Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  He’s animated now, talking about the history of the region. I imagine he sees women with parasols and hoop skirts, the men in hats and long coats, horse-drawn carriages with the clip-clop sound of progress.

  “My office is the Hart House,” he explains as we pause in front of the building. “It’s Greek Revival; constructed in the mid-1800s. One of Eufaula’s original settlers, John Hart, built the home. We’ve been able to keep the integrity of the original structure virtually unchanged.”

  Shug’s eyes caress the small cottage, its hipped roof, and the six white columns that shelter the front porch. “It’s home right now, which horrifies my parents, especially my mother, who’d love me to buy the Pitts-Gilbert House or the Russell-Jarrett—”

  The confusion on my face makes him stop.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Many homes in the area are named after the families who lived there. Those names are often combined with the families who live there or own them now. For example, my parents’ house is Jordan Manor, down the street is the Couric-Smith Home— it was featured several years back on the Today show. Katie Couric traced her own family history.”

  I raise my eyebrow, impressed, and bite my lip. Perhaps if I would have taken the time to do some research, I’d have realized that. I find my keys in my purse, pop the trunk on the Expedition, and take out my lone piece of luggage.

  “You travel light,” Shug comments and takes the handle of my suitcase. “Mary Katherine needs a trailer or two.”

  “Years of practice,” I grin and hit the button to lock the SUV.

  “Am I giving you information-overload about Eufaula?” Shug takes a step back to scrutinize my reaction. “Mary Katherine says I tend to do that. She teases that I know the ghosts from the past better than I do the people living around me.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe it’s true.”

  He’s joking, but I sense a hard edge to his confession.

  “Not at all,” I reply. “I’m fascinated.”

  “Okay, good.” Shug smiles and waves for me to follow him.

  “So,” I ask, “with all the generations of families, and with naming these mansions, it seems like every house would have its own story.”

  Shug smiles. “Exactly. And every good story starts with asking the right questions.” He flushes. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job. It’s just my opinion. I’ve always wanted to write a book, maybe about Eufaula. I just haven’t found the time.”

  As I half-listen to his explanation, I wonder if David warned him.

  The right questions.

  I brush off the hint of doubt creeping up my spine with the shake of my head.

  Surely, David didn’t say anything.

  I know how to do my job. I know how to get a story together. I know how to delve in, ask questions, and find the heart of the issue.

  I’m a seasoned journalist, after all. I’ve won awards. I’m a professional who works for a national magazine.

  But, the nagging uncertainty won’t disappear. It lingers with the persistence of a gnat buzzing in my ear.

  Go away, David, I want to shout. Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.

  It’s the heat, I finally decide. The humidity is seeping into my brain.

  We arrive at the bed and breakfast. It’s lovely, with huge, beveled glass doors and a sprawling porch. “Let’s get you inside. You might melt, remember?”

  We both laugh, causing a passerby to stare.

  “Meet you back here in an hour?” Shug grins again, his entire face lighting up. He’s really handsome, thoughtful, and smart. The total package. No wonder Mary Katherine is so protective.

  “Okay,” I nod and smile as a shock of hair falls over his forehead. Adorable.

  Down the street, a car honks, yanking me back to reality. Stop it Julia. You’re in Eufaula on business, not to gawk at the South’s not-so-eligible bachelors.

  As I watch Shug disappear around the corner of the building, David’s words float into my mind—rising and popping like air bubbles reaching the surface of a lake.

  I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself. Put your heart into it.

  No sugar-coating there.

  No hand-holding.

  No promises or guarantees.

  I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. I can do this. Piece of cake, right?

  My personal pep talk doesn’t do much good. One thought—one niggling, twisting thought—shakes me to the core.

  What if my best isn’t good enough?

  Chapter 8

  I desperately want to:

  Put my feet up

  Be alone for five minutes

  Unpack my wrinkled clothes

  Put on some lip gloss

  Wash my face

  Not too much to ask, right? But, when I see what—or should I say who—is waiting for me inside the B & B, I know I can forget all of it.

  The owner—it has to be—is dressed like someone off the cover of last month’s GQ. His dark hair is close-cropped; his high cheekbones are set off by immaculate sideburns. Starched pale pink shirt, tiny wire-rimmed glasses, trim suit, and flowered tie.

  In contrast to the massive walnut dining room table in the center of the room, he’s thin and wiry, with delicate hands. His body is bent slightly over a vase of flowers, like he’s telling a secret to the huge arrangement of lilies—all listening intently with upturned faces.

  He swivels around and straightens at the sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floor. The door had been propped open as if he knew I was about to arrive.

  “Darling Miss Julia!” he exclaims in a heavy British accent. His arms fling open, and he rushes over to greet me. “I’m Roger.”

  Before I can speak, Roger hugs me to his chest, kisses the air on both sides of my cheeks, and then holds me out at arms’ length. “Gorgeous, simply gorgeous. You’re lovelier than anyone said. Naughty them.” He wags a finger, then asks, admiring my outfit, “Donna Karan, darling?”

  I nod and my head swirls. Naughty them? Who is he talking about?

  Roger takes in my blank expression with arms folded elegantly across the breast of his suit. “The girls at Honeysuckle Diner, of course. And Elma from the Citgo. They all called my cell the second your big, bad Excursion pulled into town.”

  “Oh,” I manage, a little in awe and somewhat bewildered that my arrival had been announced in a phone chain from the local gas station.

  My host lets his gaze linger over me, appraising everything from my upturned nose to my bare left ring finger. Roger draws a breath. “We can’t wait to read your article. I mean, it’s not everyday someone from New York is here. Of course, you’ll be previewing the Pilgrimage. The Christmas tour will give you a little taste.” He looks dreamily at the wall. “Historic Eufaula by candlelight is unparalleled.”

  I suddenly feel a little ill. How many people are banking on my very presence in this sleepy town producing the article of the century? I hadn’t even written the first word.

  Perhaps I look blue—in an oxygen-deprived sort of way—causing Roger to snap his fingers in front of my face. “I know just the thing to help!” he says, carrying away my bags before I can stop him. “If you need background information,” he lowers his voice, “I know a little about everybody. I can be your ‘source,’” Roger adds with a sly wink. “Don’t worry. By the end of this week, you’ll feel right at home.”

  I’m not celebrity gossip columnist Liz Smith. I’m only staying one night if I can manage it—two at the very most.

  Roger’s already disappeared around the corner. “Follow me, sweetheart,” he calls out.

  I step cautiously onto the plush Turkish rug. The parlor to my left is filled with antiques, gun cabinets, and writing desks. A poker table sits in the middle of the room. To my right, the ladies’ parlor is draped in expensive burgundy fabrics, a piano in one corner. Portraits and gilded mirrors grace the walls.

  From down the hall, I hear Roger whistling. My Lord, he’s probably unpacking
everything in my bag as I’m dawdling in the foyer. I follow the sound to the second bedroom on the left. Roger’s already placed my suitcase near the closet door. He’s lit an enormous white candle and is blowing out a match as I enter the large room. The scent of gardenia drifts from the flame.

  “And so?” Roger says, not pausing to gauge my response. He’s flitting around, plumping pillows, rearranging towels in the adjoining bathroom.

  “It’s lovely, thank you,” I say and look longingly at the antique four-poster bed. I’d love a nap. I would give my favorite Prada boots to a stranger for eight hours of sleep. Instead, when it’s obvious Roger’s not in a hurry to leave, I perch on the edge of the bed.

  “New York,” Roger looks past me at the wall, this time sounding not at all like he’s from the UK. “I’m so jealous. It’s a huge dream of mine. Go to the city. Get my big acting break.” His eyes brighten as he speaks.

  “Have you ever been to New York?” I say, curious. “I thought at first you were—”

  Roger claps his hands. “A world traveler? From London? Magnificent. You’ve made my night.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but …

  Roger’s still talking at warp speed. “Darling, I wish. I grew up in tiny Newville, Alabama, on a farm. Henry County, just down the road.” His nose wrinkles as if he’s smelled manure. “I didn’t fit in at all,” he laughs, sounding a little forced. “Still don’t.”

  This answers quite a few questions. “So, why don’t you go? To the City?” I ask.

  Roger’s brow puckers up, like I’ve just asked him to explain the theory of relativity.

  “To follow your dream?” I clarify, reaching over to stroke one of the pillows. It’s soft as silk, with elegant tassels and trim.

  Rogers bends near the bookcase to brush off an imaginary piece of dust. “Oh, you know,” he says casually. “I’m so busy here. I’m involved in theatre productions in Dothan. The Understudy, SEACT. I’ve done The Music Man, Grits on the Side, you name it. And I do have my small social circle … supper club, book club. And up until this very minute, I didn’t know anyone in New York.” He looks at me, lashes fluttering, his words pointed and meaningful.

  I giggle at his dramatics. “Well, now you do.” The words slip out before I can think. What am I doing? I never offer anyone a place to stay—especially to men—although Roger is far from intimidating. I swallow. “I’ll be sure and give you my number, so you can look me up.”

  Roger’s face is a mix of sheer terror and delight. “Bless your heart! That’s so kind. So wonderful. I just don’t know what to say. I just didn’t think …” He rubs his hands together and wiggles around so much I think he’s going to start dancing. “I actually know someone in New York,” he says to himself in a whisper. “You probably have all kinds of connections; being a magazine writer and all…”

  “Magazine writer,” I repeat and slap myself on the head. Oh no! In all of the fussing and chatting, I’d almost forgotten about dinner. I jump off the bed, grab for my suitcase, and fumble with the handle. “What time is it? Oh, no. I’m going to be late.”

  “Late?” Roger echoes. “Is there a big soirée I’ve not been invited to?” He pouts a little.

  Gosh, I hope not. Ignoring the comment, I unzip the silver track on my suitcase. Frantic, I dig through my clothes to find my makeup, jewelry, and a decent dress.

  Roger hasn’t moved. He’s still waiting for my reply.

  “Um, I don’t think so. Dinner at the Jordan’s tonight.” I find the makeup case and hold it up triumphantly. My watch face glints in the candlelight. It reads five-forty-five. Phew. Still some time.

  Roger is tapping his fingers along one dresser. “At the Jordan’s? Meaning his parents’ place … with everyone?” He peers at me intently. “Not the little shack of an office Shug calls home for right now, I hope. I do have to get him going on my decorating plans. I’m thinking Southern Living meets Metropolitan Home—”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No, I think it’s a casual family get-together. His mother, his sister. His dad, maybe? I’m really not sure.”

  A sudden thought hits me. I imagine a throng of people, elbow to elbow, and I won’t be able to see or hear because of the crowd.

  “Well, well.” Roger adjusts his tie and takes a few steps toward the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, then half-turns to look back at me. “That should be interesting.” A strange expression crosses his face—halfway between amusement and fascination.

  It’s obvious there’s something I don’t know. It’s also clear he has no intention of telling me. I know I should let it go, allow him to leave, and find out for myself. Three seconds later, I can’t stand it any longer. My insides are twitching every which way, but I keep my tone even and calm. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” Roger says. “We’ll chat tomorrow, darling. Catch up.”

  With that, he struts out the door. It shuts behind him with a gentle click.

  I shake my head. Catch up? What’s with these people? I think for a moment. Well, I guess that’s what normal people do when they sit still long enough.

  Come to think of it, when I’m home, I can’t be bothered with office gossip. It seems I’m always a dozen episodes behind on who’s dating who, who’s getting a divorce, or who’s having a baby.

  All this worrying isn’t good for me. My breathing is shallow and fast. My throat is scratchy and dry. I glance around the room, slightly panicked. No mini-bar, no bottled water. No Diet Dr. Pepper because I drank it already.

  Do I dare get that RC? And the Moon Pies?

  Desperation knows no bounds when I have to quench my thirst. I start to fish around in the pockets of my tote bag. Ah ha! Gotcha, I think triumphantly. Except for the Moon Pies are hot and half-melted. The RC is a bit warm too.

  Ice. Surely they have ice here. I take a step toward the door. No, I can’t bother Roger. If I do, I’ll never get to the Jordan’s.

  Bathroom sink. They have to have one of these. Behind the door, a lovely white pedestal sink sits in the center of the far wall, a huge claw-foot tub to the right.

  I take a peek in the mirror; run a hand through my hair. The handles of the faucet creak when I turn them. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, blessed water! I let it run, then tuck my hair behind both ears and stick my mouth underneath. Water is dripping across my cheek and up to my ear. Even so, it’s delicious, wet, and cold. Refreshed, I throw myself into getting ready.

  Black skirt, matching jacket, a pair of deep red, open-toed heels, dash of lip gloss. There.

  It’s six o’clock on the dot. Certainly, I don’t want to be early. Or late. I glance at the directions. Shug has written down an address on North Eufaula Avenue. It’s not far.

  I walk over to the window and hoist the wooden frame up a few inches so that a slight breeze can come through the screen. The room is taking on a golden glow from the setting sun. A sudden gust blows past my arm. Several papers, which were neatly stacked on the writing desk in the corner, flutter to the floor. Stationary, envelopes, and a few brochures about the Pilgrimage, thanks to Roger. There’s a postcard, too. I pick that up last.

  It’s a lovely one, actually. The towering white structure cuts an impressive figure against a turquoise blue sky. Bright pink azaleas hug the columns and steps leading up to the veranda.

  I flip it over and read the back.

  Shorter Mansion. 340 North Eufaula Avenue. Built in 1884 by Eli and Wylena Shorter, the home took on its present Neoclassical Revival appearance after its 1906 renovations. Headquarters for the Eufaula Heritage Association. Open Year-Round.

  Out of habit, I reach for a pen, uncap it, and hold it above the white rectangle.

  Wait. Who am I going to send it to? Emptiness fills my chest.

  Andrew would like it—he’d probably die of shock, actually. The man’s not used to impromptu displays of affection. Better not start now. I’ll be expected to keep it up, then disappoint him when I don’t.

&n
bsp; Marietta would appreciate it, but it wouldn’t be quite as special as sharing it with family.

  And David? I begin to laugh out loud, then cover my mouth. I’ll send him a postcard the moment I start craving red eye gravy and biscuits. Or say y’all.

  As I think, I run a finger along the edge of the postcard, rub the glossy coating with my thumb. There’s only person I want to send it to, and she can’t get mail.

  Mom, I really miss you.

  Chapter 9

  Outside Roger’s bed and breakfast, I feel a little bit like Alice in Wonderland. I keep waiting to hear the angry honk of taxis and the squeal of tires. I expect to smell of motor oil and see clouds of smog dotting the tops of silver skyscrapers.

  Like many city dwellers, I find comfort in the anonymity of New York’s sidewalks. You can vanish into a sea of bobbing heads, ponytails, and baseball caps. The constant noise, jostled elbows, and the steady crinkle of shopping bags provide a buffer from anything remotely personal. Sunglasses shield every eye, even when it’s cloudy. On any given day, the line in front of the hot dog stand stretches a mile, where people stand closer than husbands and wives, yet are strangers. Amidst it all, brakes squeal, horns honk, and cell phone conversations buzz from all sides.

  Here, it’s quiet. Really serene. The azaleas and gardenias, full to bursting with pink and white blooms, have obviously been tricked into thinking it’s spring because of the warm weather.

  By accident, a person might fall in love with a place like this. It’s the silliest thing in the world for me to think. I’m not one of those sentimental types. I prefer the hustle, bustle, the noise, and the action. I’d be bored and restless in a place like this. At least, that’s what I’ve told my friends. And myself.

  I actually can’t remember a time in the last decade that I’ve spent more than five minutes in a small town. Okay. There was the time I was handed a whopping speeding ticket in La Jolla on my way to San Diego, but that really doesn’t count. A three hundred dollar fine does tend to dampen the moment.

  Here, though, at this very moment, the sky turning a deep shade of violet, but it’s clear enough to see a sprinkle of stars overhead. Under the streetlights, crickets begin chirping, and the air is so sweet and heavy with moisture a person could almost drink it in. My breathing is slower, my heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy, and I’m letting myself stroll along, absorbing the details of everything around me.