Howe led Elizabeth between two of the many SUVs and deluxe pickups parked in front.
Please, God, I’m begging, don’t let this be a disaster.
They weren’t even halfway up the front stairs when a delegation came out to greet them, headed by Harve. “Howe! So glad you could make it!” He shook Elizabeth’s hand. “And your lovely bride. Y’all come on in.”
“Harve,” she acknowledged as Howe did the same. “Tom. Good to see you, Adam. Phil.”
The others said their hellos and shook hands, but Elizabeth had no illusion that the open curiosity in their expressions was sparked by concern. They were there to find out if the rumors about Howe were true.
Not that she’d heard any—she’d be the last one to know—but she knew Whittington.
Steeling herself, she gripped Howe’s left hand in case she had to extract him quickly from a thorny situation.
The minute they walked into the restaurant, all conversation ceased and every eye turned to watch them.
Feeling as if she’d woken up naked in church, Elizabeth forced herself to smile as if nothing were amiss, but Howe said a cheerful, “Hi, everybody. Good to see you all.”
The openly friendly remark from the same man who’d rarely granted anybody so much as a nod prompted a spattering of hi’s in response, and a rush of whispered comments.
Harve hustled them into the private dining room, where the same thing happened, only this time, the president, Frank Clopton, rapped his gavel loudly from the head table, then announced over the PA system, “Hi, everybody! Let’s all give Howe Whittington a big Rotary hand to welcome him back.”
As applause broke out, Elizabeth caught the irony and bold assessment on most of the expressions turned their way. But Howe acted like a gubernatorial candidate, calling out names, shaking hands, and greeting everybody he could get to. He tried to free his left hand from her grip more than once, obviously tempted to hug the few genuinely interested friends they encountered, but she refused to let go, sparing him that, at least.
Frank left his place at the head table and came back to welcome them personally. “Howe, great to see you looking so well. Back down to your fighting weight.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I see you’ve been taking good care of him.” He patted Elizabeth’s back, patronizing. “What would we do without our little Rotary Annes?” he gushed.
Elizabeth managed not to snarl at the old blowhard.
“Come on,” Frank insisted, taking hold of Howe’s elbow. “Got a place for you both at the head table. You two are guests of honor.”
Elizabeth shot Howe a panicked glance. She’d planned on sitting in back. By the door, in case they had to make a quick escape.
Howe registered her concern, then bent close to Frank’s good ear to murmur, “Thanks. I appreciate that, but I’d rather keep a low profile, if that’s okay with you. First time out, you know. We’ll just sit back here.”
Frank eyed him with skepticism, practically bellowing, “Since when does Howe Whittington turn down a spot at the head table?”
Uh-oh.
Elizabeth’s mouth opened to respond, but Howe was quicker, leaning even closer to Frank’s good ear. “Since Jesus and I had a little welcome-back meeting at the end of a coma. So cut me some slack, okay?”
Frank was struck dumb for at least ten seconds—a world record. Then he recovered with a flustered, “Well, at least let us get you to the head of the line.” He tried to pull them forward, but Howe dug in, a hint of his old menace returning.
“We’re just fine where we are.” Howe extracted his elbow from Frank’s grip with a jerk. Then he saw Robert Harris come in.
“Sorry to cut this short, Frank,” Howe said, “but I need to talk to Robert about something.” Eyes on Robert, Howe dismissed the president with a nod. “Thanks for making me feel so welcome.” He pointed in Robert’s direction and barked a loud, “Robert! Wait up.”
Everybody in the room went still. Howell Whittington never yelled. Ever. Much less chased anybody down. People came to him, not the other way around.
Shocked, Robert stopped in his tracks with a smile. “Howe. Great to see you.”
“Thanks for rescuing me from Frank,” Howe murmured.
“Anything I can do, you name it,” Robert said quietly. “It’s small enough repayment for—”
Howe cut him short, turning his back to the rest of the room to murmur, “Whoa, now. None of that. Remember, it’s our little secret.”
Robert colored. “Sorry. I just . . . Just thanks, for everything.”
“ ’Nuff said.” Howe clapped him on the back. “Let’s get in line while there’s still some corn left.”
“I need to speak to Phil Mason first,” Robert deferred. “Y’all go ahead.”
Elizabeth relaxed a little as they got in the buffet line. So far, so good. Howe hadn’t self-destructed. Yet.
He let out a happy laugh, which was enough, by itself, to make half those present think the end times were upon them. Then he sobered abruptly.
Elizabeth followed his line of sight to see their ophthalmologist, Mark Leonard, come in, late as usual, and cut in line—as usual.
“Wups.” Howe pulled free of her grasp. “Be right back. I need to have a word with Mark.”
Uh-oh! Elizabeth hurried after him. “Wait for me,” she whispered through a fixed smile as she chased him. “Remember. You promised.”
Howe turned to her, his manner serious. “I know, but this conversation needs to be private.”
“Then make an appointment,” she shot back beneath a benign expression.
“I tried,” he retorted. “He’s booked solid for weeks. Just give us a minute. It won’t take long.”
No way was she cutting him loose. “Howell, you promised I could stay with you through this.”
Nostrils flaring, he shot her a brief glare. “Damn, Lizzie—sorry,” he muttered tightly. “I hate when you call me ‘Howell.’ You sound just like my mother.”
“And I hate when you cuss and call me ‘Lizzie.’ ” She leveled a quelling look at him. “I rest my case.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, but relented. “Oh, all right. Come on.” He took her hand. “But try to act like you can’t hear what I tell him, okay?”
This did not bode well. “We’ll see.”
“Mark!” Howe hailed, drawing away from the line to where the doctor stood. “A quick word?”
Mark sniffed—a constant affectation—glanced longingly at the fast-disappearing deviled eggs, then reluctantly came over, partially loaded plate in hand. “Just have a minute. I’ve got to eat and get back to the clinic. Got twelve lens correction surgeries this afternoon.” He sniffed again, lifting a bent finger to his nostrils.
Howe placed a staying grip on the man’s shoulder and didn’t release it. “This won’t take long.” His voice dropped to a confidential tone as he drew Mark out of earshot of the others, with Elizabeth in tow. “I’d like to talk to you about canceling your appointments for a while and taking a vacation. You’re not well. I know this. And I know why.”
Elizabeth stilled. She’d heard rumors about Mark and cocaine, but he’d always seemed fully functional to her.
“This is total bullshit,” Mark scoffed under his breath.
Howe’s expression firmed. “You shouldn’t be operating on anybody, Mark. We both know it. Take time to go get help, and I’ll suspend all your payments—on the clinic, and the house. And the condo. They’re all overleveraged, and there’s no sense denying the reason. I pulled your credit reports. It’s just a matter of time before this hits the fan,” he said without a trace of gloating.
Mark glared at him, but didn’t argue.
Howe regarded him with genuine compassion. “I got a second chance to put things right, and I want to give you one, too.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “There’s a good facility near Asheville that specializes in doctors. Once you’re feeling better, we’ll discuss getting you back on your feet fi
nancially.” He proffered the envelope. “What do you say?”
“You bastard,” Mark hissed. “That’s blackmail.”
Elizabeth agreed with him, but that was nothing new for the old Howe, which was ominous. But the new Howe was doing it for a good cause, which was confusing.
Howe smiled. “Call it whatever you want. I’d call it an offer you can’t afford to refuse.” He motioned to the Rotary banner. “Put it to the four-way test. What do you say?”
Mark turned his back to the roomful of curious men and muttered, “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Go to hell.”
“Sorry,” Howe answered. “Too late. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’ll go to the medical board if I have to. We hold the mortgage on their place, too.”
Mark went beet red. Trapped between his addiction and what Howe was forcing on him, he stood there quivering faintly, muscles flexed and bloody murder on his face. Then after what seemed like eons but was probably only a few seconds, he snatched the envelope and shoved his plate at Howe, spilling tossed salad on the worn carpet. “Here. Take my plate. I can’t stay. I have to cancel my appointments. I feel a serious illness coming on.”
“Good decision,” Howe told him. “I’ll be checking in later to see how you are. And praying for you.”
“Goddamned hypocrite,” Mark spat out under his breath, then pivoted and stalked out.
Howe inhaled, smiling as he turned back to Elizabeth. “That went well, don’t you think?” He handed her the plate.
“I have no idea what to think,” Elizabeth confessed. “I assume you came up with that one on your own.”
“Nope.” Howe pointed briefly upward. “That one was all His.”
Now she knew he was crazy. “The last time I looked, God does not engage in blackmail,” she clipped out.
Howe just laughed. “Oh, yeah? Try reading the prophets sometime.”
He shepherded her back toward the buffet line. “Oh, look. Our spot has finally gotten to the deviled eggs, and there are still plenty left. And corn.” He got them plates, then loaded up on fake crabmeat salad. Apparently, blackmail stimulated his appetite.
Then again, everything stimulated his appetite.
Elizabeth was afraid to ask, but couldn’t help herself. “Anybody else you have to talk to?”
Howe shook his head, taking four deviled eggs. “Nope. All done.”
She heaved a sigh of relief.
“For today, anyway,” he told her. “Senator Robinson won’t be here till next week.” He served himself a fried chicken leg. “Now, there’s a man who could use some encouragement to do the right thing.”
Oh, Lord. What next?
Chapter 12
Fortunately, the rest of the meeting was fairly uneventful, though Howe cried silently through the Pledge of Allegiance, said “Amen,” three times during the Whittington Clean and Beautiful presentation, and escaped her to bear-hug several startled acquaintances on their way out. But all in all, it certainly could have been worse.
Elizabeth waited till he was safely ensconced in his study to take her cell phone up to the back balcony and call the psychiatrist, insisting on speaking to him as soon as possible.
When he called her back half an hour later, the psychiatrist wasn’t amused to hear why she’d contacted him so urgently. Apparently, religious delusions didn’t qualify as an emergency. He said it was great that Howe was getting in touch with his faith and feeling confident enough to get out and see people again. When she told the doctor about Frank and the eye surgeon, the man had actually laughed and said Howe was making real progress, which made her think the psychiatrist might be a fanatic, himself.
Next she called Patricia, who’d been staying with her grandmother since the sorority trip, and exchanged the usual platitudes. Then she called Charles at work, something she seldom did, but even though she couldn’t tell him what had happened, she always felt better after hearing his voice. But all she got this time was his voice mail.
She’d just hung up, sitting there on the chaise in frustration, when her phone rang. Good. Charles had gotten her message. She said hello with anticipation.
“Hi,” P.J. said. “How’s it going, my friend?”
“Not so hot,” she said without stopping to censor herself. She needed to talk to somebody, but she didn’t dare trust P.J. with the truth. Maybe just a little of the truth. “It’s hard. Howe is . . . he’s really trying. I have to give him credit for that. But he’s so different.”
“Different good, or different bad?” he asked.
“Both,” she answered honestly. “I have no idea how this is going to shake out. He means well—God knows, he means well.”
“I’d say that’s a change for the better,” P.J. said with a definite edge.
What could she safely say? “He’s taken up cooking. Pretty good at it.”
“Howe, cooking?” She could just imagine the look on P.J.’s face. “Howe, cooking.”
“I know. And he’s been very hands-on with the renovations.” And he thinks God talks to him, and he’s blackmailing Rotarians, but the psychiatrist says that’s a sign of progress.
“You sound discouraged,” P.J. said.
“I’m just tired. This has gone on so long . . .”
“Why don’t you make Patricia come help you?” he asked for the twentieth time. “She’s old enough to take some of the burden—”
“It’s not that. She’d come if I asked her, but Howe’s . . .” She couldn’t tell him that everything Howe thought came out, including the skeletons in their closet. Elizabeth had worked too hard to make sure those skeletons stayed dead-bolted in. “It’s just not . . . prudent for him to be around the kids yet.”
“God, Elizabeth,” P.J. said sharply. “Has he done something to you? Are you afraid he’d hurt them? ’Cause if you are, you shouldn’t be—”
“No, no. No,” she corrected. “He’s not the slightest bit violent.” Why was everyone she confided in so quick to rush to that conclusion? Even at his worst, Howe had never lifted a finger against anybody.
Well, he had kicked the dresser in frustration a few times, but the only danger he posed was to the furniture. “It’s complicated,” she said. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Why not?” he prodded. “You can trust me. You said we could be friends. That’s what friends are for. Elizabeth, you need to be able to talk to somebody.”
“I’ve managed to get by so far without that,” she said frankly. She took a deep breath. “I’m fine, really. I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t stand thinking of you cooped up in that house,” he said, “waiting on him hand and foot without any help. Let me send you a housekeeper, at least. Somebody good, and discreet.”
She exhaled. “I appreciate your concern, really I do,” she said, “but I’d rather handle things myself for now.” As tempting as it would be to have more help, the last thing she needed was another stranger underfoot to worry about. “I have the cleaning service when I need them,” she said. “But there’s not much point till the renovations are done. There’s dust and sawdust everywhere.”
“I thought they hung plastic,” P.J. said.
“They did, but the dust gets out anyway, and there are boxes and displaced furniture all over the place.”
“So what harm would it do to have somebody come in and at least keep up with things?”
It was nice having somebody care how hard this had been on her. Howe meant well, but it was still all about him. “You sure are pushy,” she chided good-naturedly.
“And you’re martyring,” P.J. chided good-naturedly right back.
He didn’t know the half of it. But it shocked her to realize that martyring was all she knew how to do.
She heard the door to Howe’s study open downstairs. “I have to go.”
“I’m sending you a present,” P.J. told her.
“No. Please—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, cheerful. “It�
�ll come in a plain brown wrapper, none the wiser. Use it, Elizabeth. For yourself. You deserve it, and a lot more.”
“No, really, I—”
“ ’Bye.” He hung up.
“Yo, Lillibet!” Howe hollered from the back stairway, clearly excited. “Guess what? We’re all going to Disney World!”
Oh, Lord. “I’m coming!”
______
Three weeks later, despite Elizabeth’s best efforts to get Howe to change his mind, he and Elizabeth rang the bell at his mother’s to pick up Patricia for the flight to Orlando.
Elizabeth had argued for gradually acclimating the children to their father’s new persona, but Howe had decided a boot-camp approach—albeit a fun boot camp—would be a more effective way to start over with their kids, so the trip was on.
Pearl opened the door with a huge grin. “Mr. Howe, it’s so good to see you at long last. And lookin’ so well!”
Howe enveloped her in a huge hug, lifting her off her swollen ankles. “How’s my favorite treasure?”
“Here, now, you put me down,” she fretted, flustered. “ ’Fore you hurt yoself. Or me.”
Howe eased her back onto her sensible shoes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m better than I have been for the past twenty years.” He waggled his eyebrows, leaning in close. “Don’t you want to know why?”
Pearl straightened her always immaculate white apron. “Why is that, then?”
His eyes sparkled as he confided, “ ’Cause I finally got born again.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes as Pearl burst into tears of joy.
“Have mercy, Jesus. My prayers have been answered!” Pearl grabbed Howe and started whacking his back. “Thank You, Jesus, for savin’ this precious boy at last. Thank You, Jesus.”
Augusta’s voice cut across the foyer with an icy, “That’s quite enough, Pearl. Don’t encourage him.” She approached from the family room. “You know as well as I do that Howell was baptized and brought up in the church.” Augusta stopped beside the huge fresh flower arrangement in the vase on the circular table, her hands clasped before her. “Elizabeth,” she acknowledged tersely. “Pearl, please tell Miss Patricia her—”
Waking Up in Dixie Page 13
