The door to the study opened, but it was only the priest. “Sorry,” he said, hesitating. “I didn’t know anyone was—” Father Jim registered what was going on and became grave. “What’s happened? Heart attack? Have you called 911?”
“Don’t know what’s the matter,” Mitt said. “I already called for an ambulance. They’re on their way.”
The priest hastened over. “I know CPR. When did this happen?” he asked Elizabeth.
“He just closed his eyes during the sermon and didn’t open them again,” she explained. “Out cold, sitting up. But I don’t think he needs resuscitating.”
“Good Lord,” the priest said. “I should have listened when my wife told me that sermon was lethal.” He wrung his hands. “Not that I wouldn’t be in good company. Saint Paul bored a man to death with his preaching once—guy fell out the window—but he was able to resurrect him.”
What?
Appalled, Elizabeth stared at him in consternation. “Joking? Are you joking?”
Mitt made things worse by letting out a shocked chortle, then, “It’s like the one about the Episcopalian who died sitting up during the sermon, and the paramedics had to haul out fifteen people before they found the right one.”
“Kindly do not talk about dying,” Elizabeth snapped. “Howell is right here, and we don’t know what’s the matter yet.”
“Please forgive me,” the priest asked.
Penitent, the two men exchanged rueful glances, then Mitt headed for the door. “I’ll go wait for the paramedics,” he volunteered.
It seemed like eons, during which Elizabeth gauged every breath her husband took, but only ten minutes passed before the metallic rattle of a stretcher on the flagstones preceded the paramedics. They came in and immediately started hooking up leads and an IV as they relayed symptoms into their radiophones. After overhearing that Howe’s blood pressure was elevated and his heart regular, but fast, Elizabeth tapped one of the paramedic’s shoulders. “What is it?”
“We can’t be sure, but my guess is, Mr. Whittington may have had a stroke,” he told her. “We’ve administered medications to lower his pressure, but the sooner we can get him to the hospital, the better his chances for recovery.”
His chances for a recovery. Elizabeth’s heart sank. The nearest hospital was forty minutes away, and its emergency services were notoriously inadequate.
Suddenly, the sound of a helicopter grew louder and louder outside, then she heard a vehicle zoom up, then halt with a screech of brakes.
The paramedics raised the stretcher and started for the door with Elizabeth close behind, but before they got there, the side door of the church burst open and Howell’s mother stormed in with four uniformed medical attendants hot on her heels, bearing a sleek, plastic patient transport. A force of nature at eighty-five, Augusta Whittington clipped out, “I heard on the scanner. We’re airlifting him to Piedmont. My neurologist and neurosurgeon will be there waiting. And the best cardiologist in town.”
For once, Elizabeth was grateful for her mother-in-law’s interference. “Thank God. Bless you, Mother Whittington.”
The woman glared at Elizabeth as if what had happened was all her fault. “This is my only son. I’ll move heaven and earth to get him the best care possible.” She motioned for the attendants to transfer him to their stretcher.
Clearly insulted to have their patient usurped, the local paramedics nevertheless stepped aside without comment, because nobody in Whittington—or the state of Georgia, for that matter—dared cross Augusta Whittington. But the whole scene would be grist for the gossip mill within minutes.
“I’m grateful for the medevac,” Elizabeth told her mother-in-law. “I’ll call your cell as soon as we find out anything.”
“Call, nothing,” her mother-in-law said. “I’m going with him.”
The lead attendant raised a staying palm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whittington, but we only have room for one extra person besides the patient, and for legal reasons, it should be his wife.”
Mrs. Whittington shot him a look that would shatter granite, but he didn’t relent, and as Elizabeth followed the stretcher out, her mother-in-law flipped open her cell phone and dialed, then barked out, “Eddie Spruill”—the local sheriff—“this is Augusta Whittington. I’m at St. Andrew’s. Howell has been stricken ill, and they’re choppering him to Piedmont. Come get me this instant and take me to the hospital.” She scowled in outrage. “I don’t care if you’re eating. The Golden Corral will be there when you get back, but if you’re not here in five minutes, you’ll be going home without that badge, and you know I can do it.” She snapped the phone shut as Elizabeth followed the stretcher past her toward the waiting chopper.
“Don’t you let anything happen to him before I get there,” Augusta called after her. “I’m holding you responsible if it does, Elizabeth.”
Of course.
As the chopper took off, Elizabeth watched her world grow smaller and smaller, and wondered if she would still be the wife of the richest, most powerful man in the county when she came home.
Chapter 4
The past: Elizabeth’s sophomore year, her first day at Whittington High
Oblivious to the curious stares that followed her, Elizabeth pretended she was a secret princess, noble yet humble, as she strolled into the principal’s office her first day of school at Whittington High. She sat gracefully to wait till her name was called. As she waited, more than one male teacher and student eyed her new womanly curves with approval, but she didn’t let on that she noticed.
This was her chance to leave Bessie Mae behind, forever.
She’d worked hard to make sure her golden-brown hair swung sweet and shiny as she moved, and the clothes she was wearing looked like the ones worn by the popular girls. Nobody would ever know she’d taken the Greyhound into Atlanta to pick out the best the Goodwill and uptown thrift shops had to offer. Or that she’d cut them to style, then sewn them with perfect, even stitches under the light of a single dim bulb till they fit like they were custom-made—not too tight, but modestly close enough to make the most of her bustline and small waist. Her whole wardrobe had cost her only fifty dollars, but looked like thousands.
Now, here she was at last. She’d been planning for this day since her mother had announced her new job at the mill in Whittington, a job that came with a house in a new town, far from Greenville, where nobody knew them. A perfect chance for Elizabeth to start over and be who she wanted to be, not who she really was. A chance to hide the shame and poverty of her family.
Beautiful, brilliant, and unattainable, that’s what she would be. Bessie Mae was dead, and in her place was Elizabeth, a paragon of virtue and intelligence, the kind of woman men wanted, but couldn’t have. The kind of woman wealthy boys would marry.
“Miss Mooney,” the school secretary announced, “Mr. Cowan will see you now.” She motioned to the door with PRINCIPAL COWAN painted on the frosted glass.
Elizabeth rose with perfect poise and glided into the small office to face the first man she had to win over.
“Welcome, Miss Mooney. Welcome.” Eyeing her up and down with appreciation, the principal motioned for her to sit. “I must say, I’m quite impressed with your transcripts from Greenville. Straight A’s. Don’t see many records like that.” He patted her file. “We’re glad to have you in our student body.” Glancing again at her impressive curves and narrow waist, he colored and smoothed his lapel. “May I ask, do you have any specific goals for your time with us?”
“Yes,” she said with a careful mix of shyness and warmth. “I want to win a full academic scholarship to Emory and get my masters’ in political science.” Her whole plan depended on it.
The principal nodded with a mixture of skepticism and approval. “Nothing like setting your sights on the best. Good luck to you on that. If you keep up the good work, you might just make it.” He leaned forward to press a button on his phone. “Phyllis, is Miss Mooney’s student guide there yet?”
“Yes,”
crackled through the speaker.
“Then send her in.” Mr. Cowan rose. “Welcome to Whittington High. All our new students have a guide to take them to their classes for the first day.” He surveyed her again as she stood. “If you have any problems or questions after that, feel free to come by, and we’ll do our best to iron things out.” His expression said he hoped she would.
The door opened and a total nerd of a girl in thick glasses scurried in, carrying a canvas book bag printed with the school’s tiger mascot. She granted Elizabeth a nervous wave. “Hi. I’m Cathy, your guide.”
“Hi.” Elizabeth smiled back warmly. She had a soft spot for misfits, having been one herself for all those years. And she needed every friend she could get in this place. “Thanks for showing me around.”
Cathy handed her the book bag. “Your teachers will give you your books.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a nice day,” the principal dismissed, then stood in his doorway watching Elizabeth cross the offices and exit into the corridor.
Once she and Cathy were out in the hall, Elizabeth glided with perfect posture through the stream of students, her head held high, ignoring the frank looks of assessment from the girls and heated reactions of the boys.
It helped that she’d always had an eye for the finer things in life. She’d always watched and imitated how the rich people talked and dressed. Now she had a chance to put what she’d learned to use.
Here, in this new place, she’d make sure nobody would ever see the tiny, rundown mill house where she lived. Nobody would meet her useless, drunken father or her brawling older brothers. For all anyone at Whittington High knew, she had an ordinary family and a decent house. She knew how to deflect even the most persistent questions.
A woman of mystery, that’s what she’d be.
As for her teachers and the school authorities, Elizabeth had long since learned to forge her mother’s signature and make believable excuses for her absence at parent-teacher conferences. She could handle that end of things.
As if she’d read Elizabeth’s mind, Cathy asked, “Where do you live?”
Elizabeth cocked her head with interest. “Where do you?”
Cathy deflated. “On a farm at the edge of town. Bo-ring.”
“Thank goodness for books,” Elizabeth said. “They’re a great way to escape boredom.”
Cathy grinned, revealing a full set of railroad tracks, top and bottom. “How’d you know I like to read?”
“I can see you’re intelligent,” Elizabeth told her. “All intelligent people like to read.”
“I think I’m going to like you,” Cathy said.
Elizabeth nodded toward a covey of girls ahead who were fluttering around a tall, lanky, good-looking football player. A very good-looking football player, probably a senior. “What’s that all about?”
Cathy gazed at the high school hero with a wistful sigh. “That’s Howe Whittington and his usual harem.”
Him! Bingo, and on her first day. It was an omen. Elizabeth’s steps slowed, but she deliberately didn’t look at the boy, just tossed out a disinterested, “Ummm.”
“His family owns this town, and has for generations,” Cathy murmured. “He’s the last of his line, the biggest catch in Whittington, but his mother wants him to marry some rich Atlanta deb.”
That’s what she thought! Howe Whittington’s mother didn’t know about Elizabeth, and she wouldn’t, if Elizabeth had anything to do with it, till it was too late.
Elizabeth waited till the crown prince of Whittington looked at her to turn away from him. “What’s he like?” she asked Cathy in a whisper.
Cathy’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “A total dreamboat,” she whispered back, leaning in close. “Not spoiled at all. Treats everybody the same. He’s even nice to the fat kids and nerds like me, and it’s not put-on.” She pivoted slightly to shoot him another adoring look, but Elizabeth stopped her. “He doesn’t have a steady,” Cathy confided. “Just plays the field. Every girl in school would kill to go with him.”
Which was precisely why they wouldn’t get him. Elizabeth had learned a lot in her short life, and she knew all too well that men want what they can’t have. So she concentrated on Cathy. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“One younger sister, in the eighth grade,” Cathy said with regret. “She makes my life miserable.”
Still ignoring Howe and his harem as they approached him, Elizabeth laughed at what Cathy had said, then heard the flutter of feminine conversation subside abruptly. Her side tingled with the sense that she was being stared at.
When she turned, Howe Whittington was peering right at her, his expression lucid with approval and curiosity. And then he smiled at her.
Ho-lee cow!
That dazzling grin transformed him from good-looking to drop-dead, sexy, gorgeous. Everyone else in the hallway seemed to disappear.
Ho-lee cow!
Elizabeth’s insides did a flip. It took all her strength not to melt on the spot, but she somehow managed to keep her expression unaffected.
She’d definitely been run over by the love-train, which only made things harder.
It wouldn’t be easy, acting blasé, but she had to let him chase her till she landed him, no matter how hard it was or how long it took.
So instead of responding to Howe’s come-hither look, she lifted her eyebrows and bestowed her own sparkling smile on Cathy. “I don’t have time for boys. I have to study. And I want to join the Drama Club. Come on. Show me to my first class.”
She didn’t even glance Howe’s way as they passed, but deep in her heart, Elizabeth knew one thing: Howe Whittington was a hunk of a heartthrob, and she was going to marry him one day.
Four years later, Elizabeth made sure she was studying across the library table from Howe Whittington’s usual spot at the Emory Library when he came in to study. She’d spent all her spare time in the first two months of college quietly learning his schedule. Fortunately, he was just as regimented as she was. Then she’d started coincidentally turning up where he was. Despite the girls who’d thrown themselves at him, Howe seemed just as obsessed with study as she was.
But she wasn’t getting anywhere, and she’d waited long enough. Howe was between debs, and it was time to make her move.
As he always did on Thursday afternoons, he came into the section and dropped his books on the table, then pulled a bottle of water from his book bag.
Elizabeth kept right on studying. She had plenty of work to do. She was taking six courses and had to keep her grades up for the scholarship.
Howe took some time to settle in, then finally sat with his book open in front of him.
Eyes on her own books, Elizabeth arched her back with a soft moan and stretched, lifting her arms high above her head, fingers interlocked. Then she closed her eyes and counted.
One, two, three, four . . .
“Do I know you?” Howe asked. “ ’Cause if I don’t, I’d sure like to.”
This time, Elizabeth responded. “Actually, we went to the same high school. I’m here on scholarship.”
His expression warmed. “Ah. Beautiful and brilliant. I’m impressed.”
She cocked her head with a skeptical, “Does that line usually work for you with the other girls?”
Howe chuckled. “The other girls I know aren’t usually brilliant, just beautiful, but that doesn’t make for good conversation. I’m not really into creme rinses and the latest shopping news.”
Elizabeth chuckled back.
Howe’s eyes narrowed as he pointed her way. “Wait. Don’t tell me.” He studied her face. “Mason? Morgan? No, that’s not it.”
Elizabeth turned her attention back to her book.
“You were homecoming queen,” Howe announced. “I saw the picture in the paper. And you were head of the Beta Society. National Merit Scholar. Perfect sixteen hundred on your SATs.”
She looked up. “How do you know all that?”
“My moth
er sends me the local paper every week,” he admitted. “So I can keep up with what’s going on back home,” he said with definite sarcasm, revealing that he wasn’t too anxious to go back there.
Perfect. Neither was she. Elizabeth extended her hand. “Elizabeth Mooney,” she offered.
“Elizabeth. Of course.” Howe shook his head with a grin. “Every girl in town wanted to be you.”
“Every girl in town wanted to have you,” she said archly.
His eyes sparked with interest. “Except you.” He slid down till they were facing each other across the table. “Why was that?”
“I didn’t have time for boys,” she said evenly. “I still don’t. I want to have my Ph.D. by twenty-four and go somewhere far, far away from Whittington.”
Howe grinned, melting her insides. “Me, too.” He looked at her with deepened interest. “Don’t you think you could make just a little time for me? We could plan our escape.”
Our escape . . . Perfect, perfect, perfect. Elizabeth looked him up and down, then relented. “Well, maybe a little. But only a little.”
Smug, he leaned forward. “How about dinner tonight? Anywhere in the city you’d like to go.”
He was so adorable, it was all she could do to keep from jumping him across the table. But she forced herself to look at her math textbook. “Sorry. Test tomorrow.”
“Shhhhh!” somebody hissed from the stacks.
Howe dropped his voice. “This weekend, then,” he said with confidence. “Give me your number.”
“I don’t have one,” she lied, then gathered up her books. “I’ll see you around.”
Howe looked slightly stunned to see her rise to leave. “How will I find you?”
She gave him a seductive look. “If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll find a way.”
Then she glided away, heart pounding half out of her chest.
He didn’t follow, but she wasn’t worried. And sure enough, the next day when she came back to her dorm room, it was filled with a dozen vases of red rosebuds, and a single card, asking, “Dinner Friday at Blue Fish? Seven,” with Howe’s phone number.
Waking Up in Dixie Page 3