by Lauren Clark
“Maybe we should forget the article all together,” Shug says. “I’ll issue a sincere apology to the magazine for the time you’ve spent traveling. And replace the broken windshield.”
He’s not joking. Forget the article? “I don’t understand.”
Shug ambles over to a row of photos on the wall. Each one depicts a city landmarks or homes—likely during recent Pilgrimages. Bright pink azaleas are in full bloom, young girls in frilly hoop skirts adorn the steps of buildings.
“Julia,” Shug says, “the Pilgrimage may not exist after next year.”
Chapter 15
Shug’s phone starts ringing before we can leave. As he answers, a distinct female voice—more than a tad distressed—echoes throughout the confined lobby area. With a hurried gesture, Shug covers the receiver and motions he’ll take the call in his office. My mother, he mouths before closing the door behind him.
I pace for a few minutes, stop, then repeat, listening to the exchange—until I realize with a start that I am eavesdropping.
To relocate as far away as possible—fifteen feet instead of ten—I park myself at the empty desk in the corner and retrieve a beat-up calendar from my bag. It’s clear that going high-tech on my iPhone would really help my organizational ability, but I can’t seem to get past needing to scribble and cross out on my little day planner.
Despite my original itinerary, my enthusiasm for making it back to Atlanta tonight is waning. There’s too much at stake here and my sorely ignored intuition is buzzing with tantalizing details yet to be uncovered.
On impulse, I grab my phone and hit speed dial. The familiar Delta Airlines jingle reaches my ear, with the recorded message following. I press zero for an operator, doodling on what looks like a scrap piece of paper.
A live person answers after a three-minute wait. “I need to change a flight, please,” I tell the person, and recite my departure information from memory. While keys click and clack in the background, I continue to scribble, sketching out what looks like a lopsided version of Shorter Mansion after a nuclear explosion. It’s a good thing I write for a living.
The chirpy voice is back. “The ticketing change fee and difference in the two fares comes to…” Her voice trails off and is lost in the noise of the Delta Airlines call center.
Shug opens the door, cheeks flushed, with a worn leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. “I’m finished,” he calls out, but stops as soon as he sees me talking.
I hold up a finger while the operator quotes me an exorbitant price about equal to a month’s rent for my New York apartment. There’s only one seat left, and it’s in first class. For a moment, I don’t breathe, letting both sides of my brain duel it out.
How can I justify the cost? I can’t expense this, because I’m the one who changed it in the first place. If I don’t stay in Eufaula, how can I go back to the office—and David—with no story? If I do, I’m as good as fired. And if I’m going to be fired, I might as well drive my junky Expedition rental into Lake Eufaula.
“I’ll take the seat,” I tell the Delta representative.
Shug is frowning. He thinks I’m leaving. I try to smile as I confirm the last four digits of my credit card number, praying that I’ve not gone over my personal spending limit.
It doesn’t. I almost whoop with joy. Hey, I’ll be broke, but I’ll still have a job.
The woman rattles off my confirmation number and I jot it down. “Thank you for flying Delta. Have a wonderful day,” she tells me.
I let out a sigh of relief and hit the ‘end’ button on my cell. “And thank you,” I mutter to the air. With flourish, I toss the silver rectangle back into the side pocket of my purse.
“Wait, you’re going? Now?” Shug walks toward me, forehead creased. “But I thought—”
“I’m staying,” I cut in and jump up, “at least a little longer. Things are just getting interesting, Mr. Jordan.” I snap my fingers in his direction. “Ready? We have work to do.”
It might be my imagination, but despite all of the uproar about the Phase III project, despite the panicked phone call from his mother, I think Shug is pleased at my announcement. He sweeps an arm past my waist and holds open the door.
“After you, then.”
“So the word’s gotten out about Phase III?” I shield my eyes from the sunlight as I watch Shug’s reaction as we walk—fast.
“My source is spreading the word. There aren’t very many secrets in this town,” Shug replies. “And my mother isn’t taking the news well.”
I raise an eyebrow and quicken my pace.
Shug checks his watch. “Lunch isn’t until tomorrow morning at 11. There’s plenty of time to calm her down.”
“Where’s your sister? Or your dad?” I ask, thinking that many fathers are useful in an emergency—as long as the name isn’t David and he isn’t editor of Getaways magazine.
At the mention of his father, Shug offers a wry look. “Who knows,” he says flatly. “He’s never around. Especially in a crisis. The more dire the emergency, the longer it takes to find him.”
I swallow and don’t ask for details as we near Shorter Mansion. The tall windows and center door are draped with fresh pine garland and holly branches. Inside, a towering tree flickers with lights, sparkling ribbon, and glittering ornaments.
“It’s lovely,” I stop walking, thinking that I need to grab my camera, but that I don’t want to spoil the moment. Past the leaded-glass windows, I can see women moving back and forth, preparing for the visitors. “So, your sister and mother are inside?”
“I imagine my sister is busy getting ready for tomorrow. She’s become quite the chef. Every year, since she’s been little, PD’s helped my mother make a signature treat for the Pilgrimage.”
“So she’s talented?” I ask. The most I can do on a good day is toast bread.
“Very.”
“I hope I can try some of her recipes,” I say and remind myself to stop being so judgmental about PD. Shug seems like a great guy. Why wouldn’t his sister be just as nice? I just have to get to know her better.
“She’s a really hard worker. I’m helping her with a grant application—economic development funding—so that she can open her bakery,” Shug explains, his face animated.
“That’s really generous of you,” I shake my head and smile. “My mother was the same way. She would have done anything for me.” The words tumble out of my mouth. I didn’t intend to share that, but it’s too late.
“Would have?”
“She passed away. Lou Gehrig’s,” my voice catches and I look away.
Shug reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Julia.”
I clear my throat and sniff back tears, attempting to compose myself. “It’s okay,” I lie and force myself to think of something else. Something or someone awful or mean. David’s face appears before my eyes and I mentally whack him down with a branch from the huge Magnolia tree towering above our heads.
I change the subject. “So, tell me more about PD and this bakery.”
“There’s a great spot that’s vacant downtown. Plenty of space and room to grow, plus the rent is pretty reasonable.”
“Sounds perfect,” I agree.
Shug rubs his chin. “It is. It’s PD who’s holding back, but with a little help and some more confidence, she’ll change her mind. There’s nothing I want more than for my sister to succeed.”
I want to offer some reassuring phrase, a tidbit of wisdom, but every sentence that forms in my mind seems trite. Probably because I was almost fired two days ago and have no business weighing in on anyone’s career. I vow to do better with this assignment. I have to.
We turn up the sidewalk and make our way to the front steps, where both the American and Alabama flags grace the double doorway.
Shug raises his fist to knock. Before his knuckles make contact, I see a figure through the glass. A slender woman opens one of the doors.
“It’s your mother, Shug,” she cries, the
mascara pooling under both eyes. “Aubie’s locked herself in the bathroom.”
Without a word, I follow Shug and the woman into the airy, open foyer. We step noiselessly onto a patterned red and blue oriental rug. I can’t help but admire the ornate staircase that rises and disappears from view.
“What happened?” I hear Shug ask. When I train my attention on his broad shoulders, I see that he’s already clasped hands with the distraught matriarch. “Where is she?”
The woman, dressed in canary yellow silk, wrists dripping with diamonds, sniffs and lowers her eyes. “Some awful person started a terrible rumor about a secret government meeting, Shug darling. One of the girls—bless her heart—overheard her daddy, who’s kin to one of the city council members. By the time she tried to ask him, he was out the door, and driving off.”
My head spins, trying to link the connections, but Shug is following it all—as if she’s drawn a huge flow chart on the wall in green crayon.
“Word is…an investor’s made a substantial offer on some local property.” The woman sniffs. “Probably one of those Yankees.”
I swallow hard. Shug blanches, but nods for the woman to continue.
“As you can imagine,” the woman waves her hands for emphasis, “everyone’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers."
The phrase tickles me so much that I have to fake-cough to stifle my giggles.
“Julia, are you okay?” Shug looks ready to whack me between the shoulder blades, so I shake my head vigorously and cover my mouth.
Satisfied I don’t need immediate rescuing, he turns back to the canary-lady. “Where is she now? My mother?” Shug looks past her, up to the second floor. I follow his gaze, almost expecting to see a pair of expensive heels and stockinged legs dangling from the chandelier.
The woman puts a hand to her jeweled throat and exchanges a worried glance with an elderly lady in a trim navy suit who’s been listening at the edge of the foyer. They both answer in a chorused response. “She’s locked herself in.”
“In where?” Shug’s terse question reverberates against the antique glass windows, bouncing off the brocade curtains and carved mahogany sideboards.
The women seem startled. “She’s been in the powder room upstairs for the last thirty minutes and won’t open the door,” the canary-lady answers.
Without pausing for more details, Shug takes the red-carpeted stairs two at a time. I catch a glimpse of the back of his loafer as it turns at the hallway and disappears.
“Shug, honey, we tried our best,” the woman in navy calls out after him, then rests a hand on canary-lady’s arm. They both turn and look in my direction at the same time. “Hello dear.” Again, the two ladies speak in perfect stereo. “You must be Julia.”
I blink in surprise, then recover my composure. It’s all I can do not to back away slowly. A few of the other women drift closer to observe the exchange.
“We’re sisters. I’m Pearl,” the lady in navy explains. “And this is Shirl.”
Now, the connection explained, I see the resemblance.
“Oh, how nice!” I exclaim. “It’s lovely to meet you both. And I’m so pleased to be here.” With my biggest, friendliest smile, I thrust out a hand in greeting. When I’m only offered three fingers from the woman in navy, I squeeze the tips gingerly and release. Gosh, I need a how-to manual for this place. Or private lessons from Miss Manners—the Southern version.
There’s an awkward pause. I find myself darting a furtive look at the staircase. Where is Shug? Where is Aubie? Is she really locked in? What are they doing and why isn’t anyone coming back to save me?
The twins tilt their heads together and whisper. When they straighten up, Pearl—or Shirl—I can’t remember who is who, waves me toward the back of the mansion. “We’re forgetting our manners, dear. Come have some tea.”
I follow, praying it won’t take long for Shug to extricate his mother from her place of hiding.
Chapter 16
“What’s on the menu, ladies?” I ask, digging into my bag for a notebook and pen as we parade through the corridor.
When we arrive in the kitchen, the sister in navy presents me with an embossed card with swirling gold trim. It reads as follows:
Eufaula Christmas Tour Lunch
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Chicken Salad Croissant, Pimento Cheese Ribbon,
Cream Cheese & Dates on Raisin Bread, and Cheese Straws
Pecan Tassie, Lemon Danties, Cream Scone, Devonshire Cream,
Homemade Lemon Curd, and Strawberry Preserves
When I finish reading, four eyes are watching me closely. It’s the sort of stare that makes a girl feel as if she’s about to be blasted with a shrink-ray beam.
“Wow,” I exclaim, searching for proper praise. “This looks…wonderful,” I say. “And quite delicious.” I add for good measure.
My lavish compliments do the trick, as their anxious faces melt with giddy delight. The women cluck and coo around me, each sharing a knowing glance or wink.
Shirl links her arm in mine and pats my hand. “I just knew you’d love everything, New York City girl or not. Just wait until you taste the lemon dainties. And the pecan tassies are so scrumptious, if Paula Deen were here, she’d beg us for the recipe!”
“Hey, y’all,” a voice calls from the foyer. “Where is everyone?”
Pearl and Shirl exchange a worried glance, but assume smooth, refined demeanors when PD steps into the kitchen, stacks of trays in her hands.
“Here, sugar, let me help you,” Pearl tiptoes over and takes a platter off the stack. “These look marvelous, Patricia Dye. Your mama is going to be thrilled when she sees them.”
I lean to catch a glimpse of the coveted contents.
“Cheese straws. A little on the spicy side this year,” PD grins at me and sets the rest of the trays on the nearest counter. “Hey Julia.”
“Good morning,” I answer, then hang back and watch the ladies crowd closer to admire her handiwork. PD is in her element. Surrounded by confections and savory treats, she even looks different. Happier. Content. And she doesn’t know a thing about Aubie.
Then, as if she could read my thoughts, she stops fussing over the platters and stands ramrod-straight. “Y’all, where’s Mama?”
A hush falls over the room. No one speaks or moves, except me—and that’s because a hair is tickling the back of my neck and if I don’t scratch the spot I might jump out of my skin. The movement signals PD like a police helicopter searchlight.
“Julia?” she asks with an arched brow.
My neck and cheeks flush hot. I must look guilty.
“Um,” I begin, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. “So, your brother found out about a Phase III project. Basically, an investor wants to buy up some historic homes. The houses closest to the water.”
“And. Do. What with them?” PD swallows, her eyes darting from Pearl to Shirl, then back to me.
“Condos,” I squeak and shrug. There. I’ve said it. Everyone in the room offers a collective exhale.
PD presses a hand to her brow and winces, like someone’s stabbed her in the forehead. “I don’t believe it. No, I do believe it. There’s money involved,” she says. “But the idea is about as smart as nailing jelly to a tree,” PD shakes her head and starts to pace the floor, continuing the debate with herself. “Of all the low-life, no account—”
I shrink back against the counter to let her pass by me for the second time.
“Wait,” she stops. “Do we know this for certain?”
The women around me nod and murmur meek affirmations.
“And so where’s Mama?” PD asks. Her hands are locked on her narrow hips and her chin is tilted ever so slightly, making her look like a cat about to pounce on innocent prey.
I wait for someone else to chime in. When I glance around the room, they’re all busy checking the time, looking at their manicures, or inspecting a crack on the floor.
Fine. I’ll be the bearer
of bad news. The messenger who gets killed. With that lovely thought, I remind myself that if I don’t finish this story on the Pilgrimage, I’ll be dead anyway.
“She’s locked herself in the bathroom. I’m sure your brother would have told you, but he’s upstairs with her.”
I expect her to freak out, but she does the exact opposite.
PD sighs and bites her bottom lip. “Well, in that case, she’s in good hands,” she says, letting her eyes fall to the floor. “It’s his turn anyway,” she says under her breath.
With a sudden flash of energy, everyone around me goes back to the preparations. I loosen my grip on my notepad, now damp from my hand clutching the pages, and sidle closer to Shug’s sister.
It’s terribly sad to think about, but perhaps—in public—PD has conditioned herself to accept Aubie’s meltdowns.
I take my cue from her and get back to my own job. I decide that since Shug’s busy dealing with his mother, I’ll try to get some background from his sister. Chatting about the Christmas Tour might even be a welcome distraction.
“PD, when you have a moment, would you share your thoughts about the Pilgrimage?” I ask, as she arranges the cheese straws in neat rows. “Your brother’s filled me in on some of the basics. But, I’d love a woman’s perspective.”
She pauses, a bit surprised, and looks up at me. “Oh, I’d like that.” With deft motion, she adjusts one last piece on the tray and stands back to admire her work.
“Looks wonderful,” I say.
“Thank you,” she smiles—for real this time. “Let’s sit in the parlor for a few minutes. I need to rest for a moment anyway. I’ve been on my feet for days.” She nods at Shirl to take over in the kitchen and strides to the front of the Mansion.
We settle into two dainty chairs and I balance my notebook on one knee. “Could you tell me, specifically, the differences visitors might expect with the spring Pilgrimage versus the December tour?”
PD smoothes her skirt. “The Christmas tour is a much smaller affair and lasts only one day. Guest can enjoy lunch or a formal dinner and visit a small number of select homes. There’s also the Mistletoe Market, sponsored by the local businesses downtown. The tour is always held on the first Saturday afternoon in December.”