by Lauren Clark
“I figure you’ve got it covered, Daddy,” Shug says calmly.
“What I think is that you need to get yourself a decent house instead of that office you’re living in. It’s a disgrace,” TJ fumes. “A Jordan living like they don’t have a dime to his name.”
Mary Katherine forces a giggle. “You boys are always fighting. Y’all don’t want to leave Miss Julia with a poor impression of our sweet town with your arguing, now do you?” She dabs at her lips daintily, but her eyes shoot fireworks at both men.
TJ throws his napkin on his plate but doesn’t answer. Shug flushes red.
“I’m looking forward to seeing all of it,” I interject into the silence. “The new work and any plans for the future. That can be part of the article—just as much as the history.”
Mary Katherine claps her hands. “Yay! You’ll be so impressed with all of the work Jordan construction is doing. Why, we’re one of the oldest family-based companies in Eufaula. MeeMaw’s father started it, back in the day.” She pauses to give Shug a loving look.
The we’re strikes me as oddly territorial, yet no one has corrected her. I can’t resist asking, “What about you, Mary Katherine, how are you involved in Jordan Construction?”
Her eyes fly open wide, then flicker in embarrassment. “Well, no. Actually I’m not. I’m in commercial banking. In my spare time, I do some modeling, some pageant coaching—”
TJ coughs and pushes back from the table. “C’mon Shug, let’s see who’s playing.”
I immediately stand and start stacking dishes as Shug and his father exit the room. As I grab for the empty platters, PD touches my arm. “You don’t have to help clean up.”
“I insist.” The dishes clank together noisily as I balance a few glasses on a plate.
The kitchen door swings shut after PD. MeeMaw appears to be dozing. As I bend to collect her plate, the glint from her ring blinds me. I have to blink and turn my head.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mary Katherine muses, almost talking to herself as she gazes at the huge diamond. “I’ll have this one or one like it soon.”
The dishes almost slip from my hands. I glance around, wishing Shug or anyone else in the family would come around the corner and hear what she’s saying. MeeMaw’s eyelashes flutter the slightest bit as I pick up another plate, concentrating on not breaking dishes.
Mary Katherine gives me a coy smile. “They love me. And I adore them of course.” I watch as she gazes around the room like she owns it. “Isn’t it a great house for entertaining?”
She doesn’t wait for my response.
“PD’s the celebrity chef in the family. You’ll have to try some of her desserts,” she confides. “Silly old Shug won’t let me near the kitchen. He doesn’t trust me. Last summer, I turned on the gas stove and forgot all about it.”
I swallow hard as Mary Katherine titters and continues her story.
“He came in, sniffed the air, switched off the gas, and yanked me outside. You should have seen him.” She spreads her arms wide, “Five seconds longer, and Whoosh! The whole place could have blown up!”
“Wow,” I cringe, imagining the house exploding into smithereens.
“Close call, right,” she bites her lip and shrugs. “I’m so much more careful now. I have to be.” Mary Katherine lowers her voice to a hush. “This is all going to be mine soon.” Her words are concrete, like the mold’s already been cast, the tiny pieces left over smoothed and sanded away. Her blue eyes are granite, determined. “Mine and Shug’s. Someday. Very soon.”
Chapter 12
The next morning, Marietta calls before I’m out of bed. I rub my eyes with both fists, trying to wake up.
“So, spill it. What’s it like?” she asks. I can see her twirling a piece of hair, feet propped up, laptop open. “Do you love it? Is it like Sweet Home Alabama—or more Deliverance?”
She is joking, of course. “The city’s lovely, there are some gorgeous homes,” I confide. “Now, I have met a few characters.” I describe Elma and Stump at the Citgo station and can’t help but giggle out loud.
The sound rings across the room and I cover my mouth. Other people could be trying to sleep. Or enjoy the quiet. For that matter, I don’t know if Roger is in the next room. And he doesn’t need more to gossip about.
In the background, someone yells for Marietta and she muffles the phone. “That’s David, for the second time,” she finally whispers. “You didn’t tell me he’s such a slave driver.”
I wince and want to shrink into my skin. Workaholics are like that. “Sorry, I should have mentioned it. I guess they misplaced the perfectionism gene when they got around to me. I was handed the can’t-pay-attention unless the room is on fire DNA.”
“Well, you rival each other in the patience department,” she whispers. “I’ve got another fifteen seconds before he blows a gasket. Just have to finish typing this memo.”
“Good luck,” I say.
“Okay. Hurry back.” I can hear Marietta clicking on her keyboard as we talk. Another phone rings in the background. “Bye.”
“Bye,” I say to the dial tone and roll out of bed.
With a stretch, I begin my morning routine. After a quick shower, I get dressed, and fix my hair. With a glance at the clock, I realize that somehow, I’m ahead of schedule. That never happens. I don’t meet Shug for another twenty minutes.
With a cursory glance around the room, I confirm there’s nothing else to do. I packed last night, and Roger promised a late checkout, so I leave my bags lined up by the wall.
I ease over to the door, unlock it, then turn the handle as gently as possible. Mercifully, it doesn’t squeak. The wooden slab protecting me from the rest of the world swings open, welcoming in the perfume of freshly-baked biscuits and bacon.
The sound of whistling lifts through the air, followed by the bangs of pots and pans, the rush of water in a sink. An off-key voice sings the lyrics. Roger. Camptown Races here we come, doo-dah, doo-dah. Camptown Races …
Gingerly, I take a step onto the hallway onto an oriental rug so thick my heel seems to sink several inches. I pull the bedroom door shut behind me and it clicks into place. Doo-dah, doo-dah …
There’s a small piece of guilt clinging to me. Roger took the time to make a nice breakfast. His singing trails off into a soft hum. I continue to tiptoe, arguing with myself the whole way to the foyer. If I stop, I’ll never leave the house, I’ll be late for my appointment, and I’ll never get back to New York and the rest of my life. A little drastic, yes, but enough to convince me to keep moving. I ease toward the front of the house. Just three more steps.
“Julia?” Out of nowhere, Roger appears.
I scream in fright.
Roger squeals and leaps out of the way, clutching a large wooden spoon and his striped apron in panic. “What is it? What did you see?” His eyes dart back and forth, searching every nook and corner. He’s up on tiptoes, prancing like embers are smoldering under his feet.
“I’m not sure,” I gasp.
A few startled guests peek around the corner. Roger spots them and immediately assumes his cool persona, letting his apron drop. “Nothing to be worried about, y’all,” he coos. “Julia almost tripped. Frightened her to death, bless her heart.”
Reassured, one by one, the faces disappear. “Be right there with the biscuits,” Roger trills after them.
I inch toward the door.
Roger puts a finger to his lips then creeps toward me. “Was it Mr. Wiggles?”
“Who?” I mouth.
My host holds up his palm, turns it up to the ceiling, and makes his other fingers crawl across the flat of his hand. “Mr. Wiggles,” he breathes.
It dawns on me. He’s talking about a mouse. “I-I don’t know,” I say, making my voice tremulous.
Roger looks sick. His face is purple. “I thought those people took care of him,” he sighs, wipes his brow with an embroidered handkerchief, and shakes his head. “They were supposed to catch him and set him
free,” he confides in a hushed tone.
“Oh,” I say and press my lips together. I should tell Roger the truth, but he’s already rushing me out the door.
“Run along, dear,” he tells me, steering my arm with a firm grip. “Roger will take care of everything. Including Mr. Wiggles.” His voice is ominous. “Don’t breathe a word, sweetheart. Bad for business.”
“Of course,” I whisper. A cool breeze hits my face as I step out onto the porch and the door slams shut behind me. I stand there for a moment, wanting to rush back in and save Roger from heart palpitations, but my explanation—sneaking out to avoid him—hardly seems polite.
Apologize later. Tell him you were seeing things. That you need prescription glasses. Or you hadn’t slept all night and you’d imagined it. None of the excuses seem valid. I’ll come up with something, I promise myself.
I blink at the sun’s bright rays as I take the steps toward the sidewalk. A white Mercedes zips by at a speed bound to get anyone a ticket. I catch a flash of blonde hair. Mary Katherine. She turns the corner almost on two wheels. I strain for a glimpse of the passenger, but the top isn’t down. I catch only a swatch of dark hair in the seat next to hers. Shug didn’t forget about our meeting, did he?
It takes me all of five minutes to reach the Hart House. The wooden sign I pass in the front yard is almost too small to hold all of the letters it carries. Historic Chattahoochee Commission. I wonder what Chattahoochee stands for and make a mental note to ask Shug. My hand tightens into a fist and I raise it to knock on the door when it opens.
“Oh,” I say and jump back, covering my mouth. At least I didn’t scream this time.
“Saw you coming up the steps. Just wanted to grab the door,” Shug confesses with an adorable smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I hold my hand over my heart to slow the beating. “I don’t know whether to kill you or thank you, but I guess I’ll let you live, since I really need this story on the Pilgrimage.”
“Why, that’s wonderful,” Shug answers with a small bow. “And, the first time I’ve gotten a death threat on the job. From a Yankee, to boot.”
“Ha, ha!” I joke as we walk inside.
“Can you give me a minute?” Shug asks. “I have to wrap up a few things before we get started.”
“No problem,” I hear myself say and try to settle into a wingback chair that’s not nearly as comfortable as it looks. The office is plain, with hardwood floors buffed to a shine, one wall of bookshelves, and rows of photos—homes, gardens, and local scenery.
Shug makes a beeline for a small office. “Make yourself at home.”
The chair is awful, so I stand up. “So you really live here?” The words spill out before I can catch them and put them back. I need to let him finish his work.
“Um, yes,” he calls out, unperturbed. “Let me put it this way, I’m never late for work.”
“You haven’t found anything else you like?” That seems impossible, given all of the gorgeous homes in Eufaula. But maybe he wants something modern. I wrinkle my nose. That doesn’t seem to fit his personality.
It’s quiet for a moment or two. Maybe he’s going to tell me to mind my own business. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“There are a lot of homes I love.” His voice sounds matter-of-fact. “I guess the timing hasn’t been right or it hasn’t been the right place. It’s a question of making everything fit.”
Reasonable explanation. Sort of like the excuse I’ve used to break off a relationship. A little part of me in the back of my heart that says ‘something’s missing’.
The floor creaks under my feet. I glance around at the two clean, empty desks near the windows. Both have the usual on top; a stapler, tape dispenser, and a cup full of pens. Nothing like the haphazard mess in my cubicle at the magazine—my desk is a brewing volcano of letters and to-do memos waiting to erupt.
It seems obvious, but I ask the question anyway. “So, who else works here?”
I hear Shug chuckle. “That would be me, myself, and I.” He stops. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be flip about it. I used to have an assistant, and last year, an intern from Auburn. Funding is tight in the non-profit world.”
“Enough for a decent salary and benefits, I hope?” I frown as he sticks his head out of the corner office.
“Nope.”
At first, I think I don’t hear him right. “Pardon?”
Shug laughs. “No. Because there’s no salary.”
My mouth widens in horror. I hold back a gasp. “No salary?”
There are faint lines that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. There’s no self-important look, no politician’s air. He works here because he wants to. The same shock of hair falls over his forehead as he nods. Already, the motion of him pushing it back is familiar.
“Don’t worry, I won’t starve. But I do need to scrape up some money for a haircut,” he says ruefully.
I squint at him. Compared to my father’s usual safari-look, Shug’s hair barely grazes his ears, the back just starting to curl up. He’s wearing a pressed shirt, orange and blue tie, and khakis that somehow don’t wrinkle. Shug looks pretty close to perfect.
“Really, it is shocking,” I say dryly.
Shug rolls his eyes at me. “Women.”
“So, what are the biggest concerns here?” I ask. “In Eufaula?”
“Convincing everyone that restoration instead of demolition is the way to go. We provide information on grants, loans, and funding for the preservation of historic property.” He takes a breath and nods over to a rack of booklets, leaflets, and pamphlets.
“So, you’re a right-to-lifer for old buildings?” I quip.
“In a sense,” he grins. “I’ve never thought about it that way.” Shug glances down at the tri-fold paper in his hand. “I do spend a lot of my time preparing promotional pieces, going to tourism expos, and recruiting travel writers like you to the area.”
He disappears back into the office. David’s smug expression flashes before my eyes and I swallow. I wasn’t recruited. I’m not the first choice, or the second. I’m the consolation prize.
As I’m having a pity-party for myself, complete with imaginary balloons and streamers, Shug’s voice drifts out into the lobby area, over the top of papers rustling. “How’s your leg? I think you’re the first writer I’ve known who’s been injured in the line of duty.”
I chuckle, a deep belly laugh that makes Shug appear back in the doorway. “Line of duty? This isn’t exactly Fort Knox.” With a sweeping motion, I gesture to the mansions outside the front window.
“Dinner with my family has been compared to surviving a week of boot camp,” he retorts, hiding a smile.
I lift an ankle and inspect my war wounds. “I think the fire ant barrage was much worse.”
Shug wrinkles his brow. “Have to watch out for them today.”
“Well, it’s bees, not fire ants, that I really have to worry about, but I carry an EpiPen for that,” I tell him and glance down at my leg—still puffy and ugly, but not nearly as angry-red as yesterday. I wonder how long it will take for the bumps to disappear. “I’ll certainly think twice before stepping onto the grass.”
Just thinking about those tiny ants makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Without much effort, I think about flailing around in the yard of the Jordan mansion, leg swollen as big as a tree trunk, moaning one last sentence. Tell David he did this to me.
As I fidget, I notice that Shug is staring at me. I’m saved by the jingle of the phone.
He holds up a finger. “Stay right there.” Shug raises a stern eyebrow. “Don’t leave. Better yet, take a look at the blueprints next to the back wall.” Outside his office, there are large rectangular boards on easels covered with thin sheets of paper.
I force my hands to my sides and stand up. Maybe the blueprints will take my mind off the ant bites. Lifting the parchment paper and flipping it over the top, I scan the lines and lettering. Across the bottom reads Phase One. Bluff Cit
y Inn, Proposed Hotel and Conference Center. There’s a rendering of a new façade, which keeps the same look and feel as the original brick building. The sketch next to it shows the interior design of a spacious guest room with an adjoining sitting area and bathroom.
And what’s behind door number two? I lift the sheet from the second easel. Phase Two, Lakepoint State Park, Proposed Updates. Before I can glance at any of the architectural details, I hear Shug’s voice. He sounds irritated. Very irritated.
The door to the small office closes with a bang.
Very carefully, I slide the parchment paper back in place. I am trying not to listen. Except that Shug is now shouting and I can hear every word.
“No, I don’t understand!” His feet pound around his office, making the windows and floorboards shake under my shoes.
As I tiptoe toward the front door, there’s another pause. Then Shug explodes, his voice loud and strained. “What do you mean, the Phase Three work?”
I stop walking, transfixed by the conversation. What is going on?
The floor groans again. This time, Shug’s tone is more subdued. “Yes, fine,” he says. “I’ll check into it and get back to you, as soon as I can.”
I look up, hopeful, as Shug opens the door to his office, walks into the room with the phone in his hand, and presses a button to end the call. Immediately, he dials another number. Evidently, the person doesn’t answer, because he stares off into space, his face dark and frowning. He’s so lost in thought I’m not sure he remembers I’m here.
“Everything all right?” I ask, trying to stay positive, despite my nerves jumping all over the place. I hate it when anyone’s upset, even a stranger. “Minor glitch in the plans?” I nod toward the blueprints in the back of the room.
“You could say that.” Shug tilts his head and grimaces. He’s not telling the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.
Shug stares out the window but doesn’t offer to explain, and the room fills with an awkward silence. That kind of stillness makes me a little crazy, almost claustrophobic. When you’re used to noise, you don’t quite know how to act. I search for something else to say, an excuse to go outside and get some air.
