The Short, Hot Summer
Elizabeth Bevarly
Second Edition
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, anddialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are usedfictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Bevarly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanicalmeans, including information storage and retrieval systems, without writtenpermission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth Bevarly
One
“There is absolutely no way I am going.”
“You surely can’t think I would go? I’m not asking if you want to go, I’m telling you that you must.”
Preston Atherton IV eyed Preston Atherton III with what he hoped was a steely gaze. Unfortunately, at thirty-two years of age, the younger man was no less intimidated by his namesake than he’d been at three-point-two years of age. His father topped six feet, had shoulders the size of the Brooklyn Bridge, and his brown eyes were made all the more formidable by the salt-and-pepper lock of hair that fell over them.
Then again, Preston IV was pretty much his father’s mirror image save the salt part of the hair and minus twenty-five years. He was COO and executive vice president at Atherton Industries, which put him in something of an intimidating position himself—to people other than his father, anyway. And while Preston IV had been brought up to follow in the old man’s footsteps, the old man wasn’t ready to move out of those footsteps any time soon. There were times when Preston IV was certain he’d go to that big executive washroom in the sky long before his father did. But there were also times when Preston IV thought he would be just as content to make a few tracks of his own off the beaten path. And anyway, Atherton Industries was much more his father’s than it was his own. If Preston III told Preston IV he would be the one to go on this mission, then Preston IV would be the one to go.
He turned his attention to the massive windows behind his father—the ones that offered such a breathtaking vista of New York City from the twenty-seventh floor of the Atherton Building in the heart of Manhattan. The towering structure was a sight to behold from outside, all steel and glass and moxie rising into the sky, a modern manifestation of the dreams and tears and sweat that six generations of Athertons had poured into what was now one of the nation’s leading corporations.
From inside, the building was even more breathtaking, with its Art Deco styling of elegant curves, sophisticated angles, and color schemes that changed from floor to floor, from soothing pastels to exuberant primaries to arrogant darks. Preston’s father had chosen that last color palate as his personal touch, as had Preston himself. Come to think of it, his own office was a lot like his father’s. The same hunter-green walls and dark mahogany paneling, a massive Persian rug spattered with rich jewel tones covering much of the dark wood flooring.
He really was too much like his father for his own comfort, Preston thought, not for the first time. Even though he’d been groomed for that since day one, he didn’t want to end up like his father. Certainly he respected the old man, but Preston IV wanted to be known for more than his business acumen and his workaholic tendencies. He didn’t want his role in life to be defined as “businessman,” even though he was confident that business was what he did best—and what he liked best, too, he had to admit. But he like to think of himself as a human being more than anything else. It was just getting harder and harder to be one of those lately. If he wasn’t careful, he really would end up like Preston III, whether he liked it or not.
No, that would never happen, he assured himself. He wasn’t quite the workaholic his father was. He would never kid himself—as his father had—that he could balance both his work and a family successfully. Preston could barely remember his father being around when he was a boy. It hadn’t been until after he graduated from college and earned his M.B.A. that he found himself enjoying father-son quality time. And that had come about only because he became his father’s employee.
Not that Preston IV even had a family to balance. He was too much of a workaholic for that.
“All right, I’ll go,” he conceded. “But I want full control over this merger when I do.”
“Fine,” his father agreed. “You’ll get no argument from me there. In fact, I was going to suggest it myself. It’s time you flew solo, Preston. You need to learn how to handle these things by yourself.”
Although Preston was confident he could handle these things by himself, he didn’t argue with his father. There was no point to it. They were too much alike, and neither would ever concede a victory to the other. He had more important things to worry about than the balance of power in Atherton Industries. He was, after all, about to embark on a very dangerous mission, one that would require every last instinct and brain cell he possessed. He was about to visit a completely alien environment, a place unlike any he had ever visited before.
For this trip, he would need to keep his wits about him. His destination was one that was utterly foreign to him, completely removed from everything he held familiar and dear. It would be so strange, this odd and distant land, socially, culturally, politically, ideologically. The local citizenry spoke in ways he did not understand, ate bizarre and exotic foods, listened to weird and unfamiliar music, and embraced a lifestyle he would never fathom. Preston would have to be on his guard the whole time he was visiting this far-off place.
This far-off place called…Alabama.
“Just be careful,” his father told him, sounding genuinely concerned.
Preston nodded. “I will.”
“And for God’s sake, take some Dasani with you. There’s no telling what’s in the water down there.”
Preston inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. “I bought a case yesterday,” he said. “It’s already been shipped to the hotel where I’ll be staying.”
His father’s dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You found a hotel in Butternut, Alabama?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking. It’s actually more of a guest house or something.” He cleared his throat before pronouncing, “Miss Mamie’s Bide-a-Wee Bed and Breakfast, to be exact.”
“Do you have your schedule organized?”
“Flight five-seven-two leaves JFK tomorrow at ten-forty-seven a.m., arrives Birmingham at twelve-fourteen. My rental car will be waiting for me at twelve-thirty, and I’ll be on the road by twelve forty-five. I’ll stop for lunch on the way at one, resume travel at one-thirty, reach Butternut by two-fifteen. Check into the Bide-a-Wee no later than two-thirty, catch up on work until four-thirty, then prepare for dinner with Jackson Butternut. Dinner itself will be at exactly six o’clock. By seven-thirty, he and I can return to the Bide-a-Wee for after-dinner drinks and, it goes without saying, a good cigar.”
His father nodded, clearly reassured. Then, suddenly looking concerned, he met his son’s gaze. “Just…be careful, Preston,” he repeated. “I mean, Alabama. It’s just so…so different there. The way of life those people embrace, well… their ways are just foreign to us, you know?”
Preston nodded, clenching his jaw. “I know.”
“Don’t be shocked by anything you see or hear, son. Or, at least, try to hide your shock as best you can. I know it will be difficult at times, but I have faith in you.”
Preston steeled himself. “Do
n’t worry. If anyone can handle Jackson Butternut—and Alabama—it’s me.”
Jackson Butternut was the quintessential self-made Southern millionaire, a man who turned a small textile mill into a multimillion-dollar industry just because he wanted to. His forebears were the founders of the small community in Alabama, and Jackson himself was the owner of Butternut Industries, which he recently put up for sale so he would have more time to fish.
Yes, fish, because Jackson Butternut was also the quintessential Southern eccentric. As he’d stated in his letter to Preston III upon accepting—with a few conditions—Atherton Industries’ offer to buy him out, he never, ever, traveled north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Anybody who wanted his company was going to have to come to Butternut to get it. The letter had gone on to explain that Jackson also did not, under any circumstances, trust anyone who didn’t know what a “goober” was. If the Prestons Atherton—both III and IV—wanted Butternut Industries, they were going to have to work for it. One of them—III or IV, Jackson wasn’t particular—would have to come down to Butternut himself. As a gesture of good faith, and to show he knew his goobers from his gumbo, he would have to bring a bag of goobers with him in offering.
At first Preston IV had resisted. There was no way he was going to take a bag of goobers anywhere. The thought of even collecting a bag of goobers made his stomach heave. Fortunately, his secretary, Martha—who relocated to New York from Atlanta—assured him the endeavor wouldn’t be nearly as distasteful as he thought, that in fact, goobers were quite yummy boiled.
Preston had been debating whether or not to dismiss her on grounds of mental instability—among other things—when she told him what a goober actually was. Preston had felt a little silly at that point, but his relief had far overshadowed any embarrassment. A peanut. Who knew? Fine. He would buy a bag of peanuts before flying down to Butternut to meet with the elusive, industrious Jackson Butternut. He would win the old man’s confidence and buy the business for a fair price. Then Jackson could fish to his heart’s content, and Preston could prove to his father that he was more than capable of running Atherton Industries someday.
He just wished he could convince himself that running Atherton Industries someday was what he wanted to do. For the rest of his life. Until a Preston V—in whatever strange manner such a person might appear, since Preston IV had no prospects, nor interest, when it came to marrying and/or procreating—could take the reins from him.
He sighed and met his father’s gaze. “I’ll take care of everything,” he vowed. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can,” his father assured him. “Just…like I said. Be careful. And Preston?”
“Yes, Dad?”
“Don’t forget your goobers.”
Two
The words “Miss Mamie’s Bide-a-Wee Bed and Breakfast” had conjured up an immediate and specific image for Preston when he first heard them, and as he rolled his rental car to a stop in front of the establishment, he was amazed at how accurate his assessment of the place was. In fact, all of Butternut, Alabama, looked to be exactly the kind of place he had visualized.
More was the pity.
He’d arrived at Butternut’s “city” limits right on schedule—or at least what he supposed passed for city limits when the city in question was, well, limited. Then he’d unwittingly driven through and past downtown Butternut before even realizing he was there. The business district evidently covered about three blocks along Main Street, a moniker Preston found a little redundant, since it seemed to be the only street in downtown Butternut. The only reason he knew it was the business district was because a sign stating BUTTERNUT BUSINESS DISTRICT told him so. It consisted almost entirely of a bank, a bakery, a post office, a corner market, something called a five-and-dime—though he couldn’t imagine what kind of merchandise such an establishment would boast at those prices—and an eatery of questionable origin called Fern and Moody’s. The words Home Cookin’ were stenciled on the window, and somehow, it told Preston all he needed—or wanted—to know.
He thrust his car into Park at the curb of Miss Mamie’s Bide-a-Wee Bed and Breakfast—the only other business he could see that was part of Butternut’s business district, and on the very edge of it, at that—and marveled at how easy it was to find a curbside parking spot here in Downtown Butternut. Well, maybe he didn’t quite marvel. But he did notice. The Bide-a-Wee itself was a massive Victorian house that looked to have been recently renovated. A fresh coat of pale yellow paint gave the place a warm appeal, which was enhanced by elaborate white gingerbread trim. Huge baskets of hanging plants spilled fat pink and purple blossoms at regular intervals all along the wide wraparound porch, and more flowers burst from boxes beneath the front windows. The walkway was lined with an even broader palette of color, orange and yellow marigolds, red and white begonias, and petunias so purple they looked to be velvet.
Having grown up in Manhattan, Preston had never seen so many splashes of color growing in one place before. Even the Athertons’ summer home in the Hamptons, so carefully tended by Bates, the gardener, had followed a strict seasonal color scheme. Bates would never have allowed purple and orange within a good quarter acre of each other. Whoever had landscaped the Bide-a-Wee, however, had been far more exuberant in his or her technique. Although Preston normally had no use for exuberance—except in regard to one work—he had to admit that, in this case, exuberance held a certain appeal.
Switching off the engine and exiting his car, he was immediately struck by two things. Thing number one: Butternut was a remarkably quiet place, absent sounds like blaring car horns, barking cabbies, howling sirens, and pounding jackhammers. Thing number two: it was hotter than hell.
He immediately reached for his necktie to loosen it, cursing himself for his sartorial lapse as he completed the gesture and thankful he didn’t have to meet Jackson Butternut until later. The temperature must be pushing one hundred degrees. In New York, that would make for a very uncomfortable day. Here in Alabama, it made for an unbearable one. Everything just felt so…wet. So heavy. So oppressive. Just the simple act of removing his briefcase and garment bag from the trunk of the car made him feel as if he’d run a marathon.
He shed his jacket, but the small concession brought little relief. Reluctantly, he unfastened the top button of his white dress shirt, then went after the cuffs. By the time he reached the front door of the bed and breakfast, he felt like a limp rag and was fairly dragging his luggage behind himself. He pushed through the screen door lethargically and was relieved to find the inside of the house was a bit cooler. Not because of a sophisticated climate control center, however, he realized to his dismay, but because of three wide, lazy ceiling fans that swoosh-swoosh-swooshed laconically overhead. He had stepped into what appeared to be a large dining room populated by nothing but half a dozen empty tables. To his left was a sweeping staircase that led to the upper floors, and beyond the staircase was a small room that appeared to be a sitting area.
The furniture was old, elegant, beautiful, and the hardwood floors were buffed to a honey-colored satin. The wallpaper was faded but pretty, fat cabbage roses of pink and lavender climbing a background trellis of white. Real flowers sprang from vases and bowls and bright bits of majolica scattered around each of the rooms, their sweet fragrance carried by the softly stirring air. The place, on the whole, looked like someone’s Southern grandmother’s house, and, oddly, he immediately felt welcome.
Miss Mamie, he thought, knew how to make a place feel like home.
The proprietress herself did not seem to be about, however. Probably, Preston thought, she was napping. In this heat, an elderly woman would no doubt need to rest. He told himself he should probably go across the street to Fern and Moody’s for a little while, maybe have something cool to drink while he waited for Miss Mamie to rouse herself and return to work. But those words Home Cookin’ came back to haunt him, and he thought better of the idea.
Besides, he had a rigid schedule to keep. He glanced down
at his watch and was shocked to discover he was already running nearly five minutes behind. He hadn’t counted on the heat making him so sluggish. He was going to have to be careful not to let this happen again. With much purpose, he made his way to the registration desk and reached for a small brass bell sitting on the counter. RING FOR SERVICE, a hand-lettered sign beside the bell instructed. Nevertheless, he hesitated before picking it up.
Poor Miss Mamie. She was probably upstairs right now, lying in her bed, nearly overcome by the double threat of extreme heat and advanced age. She would have to totter down all those steps to greet him and check him in. In this heat, her heart could give out, or she’d become disoriented and fall and break a hip or something—old bones were always so fragile.
Then again, if the woman couldn’t handle the workload, she never would have opened the place, would she? He revised his image of her some. She was doubtless one of those stalwart Southern women with magnolias of steel—a bingo-happy, blue-bouffanted, polka-dotted, bosomy Aunt Bee. She must be made of stern stuff, and wouldn’t let a little thing like hellish heat slow her down. Picking up the bell, Preston shook it quickly, then returned it to the counter.
He had pretty much perfected his image of Miss Mamie and her magnolias when he heard a sound to his left and turned toward it. He was still envisioning that bosomy, polka-dotted Aunt Bee and her ilk, so the woman who appeared took him by surprise. The young woman. The red-haired woman. The woman who was utterly lacking in Bingo card, blue bouffant, and polka dot.
“Miss Mamie?” he asked dubiously.
“Yessir?” she replied leisurely, turning two short words into one very long one.
Oh, well, Preston thought. At least he got the bosomy part right. The rest of her, not so much. He would have sworn no member of his generation could possibly be named Mamie. And even if he were proven wrong about that, he would have sworn no woman named Mamie could possibly look like her.
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