Dancing Naked in Dixie (21 page)

With a gulp, I try the first door. It’s is a simple bedroom with a small bed and dresser. The second, much bigger, contains glass-encased displays of period clothing, long, faded dresses, and children’s outfits from the 1800s. With a sigh, I move on to door number three, which ends up being a small, dark closet containing quite a few dingy gray cobwebs and a number of perturbed spiders that scuttle away in the light. I muffle a yelp and close my eyes, easing a few steps away from the opening.

The hallway is silent, though my heart is galloping like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby. I don’t hear the voices anymore, so I chalk it up to my overactive imagination and the glass of wine I polished off downstairs.

With a hesitant hand, I grasp the doorknob on one of the two remaining doors. It’s stuck for some reason, but I give it a frustrated yank, and pull it wide open.

This time, there is a scream, but I’m not sure if it’s mine, or Mary Katherine’s.

Chapter 23

“It’s you!” Mary Katherine leaps to her stiletto-clad feet as if she’s been stabbed in the derriere with a dinner fork.

“Julia?” A bewildered Shug shifts his gaze from his girlfriend to me.

I begin to stutter. “I-I was only looking for the ladies’ room,” I explain. “The one downstairs…” But, I realize that no excuse matters when it comes to a jealous girlfriend.

Mary Katherine stalks toward me, pointing a manicured fingertip. “You were following us. You’ve been lurking over my shoulder since you got here. Why can’t you just leave us alone?” She is seething with anger, her voice scaling a few octaves.

I step back from her, trying not to trip over my own wobbling ankles. "Listen. I am simply doing my job. I have to write a story on Eufaula’s Pilgrimage. That’s it." If I had a white flag, I’d be waving it.

Shug pulls us apart. “Mary Katherine, that’s enough. Do you want all of Eufaula to hear you having a hissy fit on the night of the Christmas Tour? Is that how you’d like this evening to be remembered for the next three-hundred and sixty-five days?”

I press my lips together, holding back from launching another verbal attack on Mary Katherine. Shug seems to be holding his own.

His girlfriend juts out her bottom lip and scuffs the floor with the toe of her silver shoe. “No,” she mutters like a child who’s been caught drawing on the wall of her Sunday school room with bright pink permanent marker.

“I’m surprised,” he continues, “at both of you.” Shug shoots me a look that borders on disappointment—or contempt—I can’t tell because my eyes are filling up with tears faster than I can wipe them away.

There’s a knock at the door and the three of us look up to see PD in the hallway with Ella Rae at her side. “We were looking for you,” she says, confusion filling her face. “Dinner’s going to be served in a few moments and I didn’t want y’all to miss it.”

No one answers.

“Uh, Mama, Uncle Shug? Why are y’all three in the bathroom together?” Ella Rae twists her face into a sly smirk and eyeballs Mary Katherine. “That’s weird.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Shug walks out of the cramped space to scoop up his niece. He lets out a forced chortle.

“Now, we were just having a little meeting about how many of those treats you’ve been eating. You know, the ones with the marshmallows inside them?” He is tickling her and she is giggling with laughter. “Are there any left? Any at all? I’m going to be mighty hurt if there’s only a crumb.”

The steps creak as Shug carries Ella Rae downstairs. PD remains standing in the doorway, looking back and forth from me to her brother’s girlfriend. Finally, she manages a bewildered smile. “Well, okay then.”

I hang back, clinging to the windowsill while Mary Katherine flounces past. I can hear the thump of the steps as she descends to the foyer with a decidedly un-ladylike stomp-stomp. “Can you give me a moment?” I ask, not able to read her face. “I’ll be right down.”

PD nods. “Take all the time you need.”

Less than ten minutes later, the incident upstairs is forgotten, overshadowed by the sumptuous spread of food. I slip an engraved menu card in my purse for safekeeping, but not before reading over the extensive list of Southern dishes laid out on the table.

Fried Green Tomatoes, Deviled Eggs, Fried Okra
Squash Casserole, Collard Greens, Buttered Yeast Rolls
Fried chicken, Smothered Pork Chops, Chicken Pot Pie
Homemade Banana Pudding & PD’s Pillow Pockets

My plate is heaping with samples of everything but dessert. Wine is poured, water glasses filled and refilled. I’m seated—thankfully—next to Roger, who carries the conversation with ease and grace. Not surprisingly, my appetite has waned, and I move the delicious portions of food around on my plate, hoping that it will appear like I’ve sampled a little of everything and am just watching my figure.

Roger leans toward my ear. “Just try to eat something. A bite or two, or everyone will think you don’t like it. And they’ll never forgive you.” He smiles and laughs at someone across the table, but keeps a strict eye on me. I raise my fork and take a small bite of collard greens, which are bathed in butter and cooked to perfection.

After I set my fork down, my stomach twists in protest, and I dab at my lips with my napkin. In the next room, I can hear Mary Katherine’s shrill laugh. Shug’s deep voice follows and, for now, it seems that peace has been restored in their little corner of paradise.

Silly me, I chide myself. I am here to do a job. Report on an event and go back home. My place is in the City, I tell myself, and there will be another story and another town to visit next week. I steel myself with thoughts of finishing the article tonight, flying back, and presenting a perfect specimen of my writing—on time—to David’s shocked face. Somehow, even that tiny amount of anticipated satisfaction has lost its zing.

Perhaps it’s because—somehow in the last few days—I’ve realized that my life is better spent being happy and moving forward than getting back at people who’ve hurt me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve figured out that my job—my career—is more than writing about a pretty place, with lovely food and plush hotels. My career is about sharing stories about people, and how those individuals and families, not geography, makes up the lifeblood and future of that city or place. And finally, perhaps it’s because I like it here and I’m a little more than sad to leave.

As the conversation swirls around me, and dessert is served, I absorb the remaining moments of the evening. When the chairs are pushed back, and everyone chats over coffee, a shout of excitement comes from the foyer.

There’s a rush toward the front of the mansion and a clatter of heels on the wood floor. I can hear Ella Rae calling for her mother. Mary Katherine rushes by the table, dragging Shug by the hand. Even Aubie totters toward the parlor windows, pushing MeeMaw in her wheelchair.

Roger and I are the only two left at the table. He grins in my direction and shakes his head. “It figures,” he says.

“What is it?” I ask. “What are they saying?”

“Sugar,” Roger laughs and points to the top of the windows. “Can’t you see it? It’s snowing.”

By the time Roger and I reach the front door, the entire dinner party has drifted outside. The night sky is like a snow globe, with swirling white flakes drifting down and melting on everything they touch.

“It’s amazing,” someone shouts.

“This hasn’t happened in forever.”

“Someone get a camera.”

There are squeals of excitement and more than one person trying to catch the frozen particles in their hands. Aubie is twirling around in circles and I’m not sure why she hasn’t fallen, though it’s a little magical to watch her so happy.

One by one, the outside lights on other houses flick on and the owners step out on their front porches. There are greetings exchanged, more laughter, and the sound of children squealing in delight. Ella Rae is spinning, curls bouncing, both arms outspread. PD is laughing and clapping her hands. Our eyes meet across the street and we share a smile.

“I think you brought the weather,” Roger accuses me.

“You may be right,” I tease him back and link my arm through his. “All right, now—do what I do. When you catch a snowflake in your mouth, make a wish.”

I tilt my head back and motion for Roger to do the same. It’s what my mother and I used to do on the first day of any snowfall. As a child, dressed in a scarf and mittens, holding my mother’s hand, I remember wishing for a puppy and a pink bicycle with streamers on the handles. One year, I wished for a trip to Disney World so that I could meet Cinderella in her castle.

Tonight, though, as the cold touches my tongue, cheeks, and eyelashes, I don’t wish for a gift or something a person can buy in a store or find in a glossy magazine or catalog.

Tonight, I blink up at the velvet night sky and wish for my heart’s desire.

When I lower my chin and glance over at Roger, he is wiping his eyes. He grins and puts a finger to his lips. I smile back at my friend and wonder what he was wishing for. I don’t ask, not wanting to break the spell, and look around for the one person who’d truly make my night complete. I’m still clinging to Roger’s arm when I see him.

Shug has his arms around Mary Katherine, her long hair like a golden waterfall cascading down her back. As the snowflakes dip and twirl around them, they’ve pressed their foreheads together and are whispering. I want to look away, but can’t bring myself to do it.

It’s like a scene out of a fairytale, when the rest of the world melts away with a kiss. And the prince and princess live happily ever after.

That’s how the story goes, isn’t it?

Chapter 24

Despite my exhaustion, I pack my bag. It’s close to midnight. My feet are aching and my body is yearning for a nice, hot bath.

Can’t rest yet. Too much to do
, I tell myself, and force my fingers to dial the phone. By now, I’ve decided that Delta Airlines could have a dedicated line for Yankees in the Deep South who change their plane reservations at the last minute. I’m daydreaming about this when the operator answers and greets me with a nasal, but cheery tone.

The sound in my ear is familiar and oh-so-New York, but the effect is jarring. In the span of four days, I’ve become accustomed to the languid drawl of Southerners; the adorable accent and the way everyone says ‘y’all.’ Even phrases like ‘bless your heart’ have grown on me.

“Ma’am? Can I help you?” the operator repeats, not quite perturbed yet.

“Yes, yes,” I recover, shaking my head to clear it, and inquire about securing an earlier flight.

“No seats open right now.” There’s a pause, and the clicking of a keyboard in the background. It sounds like a fast-forward version of Morse code. “You can fly standby,” she offers. “Just get to Hartsfield as soon as you can.”

She rattles off possible flight times, departure gates, and change fees so quickly that my hand cramps as I jot down the details. A reminder that my life—and everyone else’s north of the Mason-Dixon line—functions at warp speed 24/7.

I hang up, hold the cell phone to my chest, and watch the snowflakes still drifting toward the ground. It’s as if the wintry weather is beckoning me home, no matter that my heart and head are in a bitter struggle to leave or stay.

When I say ‘stay,’ it would only mean half a day—prolonging the inevitable departure, really. A quick breakfast, a polite chat, and perhaps one last stroll along the magnificent homes that line North Eufaula Street.

The snow would be melted by then, the sidewalks wet and glistening in the morning sun. And there would be Mary Katherine to face, with my luck, simpering and parading Shug around like a trained show dog.

No, it’s just not something I’m willing to witness. The tug I feel in my heart is an adolescent crush, I tell myself. And an unrequited one at that. He’s polite, a Southern gentleman, anyone could misinterpret the signals.

I allow the curtains to fall closed, as the snow has stopped. I switch off the overhead light, and then turn on the small lamp at the tiny writing desk. Out of habit, and years of hotel room-life, I pull out the middle drawer of the desk. The scent of cedar hits my nose and I breathe it in. Without looking down, I know that there’ll be a pen, a small pad of notepaper, and a red Bible.

My hand sweeps the back of the opening, and my fingers find what they are seeking: a small stack of glossy postcards. I pull them out and hold them closer to the light bulb. There’s Shorter Mansion with its pillars, Fendall Hall, and the Confederate Monument, followed by Carnegie Library—which I’d still love to see, but is closed on Sundays. Last, there’s a postcard declaring Lake Eufaula the “Big Bass Capital of the World.” The fine print describes the 640 mile-long shoreline, Lakepoint Resort State Park, and a nearby National Wildlife Refuge.

With the clock moving ever forward toward morning, I pick up the pen and paper and begin to write. First, a note to Roger for his hospitality and another to PD, for listening. When it comes time to write the third, I hover my pen over the page, thinking about Shug. Writer’s block isn’t something I’ve experienced, so when my fingers refuse to form letters, I know that I’m in trouble.

After the fourth crumpled note, I straighten my arms, shake out my hands, and focus. Polite. Proper. To the point. When I’m finished, I sign my name, fold the papers, and lick the envelopes. I tiptoe to Roger’s oak roll-top desk, where I prop the cards under the lamp. He’s sure to see them in the morning. By then, I’ll be long gone.

When I stand back from the desk, my gaze falls on a basket. It’s out of place for Roger’s formal parlor, tied with pink ribbons, and stuffed with tissue paper the color of cotton candy. There’s a floral tag attached, and my name is written on it with a delicate script.

I lean closer. The smell of home-baked goods wafts up, sugar, chocolate, and hazelnut. Somehow, PD knew I was leaving. This is my care package for the trip home.

It’s a miracle, but my missing bag has been located and is waiting for me when I arrive in Atlanta. I check in, head for the gate, and manage to snag the very last seat on the plane.