Cancel the Wedding (23 page)

I gave Buddy the address of my rental house and my cell phone number. I had to stop myself from asking him if he had access to a telephone.

I hiked back down the path toward my car listening to the thuds of the black walnuts hitting the ground. I also said a little prayer for rain, suddenly worrying about the fate of Buddy's beloved trees.

I woke up the next day sore from the small hike up to Buddy's property and aching from being hit by the walnuts. Who knew that unshelled walnuts could make such good weapons? I spent most of the day wrapping up some things with work, not because I wanted to necessarily, but because it needed to be done and I could do it indoors. It had become unfathomably hot outside. I would put it on par with a solar detonation. The locals were referring to it as “summer.”

Elliott arrived at four o'clock, just as he had said in his note, and as soon as he was in the door I was gushing information. I told him all about the articles I had read in the paper regarding the fire and about my sojourn to Buddy's house. When I called him Buddy, Elliott knew immediately whom I was talking about. He knew all about the old man and his black walnut orchard up on the ridge. I showed him the purple-and-yellow bruise that had bloomed on my shoulder overnight.

Elliott moved the thin strap of my sundress off my shoulder and examined the bruise. Having his fingers brush on my bare skin made me shiver. He asked, “Did the tree actually fall on you?”

“No, it was this giant green pod thing.”

“You know black walnut trees are really valuable. Buddy's land is worth a lot of money. I've heard that Emory was trying to buy it and get his hands on the old growth.” Elliott ran his finger over the bump on my shoulder, amused by the goose bumps it was causing to sprout on my arm. “I'm not sure it's safe for you to leave the house. You get hurt every time you venture out.”

“Very funny. I swear I'm not a klutz. These things just happen to me.” I added, “Through no fault of my own.” I headed toward the kitchen to get my purse.

He said, “All evidence to the contrary,” as he followed behind me.

I pushed through the swinging kitchen doors and once again smiled at the very elaborate note hanging from the ceiling. He was surprised that I had left it all hanging there, but looking at it made me happy so I kept it.

“This is maybe the best note anyone has ever left me. How did you break in here to put this up?”

“Your door was unlocked.”

“Really?” I was sure I locked the door every night before we went to bed. I looked around a bit, out of convention, to see if anything was missing or out of place. “I lock it every night.” I was starting to feel like I was being watched. “And you know what else? The maps I was looking for at the library, the exact map pages that I needed, had been cut out of the plat book. The only pages I needed! Now I find out that my door was open? What if someone broke in here?”

Elliott looked like he was trying not to laugh at me. “You're losing it. Logan had unlocked the door, not the boogie man.”

Oh, there goes my conspiracy theory.
I said, “Did she tell you that she had opened it?”

“Yes, she had gone out to get her shoes from the front step.”

“Are you sure?” I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was trying to put a stop to my investigation.

He was definitely amused by my quaint but ridiculous suspicions. “I need to make you lose that big-city paranoia.”

I balled up one of the coffee filters hanging at my disposal and tossed it at his head. “I'm telling you, something weird is going on. First, the journals were gone from the reading room, then the map pages were cut from the book, and now my house was broken into.”

“Your house wasn't broken into.”

“It wasn't?” It was hard to feel unsafe when Elliott was standing in my kitchen.

“No, I think you're just a little bit crazy.” He smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter. I found myself staring at him, at the lopsided smile on his face, and recognizing the fact that we were all alone here. No Logan to come bursting in to interrupt us. Elliott broke the silence. “Are you ready?” He held his hand out to me.

I shook some distracting thoughts from my mind. “Sure. Where exactly are we going?”

“We're going to Betty Chatham's garden club party.”

“We are?” I glanced down at my sundress wondering if it was too casual. “Is it outside? It's so hot outside.”

My reaction made him laugh. “It's a garden party. You can probably count on it being in a garden.” He led me out the front door. “Betty called me and said she wanted you to meet their guest speaker. She didn't know where you were hiding yourself so she called me.” He glanced at his watch. “We need to be there in ten minutes.”

We followed Old Post Road outside of town. Elliott turned onto a gravel drive that had been marked by a bouquet of white balloons tied to an old wooden wagon overflowing with bright pink blooming azaleas. The gravel drive led through a canopy of dogwoods and then opened up to a vast green lawn. The dark gray of the gravel cut a curving sliver through the green grass ending in a courtyard in front of a white antebellum mansion.

The art historian in me was dying to go inside. The house sat on a foundation of dark granite that matched the driveway. The steps and floor of the deep portico were painted gray, offsetting the crisp white of the house. There were six two-story Corinthian columns on the façade sitting atop raised pedestals. The hipped copper roof, weathered to a pale green, sloped gently back to meet the four brick chimney stacks that reached into the sky.

Elliott stopped the car at the front steps and a valet opened my door. I found myself just staring up at the gorgeous thing. The house, not the valet.

Elliott took my hand, pulling me to the side gate. “Come on.”

I protested. “Can't we go inside for just a second?”

“We're already late.”

As we walked around the side of the house I was too preoccupied with Elliott's hand to take any notice of the party. It was such a simple gesture, taking my hand to guide me through the yard, but it felt so intimate. I wrapped both of my hands around his and he squeezed mine in response. We were fully engulfed in the crowd before I even noticed that we had entered the fray.

Someone was already at the podium speaking. He was right; we were late. The party itself was set up on the rear brick patio, which was hemmed in by a low brick wall. Outside the patio, flanking it to the left and right, were formal French gardens strictly geometrical and meticulously manicured. Leading directly out from the patio was another lined pathway that stepped down to a pool and pool house.

Elliott guided me around the bar and I finally took full notice of the party guests. I was severely underdressed. The women were all wearing summer suits and elaborate hats.

Elliott was writing our names on some
HELLO MY NAME IS
badges as I tried to get my hair to stop sticking to my sweaty neck. It was no use. I whispered, “I should be more dressed up.”

“You look great. Don't worry.” He stuck the badge to my sundress and leaned in so that only I could hear him. “At least you're not the only man at the party.”

We meandered through the round tables covered in starched white linens and floral-patterned china, looking for our assigned seats and trying to make as little noise as possible. It was made difficult because women kept grabbing Elliott's hand as he passed by. They were thrilled to see him there, as he was, in fact, the only man at the party. Our progress was followed with a chorus of: Why Elliott, it's so nice to see you. How're you doing, Eli? Writing an article for the paper? How's your sister/brother/father/mother? It's lovely to see you here, Eli.

By the time we sat down, the opening speaker had finished with the club's business and Betty Chatham was standing to introduce the guest. Betty winked in my direction, appearing excited to be sharing this experience with me. A troupe of waiters began to serve iced tea and tiny sandwiches in unison as Betty introduced the speaker, Mrs. Grant Baker.

Mrs. Grant Baker, or Florence, had been invited to speak to the club at the insistence of Betty Chatham. That sent a murmur of laughter through the crowd; I would imagine it was hard to turn down Betty when she was insisting. Florence was here to speak about her journey from being the premier party planner in North Georgia to the sole owner of the local minor league baseball team.

Her story was interesting. I just couldn't figure out what it had to do with me or why Betty had tracked me down to hear it. Florence's husband, Grant, had grown up playing baseball, including a one-year stint in the majors before doing two tours in Vietnam. He returned from the war, went to law school, and became a tax attorney. But he always wanted in some way to return to baseball. When a minor league franchise became available they took a chance and bought it.

I glanced around, mostly at Elliott. He looked so nice in his crisp white linen shirt. I was fanning myself with my napkin. Why wasn't he as miserable as I was? I noticed he was taking notes, always the reporter.

I stole his pencil and wrote in the margin:
I'm melting.

Elliott:
Heat is your kryptonite.

He was funny. Me:
Why are we here?

Elliott:
Not sure. Did you tell Betty you were a big baseball fan?

Me:
Yes, I did. I told her I especially like the games in the middle of the day when the sun has exploded and
—he wrestled the pencil from me to write something else.

The two of us were giggling as he turned the paper over looking for a blank spot on which to write. A woman sitting at our table cleared her throat, an indication that she found our behavior terribly rude. Elliott and I gave our full attention back to the speaker.

Florence and Grant purchased a Class-A team, which was wallowing in low attendance at a dilapidated stadium in Mississippi. Their first order of business was to move the team to Gainesville, Georgia, where together with the state they were able to put together a multi-million-dollar funding deal for a new stadium to be built on the banks of Lake Lanier. The day of the groundbreaking ceremony Grant had a heart attack and died.

During the hushed whispers of sympathy that followed that statement I tried to dab the sweat on my forehead. I looked around at the women—some of them ancient, in their smartly tailored suits and huge hats—thinking that we were bound to have a man down before this thing was over.

Florence was going into great detail about how difficult it was when Grant first died and she was alone in the ownership of the franchise. As a minor league owner she had no real responsibility for the baseball aspects of the team. They were affiliated with a major league team that had full authority over which players were sent down and brought up, who would be playing, the coaching staff, all of it. As the construction on the new stadium was coming to an end and her financial woes were coming to a head, one of the coaches said something that changed everything. He told her, “You just have to get bodies in the seats, Flo, and make sure they have a good time. You're in charge of the experience.”

Florence realized that this was no different than planning a great party, and she knew how to throw a great party. The crowd murmured their agreement at that, her reputation preceding her. She turned the Gainesville team into the most financially successful franchise in the South Atlantic League.

There was a round of applause and then everyone began to chatter at the tables. A few people stood up and began milling around the white tent set up at one end of the patio, carrying their iced teas with them. The woman at our table who had shushed Elliott and me asked him what he had been writing.

He smiled at her. “It's for the paper.”

She wasn't buying it and didn't approve. “Mm hmm. Eli,
you
know better than to act like that when someone's speaking.” She glanced at me, making it clear that she viewed me as the bad influence here.

She turned her back to us. I whispered to Elliott. “You have to teach me some manners. I was just scolded at a garden party.” Stifling a giggle. “My mother would die.” The pun was unintentional.

Elliott tapped my nose. “You're perfect. Don't change a thing.”

He was really too nice to be an actual male creature. “Have I thanked you today?”

“For what?”

“For helping me with all of this.”

“I'm happy to do it.” He leaned in, our faces too close for this public venue. “Besides it gives me an excuse to hang out with you.”

“You don't need an excuse.” I gave him a very chaste kiss on the cheek causing the ancient Emily Post at our table to huff in disapproval. I ignored her and turned back to Elliott. “What's in the tent?”

“Shade. You want to go?”

I was already standing up.

Betty Chatham was standing under the tent with Florence Baker introducing her to various mad hatters. When Betty saw me she interrupted the receiving line and dragged Florence straight over to us.

Betty said, “Elliott, thank you so much for bringing Olivia! Florence,
this
is Olivia Hughes.”

Florence was dabbing under her eyes with a tissue, trying to stop the perspiration from destroying her makeup. She put her hand out to me and then for the first time looked at my face. She looked shocked. It was obviously the reaction Betty had been hoping for because Betty was thrilled.

I held my hand out. “It's nice to meet you.”

She didn't shake my hand so much as hold on to it for support as she leaned in to my face. “You look just like a girl I grew up with.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Did you know Jane Rutledge?”

I was immediately assaulted. Florence let out a sort of laughing howl and then grabbed me, hugging me, squeezing me, and crying.