Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  I fish a dollar and nine cents out of my purse. Fine by me. “Thank you,” I repeat.

  She bags up the drinks and Moon Pies. “Anytime. Come back and see us.” The woman snaps her gum one more time and smiles at me.

  Stump waves.

  Both of them watch me closely as I slide back inside the Expedition and crank the engine. I fight a sudden urge to punch the accelerator, do a screaming u-turn on two wheels in the middle of the highway, and head straight back to Atlanta.

  But, of course, then I wouldn’t have the story. Or a job. And I can’t bear the humiliation.

  I don’t crack open the Diet Dr. Pepper until I’m well out of sight.

  Chapter 4

  I do some quick calculations in my head. If I’m able to finish the first interview this afternoon, get a quick tour of the town, and then take some photos, I can wrap up another interview or two in the morning. On that schedule, I can easily make my 6:01 departure out of Atlanta tomorrow night.

  That means I can stop by book club Monday, make an appearance at the fundraiser, and enjoy the gallery opening. Reschedule my date with Andrew. Go to Filene’s and hope they have something left. Best of all, I’ll have plenty of time to write the article before David’s deadline.

  My father will get the surprise of his entire rotten existence when I turn it in early. Perfect.

  The tiniest nudge of hope edges its way inside of me. I can do this. My job will be intact. I can go back to living life as usual, and David might just give up on this crazy ‘Back Roads’ idea. Or, he could get abducted by Martians. Whichever comes first is fine with me.

  The thought makes me grin as I bump over railroad tracks, pass a stately Presbyterian church, chug up a small hill, and ease into downtown. No aliens in sight.

  At the stoplight, I glance at the return address of the letter perched on my dashboard. 201 North Eufaula Street. Straight ahead.

  Yes. Now this is more like it. Bluff City Inn to my left, bustling coffee shop to my right. Stately brick buildings, wide sidewalks, graceful trees. Everything’s decorated in red and green for the holidays. Even the air smells sweet as I roll down the window.

  I inhale deeply, slow the Expedition to a crawl, and search for building numbers. Whew! Finally, there it is. The Historic Chattahoochee Commission. The loose stone driveway crunches under the massive wheels as I pull into a makeshift space and park. The Expedition groans a sigh of relief when I shut down the engine.

  Purse and notebook in hand, I check my face in the mirror, do a quick finger-comb of my hair. My red-gold highlights catch and hold the sunshine. I smile back at my reflection.

  Ready or not.

  I ease open the door and jump down what seems like five feet to the ground.

  Slam-crack!

  On instinct, I duck behind the door. What the—! Was that the windshield? I inch up to get a better look.

  Slam-crunch!

  A chunk of gravel hits the side window. Another rock zings by my head. Sheesh! So much for Southern hospitality. If this is how the locals roll out the red carpet, I’ll find somewhere else—

  Slam-crack!

  The glass now bears a spidery star-design. The rental people will be thrilled. Did I remember to get the extra insurance?

  I brace for another onslaught.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Then, I hear a high-pitched squeal.

  “Noooo,” a child’s voice wails. “I don’t want to go into the house! I want to stay here! You can’t make me!”

  Ever so slowly, I creep out from behind the door and inch my way to the back bumper of the Expedition.

  A wisp of a girl, feet flying, is wrestling valiantly with a dark-haired man three times her size. After a few seconds, the man squats down with the girl, gently holds her wrists and forces one hand open, then the other. Defeated, the girl lets the stones fall like hail in a thunderstorm.

  I step from behind the vehicle. A much too-thin, agitated woman rushes out the back door. It bangs hard behind her.

  “Ella Rae Sweet, you come here this instant.” Her face a mix of frustration and frown lines, the woman storms for the steps leading down to the parking lot.

  For a moment, the woman becomes my mother, and me, the child. The lines soften into a round blonde woman in an apron and skirt. I’m six years old again, my usual headstrong-self running away from trouble. I’ve likely broken a vase or knocked over a table.

  The wood on the stairs creaks, an eerie loud crunch. We all look up in time to see the second rung crumble into several pieces beneath the woman. As she falls forward, her mouth opens in a silent shriek of dismay, too late to make a sound.

  Like a tight end in a pro-football game, the dark-haired man springs into action. In one fluid motion, he shoots to the bottom of the steps, crouches down, and catches the woman in both arms. Touchdown!

  Wow. I blink at the impressive display of athleticism.

  “Nice Superman catch,” I call out and wave at a safe distance as the bodies untangle.

  Three pairs of eyes flicker my way. Confused? Curious?

  Okay, maybe the superhero comment was a little over the top. Maybe superheroes are frowned on in the Deep South. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

  I force a smile and start to ask if I’m at the right place. “I’m looking for …” My mind goes blank. Great. What’s his name again?

  The man stands, brushes off his pants, and walks toward me. He pushes back a shock of black hair with his fingertips. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he sticks out a hand for me to shake. “Shug Jordan,” he says simply, with a hint of a southern drawl. “So glad you made it.”

  “Oh, it’s you,” I exclaim, then wish I could swallow the words. My hand flutters as it reaches for his. “Julia Sullivan,” I say hurriedly, give a firm handshake, and collect my professional persona. “Getaways magazine. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

  Shug turns to survey the Expedition. “Sorry about the windshield. We’ll take care of it. This is my niece,” he pulls on the sleeve of the rock-throwing sprite, and then grins, “and, Julia Sullivan, meet Patricia Dye, better known around these parts as PD. She’s Ella Rae’s mother.”

  Before I can open my mouth, PD interrupts. “Ella Rae, apologize for the window, young lady.” She flashes her daughter a stern look.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Ella Rae faces me and replies dutifully. Her eyes, a startling cornflower blue, peek out at me under a veil of blonde curls. She scuffs the gravel with her toe. An impish smile plays on her lips, hidden from her mother.

  “Don’t worry about the truck. It’s a rental. I have insurance.” I try to lighten the mood and smile at PD. “I was just thinking how much I was like your daughter when I was young. My mother always said I was full of energy and into everything—”

  “You must have been a load of trouble, then,” PD says, hardly moving her tight lips. Her eyes shift from me to her daughter.

  I swallow at the barb and maintain a pleasant air. “Yes, I—”

  “Trouble, trouble, trouble,” Ella Rae parrots, much to the dismay of her mother, who now radiates even more annoyance. I think PD may reach nuclear reactor status.

  “Oh, I rarely get in trouble these days,” I joke, to lighten the conversation, and wink. It’s a little white lie, but Shug appears pleasantly amused by the whole situation.

  My comment makes Ella Rae giggle.

  At that, PD turns, chin held high, and stalks off. Her heels sink into the bumpy driveway, making her gait awkward and uneven. Obviously, no points scored there.

  Shug hides a chuckle. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

  “Ella Rae Sweet?” PD calls, pausing at the stairs.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Come get your things. It’s time to leave.” PD’s slender hand grips the railing. “And, by the way, Shug,” she pauses for emphasis, maybe for my benefit, “I’d appreciate it if you’d try and set a good example for your niece.”

  Ella Rae scampers afte
r PD like a naughty puppy to her master. The door bangs shut behind her so hard that the windows rattle.

  I blink after mother and daughter, not entirely sure what just happened.

  “That’s my sister for you. I’m thirty-five years old, and everything I do still aggravates her.” We exchange a smile.

  “Um, I’m not related, and I feel like I’m annoying her,” I reply, keeping my voice hushed.

  Shug grins. “PD has her hands full, trying to start her own business. It’s extra tough, because PD’s a single mother.” Shug continues apologetically. “Ella Rae’s a wonderful girl, bright, loving…but she can be a challenge, especially since her daddy took off.”

  The mere thought stabs me in the chest. The way it did when my own father left.

  “I’m an only child,” I offer up, and then stop myself. Opening up about family leads to questions about my mother, my father, then my general lack of a life—no husband, no baby, not even a dog. I just can’t go there.

  “Lucky you,” Shug answers with an easy grin and steps toward the Expedition to get a better look at the damage.

  I start after him and admire the easy way he carries himself. Unruffled by his niece’s misbehavior, relaxed about his neurotic sister’s comments, not bothered in the least that a complete stranger will be following him around for the next few days.

  My mind flashes to Michael J. Fox in Doc Hollywood. The character ends up trapped in South Carolina for weeks because a couple of backwoods mechanics can’t get his Porsche fixed—or won’t.

  Gosh darn, now who’s being neurotic? I tell myself to say something funny and lighten the mood.

  Shug turns away from the windshield and runs a hand through his dark hair. “We’ll get this fixed up in no time,” he snaps his fingers. “Promise. Just like magic.”

  I’m immediately relieved. Okay, no superstition here. And, unlike his sister, he has a sense of humor.

  “Just like magic,” I repeat, teasing him. “Any other superhero powers I need to know about?” I strike a mock pose. “Able to fix flat tires? Leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

  Shug stops and eyeballs me. “Nope. I wish.” His face breaks into a smile. “How about you? Any tricks up your sleeve?”

  “Oh, some mind-reading,” I deadpan. “Sometimes, I’m psychic.”

  “That sure would come in handy,” Shug says. “I thought…”

  A long, loud horn and the screech of tires cut off his train of thought. Shug peers at someone behind me and makes a comment, momentarily distracted. The thunder of a truck engine drowns out his words.

  The noise covers the obnoxious rumble of my belly. I ignore it and press a hand to my stomach as some teenagers pass by, hanging out the window of a souped-up Yukon, followed by more girls in an SUV with ‘Panama City Beach or Bust’ painted on the window.

  “College kids. They’ll freeze at the beach,” Shug says dismissively. He ignores their waving and smiles down at me. “Hungry?”

  Darn it all. He did hear.

  “How’d you know?” I ask, feigning shock as we begin to walk.

  Shug flashes a mischievous look. “Read your mind.”

  Chapter 5

  “Are you always in such a hurry?” Shug asks, his voice slow and steady compared to my frantic pace. My usual velocity is hyper-drive. Get there as fast as I can, I don’t care if I break my neck, or the speed limit.

  “Oh, sorry,” I slow my brisk stride into a leisurely walk, “hazard of living in the City. Everyone’s in a rush, twenty-four seven. Always someplace to go, somewhere to be. When I was younger, I used to wish I didn’t have to go to sleep—you know, so I didn’t miss anything.”

  Shug gives me a strange, amused look. If he thinks I’m crazy, at least he is polite enough not to say so.

  “Where are we going anyway?” A towering statue of a Civil War soldier stares off into the distance as we cross the intersection.

  “Honeysuckle Diner,” Shug answers, “just down the street a piece.”

  A piece. How cute.

  Shug describes the thick French toast and warm, buttery cane syrup. Fluffy eggs. Sausage and grits. Suddenly, I’m famished. Seconds later, we arrive at the door.

  “Yoo-hoo,” a simpering voice calls out from across the street. A car door slams.

  No. We can’t stop. The smell of fresh-baked biscuits makes me weak. I try to tell Shug telepathically that I’ll die if we don’t go inside now. I look longingly at the Honeysuckle Diner. Shug is completely distracted.

  And then I see why.

  Thigh-high boots on a pair of long legs, a short red skirt over tights, and a sequin-trimmed sweater. Topped off by a thick, shiny mane of white-blonde hair and a mega-watt smile.

  The girl blows a kiss and waves, as if we might somehow miss her or the white Mercedes convertible she just poured herself out of. Gosh, people are friendly down here. And gorgeous.

  I glance down at my standard New York garb—black head to toe. What else did I pack? Oh, right. Almost everything I own, down to my panties, is black.

  So what? I argue with myself. Why compare myself to a random girl on the street? Someone I’ll never see again.

  “Um, that’s my girlfriend,” Shug leans closer to explain. “Mary Katherine.” He gestures for her to come across the street.

  Of course. So, she’s not a random girl. Lovely. I’ll bet we’ll be seeing her every day.

  But Mary Katherine shakes her head coyly, points a finger to her cell phone, and steps onto the opposite sidewalk. By the time I decide to wave back, she disappears around the corner.

  Shug doesn’t seem bothered in the least. He holds open the door to the diner.

  Sweet salvation.

  My knees weaken at the sight of steaming breakfast plates on every table. Raucous laughter, animated conversation, and the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen make it almost impossible to hear. Shug motions for me to follow him, but stops every few feet. He shakes hands, exchanges back slaps, and chuckles as we move through the crowd.

  Curious stares follow us. Polite, inquisitive looks. A wrinkled forehead, pursed lips, a raised eyebrow. If I make eye contact, which I’m trying not to do, the person smiles brightly and chirps a greeting.

  Great. I can imagine what they are dreaming up. Star magazine-type rumors, followed by a heinous paparazzi photo. I see it all too clearly. The headline will read: Who’s that girl? Is Shug Jordan cheating on Mary-what’s her name?

  Oh well. There’s always food. At least I’ll die embarrassed and happy.

  I center my attention on the tiny empty table in the back corner. Mentally, I push Shug toward it. When I start walking, I almost kick him in the ankle. Closer, closer, there you go. A few more feet.

  Without warning, another roadblock appears: A short, round, heavily made-up woman stops Shug to hug him and kiss the air next to his cheek. And then someone, who must be her daughter, goes and does the same thing. No one’s in a hurry. Except me.

  Five long minutes and three stops later, we make it to the table and sit down. I pick up the narrow menu, hold it in front of my face, and scan the list. Grits, biscuits, red-eye gravy—

  “It must be overwhelming,” I hear Shug say.

  I edge the menu to one side and peek out. He gives me one of those open and honest looks, with piercing eyes. Like an actor on daytime television about to reveal who killed so-and-so’s sister’s cousin’s mother.

  “What must be?” I tilt my head in his direction, thinking Shug must mean the menu. It certainly wasn’t what I’d call gourmet, but even ostrich eggs and endive smeared with peanut butter would do at the moment. Can’t he tell I’m about to gnaw apart the table?

  “All of this.” Shug makes a sweeping gesture at the rest of the room. “I’m used to it. I was just thinking, to an outsider, well …” Shug seems to lose his train of thought. He glances down at his own menu, suddenly self-conscious.

  Very observant. Pasting on a big smile, I grasp for a witty and off-hand remark, which com
es out a jumbled mess. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s different from New York, but I’m not uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. I feel right at home.”

  Shug gives me a thoughtful nod and picks up his menu.

  It’s not the truth. Me being right at home in small-town Alabama is the equivalent of Kim Kardashian never shopping again.

  In New York, it’s all about anonymity. No one cares who you are, unless your last name is Trump. No one says hello or waves, unless it’s to grab a taxi.

  A waitress hovers nearby. I hurry to take a look at the menu, and then realize she’s not just wiping down the table next to us. She’s staring. Shug hasn’t even noticed.

  Another server appears, and two hands plop down glasses of light brown liquid. “Good morning, y’all! Cute hair, sweetie,” the girl, who appears to be all of nineteen, is calling me sweetie. She inspects my roots and chews on the eraser of her pencil. “Did I hear you say New York?” Her voice raises several octaves. “I’ve always wanted to visit New York. Rocker-feller Center at Christmas time. The big tree. All of the lights.”

  I try not to visibly wince at the mispronunciation, but keep my lips buttoned. The minute I correct someone, I’m certain to butcher some Southern phrase in front of a dozen people.

  Shug speaks up. “Julia’s here to do a preview on the Pilgrimage for Getaways Magazine.”

  The girl’s eyes widen like I’m a movie star. Her voice rises a few octaves. “A real magazine reporter?” Several heads swivel near our table. “Can you interview me? Can I be in the article?”

  I attempt a serious look at Shug, who stifles a laugh, entertained by the entire situation.

  “Um, I’ll do my best to include everyone.”

  That seems to placate her. The waitress prattles on, waving her notepad. “If you feature the Honeysuckle Inn with a picture,” she taps her lip, “Brad Pitt could see it and come in here. People from London, and Europe. Zillionaires.” She practically jumps up and down.

  I shrink down in my seat and reach for the closest glass. Suddenly parched, I take an enormous swallow.

  YUCK! It’s so syrupy-sweet I gag. My eyes water. The liquid swills around in my mouth and I long to spit it on the ground. Don’t think about it, I instruct myself. Just do it. I force the tea down my throat in one big gulp.