Dixie Diva Blues (16 page)

“Look,” said Daddy excitedly. “It has a built-in camera that takes video and still shots, and you can even access the Internet on it. See? All those icons pop up when you press this button—it has an alarm clock, you can set it for voice reminders . . . it’s the latest thing, punkin. What do you think?”

What I really thought was that it was a shame my parents had been duped by some telephone salesman, but they were both so pleased on my behalf I couldn’t let them down.

“It’s great,” I said in as enthusiastic a tone as I could manage. “How much does it cost?”

“Oh, that’s the best part,” said Daddy. “It’s only nine ninety-nine a month.”

I looked up at him. “Unh hunh. How much is that after taxes and extras? Gotta stick to the old budget, y’know.”

“Oh no,” Mama said. “This is on us, honey. It’s so cheap, you see, and now we can call to make sure you’re safe.”

It was the last part of her sentence that got me, as I’m sure she knew it would. I knew I had to relinquish my final resistance to technology just to please my parents. Such is life.

“Here,” said my father, “give it to me and I’ll get it set up for you. This is your new number here—” He pushed a button and it flashed a ten-digit number at me. “And if you want to, you can set it on a certain ring for each person so you know who’s calling.”

I won’t bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say that an hour and forty-five minutes later—and two calls to tech support—we had my cell phone sufficiently in shape to be carted around with me like a third arm. Hello, global communication, farewell, peace and privacy.

Of course, I couldn’t let my parents pay my cell phone bill even if it was on a family plan, so by the time I went up to bed they had agreed to let me pay the $9.99 per month but insisted upon paying all taxes and extras. Since the bill was in their name, it seemed like a bargain. At least no one could track me down that I didn’t want to hear from.

Life is full of little surprises, isn’t it? I’m sure I never dreamed that having a cell phone would almost get me killed.

CHAPTER 8

“I hear you’ve been out snooping around on your own,” Bitty said when I met her at her house the next day. “Rayna told me.”

“Actually, the only snooping I did was trying to find buttermilk at the Big Star. I was accosted by a crazy woman in the meat aisle.”

“Still, it’s very bad of you to go off on your own without telling me, Trinket. You might have asked if I wanted to go with you.”

I stared at her in mild astonishment. “Boy, you crazy people really should start your own club. I’d just left your house when I ran into Miranda—or when she stalked me—and it never occurred to me that you’d want to leave Jackson Lee and come talk to a woman you’ve professed to dislike numerous times.”

“See? You should have called me. If you’d just get a cell phone like I’ve been telling you to do, it would be so simple. I have no idea why you’re so dead-set against it.”

I kept my big mouth shut. If I told Bitty I had a cell phone, I had no doubt whatsoever that she’d be calling me at all hours with whatever crazy thought popped into her mind. So I let her ramble on a few minutes before I stuck in a comment. “It’s almost time to go, Bitty.”

Pausing with her mouth still open, she checked her watch against the clock on the kitchen wall, then shrugged. “We have fifteen minutes before Jackson Lee is supposed to be here to pick us up. Is Kit still going to meet us at Strawberry Plains?”

I nodded. “Yup. He had an emergency case come in at the last minute, so he’ll be a little while. I just told him I’d ride with y’all to the hummingbird festival.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re on a timetable or anything, but there are events scheduled at certain times, and I thought it’d be lovely to tour the house again.”

“That old home,” I said rather pensively. “It’s endured so much in its time and yet still remains. A beacon to history and endurance.
To—”

“Don’t get too maudlin, Trinket. It’s taken a lot of money and refurbishing to get the old Davis place in the shape it’s in now. The smartest thing the Finley girls ever did was donate it to the National Audubon Society.”

“True,” I agreed. “But they did a lot of the work themselves long before they died and bequeathed it to the Audubon Society. They wanted it to be a wildlife sanctuary, and I think it’s more than met that goal. Those ladies really did a noble thing by donating it.”

“I hope you aren’t suggesting I bequeath Six Chimneys to some society!”

“Lord, no. This place has survived Yankees, two lightning strikes, college kids, and a kitchen fire, and if it survives you, it should be allowed to rest in peace one day.”

Bitty said something a bit tacky to me, and I smiled at her. Two cups of coffee has less of an energizing effect on me than verbal dueling with my cousin, and I felt just about ready to face the day after our exchange. I’m afraid I’ve become rather slothful since my return to Holly Springs, and getting up early is the exception rather than the norm for me. I could blame my parents for allowing me to get too comfortable. I could, but I won’t. It’s my own fault. I should apply myself to job hunting instead of keeping busy with Bitty. It would be a lot more profitable, I’m quite sure.

Not to mention less exhausting.

Jackson Lee showed up at the front door before I could exercise my brain and mouth with more “tit for tat” with Bitty, and it wasn’t long before we were in his lovely car and headed out Highway 311 to Strawberry Plains. It’s a familiar drive for me since Cherryhill is located on a street off 311. Given that my father sold off most of our former land to developers, new houses have sprung up around the old farmhouse in neat little subdivisions. The old house still sits on about ten acres, which gives just enough room for privacy and what remains of the cherry orchard. Every spring confections of pink and white blossoms dot the back of the house next to the old barn. The barn has been renovated into a halfway house for all the wayward cats in the area, and my parents have taken on the responsibility of housing, feeding, and vetting every feline they can catch. The kitten population has been cut down drastically. Now spayed and neutered feral cats have little more to do than show up for mealtimes and chase mice. I can’t say they catch any. These are wily cats. They probably figure that as long as there are mice in the barn, there will be food in the dinner pans. They’re probably right.

Strawberry Plains sits off the highway a bit; a narrow road winds back to the sanctuary and wildlife center. It’s lined with trees on both sides, forming a tunnel of rich greenery, and ends in a parking lot situated in front of a low building housing the center’s greeting area. Paths lead through manicured lawns from the parking area to the Davis house. The antebellum home rises in gracious serenity; four white columns flank the doorway and windows like sentinels. History reports that the house was repeatedly raided and burned twice during the Civil War—also called the War of Northern Aggression or Mr. Lincoln’s War—and it was rebuilt in some fashion by the women and children left behind while the men of their family went off to fight. Recent history has been much kinder to the home. In the 1960s two sisters, Margaret Finley Shackleford and Ruth Finley, undertook the renovations of the house. Now it is a showcase of the community.

It was hot and humid, and the grounds were crowded with a lot more than the occasional wildlife. People milled about in a cabin that housed souvenirs and information about Strawberry Plains, and guides led long lines over the manicured lawns and amongst the trees. Even with the crowds, there was a feeling of peace and serenity.

Hummingbirds, those marvels of creation with jeweled throats and blurred wings, hovered around feeders filled with sugar-water. Their wings made a faint humming sound as they darted from feeder to feeder, the territorial ritual continuing despite the huge audience watching with delight. It’s something to see, it really is.

Bitty and Jackson Lee—sans pug—detoured to join a tour of the old house, and I took the opportunity to wander about the gardens without supervision. Sometimes it’s better to soak in the ambience rather than listen to the names of trees, plants, and the habits of woodland creatures. I’m sure I would benefit more by the latter, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to stand in dappled sunlight and drink in the beauty on my own.

It was restorative. All the craziness of the past few months faded from mind as I stood there with the warmth of morning sun filtering through oak leaves and the scent of late summer flowers in the air. I recognized some flower species like asters, lantanas, and roses, but there were unfamiliar blooms bursting out of groomed flowerbeds and dotting the landscape. I knelt to examine one of the little cards that would identify the plant; it was tucked into the mulch and snuggled up against lanky stems, almost hidden by wide purple-green leaves of the plant next to it. The area smelled faintly like root beer.

While I knelt there, I heard an odd sound and looked up. There was no one near me, nothing but the path and a low stone building set a short distance behind the main house. For an instant I had the feeling that I was being watched, then dismissed it. With the large crowd milling about, it would be more unusual
not
to be noticed.

I read part of the plant tag, enough to learn the plant in question was a blue cupflower, botanical name of
Nierembergia caerulea
. It was listed as an annual for the northern zones, but a perennial farther south. Holly Springs hovers on the line of zones 7 and 8. I know this only because my mother keeps up with important facts like that. Maybe her days of hauling wheelbarrows full of dirt and mulch are behind her, but she still likes to plant a few flowerbeds here and there.

If not for their trip down the Mississippi on a riverboat this past year, then their flight to Canada to escape the heat, I’m sure I would have been the one hauling around wheelbarrows of dirt and compost. As it was, Mama decided to forego all but flowerbeds already planted with perennials. Thank heavens.

I perused the flowerbeds for a while, stopping to read tags of the unfamiliar plants and just soaking up sunshine and serenity. Then I heard the same sound I’d heard earlier, and realized it was an argument of some kind. Not, unfortunately, hummingbirds over the feeders, but a very human disagreement between two men. My wandering had led me to a small patch of ground behind the low stone building occupied by Audubon Society workers, apparently. There was a red and white “Employees Only” sign on the wooden door that stood slightly ajar. An air conditioner unit whirred loudly nearby. I decided that discretion was required in case the quarreling employees inside the building came out.

So I was angling my way across the green patch of ground when someone came barreling up from behind me and nearly mowed me down. As it was, I was knocked flat. I sprawled on the grass and my purse went flying through the air. I didn’t hit hard, but hard enough to leave me breathless for a minute or two. All I saw was a blur of jeans-clad legs that rapidly disappeared into a crowd of tourists.

It occurred to me as I pushed myself to my knees, that no one even seemed to notice my fall. It had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that I could recall only the jarring sensation of being run into, then the unexpected slam of grass against my face.

Irritated by the rudeness of the person who hadn’t even bothered to stop and see if I was all right, I brushed grass and dirt from my knees and capris and muttered to myself about how society was going all to hell these days. No one had the manners of a goat. It was as if parents didn’t care about the basics of civility and courtesy. Really, what on earth was society coming to that grown people acted like wild gorillas?

I didn’t realize I was talking out loud until a stranger stopped beside me. “Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked.

My face got hot, and I said as graciously as I could when caught talking to myself, “Oh, I’m fine. I suppose he didn’t even see me.”

“Um, who didn’t see you?”

I paused. “The man who just knocked me down. Isn’t that why you asked if I’m all right?”

“Oh.” He smiled, and I noticed that he had on a plastic tag identifying him as an Audubon Society employee. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you standing here and seeming dazed. Here. Step inside where it’s cooler for a moment. You might have sunstroke. It’s so hot this year. Three digit temperatures in September.” He shook his head as he took my arm, then helped me pick up my purse. “Global warming is going to exterminate far too many species of animal and plant life, don’t you think?”

I knew better than to get involved in a discussion requiring not only thought, but my own opinions, so just “Um-hummed” and nodded as he led me to the stone building a few yards away. He frowned as he pushed the already open door wider and we stepped inside. I heard him mutter about wasting resources and how temporary employees had no sense of conservation as he released my arm and strode toward the rear of the building. I looked around. It had gotten immediately cooler the moment we stepped into the concrete shade of the low-roofed building. Long metal tables were set up, most holding some kind of plant; at one side was a desk cluttered with books, pamphlets, a phone, and computer. Papers were strewn about on the surface.

As my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, I wandered down the length of one of the metal tables. A cluster of moss grew in a shallow dish, and the air was pungent with the rich scent of damp earth. It felt more like an arboretum than a work space.