Dancing Naked in Dixie (17 page)

Gmail tells me that I have one hundred and thirty-five new messages. The senders include a multitude of spammers, who cloak their sales messages in miracle cures for infertility, impotence, and hair loss. Another two dozen announcements claim they have located a distant, wealthy relative who has left me a million dollars. The final spam-mail is from a minister in Kenya who urgently needs to send me money with absolutely no strings attached.

After I hit delete, I open the important messages, starting with the person least likely to chastise me for something I’ve done wrong. There are four from Marietta, two from Andrew, my long-suffering boyfriend, and a lone message from David, boss from hell and unfortunately, also my father.

Marietta’s emails are brief and snappy, detailing the latest office escapades and late-night hook-ups. She spends an entire page describing Dolores Stanley’s makeover and new wardrobe, no doubt spurred by an effort to please the new man at the helm of Getaways magazine.
Actually, Dolores looks pretty good. Someone at Macy’s helped her pick out the clothes. Here’s hoping someone tossed the tangerine polyester pants and paisley print tops. Off to grab a snack. I’m starving! Love, Marietta.

At the mention of the word, I remember Shug lobbing the Donut King bag at me before he and Mary Katherine left for home. I sniff the air, trying to locate where I might have dropped the package—please, not the hallway—on the way into the bedroom last night. After tripping over both of my shoes a second time, I give up and flick on the small overhead light.

Phew! The small white bag is sitting just inside the door. I kneel down and cradle the bag in one hand, unrolling the top with the other. Without hesitation, I pop one of the doughnut holes in my mouth and sink back into the chair. My taste buds immediately wake to the golden goodness that dissolves on my tongue. The sweet glaze is just enough balance for the lightly fried flour and yeast confection.

I steel myself with a second and third sample as I open Andrew’s emails. His writing is typically sparse and factual, and these messages don’t stray much from the established format, mentioning work, the weather, and my return to New York, in that order. He offers condolences for my rushed departure, the change in assignments, then throws me a curveball in the last sentence, which I almost skip because I’m so engrossed in popping doughnut holes into my mouth.

The cursor blinks next to his question.
Where would you like to go for our anniversary?
I’m at a loss. Anniversary. Tuesday. I do a mental calculation and, to my dismay, realize that Andrew’s correct. I’ll be back in the City in time for whatever he has planned.

In the past, Andrew has tried hard to be very creative. Our adventures have included a trip to New Orleans, which ended up with a pickpocket stealing Andrew’s wallet and a homeless person following us back to the hotel. For my birthday, a sunset cruise was a marvelous idea, until a freak storm cropped up and washed the captain overboard. At the time, neither one of us realized he was drunk. Andrew and I did enjoy meeting the coast guard crew when they rescued us from drifting across the Atlantic in a thirty-foot sailboat with a semi-functional engine.

Andrew outdid himself last year by giving me a surprise skydiving trip. Of course, he’d forgotten my fear of heights. Like a good sport, I decided I’d try it—with a borrowed Valium—but the bumpy air and sight of the earth thousands of feet below only served to feed my unrelenting terror. In the end, I tossed my cookies twice into someone’s spare backpack and never got out of the airplane.

I’m assuming, this year, Andrew will choose something standard and safe. I type a vague response about my return, promise to call when my flight lands, then add a few guilt-induced x’s and o’s for good measure. Andrew, one of the world’s nicest guys, deserves better than a lot of ‘maybes’ and a string of broken romantic dates. So far, we’ve avoided the big commitment talk, but I feel that it’s coming. And to be fair—and honest with myself—I love him, but he’s not my soul mate. We need to talk. It’ll be first on my list after I finish the article for
Getaways
.

I turn my attention to business. David’s message. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder about my current assignment.
Deadline:
Wednesday, December 5, 2012. Five o’clock.
There’s no greeting, small talk, or signature. Duly noted.

With a sigh, I tap ‘reply’ and pick up a brochure left for me by the Eufaula Chamber of Commerce. I flip through the photos and descriptions, turn down a few page corners, and type up a brief description of the area, being careful to mention Shorter Mansion, the Hart House, and Fendall Hall. I decide to leave out my run-in with the fire ants and yesterday’s bee sting incident, choosing instead to share my ambitious plan for touring Eufaula today: the Christmas Tour of homes, Carnegie Library, Fairview Cemetery, Reeves Peanut Warehouse, and the Confederate Hospital on Riverside Drive.

With flourish, I hit send and close my laptop.

It’s now six forty-five in the morning, which I confirm with a cursory glance at the clock in the bathroom. I splash my face with cold water and inspect my cheek and temple. There’s not much evidence of the assault on my skin, other than some redness and puffy areas around my eye, which a dab of makeup will fix.

I consider leaving a message for Shug, but decide to wait, do a little exploring on my own, and show up full of apologies on his office doorstep at precisely eight o’clock. After a shower and clean clothes, I run a comb through my still-damp hair, grab my camera bag, and slip out into the hallway. I pass Roger’s library on the way out the door and spy a copy of
Backtracking in Barbour County
. I tuck the book under my arm and adjust the purse on my shoulder as I step onto the street, estimating that it is less than a mile to the old Confederate Hospital.

The morning is pleasant and crisp with a slight breeze. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and birds chirp from treetops, hurrying me along. At the corner of Broad and Randolph Streets, I admire cascades of water splashing down from a fountain in the center of the intersection.

After I cross Orange and Livingston, I pause to read the inscription on a tall silver and black monument marker embossed with gold letters. It reads
Central Railroad of Georgia Freight Depot
and bears the date 1865, when the Southwestern Railroad of Georgia became the first rail line to connect with Eufaula and Georgetown, Georgia. The Depot was abandoned in the late 1980s, when the City of Eufaula acquired the structure.

I move to read the opposite side of the marker, and snap a photograph of the long, yellow building with a red metal roof. According to the sign, the refurbished Depot now houses the Chamber of Commerce, Tourism Council, Main Street Eufaula, and other community groups.

As I continue toward the reservoir, which divides Alabama and Georgia, I pass North Forsyth Avenue. I flip open the reference book I’ve borrowed and search for information on the old Confederate Hospital. I recall from looking through the tourism material that the building, erected in 1836, is considered the first permanent structure in Eufaula. The building also served as a Tavern and, for a brief time, an Episcopal Church.

On pages 204 and 205,
Backtracking
recounts the memories of Mrs. Serena Hoole Brown, the granddaughter of Confederate General Hunter. She describes Eufaula on April 29th, 1865—the day General Sherman declared an end to the war between the states.

“…the upper floors of the stores were filled with ill and wounded soldiers…The private homes were like hospitals … the houses on the hill, on Eufaula and Randolph Streets. The old O’Harro house, a large hotel, was a hospital, and the two-story wooden court house was a separate ward for commissioned officers.”

Mrs. Hoole Brown goes on to describe that “…the large wooden two-story house on the bluff, at the foot of Broad Street was the ward for "the blood-poison cases-the gangrenous cases”…Every day had found the women of

Eufaula nursing the soldiers, sending their servants on foraging expeditions for eggs and chickens, and seeing to it that the surgeons and physicians were supplied with instruments, chloroform, morphine, quinine and such stores as were necessary. Dr. Hamilton M. Weedon, who was in charge of the hospital on the bluff, depended upon the efforts of the heroic women to supply him with a very excellent healing salve…made of alder pitch and blooms.”

I close the book and continue walking. The Old Confederate Hospital—now a private residence—sits nestled among the trees that drip with Spanish moss. It’s a lovely building, painted yellow with white trim. Double porches stretch the entire length of the façade.

For a moment, I can almost see the women in hoop skirts and shawls, tending to broken and bloodied confederate soldiers, many just boys. I can imagine the acrid sting of chloroform in the air and the sound of moans and suffering. It is a painful, heartbreaking thought, and I wonder how many families were ripped apart by the battles, how many men—fathers, brothers, and sons—lost their lives in this small part of the state. I shudder and blink against the tears trying to spill over on my lashes.

With a shake of my head, I regain my composure and focus. It’s time to hurry back and find Shug. I adjust the strap of my purse and reach for my camera. Though the city is full of historic landmarks, and the residents are used to tourists, I am mindful of not disturbing anyone. While the street is still peaceful and quiet, I snap a photograph.

The familiar purr of a Mustang engine rumbles behind me. “Hey stranger,” Shug calls. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“Hey, I am so sorry—” I begin to explain.

He waves away my explanation. “Ah, I thought you’d need some rest after yesterday. When I came by to check on you last night, Roger said he hadn’t heard a sound from your room.” He smiles up at me. “We peeked through the keyhole to see if you were still breathing.”

“You did not—” I accuse him and wag a finger. “I’ll tell your mother on you.”

Shug holds up both hands. “Please, anything but that.”

“All right, but no spying,” I offer a stern look. “It was early when I woke up, so I decided to take the solo tour.” I hold up the camera. “I was on my way to see you next. And apologize.”

“For standing me up?” He laughs. “Well, had you been able to make our date, I would have taken you to a really upscale place…” Shug lets his voice drift off. When he lets his eyes roll back, I know that he’s joking.

“So I blew it?” I play along, ignoring the word ‘date.’ I put both hands on my hips. “Well, don’t leave me guessing. What did I miss?”

“Phil’s down-home barbeque.” He grins in delight. “Best butts in Alabama.”

“I’ll bet you they sell a t-shirt with that saying,” I tease back.

“Only if you eat enough pork and potato salad. You can get gifts for all of your Yankee friends,” he winks. “But, first, you have to try some other Alabama favorites—collard greens, ham hock, and butter beans.”

“Now you’re scaring me,” I cross my arms. “What is ham hock and butter beans?”

“Well, you’ll have to find out later,” Shug says and pats the seat next to him. “We have to get to Shorter Mansion first. My mom’s had her nerve pill—or two—Ella Rae’s dressed and ready, and PD’s so spun up, she might not sleep for weeks. Wait ’til you taste what she’s come up with.”

“Something better than Donut King?” I say and arch an eyebrow as I walk around to the other side of the Mustang and ease into the passenger seat.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he says, cranking the engine. “But she is my sister. I’d like to stay on speaking terms with my family. I think…I think I’ll let you decide.”

“And what if I don’t like it?” I squint and wrinkle my nose.

Shug turns the wheel and eases to a stop. “We’ll have to put you in there.” He gestures out my window to a small one-story brick building.

“It says Old City Jail Salon,” I read the sign, puzzled. “As in a
hair salon
?”

Shug rubs his hands together. “It is now, but it was the old city jail. Still has the original iron grille, doors, and threshold. They moved it here from behind the courthouse in 1985.”

“And?”

“And if you get out of line, we’ll just lock you up in there until you behave or I get you a flight home,” Shug explains, his face serious. “It’s nice and cozy, with only two cells and not much chance of escape. The brick walls are a foot thick, the ceiling has three layers of boards.”

“Only two cells?” I blink my eyes.

His voice gets low. “One for men, the other one for women and lunatics.”

I frown at Shug. “What lunatics?”

“Don’t worry. You’re still okay.” He’s trying not to laugh.

“Me? Worried?” I throw up my hands, let them drop, and settle back against the seat. “Oh, not at all.” I giggle. “Just remember, Shug Jordan. If there’s no me, there’s no article.”

“Ah,” he slaps his forehead, “I knew there was something I was forgetting.”

Chapter 20

We are still laughing when Shug pulls up and parks in front of Roger’s B&B. My host is standing on the bottom porch step, looking dashing in a trim, dark suit and polished shoes.

When I step out of the Mustang, Roger ambles forward, bows, and offers me a hand.

“See you in about an hour?” Shug asks, looking from me to Roger. “Better make it forty-five minutes, just to be sure.”

Roger winks at me. “I’ll make sure Sleeping Beauty gets to the lunch, is wearing something lovely, and has both of her glass slippers. Go on, Shug. Never you mind. Go see about Aubie and PD. And I’ll escort Miss Julia to the soiree.”

Shug seems relieved.

“Oh, and by the way, someone
else
is looking for you…rather urgently.” Roger knits his eyebrows together and jerks his head in a not-so-subtle way toward Shorter Mansion.

With a jolt, I realize that it’s Mary Katherine.

Shug knows it, too. He frowns and waves. We watch him drive off, my arm linked in Roger’s, and I try to shake off the feeling that Mary Katherine is just wound a little tight. She’s over-protective and perhaps a tad jealous. There’s nothing but my assignment between me and Shug Jordan. After I leave, there won’t be a reason to come back to Eufaula, and the two of them won’t ever have to see me again.