Dancing Naked in Dixie (23 page)

My stomach grumbles as I glance around the room. Every ear is pressed to a cell phone—there are dozens of conversations going on in here—just not with each other. Another gurgle surges in my midsection. I press a hand to my abdomen, trying to distract my body from outright rebellion. Thankfully, ahead of me, the blender starts to whir, steam hisses, and coffee grounds begin to percolate.

This is my routine. Whether in Rome, Paris, or New York, I wake up, wait in long lines, and pay exorbitant amounts of money for a paper cup, a lid, and hot liquid.

I wrinkle my nose. Wait—I love the hustle and bustle of a city, exploring new places, and people watching. But now—something’s changed—I’m smitten with small-town life. Not just any small-town life. The wide streets, the sprawling yards, and huge oak trees of Eufaula, Alabama. I even miss the sound of crickets chirping as the city’s blue sky fades into twilight.

“Miss,” a sharp, nasal voice yanks me back to the present. “Can I help you?” A pair of coal-black eyes peer at me below a choppy head of red hair. The hair belongs to the girl behind the register. She is snapping her gum and raises a pierced eyebrow in my direction. “Anytime.”

There’s a hurried exhale on my left, and the sound of coughing to my right.
Hurry up
, the cough says.
Hurry up
.

“Um, I—” The black sign looms down at me. Coffee choices, chai tea, and an entire shelf full of calorie-laden breakfast sweets. There are several brews, a dozen flavored syrups, three cup sizes, and the choice between a cold or hot beverage. It’s all too much. I begin backing up.

“Never mind,” I say. “Thank you.”

The redhead behind the counter rolls her eyes, exasperated. She leans over and looks past me. “What can I get started for you?” she says to the next customer.

Before my hands hit the glass and metal door, she is ringing up an order. And another. And another.

And I am running full-tilt from the Starbucks store, kicking up slush in my wake.

At seven thirty-five, after a quick cab ride, I arrive at the bottom of my office building. As I pass the glass-framed structure, I catch a glimpse of myself. I screech to a stop, and almost lose my balance.
What?

My hair is disheveled, my makeup streaked, cheeks flushed berry-pink. My jacket is on crooked and the bottom of my scarf is dirty and wet. I must have dragged it on the sidewalk all the way from Starbucks. If someone hands me a quarter, I’ll know for sure I’ve joined the ranks of the thought-to-be homeless and crazy.

It’s still ice-cold outside, but I take off my hat and smooth my hair. I lick my lips, straighten my scarf, and wipe the black from under my eyes. This isn’t any time to lose it. I have a job to do, a story to write. A boss who is expecting me to fail. And I have to prove him wrong.

I stop by the restroom, unbutton my coat, and splash cold water on my face. With a tissue, I dab at my makeup and blow my nose. I reapply lip gloss, check my purse for powder, and discover that my phone screen reads five missed calls and three voicemails. Of course, I neglected to charge my cell, so the battery is blinking red.

“Cripe,” I mutter and begin tapping the screen. Please don’t let it be David. Please don’t let it be David.

The first name that pops up is Marietta’s. Phew. Then Andrew, twice. I note from the time and date stamp both calls were from last night. I close my eyes tight. Darn. In my rush, I didn’t check in. Not even a text message. I promised I would and I didn’t. With trepidation, I scroll through the other numbers. There’s another I don’t recognize. That’s four. I inhale and read the name from the last caller.

Shug Jordan.

I blink at the screen and erase his name. The empty black background stares back at me. With a shake of my head, I type a quick message to Andrew. “Dinner Tonight? Seven-thirty at O’Reilly’s?” It’s a loud Irish pub near the office, not the least bit romantic, but safe for a face-to-face ‘talk.’

I hit send and power down the phone, not waiting for a reply. No distractions, I tell myself. Not today.

Ten seconds later, at seven forty-nine, I’m sitting in my cubicle, notes stacked neatly beside my laptop, postcards pinned where I can see them on my bulletin board. And I start to type.

I’m so engrossed in my story that I don’t hear Marietta sneak up behind me. She taps my shoulder. My chest seizes and I jump out of my chair.

“Sorry,” she laughs. “It was so quiet over here I wasn’t sure you were back.” Marietta wags a finger at me. “I tried to reach you last night.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I apologize and hold up my cell phone. “
This
was about to die, so I had to shut it off.”

My friend smothers a laugh and hugs me anyway. “Ah, Jules,” she murmurs into my hair. “Some things never change.”

I stiffen at the comment, even though she’s right. Another classic Julia Sullivan snafu. This time, instead of sulking into my empty coffee mug, I draw back, untangle myself, and wink at Marietta. “Well,” I reply with a sly grin, “I don’t know about that.”

“Really?” my friend eyes me with both hands on her hips. “And just what did they do to you down there?”

“They didn’t
do
anything,” I protest, pushing at the air with both hands. “Oh,” I say, and spin in my chair to find PD’s treats. “If you’re hungry later, pop these in the microwave. Delish!”

Marietta grins and takes the paper sack. “Hmm. Thanks. David’s at a meeting ’til lunchtime, by the way…” Her voice trails off. No boss. Until noon.

She’s waiting for me to change my mind. Usually, I’ll chitchat for a good hour, spilling the details of my latest trip before getting to work on a story. Not today.

“I’ll give you all of the details later. I promise,” I cross my heart, running an imaginary ‘x’ across my ribbed red sweater. When my friend raises an eyebrow, I tuck my legs, swivel back to my laptop, and resume work on my keyboard. With a flick of my wrist, I shoo her away. “Love ya, but a girl’s gotta make a living,” I tell her over my shoulder. “Work to do. A deadline to meet.”

She grins, raises the bag in the air as a mock salute, and heads for the employee break room.

No distractions.

A quick time-check tells me I have only a few hours before David strolls back in the building. With a glance at my Shorter Mansion postcard, I settle in, focus, and try my best to block out the rest of the office.

By eleven-fifty, my fingers are stiff. I’ve edited my piece, reread, and edited it again. I fact-check, making sure dates are correct, the history is accurate, and my quotes are attributed to the right people. And as promised, I don’t mention Phase III.

I linger over the last lines, a quote from Shug. It’s the perfect ending to my story. “Past and present meet seamlessly in the heart of Eufaula, Alabama, home to breathtaking natural beauty and magnificent architecture. A living tribute to our nation’s proud history, Eufaula is a treasure to experience with the senses; one that must be preserved for generations to come.”

My hands hover above the keyboard. What will happen to Eufaula? To the Pilgrimage? I can picture PD and Ella Rae, Aubie, and TJ around the dinner table. Roger at his B& B. And MeeMaw. I can only imagine how she must be taking the news about this developer. Then, Mary Katherine flashes before my eyes. Her laugh, her laissez faire attitude and complete brush-off of Shug’s concerns about preserving the city’s history. Why didn’t I think about this before? Other than the city council, she seems like the
only
person in Eufaula unaffected by the plans to build vacation condos.

The realization hits me like a brain freeze—one of those sudden awful stabbing headaches from too much ice cream, too fast. I press my fingers to both sides of my temples and rub in gentle circles. I close my eyes. I’m caffeine-lacking and a little fatigued. My eyes are crossing from staring at the computer screen. I need a break.

With a pang of worry in my chest, I check my email again. PD promised to update me on any big news, including city council and dreaded developer announcements. There are about a zillion new messages, but none from Eufaula.

I close out of the screen, spell-check my story a final time, attach it to an email, and hit send.

Chapter 26

I slip out at lunchtime with Marietta at my heels. We steal across the street to a loud Jewish deli, where orders are yelled across a glassed-in display case. After a five-minute wait, we get lucky.

We pounce the moment two well-dressed men vacate their barstools. Marietta and I scoot up to a long slab of wood that serves as a counter, balancing sandwiches, drinks, and napkins. We’re sitting so close that our knees bump together—an odd sensation if the body parts belonged to anyone other than my best friend.

Marietta is concentrating on her Reuben—a thick mess of meat, Swiss cheese, Thousand Island dressing, and sauerkraut. After she pauses to take a breath and wipe her lips with a folded napkin, she launches into a rapid-fire set of questions.

Why haven’t I called? When did I get back? What about Andrew? Have I talked to him? Did I finish the article?

“Whoa!” I lean back and raise both hands in the air, fingers spread. “I’ve been crazy-busy. Got in last night. I’ll see Andrew later. And yes, the story’s waiting in David’s inbox.”

Marietta takes another nibble on her Reuben. “Mhm,” she says, thinking and chewing. When she swallows, my friend wrinkles her forehead. “Really?”

“Which part?” I ask, taking a long drink of ice water.

“All of it,” Marietta adjusts her glasses to peer at me, as if she’s trying to make sure I’m not joking. “You stayed longer than you needed to…in
Alabama
.” Her voice takes on an incredulous tone. “And, you didn’t call.”

“It’s complicated,” I shrug and raise my eyebrows. “I’m the first one to admit I was wrong—totally wrong—about Eufaula. It’s wonderful. The architecture is amazing, really lovely. And the people there are sweet, funny, and interesting. And they are so proud of the history there,” I catch my breath and smile.

Marietta is sitting up straight. There’s a strange look on her face. Disbelief? Wonder? Amazement?

She reaches out and pinches my forearm, twisting the flesh.

“Ow!” I yell and swat her hand.

There’s a brief lull in the conversation around us. A few heads turn in our direction, curious, then look away when there’s no drama to witness.

“What was that for?”

“I’m checking to see if it’s really you,” Marietta pushes her plate away and puts both elbows on the table. She interlaces her fingers below her chin, her eyes never leaving my face. “That you are the real Julia Sullivan, and not some robot replacement. Please tell me the magazine hasn’t brainwashed you into a Stepford wife-travel writer.”

I pretend to freeze, then make jerky movements like bolts have been screwed into my joints and my flesh has turned to metal. “Does not compute,” I say. “Reprogram my hard drive.”

Marietta smirks. “I see. Very nice. The old avoidance technique.” She brushes her hands together with a brisk motion. “Fine. You don’t have to admit that there’s anything’s going on.”

“There isn’t anything going on,” I repeat in a normal voice, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. It’s not a lie. As far as my personal life is concerned, the statement’s true. Shug’s with Mary Katherine. I’m back in the City. I’ll talk to Andrew tonight.

Of course, my best friend is not buying it. “Liar. Liar. Pants on fire,” Marietta accuses me, flipping a stray curl out of her eyelashes. She’s hurt. A smidge.

Ugh. I’m going to give in. “You have to promise not to laugh. Or make fun of me,” I tell her with a stern gaze.

With a triumphant grin, Marietta holds up three fingers pressed together. “Girl Scouts’ honor. Now out with it, missy.”

All right, here’s what happened,” I say, and lean in to whisper, just as my cell starts buzzing. The vibration—complete with flashing light—sends the phone and its bright purple case inching toward the edge of the counter. I snatch it up and set it in my lap. But the buzzing doesn’t stop and I wonder if it’s an emergency.

“Just a sec,” I tell Marietta. When I glance at the screen, I start coughing. There are three messages from David. Each one says ‘urgent.’

After tromping through two blocks of slush, Marietta and I arrive back at the magazine in record time, sprinting through the double doors, flashing past a few coworkers. We screech to a stop in front of the guard to flash my badge. He’s tall, with a chiseled jaw and close-cropped dark hair. I make a point to read his nametag.

“Hey Frank,” I say, breathless. “How are you?”

The tall security man in blue blinks at my badge, then back up at me. “Hi Marietta,” he says to my best friend. He turns to survey me. “And, Julia Sullivan. I didn’t think you knew my name.”

Although I can’t see her, I know that Marietta is grinning at his assessment. I blush red and get hot under my scarf and wool coat. “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m always in such a hurry. Usually running late.”

“Today being no exception?” he asks, revealing two rows of almost-perfect white teeth.

“My boss,” I groan a little and glance the clock above his head. My feet are itching to race toward the elevators. “My article. He probably hates it.”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “You’ll be okay. Get going,” Frank waves me through. “Have a good day, ladies.”

I scamper toward the bank of silver doors and punch the up button. There’s a chime, signaling that the elevator to our right is about to open. After waiting for a dozen people to filter out, Marietta races in behind me.

With a sigh of relief, I shrug off my coat. “Did you know that guy’s name?” I ask her when my breathing returns to semi-normal.

“Frank? The guard?” Marietta pulls off her scarf and shakes out her curls. “Sure. He’s been here for years.”

I purse my lips.
Years.
And I’ve never said hello. The pit in my stomach gets a little deeper.

“Hey, so now, you know.”

The elevator dings, signaling our floor. We step out and Marietta grabs my arm, pulling me toward the wall.