Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  Thinking he needs space, I offer it. “If you want, I can go ahead and take a look around the city myself. I’ll meet you later.”

  “No, no. It’s fine,” Shug says. “I need to get in touch with my father and can’t—no surprise. My mother should be at Shorter Mansion this morning—we’re headed there anyway.”

  He doesn’t move toward the door, like I expect. He walks over to the architectural boards in the corner, runs a finger along the top of one of them.

  I jiggle my leg, anxious to walk off my nervous energy. “Is there something wrong with the project?”

  Shug doesn’t answer, so I think I’ve made him angry, too. “Sorry,” I explain. “It’s just my nature to ask a million questions. I overheard you say something about Phase Three.” I stop myself from babbling and watch his broad shoulders tense when I say the last few words.

  He pivots on his heel, almost in slow motion. As Shug turns, I watch as his demeanor morphs from soldier-like frustration to that of a person filled with determination and resolve.

  “I didn’t know there was a Phase Three,” I say.

  Shug considers this, and answers with three words I don’t expect.

  “Neither did I.”

  Chapter 13

  Shug is out the door before I can ask for details. Based on his demeanor and the fact that he’s already made it twenty strides down the sidewalk without bothering to shut or lock the door behind him, the news isn’t positive.

  I pull on the brass knob, hear the lock click behind me, and hurry after Shug. He’s turned on East Barbour Street. I debate kicking off both heels and sprinting after him, but decide that at least a dozen unwritten Southern rules of decorum would frown on that transgression.

  He screeches to a stop in front of the mayor’s office, taking the steps two at a time. I hang back and catch my breath, clapping a hand to my chest. A hunched man with a stubby cigar in his mouth eyeballs me. He’s waiting, too, but not panting like a greyhound that’s just finished the race of his short life. I realize that it’s Stump from the Citgo.

  “Runnin’ after Mr. Shug Jordan, eh?” Stump plucks the cigar from between his teeth and rolls it between two fingers. He’s leaning on a crude walking stick or cane, hand-carved.

  My lips part to offer a smart retort, but I clamp them back together. “No.” I shake my head. “No, sir,” I add, as it seems the custom for everyone to address everyone else as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ even within their own households and families.

  He cackles, revealing a sparse set of yellowed teeth. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. “You’re not the first,” he offers and smiles in a knowing way. “Plenty of ‘em chase him. Just none of ‘em can catch him.”

  I cringe, but keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face. There’s the rumble of an engine in the distance, and Stump looks away. I take the opportunity to steal a glance up at the dark wooden doorway. Under my breath, I begin praying that Shug will burst out to interrupt the semi-interrogation. In the meantime, I wrack my brain for something intelligent to say to the man who’s slightly creepy and seems more than interested in my personal life.

  When I turn back to look at Stump, he’s gone. The sound of heavy footsteps causes me to whirl around. It’s Shug, clearly in no better shape than when he set off on his mission.

  “City council, planning commission, special emergency meeting,” he mutters as we continue east toward the Chattahoochee River.

  “And we’re going to the meeting?” I ask, huffing to keep up with Shug. “Is it open to the public?”

  “It should be,” he answers tersely. “We’ll find out soon.”

  I want to ask how many blocks we’re going and why it wouldn’t make more sense to drive, but I think better of it. Perhaps his body’s forward motion helps him think more clearly.

  “The Heritage Association should know about this,” he says. “I should’ve known about this.”

  “How is the Heritage Association different from the Chattahoochee Commission?” I ask.

  Shug gives me a quick synopsis. “Historic Chattahoochee Commission promotes tourism and historic preservation for an eighteen county region in Alabama and Georgia called the Chattahoochee Trace.”

  I nod.

  “The Eufaula Heritage Association has a much more narrow focus,” he continues. “It was created in 1965 when the local newspaper announced an auction of the Shorter Mansion and its contents. The mayor at the time, Hamp Graves, appointed an eight-member committee to look into purchasing the Mansion as a city civic center. Pledges from the community poured in and the committee bought the property for thirty-three thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty-three thousand dollars,” I echo with shock.

  He nods. “Exactly. The Heritage Association was formed and Eufaula Pilgrimage began that year as a fundraiser for historic preservation. It’s been held every year since. The Christmas tour was added in 2006.”

  Shug stops walking, and I pivot to survey the building in front of us. We’re standing before the Eufaula municipal courthouse and city police department, a low-lying red-brick building with a green metal roof.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask, but Shug only sets his jaw and heads for the entrance. After a few twists and turns, he grasps the handles of a meeting room and throws open the double doors. Angry voices rise from inside the room. When I catch up and position myself away from the direct action, I’m able to hear the entire exchange.

  “This is a closed meeting,” a stern voice announces from inside the room.

  “I can see that,” Shug replies. “And I’m wondering why the sudden break from tradition? Budget crisis? An emergency? Something the Historic Preservation Board should know about?”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

  “You’ll be notified when the time comes,” another man chimes in. “Now, if you’ll kindly leave and close the doors.”

  “Notified of what?” Shug controls his tone, though there’s an undercurrent of irritation. “I look around this room and see City Council Members. I see Planning Board Members. And I know it’s not anyone’s usual meeting day.”

  More silence.

  “This indicates to me that something important is being considered. Something is being put to a vote. And it’s a project y’all don’t want me knowing about.”

  A flurry of accusations and denials are exchanged. I peek my head around the corner. There’s a row of red-faced men all shouting at the same time. Shug’s in the middle of the room, standing still, observing the chaos.

  Finally, Shug’s voice rises above the rest. “Stop! Everyone, stop! What’s the meaning of this?” he asks.

  “You don’t have any right to be here,” someone interjects.

  “Maybe not, but someone has to speak for the protection of our historic landmarks,” Shug lowers his tone. “If that’s what this is all about.”

  I hear the shuffling of papers and whispered conversation.

  Shug continues. “If you don’t want to tell the Preservation Board members—who have a right to be here—I’ll see to it that they’re notified, just as soon as I find out what is going on.”

  One of the men clears his throat and calls for a vote to table the discussion. After the motion carries and a gavel bangs, there’s the distinct scrape of chair legs on carpeting. After a group of men filters out of the conference room, I leave my post to find Shug.

  When he hears me enter the room, Shug looks up.

  “They’re going to ruin everything.”

  Chapter 14

  “Can you be more specific?” I ask and sink into a nearby seat.

  He blows out a huge breath of air and stares at the stack of white sheets. With his index finger, he thumps the pile of paper.

  I cock my head to read it better. Phase III: Lakeside Condominiums. Shug pushes the packet closer, then flips to the second page for me to read. Eagle Investment Properties, LLC, Auburn, Alabama. I raise an eyebrow. The company name isn’t familiar—why would it be?

>   When I wrinkle my nose, not understanding, Shug grabs the proposal with both hands. He stares at it, not moving.

  “So, this is bad,” I say, immediately berating myself for stating the obvious. Shug doesn’t correct me.

  “Remember what we were talking about on the way over here?” he asks me.

  I nod, my eyes not leaving his face.

  Shug clears his throat. “Back in the 1960s, the town had lost several antebellum homes in the name of progress.” He makes quotation marks with his fingers. “There was a movement to modernize Eufaula, construct new homes. But, some community members began to worry about the increasing number of local landmarks that were being destroyed and replaced by new buildings. Other mansions, because of neglect, had been demolished.”

  “So the Historic Preservation folks—and your organization—fight that, right?”

  With a grim smile, Shug confirms this. “We can, if we know about it.” His fingers tap the edge of the proposal packet.

  I consider the reasons for secrecy. “So, you’ve been successful so far, but there’s someone who’d like to build condos and wants to bypass anyone who might stand in the way.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Can they do that?”

  Shug narrows his eyes. “It’s not supposed to work like that, but I’m sure there are ways around it—a loophole some attorney will find to make it legal.” He rubs his chin. “I think they were going for an ‘it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission’ kind of deal.”

  I stand up and walk over to the window. “But now that you know about it…”

  “So will the community. They’ll be forced to have a public meeting.”

  “So, how much money are we talking? And who’s financing it? And is it just along the lake area?”

  This makes Shug chuckle. “You New Yorkers. Don’t you ever slow down?”

  “Sorry,” I apologize and roll my eyes.

  “So, the answers are: A lot of money, I’m not sure who’s behind it, and the investor isn’t talking about lakefront property.” Shug wipes his face with one hand. “There’s plenty of that to be had. There’d be no need for a special meeting.”

  It doesn’t take me long to realize that whomever is behind all of this is a pro. They’ve been planning this attack for a while.

  Shug leans back. “So far, this is all that I know: An investor who prefers to remain anonymous has made a generous proposal to city council. There are a number of homes—historic homes—close to foreclosure. When all of the other options have been exhausted, banks are forced to repossess the properties when the owners can’t pay the bills.”

  “So, say an investor buys a foreclosed-on property. Then what?”

  “Typically, an interested party would renovate the home and flip it, meaning they’d hope to make some money by selling it quick. Right now, the real estate market’s so stagnant that no one’s buying a shack, let alone ten thousand-square foot mansions.”

  “So this person—man, woman, whatever—this investor is a Donald Trump sort? A chance taker, a deal maker?”

  “This particular investor, from what I can tell from the first few pages of this proposal, plans to develop the land—particularly the parcels nearest to the lake—into a luxury condominium community. There’s room for a clubhouse, tennis courts, a pool and spa.”

  “What?” I cough, aghast at the thought. “What about protection for historic landmarks? What about everything you’ve worked for?”

  “The city leaders might actually entertain the idea because Eufaula—like many other cities in the state—is hurting financially. A big boost to the tax base would be a small miracle. Right now, companies are closing or leaving the area.”

  “Worst-case scenario?”

  “They raze the buildings on the north side of town.” Shug levels his gaze. “Six to ten of the homes. Maybe more.” He looks out the window and murmurs, “It could happen.”

  I cross my arms tight across my chest, my emotions locked somewhere between dismay and anger. “So, how did you know? Who called you?”

  “A friend,” Shug says, looking mysterious. “I’d rather not say. It might get him in trouble, and I don’t want to lose my source.” He bends his head and begins flipping pages again, scanning each.

  The tension in the room is thick.

  Wow, and I thought things were crazy at home with journalists and their informants. Who knew about the conspiracy stuff going on in the Deep South?

  Suddenly, Shug sits back. He exhales loudly and runs a hand through his hair. “The bastards. I knew it.”

  I flinch.

  “Sorry.” Shug stands up and offers an apologetic look. He glances out the window, frowning. “It’s worse than I thought.” With a quick, sweeping motion, he gathers up all of the pages and tucks them under his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I check my watch as we head back to Shug’s office and wonder how in the world I’m going to make my flight. It’s almost noon, and so far today I haven’t finished a single interview, jotted down any notes of significance, or toured one historic home. My feet are killing me and I’m dying to get out of my suit, which is now binding my waist like a tourniquet. I realize that I haven’t eaten, and my stomach—on command—starts growling like a caged lioness.

  The sound reaches Shug’s ear. “We’ll have to take care of that.” He doesn’t smile or seem to mind the awful noise, just continues his forward motion.

  “I have a high metabolism,” I squeak in mortification, wishing I’d thought to pack a granola bar, or an apple. Anything. I’d take a spinach sandwich at this point.

  We reach the office in record time. Shug throws open the door and storms inside. The message light is blinking on his phone, but he ignores it. He tosses the papers on the nearest desk, grabs a swig of cold coffee from a mug, and squints at a photograph on the wall.

  “Julia,” he says, swinging his gaze toward me. “I have to apologize. This must be the worst assignment you’ve ever had.” He appears so dejected that I want to hug him and tell him that everything will be all right.

  “No,” I exclaim. Of course, the moment is ruined when my stomach decides to roar through my skin. “Oh come on,” I mutter and reach for my bag. I can’t—I won’t look at Shug. There’s at least one Snickers bar or a snack in there somewhere, I just know it.

  “Let me get you some lunch,” he offers.

  “It’s okay,” I say, thinking I can’t field questions from the waitress at the Honeysuckle Café for a second day in a row—not if I’m famished. I need food—substantial amounts of it—to be prepared. “Really, I’ll be fine.” I open my bag wider and continue to search like I’m excavating a dig site in the Sahara. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  “Look,” Shug says, clearly distraught at not being able to help. “I’ll make you a sandwich. It’s the least I can do.”

  With a sigh of defeat, I raise my chin to look up at him. “Thank you,” I say, and then think to explain. “I’m sorry. I get really weird when I don’t eat. Light-headed and shaky. It just comes on, all of a sudden. The good thing is…well, the good thing…is that I usually don’t pass out. I’ve only fainted a few times.”

  His face breaks into a smile. “Come on,” he waves me toward the back of the building.

  One pimento and cheese sandwich later, I feel like a brand-new person. I won’t admit to Shug that the strange concoction was a little scary-looking, with its bright yellow lumps speckled with red pepper pieces, but it was so good I had to refrain from licking my fingertips.

  Shug’s been reading the proposal, marking pages, and pausing to shake his head or grimace at certain paragraphs. “Better?” he asks when I finish, a tiny grin playing on his face.

  “M-hm,” I nod, trying not to panic. Is there something in my teeth? I run the tip of my tongue along my gumline, wishing I’d stuck an extra toothbrush in my purse.

  “Wait,” he tells me and reaches for my face. As I shrink back, he takes a gentle finger and brus
hes the top of my lip. “Okay, it’s gone.”

  Embarrassed, I cover my face with both hands. “Thank you,” I say, my voice muffled through my palms. Can’t anything go smoothly? He must think I’m a cavewoman compared to Mary Katherine. So much for the glamorous New York socialite thing.

  “You’re welcome.”

  After momentary embarrassment, I decide the best tactic is to pretend it didn’t happen. I straighten up, dab a napkin to my mouth for good measure, and take a sip of water. “All right, what’s next with Phase III? What are you going to do to fight it?”

  “Not on the agenda,” Shug shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You’re supposed to be at Shorter Mansion in about ten minutes.” He stands up. “Besides, this issue doesn’t concern the magazine. I had no right to drag you into this.”

  “Um, I went willingly, remember?” I remind him. “I want to help.” An unfamiliar but delicious surge of determination courses through my veins.

  “Fine,” he agrees with a disarming smile.

  My knees buckle the slightest bit. I have to look away for a moment and get my bearings. It’s not that Shug’s so handsome, with a Southern accent that would melt butter. I’m giddy from the realization that I want to make a difference. Something or someone is trying to ruin this lovely city, and I want to know why and who.

  Shug leans on one of the desks, both fists pressed into the wood. “On one condition.”

  This surprises me. It’s not in my repertoire to make deals with anyone on an assignment. As a journalist—it’s unethical. And I know for certain David, if he found out, would arrange a public hanging right after a spent a few humiliating weeks in the stocks—my head and arms sticking through openings in wooden barricades.

  I decide to hold judgment until he makes his request. “And that condition is?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Leave Phase III out—” Shug says.

  I interrupt. “Look, it’s not my responsibility to expose gossip, rumors, or a project that might happen. As far as I’m concerned, all this is right now is a possibility.”