Dancing Naked in Dixie

by Lauren Clark

  “Have a seat,” I gesture to the only other seat in the cubicle. It’s a beaten-up chair that looks like rummage-sale material, but it’s the best I can do. As I’m the one usually off on assignment, it’s not often I entertain visitors.

  Marietta hands me a pack of cheese crackers, an orange, and a bottle of cranberry juice. “I love you,” I say, then turn to Dean Alice, “Would you like some?” When she declines, I rip into the package with abandon and pop a cracker in my mouth. I chase it with a swallow of juice, and then get to work on peeling the orange with one hand.

  “Bless your heart,” she clucks her tongue, watching me. “I had no idea you hadn’t eaten.” Dean Alice cocks her head to one side. “Since I just about dropped in on you out of the blue, and you have a meeting, I’ll make this quick, sugar.”

  I nod, still chewing. I’ve given up on the orange but pop another cracker into my mouth.

  Dean Alice clutches a hand to her heart. “I must have the recipe for those delicious little treats you gave me on the airplane. I’ve spent the past few days with some of the finest chefs in the world and tasted some scrumptious desserts, but I can’t stop thinking about those little marshmallow puffs.” She straightens in her chair. “Whatever the asking price for the recipe, I’m willing to pay it,” she adds.

  Marietta, who’s half-listening to the exchange, now eyeballs me over the cubicle divider. I ignore the face she’s making and turn back to Dean Alice.

  “That’s really kind of you,” I say. “But it’s not my recipe. A friend made them. They were a gift.”

  Dean Alice presses her lips together and thinks for a moment. She clasps her hands together and rests them on her crossed knees. “Well, now, that’s all right. Would you mind terribly giving her a call? Tell her that I would love to speak with her about this creation.”

  I slide a glance at Marietta, who wrinkles her nose. It’s obvious she thinks the entire situation is a teensy bit bizarre. I don’t make friends on airplanes. I don’t share food with strangers. And I don’t have people show up at my office unannounced. We exchange another glance, then Marietta looks down and starts typing on her keyboard.

  As I turn the idea over in my mind, I begin to consider the positives for PD and Eufaula. If Dean Alice is a chef and restaurant owner, and if she has all of the amazing the connections she says that she does, there’s no limit to the potential exposure, recognition, and profits.

  A ping on my laptop startles me. A new message.

  I shimmy my body in front of the screen and hold up my index finger in front of Dean Alice. “Could you give me just a sec? Excuse me.”

  The message is from Marietta, who’s just wrapped up a little research on the visitor and her background. It’s short and sweet. “She’s legit. The real deal.”

  When I swivel my chair back to Dean Alice, she’s waiting patiently.

  “Let me call her first,” I say. “She’s very talented and is just starting her own business. I’m not sure what she’ll say about all of this, but I guess that’s for you both to discuss.”

  Dean Alice beams at me. “Wonderful.”

  I flash a look in the direction of David’s office. Still no boss. No Dolores. No call. So, I pull out my cell phone and scroll to PD’s number. My finger hovers above the call button.

  “My friend lives in Eufaula, Alabama. Her name is Patricia Jordan,” I say. “Well, it’s really Patricia Dye Jordan,” I correct myself. “But she goes by PD.”

  My visitor brightens. “As in Coach Pat Dye? As in Auburn University?”

  “From what I’m told, yes. Everyone in the family is named after a coach, or player, or mascot.” I start to tick off names, “There’s Aubie—that’s her mother. TJ, or Toomer—is her father. And Shug is PD’s brother.”

  Dean Alice claps her hands in delight. “How adorable. I absolutely cannot wait to meet them.”

  “All righty,” I breathe out and hit ‘call.’ After three long rings, PD answers.

  “Hello?”

  “PD,” I say, making my tone brisk and business-like. “Hi! It’s Julia Sullivan here. I have a favor to ask. Do you have a few minutes? Is this a bad time?”

  “Julia!” she exclaims. “Oh, of course. Anything. We’ve all been wondering how the story’s going. Did your boss love it?”

  “I-I think so,” I say.

  A dark shadow crosses my desk. Dolores is hovering over Dean Alice’s shoulder. Her face is grim and set. She’s back to unhappy. She raises a painted on eyebrow and jerks her head toward David’s office.

  I stand up, almost knocking my phone to the floor. “I met someone,” I begin. “On the flight back to New York. She’s a chef and owns a restaurant. She wanted to talk to you about your Pillow Puffs.”

  “Really?” PD says, her voice measured and slow.

  I can’t tell if she’s excited or upset. I keep talking anyway. “Her name’s Dean Alice and I’m going to hand the phone over to her right now. She stopped by the office. And I have to rush off to a meeting. Thank you so much. Take care of yourself.”

  PD says something else—I think about Phase III—but I can’t wait any longer. I jam the phone into Dean Alice’s waiting hand, grab my bag and the envelope with Aubie’s photograph.

  The day is proving to be full of surprises, and it’s not even half-done. I stride to David’s office, trying not to break into a run. Whatever happens inside those closed doors, one thing’s for certain. I’m going to get some answers.

  Chapter 30

  David closes the door behind me. “Bar fight?” he asks, noticing my wounded hand.

  “Something like that,” I grimace and try to tuck my arm out of sight.

  “I hope it won’t affect your trip to New Orleans?” It’s not a question. He expects me to go, no matter what.

  I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  “Good,” he says. “I have you on a tight schedule, leaving early tomorrow morning. You get back Sunday evening.” David leans back and surveys a pile of papers. “Here’s your contact information and hotel reservation.” He hands the stack across the desk.

  “David,” I interrupt. “Why did you send me to Eufaula? I understand that you needed to make a point, scare me into doing better work, but it wasn’t all about that, was it?”

  My father looks thoughtful. He props his elbows up on the arms of his office chair and presses his fingers together. “Perceptive.”

  “So,” I say again, irritation creeping into my voice, “why send me there?”

  David half-smiles. “It was a favor, of sorts.”

  I let this sink in. “A favor for whom?”

  “A friend—no, an acquaintance—someone I haven’t seen or spoken to in a long, long time. She wrote me and asked for help.”

  I keep my face calm. My father is being cryptic on purpose. “So, what sort of help? Coverage for the Pilgrimage help? Anyone could do that. Why me?” I’m shooting questions at my father as fast as they pop into my head. He’s watching me, amused, and it makes me angrier. I fire off another question for good measure. “What do you owe this friend?” I emphasize the last word, making quotation marks with my fingers.

  Though I don’t want to hear it, I know it involves a female. Did he hurt someone? Get someone pregnant? Make promises he couldn’t keep? And what does Aubie have to do with it?

  “It’s actually the other way around,” David says.

  My forehead creases as I ponder his reply. This person owes my father? Unusual. David’s repertoire doesn’t usually include spontaneous gestures of kindness.

  David, of course, is reading my mind. “Not making sense?”

  For once, I don’t answer him right away. I pick up the envelope, reach inside, and draw out the photograph. I hold it up, the image facing my father.

  “So, who is she?” David asks, his tone casual. He takes the picture, holds the corner between his thumb and forefinger, studying the image like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Is that what you’d like to know?”

  “I�
�ve met her,” I say, trying to keep a defensive tone from creeping into my reply. “I’ve met her family. I’ve had dinner at her house.”

  David’s body stiffens and I see the cords in his neck tighten. “Ah, my dear, you’ve been sucked in already. That Southern hospitality will get you every time.”

  “Maybe so,” I reply, plucking the photograph from his grasp and tucking it back inside the envelope. “But I like them. They’re nice people.”

  My father regards me. “Really? A few days and you’re an expert?”

  “There’s a lot more to it, David,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “If you actually cared about your friend, you’d know that this travel article—even a full-page spread in the New York Times—isn’t going to make a bit of difference.” I narrow my eyes. “Wait a minute. You know.”

  “I know what?” he asks, appearing innocent. “Something that’s not in the article? Did you leave something out?”

  Now, I’m in a pickle. I’ve said just enough to get myself in trouble. In trouble with Shug, I remind myself. Shug, who isn’t here. Shug who’s with Mary Katherine.

  I try bargaining. “If I tell you, can you promise not to put it in the story?”

  David snorts.

  “That’s a no,” I cross my arms and frown, trying to outthink my father, who’s been in the business four times as long as I have.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I explain. “The article is about the Pilgrimage, and I could write all day about Eufaula’s amazing architecture. The gothic columns, the antique furniture, the mansions, but it’s the people who bring it all to life. How can I include…that the city is considering a huge building project?”

  The smile dissolves from my father’s face. “You didn’t mention this before.”

  “My assignment was to preview the Pilgrimage,” I retort. “With you threatening to fire me, I wasn’t about to deliver an expose on how progress and construction are sucking the life out of small-town America.”

  David sets his jaw. He has no idea a contractor wants to bulldoze half of Eufaula’s historic district.

  “So your friend didn’t mention anything about Phase III?” I ask, choosing to plop down into a hard-backed chair across from my father. My feet are killing me.

  David shrugs. “No. I assumed—like everyone else who gets in touch with me—that she wanted promotion for her pet project. I didn’t think it was a distress signal.” My father digs into his desk drawer. He produces the card embossed with an illustration of Shorter Mansion.

  “I’m not a mind reader,” he snaps. “The note didn’t say anything about construction or a crisis.” With a flick of his wrist, David tosses the note into the trash.

  I stand up. “Well, then, I guess you won’t care if a builder razes part of the historic district and puts up high-end condominiums.”

  My father lifts his chin so quickly I hear his neck snap. “Condominiums?” he repeats, and I watch as a vein on his forehead starts throbbing just under his hairline.

  “The city council is considering the option,” I report, keeping my voice brisk and light. “There are several houses in disrepair, a few more for sale. The purchase would ensure a steady income for the city, a great tax base for Eufaula,” I explain and start to walk toward the door. “So, it’s a good thing, right?” I pause and place my fingers on the door handle. “Anyway, what do you care? You’re done with the Jordans once and for all.”

  Color flushes my father’s face. He’s caught and he knows it. “Spill it,” he tells me.

  For the next hour, I explain what I’d discovered. I detail the city council meetings, the proposal, and reaction from the community.

  “Eagle Investment Properties?” my father asks, pulling his laptop closer.

  I nod. “In Auburn, Alabama.”

  David’s fingers fly over the keyboard, hunting and pecking the letters in a haphazard fashion. He hits return, waits for the page to load, then angles the screen so that both of us can view it. “Anyone look familiar?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  He clicks through a few more pages. Company profile and mission statement. Board members. CEO and CFO bios. Current projects. He squints at the last page, scrolling down through dozens of photos—documenting celebratory groundbreakings, ribbon-cuttings, and grand openings.

  Each one is a carbon copy of the last. Same people, same suits. These men are even standing in the same spots, picture after picture. Only the location changes. After the first fifteen or so, my eyes begin to cross. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.

  “Who or what are we looking for, exactly?” I ask, rubbing my eyelids with my thumb and forefinger.

  “Not sure. Anyone who looks familiar,” he says, clicking on the next photo, and the next. “Maybe a location that might offer a clue?”

  I glance at the screen and grit my teeth in frustration. Same people. Same suits.

  My father leans back to look at me. “This company stands to make a lot of money from this project. Eufaula’s a substantial distance away from Auburn. Someone’s kept an eye on the situation. Someone’s been clued in about the city’s current financial situation, and they’ve been told it’s ripe for the picking. Believe me, the person behind this isn’t going to let a little thing like historical landmarks or the Eufaula Pilgrimage get in the way of profits.”

  When the last photograph pops up, I almost choke. Same smiling faces, with one addition. They’re all standing in front of a brand new red-brick building. A building I’ve seen before. In Eufaula? No. On the drive from Atlanta? Maybe. I pinch the bridge of my nose, blink a few times, and shake my head. I’m light-headed and dizzy. I grip the nearest chair with my good hand, bracing myself so that I don’t faint. Knock myself out cold on the edge of the desk wouldn’t be pretty.

  “What is it? Who is it?” Frowning, my father scans the screen.

  When I turn back to David’s laptop, I take another long, slow look at the row of people holding the huge white corporate banner. The name of the bank and Eagle Investments LLC are printed in royal blue. The sign is trimmed in orange.

  I’m not imagining this.

  I recognize the last person on the left.

  Mary Katherine is in the photo. What the…

  “Uh, um, sorry,” I say, “I need to make some phone calls. Right now.” I sprint out of David’s office, past Dolores and a group of employees who probably think I’ve just been fired. When I round the corner, craning my neck to spot Marietta over the mass of cubicles, I slam into the mail cart and its driver.

  A shriek and a crash later, I’m surrounded by flying envelopes and swirling memos. When the tornado subsides, our newest intern glowers at me.

  “Oh, no,” I murmur and sink to one hand and my knees, scooping up paper and packages, tucking them under my bandaged arm. “I apologize. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “No kidding,” the skinny kid with the black spiky hair mutters, then freezes. He covers his mouth, realizing the insult.

  I stop gathering the mess. I stand up, still clutching the mail, and very slowly, set the bundle down on the cart. I feel a thousand eyes on both of us. The hallway goes tomb-quiet.

  The intern regards me, mouth open, face red, expecting a full-on verbal attack.

  “I apologized. It was an accident,” I tell him in a soft voice. “Now, I’m sorry I can’t help you clean this up, but I have an emergency to handle.”

  In three strides, I’m at my desk, searching for my cell phone.

  Marietta peers over the divider. “Need some help?”

  I pause, noticing a bright pink and green business card lying next to my laptop. When I read the name in script, I slap the front of my head. “Sheesh, I totally forgot. What happened with Dean Alice?”

  My best friend grins and winks. “Well, I wasn’t trying to listen, but I did overhear part of the conversation.”

  Thank you Jesus.

  “She talked with PD for the longest time. First, she tried to hire her. Wh
en that didn’t work, she was going to draw up a contract for exclusive rights to some cookie? Or dessert? She wants to take it national and distribute it in little Cinnabon-like shops.”

  “Really?” I am bursting out of my skin with happiness for PD.

  Marietta sticks a pencil behind her ear and swivels in her chair. “But, then something happened. With somebody in her family…”

  My heart clenches. “You’re talking about Dean Alice?” I bite my bottom lip.

  “Nope, PD,” Marietta says, making a clucking noise with her tongue. “She had to hang up all of a sudden.” My friend points over the cubicle. “So, Dean left her card. Said to tell you thank you and that she’d be in touch. She had to catch a flight back to Georgia.”

  “Thanks, Mar,” I squat down and move some files under my desk, then finally catch a glimpse of my cell phone case. It must have fallen out of my purse. I run a finger down the screen and find Shug’s number. After I press the call key, I drop into my chair and wait.

  After three rings, I get his voicemail. I don’t leave a message.

  I try Shug’s office. No answer. Strange.

  Despite what Marietta said, I try PD. Voicemail again. I press end.

  Staring at the screen, I debate my next call. Who would know what’s going on?

  I try the Jordan house. This time, the phone buzzes about a hundred times. I hang on, praying someone will hear it. Because my ear’s going numb, I get ready to hang up. One finger hovering over the button, I hear a woman’s voice. Mary Katherine’s voice.

  “Jordan residence,” she chirps.

  “Mary Katherine, it’s Julia Sullivan. From New York,” I say, flustered. Of course she knows I’m from New York, I remind myself. Get it together, Julia. “I’m trying to reach PD,” I say. “And I’ve tried Shug’s number, too.”

  There’s a long, awkward pause. Mary Katherine’s not going to budge. She’s probably duct-taped her own lips shut.

  I clear my throat. In that instant, I decide that I’m not going to tell her about Dean Alice and the bakery conversation. That PD hung up in a hurry and I’m concerned. I don’t have to explain all of that.