by Lauren Clark
My pen moves across the page at breakneck speed as she talks. “All right.”
“The Pilgrimage—always in the spring—features more homes and an entire weekend of activities. We like to have ten or twelve homes open on the tour, several gardens, local churches, Superior Pecans, as well as the Carnegie Library.”
I scribble furiously, wishing I’d thought to grab my digital recorder.
“The Pilgrimage always begins with the firing of the cannon,” PD smiles at this. “It’s loud! There’s a ghost walk at night, a fun run Saturday morning, an antique show, book signings, and more southern food than you can imagine.” She taps her chin. “Of course, there are the princesses. No queen anymore.”
That makes me pause. “Why?” I try to think of a tactful way to ask if she’s talking about a beauty pageant.
“Until this year, a queen and two princesses were selected from the Pilgrimage Court to preside over the events. It was suggested that perhaps sixteen young ladies could represent the city of Eufaula—all princesses—making it enjoyable for the girls, instead of a competition.”
“Everyone’s happier?” I guess.
“And there’s a better sense of unity. Plus, everyone looks so lovely in their dresses and can act as ambassadors for each of the homes on the tour, instead of just Shorter Mansion. It’s a big honor, something that the little girls in this community dream about becoming when they grow up. A little like a fairy tale.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I nod. Of course, I never was partial to hoop skirts and big bows. I’d rather climb trees and hang upside down, though I won’t share that with Shug’s sister.
PD stops and laughs a little. “It must sound so trite and silly to someone from up north. In a big city like New York, no one cares about being a princess.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I wrinkle my nose. “There are all sorts of divas in the Big Apple. You’d be surprised,” I say. “So, I have to know…did anyone in your family wear the crown? Or tiara? Or whatever you wear when you’re selected as royalty here?”
There’s a creak behind us in the foyer.
“The answer’s yes,” a familiar voice says. “Mama and PD both. And it’s a tiara.”
Chapter 17
“Only a man from the South would know a tiara from a tire iron,” PD says, and nods approvingly at her brother as she gets up from the chair.
Shug waves at me with a brave smile. He and Aubie are standing in the foyer. Well, I should clarify that Shug is standing. His mother is half-leaning, half-hanging onto her son by one shoulder and what looks like the tail end of his sport coat. There are streaks of black down her cheeks and her hair is smashed on one side, like she’s been laying on a bathmat.
“Excuse me, Julia, while I take Mama home.” PD strides toward her mother, circling an arm around her waist and leading her toward the front door.
“Of course,” I say to her back and remained perched on the edge of my seat, ankles crossed. It feels like I’m in day one of finishing school, and I half-expect Martha Stewart to breeze through the door and start overseeing the progress in the Mansion. Well, except that the queen of domesticity spent some time in the slammer, and she’s a Yankee. Forget that.
Shug opens one of the doors for his mother and sister, then ambles back over to the parlor, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Surviving?”
“Oh, yes,” I say and wave a hand in the air, feigning nonchalance. “I’m learning a lot. So far, we’ve covered Southern delicacies, the official canon firing, and princess management.” I tick off the items on my fingers and grin.
“Nice,” he laughs. “Now, how about that tour I’ve been promising you? We’ll spend more time here tomorrow at the luncheon.”
“Great!” I gather my bag and notebook. “I’m ready to hit the town.”
“Our first stop is Fendall Hall,” Shug announces as we cruise through town. The top’s down, as it’s a balmy seventy degrees and sunny.
As we turn onto Eufaula Avenue, I remind myself to be thankful for the break from New York’s endless gray clouds and snowstorms. Here, a thousand miles south, the sky is so vivid turquoise blue and pure that it almost hurts my eyes.
“Is it always like this?” I ask, yelling as we pick up speed. My hair blows wildly around my face, catching in my eyelashes.
Shug laughs and gestures above our heads. “You mean the weather?” He shrugs and nods. “Yeah. We’re lucky, I guess. Summer can get a little brutal when it’s ninety-nine degrees in August, but it’s hard to beat sunshine in the forecast more than two hundred days a year.”
I settle in against the seat and enjoy the warmth on my shoulders and legs. There are amazing houses I can’t wait to see inside, towering structures in Greek Revival, Victorian, and Italianate styles of architecture. We come to an intersection and wait to turn right.
Staring down at the road is the towering confederate soldier. The statue must reach thirty or forty feet in the air. He cuts a distinguished figure in Italian marble with his long coat and focused expression, his body ‘at rest’ with both hands gripping the barrel of his musket.
“The United Daughters of the Confederacy donated the monument in 1904,” Shug says, following my gaze. “And there’s another interesting fact here,” he points to the street signs. “This area is the Seth Lore Historic District. Captain Lore is the man who laid out the city’s main streets in 1834. Broad Street, in front of us, runs east-west. The four main north-south routes, including the one we’re driving on, were named Livingston, Orange, Randolph, and Eufaula.” He pauses and waits for my reaction.
“Ah, L-O-R-E. Got it,” I smile over at him. “Smart guy, that Captain Lore.”
We ease into the turn once the intersection is clear.
“So, the name Eufaula?” I ask. “Where did that originate?”
Shug shifts his gaze to the road. “The Creek Indians, who lived along the portion of land above the banks of the Chattahoochee River. From what we can gather from historical records, Eufaula means ‘high bluff’ and Chattahoochee translates to ‘river of painted rocks,’ though there is still some debate about that between historians.
“I see. And the locals decided to keep the name Eufaula?”
“A group of Georgia men looking for crop land adopted the name for the first settlement in 1823. When William Irwin built a steamboat wharf and post office to support trade—just south of here—for a brief time, the city was called “Irwinton”. The mail kept getting sent to Irwinton, Georgia, so the people went back to using Eufaula.”
“And the Indians were forced out?” I ask, wrinkling my nose and knowing the answer.
Shug frowns. “To the West. The Creek Trail of Tears.” He pulled up along the side of the road and stopped the car. “Not our finest moment in history. But cotton became king and the economy boomed in the 1840s and 50s when all of these magnificent homes were built.”
I brush a stray hair off my face and gaze up at a home nestled among towering trees and lush shrubbery. Fendall Hall is three stories tall, with a glass-encased cupola and widow’s walk stretching across the massive rooftop.
Shug opens my door. I step out, still drinking in the exquisite architecture and sprawling porch. The home, painted in tan and trimmed in rich brown and white, is immaculate and stately.
“Fendall Hall was built by the Young family in the late 1850s. It stayed in the family until 1973 when the state of Alabama bought it. It’s a museum now, operated Monday through Saturday by the Alabama Historical Commission.” He nudges my arm. “Wait until you see the Italian marble tile in the entry. And there are some amazing murals—”
“Oh,” I wander over to a blooming azalea bush loaded with candy-pink blossoms, stepping closer to inspect the flowers. “I love these.”
“They’re confused,” he grins. “One warm spell and the plants think it’s time to bloom.”
“I would, too,” I say and reach out to touch a few of the shiny dark green leaves.
�
�Don’t,” Shug warns with a yank on my arm. “I think—”
Too late, I hear distinct buzzing.
“Ow! Ack! No!” I screech. I’m blinded momentarily, intense pain searing my cheek and eyebrow like a laser beam. I stumble back, hands flailing, grabbing the air and finding nothing. Holding a hand to my eyes, I moan and slump over. Shug’s arms are around my waist. He’s half-dragging, half-carrying me away from the angry insects.
During the attack, one of my shoes slipped off, and I dropped my purse, but I’m clenching my teeth so hard I can’t force my jaw open to say anything.
Shug is breathing hard and trying to pry my palms away from where I’d clamped them onto my skin, as if the pressure might prevent the worst from happening. Underneath, a chemical reaction is taking place. In seconds, I’ll swell to the size of a hot-air balloon and lose consciousness.
Shug manages to wrestle me to a seated position on the concrete steps of Fendall Hall. “Talk to me, Julia. Talk to me,” he urges. He’s gripping my upper arm so tight my veins start to throb.
“Pen-th,” I garble. “Pen-th,” I repeat, my tongue thick. With effort, I force my eyes open.
A door creaks open behind us and I hear footsteps. “Shug Jordan, whatever are you doing on the front steps?” A female voice asks. “And who’s this with you?” she chirps brightly. “Oh, there’s your pocketbook. Bless your heart, dear. Let me get that for you.”
The sharp click-click of her heels go by, and I catch the scent of sweet, pungent perfume. I want to sneeze, but my sinuses have expanded to the size of breakfast sausages.
Shug doesn’t answer. Instead, he tries again to pull my arm away from my head. This time, he’s successful.
“You’re swelling. Julia, your face is…you don’t look so good.”
If I had the strength, I’d punch him in the shoulder and say, “No kidding,” but under the circumstances, I say what’s most important. “Pen-th,” I sputter one last time, hoping it translates.
Shug finally gets it. He’s not panicked, exactly, but close. “Miss Byrd,” he shouts. “Miss Byrd. Please, bring me her purse right away! And call 9-1-1.”
Darn it all. Sure, bring more people to the spectacle.
And then, for some reason—the most likely being avoidance of another insect sting—Shug throws me over one muscled shoulder like a sack of grain. No doubt, had I been able to see myself, upside down, derriere in the air, being carried up the steps of this lovely Alabama landmark, I would have wanted someone to shoot me.
Inside, on the floor, I lay sprawled against the cool tile of the foyer. There’s an ornate chandelier overhead. The glittering lights swim together like an ocean of sequins and diamonds.
Miss Byrd runs inside and from the sound of it, Shug rips the bag from her hands. He unzips the top and dumps the entire contents on the floor. Lipstick cases go rolling, along with my stash of Advil, and other unmentionable feminine products. Spare change, pens, and keys clink and clatter around us.
After digging through the pile, Shug finds the EpiPen, and without hesitation, plunges it into my arm.
An ambulance siren wails in the distance. A second siren joins in. The cavalry is coming.
As the medication works its magic, returning me to a semi-human state, Shug pulls me closer, resting my head against his chest. I attempt to mumble a thank you, but end up with my swollen lips grazing the inside of his elbow. Which would have been nice, had I been semi-coherent and on our eleventh date.
“Don’t try to talk,” Shug says.
Tires squeal and the sirens reach a near-deafening scream outside Fendall Hall.
“Oh, thank you Jesus. Here they come,” Miss Byrd announces.
I struggle to sit up but get my body about an inch higher before I fall back again. My head feels like someone buried an axe in the back of my skull.
“Just rest.” Shug puts a hand on my cheek for emphasis, then tucks a strand of stray behind my ear. “They’ll be here in a minute.”
Miss Byrd coughs. “And Shug, here’s Mary Katherine, too. She’s coming up the walk right now.”
Chapter 18
After the injection, I’m cold and shaking like one of those machines used to mix paint cans. To my intense embarrassment and dismay, I’m now strapped to a stretcher with an oxygen mask over my face. There are monitors everywhere.
The cart I’m lying on shimmies back and forth as the ambulance screams away from Fendall Hall, bumping over potholes, lights flashing. An EMT, who looks about twelve years old, hangs on to the metal edge of the stretcher frame, monitoring my blood pressure and heart rate.
From the angle of my own body and the strain of the engine, I can tell we’re heading uphill at a decent clip. I close my eyes and start to count backwards from one hundred, trying not to worry about the back doors flying open. I resign myself to the fact that—if they do—this emergency worker is coming with me, and we’ll both look like Alabama road kill in no time.
The hospital ER is housed in a short, small building. The staff mustn’t be very busy today, because it looks like every employee in the entire hospital is here to meet us. My stretcher is yanked from the ambulance, and I’m certain the older of the two EMTs is going to trip before he sets me on the ground.
As I’m being rolled inside, Shug and Mary Katherine race up beside me. They jog alongside the cart as we breeze inside the doors and into the lobby area.
“Julia,” Shug waves at my face to get my attention. I blink over at him. “I tried to warn you. I’m so sorry.” He looks absolutely distraught, like he’s the one who pushed my face into the azalea bushes and summoned the bees to sting.
The truth is, I know better, and should be wearing my medical alert bracelet. The last time I saw it, however, was in my New York apartment by the empty fish bowl. Of course, I didn’t think for a moment that insects would be trolling for victims in the dead of winter. And, of course, the dead of winter down south is sixty-five degrees and sunny, so that logic is out the window in a hurry.
“S’okay,” I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile. My face usually looks like it’s been used as a punching bag, so there’s no telling what I’m able to convey. “Happens,” I add.
“You poor thing,” Mary Katherine chimes in, not breaking a sweat or looking the least bit winded, but doing her best to sound the part of concerned citizen.
“We’ll be waiting out here,” Shug pokes his thumb in the direction of what I guess is the waiting area. He slows to a walk with Mary Katherine as the EMTs drag me into an exam room and shut the curtains behind us.
A cursory exam by the attending physician indicates that I will, indeed, live to see another day—barring any other unseen mishap. The doctor is pleasant and soft-spoken, with an accent as thick and sweet as crystallized honey.
Though I can’t understand a lot of what he’s saying, I nod and listen the best I can. “Y’all” and “reckon” seem among his favorite phrases, although “fixin’ to” and “bless her heart” are running not far behind with the staff.
The nurses, in scrubs and white tennis shoes, scurry back and forth, chatting between tasks. I catch a few of them watching the activity around my bed and staring at my swollen face, but they’re discreet enough to turn away when I notice them looking. By now, if it wasn’t a blatant HIPAA violation, there might be a magazine article and photo caption circulating in US Weekly tomorrow. I can picture the headline: NY Travel Writer unveils secret identity as Circus Sideshow Act.
After another hour of watchful waiting to make sure I don’t relapse, the physician signs a few slips of paper inside my medical chart. He confirms a minimum of three times that I have another EpiPen in my luggage, a current prescription for more if needed, and then finally releases me to Shug and Mary Katherine’s custody.
Drained of all energy and weak from the medication’s after-effects, Shug offers an elbow to hang onto as I hobble back to the Mustang. I decline, a little out of pride, but mostly because of the searing look of displeasure that s
hoots from Mary Katherine’s eyeballs into the back of Shug’s head.
He’s blithely unaware of her sullen expression, even when he shoos her into the back seat, so that he can keep an eye on me up front.
With a flip of her hair, Mary Katherine steps daintily into the rear and wiggles into the space. She dons a large pair of Jackie-O style sunglasses and reapplies her lipstick, which still looks perfect.
“Julia, I’m going to take you back to Roger’s in a few minutes,” Shug tells me over the rumble of the engine. “He’s making up your bed now and putting on some hot tea. I told him we’d be there shortly.” He hands me a slip of paper. “Phone numbers. Mine. PD’s. My parents’ house. Just in case.”
“Thanks,” I say. My seatbelt clicks into place as we drive away from the historic district.
Shug takes a right, then another into a church parking lot. He laughs when he sees my confused expression. “No, it’s not what you think,” he says, jumping out of the vehicle.
He walks around and winks in my direction. I don’t move or turn my head to look at Mary Katherine, who probably doesn’t need another reason to consider throwing me under the wheels of the Mustang.
“I called ahead for your prescription. Doctor’s orders,” he jokes.
While I ease out of the car one cautious foot at a time, Mary Katherine screws up her face. “Shug Jordan, whatever are you talking about?”
“It’s the one thing guaranteed to make anyone feel better,” Shug says, and then hesitates. “You’re not allergic to flour and sugar, are you, Julia?”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. His worried expression is adorable. “Um,” I point at my face. “I thought you were making a stop. I’m not sure I want to go anywhere in public after this.” I don’t have to check a mirror to know my eyes and cheek are still puffy.
