by Lauren Clark
It’s crowded and loud, brimming with music and noise. My ears usually ring for hours afterward, but the food is worth it. They have brick-oven pizzas, all kinds, with toppings like Porcini mushroom and Gorgonzola cheese. The restaurant also offers fifty-two exotic beers on tap, a concept Andrew claims to adore. Of course, tonight, like every other evening, he places the same request.
“Red Stripe, please,” he says to the server, who nods and doesn’t move to jot it down on her notepad.
“Merlot?” she asks me, pencil poised. I’m a little less cautious than Andrew, choosing a Shiraz or Cabernet on special occasions. She appears almost crestfallen when I nod, but perks up when Andrew orders Napoli pizza.
“Adventurous,” I comment.
“You’re just back from Italy,” he grins and winks, as if needing to remind me.
I don’t dampen his enthusiasm by reminding him that Rome and Naples are a few hours apart. The cities are nothing alike. The food is half a country apart. The people, ditto. I don’t bother because Andrew doesn’t like to travel outside the United States. He’s phobic about public transportation, airlines, trains, and cruise ships, which rather limits our romantic vacation possibilities.
Our relationship works—and has for years—likely because I’m so exhausted from logging frequent-flier miles that I don’t want to leave the City once I’m here. Andrew loves that I never beg him to take me to the Hamptons, the Adirondacks, or Vermont.
Nope, I’m content in my pajamas and socks, snuggled up with my fleece blanket next to Andrew, watching movies all weekend. Of course, I’m usually asleep halfway through the first film. Jet lag always gets me.
Andrew says he doesn’t mind—likely because I have no earthly idea what we’re watching; probably back-to-back reruns of The Apprentice while I doze off. Andrew has a real thing for Donald Trump. I told him, if he ever gets a wild idea about adopting a comb-over, he can forget it.
“Tired from the trip?” Andrew asks as the server plops down our drinks. “You seem distracted.”
“A little,” I agree and take a long sip of wine, trying not to gulp. “Sorry.”
“Well, we need to plan our anniversary dinner,” Andrew reminds me, offering a shy smile.
An immediate pang of anxiety hits me when I hear the word ‘anniversary.’
Andrew reaches a hand to rub my back. He looks so hopeful, so sweet. “So, are you here for longer than a day? Aren’t you staying for a week this time?”
“Afraid not. New boss. Big change in plans,” I shake my head.
“Oh,” he replies. Andrew is used to me cancelling plans.
I avoid his gaze, not wanting to hurt him, but unable to be completely honest. I’m not happy about the trip, but I’m almost relieved to avoid the momentous anniversary celebration.
Andrew knows I’m not a romantic. Hallmark cards and flowers give me hives. And I haven’t really shared this with him: The idea of forever really freaks me out.
I twirl my wine glass by its stem and change the subject. “I’m off to Alabama.”
There’s a rush of noise and a gust of chilled air blows through the restaurant. A crowd of people breeze inside, stomping snow off boots, calling out to friends. Much to my dismay, they settle at the empty table right next to us, the loudest drunk to my immediate right.
Andrew sets down his Red Stripe and stares at me. “What did you say? Atlanta?”
“Al-a-ba-ma,” I sound out the word, enunciating each syllable so that he can hear me over the shouting.
“Alabama?” Andrew is baffled and rightly so. He expects me to announce a place like Amsterdam, Alaska, or Albania. An exotic, exquisite, or unusual locale. Not small-town U.S.A. “Is he crazy?”
“Yeah. Screw him!” I say. All around me, heads turn.
The drunk behind us perks up. “Yeah, that’s right. Go for it! But, um, get a room,” the guy warbles, his words slurred. Swaying a bit, he turns his chair to leer at me.
I flush a deep shade of fuchsia-pink. Andrew shoots the guy a withering look. The man grins and winks. Then, like a good drunk, he goes right back to his friends.
“Thanks. It’s a long story,” I murmur. Suddenly, I am exhausted. I don’t want to talk about work, my new boss, or my assignment. I don’t want to talk about my possible unemployment. Most of all, I don’t want to talk about the future. Our future. My future. Or anyone else’s future.
I would like—very much—to go home.
Ever the gentleman, Andrew complies, hailing me a cab, prepaying the driver, and rattling off my street address. The snow’s tapered off now, the night sky is clear, and stars wink at me overhead. I smile, thinking about Chanel Lipstick and Cashmere Wrap’s predictions. Not even close to the dire storm the ladies expected.
That’s weather in New York. Unpredictable, at best. As is my life.
Andrew presses a kiss on my forehead. “Get some rest, Julia. Call me,” he says. After I scoot inside the cab, he closes the door behind me, and waves as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
I watch him from the rear window. His hair is still perfect. He’s so kind and thoughtful. He’s a saint. And there’s no way I can marry him.
The deep pit of guilt is still there when I climb the steps to my apartment building, unlock my door, and close it behind me. I peel off my coat, then the first layer of clothing, kick off my boots, and strip off my stockings.
With a sigh, I collapse on my small sofa and curl up with a fleece blanket. And I think about my mother. I miss her so much. She’d know what to do. My mother was the logical one in the family. The planner. The cautious, measured, safety-first parent, even at the very end, right before she died. My mother—stuck full of needles and tubes, injected with medicine—was calm, rational, and uncomplaining.
I’m nothing like her. Polar opposite. The negative to her positive.
My fingers trace the edge of the soft fabric. This was her blanket. One of a few keepsakes I managed to collect before my father had her apartment cleaned out. It had been all of twenty-four hours after the funeral and I unlocked her apartment door to find each room empty. There was a uniformed mover inside—someone David hired—packing the remaining items into a solitary box.
“What are you doing?” I demanded. “Where are my mother’s things? Who are you?”
The poor guy explained that he was asked to remove everything from the apartment and dispose of it.
“Dispose of it,” I remember shrieking, “like trash?”
The man backed away, holding up both palms as if we were launching into a Jackie Chan martial arts battle. Without another word, I heaved the box onto my hip and left the building. After a stop at my apartment to drop off my mother’s belongings and pick up one very important item, I went straight to my father’s office at Forbes.
I stormed inside the building, ignoring the receptionist, and leapt around scuttling secretaries. My father was at his desk. He looked up, brow furrowed, when I entered the room.
“Julia,” he said, getting out of his chair.
“How could you?” I asked, keeping my tone low and soft. I was not going to lose control. I would act like an adult.
“What are you talking about?” my father asked, sitting back in his chair with a frown. But he knew. I could see it in his eyes. He knew.
“You’re throwing out everything. You hired someone to dispose of my mother’s things. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t ask me. How dare you try to erase her memory?” The steadiness in my voice wavered. I waited for an answer. A flicker of emotion. Anything.
My father shifted in his seat. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. His cufflinks caught the light. The flash of silver irritated me. Then, I realized why. He was wearing a gift from my mother; cufflinks for his fiftieth birthday.
“Give those to me,” I said and held out one hand.
“Pardon me?” my father appeared taken aback.
“The cufflinks. My mother gave them to you.” I began to tremble. My palm felt damp. I made myself sta
nd straight. Unwavering.
My father stared back at me. He didn’t move. He didn’t remove the cufflinks.
I expected as much.
With a swift movement, I yanked the book from under my arm and slammed it down on his desk. The pages flew open. For a moment, I caught myself. Was I really doing this? The album was a collection of postcards—places we’d visited during my childhood, my teenage years, and in college. It was my mother’s idea. She loved postcards—wacky ones, beautiful ones, every sort of postcard she could find. It was a way to remember all of my travels. That’s what she told me when she bought me the first one. My mother sent them when she was on trips. When I was older, I mailed them to her. It was a way we had connected.
My heart thumped as I peeled back the first page. I glimpsed my mother’s writing on the back. After a moment’s hesitation, clutching the thick rectangle between my fingers, I tossed it at my father’s head.
The first one was the most difficult. After that, it became easier. I launched another, and another. Pictures of Myrtle Beach, The Poconos, and Napa Valley flew past David’s head. I followed up with New Mexico, Dallas, and the Florida Keys. The floor around my father became a sea of color. The air filled with picturesque scenes—beaches, mountains, lakes.
The Grand Canyon bounced off his nose. Las Vegas landed on his shoulder. The Seattle Space Needle slid past his elbow. In a final rush, I sent postcards of St. Simon’s Island, Cancun, and Knoxville, Tennessee into my father’s lap.
For my grand finale, I held up the remaining pages and dumped them into the trashcan. David didn’t even blink.
“Good-bye.” I let the door to his office slam behind me.
He never answered.
I close my eyes against the memory, tucking my body into a smaller ball on the sofa. As my knees press against my chest, I sigh. I wrap both arms around my legs, hugging them closer.
For the thousandth time since my mother’s death, I wish I’d kept the album. I wish I’d kept even a few of the postcards. A tear escapes from the corner of my eye. It runs down my cheek and splashes onto my arm.
Most of all, more than anything, I wish I had my mother back.
Chapter 3
The Best Butts in Alabama, the huge billboard above my head brags. A robust pink pig, dressed in blue overalls and a cowboy hat, winks down at me. Next to the hog’s turned-up nose, royal blue letters read ‘Phil’s Bar-B-Q.’
Phil certainly knows how to make a first impression. As does Mother Nature.
The sunshine beats down on my shoulder through the window. Is it always this muggy in December? I swipe at my forehead with the back of my hand and do quick surveillance.
Where is the historic, elegant city I was promised in the letter? There is a normal-looking church across the street, a run-of-the-mill real estate business to my right, and a tiny hole-in-the-wall place called The Donut King, which seems to be doing ten times more business than the Winn-Dixie grocery store I just passed.
So far, all I see of Eufaula, Alabama is more in-your-face commercial than traveler chic. Of course, I’m not in the best frame of mind to become one with my surroundings.
After a lousy Thursday morning of sulking and a rushed packing job, I sent an RSVP with regrets for the fundraiser, gave away my tickets to the Met, left a voice mail for Andrew, and changed my ticket to an earlier departure.
Hours later, after fighting through JFK security and surviving the cramped flight to Atlanta, I spent the night in Buckhead, Georgia. This morning I picked up my enormous rented SUV—it was either that or a red minivan—and began driving the three-and-a-half hours to reach my pinhole-on-a-map destination.
All to save my job.
Along the way, Marietta and I burn up cell phone minutes playing our version of Trivial Pursuit: “Famous Stuff about Alabama.” The short edition.
Celebrities? Lionel Richie and Condoleezza Rice. Songs? “Oh, Suzanna!” and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” Books? To Kill a Mockingbird and Crazy in Alabama, which Marietta insists is about a woman who carries around her husband’s head in a hatbox. I definitely have to put that on my to-read list.
Famous movies? Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and my personal favorite, Sweet Home Alabama with Reese Witherspoon. Remember the opening scene with the gorgeous white mansion? It was—drum roll, please—filmed in Eufaula, Alabama. Marietta checks Google to confirm it.
Food? Never mind. Phil the pig has that covered.
Marietta’s saying something about SEC football and a cult-like following of college teams when I turn into the paved parking lot of a Citgo gas station.
“You mean like the KKK?” I park and glance behind the SUV for any white-hooded marauders. “Or a David Koresh kind of spooky, everyone-kills-themselves-cult?” I pause and cut the engine. “Wait a minute, the Branch Davidians were in Waco, Texas.”
My best friend chortles. “Yes, Jules. I don’t mean an actual ‘cult.’ I mean everyone loves it—like when the Yankees are on a serious winning streak. It’s what everyone talks about, just warning you. The state of Alabama doesn’t have any pro teams, so the college teams kind of make up for it.”
“Ah, thanks for the heads up.” My best friend is my unofficial source for all things Southern. Before settling in at Getaways, my good friend spent the better part of two years in Jackson, Mississippi after her husband’s job transfer. According to Marietta, who grew up in Jersey, she loved the area, but when a position opened up in Manhattan, they moved back.
We say good-bye, I park and step out of the car, stretching my legs. As I slide my card into the gas pump reader, the rev of a tractor-trailer engine makes me jump.
The Expedition drinks up the fuel like a camel left in the desert for a year with no water.
Finally, clunk. The gas pump clicks off. The monitor displays seventy-one dollars and ninety cents. I stare at the numbers in shock, double-checking the gallon total. No wonder I drive a Prius.
I fight with the nozzle to get it back in place and accidentally give the handle another quick squeeze.
Splash!
Ugh. Double ugh. Gas on me, the ground, the Expedition. The slight breeze and sun dry my arm in seconds. I now reek of rotten eggs, and I’m hoping the Citgo has a semi-clean restroom. Bells jingle above my head as I push open the glass door. A blast of air conditioning hits me full-force.
“Hey! How are ya, sugar?” A gum-snapping woman of about fifty waves at me wildly from behind the counter. “Hot one already. WTVY says it’s gonna be dang-near 80 today. Can you believe that? Sakes alive, it’s December.”
I stop in my tracks. There are only three of us in the convenience store, and she certainly isn’t talking to the half-asleep, scruffy, red-haired, hasn’t-bathed-in-two-weeks looking man in the corner. The clerk follows my eyes.
“Don’t pay Stump no mind. He’s harmless. Just drunk.” Her hot pink fingertips waggle in the air. She tilts her head to the side and looks me up and down. “You ain’t from around here, are you sugar? Bless your heart. Passin’ through?” She waits expectantly for an answer.
“Visiting for a few days,” I swallow and remember to be polite, “for the Christmas Tour.” Does everyone here talk nonstop? Where is the restroom?
The woman snaps her gum and clasps her chubby fingers under her double chin. “You’ll love it. You have to see Fendall Hall and Shorter Mansion, of course. Where are you staying? Are you by yourself? Where did you say you’re from?”
This seems eerily similar to a police interrogation. Even Stump is taking an interest now. So much for flying under the radar.
“Um, New York. I’m supposed to find… a Mr. … Jordan.” I strain to remember the name on the business card.
“Oh. New York,” she drags out the words, impressed, “and you must mean Shug Jordan.”
“Yes, Mr. Jordan,” I say, feeling obligated to confirm that. What in the heck kind of name is Shug? I thought it was a misspelling. His name had to be Stephen. Or Shawn.
I do
n’t have to wait long for an answer. “His mama and daddy are big Auburn fans. War Eagle!” The woman shakes her fist in the air and whoops. At the slightly surprised look on my face, she lowers her voice an octave. “You know, Auburn University? Coach Shug Jordan?” She says the name as if he is the Pope or British royalty. “Even named that sister of his after Coach Pat Dye. Bless her heart.” The clerk flutters her glued-on eyelashes to the ceiling.
Auburn University. Coach Dye. Marietta wasn’t kidding about football being a religious experience in the South. “I’m sure I’ll hear all about it.” I smile widely, and that seems to satisfy the clerk. “If you’ll excuse me, where can I find the ladies’ room?”
“Straight back, sugar. Watch your step.”
I step into a broom-closet sized bathroom, close the door behind me, and lock it. Who knows who might follow me in here? I heave a sigh and turn on the water to soap up my arm where the gas permeated my skin. I scrub until my arm turns red, then splash my face. Much better.
“Sugar?”
I’m barely out of the restroom. I pick my way around some cardboard boxes stacked in the aisle, grab a Diet Dr. Pepper, and make my way to the counter.
“You don’t want that,” she says flatly. Her lip curls up.
“Um, pardon me?” I actually do want it. Very much.
“The Diet Dr. Pepper,” she replies and moves the bottle toward the register. “Here! This is what you need. On the house.” She reaches under the counter, plops a bight blue can down and slides it toward me, along with two small, wrapped cakes. Apparently, I’m taking them whether I want to or not.
The packages crinkle when I pick them up. I’m guessing fifty grams of Trans fat. Each.
“Moon Pie,” I read aloud. “The only one on the planet. And RC Cola.” I drag the ice-cold can toward me. “Thank you. I do need the Diet Dr. Pepper, too, though.”
The clerk nods, slightly offended, as if I’m asking to buy beer on Sunday morning. “You’ll have to pay for that.” Her fingers fly across the register. “One-oh-nine, sugar.”