Dixie Divas

by Virginia Brown

  I agreed, and when Bitty asked what I was wearing, I had to think. I have lots of pants and sweaters, blouses and jackets that are very nice, but my supply of party clothes is limited to a sheer bronze blouse worn with my black chiffon pants, or worn with my black chiffon skirt.

  “Something green, of course,” I finally said. “I’ll put a ribbon in my hair.”

  Bitty looked at me. “You don’t have anything to wear, do you. Well, that’s just not right. Come on. We’ll go right over to the Dress Barn and find something for you. Tina is excellent. I don’t know why she has that horrid name for her shop, when she has all those beautiful clothes made by Versace and Wang and Chanel in the back room. But then, I think the name was already there when she bought it, so she just left it. People get accustomed to things, you know, and change is always risky.”

  Despite my protests, we ended up at the Dress Barn, where Tina, obviously a fashion maven, sized me up, measured me, clacked through a row of clothes hanging on a rack inside a closet that’d survive Armageddon, and pulled out a gorgeous dress that took my breath away. Not so much because it was absolutely stunning, but because the price tag was more than I’d made a month in my last job.

  “Nonsense,” Tina said when I made a choking sound and backed away, “you’re very well proportioned. This will be lovely on you.”

  I looked at her. Well-proportioned must have a new definition in the clothing industry than it does in fashion magazines and doctors’ offices. Granted, I have a nice-sized chest, but that’s just to balance out my generous hips and thighs so I won’t spin hopelessly around on my ample rear like one of those Weebles my daughter played with as a child. You know, a plastic toy person or animal shaped like an egg that never turns over because it’s bottom heavy. That’s me.

  Before I knew quite how to get out a word since my lungs were depleted of air just looking at the price tag, Tina and Bitty had me stripped down to my cotton Hanes and sensible bra and poured into the dress. They stood me in front of a three-way mirror so my humiliation could be tripled, told me to open my eyes and stop being so silly, and then Tina—who’s much taller than Bitty and can manage it—pulled my hair up off my neck.

  “So you can see the lovely way it drapes over your shoulders,” she explained. “Of course, you’ll wear a different bra with this. Or none at all.”

  Already lightheaded from lack of oxygen, I nearly passed out at that last thought, so to shock myself back to consciousness, I looked in the mirror.

  Was that me? A dark green thin velvet draped over my body down to my knees, where it flared out just a little bit in one of those diagonal hemlines that dip lower on one side than the other. The neckline scooped into a soft vee shape, it had long fitted sleeves, and designs in pale green swirled from one shoulder to waist and down one thigh to the knee. Somehow, it had the effect of being slimming while accenting my bosom and minimizing my thighs and hips. It’s amazing the deceptive packaging men can create and women can wear.

  Bitty laughed. “She’s speechless. We’ll take it.”

  “I love it,” I said, “but we won’t take it. I’d have to cash in my 401K.”

  “Your birthday is in a few months. Consider this a gift,” Bitty said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s too much. We don’t exchange gifts anymore, remember? We stopped doing that years ago.”

  “Then it’s my treat. Consider it payment for all I’ve put you through lately.”

  Tina wisely remained silent and didn’t offer any comments, though everyone in Holly Springs and Marshall County would know what Bitty meant by that.

  “Payment is a free lunch, not a two thousand dollar dress, Bitty.”

  “Now you listen to me, Trinket, in the first place, I get a hefty discount here, and in the second place, I don’t want you showing up at the party looking like Orphan Annie. It’s rude. And I have the money and want to do this, and you know one of the cardinal rules of courtesy is that one must know how to politely accept a gift.”

  “But this is too much, Bitty.”

  “Good Lord, Trinket, it’s not like I’m buying you Montrose or anything. Take the damn dress!”

  “Fine. But I’m buying the shoes.”

  Bitty smiled. See what I mean about her always getting her way?

  Chapter Twelve

  So there I was, two nights before Mama and Daddy got back from their cruise, decked out in a dress Joan Collins would love, complete with my emerald necklace that matches my emerald earring—the last in the singular, since Brownie either never passed the other earring or it’s still well-hidden for later consumption—and my new shoes, strappy, short-heeled sandals in a lovely warm gold that Bitty finally approved after accepting the fact I was not going to pay six hundred dollars for the shoes she wanted me to buy. We’d had to drive all the way to Memphis for them anyway, and I’d had enough of shopping with Bitty by then, as I think she had of me.

  The night of the party, I met Bitty at her house, and instead of her sporty little Miata, we got into the larger black Mercedes she usually keeps in the garage for such occasions. It’s part of the settlement from her third husband, Franklin Kirby III. If Bitty had a vehicle to signify every divorce, her house would soon look like an Import dealer’s car lot.

  Truth be told, I was a little nervous about going to this party. It wasn’t so much that I was shy or anything about meeting new people and seeing old acquaintances, or even that I felt like a complete fraud in a dress with a price higher than a cat’s back, but I’ve just never really been one for socializing with people who earn more in an hour than I do in a month. It’s the opposite of being a snob, I suppose. It’s not like I have an inferiority complex or anything, but what on earth can people from two such opposite poles have in common to discuss? The TV season getting shorter every year? Politics and religion are two definite no-nos. Not that I’m not fairly well-versed in such subjects, but it’s certain death to the festive mood of a party if guests begin to scream and sling canapés at each other.

  Bitty, whose childhood was very different than mine because her mama came from an old money family, and her daddy went into their family business and made scads of money, was at home with these people. Not me. We weren’t poor, but neither did we always have new cars and trips to Europe. Or even ponies.

  Anyway, my stomach was jittery and I hoped I was more composed than I looked when we pulled up in front of Easthaven, a four-columned white house on the fringe of Holly Springs. A valet came immediately to take Bitty’s car, and we got out and I sucked in a deep breath.

  “I wish you’d have let me eat something before we got here,” I grumbled to Bitty.

  “Honestly, Trinket, the days of Scarlett O’Hara are long past. There will be plenty of h’or d’oeuvres to nibble on, and besides, you don’t want your tummy sticking out in that dress. First impressions are important. You do look spectacular, by the way. Tina is always right.”

  I felt spectacular, in a quivery, uneasy sort of way.

  The interior of Easthaven definitely lived up to the promise of the exterior. Antiques filled every room, expensive carpets cushioned guests’ feet and covered glowing heart pine floors in plush designs, crystal chandeliers hung in several rooms, and stained glass transoms over tall double doors lent a lovely glow. Bitty was right. I’d have looked like Orphan Annie in my own clothes. These guests wore understated but expensive elegance like I wear comfortable jogging pants and sweatshirts.

  Bitty introduced me to senators, doctors, lawyers, even a Holly Springs mayor or two. Past and present, I presumed. I had just managed to grab a crystal flute of excellent champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter dressed in black, hoping we’d soon get to the table that held food, when Melody Doyle approached us, arm-in-arm with a smiling man of medium height and rather uneven good looks. He reminded me in one way of Ashley Wilkes—yes, another Gone With the Wind reference, this time to the movie—slender, slightly bookish looking, but like Bitty had noticed, with a definite edge. Maybe
it was his eyes. Hazel, narrow, and close-set. But his smile was very nice. His pale hair swept to one side, and he wore it a little long.

  “Bitty,” Melody said, “I know you’ve met Dr. Johnston, but I thought you two should get better acquainted.”

  Introductions to me were made, and Jefferson Johnston seemed the proper gentleman as he politely shook hands, welcomed us to his home, asked after our needs, and then turned his smile on Bitty. “I understand you have extensive knowledge of antiques, Mrs. Hollandale.”

  “Oh please, call me Bitty. Everyone does.” Bitty returned his smile with one so dazzling I swear it was like a flashbulb going off. I took a sip of champagne to keep from saying something regrettable.

  “Only if you call me Jefferson,” Johnston murmured, sounding much too intimate in a square of two too many people. I looked over at Melody, who had a fixed smile on her face. Uh oh.

  “Bitty dear,” I said, “would you mind helping me find the buffet table? I’m famished.”

  “Oh, I’ll take you right there,” Melody said immediately, and linked her arm through mine to turn me away. “It’s against that wall over there, out of the way so people have room to mill about. Everything seems to be going nicely, don’t you think?”

  I looked at her. She sounded rather proprietary, a note I’ve heard before in countless tones from countless hostesses, usually at Tupperware parties.

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s absolutely lovely. Dr. Johnston’s home is magnificent.”

  “You should see the nineteenth century sunroom off the back. It has one of those peaked roofs so popular back then, all this Victorian scroll work, and big elegant wicker furniture that Queen Victoria herself once owned.”

  “I see you’ve taken the fifty-cent tour,” I said with a laugh, and Melody smiled.

  “Actually, since I started work for Dr. Johnston as his receptionist, I helped him plan this party. I hope everything goes smoothly so he doesn’t fire me.”

  “I’ll bet you get a big raise. This is a wonderful party.”

  That was sincere. There didn’t seem to be a false note anywhere, from the complicated flower arrangements sitting on tables, to the immaculate sheen of wood floors and brass work, to the expansive buffet spread out on a table right in front of us. An ice sculpture of intricate design rose from a gigantic bowl filled with ice and shrimp. A closer look at the sculpture, and I saw it was a castle.

  “Is that Blarney Castle?” I asked, and Melody looked very pleased.

  “Yes it is, you have a good eye for things. Dr. Johnston is part Irish, and of course, I am as well, so this is a favorite holiday. We have soda bread, Irish stew, and of course, tidbits to snack on, all the dishes you could want. There’s Beluga caviar in that dish.”

  I nodded politely, though I had my eye on the stew and soda bread. Something filling. I hadn’t been exaggerating when I’d told Bitty I hadn’t eaten all day. I’d had a half-slice of toast for breakfast that morning, taken Brownie out on a leash with plastic bag in hand and a futile hope he’d eject my other earring, then fed the cats and released the caged ones after their final dose of medicine—thank God—and gone with Bitty to get my hair cut, nails done, and even a pedicure. By the time I got back, it was time for another round of canine and feline room service; then I’d soaked in the tub with bath salts while soft music played, and had fifteen minutes before I needed to dress. Quite a busy day.

  Melody, as assigned hostess, left me at the buffet to tend to other guests. I watched her go across the room, her slender figure clad in a form-fitting emerald green dress that highlighted her dedication to exercise or excellent genes, her dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders. A very pretty girl.

  “Bitty seems to be having a fine time tonight,” a familiar voice said, and I smiled up at Jackson Lee.

  “Bitty always has a fine time.” I noticed that Jackson Lee couldn’t take his eyes off her, and felt a little sorry for him.

  “She’s always the belle of the ball,” he said.

  “Yes. I’m not sure how she does it, but I think it has something to do with those hypnosis classes she took in college. You know, How to Mesmerize Men and Make Them Mindless Minions.”

  Jackson Lee grinned. “Whatever she does, it’s pretty powerful.”

  “So I’ve observed.”

  “She’s wrapping Jefferson Johnston around her little finger right now.”

  There was something wistful in Jackson Lee’s tone, so I said, “That doesn’t worry me. He is not only too young for her, but I don’t think a foot doctor makes that much money, despite this house. Not in Holly Springs, anyway. There can’t be that many people here with bad feet and good insurance.”

  A slight frown creased Jackson Lee’s brows. “You know, I’ve worked on some medical cases, so I had to do a little research one time on podiatry. Maybe things have changed, but I’m not so sure Dr. Johnston is that good at it.”

  “Well, he must be doing something right, because I’ve heard he stays booked up and it’s hard to get an appointment.”

  Nodding, Jackson Lee said, “Then he probably makes more than enough money.”

  “Last time I heard, no one got rich from taking Medicaid patients.”

  Jackson Lee laughed. “You have a sharp sense of humor, Trinket.”

  “It’s a gift,” I said modestly. “Most people think I’m just bitchy. I’m glad you’re able to recognize the difference.”

  “Being bitchy has definite advantages, so don’t give up hope.”

  “Are you kidding? I prefer it this way. Keeps the rabble at bay.”

  Bitty’s laugh rose above the conversation and stringed quartet, and Jackson Lee looked her way again. “Think I’ll just go on over and join in,” he said.

  “Take your hip boots,” I advised, “it might get pretty deep.”

  With all distractions temporarily aside, I applied myself to the buffet. Shrimp and cocktail sauce, of course, three different kinds of cheese, soda bread and stew, several olives, a slab of roast beef, slice of ham, generous chunk of roast chicken topped with pulled pork, and tender asparagus tips in cheese sauce. My plate was almost too heavy to hold, so I looked around for a place to sit.

  “The sunroom,” a deep voice said at my left shoulder, and when I turned, he added, “It’s almost empty of people, and has lots of little tables and comfortable couches and chairs.”

  I didn’t know quite what to say. The last time I’d seen this man, I’d had moldy straw in my hair and jelly on my face. And we’d discussed canine bowel movements.

  “Dr. Coltrane,” I said faintly, then lied, “It’s so nice to see you again.”

  He grinned. “How’s Brownie?”

  “Alive only by the grace of God and Metamucil,” I replied.

  “And the other earring?”

  “Unseen. He may have hidden it for a midnight snack. I’ve been watching him, but so far haven’t been able to track him to his secret lair.”

  It was ridiculous the way my mouth went suddenly dry and my heart plummeted to my stomach. The plate of food became superfluous. No doubt, my heart would soon be digested.

  “Brownie probably has several hiding places. It’s his nature to burrow. Look under beds and in the back of closets,” he said. Coltrane continued to smile while I continued to babble.

  “My parents will be back soon. My mother may be familiar with his current lair. I think he has the ability to become invisible. He makes me nervous when he just disappears for a while. I’m considering a bell for his collar.”

  “That might help. Care to join me?”

  While I briefly pondered the implications of that invitation, Dr. Coltrane spooned some caviar onto his plate next to crackers and chicken, and picked up the glass of champagne he’d set down on the table. Light from tall candles in Hurricane glass flickered on his face and hair, and picked out the distinguished silvery strands that only make men look handsome and women look old. I remembered suddenly that I had no use for men.

  �
��I’m fifty-one,” I blurted, and he smiled kindly.

  “My middle name is Hayes. The sunroom is this way. We’ll continue sharing statistics where it’s quieter.”

  I found myself being pulled by some magnetic force that sucked away free will. I played rat to his Pied Piper. That’s how I found myself alone in a Victorian sunroom with subtle lighting and Dr. Coltrane. Music from the stringed quartet playing in some alcove drifted out to us, a nice background for conversation. The inevitable buzz of conversations, laughter, and occasional loud voice sounded far away.

  “Much better,” Dr. Coltrane said when we were seated in white wicker chairs with six-inch cushions, and tiny little white wicker tables held our plates. “It got a bit noisy out there for me.”

  “I hate parties,” I said, and internally cringed at the implied insult to Dr. Johnston, who may very well be his best friend. “Not the people who give them, of course. Or the people who go to them.” My underarms got damp and my face felt hot.

  “I’m only here because I have the night off and am supposed to be representing the staff of the clinic. Or whatever excuse they used to get me here to meet single women.”

  Brain function ceased. So did the physical ability to move. I wondered how long it’d be before I keeled over onto the floor out of sheer embarrassment. If only I could be like Brownie and become invisible. Then I’d go out to the parlor or living room, or wherever Bitty was flirting her curvaceous little ass off, and pound her to an unrecognizable pulp. Then I’d pull out every last strand of her blond hair and weave it into a poncho I could wear to prison. Like a reverse Martha Stewart with her pretty poncho made by a fellow prisoner at Camp Cupcake.

  Dr. Coltrane looked up at me. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Suddenly, I’m not as hungry as I thought.” I tossed down the flute of champagne and harbored other mean thoughts about Bitty while Dr. Coltrane pushed caviar onto a cracker and ate the disgusting stuff.

  “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you by bringing you out here with me,” he said after a moment. “It’s just that when I saw the friendly face of someone capable of discussing more than a TV reality show or be-bop, I grabbed you like a life preserver. Can’t women under forty talk about anything else?”