Dancing Naked in Dixie (15 page)

“And. Do. What with them?” PD swallows, her eyes darting from Pearl to Shirl, then back to me.

“Condos,” I squeak and shrug. There. I’ve said it. Everyone in the room offers a collective exhale.

PD presses a hand to her brow and winces, like someone’s stabbed her in the forehead. “I don’t believe it. No, I
do
believe it. There’s money involved,” she says. “But the idea is about as smart as nailing jelly to a tree,” PD shakes her head and starts to pace the floor, continuing the debate with herself. “Of all the low-life, no account—”

I shrink back against the counter to let her pass by me for the second time.

“Wait,” she stops. “Do we know this for certain?”

The women around me nod and murmur meek affirmations.

“And so where’s Mama?” PD asks. Her hands are locked on her narrow hips and her chin is tilted ever so slightly, making her look like a cat about to pounce on innocent prey.

I wait for someone else to chime in. When I glance around the room, they’re all busy checking the time, looking at their manicures, or inspecting a crack on the floor.

Fine. I’ll be the bearer of bad news. The messenger who gets killed. With that lovely thought, I remind myself that if I don’t finish this story on the Pilgrimage, I’ll be dead anyway.

“She’s locked herself in the bathroom. I’m sure your brother would have told you, but he’s upstairs with her.”

I expect her to freak out, but she does the exact opposite.

PD sighs and bites her bottom lip. “Well, in that case, she’s in good hands,” she says, letting her eyes fall to the floor. “It’s his turn anyway,” she says under her breath.

With a sudden flash of energy, everyone around me goes back to the preparations. I loosen my grip on my notepad, now damp from my hand clutching the pages, and sidle closer to Shug’s sister.

It’s terribly sad to think about, but perhaps—in public—PD has conditioned herself to accept Aubie’s meltdowns.

I take my cue from her and get back to my own job. I decide that since Shug’s busy dealing with his mother, I’ll try to get some background from his sister. Chatting about the Christmas Tour might even be a welcome distraction.

“PD, when you have a moment, would you share your thoughts about the Pilgrimage?” I ask, as she arranges the cheese straws in neat rows. “Your brother’s filled me in on some of the basics. But, I’d love a woman’s perspective.”

She pauses, a bit surprised, and looks up at me. “Oh, I’d like that.” With deft motion, she adjusts one last piece on the tray and stands back to admire her work.

“Looks wonderful,” I say.

“Thank you,” she smiles—for real this time. “Let’s sit in the parlor for a few minutes. I need to rest for a moment anyway. I’ve been on my feet for days.” She nods at Shirl to take over in the kitchen and strides to the front of the Mansion.

We settle into two dainty chairs and I balance my notebook on one knee. “Could you tell me, specifically, the differences visitors might expect with the spring Pilgrimage versus the December tour?”

PD smoothes her skirt. “The Christmas tour is a much smaller affair and lasts only one day. Guest can enjoy lunch or a formal dinner and visit a small number of select homes. There’s also the Mistletoe Market, sponsored by the local businesses downtown. The tour is always held on the first Saturday afternoon in December.”

My pen moves across the page at breakneck speed as she talks. “All right.”

“The Pilgrimage—always in the spring—features more homes and an entire weekend of activities. We like to have ten or twelve homes open on the tour, several gardens, local churches, Superior Pecans, as well as the Carnegie Library.”

I scribble furiously, wishing I’d thought to grab my digital recorder.

“The Pilgrimage always begins with the firing of the cannon,” PD smiles at this. “It’s loud! There’s a ghost walk at night, a fun run Saturday morning, an antique show, book signings, and more southern food than you can imagine.” She taps her chin. “Of course, there are the princesses. No queen anymore.”

That makes me pause. “Why?” I try to think of a tactful way to ask if she’s talking about a beauty pageant.

“Until this year, a queen and two princesses were selected from the Pilgrimage Court to preside over the events. It was suggested that perhaps sixteen young ladies could represent the city of Eufaula—all princesses—making it enjoyable for the girls, instead of a competition.”

“Everyone’s happier?” I guess.

“And there’s a better sense of unity. Plus, everyone looks so lovely in their dresses and can act as ambassadors for each of the homes on the tour, instead of just Shorter Mansion. It’s a big honor, something that the little girls in this community dream about becoming when they grow up. A little like a fairy tale.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I nod. Of course, I never was partial to hoop skirts and big bows. I’d rather climb trees and hang upside down, though I won’t share that with Shug’s sister.

PD stops and laughs a little. “It must sound so trite and silly to someone from up north. In a big city like New York, no one cares about being a princess.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I wrinkle my nose. “There are all sorts of divas in the Big Apple. You’d be surprised,” I say. “So, I have to know…did anyone in your family wear the crown? Or tiara? Or whatever you wear when you’re selected as royalty here?”

There’s a creak behind us in the foyer.

“The answer’s yes,” a familiar voice says. “Mama and PD both. And it’s a tiara.”

Chapter 17

“Only a man from the South would know a tiara from a tire iron,” PD says, and nods approvingly at her brother as she gets up from the chair.

Shug waves at me with a brave smile. He and Aubie are standing in the foyer. Well, I should clarify that Shug is standing. His mother is half-leaning, half-hanging onto her son by one shoulder and what looks like the tail end of his sport coat. There are streaks of black down her cheeks and her hair is smashed on one side, like she’s been laying on a bathmat.

“Excuse me, Julia, while I take Mama home.” PD strides toward her mother, circling an arm around her waist and leading her toward the front door.

“Of course,” I say to her back and remained perched on the edge of my seat, ankles crossed. It feels like I’m in day one of finishing school, and I half-expect Martha Stewart to breeze through the door and start overseeing the progress in the Mansion. Well, except that the queen of domesticity spent some time in the slammer, and she’s a Yankee. Forget that.

Shug opens one of the doors for his mother and sister, then ambles back over to the parlor, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Surviving?”

“Oh, yes,” I say and wave a hand in the air, feigning nonchalance. “I’m learning a lot. So far, we’ve covered Southern delicacies, the official canon firing, and princess management.” I tick off the items on my fingers and grin.

“Nice,” he laughs. “Now, how about that tour I’ve been promising you? We’ll spend more time here tomorrow at the luncheon.”

“Great!” I gather my bag and notebook. “I’m ready to hit the town.”

“Our first stop is Fendall Hall,” Shug announces as we cruise through town. The top’s down, as it’s a balmy seventy degrees and sunny.

As we turn onto Eufaula Avenue, I remind myself to be thankful for the break from New York’s endless gray clouds and snowstorms. Here, a thousand miles south, the sky is so vivid turquoise blue and pure that it almost hurts my eyes.

“Is it always like this?” I ask, yelling as we pick up speed. My hair blows wildly around my face, catching in my eyelashes.

Shug laughs and gestures above our heads. “You mean the weather?” He shrugs and nods. “Yeah. We’re lucky, I guess. Summer can get a little brutal when it’s ninety-nine degrees in August, but it’s hard to beat sunshine in the forecast more than two hundred days a year.”

I settle in against the seat and enjoy the warmth on my shoulders and legs. There are amazing houses I can’t wait to see inside, towering structures in Greek Revival, Victorian, and Italianate styles of architecture. We come to an intersection and wait to turn right.

Staring down at the road is the towering confederate soldier. The statue must reach thirty or forty feet in the air. He cuts a distinguished figure in Italian marble with his long coat and focused expression, his body ‘at rest’ with both hands gripping the barrel of his musket.

“The United Daughters of the Confederacy donated the monument in 1904,” Shug says, following my gaze. “And there’s another interesting fact here,” he points to the street signs. “This area is the Seth Lore Historic District. Captain Lore is the man who laid out the city’s main streets in 1834. Broad Street, in front of us, runs east-west. The four main north-south routes, including the one we’re driving on, were named Livingston, Orange, Randolph, and Eufaula.” He pauses and waits for my reaction.

“Ah, L-O-R-E. Got it,” I smile over at him. “Smart guy, that Captain Lore.”

We ease into the turn once the intersection is clear.

“So, the name Eufaula?” I ask. “Where did that originate?”

Shug shifts his gaze to the road. “The Creek Indians, who lived along the portion of land above the banks of the Chattahoochee River. From what we can gather from historical records, Eufaula means ‘high bluff’ and Chattahoochee translates to ‘river of painted rocks,’ though there is still some debate about that between historians.

“I see. And the locals decided to keep the name Eufaula?”

“A group of Georgia men looking for crop land adopted the name for the first settlement in 1823. When William Irwin built a steamboat wharf and post office to support trade—just south of here—for a brief time, the city was called “Irwinton”. The mail kept getting sent to Irwinton, Georgia, so the people went back to using Eufaula.”

“And the Indians were forced out?” I ask, wrinkling my nose and knowing the answer.

Shug frowns. “To the West. The Creek Trail of Tears.” He pulled up along the side of the road and stopped the car. “Not our finest moment in history. But cotton became king and the economy boomed in the 1840s and 50s when all of these magnificent homes were built.”

I brush a stray hair off my face and gaze up at a home nestled among towering trees and lush shrubbery. Fendall Hall is three stories tall, with a glass-encased cupola and widow’s walk stretching across the massive rooftop.

Shug opens my door. I step out, still drinking in the exquisite architecture and sprawling porch. The home, painted in tan and trimmed in rich brown and white, is immaculate and stately.

“Fendall Hall was built by the Young family in the late 1850s. It stayed in the family until 1973 when the state of Alabama bought it. It’s a museum now, operated Monday through Saturday by the Alabama Historical Commission.” He nudges my arm. “Wait until you see the Italian marble tile in the entry. And there are some amazing murals—”

“Oh,” I wander over to a blooming azalea bush loaded with candy-pink blossoms, stepping closer to inspect the flowers. “I love these.”

“They’re confused,” he grins. “One warm spell and the plants think it’s time to bloom.”

“I would, too,” I say and reach out to touch a few of the shiny dark green leaves.

“Don’t,” Shug warns with a yank on my arm. “I think—”

Too late, I hear distinct buzzing.

“Ow! Ack! No!” I screech. I’m blinded momentarily, intense pain searing my cheek and eyebrow like a laser beam. I stumble back, hands flailing, grabbing the air and finding nothing. Holding a hand to my eyes, I moan and slump over. Shug’s arms are around my waist. He’s half-dragging, half-carrying me away from the angry insects.

During the attack, one of my shoes slipped off, and I dropped my purse, but I’m clenching my teeth so hard I can’t force my jaw open to say anything.

Shug is breathing hard and trying to pry my palms away from where I’d clamped them onto my skin, as if the pressure might prevent the worst from happening. Underneath, a chemical reaction is taking place. In seconds, I’ll swell to the size of a hot-air balloon and lose consciousness.

Shug manages to wrestle me to a seated position on the concrete steps of Fendall Hall. “Talk to me, Julia. Talk to me,” he urges. He’s gripping my upper arm so tight my veins start to throb.

“Pen-th,” I garble. “Pen-th,” I repeat, my tongue thick. With effort, I force my eyes open.

A door creaks open behind us and I hear footsteps. “Shug Jordan, whatever are you doing on the front steps?” A female voice asks. “And who’s this with you?” she chirps brightly. “Oh, there’s your pocketbook. Bless your heart, dear. Let me get that for you.”

The sharp click-click of her heels go by, and I catch the scent of sweet, pungent perfume. I want to sneeze, but my sinuses have expanded to the size of breakfast sausages.

Shug doesn’t answer. Instead, he tries again to pull my arm away from my head. This time, he’s successful.

“You’re swelling. Julia, your face is…you don’t look so good.”

If I had the strength, I’d punch him in the shoulder and say, “No kidding,” but under the circumstances, I say what’s most important. “Pen-th,” I sputter one last time, hoping it translates.

Shug finally gets it. He’s not panicked, exactly, but close. “Miss Byrd,” he shouts. “Miss Byrd. Please, bring me her purse right away! And call 9-1-1.”

Darn it all
.
Sure, bring more people to the spectacle.

And then, for some reason—the most likely being avoidance of another insect sting—Shug throws me over one muscled shoulder like a sack of grain. No doubt, had I been able to see myself, upside down, derriere in the air, being carried up the steps of this lovely Alabama landmark, I would have wanted someone to shoot me.

Inside, on the floor, I lay sprawled against the cool tile of the foyer. There’s an ornate chandelier overhead. The glittering lights swim together like an ocean of sequins and diamonds.

Miss Byrd runs inside and from the sound of it, Shug rips the bag from her hands. He unzips the top and dumps the entire contents on the floor. Lipstick cases go rolling, along with my stash of Advil, and other unmentionable feminine products. Spare change, pens, and keys clink and clatter around us.