Southern Comfort_Chandler's Story

by Shelley Stringer

  “Andie, I don’t like the idea of you going out alone with a guy you hardly know, and have never spent any time with. How do you know you’ll be safe with him?”

  The “daddy” routine was unnerving. I could tell he just thought of me as a child, and he was playing big brother. It made me angry. Okay, chew on this a minute.

  “Well, I spent enough time with him at the club and afterwards to learn to do a tequila shot, a lot of dancing, learned his nickname, slept in his lap, and he got me home safely, and we shared a really great kiss – the best I’ve ever had in my life. Does that count as having spent time with him?” I glared at him now, both of us with our hands on a plate he was taking from me. The dimple was completely gone now. The muscle at his jaw line twitched as though he were gritting his teeth. Why would he care if I had been the least bit intimate with this guy?

  He broke the long silence as he exhaled, making an effort to relax. “I’m sorry, Chandler. It really is none of my business. I just hope you aren’t too trusting. I worry about how easily you let me and John into your house. Cut me a break…I’m only looking out for you.” He suddenly smiled, and the dimple was back.

  “Okay.” I pulled the plug on the dishwater, folded the towel from his hands and put it on the counter. Banton’s smile was so beautiful and genuine that my irritation subsided somewhat, so I urged, “Let’s go see what John and Everett are doing.”

  A couple of hours later we were all exhausted and covered in sheet rock dust. We hauled what seemed like a truckload of sheetrock up the staircase and piled it in the bedrooms, then helped John get all his tools lined out. Everett was already shaping up to be a first class crew boss, and John and Banton both seemed to take it in stride, as if they had both known him forever. As it happened, Everett turned out to be somewhat of a sports fanatic, which didn’t really fit with my first impression of him. He and John had hit it off, bouncing trivia off each other while we worked. Around 10:30, I called it quits.

  “That’s enough for tonight. Y’all are doing a whole lot more work than what I cooked for you.”

  John turned to me. “Andie-girl, if you keep feeding us like that, I might have to marry you. I’m going to have to find something else to do to keep you cooking long after we are finished up here. The way to a guy’s heart is his stomach, you know.”

  “Ha, the joke’s on you. The only dish I know how to cook is pasta. You’ll be sick of it by the end of the week.” Then I laughed. “Just kidding.”

  “Seriously, Chandler, it was really, really good. Can’t wait to see what is next.” Banton grinned and shot the dimple at me.

  Me either, I thought.

  After Banton and John had gone home for the night, Everett kissed me goodnight on the forehead, and gave me a massive hug. “Chandler Ann, girl, wherever did you find Mr. tall, cool drink of water?”

  I laughed. “I assume you mean Banton?”

  “You know it, sister!”

  “He came down here a couple of nights ago looking for his dog. We just got to talking, and now here he is, helping me renovate.”

  “Boy, I hope for your sake that’s not all he’ll help you with.” He smiled, and his eyes simply sparkled.

  “Everett, get a grip! Goodnight!” I waved him off the porch as I closed the door. It was a good ending to a good day.

  Chapter Six

  Several weeks had passed since Everett met my handymen, and he’d been stopping by almost every night. We’d all formed sort of a strange camaraderie, one I was beginning to enjoy immensely. Every time I was with Everett, I lay bare a bit more of my sheltered past, and he knew almost as much about me as my childhood friend Laurilee did.

  “Everett, are you going to stand there with your hands on your hips like quality control, or are you going to jump in with a paintbrush?” I asked as Everett stood propped in my bedroom doorway.

  He’d been giving me his expert color advice on the upstairs portion of my home’s transformation after we came back from a morning of shopping and lunch. I had to say, his ideas were great. He was such a natural at redecorating. Go figure.

  I was just starting the last wall in what I had decided would be my bedroom, the largest of the three rooms upstairs, just in front of the staircase. The massive bay window in the room overlooked the backyard. The woodwork was especially large and ornate in this room, with wide crown molding and four inch baseboards. The soft lavender paint we were using was softening the walls up nicely.

  “Soo, let’s get back to you. Quite an interesting way at lunch you avoided any conversation steering us in the direction of dating and love. What’s your history?” he asked, offhandedly.

  “Bor-ing. It wouldn’t entertain you much.” I paused, and glared at him.

  “Here, you can’t paint and talk at the same time. Give me the roller.”

  I handed him the paint roller, wiped my hands on my shorts, and flopped down on the floor on my stomach, legs in the air, ankles crossed.

  Everett continued drilling me. “But you had boyfriends in Texas, in high school, I mean, right?”

  “If I tell you, will you give it a rest?”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “Well, I only dated a couple of people in high school. The first was a crush my junior year. He was a senior football player…definite jock, kind of goofy…you know, the big teddy-bear type. About the fifth time I kissed him, I realized why the fireworks weren’t going off. It felt like I was kissing my brother! That flaming romance didn’t last long. My second short-lived love affair was with a college boy who moved to town at the beginning of my senior year named Cody Weller. I was eighteen, he was twenty. We met at the college rodeo in town. He was on the rodeo team, attending on a scholarship. I fell in love with his butt…” Everett jumped at the crude word and turned to look at me with his left eyebrow raised. I continued, “and fell in love with everything else later. I’m a sucker for those tight Wrangler jeans and big belt buckles!”

  Everett turned down to the paint tray to roll more paint on the roller, and rolled his eyes at me.

  I continued, “He rode saddle broncs, wore a black felt Stetson hat, loved to dance. He was gorgeous and he knew it. I chased him like a puppy and he had me spellbound. I thought he felt the same way about me…”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “Not hardly. Never date a guy who is prettier than you are. You find yourself competing.”

  “So it ended badly?” Everett took one more swipe at the last remaining white streak on the bedroom wall, and stood back to study his handiwork.

  “Yes for me, not so bad for him. I walked up to his pickup one night after a rodeo in Lubbock. He had finished his ride, placing in the top three. I went to his truck to congratulate him, and through the driver’s side window I could see a pair of pretty black cowgirl boots with angel wings, up in the air on either side of his tight wranglers. Get the picture?”

  “Oh, wow. You should write that description into some bad country song lyrics and pack up for Nashville, sister.”

  I laughed out loud. “It was for the best, though. Looking back, he never would have made me happy. He was too selfish, everything was about him. He never told me he loved me, he wasn’t affectionate, and he had a bad temper he couldn’t control.”

  “So what ever drew you to the guy?” he asked, trying to understand.

  I rolled over on my back, and contemplated the newly textured ceiling.

  “I told you…the tight Wranglers!”

  Everett laughed, paused for a few seconds, and then said, “You know, Banton wears Polo khakis most of the time.”

  “You weren’t paying attention. I said I will never date another guy prettier than I am.”

  He turned, dropped his jaw and his eyes popped. “Andie, that’s the craziest thing I ever heard you say. You are just beautiful, Bebe.”

  I couldn’t help but feel warm at the French endearment he used.

  “You have an amazing, curvy figure, skin that tans golden brown after just minu
tes in the sun, you have those big, beautiful almond-shaped eyes, gorgeous hair – and it all works together quite nicely. You also have this way of drawing people to you. Everybody wants to be your friend – why do you think I hang around so much?” He dangled the paint roller back over his right elbow, and he suddenly looked like Joan Crawford about to flick a cigarette. I had to let a giggle escape.

  Everett put the roller down on the tray, and then turned to me. Not a drop of paint on his hands, in his hair, anywhere. He came over and plopped down beside me, drawing his knees up to his chest.

  I sighed, “Besides, I get the feeling Banton has a whole other private life going on somewhere else. I’m just another hang-out friend to him.”

  He beamed as he replied, “Don’t be so sure, sweetheart. I have a sixth sense about these things. I’ll see what Cousin Everett can do about this situation. I don’t think Banton-Baby is just hanging around for the good food and conversation.”

  “Don’t you dare say one word to him! I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Oh, Honey, that’s just what I knew you were going to say. I just LOOVVE a challenge!”

  * * *

  After I cleaned up the paint mess, I had time on my hands before starting dinner for my two handymen. Everett left, so I decided to take a walk and explore down the road a bit. I walked past the next two houses after mine, and then past the garage apartment where I’d seen an elderly black man go after he walked past my house every day. I walked on farther, seeming to reach the edge of town and a wooded area. Leaning my head back, I let the afternoon sunshine warm my face. It was definitely Indian summer, well into the fall semester and past the time we would have packed our shorts up and opted for jeans in North Texas.

  It was tranquil and quiet here. The pavement ended and wound around to a dirt road and a dead end. As I started to turn around, I noticed an ornate iron gate through the undergrowth, and what appeared to be headstones in the distance. Curious, I pulled the bushes back, and pushed through until I found the entrance. It was an ancient cemetery. I searched the headstones, finding some of them dated back to before the Civil War. The large tombs were mesmerizing, above the ground, some of them entire gravesites cast in concrete slabs. I’d never seen a cemetery like it in Texas.

  I stopped to read the inscriptions on several graves, and was drawn to a beautiful angel with three small headstones at her feet. The first was a young woman, barely nineteen, who died in 1863. The second two were two infants who died the same year. I was suddenly sad, thinking she probably died in childbirth, giving birth to twins who’d followed her. I imagined the grief the father must have felt, or maybe he was away fighting, or had been killed in the war. The writer in me was intrigued by what the story line might be. As I stood squinting at the sun just making its trip downward to the west, I surmised it must be around five o’clock. I sighed, vowing to return and search a bit further. Upon my return up the road I heard a voice call from the garage apartment.

  “You be careful, Miss, a-going up alone. Dey is evil afoot, all ‘round us.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun.

  “I was just a-warning you to be careful ‘bout yo walks. I worry ‘bout you a-bein’ alone so much,” the old man called down to me. “I’m Mr. Jackson, I be yo neighbor.”

  I walked over to his driveway, and made my way to the foot of the stairs running up the side of the garage to his apartment. There was a small balcony, just large enough for the fishing chair on which he perched. I noted a shotgun leaning beside him.

  “Hello, I’m Chandler Collins. I just bought the white house up there.” I pointed to my house up the street, and then turned back to him.

  “Nice to make yo acquaintance. I’ve been a-seeing you movin’ in and fixin’ dat place up. It’s good to have some young-uns ‘round here fo a change.” He smiled down at me.

  “I’ve seen you walking past every afternoon.”

  “I have to get out and make my trip to de market, and to de post,” he answered.

  “I would be glad to drive you. It would be no bother.” I’d noticed how slow his pace seemed, and some days he used a cane.

  “Oh, no. De walkin, it’s what keeps an old man’s heart a-tickin’. Has you heard anything ‘bout all dem break-ins?”

  “What break-ins? I asked.

  “Dey’s been some mischief ‘round de neighborhood, dat and some vandalism. I’s been seeing some things, too. Too many out and ‘bout dat don’t belong here. Don’t belong t’here at all.”

  “Mr. Jackson, are you all right down here by yourself? Do you have family to check on you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry none ‘bout an old man. I gots me ol’ Betsy!” He patted the shotgun propped beside him. “An I gots a daughter, what comes ‘round now and agin to check on me.

  “Okay, well, it’s nice to meet you.” I waved at him as I started back up the street.

  “Nice to make yo ‘quantance, Miss,” he answered back.

  * * *

  Two hours later, freshly bathed and dressed, I ran back downstairs to start supper. Banton and John had been in New Orleans all day scoping out builder-liquidator places for me, hoping to score some second-hand fixtures and appliances, and they said they had a couple of personal errands to attend to as well. I expected them back around 8:00, and told them I would have dinner ready for them. I decided tonight was the night to impress them with my cooking skills, so I’d placed some tilapia filets out to thaw earlier, and baked potatoes were already in the oven and nearly done.

  Creativity was the key in this half-renovated kitchen, with only one working burner on the stove, an oven which didn’t go above 400 degrees, no microwave, and a refrigerator with a freezer so old I had to defrost it about every three weeks.

  As I placed the first few pieces of seasoned tilapia in the skillet, a voice over my shoulder exclaimed, “Slap my mama, the woman can cook!”

  “Everett, dang it! You scared the livin’ daylights out of me! I thought you left hours ago!” I grabbed the cabinet for support as I tried to get my heart to stop racing.

  “I did. Did some more shopping, but decided it was too boring at my townhouse to go home, so I came back to party central. Where are the boys?”

  “In New Orleans. They should be back in about an hour. Where on earth did you find to go shopping that we didn’t hit this morning?” I asked, as I continued to place the fish in the skillet.

  “I bought a paper, and did a little yard-sale huntin’. Boy, do I have some surprises for you, honey!” Everett looked like a child at Christmas, his eyes twinkling.

  “What did you buy, Everett? You know I’m on a budget here, and I can’t go crazy! What do I owe you?”

  “Well, invite me to dinner, and we will call it even. Quit gettin’ your panties all in a wad. I only spent about a hundred dollars, and you won’t believe all it bought!”

  I smiled at him, wiping my hands on a towel. “What did you do with all your time before I came along and gave you a makeover project?”

  He replied as he reached around me to sample the avocado and tomato salad I had just prepared, “I’ll never tell.”

  “Speaking of not telling,” I continued, “you’ve never told me about your love life. As a matter of fact, you’ve never told me about your family or anything. Entertain me for a change!”

  I finished putting the dressing on the salad, and popped it in the fridge. Then I returned to finish chopping the tomatoes and peppers for the pico de gallo topping for the fish.

  “Can I help you chop?”

  “No, I’ve got this covered. Just talk – come on, spill! And pour us both a glass of wine.”

  “No wine tonight – I have the perfect thing for this little Tex-Mex meal you’ve got going here – I picked us up some frozen margaritas at the Eskimo Hut on the way back!” He walked back up the hallway, and returned with a plastic bucket covered in frost. He set it on the counter as he hunted us up some glasses out of the new cabine
ts John had installed a day or two before. Picking up one of the limes I was using, he squeezed it around the rims, dipped them in kosher salt in a small container, and filled the glasses up with the slushy mixture.

  “You just happen to travel with kosher salt?” I asked in amazement.

  “They give it to you with the pail of margarita, silly,” he replied.

  “So do you …are you dating anyone?” I asked as I gave him a sideways glance.

  “Nooo, not at the moment,” he countered.

  “Are you going to let me in on your type? You made me tell you mine, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. Tight Wranglers and Polo khakis.” He raised his glass, and took a big drink of margarita.

  “You’re stalling,” I prompted him as I took a drink.

  “Oh, Darlin’, I don’t have a type right now. Relationships are just too much work. I’m just keeping my options open for now. I’ll know when the right someone comes along. I’m not in any hurry.”

  I should have known. I still wasn’t sure if he was gay or not. His answers could always be taken either way. Besides, he was such a southern gentleman, never kiss and tell, all that kind of jazz…so I tried another subject. “What about your family, you haven’t told me anything about them.”

  “Well, my mother lives in N’awlins in our family home. I have an older sister who is married and has three brats. She lives in Atlanta with her husband and his family. My mother and I are close.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Don’t have a clue. Mamma married a man her family didn’t approve of, and he only stuck around long enough to create Angeline and me. Then he took off so he could drink in peace. He left when I was seven. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Have you ever tried to look for him?” I questioned softly.

  “Absolutely not, doesn’t interest me in the least. Besides, it would upset Grandmother Wellington into a regular historic fit.”

  “Who is Grandmother Wellington?” I asked as I cleaned up my mess and put the vegetables and cutting board away.