by Lauren Clark
“Oh, is that all?” Relief floods his face. He reaches under his seat and hands me a worn blue hat. It’s emblazoned with an orange embroidered AU.
I take it and turn it around in my hands, smiling.
“It’s my lucky Auburn hat—you know, where I went to college,” Shug is beaming. “Come on, be a sport. It’ll be fine and will just take a sec. I promise,” he pleads.
Mary Katherine coughs. I’m not sure if she’s trying to hurry me along, but I slap the ball cap on my head and pull it down as far as I can over my forehead. “All righty then.”
“Good. Let’s go.” He points behind us and up in the air.
It’s The Donut King shop I noticed when I drove into Eufaula. The small, simple white sign with bright-red letters hangs outside the building. The structure itself is nondescript and plain, but when I inhale, the scent is a heady mix of sugar, flour, and buttery-goodness. Krispy Kreme, but better. It’s impossible to ignore and I find myself drifting across the parking lot toward the incredible smells coming out of the tiniest bakery I’ve ever seen.
Inside is dark and cramped, with conveyor belts dripping with glaze behind the counter. There are stacks of white boxes on one side and a cooler of milk and juice to our right. An Asian woman is waiting for us behind the counter, her hands folded at her waist.
“Hello Mr. Jordan, good to see you,” she says with a slight accent and nods a greeting in our direction.
When my eyes adjust to the dim light, I notice that the glass case in front of us has several shelves, each full of plastic trays. The trays, though, are all empty—strange for a doughnut shop—but I’m not about to ask what’s going on or what we’re doing there.
Mary Katherine hugs her elbows and tucks her arms tight into her ribs. She seems miserable and is glancing around like a snake might slither up her leg any moment. In my experience, women like Mary Katherine don’t frequent places like this. They don’t even pretend to eat high-fat anything, so I’m really not sure what she’s doing here, other than tagging along to make sure her boyfriend is behaving. After Shug’s seen my face blown up three sizes larger than normal, I don’t think I’m much competition.
“I really appreciate you waiting for us,” Shug tells the owner of the shop. He looks over at me and winks, “They’re usually sold out by now—but I told her we had a special guest from out of town and that she really had to sample the best doughnuts the South has to offer. I was planning to bring you here earlier today and surprise you, Julia, but…”
Mary Katherine squeaks like a mouse has nibbled her toe. When we all turn to look at her, she covers up her alarm by snuggling up to Shug. “Silly me. I’m just so excited about tonight. Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got lots to do this afternoon.”
“Well, enjoy.” The woman smiles and bends over to pick up a white box large enough to handle a dozen doughnuts, then produces several small bags with the tops folded down.
“Perfect,” Shug slides a few bills across the counter and scoops up our stash of sweets. He waves at the owner and opens the door, balancing the box and bags in one hand.
Once we’re settled back in the Mustang, Shug makes a big deal of opening the box and shoving it under my nose. The doughnuts smell like heaven.
“You’re not going to eat in this car, Shug Jordan,” Mary Katherine says under her breath.
He throws her a backward look. “We most certainly are,” he retorts to her surprised expression. “This is serious.”
To emphasize his point, he turns and offers the doughnuts to Mary Katherine, who turns up her nose and declines. He brings the box back to me.
With my thumb and index finger, I pinch the nearest confection and pull it out of the waxed paper wrapping. The doughnut is perfect, with just the right amount of glaze clinging to every nook and cranny. I take a small nibble and swoon with delight.
Shug finishes his doughnut by the time I’ve swallowed my first taste. “It’s good, right?”
I nod and smile, making sure to keep my lips pressed together because I’m still chewing.
Mary Katherine taps the seat impatiently. “Shug, please. Can we go?” She waves at herself. “This sun. I’m going to burn up if we sit out here much longer.”
Shug brushes off his fingertips, cranks the engine, and drives toward the B&B. “You can rest up for a bit. We’ll grab some dinner at, say six?”
He parks in front of Roger’s a few minutes later.
Mary Katherine follows me out of the Mustang, sliding into the passenger seat. She offers a cool smile and buckles the seatbelt, examining me with the strangest expression.
“Julia, heads up!” Shug calls out, looking mischievous. “Go long.” He heaves a small white bag at me. As the sack flies through the air, I manage to snatch the edge one-handed.
“Got it! Thanks.” I tuck it under my arm and take the steps one at a time, careful to hold on to the railing. When I step inside the building, smiling to myself, Roger is chatting with someone in the kitchen. I tiptoe to my room, unlock the door, and collapse on the four-poster bed, fully-clothed, and kick my shoes off. They land with a thump-thump on the wood floor. When I grab the pillow and stuff it under my head and neck, I realize now why Mary Katherine was staring at me.
When I raise my eyes, the dark brim of Shug’s ball cap stares down at me. I am still wearing his favorite Auburn University baseball hat. I slide his prized possession off my head, rubbing the soft blue cotton between my fingertips. With a sigh, I place it on the mattress with the orange AU logo facing me, and then snap off the bedside light.
As my eyelids grow heavy, and I settle in against the coverlet and firm mattress, I remind myself that I need to set my alarm for five o’clock. That will give me just enough time to shower, dress, apply makeup to my war wounds, and look presentable for dinner.
When my mind drifts further away from consciousness, I wonder why on earth Shug Jordan never asked for his ball cap back.
Chapter 19
I wake with a start and sit straight up in bed. It’s so dark in the bedroom that I can’t see my feet or my hands. There’s a sliver of light coming from outside, though, and after I launch myself off the mattress and trip over my shoes, I pull back the window’s heavy silk curtains.
With the back of my hand, I rub my eyes and look out across the street. The sun is rising in the east, casting a warm, red glow over the homes and buildings I can see in the distance.
Panicking, I leap for my watch, which I’m certain that I left on the bedside table. In my hurry, I bump my hip into the wood and knock the silver band to the floor. Still half-blind and now smarting from the bump, I drop to my hands and knees, pawing around on the floor, reaching my fingers beneath the bed frame.
It can’t be morning. What time is it? As that thought exits my brain, I wonder this: What day is it?
I snatch my laptop out of its carrying case and open it on the room’s tiny wooden desk. The light from the screen pours out and I wince from the brightness. My Mac powers up, chiming to signal the system is loading. With a clumsy finger, I hold my breath and punch the volume button half a dozen times before any other obnoxious noises wake Roger or the B&B’s other guests.
The black letters and numbers on my Mac tell me what I’ve already guessed. It’s six-twenty in the morning, it’s now Saturday, December 1st, and I’m about thirteen and a half hours late for dinner with Shug Jordan. I cover my face with my palms and try to inhale. When I’ve sufficiently replaced the oxygen in my lungs, I swallow hard and click on my email.
Gmail tells me that I have one hundred and thirty-five new messages. The senders include a multitude of spammers, who cloak their sales messages in miracle cures for infertility, impotence, and hair loss. Another two dozen announcements claim they have located a distant, wealthy relative who has left me a million dollars. The final spam-mail is from a minister in Kenya who urgently needs to send me money with absolutely no strings attached.
After I hit delete, I open the important messages, starting
with the person least likely to chastise me for something I’ve done wrong. There are four from Marietta, two from Andrew, my long-suffering boyfriend, and a lone message from David, boss from hell and unfortunately, also my father.
Marietta’s emails are brief and snappy, detailing the latest office escapades and late-night hook-ups. She spends an entire page describing Dolores Stanley’s makeover and new wardrobe, no doubt spurred by an effort to please the new man at the helm of Getaways magazine. Actually, Dolores looks pretty good. Someone at Macy’s helped her pick out the clothes. Here’s hoping someone tossed the tangerine polyester pants and paisley print tops. Off to grab a snack. I’m starving! Love, Marietta.
At the mention of the word, I remember Shug lobbing the Donut King bag at me before he and Mary Katherine left for home. I sniff the air, trying to locate where I might have dropped the package—please, not the hallway—on the way into the bedroom last night. After tripping over both of my shoes a second time, I give up and flick on the small overhead light.
Phew! The small white bag is sitting just inside the door. I kneel down and cradle the bag in one hand, unrolling the top with the other. Without hesitation, I pop one of the doughnut holes in my mouth and sink back into the chair. My taste buds immediately wake to the golden goodness that dissolves on my tongue. The sweet glaze is just enough balance for the lightly fried flour and yeast confection.
I steel myself with a second and third sample as I open Andrew’s emails. His writing is typically sparse and factual, and these messages don’t stray much from the established format, mentioning work, the weather, and my return to New York, in that order. He offers condolences for my rushed departure, the change in assignments, then throws me a curveball in the last sentence, which I almost skip because I’m so engrossed in popping doughnut holes into my mouth.
The cursor blinks next to his question. Where would you like to go for our anniversary? I’m at a loss. Anniversary. Tuesday. I do a mental calculation and, to my dismay, realize that Andrew’s correct. I’ll be back in the City in time for whatever he has planned.
In the past, Andrew has tried hard to be very creative. Our adventures have included a trip to New Orleans, which ended up with a pickpocket stealing Andrew’s wallet and a homeless person following us back to the hotel. For my birthday, a sunset cruise was a marvelous idea, until a freak storm cropped up and washed the captain overboard. At the time, neither one of us realized he was drunk. Andrew and I did enjoy meeting the coast guard crew when they rescued us from drifting across the Atlantic in a thirty-foot sailboat with a semi-functional engine.
Andrew outdid himself last year by giving me a surprise skydiving trip. Of course, he’d forgotten my fear of heights. Like a good sport, I decided I’d try it—with a borrowed Valium—but the bumpy air and sight of the earth thousands of feet below only served to feed my unrelenting terror. In the end, I tossed my cookies twice into someone’s spare backpack and never got out of the airplane.
I’m assuming, this year, Andrew will choose something standard and safe. I type a vague response about my return, promise to call when my flight lands, then add a few guilt-induced x’s and o’s for good measure. Andrew, one of the world’s nicest guys, deserves better than a lot of ‘maybes’ and a string of broken romantic dates. So far, we’ve avoided the big commitment talk, but I feel that it’s coming. And to be fair—and honest with myself—I love him, but he’s not my soul mate. We need to talk. It’ll be first on my list after I finish the article for Getaways.
I turn my attention to business. David’s message. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder about my current assignment. Deadline: Wednesday, December 5, 2012. Five o’clock. There’s no greeting, small talk, or signature. Duly noted.
With a sigh, I tap ‘reply’ and pick up a brochure left for me by the Eufaula Chamber of Commerce. I flip through the photos and descriptions, turn down a few page corners, and type up a brief description of the area, being careful to mention Shorter Mansion, the Hart House, and Fendall Hall. I decide to leave out my run-in with the fire ants and yesterday’s bee sting incident, choosing instead to share my ambitious plan for touring Eufaula today: the Christmas Tour of homes, Carnegie Library, Fairview Cemetery, Reeves Peanut Warehouse, and the Confederate Hospital on Riverside Drive.
With flourish, I hit send and close my laptop.
It’s now six forty-five in the morning, which I confirm with a cursory glance at the clock in the bathroom. I splash my face with cold water and inspect my cheek and temple. There’s not much evidence of the assault on my skin, other than some redness and puffy areas around my eye, which a dab of makeup will fix.
I consider leaving a message for Shug, but decide to wait, do a little exploring on my own, and show up full of apologies on his office doorstep at precisely eight o’clock. After a shower and clean clothes, I run a comb through my still-damp hair, grab my camera bag, and slip out into the hallway. I pass Roger’s library on the way out the door and spy a copy of Backtracking in Barbour County. I tuck the book under my arm and adjust the purse on my shoulder as I step onto the street, estimating that it is less than a mile to the old Confederate Hospital.
The morning is pleasant and crisp with a slight breeze. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and birds chirp from treetops, hurrying me along. At the corner of Broad and Randolph Streets, I admire cascades of water splashing down from a fountain in the center of the intersection.
After I cross Orange and Livingston, I pause to read the inscription on a tall silver and black monument marker embossed with gold letters. It reads Central Railroad of Georgia Freight Depot and bears the date 1865, when the Southwestern Railroad of Georgia became the first rail line to connect with Eufaula and Georgetown, Georgia. The Depot was abandoned in the late 1980s, when the City of Eufaula acquired the structure.
I move to read the opposite side of the marker, and snap a photograph of the long, yellow building with a red metal roof. According to the sign, the refurbished Depot now houses the Chamber of Commerce, Tourism Council, Main Street Eufaula, and other community groups.
As I continue toward the reservoir, which divides Alabama and Georgia, I pass North Forsyth Avenue. I flip open the reference book I’ve borrowed and search for information on the old Confederate Hospital. I recall from looking through the tourism material that the building, erected in 1836, is considered the first permanent structure in Eufaula. The building also served as a Tavern and, for a brief time, an Episcopal Church.
On pages 204 and 205, Backtracking recounts the memories of Mrs. Serena Hoole Brown, the granddaughter of Confederate General Hunter. She describes Eufaula on April 29th, 1865—the day General Sherman declared an end to the war between the states.
“…the upper floors of the stores were filled with ill and wounded soldiers…The private homes were like hospitals … the houses on the hill, on Eufaula and Randolph Streets. The old O’Harro house, a large hotel, was a hospital, and the two-story wooden court house was a separate ward for commissioned officers.”
Mrs. Hoole Brown goes on to describe that “…the large wooden two-story house on the bluff, at the foot of Broad Street was the ward for "the blood-poison cases-the gangrenous cases”…Every day had found the women of
Eufaula nursing the soldiers, sending their servants on foraging expeditions for eggs and chickens, and seeing to it that the surgeons and physicians were supplied with instruments, chloroform, morphine, quinine and such stores as were necessary. Dr. Hamilton M. Weedon, who was in charge of the hospital on the bluff, depended upon the efforts of the heroic women to supply him with a very excellent healing salve…made of alder pitch and blooms.”
I close the book and continue walking. The Old Confederate Hospital—now a private residence—sits nestled among the trees that drip with Spanish moss. It’s a lovely building, painted yellow with white trim. Double porches stretch the entire length of the façade.
For a moment, I can almost see the women in hoop skirts and shawls, tending to broken and blo
odied confederate soldiers, many just boys. I can imagine the acrid sting of chloroform in the air and the sound of moans and suffering. It is a painful, heartbreaking thought, and I wonder how many families were ripped apart by the battles, how many men—fathers, brothers, and sons—lost their lives in this small part of the state. I shudder and blink against the tears trying to spill over on my lashes.
With a shake of my head, I regain my composure and focus. It’s time to hurry back and find Shug. I adjust the strap of my purse and reach for my camera. Though the city is full of historic landmarks, and the residents are used to tourists, I am mindful of not disturbing anyone. While the street is still peaceful and quiet, I snap a photograph.
The familiar purr of a Mustang engine rumbles behind me. “Hey stranger,” Shug calls. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”
“Hey, I am so sorry—” I begin to explain.
He waves away my explanation. “Ah, I thought you’d need some rest after yesterday. When I came by to check on you last night, Roger said he hadn’t heard a sound from your room.” He smiles up at me. “We peeked through the keyhole to see if you were still breathing.”
“You did not—” I accuse him and wag a finger. “I’ll tell your mother on you.”
Shug holds up both hands. “Please, anything but that.”
“All right, but no spying,” I offer a stern look. “It was early when I woke up, so I decided to take the solo tour.” I hold up the camera. “I was on my way to see you next. And apologize.”
“For standing me up?” He laughs. “Well, had you been able to make our date, I would have taken you to a really upscale place…” Shug lets his voice drift off. When he lets his eyes roll back, I know that he’s joking.
“So I blew it?” I play along, ignoring the word ‘date.’ I put both hands on my hips. “Well, don’t leave me guessing. What did I miss?”
“Phil’s down-home barbeque.” He grins in delight. “Best butts in Alabama.”
