Dancing Naked in Dixie (34 page)

The wheels of the jet touch down and jerk back.

I grip the armrests and hold on. There’s a rush of power, and air pushing against the body of the airplane. We roll for what seems a million miles, sucking in the landscape, the lights and the air around us. Finally, the pilots ease the jet to a stop.
Welcome to Atlanta. It’s now safe to move about the cabin
, the flight attendant tells everyone.

Next to me, my father stirs. He’s dozed most of the trip, giving me plenty of time to think. When he brought up the idea of both of us going to the Pilgrimage, I admit I wasn’t at all convinced it was a good idea.

But, we’re in this together
, he told me. And despite any arguing to the contrary, I’ve decided that he’s right.

We both have our reasons for coming back.

My father’s reason is simple. Mine is a bit more complicated.

As all of the passengers shuffle together in the aisle, I reach for my red suitcase, grasp the handle, and carry it until we reach the terminal. Holding on tight helps stop my hand from shaking. After a forever-long hallway and a trip down the escalator, we reach baggage claim. The swirling, circling silver tracks mimic my insides. I’m a nervous mess on so many levels.

My father wants to talk to Aubie. He wants to apologize for leaving—and explain why he disappeared out of her life so many years ago. Even if she doesn’t forgive him, he’ll know he tried. Which is better than doing nothing at all.

I’m fine with it. Really. His attempt to make things right.

In the past few months, I’ve come to understand my father a little bit more. He’s a tough boss, sparing with praise. He wants the best out of his employees. He demands it.

At the same time, on the weekends, I glimpse a different side of David. He’s funny and smart. He has actual feelings. He’s not a jerk one hundred percent of the time.

I believe that he cared deeply about my mother. They had moments they were happy. They had me. They’d made a commitment—which they kept until my mother got ill.

This subject, we’ve never talked about.

David left one month after her diagnosis. I was angry. Furious. I wanted to hate him. When my mother passed away, I told myself that my father was dead to me, too. We didn’t speak after that.

But then, fate, dumb luck, coincidence—and yes, maybe our careers—brought us back together.

Before I go one step further, I decide that I need to know the truth.
Right now.

My father grabs his bags off the conveyor belt and waves to catch my attention. He stacks the pieces, rolls them toward me, and stops.

“Julia, what is it?”

“Why did you leave? Why did you leave mom? Right when she—” My voice breaks and I start to cry in the middle of baggage claim. Big, dripping tears, pent up from years of wondering and guessing. My shoulders shake with sobs and I swallow, trying to stop. I wipe my face with my sleeve.

Passengers who notice pause and detour around us. A few glare at my father. One kind stranger hands me a tissue.

With one hand, my father takes my elbow and leads me to a small bench. We sit down, knees touching. I’m still sniffling.

“Your mother didn’t ever ask me for anything. She never made any demands. She was the kindest, most gentle person I’ve ever met,” my father begins. “And when she found out she was sick, she didn’t admit it, but she was devastated. So was I. We were shocked. She was dying and didn’t have much time left.”

I press my knuckles against my lips and listen, watching every movement in my father’s face. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw is tight. He’s uncomfortable. But he keeps talking.

“So, not long after we found out, your mother did a lot of research on ALS. She knew Lou Gehrig’s disease was awful. She would be debilitated, helpless. And according to the specialists, it would happen soon. So, she made one request.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “What? What was it?”

My father swallows. “That I leave. That I say good-bye. And remember her as she was. Vibrant, healthy, active. Beautiful. And a woman who loved you and me.”

Everything stops.

The noise quiets. People freeze. I can’t breathe.

“But—” I blink, trying to digest what he’s saying. It doesn’t make sense. She wanted him to go. She knew she wouldn’t see him again.

“I told her no. I fought it. Told her she was being ridiculous. She made me promise not to tell you, until…after. Your mother was stubborn. She kept insisting it was the right thing—for me to go. Then, a few weeks later, she started having trouble swallowing.”

I nod, ever so slowly. In my mind, I can visualize her struggling.

“Your mother asked me one last time. Told me that if I ever loved her, if I respected her at all, that I would say good-bye.”

My eyes fill with tears again.

“So, I hired the best nurses, made sure your mother had around the clock care. You were there day and night.” He sighs. “I did what she asked, Julia, because it was her dying wish. It wasn’t my choice.”

Using the back of my hand, I dry my cheeks. I’m shocked. And bewildered.
My mother told him good-bye. Asked him to leave. She made him promise not to tell…until after.

I think back.

At the funeral, I didn’t speak to my father. After my mother’s burial, I disappeared from the cemetery. At home, I wouldn’t return his phone calls. At work, I refused to see him. There were letters, but I sent them back. I blocked his telephone number, his email.

I never let him explain. And finally, my father gave up.

After all of this time, I finally understand.

Epilogue

It’s only been three months, but driving into the city’s historic district, I can feel that Eufaula has survived and flourished. It’s the first day of the forty-eighth Pilgrimage and the candlelight tours are about to begin.

The azaleas are in full bloom, the deep green foliage bursting with every shade of pink and purple. The Dogwood trees are flourishing, each decorated with a trimming of white, lacy flowers. Curtains of Spanish moss drip from tree branches making a soft canopy overhead.

In front of Shorter Mansion, young girls in hoop skirts wave with gloved hands to passersby. The sidewalks are full of tourists of all ages—there must be a thousand people here. Everywhere I turn, visitors are taking photographs, scanning tour guide pamphlets, and enjoying the balmy evening.

We cruise through the historic district, and I feel a thrill of excitement as we pass several new construction sites. They’re not condominiums—the Phase III project was rejected after the explosions. After the public outcry, it’s likely that any similar projects won’t be attempted or approved.

There’s a new coat of trim and fresh paint on at least three of the mansions. Down the street, two historic homes are being rebuilt from the ground up. One plot of land belongs to Aubie Jordan. The other property was purchased by an investor—and Shug promised to tell me all about the new owner tonight.

My curiosity satisfied, David turns the car around and we travel back up North Eufaula Street. We turn, pass Roger’s B&B—we’ll be staying there tonight—and look for the gourmet restaurant and boutique where we’re meeting all of our friends. I spot a jaunty painted sign up ahead, set high above a parking lot full of cars. There are swirls and dots of blue and yellow, with the outline of a cupcake under the fancy lettering. My friend, PD Jordan, is now the proud owner of Alabama’s newest and finest gourmet bakery,
Ella Rae’s Sweets
.

Tonight is the grand opening, and PD’s throwing a party to celebrate. Everyone who’s anyone in Eufaula will be there: MeeMaw, the Jordan matriarch who gave her granddaughter the seed money to get the business started, Ella Rae, PD’s seven-year old daughter and tasting supervisor, as well as celebrity restaurateur Dean Alice Waters, famous for her signature desserts.

As we pull up and park, I see Roger waiting by the door. My favorite innkeeper, shopping savior, and occasional knight in shining armor finally made it to New York for a whirlwind weekend in February. I swear that Roger didn’t sleep one wink the entire seventy-two hours. We saw four Broadway shows, dined at the Four Seasons with my father, and took in the skyline from the top of the Empire State Building. He’s already making plans for another visit.

My father cuts the engine, and I bound out of the car. Letting out a small squeal of delight, I walk into Roger’s waiting arms.

“Darling.” He hugs me, then kisses both of my cheeks and holds me out in front of him. “It’s been too long. Forever.”

“It’s been—what? Six weeks?” I shoot him a coy look. “Did you miss me?”

Roger winks like he’s got a big secret. “Not as much as
someone
else did…”

“I can only guess who you two are talking about.” My father’s voice calls out behind me. David walks up, thrusts out an arm and grips Roger’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Ready?” Roger tilts his head toward the bakery entrance.

I peer over his shoulder to look inside the open window. Music, soft jazz, floats outside, along with the scent of fresh-baked cupcakes and cookies. The room is thick with people, groups of three and four gathered around tall, skinny tables. Everyone’s carrying small plates of frosted delicacies or sipping glasses of champagne.

In one corner, a camera flash goes off, followed by peals of laughter. On the opposite wall, I spot PD and Alice Dean surrounded by a crowd of admirers. They’re wearing matching ruffled aprons with blue and yellow trim to match the bakery décor.

“Shall we?” Roger nudges me.

My father, taking the hint, opens the door for me. His eyes roam the room, no doubt looking for Aubie.

Pearl and Shirl grab me as soon as I take a step over the threshold. “Welcome back,” they greet me in unison. I wave hello to Elma and blink to make sure I’m seeing the same Stump I met back in November. After a much-needed haircut and shave, I have to admit he’s a changed man in his dapper seersucker suit.

Roger follows close behind me and snatches a pair of delicate champagne flutes off the nearest tray. “Let’s go visit with the ladies of the hour,” he says, linking his arm with mine and steering me toward Dean Alice and PD.

With a small twist of anxiety, I can’t help but wonder what’s happened to Shug.
He said he’d be here. Did he change his mind? Did something happen?

There’s a change in music, a few familiar notes play, then a huge spotlight clicks on the exact spot where I’m standing. I throw up a hand to shield my face, then grope with the other for Roger. I need to steady myself, but he’s gone, too. I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare, wait for someone to turn it off, and try to balance.

A booming male voice croons out the first line of the song:
Start spreading the news…I’m leavin’ today…

My brain flickers with recognition.
Frank Sinatra.
New York, New York.

I swear that I can hear my father singing along. Roger’s voice chimes in.
These vagabond shoes…are longing to stray…

Then, the strangest thing happens. The
entire roomful of people joins in.
Darn this spotlight anyway.
I force my eyes open, squinting to see. PD’s grinning at me. So is Dean Alice. How does anyone here know this song?

To find I’m king of the hill…top of the heap…

Aubie eases out of a shadow singing her lungs out, holding hands with Ella Rae and MeeMaw. Shug’s right, Aubie looks great. Ten years younger.

Somehow, Roger now has half the room formed into a Radio City Rockette kick line to wrap up the song. He’s conducting the dancers, urging their legs higher. If this keeps up much longer, someone is going to get hurt.

Come on. Come through, New York, New York …

Everyone whoops with laugher and offers a round of rousing applause. Roger takes a bow. More clapping. The man’s obviously missed his theatre calling.

When the noise dies down to a reasonable level, someone whistles for quiet. PD holds out both arms, waving for attention.

“Thank y’all so much for coming out tonight. What a great party!” She pauses to catch her breath. “I’ll bet a few of you—especially those of you from out of town—are wondering about the choice of music.” PD winks at me. “And that particular selection was chosen for tonight’s guest of honor!”

There’s a drum roll from somewhere, and I’m dragged, pushed, turned around, and stuck in between PD and Dean Alice. Everyone here is staring at us. The three of us. And I’m smack-dab in the middle.

I catch Roger’s eye and make a frantic ‘help’ face. He shrugs and covers a smile, then leans over to say something to my father. They both chuckle.

PD claps her hands a few times for attention.

“Most of y’all have met Julia Sullivan—or at least remember seeing her around town back during the Christmas Tour. Julia’s a talented writer and a fine person. I’m proud to call her my friend. You might not know this, but she nearly died when someone decided to blow up two of Eufaula’s historic homes.”

There’s a hush in the room.

I glance over at PD. Her eyes are shining with tears.

“After a trip to the hospital, and a few dozen band-aids, Julia recovered and wrote an amazing article about Eufaula, which drew national exposure for this year’s Pilgrimage.” She throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing tight. “As a gesture of our sincere appreciation, we’d like to present Julia with a small gift—a key to the city!”

The crowd parts. Through the opening, I glimpse the person I’ve been longing to see. Shug walks toward me, holding an ornate iron key cupped in the palm of his hand.

He steps toward me, smiling, and wraps me in his arms. “Hi stranger,” he whispers.

And then, he kisses me.

The next ten minutes are a delirious blur of clapping and yelling and congratulations.

And without interruption, the party resumes in full swing with Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”

“You knew and didn’t tell me?” I try to yell at Shug over the din.

He puts a hand on the small of my back and guides me out the back door.