Savannah Blues

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “All righty then,” she said, moving her cart toward the fruit aisle. “We’ll see you tomorrow night. Everybody will be just so thrilled to get to know you!”

  Chapter 24

  I was just taking the last of the cheesecakes out of the oven when BeBe came breezing in the kitchen door.

  She looked at the lineup on the counter—two praline turtle cakes, two mocha swirls, two peach melbas.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, pulling a bar stool up to the counter.

  “Not so good,” I told her. “Mama had to change churches because I’m so notorious. My neighbors cross the street to avoid having to talk to me. I’m a tour bus stop for Scenic Savannah Tours. Daddy’s got another bumper crop of zucchini. You think we could sell zucchini cheesecake?”

  She shuddered. “Not at my restaurant, we couldn’t.”

  “I’ve started shopping incognito at the Kroger. And people still turn around and point at me and whisper. Like I’m a damn outlaw or something.”

  “You’re not an outlaw, you’re a folk hero,” BeBe said. “Just yesterday, when I was at the beauty parlor, getting my hair foiled, you’ll never guess what they had up at the front desk, where the receptionist sits.”

  “Plastic rain hats,” I guessed.

  “No, sweetie, this was my hairdresser’s, not your mama’s. I’ll tell you. They had an empty coffee can. And somebody had clipped your picture out of the paper, and it was pasted on the can, along with a sign that said ‘Free Weezie Foley.’ Can you believe that?”

  I shook my head.

  “I told KiKi, that’s the owner, that you’re my best friend. And look—” Now she was pulling an envelope stuffed with twenties out of her purse. “She sent all of this along for you.”

  BeBe fanned the bills out on the counter. There were at least twenty of them.

  “Money? For me? Why?”

  “It’s the Weezie Foley Defense Fund,” BeBe said. “You’re a cause. Every woman in Savannah wants to give you a medal for putting a bullet in Caroline DeSantos. You’re the patron saint of ex-wives everywhere. You’re a Lifetime channel movie of the week.”

  “I feel like an outcast,” I said. “Except for one thing. When I was at the Kroger earlier, Merijoy Rucker stopped me. She invited me to her supper club tomorrow night.”

  BeBe’s ears perked right up. “The Ruckers? They invited you to the Ardsley Park Supper Club? That’s great. I’ve been dying to go to one of their dinners.”

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked.

  “Honey,” she said, “the Ardsley Park Supper Club is ultraexclusive. Nobody, but nobody, gets invited unless they all agree on it. And they never have any more than twelve guests at the parties, because that’s all the room they have in their dining rooms. People who belong to the Ardsley Park Supper Club do not believe in folding chairs and card tables. And the food is supposed to be fabulous. It’s really a big deal to be invited. You should feel honored.”

  “You go,” I said, easing a cheesecake out of the springform pan and onto a cooling rack. “I’m staying home tomorrow.”

  “What? No. Absolutely not. Weezie, why did you accept her invitation if you had no intention of going?”

  “I didn’t accept. Not exactly. Merijoy Rucker just sort of assumed. She has that effect on people. She just runs right over you. I kept telling her no, and she kept hearing yes.”

  “I’ve dated men like that,” BeBe said, running her finger around the batter bowl sitting in the sink.

  “And that’s another reason I’m not going,” I added. “Merijoy says I have to bring a date. And if I don’t bring one, she’ll fix me up with one. And you know what I think about fix-ups.” I glared meaningfully at her.

  “Now don’t start,” BeBe said. “It worked out fine, didn’t it? I don’t get what you’ve got against Daniel Stipanek. He is absolutely yummy. Can you honestly sit there and tell me with a straight face that you don’t find him devastatingly attractive?”

  “I don’t find him attractive. Not at all.”

  “You lie like a rug,” BeBe said. She stuck the tip of her acrylic nail into one of the cooled cheesecakes. “Oh darn. This one has a crack in it. Why don’t we just go ahead and cut it into slices?”

  “That’s fifty dollars’ worth of profit for me,” I protested.

  She reached into her purse, slapped two twenties and a ten on the counter. “Here. Are you gonna cut me a slice of that damned cake or not? I’m famished.”

  I cut her a slice of cheesecake and poured her a glass of milk.

  “What don’t you like about Daniel?” she demanded. “And be specific.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, helping myself to a forkful of her cheesecake. It was the peach melba, a new recipe I’d been experimenting with, peach topping with a fresh raspberry glaze. “He’s not my type. He’s too dark, for one thing.”

  “You’ve been wondering about that tan line of his,” BeBe said, waggling her eyebrows. “Naughty, naughty.”

  “Shut up. I’ve just never been attracted to his type. Men with dark hair. Never have been.”

  “Tal is totally beige,” BeBe observed. “And we know how well that worked out. Don’t we?”

  “Daniel’s eyes are so blue. It’s unnatural for a man to have eyes that color.”

  “They’re not contacts,” BeBe said. “I checked.”

  “He’s built wrong.”

  She pretended to choke on her cheesecake. “No, Weezie. He is built all right. My God. He is so buff. What’s not to like about a body like that?”

  “I’m just not used to somebody like him,” I said, struggling to put it into words. “Tal is, was, tall; sort of architectural, you know. All smooth planes and straight hair. Pale skin and sharp angles. I used to love to look at his fingers. So long and tapered.”

  “Unlike the rest of his anatomy,” BeBe cracked.

  “No comment,” I said primly. “Now, Daniel is nothing like Tal. He’s shorter. And those muscles. There’s such a thing as being too muscular, you know. I never have been one to go for that kind of thing.”

  I helped myself to another bite of BeBe’s cheesecake. Strictly for research purposes.

  “What about that behind?” BeBe asked. “Are you going to sit there and tell me that Daniel does not have the most gorgeous set of buns you have ever seen on a man?”

  “I’ve never noticed,” I said, crossing my toes.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” BeBe taunted. “Most of the waiters and busboys at Guale are gay. And, honey, they’ve noticed. They practically fight to get into that kitchen when Daniel’s working back there.”

  “What about that tattoo of his? Very unsanitary. And sort of white-trashy, don’t you think?”

  “It’s just a little bitty old Marine Corps eagle,” BeBe said. “He told me all about it. He got drunk on his first leave from Parris Island and had it done. And no, I do not think he is the least bit white trash. That’s the trouble with you, Eloise. You were mixed up with that snotty Evans crowd for so long you started buying into that blueblood bullshit of theirs.”

  She took a swig of milk and patted her lips with the napkin I offered.

  “I’ll take Daniel Stipanek’s tattoo over that so-called pedigree of Talmadge Evans in a New York minute. I can’t stand that family and all their pretensions. They’d like the world to think they’re hot snot on a gold platter. But really, they’re just cold boogers on a paper plate.”

  I laughed so hard when she said that that I nearly spit out the bite of cheesecake I’d just snitched off her plate.

  She gave me an exasperated look. “Damn it, get your own slice of cake. At least you can afford the calories.” She picked up my wrist and dropped it quickly. “My God. How much weight have you lost since this whole thing started?”

  “Hardly any.”

  It was a lie and we both knew it. I’d stayed clear of the scales, but I could tell from the way my underwear sagged that I’d probably dropped close to ten pounds since the night
Caroline’s body fell from that closet out at Beaulieu.

  BeBe got a plate from the cupboard and cut me a slab of cheesecake. She got a Coke out of the fridge and set it by my plate. “Now eat,” she ordered. “And tell me some more lies about how you are not attracted to Daniel Stipanek.”

  I chewed and thought about it.

  “We don’t have anything in common. We don’t even like the same kind of music. I like classic rock and roll. He likes beach music. I didn’t even know what that was until he told me.”

  BeBe shook her head at my ignorance. “You mean you’ve never made out to ‘Under the Boardwalk’?”

  “I got groped by Chuck Manetti once at a Van Halen concert at the civic center,” I offered.

  She clucked her sympathy. “Poor deprived child.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’ll concede that Daniel is mildly attractive. I’ll even concede that his personality is not nearly as repulsive as I originally thought.”

  “You must have liked him once,” BeBe said. “You admitted to me that you dated years ago, in high school.”

  Suddenly, unbidden, I flashed back to that naked romp under the live oaks at Beaulieu. I felt my face flush, and I got up to rinse my plate off at the sink to keep my hawkeyed friend from noticing my discomfort.

  I would die before I would admit it to BeBe, or anyone else, but the main problem with Daniel was that he was different. And he was dangerous. And right now, I had enough danger in my life.

  “It just won’t work,” I told BeBe, keeping my back turned to her. “I’m not ready for a relationship yet. Daniel can be sweet. I’ll say that for him. When he took me home for lunch, he fixed me soup. Chilled seafood bisque. He’s a wonderful cook. I can see why you want to keep him happy at Guale.”

  “Soup?” BeBe stood up and walked over to the sink, took me by the shoulders, and turned me so I was facing her. “He made you soup? Sweet Jesus in heaven. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “What’s the big deal? He fixed me a sandwich too. With fresh basil. I never knew a man who grew his own herbs before.”

  “The big deal,” BeBe said, “is this. A man who makes soup for you has got to be fantastic in the sack. On second thought, if you don’t want him, I’ll take him. Although, you know, I have a policy. Never fuck the help.”

  “Why?” I wanted to know.

  “Because it’s a bad idea to mix business with pleasure. And besides, it’s more fun to fuck the competition. You know?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, what has soup got to do with being a great lover?” Now I was flashing back to my boat date at Beaulieu again. The only thing memorable about that encounter was the variety of places I’d been bitten by bugs. I’d used a whole bottle of calamine lotion when I got home that night.

  “Weezie, Weezie, Weezie,” BeBe said, in the manner of a tutor with a mildly retarded student. “You’re a great cook yourself. Think about it. Soup takes time. It takes patience. It takes attention to detail. A man who makes soup knows how to take his own sweet time with things. He uses just the right ingredients. And he whisks in the seasonings with just the right flick of the wrists. Then, and only then, he turns up the heat to finish things off. Bring matters to a simmer. And you know about good soup, right? The longer it takes, the better it tastes.”

  I picked up a piece of junk mail from the counter and fanned myself with it.

  “Lawsy me,” I drawled. “I think all this talk about soup and sex is gettin’ me aroused.”

  BeBe gave me a broad wink. “Think about how much better the real thing will be.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 25

  Time was running short. Half a dozen times Friday morning I reached for the phone—to call Merijoy and beg off the dinner invitation. And each time I chickened out.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to go to her party. I just didn’t want to be the pathetic soul who couldn’t scare up a date for a stupid little dinner party.

  But it was true. My date prospects were nil. Most of the men I know in Savannah were either married or gay. I did have one bona fide single straight male friend—Tony Fields. We’d been friends since grade school. He and his second wife, Bonnie, had split up six months before my divorce from Tal. We’d had lunch together a couple of times, but mostly just to commiserate about the trials of being suddenly single.

  The trouble with inviting Tony was that I knew he ran in Merijoy’s crowd. He even played golf with Randy Rucker. I didn’t want people to start thinking we were an item—because realistically, we never would be.

  To get my mind off my troubles I decided to check out an alleged estate sale in Baldwin Park.

  Did I say estate sale? The ad in the Pennysaver promised antiques, but the offerings consisted mostly of a garageful of ugly outsized polyester frocks, a broken riding lawn mower, and a mound of mismatched plastic giveaway cups from fast-food restaurants. I knew there were people who collected things like NASCAR cups or Star Wars action figures, but frankly, I’m not into plastic.

  The morning wasn’t a complete loss, though; on the way home I stopped off at the Goodwill, where I picked up four green Depression-glass sherbet cups in the Horseshoe pattern, which is a fairly unusual pattern, for fifty cents apiece. I didn’t have to look at my price guide to know that the cups booked out at fifteen dollars apiece.

  The phone was ringing.

  “Weezie?”

  A man’s voice, one I didn’t recognize.

  “This is she,” I said warily.

  “It’s Daniel,” he said. Funny, he sounded different over the phone. His voice was low, the Savannah accent not as pronounced. He sounded like a college professor, if you want the truth.

  “Oh.” I was stumped for something to say. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. You all right?”

  “Pretty good,” I said. “Think we’ll get any rain?” Truly, this was the most inane conversation I’d ever participated in. Pretty soon I’d be asking him how much mileage his truck got, or for his opinions on term life insurance.

  “Look here,” he said. “I hate this kind of thing. BeBe was by the restaurant this morning. She happened to mention that you need a date for something you have to go to tonight. And here’s the thing…”

  “I do not need a date,” I said, my voice dripping ice.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Sorry to bother you. Guess I misunderstood. See you around.”

  He was about to hang up. It was after one o’clock. There was no way I could scrounge up anybody with a pulse and a penis this late in the day. And Merijoy would be furious if I showed up alone and messed up her seating chart. My already sullied reputation would be worse than mud.

  “Daniel. Wait.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I, um, well, look. I’m in a situation. I let myself get talked into going to this dinner party tonight. The hostess is an old classmate of mine, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. And it’s a couples thing, and it’s such late notice…”

  “The Ruckers,” Daniel said. “BeBe told me all about it. They come into the restaurant all the time. What time?”

  “Seven-thirty. Sharp.”

  “Coat and tie?”

  I hadn’t thought to ask. But it was deep summer. Usually in Savannah a golf shirt would suffice, but then again, if this supper club was as fancy as BeBe claimed, that would be all wrong. Again I was wracked with indecision.

  Daniel had no such problem.

  “I’ll wear a sport coat and bring a tie. That all right?”

  “Yes,” I said gratefully.

  “You sure now?” he drawled. The old Daniel was back. “Your rich friends ain’t gonna think you’re slummin’—taking a short-order cook to a fancy house in Ardsley Park?”

  He was laying it on thick. And I probably deserved it. “They’ll be lucky to meet you,” I said. And I was surprised to find that I meant it.

  With my date dilemma
solved, I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at the computer, listing merchandise on eBay.

  Not all the stuff I buy is suitable for selling at an on-line auction site like eBay. Furniture, for instance, which most people like to see before buying, not to mention the prohibitive cost of shipping. I rarely sell fine crystal on-line either.

  But in the past year, I’d starting selling lots of smalls on the Internet. I did really well with things like silver, linens, china, pottery, jewelry, and even a few small oil paintings and water colors. I’d bought myself a good digital camera, and after only a few false starts, I’d gotten pretty good at photographing my antiques to their best advantage.

  I didn’t make a ton of money on the Internet, but I’d discovered it was a great way to find a market on a much larger scale than I could ever have dreamed of reaching otherwise.

  Generally, I spend one day a week cataloging merchandise, updating my Web site, and checking auctions in progress, and another day packing and shipping items to be sent, literally, all over the world.

  I had mostly odds and ends to add to the site today. Some funky fifties costume jewelry, a peacock-pattern chenille bedspread, and a gorgeous banquet-sized damask tablecloth and twelve matching hemstitched napkins, which would, I hoped, bring around a hundred dollars.

  I’d picked the bedspread and table linens up with a five-dollar box lot of linens at an auction in Pooler, but it had taken time to get them ready to sell.

  Like a lot of vintage linens, my tablecloth had been packed away for decades and had yellowed with age, with several prominent brown stains on the cloth and the napkins.

  I used my meemaw’s favorite stain-removal method to clean them, making a paste of equal parts automatic dishwashing powder, an old-fashioned powdered detergent called Biz, and baking soda. You launder the linens, and then, while the cloth is still damp, you put the moistened paste on any stains and let the paste dry, preferably outside.

  The outside drying had been another bone of contention with Caroline. She was horrified the first time I hung laundry to dry on the little clothesline I rigged on my side of the courtyard fence. Tal had even called his lawyer, who had called Uncle James, to make me take the clothesline down.