by Ann B. Ross
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t do much talking. Just listened until it got boring. That lady’s telling Mr. Sam about Florida and how wonderful it is. I kept wanting to ask why she moved back here if it’s all that great.”
“Good question!” I said, as Etta Mae laughed. “In some ways, she’s to be pitied, Lloyd. She’s had a hard life, although she’s brought a lot of it on herself. Anyway, we’re almost through here, so you can go back out if you want to. You’re sweet to think of helping.”
“I didn’t exactly think of it,” he said, leaning on the counter to watch Etta Mae. “That lady told me to.”
I turned from the stove where I was stirring the beans and met Etta Mae’s eyes. Our eyebrows went up at the same time. What was Francie up to?
“Well,” I said, “you run right back out there and tell them they can come to the table.”
He grinned, snatched up a cucumber slice and put it in his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
When he left, I turned to Etta Mae. “That beats all I ever heard. She sent Lloyd out so she could play on Sam’s sympathy and make him feel sorry for her. I expect she hopes he’ll help her get you back. I’m beginning to think that the woman is just plain evil.”
“She’s just used to getting her way,” Etta Mae said. Then, with a frown, she went on. “You think Mr. Sam won’t want me here? He might think Mrs. Delacorte needs me worse than Hazel Marie does.”
“Not a chance. He’s not all that eager to tend to twins, even if they’re not here yet. Besides, where you work is your business, and he’s not going to interfere in that.” I picked up a platter of pot roast and vegetables. “Let’s get this on the table and get it over with. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens will surely be home in a little while, and I want Francie gone long before that.”
“I can’t wait to see them,” Etta Mae said, as she took the rolls out of the oven and put them in a napkin-lined basket. “I bet Hazel Marie’s getting as big as a house.”
“Your table is lovely, Julia,” Francie said as she took a seat on Sam’s right. “I don’t know how you do it, with all you have going on.”
Because there were only the five of us, I’d seated everybody at one end of the table—me on Sam’s left, Etta Mae to my left to keep her away from Francie and, unhappily but necessarily, Lloyd across from Etta Mae and next to Francie.
The meal transpired pleasantly enough, for Sam was as always the genial host. He had the innate ability and courtesy to draw out any guest, asking pertinent questions and expressing sincere interest in whatever opinions, plans or experiences the guest offered. Francie glowed under his attention, dominating the conversation as she responded to him. Sam attempted to include the rest of us, but his expertise failed to elicit satisfactory responses, mainly because Francie constantly drew the conversation back to herself.
As the meal drew to a close, Etta Mae whispered, “You stay right here. I’ll fix the pound cake.” And as soon as she stood, Lloyd was up like a shot, eager to clear the table and go to the kitchen with her.
The two of them served toasted pound cake slices with ice cream and chocolate syrup, a simple dessert that Francie consumed in minutes, in spite of her constant flow of words. We heard all about Florida: its scenery, its ocean breezes, its lovely beaches, its wonderful shops, its wealthy residents and on and on. Then we heard about her sorrowful experiences, especially the trying time she’d had with her sick husband—or husbands. I was never able to determine which one, or ones, she was speaking of.
The one matter that she didn’t bring up was the recent theft and assault she’d suffered. I kept waiting for her to mention it, hoping for some small sign that she’d moved away from her accusation of Etta Mae. I mean, how could she sit placidly and companionably across the table from someone who she believed had physically injured her?
She couldn’t; nobody could, which indicated to me that Francie knew that Etta Mae was not guilty of anything. But did she bring it up? Did she apologize, even in a roundabout way? No, she didn’t. In fact, she ignored Etta Mae completely, which might’ve indicated some animosity toward her. But then, she ignored Lloyd, too, and she couldn’t have had anything against him.
Well, the fact of the matter was, she ignored me for a good part of the time, and when she did take notice, it was to refer obliquely to the sad state of my health. And though it tightened my mouth to do it, I held my tongue, because I might have to use that excuse again, come Monday night.
Finally, the meal was over and we rose from the table. Surely, I thought, Francie would leave. Her unannounced visit had lasted more than two hours, and that was long enough for anybody without a suitcase. And thank goodness, she’d not brought one of those.
Lloyd hopped up, saying, “I’ll do the dishes.” And Etta Mae immediately said, “I’ll help.”
I nodded, thanking them, knowing that they preferred the busyness of the kitchen to Francie’s boring monopoly of the conversation.
But at last, Francie began to indicate that she was preparing to leave. First, she excused herself to go to the powder room—the ladies’, she called it, as if I had gender-separated bathrooms in my home. But before that, she’d had to swish into the living room for her pocketbook, walking delicately in front of Sam to retrieve it. When she came out of the “ladies’,” she’d refreshed her makeup and reseated her hat.
I’d about had enough of her company, so when she returned, I handed her the walking stick. “We’ve loved having you, Francie. There’s nothing better than catching up with old friends. And this was the perfect time for it, too, because Hazel Marie will be back this afternoon, and there’ll be no time for visiting from now on.”
From the quick glare she aimed at me, I knew she understood what I was saying. But that didn’t stop her from suggesting that I lie down and rest. “You’re very pale, Julia. I fear you’ve overdone it, what with working in the kitchen and all.”
I fumed, because she’d not offered to help, yet here she was criticizing me for preparing the food she’d eaten.
“Sam,” she said, turning to look up at him, “you must see to it that she takes care of herself. We want our Julia to stay mobile as long as she can. It’s ever so much better that way for all concerned.”
“Francie . . . ,” I started, then restrained myself as Sam smiled and winked at me. If he could see through her, then I didn’t have to bother.
Having collected her cane and pocketbook, Francie turned toward the door. “Sam,” she said, taking his arm, “walk me to the car, if you will. I’m still not too steady on my feet, having just gotten out of the hospital, after suffering such trauma as you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’ll be happy to,” Sam said, as he opened the door and escorted her out.
I watched as they went down the walk, Francie walking ever so slowly and leaning slightly on Sam. She continued to talk the whole way and kept him stooped over her car after she’d climbed in and closed the door.
As Sam finally walked away from the car to return to the house, I quickly took myself to the living room and sat down. Pretending to have been engrossed in the newspaper, I looked up when he came in.
“That woman can talk, can’t she?” he said, as he picked up the remote control. “You feel like watching a football game, sweetheart?”
“Not especially, but you go ahead. What was she talking about that kept you so long?”
Sam sat on the sofa beside me and clicked on the television. “Same thing she talked about the whole time she was here: her feelings, her problems, how she’d go back to Florida if it weren’t for her duty to stay here.” He flipped through several channels, bypassing golf, thank goodness, and settling on football. “I never did find out what that duty was, but she told me she felt it was her calling.”
“My goodness, maybe the prayer vigil Pastor Ledbetter and Dr. Fowler had with her is paying some dividends. Which is too bad if it results in her joining our church. I’m not sure how much more of Francie Pitts I can take.”
Sam s
miled. “I know what you mean. But she does seem concerned about you, and that makes her easier for me to take.” Sam put his hand on my knee and left it there.
Chapter 35
Sam didn’t seem too wrapped up in the game, so I ventured another question. “Did Francie have anything to say about Etta Mae? She completely ignored her at lunch.”
Sam laughed and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Advised me to lock our bedroom door at night. She thinks Etta Mae might attack us in our sleep.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes!” I cried. “Sam, that woman’s out to ruin Etta Mae. Even if Lieutenant Peavey’s looking elsewhere, which I hope to goodness he is, Francie’s determined to punish her in some way. You might not have picked up on this, but the reason Francie showed up here today was to inveigle Etta Mae into working for her again, so she was trying to get you to fire her.” The blatant nerve of the woman just frosted me good. I sat up and stared at him to be sure he understood the seriousness of the matter. “She knows Etta Mae needs to work, and if we let her go, she’d have to take whatever she could get. And after Francie gets through spreading such rumors, nobody’ll hire her. Then Etta Mae’d have to work for Francie, which would put her right in line to be set up again and put in jail. Francie Pitts is a malicious woman and that’s all there is to it.”
Sam pulled me back against the sofa so that I was leaning against him. “It doesn’t matter what she’s trying to do, sweetheart. Etta Mae’s safe here with us, and it looks as if we’ll need her for a long time to come. Anyway, Binkie seems to think that they’re looking in a different direction, so as long as Francie has no opportunity to make more accusations, then Etta Mae is safe from that, too.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, sighing. Then sat up with another thought. “Have you found out anything about Francie’s maid or companion or whatever she is?”
“Evelyn? Not much. She doesn’t have a record that I can find, but there’s only so far I can go in looking. Her address is on Spring Street, that little lane off the boulevard, so I drove by to see it. It’s one of those small houses built by some local volunteers to rehabilitate the area.”
“Don’t you have to show need to get one of those houses? How would Francie manage that? Because I heard she bought it.”
“Evelyn must’ve bought it herself, because you’re right. There’re strict requirements on who gets the houses.”
“Yes, and some way or another, Francie has worked it so she can take credit for it. That woman!”
“I did find out her name. Oh, man, look at that tackle!”
“What?” I glanced at the television and saw a pile of bodies on the screen. “Oh yes, that’s something, isn’t it? So what is it? Her name, I mean.”
“Plemmons. Evelyn Plemmons. Seems her previous license was from Coral Gables, Florida, which makes sense because you said that’s where Francie had been living. Anyway, she’s sixty-four years old, has gray hair and blue eyes, and stands five feet four inches. That’s all the information I could get.”
“So she’s a little old lady,” I said, then realized with a start that she was younger than I was—not by much, but some. Still, she sounded old. “I mean,” I hurriedly added before Sam could laugh at me, “somebody said she was old and frail, and Francie implied that Evelyn wasn’t able to do much.”
All of a sudden we heard feet running overhead and on the stairs as Lloyd came bounding down like a thundering herd. “They’re home! They’re home! Miss Julia, Mama’s here!” he yelled, as he flashed past us and out the front door.
Etta Mae came down the staircase behind him, but much slower, standing back as if she weren’t sure of her place. Sam and I hurried to the door to welcome the newly wedded couple. At my first glimpse of Hazel Marie as she met Lloyd with open arms, I thought, no, she wasn’t quite as big as a house, but she was well on her way. Twins in a small woman don’t have any room to grow except outward, and that’s what they were doing. And thank goodness, the evidence of their growth was covered by a loose maternity top, and not one of those stretched-out T-shirts some women wear that aim their bulging navels at you like a headlight on a train. It’s enough to make your own stomach revolt.
“Hazel Marie, honey, you look wonderful,” I cried as she came into the house. “So rested and well. Welcome home, but where’s your husband?”
“He’s unloading the car,” she said, smiling broadly. “I’m so glad to be home. How is everybody? Mr. Sam, it’s so good to see you. And Etta Mae!” Hazel Marie hurried over to hug her friend. “How did you know I’d be home today?”
“Well . . . ,” Etta Mae began, but stopped because she didn’t know where to begin in recounting all that had happened in the past week.
“Etta Mae’s here to help us out,” I said. “I’ve been feeling run down, and we knew you’d need an extra pair of hands, so she’s working for us.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Hazel Marie said, but she looked a little dazed at the thought of having a baby nurse before having any babies.
Mr. Pickens came in lugging a pair of suitcases, with Lloyd right behind him with an armful of boxes and packages.
“Well, we’re back,” Mr. Pickens said, putting down a suitcase and shaking hands with Sam. “I hope you can stand us for a while.”
“Oh, we can stand you, all right,” Lloyd said, his face alight with pleasure. “We sure have missed you.”
After the newlyweds had gotten settled in the downstairs bedroom, which Sam and I had vacated when Hazel Marie had been ordered to stay off the stairs, we sat around the kitchen table eating leftovers and catching one another up with all that had happened. Hazel Marie told again about the massages they’d had and about the walks around the hotel grounds they’d taken and about Mr. Pickens’s house in Asheville, which, I was relieved to hear, they did not plan to live in.
“Not much is selling these days,” Mr. Pickens told Sam. “So I told the agent to put it up for rent.”
Then Hazel Marie, still not understanding Etta Mae’s presence, asked her about her job as a Handy Home Helper, so that gave us the cue to tell about Francie Pitts and her accusations, plus the dreadful anxiety that Etta Mae had been under as a leading suspect.
Mr. Pickens cast a worried look at Etta Mae. “Can I do anything to help?”
“You certainly can,” I said before Etta Mae could open her mouth. “You can find out who actually attacked Francie, because we know it wasn’t Etta Mae. She just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, or almost at the wrong time, because she was long gone before anything happened to Francie.”
“Why don’t I talk to Binkie tomorrow?” Mr. Pickens suggested. “See if she needs me for anything.”
Etta Mae ducked her head, unaccustomed to such concern from someone she hardly knew. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Mr. Pickens glanced at Hazel Marie and took her hand. “I’m supposed to go to Birmingham to look into an insurance fraud case, but if Binkie thinks I can help, I’ll put it off for a few days.”
“Oh, J.D.,” Hazel Marie said. “Don’t talk about leaving.”
Lloyd, who’d been avidly following the conversation, quickly changed the subject. “Mama, have you thought of what you’re going to name the babies?”
Hazel Marie immediately perked up. “I’ve thought of a million of them. But we don’t even know if they’re boys or girls or one of each. J.D. went with me to see the obstetrician that Dr. Hargrove recommended, and they let him see the sonogram. We couldn’t tell what was what, but the doctor could. But we said we didn’t want to know, so we don’t. We want to be surprised, don’t we, J.D.?”
“It’ll be a surprise, all right,” Mr. Pickens said, and I could imagine just how big a surprise it was to him already.
“But you’ve thought of some, haven’t you?” Lloyd persisted. “Tell us what you might name ’em.”
“Well,” Hazel Marie said, her face glowing at the thought of what was to come. “If at least one of them is a girl, I’m going to name
her Apple.”
There was dead silence around the table as we considered the chosen name, and only a few of us were able to glance at one another.
“Apple?” Lloyd asked.
“Yes,” Hazel Marie said, “I just love the name. And that’s what Gwyneth Paltrow named her little girl, and ever since I heard about it I’ve wanted to name mine the same thing.”
We all continued to sit without comment, although Mr. Pickens had to turn his head and look out the window. Finally, when he’d gotten himself under control, he said, “Honey, you might want to rethink that.”
“Why?” Hazel Marie asked. “Don’t you like it?”
“Mama,” Lloyd said, a delighted grin on his face. “Think what her whole name will be.”
“What?” Hazel Marie said, frowning. “Why, it’ll be Apple . . .” She stopped as a distressed look crossed her face.
“Apple Pickens!” Lloyd cried, laughing. “I love it, but I don’t think she will. I’ll be taking up for my little sister for the rest of my life.”
We were all able to laugh by this time, but Hazel Marie looked crestfallen at how unsuitable her favorite name would be.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Mr. Pickens said, as he put an arm across her shoulders. “We’ll think of something even better. And think of this: they may both be boys.”
“Oh, I hope they are,” Hazel Marie said, clasping his free hand and kissing it. “And I hope they’re as sweet as you.”
“Yuck,” Lloyd said at this lovey-dovey display of affection.
“And,” Mr. Pickens added, smiling at him, “boys just as fine as their big brother.”
“Double yuck,” Lloyd said, grinning as his face reddened with pleasure.
Chapter 36
Fairly early the next morning, on the dreaded Monday, a phone call came in for Etta Mae. After speaking for a few minutes, or rather, nodding and agreeing, she hung up with a distraught look on her face.