Dancing Naked in Dixie (18 page)

For some reason, the thought isn’t reassuring and warm.

“May I?” Roger asks, watching me closely. He sweeps past me to open the door.

“Thank you.” I nod, pushing away my worries about Mary Katherine, and follow him inside.

“Now, Miss Julia, you just let me know if you need anything at all.” My host taps his fingertips together. “I’ll be right here, keeping an eye on the time.”

With the picture of a digital timer ticking down in my head, I scurry back to my room and open the armoire doors. When I reach inside to pull out my dress bag, there’s nothing inside. I feel all four corners, then the floor, with my hand. Empty.

Oh no. Where is it? I can’t have left…

I sit down and think hard about my luggage. After checking it with the ticket agents, I don’t recall picking it up at baggage claim. I was in a hurry. I was scattered and worried about getting the rental car. Rental monster truck, I think ruefully.

The digital clock is counting down. I race back out of my room to find Roger. He’s on his cell phone, but hangs up the second he sees my face. “Kisses, bye,” he whispers and presses end on his iPhone. “Julia, darling. What is it? You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

“Maybe my best friend’s dress?” I squeak. “I can’t find my luggage. My garment bag. I think it’s still at the Atlanta Airport. No,” I add. “I’m sure that it’s at the Atlanta Airport. In baggage claim.”

Roger nods, never taking his eyes off my face. “All right. So, we’ll fix this. We have…” he looks at his wrist. “…not much time.” He thinks, types a rapid text message and sends it into cyberspace, then takes my hand. “Come with me. Everything’s going to be fine.”

We end up a few doors down in a dress shop filled with enough sequins to stock the World Bank top to bottom. When I shoot an anxious ‘I’m trying to trust you’ look in Roger’s direction, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he points me to the dressing room, snaps his fingers, and smiles.

Right before I pull the curtains closed, he mouths, “Go on.”

I shrug out of my jacket, kick my shoes into the corner, and then shimmy out of my jeans and top. In my bra and panties and a pair of wool socks, I shiver. A male hand tosses a stack of dresses on top of the rod for my inspection.

“Um, I don’t know, Roger,” I say. “Aren’t they awfully bright?”
And short?

“Miss Julia, do you need something to wear?” he asks in a school principal’s tone of authority. “Something dressy and worthy of a New York City journalist?”

I almost salute. Dutifully, I hang up the shimmery cocktail frocks and pull on the first one, zipping it up. It’s red and sparkly. I feel like a human fire engine. The second is lemon yellow and not as laser-beam blinding, but it only covers an inch or two past my underwear line. Definitely not.

“I need to see these,” Roger prompts and knocks on the wood near my dressing room. “Julia, don’t be shy.”

“All right,” I compromise and wrestle the third dress over my head. It’s charcoal gray and long-sleeved with beading at the hem and sleeves. I dive through the curtains and appear to a half-circle of women and Roger. “Oh, hello.”

“Hey,” they all chorus at the same time.

Roger inspects the lines of the material and nods his approval. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “More to try on,” he says, giving me a gentle push toward the dressing room. “You need two gowns, not just one. There’s dinner tonight, don’t forget.”

Of course, that detail had completely slipped my mind. “You don’t think—”

“No,” Roger says, ending the discussion. “You cannot wear the same dress.”

I duck back into the changing room and check the price tag dangling under my arm. When I read the numbers, I almost pass out. The tiny little white tag tied with a pink ribbon says four hundred dollars. I check again to make sure. Now, I do feel sick because I’ve indeed read the amount correctly. Down to the last zero.

I peek out at Roger from between the curtains. “I don’t know. There may be a slight issue with my—”

The look on his face makes me falter and stop. I’m about to say ‘credit card,’ but his expression forbids it. He’s all business and obviously has something worked out with the owner and staff. I’m hoping it’s a 95 percent discount program for wayward Yankees who lose their luggage in Atlanta.

Roger doesn’t look much like a fairy godfather, but I’m starting to believe that he can work a little magic if the situation calls for it.

He takes another few dresses from a girl who’s been madly searching through the racks. With his hip stuck out to the right and a stern gaze, Roger holds the hangers in two fingers.

“We’re not discussing it,” he tells me in a clipped voice. He shoves the new stack in my direction. This group is fluffy and ruffled, not at all my style, but I accept the half-dozen selections without making a peep.

“You need two and it’s going to be taken care of. End of discussion.” With a flick of his wrist, he whirls his finger in the air for me to continue wrestling on the gowns.

I close the curtains. With a twist worthy of an acrobat, I unzip the dress and let it drop to the floor. I snatch it up in a hurry, hanging it back up as best I can.

Holding up the next pick with both hands, I bite my lip and grimace. It’s not my style at all. I hang up the rest and flick through them, pausing long enough to decide that none of them are appropriate for a thirty-two year old woman who’s attempting to maintain a shred of dignity.

Until I reach the very last frock Roger’s minion has chosen. It’s more subtle than the rest, the material in an off-white with gold trim. The design is sleek and formfitting, but enough so that my mother won’t turn over in her grave. With the right heels, it might work.

I slide it up my legs and over my hips, letting the silky satin graze my skin. It’s cool to the touch and makes me shiver, but the dress fits like a dream. When I turn around to check my figure in the mirror, I am amazed at the transformation.

“Knock, knock,” Roger booms from outside the fitting room. “Time’s a wastin’, sugar. Come on out, Julia.”

With another long glance at my backside, I straighten my shoulders and walk out into the center of the room. Roger, with his forehead almost touching one of the store workers, looks up and beams with joy. “That’s it. Perfect.” He nods, then jumps to attention and claps his hands. “Ladies! Shoes, we need shoes.”

Three minutes later, we’re loaded down with plastic dress bags and shoe boxes, traipsing back to the B&B. Roger is semi-smug and self-satisfied, though not in an unkind way. I have a feeling that he’s missed his secret calling on Project Runway or America’s Next Top Model.

When we reach the bedroom, I throw both arms around him and kiss his cheek. “You are amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says, the color rising in his neck and ears. He shakes his head and releases me, clapping his hands for attention. “Now, Miss Julia, you have five minutes.”

In record time, I run a comb through my hair, pin it up, and pull on the new outfit. The shoes pinch a bit in the toes, but I ignore it in my rush. I throw my cell phone and notebook into a small bag Roger thought to add to the ensemble. With a brush, I powder my face, sweep on eye shadow, then apply lipstick, and a light coat of mascara.

Roger’s waiting outside the room, checking his watch for the umpteenth time this hour. We race out the door and down the street. My thighs start to burn after a block, and I’m wishing I would have slathered my dry legs with lotion. But I’m keeping up the best I can, and am only slightly winded when we reach Shorter Mansion.

The foyer is full of women, and I can hear the chatter from outside the double doors. Roger doesn’t bother to knock, just steps inside, pressing an arm against the door to hold it back so that I can pass through. Once inside, I check the four corners of the room and strain my neck to see over the tops of well-coiffed heads.

Roger waves over a trio of women and exchanges air kisses. He introduces us, and then moves on to the next swarm of ladies in the opposite corner.

I trail behind him, absorbing the ornate décor, admiring the antique furniture, smiling at the unfamiliar faces. The female guests, with subtle glances, take time to appraise my dress and shoes. So far, I seem to pass inspection.

The men, packed in the left side of the house, are busy holding court. Roger leans in. “If I had to guess, the testosterone junkies behind us are busy discussing Auburn football and the number of days until the college season kicks off next August.” He rolls his eyes and straightens his suit and yellow tie. Peeking out from his sleeves are intricate gold cufflinks adoring each wrist glint. They wink at me under the light of the chandelier.

We say hello to a couple in the parlor, then move through a whirlwind of introductions in the dining room. The mayor, the city council members, business owners, and the president of the chamber of commerce all thank me for travelling to Eufaula. I make small talk, answer questions about New York, Central Park, and Rockefeller Center, but keep my eyes roving for broad shoulders and a shock of dark hair.

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s here,” Roger says in my ear, taking my elbow with his fingertips and steering me toward the kitchen.

I raise an eyebrow and slide him a perplexed glance. “He who? You mean Shug?” I am rambling, babbling, and I close my mouth before any additional information tumbles out.

Roger squeezes my arm. “It’s okay, sugar. You’d make a lovely couple. I can see it now,” he murmurs. “The cake, the streamers, the decorations. We can hold the service on the front lawn—or the back—if you prefer a more intimate ceremony.” He chuckles, the deep laugh of someone who knows more than they’re letting on.

“Oh, now, Roger, I’m surprised at you,” I chide and cluck my tongue. “You are absolutely making that up. How did you ever came to that conclusion? As a matter of fact,” I whisper, “I have a boyfriend in New York, and it is our anniversary next week. Tuesday.” With a rush of exhilaration, I defend Andrew and my honor like a knight protecting his kingdom, forgetting all about my plan to cool things off the moment I step off the plane.

“Poor Andrew. You might be fooling the rest of Eufaula, but there’s no mistaking—”

With a sharp intake of breath, I turn on my heel to clear up any misunderstanding about my relationship with Shug Jordan. Before I can utter a word, the sound of a hard snap echoes in the room. I don’t move. Roger blinks and looks down at my ankle.

“Sit down,” he clenches his teeth into a grin. I oblige in the nearest place I can find, eye level with wrists and ring fingers decorated with thick bangles and jingling jewelry. “It might be
you, too
,” he whispers.

I stare at him, trying to figure out what Roger means, but he’s already turned to wave at someone else.

“Hey, y’all,” a Southern voice carries over my head. “Yoo-hoo.” It’s Mary Katherine, honing in on our position, making a beeline for my pink tapestry-covered antique settee. She’s dragging Shug, who appears to have developed the flu or another illness that causes a person’s skin to appear a light shade of green and walk as if fifty-pound weights are attached to his feet.

“Mary Katherine,” I greet her, unable to get up, as Roger is holding me down with one hand, attempting—from the look on his face—to send telepathic thoughts to my muddled brain. “Hello. How are you?”

When I turn to greet Shug, she blocks my view. “Well, after I found my sweet boyfriend,” she pauses for effect, staring at me with the mirth of a prison guard, “I was able to gather myself together and come down here and help the other ladies with all of the festivities.”

While I wonder why Shug was needed for a decidedly female-run event, I nod politely.

Mary Katherine scrunches up her mouth in a pretty pout. “Whatever were y’all doing wandering around by the reservoir? I can’t image whatever could be that interesting, especially at that hour of the morning,” she feigns a yawn and bats her eyelashes at Shug. Her tone is laced with vinegar and there are sparks of anger beneath her smooth, ladylike demeanor.

I can’t help it. I am simmering, two seconds from explosion.
I was the one minding my own business
, I want to bellow. But I don’t answer, especially since Roger has gone from patting my arm to pinching it. Hard.

“Ow,” I yelp and cover my mouth. When I glare at him, Roger looks bemused. It’s his attempt to remind me that there are several hundred witnesses—I mean, guests—standing within earshot, just in case I decide to say or do anything stupid.

Mary Katherine gives me a funny look.

“Oh, it’s just my…arthritis kicking up,” I lie. “Terrible this time of year. In fact, I think I need my medicine. Roger, can you walk me back? It’ll only take a moment.”

He nods, “Of course. Just a moment. Stay here, will you, Julia?” Roger traipses over to chat with a tall woman in a huge hat and floor-length mink coat.

With Roger distracted, and Shug still behind her, Mary Katherine looks a shade happier. If she could figure out a way, I have no doubt Shug’s girlfriend would lock me out of Shorter Mansion until tomorrow morning or until everyone’s gone home. Maybe forever.

She puts a finger to her lips. “That’s such a shame about your arthritis. I had no idea. I thought arthritis was for older people.” Mary Katherine takes a dramatic breath, then waves her fingertips in the direction of the street. “If y’all don’t hurry, you’ll both miss the luncheon. And that would be such a shame, considering the magazine article and all…”

This causes Shug to frown and look in my direction.

I swallow and consider if she’s just offered a veiled threat. Surely, she’s beyond tattling on me about missing five minutes of Eufaula’s Christmas Tour lunch. Then again, it’s better not to underestimate one really pissed-off Southern belle.

There’s a moment of caustic silence.

“Well,” I smile brightly, “I’d better get going, then. And hurry back.”

On cue, Aubie claps her hands together and calls for everyone’s attention. “Lunch is served, everyone. Please join us. You’ll find a place card for your name.”