by Ann B. Ross
“What she say?” Lillian asked, thoroughly taken up with the story.
“She said something like ‘I wish I always knew what to wear when Don and I are invited somewhere.’ Then she mentioned the fact that they moved around a lot, so she never felt that she knew how to dress so she’d fit in. It wasn’t much, and she didn’t ask for help, so I was afraid to offer. But, Miss Julia, she said it so poignantly that it’s stayed with me and I wish I had offered.”
Hazel Marie was still intent on improving her vocabulary and tried to use a new word at least once a day. With her use of poignantly, I knew she’d accomplished her purpose for the day. Lillian, however, was frowning.
“Well,” I said for the benefit of both, “that is quite touching, Hazel Marie, and I think you’re right. I think it was a plea for help, but she’s so repressed that she couldn’t come out and say so.”
“That’s kind of what I thought, too. So I want to know if you think it would hurt her feelings if I called and told her that LuAnne wants help with her wardrobe—you know, how to put things together, what goes with what, and what basics every woman should have—and ask if she’d like to join us. Or something like that.”
“I think she’s given you the perfect opportunity,” I said. “But I’d stress the clothes part of it if I were you, at least at first. Then maybe you could ease into getting her to try a little color on her face.”
“Yes,” Hazel Marie said, “that would be the way to do it. And it shouldn’t be too hard. If I could get her and LuAnne together, wait till she feels comfortable with both of us, then we could talk about makeup. Maybe try a few things on LuAnne and let her watch. You know, go slowly like that.”
“That lady,” Lillian pronounced, “sure do need some kinda help. She look peaked to me.”
“She’s just very fair, Lillian,” I said, “which, of course, is all the more reason she needs to add some color. Hazel Marie,” I said, turning to her, “it’s good of you to want to help. And you’re so good at makeup and fashion and all of that, it’s no wonder that everybody turns to you. We all know that you know what you’re doing.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said, as modest as always. “But I do enjoy it, and I’d love to turn Lauren into a showstopper. She’s really lovely if you can overlook the paleness, because Lillian is right—she does look sick.”
“Oh, my,” I said, “you don’t suppose she really is, do you?”
“No, I didn’t get that feeling at all. She ate two slices of James’s pound cake, and Ronnie paid no attention to her.”
“Well, then,” Lillian said, “there’s your proof.”
“What?” I asked. “Proof of what?”
“Dogs,” Lillian pronounced, “can smell when somebody sick.”
“That’s right,” Hazel Marie said, nodding. “And Ronnie barely raised his head when she walked past. He wasn’t interested in her at all.”
“Well, I didn’t know that.” But now that I did, I decided that if I thought I was getting sick while Dr. Hargrove was gone, I could check my condition with Ronnie before calling on the doctor’s substitute.
“Well, Hazel Marie,” I said, “do keep me up to date with your styling sessions. I’ll be interested to see how Lauren responds or, actually, whether she even joins you and LuAnne.”
“I hoped you’d be interested,” Hazel Marie said, “because that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I think it would all be easier, especially if Lauren comes, if you joined us, too. I mean, it would be more like a class, rather than one-on-one sessions. That way, nobody would feel singled out because everybody can use some help at one time or another.”
Hearing that, I immediately felt singled out, because I knew LuAnne had put that suggestion in Hazel Marie’s head. I took immediate umbrage and started to let Hazel Marie know that I wasn’t “everybody.”
On second thought, though, maybe LuAnne hadn’t and it was Hazel Marie’s own opinion. With that thought, my spurt of anger deflated in a hurry. Maybe I really did need some help. Maybe my morning beauty routine had come to the end of its usefulness. Maybe there were new products on the market that would transform me, and this suggestion was the way my closest friends were telling me that I was in dire need of transformation. It was certainly true that my daily routine—done the same way with the same products every morning for years—had become so habitual that I could run through it in my sleep. And contrary to the evenings when I prepared for a party, there had been mornings when I had done it, at least partially, in my sleep.
“That’s very true, Hazel Marie,” I said, in a humble state of mind, “so I’d be happy to join you. Everybody can, indeed, use some help now and then.”
Chapter 14
*
After Hazel Marie left, I went upstairs to do some soul searching and, while I was at it, a little mirror searching as well. Upon a close and careful examination of my face, I couldn’t see that any more products from the Clinique counter would help matters. I didn’t use a lot of makeup—just a light foundation, a brush of rouge, and, when I thought of it, some light color on my lips. I had occasionally, for special occasions, played around with an eyeliner, but had usually ended up looking like a raccoon. Or else getting most of it in, rather than around, my eyes.
But the hard truth of the matter was that I most certainly could use some help. The even harder truth was that it would take a plastic surgeon’s knife to remedy matters. And I wasn’t about to do that. No, I’d seen the results of recent plastic surgery on others, which, I readily admit, effected a radical change of a face—if you like that kind of change. For myself, though—no, thank you.
My hair, though, was a different kettle of fish. If Hazel Marie could do something with it, I would be eternally grateful. I would accept any criticism—any suggestions—she had to do something different with it. Velma at the Cut ’n Curl had kept it trimmed for lo, these many years, and had finally talked me into what she called highlighted streaks that had to be done more and more often. By this time, I may actually have been spending more time each week in her salon than I was spending in church. Which, to my shame, says something about my priorities.
After a frowning glance in the full-length mirror, I walked to my closet, opened the door, and looked over the hanging clothes. With a sigh, I conceded that the closet needed a good cleaning and throwing out. There were things in there that I hadn’t worn in five years, and more of the same in the hall closet. Why is it so hard to get rid of unused clothing? I well knew that others were in need and would welcome a nice Neiman Marcus suit that had been off its hanger only twice in the past three or four years. Now and then I would get it out, look it over, and reject it, but not to give away. I’d hang it back up, thinking that one day I might need that very suit.
Meanwhile, fashions changed and huge shoulder pads went the way of broomstick skirts. And that was the problem—fashions did change, leaving us with closets full of no-longer-wearable clothing and, in order to be even halfway fashionable, sending us on shopping trips to Saks or Neiman Marcus, to say nothing of Target or Talbots.
But let me just say this: How anybody in the world could or would wear what I had been seeing in the high fashion magazines that Velma kept in her salon was beyond me. The last issue of Vogue that I’d flipped through featured the most outlandish outfits I’d ever seen. You wouldn’t catch me wearing any of them, although I readily admit that they weren’t designed for my age group in the first place. But have you ever seen such a conglomeration of plaids, polka dots, paisleys, checks, and stripes in your life—and I mean put together on one model? And some with a few leopard spots thrown in, as well as over-the-knee boots with tassels? Not a one was suitable for a Women of the Church meeting, much less for a Sunday service. They were clown costumes more suited for a circus spotlight than for your normal lunch at the Tête-à-Tête Tearoom.
Nonetheless, I resigned mys
elf to joining the small group of hopeful makeover candidates who were putting themselves in Hazel Marie’s hands. But only with this caveat, which I would keep to myself: My presence would really be to help LuAnne and Lauren—if she came—because I was reasonably satisfied with my own way of dressing and my own way of doing my face and hair. If, however, Hazel Marie had a small and carefully worded suggestion to make, I would happily consider it, but I would keep firmly in mind that I was present mainly to give encouragement to those who needed help much more than I did.
* * *
—
After asking Lillian if she wanted anything from the grocery store and getting a frowning look in return, I explained that I was going out for a while and could pick up a few items for her. I had overlooked the fact that she took it as a criticism of her planning if I offered to grocery shop.
“I’m going to look for magazines,” I said, “and I know the grocery store carries them.”
“What you wantin’ to read about movie stars for?” she demanded, giving me a disbelieving stare.
“Not those, Lillian. I’m interested in something like Vogue and Elle that show new fashions. This is all to help LuAnne in her quest for grave clothing.”
“Oh, well,” she said, “I guess that’s all right, then. I hear Mr. Conover say one time he bought Playboy magazine ’cause it’s got real good writin’ in it.”
That stopped me in my tracks, but on second thought, decided that I didn’t need to know anything further on that subject.
* * *
—
So I dropped by the grocery store and I visited the Rite Aid drugstore next door as well. Armed with several glossy magazines, I went back to the car and started on my real reason for being out and about on such a cold day.
Driving slowly along several residential streets on the south side of town, I tried to look as if I had a definite destination. What I was really doing, though, was keeping a sharp eye out for such things as parked service trucks or vans, workmen going and coming, and FOR SALE signs with a banner reading UNDER CONTRACT across them.
Yes, I was looking for the house that Dr. Crawford had bought. I had the impression that I would find it in a less than desirable area, maybe because I might’ve looked in the same area if I’d been buying a house for rental purposes. And also because Lillian had said that her neighbors had hopes for a block renewal, which was what I was interested in.
Oh, and yes, because the words “low-income housing” had been mentioned. You wouldn’t find that in a gated community or up on the mountain where scenic views added thousands to the price of a house.
Noticing a panel van parked at the curb in front of a small house on Rosewood Lane, I slowed as I drove past, figuring that I had found Dr. Crawford’s choice. Why else would a termite company be calling on what appeared to be a decrepit residence, unoccupied for obvious reasons? But of course I was less interested in Dr. Crawford’s specific purchase than I was in the surrounding houses, where I was thinking of jumping in and getting in on the ground floor.
I circled the block only once, not wanting to draw attention to myself, but taking note of the state of the various houses. They could all use some help—two most definitely needed new roofs, all of them had peeling paint, and I shuddered to think of how many windows needed replacing with double panes just to keep out the wind.
Obviously, this would be a major undertaking even after purchasing one or two of them—if I was able to do that. People become attached to their homes, regardless of their state of disrepair, especially after spending most of their lives paying for them. There were no FOR SALE signs in front of any of them, which told me that whoever owned them intended to keep them—unless, of course, they were made an offer they couldn’t refuse.
And that brought up another thought. The people who lived in the houses might not own them. They may already be renters who would be thrilled at the possibility of having their homes refurbished. The behind-the-scenes owners, however, might not want to sell—the renters they had were willing to put up with less than desirable housing because they couldn’t afford anything else.
What I needed to do was to sit down and do some figuring. Would it be cost effective to purchase, say, two houses, completely refurbish them, then rent them back to the previous occupants? Clearly, I could not raise the rent above the amount they were already paying—whether as rent or as payments on their mortgages—else they wouldn’t be able to afford them. From the condition of the houses, the owners were pushed to their financial limits already. Unless, of course, the owners were essentially slum landlords who would continue to collect rent until the houses fell in on themselves.
With a sigh, I resigned myself to the need of research at a county office to find the true owners. The whole idea was ballooning out of control, and I was beginning to count the cost and decide that I might be getting in over my head. But, then, I had a sudden solution—government subsidies or grants, about which I knew nothing. Yet from what I’d heard, that was how developers descended on the county, buying up huge tracts of farmland, then presenting the county commissioners with architect-drawn plans to build ninety or more houses, including single homes, duplexes, and mutiplexes, as well as adorning the whole area with winding roads, play areas, and walking trails.
And all the county had to do in return was give them a break on property taxes, run water and sewer lines and electicity to the area, widen all roads leading to it, and, oh, yes, put in a few traffic lights to manage the increased number of vehicles. And, looking to the future, start planning for a new school in the area. The icing on the cake, however, plus a tug at the heartstrings of the commissioners was the promise that the new development would be low-income housing only, or to use the new euphemism, affordable housing.
Now, just tell me how developers can afford to do that? Developers do not develop unless they can get a return on their investment. And who could blame them? Not I, that’s for sure. Only a very few, like the Microsoft founder, can afford to give away millions. The question is, therefore, where does that return on investment come from? Not from low-income renters by any stretch of the imagination.
So the answer was help from the government in the form of subsidies and/or grants. I was not in the least inclined toward something as ambitious as a major development. All I was interested in was the upgrading of a few small homes to give a face-lift to an in-town area and provide decent living space to lifelong town residents. But I couldn’t afford to do it out of the goodness of my heart—it had to be cost effective, and I’d have to have a return on my investment.
I needed to talk to Sam. And maybe to Binkie, my Johnny-on-the-spot lawyer, and perhaps to Dr. Don Crawford to see if he wanted to be a part of my grand scheme.
Chapter 15
*
That evening after supper, I told Sam about my vision for renovating a block—perhaps on Rosewood Lane—that badly needed it, and doing it one house, or possibly two, at a time. I laid out the plans for researching the owners (hoping that he would volunteer for that chore), getting a bank loan (or a government subsidy), and describing the spurt of general upgrading of the surrounding area that I hoped it would inspire.
“That whole south end of town could become a showplace,” I said, “and it could all start with one little house.”
“Dr. Crawford’s rental house?”
“Um, well, I guess I was thinking of mine, but of course you’re right. That’s where I got the idea. What do you think?”
Sam rubbed his hand across his face and got that faraway look that meant he was giving something a lot of thought.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” he finally said. “The area could certainly use some updating. Many of those houses aren’t fit to live in, and I’m surprised they haven’t been condemned before this. If you’re looking for a project, it would be a worthwhile one to take on. The first thing to do, though, would be to count t
he cost.”
“Why, Sam, that’s what I’ve been doing all afternoon. I know what I’d be getting into. And I have a legal pad almost full of notes and numbers and estimates to prove it.”
“I don’t doubt it, honey. You’re very good at that sort of thing.”
I preened at his compliment—it’s always pleasing to have one’s abilities recognized.
“But,” he went on, “what I’m talking about is counting the emotional cost of dealing with real estate agents, loan officers, servicemen who say they’ll come but don’t, unforeseen snags that are part of every project, and running the risk of having your houses ready for the market just as the economy has a downturn. These are all obvious pitfalls which I’m sure you’ve taken into account. But you’re a worrier, so I know you’ll take them to heart and drive yourself crazy when what’s expected doesn’t come to pass and something unexpected does. But, again, you know all of this and I know you’ll be prepared to deal with whatever pops up.”
“Prepared for every foreseeable problem, at least,” I conceded modestly. “I guess there’ll always be some things that you can’t prepare for.” I didn’t mention it, but I was recalling all the problems Mildred Allen and I had faced some while before when we’d remodeled a house together—the worst problem being a near loss of friendship when she’d wanted to add some Victorian architectural features to what I was convinced was your basic Craftsman-style house.
“Of course,” I went on, “it wouldn’t be as if I’ve never done anything like this before. But, you know, Sam, even after taking into account every possible contingency, there’ll be something that you absolutely haven’t prepared for. I mean, an inspector will tell you that the wiring looks fine—and it does, until you tear out some walls. Same thing with the plumbing and the heating systems. And a contractor will tell you that of course you can take down some walls to create an open concept, until you get into it and suddenly you have to have a sixteen-foot steel beam to hold up the roof. And those things cost thousands of dollars.”