Waking Up in Dixie

by Haywood Smith

  When it grew dark, she finished unloading the car, then locked the house and went to sleep, so sad and tired, she didn’t wake up till morning sunlight slanted off the water and into her eyes.

  Elizabeth stretched, feeling logy and disoriented in the luxurious bed. Something was wrong. Where was she, anyway?

  Her hollow stomach howled as she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings and realized where she was, and why. The lump in her heart felt heavier than ever because she’d run away and left Howe to face the consequences of her stupidity. But the hurt, angry child inside her shot back that she’d covered for him for more than two decades. Let him see what it feels like.

  Her stomach growled again.

  Food. She needed food. And coffee.

  She squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. Nine A.M., August fifteenth.

  It couldn’t be the fifteenth. Not unless she’d slept for thirty-six hours straight.

  Bathroom. Then food. Then she’d figure what she needed to do next.

  She swung her legs off the bed and arched her back, yawning hugely. What she wanted to do next, she corrected as she made for the potty and relieved herself.

  It was kind of scary, actually, not having anything to do. All the busyness of life in Whittington had kept her from having to look at that life too closely. At herself too closely. Now she had no distractions.

  Lord, it was too early in the morning to start psychoanalyzing. She’d go nuts in no time if she started doing that.

  Elizabeth donned the terry-cloth robe and caught a subtle whiff of perfume. Wow. That maid had thought of everything.

  Enjoying the peace of the place, she made herself some bacon and eggs and coffee, then sat at the window and ate with The Today Show on for company. The weather was gorgeous, so she decided to check out Blue Ridge and find a locksmith.

  Then she indulged in a long, hot soak in the bathtub and washed her hair. Since nobody she knew was going to see her, she didn’t bother to blow-dry her usual smooth bob, but brushed through the damp waves, then caught them back with combs above her ears and scrunched in curls to air-dry.

  She’d fluff it on the way to town.

  She didn’t even bother with foundation or eyeliner, just put concealer on the dark circles under her eyes, swiped on a little mascara, then rubbed some bronzer on her cheeks.

  Defiant, she left her bra in the drawer and donned a thick cotton knit shell in a black, white, and brown print that concealed the evidence. Then she put on black knit travel pants and topped off the outfit with a chocolate-brown faux suede overshirt that matched her eyes.

  The effect was very different from her usual carefully put-together outfits, but Elizabeth didn’t care. Anonymity had its compensations. For the first time in memory, she wasn’t trying to make an impression on anybody. She just wanted to blend in and disappear.

  She found her way back to town without having to use the directions, then turned right on Depot Street, where a sign said BUSINESS DISTRICT. To her left and right just before the railroad tracks, she saw blocks of quaint, refurbished brick storefronts. On the one-way street coming from her left, a vintage blue-and-white Rexall neon sign drew her attention to the plate-glass windows and sidewalk beneath it that were lavishly decorated for fall, even though August was the hottest month of the year in Georgia.

  She crossed the tracks and turned left on Main past the two-story Coldwell Banker building and the Fannin County Court House, then turned left again so she could access the drugstore. Surely somebody there would be able to direct her to a good locksmith. She knew from Whittington that pharmacies were nerve central in any small town.

  Sure enough, when she stepped inside onto the vintage beige small-tiled floor, she found three friendly ladies behind the counter. “Hi. Would you happen to have the date?”

  The pretty, vivacious gray-haired clerk granted her a friendly smile. “I sure would. It’s the fifteenth. Of August.”

  Lord. So the clock was right. Elizabeth really had slept away a whole day. “I’m new here,” she said, “and I was wondering if anyone here could recommend a good locksmith.”

  The clerk’s smile widened. “Welcome to Blue Ridge. We’d be happy to help.” After consulting with the other clerk and the lady pharmacist, both of whom welcomed Elizabeth to the area, the gray-haired lady handed her a piece of paper with a name and a phone number. “He’s real good, and completely trustworthy.” Her blue eyes brightened with curiosity. “You on the lake?”

  Elizabeth nodded, suddenly protective of her newfound anonymity “Yes. Thanks so much. Do you have a card for the pharmacy? In case I need a prescription.”

  “Got better than that.” The helpful clerk handed her a map of Fannin County along with the card. “Anything else you need to know, just give us a call.”

  “Thanks so much. I will.” Elizabeth took a step, then turned back to ask, “Is there any particular place the locals like to eat around here? I saw the fast-food places up on five fifteen, but I was wondering if there was somewhere local.”

  “A lot of folks like the Village, up on seventy-six.”

  “A lot go to McDonald’s for the Senior Breakfast Specials,” the other woman added.

  Elizabeth wasn’t looking for the geriatric breakfast club. She just wanted to get a feel for the place. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Back in the car, she dialed the locksmith and got a recording, then left her cell number. That accomplished, she decided to drive around and get her bearings.

  Three hours later, she had found everything there was to find from Blue Ridge to Jasper to Morganton. All in all, she preferred the old Main Street districts to the run-down repair shops and generically modern strip malls on 515.

  Scrutinized by two local couples, she ate sparingly of a late buffet lunch at the Village, then found herself at sixes and sevens, and decided to buy some best sellers from Ingle’s. Once in the store, she splurged on fresh raspberries and nectarines and avocados and gourmet chocolate coffee and macadamia nuts. When she got to the register and was writing her check, the middle-aged clerk asked if she had a local address. Elizabeth nodded. “Sixty-nine, sixty-nine Horse Point.”

  “Oh,” the clerk said in surprise, looking her up and down as if she’d just announced she was from another planet.

  “Is there a problem?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not for me, honey,” the woman said, then bagged her groceries without further comment.

  But as Elizabeth was leaving, she heard a murmur behind her and turned to see the clerk huddled with the girl from the next register, who looked at Elizabeth and said just loudly enough for her to make out, “She sure is old.”

  Uh-oh. Maybe she ought to be more careful about her hair and makeup next time.

  Feeling exposed, she hurried to her car and headed home. Once there, she vowed to sleep late, eat whatever she wanted whenever she wanted, and not speak to a soul—except the locksmith—till she’d read every book she’d bought.

  The locksmith called that night, saying he knew the house, but couldn’t come till after he got back from a fishing trip in ten days.

  Elizabeth agreed, then settled into her retreat, putting a chair under the knob of the back door every night, just to be on the safe side.

  True to Howe’s promise, he transferred and recorded the deed to the house, then had it delivered by FedEx just three days after she’d arrived. She opened it to see that one of Howe’s holding companies had granted her the title. The house was really hers.

  At first, it was fun being there alone. Shutting away what might be going on back home, she lazed in a hot bath every morning, then read and napped and watched Ellen and Oprah and Dr. Phil and caught up on a dozen premium pay-per-view movies she’d wanted to see. She skipped lunch and had a simple supper by five, then took long, slow afternoon boat rides, and people enjoying their cocktails on their docks waved to her and spoke as she putted by.

  Free of masculine supervision, she even got the hang of doc
king the boat without getting nervous.

  Slowly, as the days wore on, she began to let herself think about what she wanted for the rest of her life, and she began to pray, in earnest, for some of that divine direction God had bestowed so amply on Howe. But the only voices she heard were her own, alternately condemning and excusing, or projecting extreme possibilities based on what she considered. So she bought a Bible and started reading through the Gospels to see what Jesus had to say.

  She prayed for direction every time, but though the readings gave her peace, she still didn’t know what to do.

  The good news was, she had plenty of time to decide.

  Then the locksmith came, and everything changed.

  Chapter 20

  The day started so well. Two weeks after she arrived in Blue Ridge, Elizabeth woke to clear blue skies and a definite nip in the air that made her feel livelier than she had since spring, and a cool wind rustled loose the yellow poplar leaves that heralded the coming of fall.

  She rooted a pair of fuzzy socks from the drawer, then wrapped up in her cozy robe and took her coffee out onto the porch, where she watched the choppy water dance in the sunlight. The whole scene was perfect.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  “Just a minute!” The locksmith wasn’t supposed to be there till ten, and it was only nine. Elizabeth raced back inside. “I’ll be right there,” she hollered toward the back door as she flew toward her room to throw on some clothes and drag a comb through her hair.

  He’d just have to take her the way God made her.

  Sliding on her fuzzy socks, she made it to the door and composed herself to open it. “Who is it?”

  “Locksmith. I’m a little early.” Try, an hour. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Elizabeth opened the door to find a plump, flannel-shirted man in jeans and a ball cap. She stepped back. “Hi. Please, come in.” Oh, Lord; death breath. She hadn’t brushed her teeth.

  The locksmith didn’t seem to notice. He picked up his large toolbox and came inside. “I been wonderin’ what this place looked like inside. Real nice.” He set the box on the floor as Elizabeth closed the door on the breeze that came in with him. “My cousin told me it sold. She works in the deeds room in town.” He rubbed his hands together. “Turned off chilly last night. Next thing ya know, all the city folks’ll be up to see the leaves.”

  Apparently, he didn’t need her participation to carry on a conversation. “Let’s see what ya got, here.” He inspected the lock on the door, then went to the sliders. “Quality, all the way.” He glanced at the double-hung windows in the kitchen and back walls. “Okay. Well, hyere’s the thing. I can rekey the locks you got. Or . . .” He lifted a finger and leaned in as if he were letting her in on a secret. “I could replace ’em with some of them fancy new ones you can rekey any time you want, all by yourself. You can even open ’em by cell phone, which comes in pretty darned handy if you forget your key.” He chuckled. “ ’Course, that’s taking bread out of my own pocket, but it’s mighty convenient. I just did some at one of the Eaton places, and they like ’em a lot.”

  The Eatons, she had garnered, were old-line Fannin County gentry.

  “I hadn’t thought about replacing them completely,” Elizabeth said. The newer locks sounded nice, but her experience with things electronic made her skeptical.

  “Well, it’s your call, of course.” He hitched up his waistband under his beer gut. “I’d have to order them new ones, but I’d throw in rekeyin’ the old ones till I could git ’em in for ya.”

  “I think I’d rather have you rekey the old ones, as soon as possible,” she decided on the spot. “I have no idea how many keys the previous owners loaned out, so I’ll sleep better when the locks are changed.”

  “I hear that,” he said, crouching to open his toolbox. He took out a small clear plastic case filled with tiny metal rods in different colors. “Wouldn’t want any of them love birds turnin’ up unexpected.”

  Elizabeth stilled. “Love birds?”

  He peered at the tray of screwdrivers through his readers. “I reckon the real estate agent didn’t tell you, but the locals call this place ‘the Love Nest.’ Some hotshot from Atlanta used to bring his fancy women up here, never the same one twice. Neighbors didn’t like it much, but what can you do?”

  Her house had been Howe’s love nest? This gift she’d thought was so wonderful, so generous . . .

  Oh, Lord, the bed. She’d slept in that bed, lolled around in it! Bathed in the same tub his hookers had soaked in! Eaten from the same dishes.

  The perfume on that robe . . .

  Disgust welled up inside her, leaving her queasy.

  Son of a bitch bastard whore-loving, sorry-assed, lying . . . She couldn’t think of anything bad enough to call him!

  He should have told her. Why hadn’t he told her? A lie of omission was a lie, just the same, so he was lying, just like he used to.

  No way was she ever sleeping in that bed again! Or sitting on the furniture.

  Oblivious, the locksmith started dismantling the back door lock. “Yer neighbors’ll be glad to have a decent, respectable lady like you in the place, I can tell you.”

  Elizabeth wanted to throw something. She wanted to throw everything . . . into the lake! But if she did, she’d be branded a crazy woman. Not the way she wanted to start off in a new town.

  Still, no way was she taking this lying down.

  She’d get rid of every single tainted thing in the place, the lot of it. That’s what she’d do. And have the maid bleach every square inch that was left. Then she’d redecorate the way she wanted and charge it all to Howe, sky’s the limit. Assuming she could decide what she liked after twenty-five years of adapting to Howe’s ancestors’ tastes.

  Maybe something minimal, but not masculine: feminine Zen.

  “I find the furniture in this place doesn’t suit my taste,” she told the locksmith. “What do you think of it? Do you like it?”

  He stopped what he was doing for a brief scan of the room. “It’s mighty fancy,” he said with a smile. “Looks like one of them high-priced condos in them decoratin’ magazines my wife is always readin’.” He pointed his screwdriver toward the flat-screen TV. “Now that TV is nice.”

  “I’ll trade you, then,” she said on impulse. “Everything in the place, lock, stock, and barrel, for rekeying what I have now, then replacing the locks with those fancy new ones. What do you say?”

  He stood, hitching up his jeans again. “You’re joshin’ me now, ain’t you?”

  Elizabeth folded her arms over her chest. “I’m serious as World War Three. What do you say? Take it or leave it. All the same to me.”

  His lower jaw dropped behind pursed lips as he looked over the elegant, masculine furnishings again. “Truth is, the wife’s got the house all done up country, like she likes it, and I need cash more’n I need stuff, even stuff this fancy. But I thank you for givin’ me first shot.”

  “If you don’t want it,” she said, “I’ll just give it all to somebody else.” Her mind churned with possibilities. “What’s your favorite local charity?”

  The locksmith shrugged. “Wal, both ma girls play trombone in the band over to the high school. The boosters’re always tryin’ to raise money fer uniforms and trips and such.”

  Nothing more local than the band boosters. “Perfect. I’ll donate it all to them, and they can have a sale.”

  He waggled his screwdriver at her. “Now, there’s an idea that’d make a lot of folks mighty happy.”

  “Okay, then.” Now that Elizabeth thought about it, she’d rather donate everything to a good cause, anyway. It would definitely up her stock in the community. “If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go call the high school.” She would make it a condition that they come pick up everything immediately.

  “You do that, now.” The locksmith went back to work.

  It took a lot of calls, but by the time the locksmith had finished, Elizabeth had arranged for the grateful band bo
osters to bring their trucks and their teenagers over that afternoon and empty the place. The principal had been delighted, offering to store everything at the gym till they could advertise the sale.

  “How’d it go?” the locksmith asked as she came back from her bedroom.

  “They’re picking it all up this afternoon.”

  He let out a low whistle, handing her his bill, which was half what it would have cost in Whittington. “I hate to be nosy, ma’am, but what’ll you do with an empty house?”

  “Buy an air mattress, then start shopping for furniture,” she said briskly. She wrote his check, then handed it to him. “There you go. Thanks so much.”

  He handed her four keys. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, ma’am.”

  After he left, Elizabeth bleached the bathroom from top to bottom, then called the caretaker and arranged for him and his wife to scour the whole place the next day.

  Then she decided to make a run down to Town Center for the air mattress, linens, some decorating magazines, and a few basic necessities. Then she would sit with the empty house for a while—days if necessary—and decide exactly how to make the place feminine Zen.

  Regardless of the house’s past, it was hers, and she meant to make her mark there.

  And hell would freeze over before Howe Whittington ever set foot in it again.

  After three days of eating out and contemplating Architectural Digest, Better Homes & Gardens, and Southern Living, she still wasn’t sure what she wanted, so she booked a room at the Ritz in Buckhead, then spent a week scouring the furniture stores and the Design Arts Center. But besides two king-sized Dux beds and frames, nothing spoke to her soul.

  Maybe she didn’t have any taste of her own.

  Discouraged, she stocked up on fresh, hooker-free bed linens and beach robes at Macy’s, then bought simple stainless silverware, glassware, and moss-green square dishes before heading back to Blue Ridge. She was almost there when a large freestanding store caught her attention with a huge sign advertising antiques and used furniture. On impulse, she pulled into the gravel parking lot and got out to browse the store’s crowded interior, hoping for inspiration.