Wave Good-Bye

by Lila Dare

  I made a mental note not to run scalding hot water while he was out of his cage. I spent the rest of the day researching parakeets, learning the ropes of bird ownership, and reading a book I’d started weeks ago.

  Chapter Eleven

  ALTHEA BREEZED IN THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR and tossed the local newspaper down on the counter. “Did you see this?”

  “Old news,” I said. As usual, I’d been scrubbing away at the black mold inside the storage cabinets. From my kneeling position, I paused to look up at her and did a double take at the vision of loveliness standing next to me.

  Before dating Kwasi, Althea was your typical J. C. Penney shopper who favored polyester knit pantsuits and cotton shirtdresses, which she protected by wearing her aesthetician’s smock. Nowadays she chose more exciting ensembles. Today she wore an orange, green, yellow, and black tunic top over leggings. From her earlobes hung bone-colored hoop earrings. With her full lips, broad nose, and jaw-length Afro, she looked positively regal and totally exotic.

  She tapped a finger against the newspaper. “A woman is murdered in our little town and you call it ‘old news’?”

  I nodded. “Because it happened Friday, yes, it’s old news. But if you’re asking what I think, I think it’s tragic. I didn’t like her, but it’s still a shock, and I especially feel sorry for Lisa Butterworth’s family.”

  “Morning, Althea.” Mom joined us, carrying a big mug of coffee in her hands. Her favorite is hazelnut, and the wonderful scent preceded her as she came into the room. Mom’s usually all sunshine and smiles in the morning, but today her expression was dour. “Grace Ann? I’m so glad you’re doing that. I totally forgot that the mold inspector is coming by today. I guess I better get down there with you.”

  In a way, it was lucky we didn’t have any customers on the books, because both of us scrubbed baseboards for an hour, her in the waiting area, and me in the salon. The work was slowgoing, but it looked to me like we’d made fine progress. All my press-on nails had fallen off, but I couldn’t see a speck of the green black menace on the woodwork.

  I took a break and plopped down on one of our wicker chairs. Mom pulled off her rubber gloves and joined me. “I can’t help thinking about that poor girl. She was so young. Same age as Alice Rose. I hadn’t realized that until Walter turned up the radio this morning.”

  I bit my lip. So that’s how it was. He was staying over these days.

  My mother turned red-rimmed eyes on me. “It didn’t really hit me Sunday morning, but as the day wore on, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I can’t imagine what I’d do if something happened to you or your sister. To think that happened in downtown St. Elizabeth, too! Right off our main drag!”

  “The tourism bureau isn’t going to like this one bit.” Althea took a break from mixing a new batch of oatmeal–egg white face mask paste. “Kwasi says it’s going to cost local businesses thousands of dollars in lost revenue. The longer they go without an arrest, the worse the downturn will be.”

  No one added that our business was already in the tank.

  “How’s the mold cleanup coming on your side of the salon?” Mom asked me.

  “I’m done and it looks pretty good,” I said.

  “Good.” Mom smiled at me. “Now we’re ready for the man from the health department. Can I talk to you in my office?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Mom’s “office” is a tiny nook, a former closet, fitted with a Formica desktop, a filing cabinet, and two office chairs. Over the desk are two shelves packed with three-ring binders containing all the rules and regulations for running a shop like ours. There are also a couple of binders dedicated to formulas for hair coloring, troubleshooting, and so on. To the right of her desk is a family photo taken at Sears when I was five and Alice Rose, my sister, was three. Dad stands proudly behind Mom, who is seated. On her lap is Alice Rose, and I’m on her right, snuggled close. Every time I look at it, I get a little teary-eyed. Mom’s managed to make a good life for herself since Dad died, but I can’t help wondering how it would have been different if he hadn’t gotten cancer.

  “Have a seat.” She closed the door behind me, leaving behind the trail of a strawberry scent from the body wash she likes to use. The space felt slightly claustrophobic, but I have to admit, I liked the feeling of intimacy. This little room is like a clubhouse. Mom and I would come here for what we called our “war councils.” Whenever we had a problem, like when a customer bounced a check, we’d adjourn to her office and close the door to discuss how it should be handled. I think Alice Rose envied me this. Working together, talking things through like this built a bond between Mom and me, a shared interest that she and Alice Rose didn’t have. It wasn’t that Mom didn’t love my sister. She did and Alice Rose knew it. It was just that Mom and I could finish each other’s sentences. We could take one look at each other and know what the other person thought. When you spend as many hours as we did with each other, you either found your rhythm and moved in sync or you were constantly bumping into each other. Kind of like those couples on Dancing with the Stars. We had practiced so long, learned to communicate so well, that our footwork was seamless, and we moved like one person—at least when it came to anything that concerned the shop.

  “What’s up?”

  “Just a couple of things.” She rearranged the papers on her desk, and then she rearranged them again. Finally she sighed and looked at me over the lenses of her rimless glasses. With her gray white hair and twenty pounds of extra weight, she looks motherly and nurturing, which she is. She’s also very straightforward…usually. I wondered what was on her mind. I suspected she’d ask me my opinion on getting more customers into the shop.

  “A letter came on Saturday from the historical society. Seems that someone—they wouldn’t tell me who—filled out the paperwork to have this house listed as a historic property. The St. Elizabeth Historic Preservation Committee is meeting next week to consider the proposal.”

  “That’s fabulous! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  She gave me a quivering smile. “I really wasn’t in the mood to discuss it.”

  “But that’s terrific, isn’t it? I mean, this place will be in the historic register!”

  “Ye-es, it’s terrific that the house will be recognized, so it’s good for the house and for the city. But for us? Not so much. I’m not sure, but I think that if the proposal passes, the house will have to be gutted and restored to its original floor plan.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “WHAT? HOW CAN THEY DO THAT?”

  “Hang on and I’ll explain what little I know. But don’t hold me to any of this because I’m not an expert—and I haven’t had the chance to get the details. See, someone sent a lot of paperwork to the National Register of Historic Places. Again, I don’t know who did it or why someone decided all of a sudden to initiate this documentation. Whoever it was did a lot of research and digging. A copy of all the paperwork was sent at the same time to the Georgia Register of Historic Places. The house could be put in the national list and not in the Georgia list, or vice versa, or qualify for neither or both, as I understand it. Once it’s in that list, I would have to fill out an appropriateness application. If the changes I’ve made don’t pass muster, that is if they deem them inappropriate, I might need to fix what I’ve done. Or not.” She bowed her head and rubbed the back of her neck.

  “But isn’t there grant money? And why would they shut down a going concern?”

  From that position, her voice was muffled but surprisingly peevish. “I just don’t know! Walter says there is, but I haven’t had the chance to do any research yet. The point is I’m not sure what this means to me. To the salon. To all of us.”

  “But you didn’t know this was a historic building! So why would you be in trouble for making changes?” I squirmed in my chair. Mom usually wasn’t a worrier. Instead, she was a take-it-as-it-comes type of person. The fact that she was worrying had me worried.

  “I don’t know. Of course
, I didn’t realize it was a historic building. I knew it was old when I inherited it. My grandmother told me it had been built shortly before the War Between the States, but I surely did not know it has or had special significance. I didn’t make any changes except to keep a roof over our heads. Opening the salon brought in enough money that I could hang on to this place. A house this old always needs something or another. But I’m not sure that any of those repairs was up to historical standards. I did what I could, the best I could, with what money I had.”

  “Mom, don’t second-guess yourself. You did a great job. You kept a roof over our heads, you employed three other people, including me, and you raised two girls. Is it possible the house won’t qualify?”

  “From what Walter says, there’s a very good chance this place will pass muster and have a place in the national historic register.”

  “Why? Because it’s old? St. Elizabeth is full of old houses.”

  “That and it turns out that Cyril Rothmere built this place for his mistress. Can you believe it? I would have never guessed it of old Cyril, but I guess it’s true.”

  St. Elizabeth sits in the crook of a backward L bordered by the St. Andrew Sound to the east and the Satilla River to the north. Cyril Rothmere chose the long side of the L as the perfect site for his Greek revival home. On a bit of high ground, he constructed a house with an expansive view of the river. Some say he was a man who loved beauty and his choice of the Satilla River reflected that. One of the state’s fourteen major watersheds, the Santilla provided a picturesque setting, especially in the early spring when the swamp cyrilla and azaleas turned its white sandbanks ablaze with reds, pinks, and oranges. Others, more cynical, suggest he wanted to keep an eye on the commercial river traffic so he could make wise investments when tall ships from all over the world off-loaded their merchandise in St. Elizabeth’s exceptional harbor.

  The Rothmere home has since been turned into a museum, sheltering and preserving all things Rothmere as well as any items with historic ties to St. Elizabeth. Oh, and it’s supposed to have a ghost. That makes it perfect for tourists and locals to visit at Halloween.

  “So much is up in the air. How is this all going to turn out?” I wondered out loud. “I don’t mean to sound heartless, but since Lisa was murdered inside Snippets, I imagine that some of our customers are bound to want to come back. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

  Mom opened her arms to me, hugged me across the desk, and held me surprisingly tight. “Honey, I don’t know what they’ll do. People sure can be funny. They might find the whole situation intriguing. I used to think I knew my clientele pretty well, but not anymore. Everything is all upside down now. Frankly, when it comes to the historic preservation situation, I don’t even know what to do first. Or whether I need to do anything at all. Things are just happening so quickly.”

  She let me go and ran nervous fingers through her hair with its cute spikes held in place by a generous application of gel. When she finished, she quickly tucked her hand under the desk. “You see, this thing with the historical society isn’t the only thing on my mind. Something else has come up. Recently. Just last night, in fact.”

  “What?” I couldn’t imagine any more on our plate.

  With her right hand, Mom neatened the edges of a stack of papers. “While we were at dinner, Walter told me he’s planning on selling out. Seems he’s got a buyer who’s interested in his whole inventory. A collector. Then a friend called, another Civil War reenactor, and offered him a great deal on his Winnebago. Walter always teased him about wanting to buy it from him one day—and last week the man decided he wanted to sell. The upshot is that Walter wants to travel all around the country. He’s planning to go from historic battlefield to battlefield.”

  “I’ll be sorry to see him go. It’s kind of nice how he’s been popping in all the time lately.”

  A small smile played at her lips. “Yes, that has been nice. Actually, I’ve grown quite fond of Walter. Really fond. Um, he asked if I’d like to come along with.”

  “And what? Fly back from some of those places? Sure. I can hold down the fort. It’s not like we’re overrun with customers.”

  “No, honey.” She positioned her left hand on the desk so I could see the sparkle of her new ring. “He’s asked me to marry him.”

  It’s always hard to imagine your parents did “it.” Harder still for me, after all these years without a dad, to realize that my mother was still interested in “it.” But the blush on her cheeks told me everything I needed to know. She might be sixty-something years old, but my mom was still a girl at heart. Anything else would be too much information, or TMI as Rachel put it.

  “Where are my manners? Congratulations!” Now I reached across the desk and hugged her hard. She giggled as I did. “Does Alice Rose know? Or Althea?”

  “No. You’re my firstborn, so I wanted you to hear it first. Walter even asked if he needed to get down on his knees and propose to you, too, but I told him I thought you might take a pass. Seeing the commotion his proposal caused at Pizza Hut, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through that again.”

  I would have liked to have seen that but I wasn’t about to spoil the moment by saying so.

  “When’s the date? I mean, have you set a day for the wedding yet?”

  She shrugged. “Everything’s up in the air.”

  I sank back into my seat. “What do you mean? You are going to marry him, right? You’re wearing the ring.”

  “I’ve accepted his proposal, but we have a lot of details to iron out. Of course, I also have to tell Alice Rose and Althea. Stella and Rachel, too.”

  “Althea’ll want to be your matron of honor. Or would it be your maid of honor, since she’s a widow?”

  “I don’t know! I figure she’ll let me know what she wants to be and I’ll go along with it!” She paused, acting unsure what to say next. “Grace Ann, Marty is coming down Tuesday night for sure, right? I guess as a reporter, he works odd hours. Kind of hard to get used to, isn’t it?”

  “He promised me that he’ll be here.”

  “Have you given any more thought to his suggestion that you move up to DC with him? Go work in a salon up there?”

  A hailstorm of emotions battered me. Did I want to move in with Marty? Was I willing to make that commitment? Had he been serious when he suggested that it would be easy for me to find work in a DC salon? Was that the same as an invitation to move in together? Or was he simply pointing out that it would be a lot less hassle if we didn’t live a half day away from each other?

  Other than the two years I lived in Atlanta while attending UGA, I’d lived in St. Elizabeth all my life…so far. Moving would mean saying good-bye to Vonda. I hadn’t particularly enjoyed the traffic and noise of Atlanta. I liked the fact I could get anywhere in St. Elizabeth that I needed to go in fifteen minutes. I’d heard about beltway traffic. Seen it with my own eyes a few times when I went up to visit Marty. The thought of driving in that mess made my heart pound and my mouth go dry.

  Mom was waiting for my answer.

  “What if I stay here? I mean, Marty and I have only been dating on weekends for four months. I’m not sure I want to make a commitment. I could still run the shop, right?”

  Her eyes filled with tears and her voice grew husky. “Grace Ann, hon, that’s what I’m telling you. There might not be a shop.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  WAS SHE REALLY PLANNING TO CLOSE THE DOORS ON Violetta’s? Or just decided to sell the house? Victorian homes like this had become increasingly fashionable, especially with young couples from Savannah, looking for a place in a small town. These houses were bringing top dollar, even in the tough economy. With business so slow, and liable to be this way for a long time, selling the house might be a good idea. We could always rent a space if she decided she wanted to stay in the beauty business.

  The question was…did Mom want to keep working? Or was she ready to call it quits?

  Suddenly, I saw everything differently,
a bit like Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz. The overstuffed shelves above Mom’s desk filled me with a new affection, as did the crayon drawings by Owen and Logan that she’d pinned up on her bulletin board. On the thin carpet behind me was a yellow streak, leftover from a botched attempt to paint the office yellow, Mom’s favorite color next to periwinkle. I ran my hand over the seat cover on my chair, a quilted pad that a customer had created especially for Mom.

  Truth to tell, I couldn’t imagine a world without this shop. I’d grown up here listening to women talk about their lives while Mom shampooed their hair with lavender-scented suds. The hanging ferns, the cozy sitting area, the wide heart-of-pine floorboards made this seem more like a home than a salon. The array of African violets in the windowsills spoke to a time when simple pleasures like sharing a plant cutting were true signs of friendship. Even the dust motes that danced in the early morning sunshine seemed magical to me.

  As a girl, I would sweep the floor between customers, making sure to get in every nook and cranny so that no stray curls were left behind. One of our regulars, Mrs. DiSilverio, thought my industry so cute that she even bought me a child-sized broom and little dustpan to use. How I enjoyed taking the towels out of the dryer and pressing their warm, soft surface to my face! The smell of perm solution always made me cheery, because with it came the delighted cries of “Oh, I love it!” after the rods were removed and the hair was styled.

  If you took a survey, I’d bet that more than three-quarters of the women in this town had come through our doors at least once in their lives. I remember one bride who insisted on having her picture taken in her white gown standing under the figurehead from the Santa Elisabeta, a Spanish galleon that sank off the Georgia coast in the 1500s. The wooden carving provided benevolent supervision from a wall behind the counter. Since this bride’s name was Elizabeth, she believed that her name saint was responsible for bringing her the man she would marry. Unbeknownst to us, Elizabeth had been lighting candles at church and praying to St. Elizabeth. Maybe I should have followed her lead, because that Elizabeth was happily wed after all these years later, and my marriage to Hank had been over for three years now.