Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  The route south from Athens led me through the heart of middle Georgia. I’d tied my hair in a ponytail that swirled in the breeze. I passed through several small communities. The most picturesque was Madison, a town spared the torch by Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman during his march to the sea after the destruction of Atlanta. The restored antebellum homes lining the main street of town seemed grander from my seat in the convertible. And I looked at the houses in a new way. My car would fit in perfectly parked in front of one of the fine old homes.

  I reached the outskirts of Milledgeville, the early capital of Georgia, and pulled into a convenience store to buy a bottle of drinking water. When I got out of the car, I could see my reflection in the plate-glass window of the store. With my collared, short-sleeved blouse, knee-length skirt, and plain sandals, I looked totally out of place beside the stylish sports car. I took my hair out of the ponytail and shook it. Through the strands in front of my face, I saw a man walk out of the store and glare at me with a hostile look that scared me. I sat back down in the car, flipped the switch to raise the top, and locked the vehicle before entering the store.

  When I came outside, the man was putting gas in a blue van that looked a lot like the one parked in our front yard in Powell Station. In the front passenger seat I saw a middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun and behind her several children hanging out the windows. It could have been my own family a few years earlier. The man saw me and clearly broadcast a message of judgment against a frivolous, sinful girl who shouldn’t be driving a fancy convertible and shaking out her hair in front of a convenience store. Daddy would never have looked at someone the same way, but there were men in our church who would.

  In a more subdued mood, I drove away from the store and merged onto the interstate. The next fifteen miles I spent my time praying that the lure of wealth and the things it offered wouldn’t ensnare me in sinful pride and compromise.

  The interstate deposited me directly into the downtown area of Savannah. I stopped and lowered the top of the car. No one paid attention to me as I drove slowly into the historic district. I’d read about Savannah’s twenty-one squares and the restored homes and buildings surrounding them. But as I drove along, the information and images were jumbled in my memory. There would be plenty of time later for leisurely exploring on foot.

  My destination was a massive postbellum residence near the home of Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts. The bed-and-breakfast was built by a confederate blockade-runner who served as inspiration for Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. I slowed to a stop in front of the opulent three-story residence with iron railings in front of ornate windows. Carrying my own luggage, I entered the house where I was greeted by a stylishly dressed hostess.

  “I’m Tami Taylor,” I began. “I have a reservation.”

  “I’ll have someone show you to your room. Mr. Bartlett made all the necessary arrangements”—the woman leaned forward—“including gratuities for the staff.”

  A porter who looked about the same age as my brother Kyle took my suitcase and garment bag. I followed him to the third floor where he opened the door to a very feminine room with high ceilings and a collection of antiques that surrounded a four-poster bed.

  “The Mary Telfair room,” he announced as he placed my suitcase on a stand. “It’s decorated in Eastlake and named for the daughter of an early governor and plantation owner. The house is mostly vacant tonight, and I’ll be glad to show you rooms appointed in Renaissance/Revival and French Empire, the architecture of the house itself. We also have a great wine selection.”

  Mama had taught me about art and classical music, and I could instantly recognize a Rembrandt and identify Beethoven within a few notes, but my knowledge about antiques and wine could be summarized on a 3 x 5 index card. Jesus made simple furniture and drank wine, but I’d never been around antiques, and no wine had ever touched my lips.

  “You know a lot about antiques?” I asked.

  He grinned. “I’m a senior at the Savannah School of Art and Design.”

  I reached for my purse. The young man held up his hand.

  “No, it’s taken care of. I’ll be downstairs until eleven o’clock tonight if I can give you a tour or help in any way. What time would you like turndown service?”

  “What?”

  “Someone from housekeeping will prepare your bed.”

  “I’m a country girl from the mountains,” I answered with a smile. “I’ve never been in a place like this in my life.”

  The boy leaned forward. He had nice eyes. “Most people who pretend to be experts about antiques and fine wine make fools of themselves. I’ve studied a lot to learn a little.”

  “Thanks. I guess I’d like turndown service about ten o’clock.”

  I peeked into the bathroom. It had a claw-foot tub. The twins would have so much fun in a room like this. I eyed the queen-size bed. The three of us could spend the night together, so long as I slept in the middle to prevent pushing and arguing.

  After all the excitement of the day, I felt tired. I pulled back the covers, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. Every detail of the room was a work of craftsmanship.

  I dozed off and woke with a start. It was almost 9:00 p.m. I hurriedly made the bed so it would be ready for turndown service.

  The bathroom was stocked with four kinds of bubble bath and salts. None of them had been opened. I read the labels, debating whether to indulge. I turned on the water in the tub. The sight of water splashing against the bottom of the tub ended any debate. I’d taken bubble baths as a child, but the sensation of bath salts would be something new.

  I lay exulting in the warm water until time to put on my pajamas in anticipation of the turndown service. For extra modesty, I slipped on the complimentary robe I found in the armoire and sat in a chair beside the bed. I didn’t want to wrinkle the bedspread. Precisely at 10:00 p.m. there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, the young porter and a woman from housekeeping were there.

  “Would you like a nightcap?” the porter asked as the woman brushed past me and walked to the bed.

  I touched the top of my head. The robe was a nice extra, but I’d not slept with a cap on my head since I was a little girl on cold nights in the middle of winter. Some of the women in our church would wear a scarf as a head covering when they exhorted, but it wasn’t mandatory. I could tell the porter was still trying not to laugh.

  “I meant a hot drink, glass of milk, something like that,” he managed.

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  My face went red, and I turned away. The woman had finished folding down the comforter on the bed and placed a chocolate in a gold wrapper on one of the pillows. I didn’t look back at the porter as the woman passed me on her way out of the room.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  The door closed, and I quickly locked it against a further faux pas. At least I knew the French words for a “social blunder.”

  7

  I WOKE UP EARLY AND SNUGGLED DEEPER INTO THE COVERS FOR a few seconds before slipping out of bed to open the drapes. From the window, I could see the fountain in the middle of Lafayette Square and a white church with multiple spires pointing toward the morning sky. I wanted to jog around the borders of the historic district without worrying about traffic, and very early on Saturday morning seemed the perfect time. After dressing, I noticed an envelope slid underneath the door of my room.

  My heart jumped. It was probably from the nice young porter telling me not to be embarrassed and offering to take me on a tour of the city. Turning down his invitation would only increase the awkwardness I felt. I bent over and picked up the envelope. It had the name of the inn on the outside. I opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper.

  I’d misjudged the porter. Mrs. Bartlett had left a phone message at the front desk asking me to meet her in the parlor at 10:00 a.m. I put the note on the nightstand beside the bed and went downstairs. The staff was setting up the dining room for breakfast. There
was no sign of the porter.

  It was a slightly muggy morning. After stretching, I ran south along Broughton Street to Forsyth Park, the largest patch of green in the downtown area. I explored the park and ran around a fountain with a statue of a Confederate soldier facing north on top. I left the park and ran south all the way to the Savannah River. Large container vessels slowly moved upriver to the port area. I ran along River Street, past Factor’s Row and the Cotton Exchange. The streets were deserted. I felt the gates of the city had been opened just for me. As I jogged, I prayed that everywhere I set my feet would be a court of praise.

  I crossed West Bay Street and reentered the historic district. After several wrong turns I finally stumbled upon Lafayette Square. There wasn’t a place for a long, wide-open sprint, but I ran twice around the square at top speed before coasting to a stop.

  When I returned to the B and B, preparations for breakfast were complete, a lavish spread of food that included everything from grits to quiche.

  After taking a shower, I selected a bright dress that shared colors with the fruit platter downstairs. The dress reached to the midcalf of my leg. While I brushed my hair, I practiced standing up straight. Mrs. Bartlett was right about one thing. Good posture was always in style.

  Downstairs, I sampled most of the items on the breakfast buffet. At home I ate a big breakfast because there was work to do that would burn up plenty of calories. Breakfast at the buffet was decadent—food for the sake of food. I bowed my head for a blessing before starting and kept a thankful attitude all the way to the final pastry.

  After I finished, I returned to my room, brushed my teeth, and applied a very faint hint of lipstick not much darker than my natural color. Sunday mornings at home were makeup-free, but Mama said God ordained beauty to females in the human family and subtle enhancements were acceptable—as long as there was no intention to allure. The only times I saw Mama wearing makeup were rare occasions when Daddy took her out to dinner. She claimed her attractiveness to him was based on inner qualities, not her outward appearance. Daddy whispered to me and the twins that he thought Mama was the most beautiful woman, inside and out, in the whole world.

  I was blessed with naturally long eyelashes, and in college I’d experimented with a light touch of eye shadow. I liked the change, but I’d always quickly rubbed it off. Each time I put it on I thought it looked nice, but I’d never left the bathroom with it in place. This morning I gave it another try. Perhaps it was the fancy room or being in a new town, but this time I didn’t remove it. Also, there was no chance of causing a man to sin since I would only be meeting with Mrs. Bartlett and her mother.

  I sat in a comfortable chair in the corner of the narrow foyer that served as the lobby. The people coming and going seemed at ease with the sumptuous surroundings. Or perhaps they were pretending. A well-dressed woman in her fifties came in, and I nervously swallowed, but she wasn’t Mrs. Bartlett. A grandfather clock chimed the hour. I thought about reading a magazine, but nothing on the coffee table looked interesting. At 10:15 a.m. a short, slightly overweight woman with reddish-blonde hair burst through the front door and scanned the room. I stood up.

  “Mrs. Bartlett?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “You must be Tami.”

  I tried not to stare at Mrs. Bartlett’s obviously dyed hair as she approached. It was accentuated with highlights that would require a lot of maintenance. She was wearing a blue silk blouse, black slacks, and sandals that revealed a pedicure as flawless as her hair color. I held out my hand, but Mrs. Bartlett ignored it and gave me a hug that included a European greeting. She had to rise up on her toes to deliver the peck on both my cheeks.

  “You certainly are statuesque,” Mrs. Bartlett continued.

  “Yes ma’am. I played basketball in high school.”

  “An athlete? You’d never know it now, but I had a five handicap in golf until about ten years ago. I beat Ken all the time, although I never mention it in public. My putter can still work magic, but I have no distance off the tee.”

  “Please tell Mr. Bartlett I appreciate the car and thanks for providing such a beautiful place to stay,” I said.

  “You can tell him later. He’s going to meet us this afternoon. Come on, the valet is holding my car at the curb.”

  Mrs. Bartlett took off.

  “Do you ride in a cart or carry your bag when you play golf?” I asked as we rapidly descended the front steps.

  “Carry my bag? That would be a plebeian thing to do. I get my exercise walking on the beach early in the morning.”

  “I ran down to the river and through the historic district this morning,” I said. “I enjoyed looking at the houses.”

  “A runner? I thought you were old-fashioned. There are plenty of registered houses. And every one has a story with many chapters.”

  Mrs. Bartlett was driving a white Mercedes. She handed a twenty-dollar bill to the valet who opened the door for each of us.

  “Mother’s house is just a few blocks away on West Hull near Chippewa Square.”

  “Did you grow up there?”

  “No, no. My father would never live in this part of town. She bought the house after he died about fifteen years ago. I grew up at Beaulieu on the Vernon River.”

  Mrs. Bartlett drove like she walked. Fast. Fortunately, the short streets didn’t provide enough space between stop signs to give her the chance to do more than stomp the gas pedal then slam on the brakes. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to ride with her on the interstate. After several quick turns she came to a stop alongside the curb.

  “Here we are. Built in 1860, just in time for the original owner to ride off to the war and get killed at Cold Harbor.”

  It was a square two-story brick structure with tall narrow windows on the first level and broad front steps. On the side of the house was an attached screened porch. Two large live oaks were planted between the house and the sidewalk. An iron railing extended from the steps down the street on either side, then turned toward the rear of the house.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “She wanted it and got it,” Mrs. Bartlett responded crisply. “I thought it was a mistake at the time, but it’s worth four times what she paid for it. Mother knows how to manage her money. Her father made a mint in real estate, and it rubbed off on her.”

  We walked up ten steps to the front door. I could see there was a basement with windows partly below street level. Mrs. Bartlett rang the door chime.

  “I have a key, but she hates it when I walk in unannounced. It will make her happy to pretend we’re here for a formal visit.”

  After a long wait, a white-haired woman shorter than Mrs. Bartlett but with a similar figure opened the door. She had bright blue eyes that narrowed slightly when she looked at me and made me feel like she was sizing me up in a split second. Mrs. Fairmont was wearing a carefully tailored yellow dress and white shoes with low heels. A string of pearls encircled her neck. Mrs. Bartlett kissed both her mother’s cheeks.

  “This is Miss Tami Taylor,” Mrs. Bartlett said, “the young woman I told you about who is going to work for Samuel Braddock’s firm this summer.” She turned to me. “Samuel and Eloise Braddock have been here for cocktails many times before going to the opera.”

  Mrs. Fairmont took my hand in hers. She was wearing a large diamond ring accented with emeralds on her right hand.

  “Good morning, child,” she said in a slightly raspy voice steeped in a coastal accent.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I answered.

  Mrs. Bartlett patted her mother on the shoulder and entered the house. Mrs. Fairmont still held on to my hand.

  “The house has double parlors,” Mrs. Bartlett called back from the interior. “It’s not an uncommon design. Mother, was Gracie here yesterday? Everything looks so nice. I like the way she arranged these flowers. Where did she get them?”

  Mrs. Fairmont stayed by the door, holding my hand. Her skin was wrinkled with age, and her knuckles revealed a t
ouch of arthritis. She put her other hand on top of mine.

  “You have nice hands,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy them while you can.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Don’t block the door, Mother,” Mrs. Bartlett called out. “Where do you want us to sit?”

  Mrs. Fairmont looked up at me. “Do you prefer green or blue?”

  “Blue is my favorite.”

  The house had two parlors separated by a foyer that faced the main stairway to the second floor. On the right was a pale green room; to the left one painted an ephemeral blue.

  “That is the green room,” Mrs. Fairmont said, gesturing with her bejeweled hand. “And this is the blue room.”

  Both rooms contained beautiful furniture, original paintings, and mirrors in gilt frames. I wondered how grandchildren and great-grandchildren fared in the house. A wrestling match between Kyle and Bobby could have caused thousands of dollars of damage. Mrs. Fairmont went into the blue room and sat in a side chair. Mrs. Bartlett motioned for me to join her on a cream sofa.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I said. “Mrs. Bartlett told me a little of its history.”

  “The couple who sold it to me did most of the restoration,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “Before that, it was a rooming house. Can you believe it? Workmen and laborers renting rooms by the week.” She leaned forward. “If I could understand the creaks in the night, I’m sure there are many stories to tell. Did you know our voices will echo in the universe until the end of time?”

  “That’s a silly notion,” Mrs. Bartlett cut in. “A sound doesn’t really exist if it can’t be heard, like a tree falling in the forest when no one is around.”

  “What do you think?” Mrs. Fairmont turned her blue eyes toward me.