at how helpful Mother has been to you over the last few days. I do believe she’s grown fond of you. In fact, I have business in Charlotte tomorrow and mother has asked if you’d like to have tea with her at her home in Augusta while I’m gone.”
“That’s sweet of her. I’d be glad to.”
“Good.” He wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “Maybe things are changing with Mother. Maybe now that I’m married she’s decided to try to be closer to her family.” His face looked so hopeful.
“When are you going to
tell her about the bait shop?” I asked.
“As soon as I get back from Charlotte. That’s one of the purposes of my trip. I’m interviewing my potential successor. This fellow knows a lot more about running a company than I do.” He grimaced. “I hope she won’t be too terribly disappointed in me. I’d hate to let her down just when she’s starting to show some interest in me.”
I hugged Timothy. “She’d better or she’ll have to answer to me,” I said.
His face split into a smile. Happiness agreed with Timothy. It was hard to recognize him as the bald bird man that had swept into the Bottom Dollar Emporium just six months before.
Thirty-Four
Stressed is just desserts spelled backwards.
~ Sign outside the Chat ‘N’ Chew
When I pulled up in front of Mrs. Hollingsworth’s house, I thought there’d been a mistake. The house I’d stopped in front of looked big enough to be a museum. I half expected there to be someone at the door charging admission.
Mrs. Hollingsworth’s Mercedes was parked in the circular drive, so I pulled the Geo behind it, a little ashamed to be blemishing the view of such a grand structure with my economy car. Its passenger-side door was so deeply dented that even the Ding King couldn’t repair it.
I hefted my purse on my shoulder and stared up at the looming mansion. On either side of the house stood four white columns that towered to the height of telephone poles. The looming white structure was as gussied up as a three-tiered wedding cake.
The brass knocker, shaped like a lion’s head, summoned Mrs. Hollingsworth’s maid. She wore a crisp, black uniform topped by a hat that looked like a doily, just like the maids in the movies.
“Hello. You Elizabeth? Mrs. Hollingsworth is expecting you,” she said. The maid was a black woman with the build of a small refrigerator. Her white apron strings strained against her block-shaped belly.
I was fascinated by her, because I’d never met a uniformed maid before. Once when Meemaw had sprained her ankle, she’d called in a company called Maureen’s Maids to clean the house and I’d expected a whole team of maids, wearing black-and-white outfits and shaking feather dusters, to show up at our door. Instead a lone woman arrived, wearing a scruffy-looking sweat suit and dragging an upright vacuum cleaner behind her.
Mrs. Hollingsworth’s maid invited me inside and I stepped into a foyer that was about the size of my whole house on Scuffle Road. Enormous portraits of grim-looking people hung in the hall, just like in the Haunted Mansion at Disney World.
I fixed my gaze on a white-haired fellow in a Confederate jacket, wondering if his eyes might follow me as I walked past, but his unblinking glare never wavered.
“Mrs. Hollingsworth is in the living room. I’ll lead you to her,” the maid said.
I trailed behind her until we came to a room as big as a high school gymnasium. Gold curtains poured from the windows, ending in a puddle of material on the glossy wood floors. Artwork fit for a castle gleamed from every surface. I nearly ran into a life-sized statue of a lady in a loose, flowing gown that left one of her boobs bare for all to see.
A chandelier, bigger around than a washtub, dangled from the ceiling, heavy with a hailstorm of crystals. There was an assortment of spindly carved chairs that looked like they’d split in two if you breathed on them too hard. Once Meemaw and Granddaddy and I’d toured Graceland in Memphis. The King didn’t have anything over Daisy Hollingsworth.
The mistress of the house was sitting on a red love seat, flipping through a magazine. Next to her was a white-and-gold dog that looked like it was picked to match the furniture. The animal gave a sharp bark when she saw me.
“Lexie, really.” Mrs. Hollingsworth shushed the dog. “Well, hello, Elizabeth. How are you?” She addressed the maid. “Aurora, take Elizabeth’s purse for her and store it in the hall closet for the time being.”
Aurora lumbered off with my purse slung over her shoulder. I was gawking at an oil painting of a woman in a long white dress with her hair swept up in a chignon.
“Is that you?” I asked.
Mrs. Hollingsworth frowned. “No. That’s my sister, Lilly. She died over twenty years ago.”
I bent at the waist and made clicking noises for Mrs. Hollingsworth’s dog, hoping to coax her to come to me, when Mrs. Hollingsworth interrupted. “Elizabeth, Alexandra is a show dog and her trainer makes a similar sound during their sessions together. I wouldn’t want to confuse her.”
“Sure,” I said straightening up. I looked at Mrs. Hollingsworth. She wore the same expressionless mask on her face.
“A lot of people don’t understand that show dogs simply aren’t like other dogs,” she said in a pinched voice. “They’re not meant to be played with.”
“I’ll remember that.” My eyes scanned the room. “This place is gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Please sit, Elizabeth.”
I chose the sturdiest-looking chair. A silver tea service had been set out on the polished coffee table.
Mrs. Hollingsworth poured. “Do you take lemon?” I nodded. She handed me a teacup and passed a plate of powdered sugar cookies on it. I took one and tried to nibble delicately between sips of my tea.
Mrs. Hollingsworth was studying me in a careful way as if she was waiting for me to slip up. My fingers felt big as sausages as I held the teacup, and I fretted about dropping cookie crumbs on the carpet.
“It is a lovely house, isn’t it, Elizabeth?” she said in a breathy voice. “Easily the grandest home in Augusta, if not the Southeast.”
“Yes ma’am. It looks like you could get lost in it.”
“You saw the portraits in the entryway, I assume. Those are Mr. Hollingsworth’s ancestors. The Hollingsworth family has an impeccable pedigree. George Walton, the first mayor of Augusta, used to live right next door to Mr. Hollingsworth’s great, great, great, great granddaddy.” She took a sip of tea and looked at me with eyes that were as cold as seawater. “Timothy hasn’t told me much about your family.”
“Well, there isn’t a lot to tell. There was my meemaw, who raised me, of course.”
“What about your father?”
That was a real good question. What about my daddy? But of course, there was no sense in going through all that with Mrs. Hollingsworth.
“My daddy owns a rent-to-own furniture store called the Bargain Bonanza. If you’ve seen one of his commercials, I promise you, you’d never forget him.”
She rattled her teacup on her saucer. “Timothy tells me your father’s name is Dwayne Polk.”
“Yes ma’am. Do you know my daddy?”
Her lips were colorless, and she shook a little as she spoke. “Why in the world would I know your father, Elizabeth? Do you imagine that we travel in the same circles?”
“Not at all, ma’am,” I said in a quiet voice.
Mrs. Hollingsworth lifted her chin and sat board-stiff in her chair. “I don’t need to know him, Elizabeth, because I can guess what he’s like. He probably drives a pickup truck and no doubt imbibes too much alcohol. I suspect he uses foul language and is quite an uncouth individual. Is that an accurate picture of your father, dear?”
“Somewhat.” I swallowed. “He’s not a choirboy, but—”
“Aren’t you curious as to how I know what your father is like, Elizabeth?” Her voice was so icy, it could have shattered into pieces.
“You can tell me if you want,” I croaked.
She lifted her chin and looked at me with an expression that was no longer bland, but full of venom.
“It’s quite simply this, Elizabeth. Everything about you says that you are the daughter of a South Carolinian redneck. It’s the way you talk, the way you dress, even the way you’ve been fumbling with that teacup. You may as well wear a sign around your neck.”
I put my teac
up down on the table and swallowed hard. The tension in the air had gotten so thick it was like breathing cotton.
“I see,” I said.
Her lips tightened. “No, I don’t think you do see. Otherwise you wouldn’t have had the audacity to think that you could actually marry into our family and imagine that I would accept you.”
Mrs. Hollingsworth’s jaw looked like it was set in cement. I kept thinking to myself over and over, “Jesus in a distressing disguise; Jesus in a distressing disguise.” I wanted to run out of the room crying, but I knew I had to stay and face whatever she was serving up.
“Let me tell you, Ms. Polk, why I came home from France early. I got an e-mail from my friend Judy Castlewood. Her daughter Marcie had seen Timothy at the Summit Club with, as Marcie said, ‘a country bumpkin.’ Dear, sweet Marcie nearly fainted when Timothy introduced you as his wife, no less. After I got the e-mail, I immediately made travel arrangements to come home.”
The irises of her eyes glittered like quartz under the light of the chandelier as she continued. “Once Timothy told me who you were, I’d planned to pay you a visit to see if I could reason with you. Unfortunately, the next thing I knew, your grandmother had died. I’m not a heartless woman. I felt that we had to get her buried before I could confront you. Now that your grandmother has been given a decent funeral, courtesy of my checkbook I might add, it’s time we had our discussion.”
She leaned toward me and glared at me with those odd, colorless eyes of hers. “All I really want to know, Elizabeth, is what exactly is it going to cost me to get you out of my son’s life?”
I gaped at her. It took me a moment to accept what she was saying. “Mrs. Hollingsworth,” I stammered, “I don’t want any of your money.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Elizabeth, I’m losing patience with you. Name a figure so that we can reach some type of agreement.”
Bet Your Bottom Dollar (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 1) Page 21
