Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  An immensely fat man behind the register didn’t look up from doing a crossword puzzle when she came in. “Look around all you want,” he mumbled. “Any questions, just ask.”

  So much for customer service. “Thanks.”

  Most of the so-called antiques were poor quality that probably only dated back to the twenties or thirties, and the used furniture ran toward heavy Mediterranean or massive Ethan Allen seventies bedroom sets. There were lots of ponderous overstuffed sofas, chairs, and recliners. Nothing that interested her. But just when she decided to leave, she spotted the top of a hutch in the far back of the room, almost obscured by stacked dressers.

  Elizabeth threaded through the piled-up furniture for a better look. What she found when she got there made her heart beat fast. The tall hutch looked like native cherry, free of even the smallest imperfection, its doors, sides, and top so artfully fitted they looked like single planks. Only age and TLC could produce a finish like that, the same rich, reddish brown as the shingles on her house.

  Clearly, the clean lines and perfect proportions had been produced by a skilled but naïve craftsman. Each shelf above the base cabinet was hand-beaded, and each plank of the tongue-and-groove back had been perfectly sanded and fitted.

  Elizabeth hadn’t considered using anything rustic, but the piece looked like it had been made for the big wall facing the fireplace, and suddenly she could see the room furnished with comfortable white sofas with clean lines, and soft, sculptured white rugs on the floors, the final effect finished off by minimal accents she could change with the seasons.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect.

  She couldn’t find a price tag, but knew it wouldn’t come cheap. Not that it mattered.

  Concealing her enthusiasm, she went back up to the register and said to the proprietor, “I noticed that cherry hutch in the back, but it didn’t have a price.”

  The man looked up, almost resentful. “That one’s consignment. Been here forever because the owner wants so much for it. It’s a good piece, I’ll grant you. Owner said her umpty-great-granddaddy from Charleston made it way back before the Revolution, and it got rescued from a fire during the Civil War. ’Course, there’s no way to verify that.”

  Elizabeth frowned, wondering if he was playing her or telling the truth.

  The man went on with, “The lady who owns it had to sell her place and move to assisted living. She made me put a real high reserve on it. Frankly, I think she’s senile. I’da made her take it back, but she’s got no place to put it anymore.”

  “Just for curiosity, how much is it, anyway?” Elizabeth asked.

  He sized her up, and Elizabeth was glad she had on casual clothes. Then he looked back down to his crossword puzzle. “Fifteen thousand, and not a penny less. Take it or leave it.”

  Elizabeth laughed. The piece might very well fetch that at some high-end antiques store in Atlanta, but without provenance, he had some nerve asking that much. And she certainly didn’t want to be branded a patsy by the locals. “Never mind, then.” She started to leave.

  “Wait.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Lady, I’d like nothing better than to sell you that hutch, but . . . Just hang on a second.” He picked up the phone, then flipped through a roller file on the desk behind him. “Let me call the owner and see if I can do any good.” He punched in the number, then turned back to ask her, “How much would you be willin’ to pay?”

  “Twelve,” she said off the top of her head.

  He lifted a finger and said into the phone, “Hello, Miz Berry? It’s Hal down at the furniture store.” He spoke louder, “Hal! At the store! I got somebody interested in that hutch! How much do you want for it?”

  He frowned, then yelled, “That cherry hutch you wanted me to sell!” He rolled his eyes, covering the mouthpiece to whisper to Elizabeth, “Now she doesn’t even remember it.” He hollered into the receiver again, “Is your granddaughter there?”

  Relief eased his expression. “Could I speak to her, please?” he shouted. After a brief pause, he spoke normally. “Hey, it’s Hal at the furniture store. Your grandma left a cherry hutch here on consignment, and I got somebody interested. Would you take twelve thousand for it?” He frowned. “Well, your grandma said that, but we got no proof.” His eyes narrowed. “Eight years, at least. And I only got one other serious offer, a whole lot less than this one.” Pause. “Okay. See what you can do with her. I’ll wait.”

  Elizabeth watched as he sat back down behind the counter, his back turned to her.

  She really wanted that piece.

  “She will?” The man turned a broad smile to Elizabeth. “Then it’s a deal. You can pick the check up next week. ’Bye, now.” He hung up. “Ma’am, you just bought yourself a hutch.”

  “Will you take a check?” she asked. “I have plenty of ID.” Seeing his frown, she reached into her wallet and pulled out her platinum Visa. “Or would you rather take a charge?”

  He stood and snatched the card with amazing speed for a man of his bulk. “Visa’s fine.”

  “When can you deliver it?” she asked as he started writing up her receipt.

  “I’ll have to hire at least two people to help me with it.” He shot her a defiant glance. “It’ll cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “Depends on where you live.”

  “I live out on Horse Point at Lake Blue Ridge, number sixty-nine, sixty-nine.”

  His assessing look turned to a leer. “Oh. That place.”

  Elizabeth straightened in indignation. “No, not that place anymore. Now it’s my place.”

  “Delivery’ll be two hundred,” he had the gall to say, probably because she was on the lake.

  If she let him gouge her, the whole town would think she was a patsy. “Really? In that case, I think I’ll have to reconsider the whole thing.” She leaned over and plucked her charge card from the counter. “I’ll just take that.”

  “Wait,” he said, palms lifted in surrender. “How about a hunnerd? It’ll cost me that for the gas and the muscle, honest to God.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “That’s more like it. We have a deal.” She handed him her card. “When can you deliver it?”

  “Soon as I can get somebody,” he said. “If you’ll leave me your number, I’ll call.”

  “I’d like it as soon as possible.” Once it was in place, she could measure for the sofas.

  She whistled the rest of the way home.

  Four days later, the beds were delivered and installed, and after sleeping on hers, Elizabeth decided they were worth every penny.

  The day after that, her hutch arrived.

  “We tried it with just two of us, but that danged thing’s so big and heavy, we had to get two more,” Hal explained as the four movers gingerly unloaded the hutch, now shrouded in dusty packing quilts. They managed to get it to the back door, but it was so tall, they had to take off the quilts to get it through. Elizabeth watched nervously from the living room, holding her breath as they struggled to get it inside without banging the top on the doorjamb. Once they finally made it into the kitchen, they all heaved a sigh of relief.

  Then the movers turned the back of the piece toward her to take it into the living room, and Elizabeth gasped.

  The back had been burned, some places so deeply that she was surprised it hadn’t come through to the other side. “Wait. This is damaged,” she said. “I never would have bought it if I’d seen this.”

  The men shot each other troubled glances. “You’ll have to take that up with Hal, ma’am,” the older one said. “He’s out in the truck.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her about the damage. “Would you please go get him?”

  Several minutes passed before a wheezing Hal labored through the back door. “Jake says there’s a problem?” he challenged, clearly not happy.

  “I paid for a perfect piece,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take this back. You never told me it had been burned.”

  “All r
espect, Miz Whittington, but I did. I told you about that fire it was saved from.”

  “That’s not the same as telling me it was burned,” she argued.

  “Ma’am, those planks are almost two inches thick. Even burned, there’s still an inch of good wood in ’em. The piece is sound.” When he saw that she wasn’t convinced, his tone softened. “Nothing that old is perfect. Take it from me, anyway, perfection is boring.”

  Her life back in Whittington certainly had been.

  Hal gestured toward the breakfront. “Those burns are part of the character of the piece. Makes it interesting. And anyway, who’s going to see them?”

  He had a point.

  Elizabeth debated making him take it back on principle. But the hutch was still gorgeous.

  Maybe she’d been destined to fall in love with the thing, for she, too, had her own hidden scars.

  Hal nodded toward the high, blank wall of the dining area. “Just let the men put it where you want it and see what you think,” he proposed, “before you make up your mind, okay?”

  It was a reasonable enough request. “Okay.”

  They moved the hutch into place, and sure enough, it balanced the fireplace as if it had been custom-made for that exact spot, and the light from the lake warmed the finish, bringing out every detail. There was just enough wall showing above the piece and space for a chair on either side, perfectly framing its placement.

  Hal and the perspiring movers turned hopeful expressions her way. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I think you should have told me it was burned,” she said. “But I’ll keep it.”

  That was one decision she could make.

  As for whether or not to go back to her marriage—and to Whittington—that was another matter. She was still mad at Howe for not telling her the house’s history, but she had enough sense not to let that override all the good things he’d done.

  For now, she was content to make the place her own. The rest, she decided not to decide, which, for her, the compulsive fixer of all things, was progress.

  Happy with the new focal point of her décor despite its hidden imperfections, she thanked a very relieved Hal, then tipped the movers and saw them out. Alone at last, she settled on the raised hearth and savored this first, impressive evidence of her very own style.

  But she wouldn’t have been so happy if she’d known what was going on back in Whittington.

  Chapter 21

  Howe was deep into what he was reading, at last, when the doorbell rang.

  Blast. How was he supposed to concentrate?

  For the third time that week, he seriously considered hiring a housekeeper.

  The problem was, who? All the good ones were hired, even with the economy the way it was, and a lingering bit of his old self didn’t trust opening his life and their home to a complete stranger.

  With Elizabeth gone, he’d realized what a huge job it was to keep up the place, even with a cleaning service once a week.

  The blasted bell rang again. “Coming,” he called into the intercom, then left the study.

  There was no mistaking the silhouette in the leaded-glass front door. It was female.

  Here we go again.

  Howe opened the door to find Cassie Benefield, the mother of one of Patti’s friends, standing there dressed to kill in deep cleavage and spiked heels, holding a warm chicken casserole with her name and phone number etched into the tinfoil on top. “Hi, Howe. With Elizabeth gone, I thought you might need something to eat.”

  “Thanks, Cassie,” he said, accepting the casserole, but not asking her in. “That’s very nice of you. I’ll tell her. I know she’ll appreciate your looking after me.”

  Cassie looked past him to the empty house. “Must be awfully lonely in this big old place all by yourself, with Patti in Europe with your mama.” She placed a hand suggestively on his chest. “Why don’t you let me come in and heat that up for you?” In case he hadn’t gotten the message, she added a sultry, “I’m really good at heating things up.”

  Some friend, Howe thought, but managed to keep from saying it. “Gee, I appreciate that, but I’ve already eaten.” It was a lie, but he had no choice. He’d already fended off a harem’s worth of Elizabeth’s acquaintances who had brought him food and offered to keep him company, and there was no doubt as to what kind of company they meant.

  He’d talked the whole situation over with Father Jim, who’d absolved him of the lies, but they still bothered Howe. Probably because he could now lie so easily and convincingly, making him wonder if he was slipping back into the way he’d been before.

  Confronted with yet another predatory female, he started to close the door. “I’ll tell Elizabeth you came by,” he repeated. “Thanks.” For nothing.

  Nonplussed, Cassie waved to him with shiny red talons. “Call if you get lonely. My number’s on the tinfoil.”

  “You betcha.” Howe was lonely, all right, but for Elizabeth, not some desperate housewife. The truth was, he was miserable without his wife, which proved his old world had indeed turned upside down.

  The trouble with having emotions was that they had him. Yes, the highs were high, but the lows—and the loneliness—were lower than low. And he was awfully lonely. And horny.

  Time for another session on the treadmill. If that didn’t calm things down, he’d work with free weights. The good news was, he was looking really good. The bad news was, Elizabeth wasn’t there to see it.

  Howe wondered if she was lonely without him, or just relieved.

  He carried the casserole back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which was still full of casseroles the others had brought, some of them getting moldy. Even the chest freezer was full.

  He needed to clean the refrigerator out, but he’d been so busy supervising the renovations and working in his study that he hadn’t had the time.

  He had to find a housekeeper. That was all there was to it. Somebody mature and meticulous who could take phone messages and ward off female visitors. Maybe an agency in Atlanta could send somebody reliable.

  He took out a bowl and spooned the warm chicken and broccoli casserole into it, then got a beer and headed back to his study. If he didn’t get more studying done, he’d never make the deadline he’d set for himself, and he definitely didn’t want to have to go through all this again.

  He’d just gotten settled when the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, but it wasn’t Elizabeth. Damn. “Hello?”

  “May I please speak to Elizabeth?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Why did he feel compelled to answer? He knew better. “I’m sorry, she’s not in. May I take a message?”

  “Gosh, I really needed to talk to her. This is her friend Louise from church. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  Howe gave the woman an F for originality. The whole town knew Elizabeth was gone, and it was obvious from the femme fatales circling overhead that nobody was buying the spa story. “I’m sorry, she didn’t say when she’d be back.” Or if she’d be back. “I’d be happy to take a message.”

  “I . . .” The woman paused for effect. “I just really need to talk to somebody, and she’s always been so helpful. And discreet.”

  Howe didn’t volunteer to substitute, just started counting to see how it long it took for what came next.

  He’d only reached five when she asked, “Do you think it would be okay if I talked to you, just a little? I’d really appreciate it.”

  Bingo. “I’m afraid you caught me in the middle of something. I—”

  “Oh, it won’t take long. And really, I could use a man’s perspective. It’s about my husband. I think he’s cheating on me, but if I ask him, and he isn’t, he may never forgive me.”

  No originality whatsoever.

  Howe had tried dodging the subject with some of the other women who’d called him with the same ruse, but it had only drawn things out, so he took the bull by the horns. “The question is, what do you plan to do after you ask him?” he s
aid. “If he is cheating, he’s been lying to you, and he’ll probably just deny it. If he says he’s not, how will you know it’s the truth? Frankly, I think you should go to a counselor and figure out what you really want out of the marriage, either way. Ellis Jackson is a good one. But that’s just my opinion.”

  Clearly not what she’d been expecting. “Oh.”

  “I’ll tell Elizabeth you called.” Not. “Gotta go.”

  Dodged that bullet, one more time.

  Howe wondered how long it was going to take before these women realized he wasn’t back on the market.

  The next day at Rotary Club, Howe was cornered by Louise’s husband Mitch and another good old boy, Sam, whose wife had sought Howe’s “advice.”

  “Howe, old buddy,” Mitch grumbled, “what the hell you been doin’ talking to my wife?”

  “And mine,” Sam challenged.

  “And where in hell do you get off tellin’ her we need to go to some counselor?” Mitch finished.

  “Yeah,” his buddy echoed.

  “Well,” Howe said evenly, “I didn’t call them. They called me. Seems Elizabeth is the Dear Abby of Whittington, but with her gone, I ended up as stand-in.” He smiled as if the two men had just paid him a compliment, then leaned closer to them to confide, “Maybe y’all ought to pay more attention to your wives, and less to your girlfriends. Of course, I didn’t mention the girlfriends to your wives. Didn’t want to upset them. But if I were you, I’d go to the counselor, and I’d participate. Maybe then your wives will stop calling me.”

  “Oh, right,” Sam scoffed. “Everybody in town knows Elizabeth left you, and why.”

  That stung, but Howe managed to hang on to his smile. “Actually, that’s not accurate. I gave her a nice, long retreat to rest and pamper herself. God knows, she earned it, looking after me for all these months.” He straightened. “And God also knows, I’ve got plenty to make up to Elizabeth for, so I’m doing my best to be the good man she deserves.” He clapped Mitch on the back. “I’m living proof that nobody’s beyond redemption. If I can reform, so can y’all.” He grinned. “Take it from me, there’s something to be said for being able to face yourself in the mirror.”