She gasped. “So that’s why he was in such an all-fired hurry to get hitched. How did you find this out?”
“I poked around a little. One of the assistants in his office, Glory, reads tarot cards for the niece of Elva Mims, who is the housekeeper for my barber’s accountant, Norm Hobbs, who sits three stools away from me at the Chat ‘N’ Chew and told me all about it.”
“Lord, sounds like you poked around a lot!”
“Six degrees of Garnell,” he said matter-of-factly. “Glory jabbers like a magpie, and her favorite topic is her boss. Turns out Drake Dupree came from Canada with a lady friend. She got her green card, but he didn’t. Her name is Veronique.”
Chiffon stamped her foot. “He said Veronique was the name of his dead poodle!”
“She’s no poodle,” Garnell said gravely. “He keeps a separate apartment, but he pretty much lives with her.”
“My poor sister is on her way to Rome to marry someone who doesn’t love her, and only wants her for her U.S. citizenship.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “And it’s all your fault!”
Garnell blinked in confusion. “What in tarnation did I have to do with it?”
“She went over to your house to thank you for putting a good word in with Miss Beezle and she saw you hugging up on Jewel Turner.”
“Hold up a minute,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Jewel and I weren’t hugging, we were dancing. The night we all went to the Tuff Luck Tavern, everything was jim-dandy until Chenille and I started dancing and I stomped over her feet like a big, dumb dairy cow. I was telling Jewel about it over at the Chat ‘N’ Chew, and she offered to give me a few lessons.” He demonstrated a stiff cha-cha-cha on the braid rug. “See? I was going to surprise Chenille and take her out dancing in Augusta.”
Chiffon grinned. “You really do have a soft spot for Chenille, don’t you?”
“Oh, Chiffon,” he said with a moony glaze to his eyes. “I turn into a heap of goo when I see her.”
“Good! Mention that when you call her in New York to tell her about Drake.”
“You want me to call her about Drake? You’re her sister. Shouldn’t you?”
Chiffon shook her head. “She gets real prickly with me when it comes to Drake. You’re the one who found the dirt on him. It should come from you.”
Garnell set his lips into a stern line. “She’s gotta be told before she marries that bum. A fellow like him deserves a good horse-whupping. Lucky for him, I’m not a violent man.”
“She arrives in New York at two p.m.,” Chiffon said, grabbing a copy of Chenille’s itinerary and shaking it in his face. “You’ll page her at the airport. We have to catch her before she gets to Rome, because Drake’s arranged for them to drop their luggage at the hotel and go directly to the clerk’s office to be married. We can’t miss her.”
Thirty
I Would Kiss you Through the Screen Door,
But It’d Strain Our Love.
~ Selection G-5 on the Tuff Luck Tavern jukebox
“When the moon hits your eye like a big-a pizza pie, that’s amore,” Dean Martin crooned on Drake’s CD player. Drake told Chenille that he’d selected the music to get her in the mood for Rome. She turned down the volume a notch and leaned back against the leather seat of his Mercedes.
“I can’t believe it. We’re starting our lives together,” Chenille said, reaching over the console to touch Drake’s shoulder.
“Not while I’m driving, dear,” Drake said smoothly. “Your touch is much too thrilling, and I fear I’d run off the road.”
Chenille examined her freckled hand with new respect. To think she possessed the power to bring excitement to her husband-to-be with a mere brush of her fingertips! She swiveled her wrist so her engagement ring would cast prisms from the sunlight streaming in through the windshield.
“Oh, Drake! I want to know everything about you. What you were like as a little boy. What your dreams were; what your hopes were—”
“Darn it!” Drake said, in a sharp voice that startled Chenille. “I forgot the airplane tickets. They’re on the mantel at home.” He glanced at his watch. “We have plenty of time. I’ll swing by on the way to the airport.”
“What a treat! I’ll finally get to see your apartment.” She sighed happily. “I mean our apartment.”
“There’s nothing much to it,” Drake said. “Three stifling little rooms. We’ll look for something else after we marry.”
“But until then, it will be our love nest.” She blushed at the word ‘love.’ “I can’t wait!” she crooned.
Drake turned up the volume of the stereo system, almost as if he was trying to drown out Chenille’s chatter. But she chided herself for thinking he’d behave so boorishly. He loved her, after all. He’d certainly said so enough times. The poor dear was just distressed about leaving the tickets behind.
Within minutes, Drake pulled into an apartment complex called Glen on the Green. It was one of those boxy places for singles with a kidney-shaped pool and a community weight room. A banner stretched across two poles read, if you lived here, you’d be home by now. Chenille had never quite understood what was meant by that phrase, but now it applied to her and Drake.
“Let me go in first,” Drake said as he climbed the wooden stairs to the apartment. “I want to make sure that I haven’t left any horrible messes.”
Chenille smiled as Drake let himself into the apartment. He didn’t have to worry about keeping his living quarters tidy anymore. As soon as they got back home, she’d have his apartment in apple-pie order. As she waited for him, she glanced at her surroundings. Our banister, she thought, running her hand along it. Our mail slot, she mused, examining the blunt opening in the door. She sniffed a sweetish smell in the air. Our dry rot.
After a moment, Drake poked his head outside and said, “You can come in now. But only for a minute. We need to be on our way to the airport.”
Chenille stepped inside and was immediately dismayed by the impersonal appearance of the apartment. There were no books, photos, or bric-a-brac in sight. The living room was as clean and sleek as one of those model apartments leasing agents maintain for potential renters. She’d no idea why Drake had fretted about a potential mess. His quarters were immaculate.
“I need to use the facilities,” Drake said. “Wander around if you like.”
As he disappeared into the bathroom, Chenille glanced into the galley kitchen. Neat as a pin. The appliances gleamed as if they’d never been used, and there wasn’t so much as a fork in the sink. She peered into the refrigerator. A single bottle of seltzer water. How desperately he needed her! As soon as they got home from Rome, she’d stock it with sprouts, veggies, and other goodies.
Leaving the kitchen, she spotted a closed door down the hall. The bedroom. That’s where he probably hid all of his bachelor clutter. Chenille excitedly skipped down the hall, expecting to see hillocks’ of socks or a flurry of old newspapers behind the closed door. Instead she opened it to reveal a room so nondescript, it could have been in the Ramada Inn. Drake’s bedroom contained only a bed, an armchair, and a dresser. Chenille examined the double bed, covered with a drum-tight blue blanket. Hospital corners. She might have guessed.
She peeked under the bed looking for secrets but found nothing, not even a stray piece of dust. Then, as she lifted her head, she spotted a flash of color: A book was shoved between the mattress and the box spring.
She glanced back guiltily, looking for Drake. He was still indisposed, so she decided to grab it. After all, she and Drake would soon be married. It wasn’t healthy for a man to keep things from his wife, and the book appeared to be the only personal item in the apartment.
The book was a paperback romance novel called Wicked Heart. Chenille glanced at the spine. It was from the Aphrodisiac line, an imprint much too racy for her tastes.
She couldn’t fathom why Drake was reading it. She’d imagined him as an Ian Fleming fan.
Furtively, she tucked the book into her bag and scurried from the bedroom. She waited in the living room until Drake emerged from the bathroom.
Later, as they drove to the airport in silence, Chenille reflected on the sterile appearance of Drake’s apartment and found herself becoming increasingly upset. Twice she remarked to him, “It almost looks as if you don’t live there.”
But either Drake didn’t hear her over the music or was deliberately ignoring her, because he made no comment. She was also disturbed that she’d seen nothing in the rooms to indicate he was readying his apartment for her. There’d been just one pillow on his bed, and if there were any welcoming touches at all, she’d missed them.
“Drake, what’s the pet policy at your apartment building?” she said abruptly.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I work so much I haven’t had time to care for an animal.”
“But what about Walter?” she asked in a panicky tone. “Surely you knew he’d be living with us. Didn’t you even think to call or inquire if pets are allowed?”
She felt a hiccup rising up from her diaphragm. “Maybe this wedding is...hic...a big mistake,” she said over the sultry strains of Dean Martin.
Drake immediately jerked the wheel and pulled over to the side of the highway. “What an oaf I’ve been!” he said, massaging his temples. “What with planning this trip, arranging for our wedding, and clearing out my apartment from top to bottom, I completely forgot about your precious pet.” He reached over and stroked her shoulder. “Please forgive me. If they have a policy against dogs, we’ll just move elsewhere immediately.”
A feeling of shame washed over Chenille. He’d been so busy making all of their arrangements, it was only natural that he’d overlooked a detail or two. How selfishly she’d behaved!
“You cleared out your apartment for me?”
“Of course, darling. That way you can decorate it to your own taste. You should have seen the place before the Salvation Army came and carted my junk away. I had all sorts of tacky items, dating back to my college days. A beanbag chair, inflatable beer bottles, bookshelves made from plastic crates. It was revolting.”
It was hard to imagine Drake possessing those things; he was such a stylish man. But she was immensely flattered that he’d made room for her in his home. Now she saw his sparsely decorated apartment in a completely different light.
“I’m sorry, Drake. I don’t know what came over me. Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”
“Are you okay now?” he asked, concern in his eyes.
“I’m fine,” she said softly.
They arrived at the airport, checked their luggage, and passed easily through security. But as they prepared to board the plane, they discovered they weren’t seated together. Drake made a big stink about it at the gate. “This is my honeymoon,” he said, sweeping his hand through his dark hair in agitation. “I can’t be in 15F while my fiancée is in 4C.”
The airplane was filled to capacity, so nothing could be done about their separate seating arrangements. Chenille assured an overwrought Drake that she’d be fine sitting without him on the short flight to Newark. They had seats together from Newark to Rome, and that was what mattered most.
After Drake had made certain she was settled in her seat (he fluffed her dinky pillow, adjusted her overhead air temperature, and tore open the plastic earphone package), he reluctantly left when the captain put on the no-smoking sign.
Chenille frowned when she saw that the in-flight magazine was missing from the flap in front of her. She was left with nothing to amuse her but safety instructions. Then she remembered the romance novel she’d taken from Drake’s apartment. Slipping the book out of her purse, she started reading.
From page one, she knew she wasn’t going to like the story. The protagonist’s name was Vixen Fox, a massage therapist whose first client, Devlin Shaft, was looking for more than a rubdown. What a pity that so many romance novels have turned raunchy! Chenille longed for the days when phrases like “punishing kiss” or “heaving bosom” were as steamy as it got. But there was nothing else for her to read, and Devlin seemed like an engaging hero. Having been shot down by Vixen at the beginning of the book, he’d opted for a more subtle and endearing approach. Chenille came to a portion in the book that had been highlighted with a yellow pen.
“Standing there, bathed in moonlight, you look like a statue carved from alabaster,” Devlin said with a twinkle in his eye.
Chenille gasped.
The elderly woman sitting in the next seat eyed her with apprehension. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Fine,” Chenille said hastily. “Something in this book startled me.”
The woman glanced at the tomato-red cover of Wild Heart. There was a picture of a man and woman, dressed in wisps of fabric, groping each other in an orange-yellow haze.
“Oh my!” the woman said, disapproval registering in the tight set of her mouth. “I have a copy of the first book in the ‘Left Behind’ series. Maybe you should be reading that instead.”
“Maybe,” Chenille mumbled, but kept her eyes riveted on the text, reading the next highlighted portion.
“Your hands are like little white doves,” Devlin said, stroking Vixen’s knuckles.
“Goodness gracious!” Chenille said.
The woman gave her a sharp glance and made a big show of putting on her earphones.
Chenille couldn’t believe it. Drake had stolen all of his poetic lines from Devlin Shaft!
She kept turning the pages in horror, now reading only the highlighted portions. It was confirmed. Every single thing Devlin had said to Vixen, Drake had said to her.
As she neared the end of the book, an entire paragraph was colored yellow:
Devlin, his dark eyelashes jeweled with tears, handed her a box.
“For me?” Vixen asked. Her lovely forehead creased with lines. “Not more jewelry. You can’t win me over with expensive baubles.”
“Just look, my darling.”
She opened the box and saw a cardboard heart with lace wings. “What’s this?” she asked.
Chenille slammed the book shut. Drake’s gift to her of his paper heart had been the reason she’d decided to marry him. Now she’d discovered he’d stolen the idea from a cheesy romance novel. Who was Drake Dupree? And what did he really want from her? She didn’t know, nor did she care to find out. She desperately wanted to escape from the plane, but the jet was already rumbling with movement. It was too late to leave.
As soon as the plane landed, she planned to catch a flight back to Augusta. Drake was several aisles behind her. She could deplane and disappear into the crowd long before he realized he’d been ditched.
She thought about Chiffon, whom she’d treated so harshly. Her sister’s instincts about Drake had been accurate. He had manipulated her into accepting his proposal for some reason other than love.
Taking out a pocket mirror, she saw a pale, pinched face staring back at her. She snapped the mirror shut, and her mind momentarily flickered on Garnell, but she blinked the thought of him away. He’d already moved on to Jewel. Besides, who was to say he’d ever been interested in a dour old maid like herself? She’d probably just imagined his attraction to her.
She thought of Miss Beezle, who’d also never married. Was there a time when her former teacher had imagined herself as a bride? Had she dreamed of picket fences, baby booties, and tandem bicycles? And if she had, when did the moment come when she’d realized that her dreams had passed her by? That her narrow bed would never be replaced with a queen-size one; that the only “dear” in her future would be a cat or a dog; and that the years of her life would unfurl without being marked by christenings, children’s birthday parties, and anniversaries? Chenille stared
out the window at the froth of clouds that surrounded the plane. Her own such moment had arrived.
Thirty-One
When someone gets you hot and bothered,
turn on the prayer conditioner.
~ Sign outside the Rock of Ages Baptist Church
Garnell stood outside at the gate of the Augusta airport peering through a pair of binoculars.
“A jet is coming this way,” he said. “How much do you want to bet Chenille’s on that plane?”
Chiffon shifted Gabby from her right shoulder to her left. “I wish I had your optimism. I’m worried sick. Maybe we should have stayed home, where she can reach us if she needs to.”
Garnell had tried to page Chenille at the Newark airport, but either she hadn’t heard the page or they’d somehow missed her. After much pleading and wheedling with airport personnel, he discovered that she’d failed to board her flight to Rome. Clearly something had happened between Drake and Chenille en route to Newark.
“She’ll know we’re here at the airport if she calls, because you left a message on the machine. But I just know she’s on her way back home to Augusta,” Garnell said. “I feel it in my bones.”
They’d checked with the airlines, and it was possible that Chenille had boarded a flight in Newark bound for Augusta at 4 p.m.
“Mama, there’s a snack machine in the lobby,” Emily said. “Can Dewitt and I get a treat?”
Chiffon foraged through her wallet for some coins. “You may, but come right back afterwards. I don’t want y’all roaming around.”
She shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched a jet drift down toward the runway. “The air’s got that spring smell about it today. A fresh new scent that makes you feel like anything is possible.”
A Dollar Short (The Bottom Dollar Series Book 2) Page 21