Dancing Naked in Dixie (26 page)

For Andrew and me, our “anytime” ends tonight.

Chapter 29

The sound of honking taxicabs and a rumbling trash truck jerk me out of a deep sleep. My head throbs. I press two fingers to my temple and open my eyes a millimeter against the bright light. The clock on my bedside table reads nine-thirty-two.

Nine-thirty-two in the morning?
No. No. No.
My brain rewinds. I’m scheduled for a meeting with David in one hour.
One hour.
I scramble to kick off the covers, bump my bandaged hand, and fight the nausea welling up in my throat.
The new Julia doesn’t sleep in on workdays. The new Julia shows up on time. The new Julia is responsible.

After wrestling off the cap, I swallow three Tylenol, throw a plastic bag over my wounded appendage and jump through the shower. One-handed, I run a comb through my wet hair, scrub my teeth, and pull on my favorite dark-rinse jeans and a black turtleneck. After I locate my scarf, gloves, and coat, I dial Dolores, tucking my cell under my chin while I wiggle my feet into my leather boots.

“David Sullivan’s office,” Dolores answers in her usual clipped manner.

“Good morning Dolores,” I say, breathless, “This is Julia. I have a ten-thirty with David. Please tell him I
will
be there. I was…delayed this morning.”

There’s a disapproving silence and the sound of rustling paper.

I squeeze the phone tighter to my shoulder and squint at my reflection in the mirror. “Dolores?” I say, “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the message. I know you’re really busy.”

After a beat, Dolores answers, her voice almost civil. “You’re welcome, Julia.”

Whew.

With a glance around the apartment for any last, needed items, my eyes fall on the envelope David handed me yesterday. I snatch it up, stuff it into my briefcase, and lock the door behind me.

When I reach the elevator, there’s a huge construction sign and yellow tape. I grit my teeth and take the stairs two at a time, the motion jiggling my aching brain and stitched-up hand. The ground floor has never been such a welcome sight. I burst onto the sidewalk and look for the yellow flash of a cab.

After being ignored by five drivers and being splashed by the sixth, one takes pity on me and pulls over to the curb. The hems of my pant legs are soaked, and I’m shaking when I slide inside the taxi. I smile at the man behind the wheel, rattle off the address of
Getaways
, and say a proper thank you. He nods in the rearview mirror and we take off, launching into traffic like a NASCAR pace vehicle.

As we weave in and out of lanes, I settle back against the seat and focus my thoughts. Andrew, my long-time boyfriend, is moving to London. The idea still shocks me, and I cringe when I remember our conversation. What I wouldn’t give for a mind-eraser device or a machine to zap a few hours from existence.

Andrew wasn’t proposing engagement. He was quitting the relationship, escaping, moving on. I blink back tears and gaze out at the hundreds of people moving down the New York sidewalks—all going somewhere, all meeting someone.

It had been over with Andrew for quite some time. He was the only one brave enough to say it. I’m not certain he would have stayed, even if I’d begged him last night. He’d had enough.

I owed him the truth. He deserved that—and more. But all I did was run away. My father did it to my mother. I’d done it to my father, my college boyfriends, and now Andrew.

It was time to grow up. It was time to stop. Even if it meant hurting someone’s feelings—or my own.

The driver pulls up to the tall silver building and I hand over the fare and a generous tip. I ease out of the cab with one hand, step onto the sidewalk, and check my watch. Thirteen minutes and counting until my meeting with David. It’s a miracle.

In the elevator, I squeeze into the corner behind two men and a group of six women, take out the manila envelope, flip it over, and lift the metal tabs. When I peek inside, my breath stops like someone’s clamped a vice on my windpipe.

It’s the same photograph Aubie Jordan gushed over at the dinner table.

The elevator stops and dings. The massive doors slide open and shut. We begin to move again, but I don’t look away from the young girl in the picture.

Snippets of that evening’s conversation come back to me in a rush. I can almost hear Aubie’s voice. “There was this reporter…I was just seventeen, and it was the first Pilgrimage, 1965…he took that photograph…that reporter. I can’t remember…” In my mind, I can see Aubie rubbing her forehead.
Was she trying to remember his name? The newspaper? Something about the day?

TJ was quite annoyed, I recall that. PD appeared nervous, and Shug dashed to the rescue when his mother fell apart.
What was the last thing she said?
I strain my memory.

And then, like a long-lost letter, it comes back to me. Aubie had drifted into a dream-like state, her tone soft and hopeful, with the flush of young love. “He was so handsome…A real gentleman. And I wore that dress. I still have it, you know, in the closet …”

The man next to me clears his throat, an obvious prompt aimed at me. I glance up at him, then over at the elevator doors, yawning open. It’s my floor. He’s holding the ‘open’ button and seems annoyed. I swallow.
How long have we been standing here?
I murmur an apology, hunch my shoulders, and rush into the office lobby.

While I’m attempting to sneak past the front desk, someone spots me.

“Julia,” a voice calls out.

I stop, square my body toward the desk, and sneak a look at my watch.
Darn it.
With a quick adjustment of the briefcase strap cutting into my collarbone, I raise an eyebrow at the receptionist and lower my voice. “Um, I’m in a hurry. I have a meeting with
David
,” I emphasize this by widening my eyes. “Who is it?”

Before she can answer, the office phone rings, and I hear the click of high heels and an unmistakable Southern drawl. “Julia, darlin’!”

I whirl around and come face to face with Dean Alice Waters, my seatmate from the Atlanta flight. She squeals and throws her arms around me, hugging me to her chest like she’d just won the lottery.

When I can breathe again, I manage a smile. “It’s great to see you, Dean Alice. I’m so surprised. How-how did you find me?” I blurt out in a not-so-discreet way.

With a peal of laughter, she touches my arm. “Sugar, you told me that you worked here.” She winks at me with long mascaraed lashes. “Even for a little old Southern belle like me, raised in tiny Dahlonega, Georgia, you aren’t that hard to find.”

I blink at her. For being so traumatized by airport security checks and two hours of severe turbulence at thirty-five thousand feet, Dean Alice is quite astute and has an incredible memory for details.

“Oh, Lord have mercy. Sakes alive! Whatever happened to your hand, darlin’?” She examines the bandages.

“Long story, but I’m fine,” I confess, then feel a stab of panic when my eyes fall on the clock above the reception desk. It’s ten-thirty. On the dot. And David said ten-thirty sharp. He’s likely to blow a gasket. “Look, Dean Alice, I hate to say this, but I actually have to run. I have a meeting—”

The receptionist behind us calls out. “That was David. He’s running late.”

“Thanks,” I reply, desperate to race back to my office, study the photo again, and figure out what the heck is going on with my father, Aubie Jordan, and Eufaula, Alabama. “Could you let Dolores know that I’m here, please? And ask her to buzz me when he gets in?”

After an affirmative nod from the receptionist, Dean Alice throws an arm around me and squeezes again. “Perfect! Then we can chat for a few moments.”

Her perfume wafts over me. I am light-headed enough as it is. I need food and strong coffee. Two or three cups of coffee, lots of cream, and a big pile of sugar. Instead of trying to delay the inevitable and ask Dean Alice to come back—or make an appointment like everyone else—I paste on my most polite and welcoming smile and wave for her to follow me.

Marietta watches as I lead Dean Alice back to the maze of office space. She notes the wrapping on my wrist and palm, pursing her lips with a concerned look in my direction, but says nothing in front of my guest. I make the introductions, the two women shake hands, and I collapse against the chair in my cozy cubicle. It’s still a mess, with piles of papers everywhere, but my visitor doesn’t seem to notice.

I jerk a desperate look at my best friend. “Food?” I mouth at her, grimacing.

“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.