Georgia Bottoms (26 page)

While they ate, Georgia ran up to check her machine. No messages. She dialed Krystal to tell her to come on over.

Three rings, then a recording: “The number you have dialed is not in service at this time.”

Krystal would come by. She promised.

Georgia didn’t believe Krystal was really going to move away forever. Even if her stuff was already on the truck. Trucks can be turned around. Stuff can be put back where it was.

For a while there, it had seemed as though Georgia was headed for disaster on all fronts, but now she could dimly make out a way through this mess. First, convince Krystal to stay, or if need be let her go to Atlanta for a few weeks, get it out of her system, then come back. Next, feed Nathan a good supper and send him home tomorrow with a hug and no hard feelings. Then it was just a matter of simmering Mama down, dealing with the problem of the quilts, and putting her life back on schedule.

Her life.

Suddenly there was more to Georgia’s life than just her. There was Nathan—and there was a new man for Saturday night.

Maybe not just for Saturday. That man would be just fine, come to think of it, for every night of the week.

The thought of her night with Brent had been bubbling up inside her all day like the most wonderful crisp champagne. A great night like last night lends a special color to the air of the following day.

Once she got Little Mama down for her nap, the phones unplugged and stashed in the cupboard (in case Mama got another urge to call the cops), and Nathan installed with a vast bowl of chips in front of
Celebrity Deathmatch,
Georgia headed out to the apartment to straighten up after Sheriff Bill.

She found his envelope tucked under the hurricane lamp. She folded the bills away in the pocket of her dress. So sweet of him to remember to leave a gift, amidst all that confusion.

She returned to the big house to clean her own room. She gathered the sheets from the floor and carried them out to the washer. She pressed her face into the sheets to breathe the last traces of Brent Colgate.

Once the washer was going, she filled a bucket with soap and hot water, and carried it back to her bedroom.

She turned on the clock radio—a Madonna dance tune, a thumping beat perfect for swabbing the floor. She mopped and danced, shaking her booty while getting the job done. The mop head swung back and forth, dragging a piece of paper from under the bed.

Bending down she saw it was not a piece of paper but an envelope.

A sealed white envelope with GEORGIA BOTTOMS hand-printed in small precise letters.

Her heart began beating faster. She didn’t recognize the handwriting.

What the hell was this doing in her room?

The idea that it was somebody’s gift she had accidentally brought back to the house, drop-kicked under the bed or something—that was impossible.

Georgia kept the books in her head. She knew to the penny how much money came in and went out. From each according to his ability to give, that was her pay scale, with adjustments if someone went through a rough patch and needed a discount, or a gift in return…

“Oh hush,” Georgia said, and switched off the radio. She knew what was in that envelope: trouble.

She tore off the edge, and drew out a sheet of onionskin paper folded around some bills.

A hundred. A twenty. Three fives.

The message was printed in the same precise hand as the envelope.

Georgia’s eyes raced down the page to the signature. Not a name. Just the inscription,

She went back to the top.

That’s just how it happened. About three o’clock in the morning, Brent woke her up to whisper those words in her ear. Georgia smiled, kissed him, drifted back to sleep.

Never dreaming she was sleeping in the arms of a snake.

G
eorgia read the letter over and over, thinking she would see the word she had missed, one word that would reveal the whole thing to be some kind of gigantic joke.

She would never forget how sunlight streamed through the wavery glass of her bedroom window. Sparkles of dust danced like tiny diamonds in a column of light. It was a moment of uncanny beauty, little jewels floating and sparkling, here in the middle of the room on this day. In a weird way it made Georgia feel grateful to still be alive.

She knew something drastic had just happened, the equation of her life changed forever. As if she had been in a terrible accident but by some miracle survived. Screeching tires, the airless moment before impact, the smash of metal on metal—all that was over. She was alive. Still breathing. She had no idea how badly she was hurt because it was too soon, she hadn’t even crawled out of the wreck.

She folded the bills in the crease of the paper, and slid it back into the envelope. She sat awhile on the edge of the bed, holding the envelope.

Then she finished mopping the floor. She did not turn on the radio.

She went to her bathroom, poured the mop water in the toilet, flushed it, sprayed lemon-scented cleanser, and got down on her knees to scrub the toilet with the brush. Without knowing she was going to, she burst into tears.

She clung bawling to the side of the tub until she was able to stop.

She sat on her knees for a while, collecting herself. Then she washed out the tub, aiming the spray of the showerhead around the shower to hose off the soap.

She splashed her face with water, and blotted it on one of her fancy guest towels.

Georgia knew she was weeping for the sudden death of the crush. That was the truth. If that made her an awful, shallow woman, so be it
amen
.

The worst pain was not that her secret had been discovered, or that Georgia the trickster had been tricked. The worst was knowing she would never be in love with Brent Colgate, and he was never in love with her. She had thrilled at the allover feeling, the breathless, light-headed giddiness. It had been a long time since she’d walked around on a cushion of lighter-than-air.

Now she knew there had never been anything real about it, not one moment. When she was snuggling into the soft blond fur on his chest, breathing his scent of sweat and Old Spice, dreaming of their future together, he had already written the letter.

He knew all about Eugene from Brenda. He found out about Ted the night he ran into Georgia outside the emergency room. But how did he know about the “Honorable Judge”? Last night
must not have been his first time hiding in the bushes, spying on her. What else did he know?

Georgia’s mind whirled, going back over every encounter they’d ever had since the first time, getting out of his K car in the courthouse square. Now all those seemingly random encounters felt tainted. The night in the hospital parking lot—maybe he wasn’t there visiting parishioners, as he’d claimed. Maybe he was following Georgia.

A shiver ran up her spine. For a person who lived a secret life, she had never spent much time looking over her shoulder.

The sensible thing, her first reaction, was to go along with his instructions. How hard would it be?

Think of it as a business proposal.

Number one, tell the other men you’re out of business. Well okay, she could do that—or pretend to, until she figured out some way to get rid of Brent. Then she could pick up where she left off.

Item three was easy. To “tell no one” was Georgia’s natural inclination in all things, anyway. As for number four, she’d been going to church every Sunday her whole life without any reminders from him.

The sticking point was item number two: make yourself available to him anytime, day or night. Be his slave. His drop-in girl. Always on call. At a 100 percent discount.

Just think—before the mop dragged that envelope out into the daylight, Georgia would have been delighted to give herself completely to Brent Colgate. She’d been trying to think of ways to make herself available to him.

Now the idea of being touched by him, or touching him,
seemed worse than anything she’d ever done in the pursuit of her career.

Worse than sleeping with Rev. Onus L. Satterfield for the money, while doing it with his son Billy for fun.

Worse than enduring Sheriff Bill’s grunts and silence, Judge Barnett’s garlic breezes, Ted Horn’s peccadilloes, Jimmy Lee Newton’s casual slaps on the ass.

Through the years Georgia had become very good at doing whatever she had to do. Oh yes. She had learned to grit her teeth, close her eyes, and get through it. She was a strong woman with powerful skills of denial and repression.

Perhaps she could entertain herself with the sight of Brent’s pretty face. After a while she might even come to enjoy it, and almost forget he ever wrote that letter.

Georgia heard a car come into the yard. Her first thought was,
He’s come back for his first installment.
Panic fluttered up in her heart.

She stole to the French doors, back pressed to the wall. From this angle she could see all the way to the end of the driveway.

A forest-green Subaru wagon, the most practical car in Six Points. GRRL MYR.

Krystal climbed slowly out of the driver’s seat, peering up at the house. She had changed into a blue work shirt and jeans. Her hair was wet from the shower.

Georgia’s heart was still pounding, residual panic. She wondered how she could possibly summon the strength to talk Krystal out of leaving.

She threw open the window. “Hey, you.”

Krystal craned her head around to locate her. “Hey.”

“Come on up.”

Krystal considered. “Listen, George, I really need to hit the road. I’m driving all the way to Atlanta. I was just going to call you, but they switched off my phone.”

“Come in for a minute. I made coffee.”

Krystal shook her head. “Thanks, I don’t want any long goodbyes.”

“Me neither,” said Georgia. “At least let me come down and give you a hug.”

“Now you’re the one who wants a hug.” Krystal sighed. “Can’t we just do this nice and clean? I know you don’t want me to go. I don’t either, but I have to.”

“But why?”

Krystal hesitated.

“Stay right there,” Georgia said. “I’m coming.”

She hurried downstairs. She knew what to do: coax Krystal into the kitchen, pour her coffee (black, two sugars), introduce her to Nathan (“Krystal, this is my black son”), then turn on all her powers of friendship and seduction to convince Krystal that no other place was as good as right here, no friend on earth as reliable as Georgia, no lights in any big city shining as warmly as the lights of Six Points.

By the time she got outside Krystal was in the Subaru with the motor running.

“Wait,” Georgia said, “there’s some things I have to tell you.”

“I’ll call when I get there.” Krystal adjusted the outside mirror. Her eyes came up to Georgia’s. “You look great, Georgia. You always look great. I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Georgia said.

“No I don’t,” Krystal said. “I’ll call you.” Her window went up.

“Wait!” said Georgia.

Krystal backed down the drive.