Hissy Fit (15 page)

A faint breeze
ruffled the leaves on the limb of an oak tree that stretched toward the house, and I felt my sweat-dampened scalp tingle from the cool.

“Are you seeing her again?” I asked.

“Who, Paige? Why would I want to see her again?” He was being deliberately obtuse.

“I meant Stephanie, of course. Are you going out again?”

“Oh yeah. As a matter of fact, she’s coming out here for dinner Friday night.”

“Here? Isn’t that rushing things a little?”

“I’m not the big bad wolf. Her virtue won’t be under assault.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. What I mean is, it’s already Monday. We don’t even have your furniture moved in. The paint’s just barely dry.”

“You’ll take care of all that,” Will said, patting my shoulder. “It’ll be great. And Stephanie’s dying to see the place. I took pictures to dinner, to show her. She’s a big history buff. Used to come over here for the Christmas Tour of Homes all the time.”

“You’re hardly tour ready,” I snapped, aggravated for reasons I couldn’t quite understand. “And do you even know how to cook?”

“I can grill a steak and toss a salad,” he assured me. “And I’m great at uncorking wine.”

“Better learn how to mix a cosmopolitan,” I said.

Just then we heard the sound of tires on the drive, and a horn honking.

“That better be the truck with your furniture,” I told him, turning to go down the stairs. “Otherwise you’ll be dining off a card table.”

Austin already had the truck’s cargo doors open and was boosting himself inside by the time we made it out to the driveway.

Manny Ortiz, the driver who does a lot of the hauling and heavy lifting for Glorious Interiors, winced when he saw me. “Hey, Keeley,” he called, shoving his red and black Georgia Bulldogs cap to the back of his head. “Sorry to be late. We had another delivery to finish up. And I gotta get right back too. We got two whole-house moves scheduled, and I’m short a guy.”

“It’s all right,” I told him, peering inside the truck, which was jammed with furniture and boxes. “Is this everything?”

He handed me a clipboard with the list I’d faxed over to him. “Everything you asked for. Your aunt had me pick up some pictures from the framer on the way over. So that should do it.”

Will stood beside me and poked his own head inside the truck. He looked dubious. “Is all this stuff gonna fit in my little ol’ pump house?”

“Easily,” I said. “How’s your back?”

He held a hand to his spine and grimaced. “Achin’ already.”

I stepped aside and gestured toward the tailgate. “You’re the one with the impossible deadlines. I’d suggest you start with the rugs first. Let’s get them laid down, then bring in the bedroom stuff, and the living room sofa last.”

Manny grabbed the end of a rolled-up Oriental rug wrapped in brown paper, and he and Will hoisted it onto their shoulders and headed for the pump house. I took three smaller throw rugs, plus a runner, and handed them to Austin, and for myself, grabbed up the boxful of newly framed art, and a carton I knew contained bed linens.

An hour later we’d emptied out the truck and filled up the pump house. Will leaned against the bedroom doorway and watched with detachment as Austin and I tried to set up his bedstead.

Austin stood the heavily carved mahogany headboard upright, and I had the equally heavy and ornate footboard, and was trying to maneuver one of the side rails into place. After two tries, I glared at Will.

“You wanna give us a hand here?”

“And get in the way of bona-fide professional decorators? I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

“Get your ass over here,” I ordered, “unless you want to sleep on the brick floor your first night here.”

After that the setting-up process went a little smoother. The two men got the bed set up, and under my direction even managed to get the box spring and mattress in place with amazing speed and efficiency.

While they moved the dresser and nightstands into place, I made up the bed with mattress pad, sheets, a thick ecru-colored matelasse bedspread, four down pillows, and a brown and black Amish log cabin quilt folded neatly by the footboard.

“That’s a wonderful look,” Austin said, running his hand over one of the carved pineapple bedposts. “How old is this bed?”

“Not as old as it looks,” I admitted. “It’s a really good reproduction of a Dutch-Indian planter’s bed. It retails for about eleven thousand dollars, but I picked it up at a sample sale at ADAC for not even a quarter of that ’cause it had a scratch on the footboard. Which I just rubbed out with some Old English scratch cover.”

“It looks okay. I just hope the mattress isn’t an antique,” Will said, slapping his hand up and down on it.

“Brand-new, custom-made, top of the line,” I said pertly, setting a black and gold tole lamp on one of the bedside tables.

From the bedroom we moved into the living room, while I supervised as the men unrolled a large sisal rug onto the brick floor and then positioned the squashy sofa covered in a tobacco-colored chenille in front of the fireplace, flanked on either side by two mismatched leather club chairs, with a worn antique Sarouk rug between them.

“Now these I like,” Will said, sinking down into one of the chairs and rubbing the armrest appreciatively. “These’ll do.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I retorted. “Wait till you see what I bill you for them. They’re the real thing, you know. I picked them up at the flea market at Cligancourt.”

“Is that around here?” Will asked, furrowing his brow at the sound of the unfamiliar name.

“Cligancourt is in France, right, Keeley?” Austin said. He plopped himself down in the other chair and jiggled up and down on the cushion. “How old?”

“Twenties, probably,” I said. “They’re getting harder and harder to find.”

“Are they supposed to be all scratched up like this?” Will asked. “Not that I mind. I was just wondering if that’s how they’re supposed to look.”

“It’s called patina,” I said. “And people pay a lot of money to get this beat-up scratched-up look. The new hides just don’t have the same beautiful sheen as these old ones.”

“Whatever you say,” Will said, groaning as he got up. “I hope we’re done with the heavy lifting for the day. I’ve got to check on the progress on the house, then get over to the office for a conference call by four. Anything else you need me for?”

“Not for now,” I said.

“I’ll check back in with you before I leave for the plant,” Will promised.

While Will was gone, I set Austin to the task of hanging the drapes on the rods he’d already installed, and I placed the framed art on the floor, playing with different arrangements of them.

“He’s awful cute, Keeley,” Austin said, watching Will through the window.

“Will? Austin, you’re as bad as Gloria. She’s all ga-ga about him too. I just don’t see it myself.”

“Then you’re not looking close enough,” Austin said. “Come on, Keeley, what’s not to like? He’s tall, taller than you, which not many men are. He’s got fabulous abs, I saw ’em when he was moving that sofa. He’s smart, and he’s rich. He’s hitting on all the straight-girl cylinders.”

“Not mine,” I said firmly. “He’s not awful. He’s just not my idea
of wonderful, that’s all. Anyway, Will is in love with another woman—which is the whole point of this ridiculous, if profitable, exercise. I’m decorating this place so she’ll love him right back.”

“And who is your idea of wonderful?” Austin demanded, lifting up the first panel of the heavy canvas drapes and slotting the iron drape rod through the grommets. “A. J. Jernigan? All right, he’s also rich and fabulous-looking, but we both know he’s a total and complete shit when it comes to women.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about A.J.,” I said, taking the first picture and positioning it in the middle of the wall closest to the fireplace. I pounded the tack harder than was strictly necessary, which bent it flat against the wall.

“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re still pining away for him?”

“I’m not,” I said sharply. “Can we just drop it, please?”

“All right,” he said, with an exaggerated sigh. “But will you answer me one question, and be honest?”

“I’m always honest,” I said, tapping the next tack a little more gently.

“Hmp,” Austin said.

“It’s about this furniture,” he said, turning from the window and gesturing at the room below. “All this stuff. You just happened to have it all in your storage bin? And it’s all fabulous?”

“I have good taste,” I said, frowning. “And when I see a good bargain, I buy it and stockpile it. Gloria and I keep two huge storage bins full to overflowing.”

“I don’t think so,” Austin said, pursing his lips. “I think this was all stuff you bought for one particular client: the future Mrs. A. J. Jernigan. Am I right?”

I hung the first picture and straightened it, and with my ruler, marked off the spot for the next picture, and hammered in another tack. Damn. Another one flattened. I really needed to rework my hammering technique.

“You bought all this stuff for you and A.J., didn’t you?” Austin
asked. “The bed, the dresser, this sofa, those leather chairs. All for your little honeymoon house.”

“You’re starting to get on my nerves,” I warned, reaching into my jeans pocket for another tack. “You may get fired if you don’t start minding your own business.”

“I was never hired in the first place,” Austin said, climbing down from the ladder. He put his hands on his hips and stuck out his tongue at me. “I’m working for free. So you can’t fire me.”

“Very mature. I could just ignore you,” I said. He handed me the next picture.

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I bought all this stuff for a house we hadn’t even bought yet. Yes, I had everything all planned out. Our beautiful new life together. That bed, the sofa and chairs, everything. I have a whole sketchbook of designs, floor plans, fabric samples. There’s a dining room table still on hold at Powers and Sons in Savannah, and a break-front sitting in the storage vault, and a bunch of other stuff I can’t bear to get rid of. So yes, to answer your question, this was all stuff that was going in my first house as a married lady. Only my design had one serious flaw. The bridegroom didn’t work out. So I didn’t get married. Now I have a client who needed furnishings in a hurry. I furnished the furnishings. That’s what I do for a living, in case you haven’t noticed. There is no hidden agenda, no sublimated longings for another man. Just a simple business transaction. Got that?”

Austin took the hammer away from me and took a tack from my pocket. “I’ll nail. You space. You suck at nailing. You suck at lying too.”

“Next time
I need help with an installation, I’ll hire Manny,” I told Austin. But I stepped back, took a look at the wall arrangement, and penciled in the next tack mark.

Will came breezing through the front door and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Wow,” he said, walking slowly back and forth. “This is awesome, guys. It really is. Better than I would have ever hoped for.”

He rubbed the canvas drapes between his fingers. “Cool. You were right. I like ’em. But I never saw anything like ’em before.”

“Desperation is the mother of invention, or something like that,” I admitted. “There was no time to find fabric or get anything sewn at our workroom, so I came up with this idea. These are nothing more than painter’s drop cloths. I bought the biggest ones they had, went to Farmer’s Hardware and bought industrial-sized metal grommets, and banged ’em in with a grommet-setter. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.”

Now Will stopped in front of the art we were hanging, stared and stared again.

“Blueprints? For bras? Where the hell did you get this stuff, Keeley?”

“From the plant.” I straightened one of the drawings. It was actually a specification sketch for an early Loving Cup number called The Enhancer. From the look of the thing, I thought it should have been renamed The Enforcer. “You didn’t have anything to hang on the walls, so I decided to frame things that would have some meaning for you. Miss Nancy let me go through all the old files and pick out stuff I thought would work.”

Will picked up another frame. This one was a yellowing color
magazine ad for Loving Cup brassieres—“We Hold You and Mold You Like Mother’s Own,” was the slogan that year. It had run in the September 1952 issue of
Harper’s Bazaar
. A model who looked a lot like Suzy Parker was pictured from the torso up, wearing a Loving Cup bra with bullet-shaped cups and enough strapping and hooks to harness a team of Clydesdales.

He laughed. “This is great. I mean it. What else have you got here?”

“More of the bra sketches, a couple more advertisements, and some old stock certificates for Loving Cup Intimates. I love the scroll-work and detailing on old documents like these. But these are my favorites,” I told him, showing him a series of three panoramic black and white photos.

“This one here,” I said, pointing to one showing a line of dour-faced women sitting at sewing machines, “is the swing shift. It was taken in 1945. There’s a handwritten note on the back that says they were sewing garments with specially made fabric loops. Because it was a war year, they couldn’t get metal hooks and eyelets, or even rubber for elastic, so they had to come up with all kinds of design substitutes.”

“I’d like to see one of those old designs,” Will said, picking the photo up to get a closer look. “I’ve been looking through the company archives myself, when I get time. It’s really fascinating how innovative the designers got over the years.”

Austin leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the next photo. “A baseball team? There was a Loving Cup baseball team?” The picture did indeed show what looked like a 1950s-era baseball team, all the members wearing shirts that proclaimed them “The Bombers.”

“I didn’t know we had a team,” Will said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. Every textile mill in the South had all kinds of sports teams. They had regular leagues, and competition was killer. For a small town, a winning mill team was a tremendous point of pride. The whole town would turn out for big games.”

“Miss Nancy found one of these old black and white striped baseball jerseys,” I told Will. “It’s being framed too, but it takes longer because my framer had to build a special shadow box for it.”

“I love this one,” Austin said, tapping the third photo. It showed a lineup of young girls in ball gowns, each with carefully teased bouffant hairdos, elbow-length white gloves, each holding huge rose bouquets. The girl in the middle, who had a blond upsweep, had a tiny tiara balanced on her head, and a sash proclaiming her “Miss Loving Cup, 1968.”

“The bra queen!” Austin exclaimed. “It’s my absolute favorite.”

“I like this one too,” I said. I tapped my finger on the face of the girl on the far end. She was a little taller than the others, but with a regal bearing that was unmistakable, and a thousand-watt smile. “That’s Glo.”

“Your Aunt Gloria?” Will asked. “Let me see that thing.”

He took the photo and studied it carefully. “She was a stunner. Was then. Is now. How come she wasn’t named the bra queen?”

“’Cause her daddy wasn’t assistant manager at the plant,” I said. “It was a very political thing, even then. Gloria said she only entered because the winner got a free trip to New York, and she was dying to go, and my grandfather said no decent girl went by herself to New York City.”

Will kept studying the photo. He pointed to another girl, at the far right. She was younger and taller than the others, and tendrils of curls had escaped from her Aqua Net helmet. She was the only one wearing short, wrist-length gloves. “Why does this girl look familiar to me?” he asked, holding the photo at arm’s length now. “Is this somebody I’ve met locally?”

“I doubt it,” I said, taking the picture and putting it back in the box. “That’s Jeanine Murry. She was fifteen. The youngest girl in the pageant. Gloria was eighteen.”

Austin sucked his breath in. “Your mama! My God, you look exactly like her.”

Will picked the picture up again. “He’s right. You’re the spitting image. Same eyes, same nose.” He took a tendril of hair that had come loose from my ponytail and tucked it behind my ear. “Same hair.”

“Everybody says I’ve got the Murdock nose,” I said, turning away from him.

“She was a stunner,” Will said. “I’ve never heard you talk about your mother. Is she still living?”

“I have no idea,” I said, trying to keep my tone light and even. “She left my daddy and me when I was just a kid.”

“Oh,” Will said. He looked like he’d swallowed a bug.

“It’s not your fault,” I said, taking pity on him. “But come to think of it, I’ve never heard you talk about your family either.”

“What do you want to know?” Will asked. “My father was an engineer too, but chemical engineering. He retired from Procter & Gamble, and he and my mom live down at Hilton Head. He plays golf, she plays tennis and volunteers at the hospice. I’ve got two brothers and a sister too, and four nephews and two nieces. Should I go on?”

“Not necessary,” I said, conceding defeat. “Anyway, as soon as we finish hanging these pictures, we’ll have it wrapped up here.”

“I’ll get out of your way then,” Will said, glad to have an excuse for his retreat. “Just send the bill to the office.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll probably get there before you do,” I said.

“Business that bad?”

“It’s been better,” I said. “Summer’s always our slow time.”

“Especially since the Jernigans have decided to screw Keeley and her aunt to the wall,” Austin piped up.

“Austin,” I said, a warning note in my voice.

“It’s true,” he went on. “And you know it. Ever since you called the wedding off, that family’s done whatever they could to screw you over. They’re trying to run you out of business, is what they’re doing.”

“Will’s not interested in local politics,” I said. “And Gloria and I are doing just fine, thank you.”

“Hope so,” Will said, his hand on the doorknob. “Remember, Keeley, don’t let the ash-holes get you down.”

He was gone, and I turned my full attention to glaring at Austin.

“What?” he said, squirming under the heat of my gaze. “What’s he mean by ash-holes?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Will Mahoney has a very peculiar sense of humor. That’s just his idea of a joke. But you are not off the hook with me, Austin. You had no business telling Will about our problems with the Jernigans. That’s strictly personal. And my relationship with Will is strictly professional. And that’s how I intend to keep it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Austin said. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. But it just makes me so mad. Those people think they rule the earth. I hate to see them pushing you around.”

“They’re not going to push me around anymore,” I said firmly.

He nodded understanding, then picked up the next set of pictures and stood away from the wall. “Now where do these go?”

By three o’clock we’d finished with the installation. I left the Scotch on the kitchen counter, along with a note that said, “Welcome Home.” Then I took Austin on a quick tour of Mulberry Hill.

“He wants it done by when?” Austin asked, when we were back at my car.

“Christmas.” I said. “At first I told him it was impossible. It really was. But I guess I underestimated him. When Will Mahoney sets his mind to something, I think it generally gets done. Look at the house. What he’s accomplished out here already is unbelievable. When he says it’s going to be done, by God, it gets done.”

“Money has that effect,” Austin observed.

“It’s more than just the money. Somehow he’s got all these workers all hyped up about making this house a showplace again. I think they really believe he’ll get the plant up and running again too. And I’ll tell you something. I’m beginning to believe it myself.”

Austin gazed out the window at the wildflower meadow as I threaded the car up the new driveway. “Are you still mad at Austin?”
he asked, in a mock timid voice. “Are you friends with Austin again?”

“Friends,” I said with a sigh.

“Best friends?”

“Well, yeah, now. Ever since I crossed Paige off the list.”

“Good,” he said, smiling widely. “I’ve got something I want to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time, but I keep getting sidetracked.”

“What’s this about?”

He took a deep breath. “It’s about your mama.”

“Oh hell.”

“It’s just that I love mysteries. Always have. You know, when the other guys on my block were out playing baseball and football, and trying to run each other over with their bikes, I was inside reading Nancy Drew mysteries.”

“Not Hardy Boys?”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “The Hardy Boys had no style. Now Nancy…” He sighed. “That roadster coupe. The chic little frocks. And don’t get me started on that Ned Nickerson.”

“Okay. So you had a crush on Nancy Drew’s boyfriend. What’s that got to do with me and my mother?”

He waited. “I’m trying to figure out if this is the best time to talk about this. You’re kind of in a pissy mood today, you know.”

“I am
not
being pissy,” I said, slapping the Volvo’s dashboard for emphasis.

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“You started this, now finish it,” I said. “Or I really will get pissed.”

“All right, all right. The other day, when you told me you had no idea where your mother was, I just started thinking. I mean, as I may have mentioned, I know right where my mother is at. And most of the time, she’s standing right on my last nerve cell. Don’t get me wrong. I love the old girl, but she makes me crazy. The thing is, we all need our mothers. And you need yours. Good, bad, or indifferent. Especially now…”

“Now, meaning what?”

“Now that you’ve called off this big wedding. You’re at a crossroads here, Keeley. And with what’s happened with A.J., and your abandonment issues, it just occurred to me, having your mother around could help matters.”

“No.” I said it flatly. “She’s been gone more than twenty years. I appreciate the thought, Austin, but I’m over losing my mother. And I don’t have abandonment issues.”

He rolled his eyes again. “Oh please. Take a look at yourself, girl. You have more issues than the
National Geographic.
”

We were just passing through the new gates to Mulberry Hill. There was no traffic coming, so I could have pulled onto the county road. Instead I stopped the Volvo, leaned across Austin, and opened his door.

“Out,” I said.

“Keeley!” he protested.

“I mean it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear another word on this subject. You’ll have to hitch a ride back to town with somebody else. Maybe one of the Mexican stone masons can stand to hear you jibber-jabber. You don’t speak Spanish, do you?”

“No I do not,” he said. He closed the door and locked it for effect. “You just don’t want to hear the truth, that’s all. Denial, denial, denial.”

“All right,” I said, turning off the Volvo’s engine. “Let’s get it over with. Right now. Tell me everything you’ve just been itching to tell me. Then I’m gonna haul your ass back to town, and I don’t want to see you or hear from you again for at least the next couple days.”

“Tsk. Tsk. Could you cut the air conditioning back on so I don’t suffocate out here?”

I turned the motor on, but for lack of anything better to do, cut the radio off.

“Okay,” Austin said. “Your mother’s full name was Jeanine Murry Murdock, is that correct?”

I nodded.

“Birthdate 1–31–53?”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Research,” he said airily. “And she and your daddy were married on 11–27–71?”

“Right.”

He bit his lip. “Let me ask you something. When and where do you think your daddy divorced your mama?”

“I don’t know. I guess right after she left us. Daddy never talked about it. I just assumed he went off and got a quiet divorce.”

Austin swung his head back and forth dramatically. “Negative. I could find no record of a divorce between Wade Murdock and Jeanine Murry Murdock in any county in Georgia. So I searched the records in Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama. Every state that touches Georgia. No record of any such divorce.”

I felt a faint buzz in my head. “What’s that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Austin admitted. “Just that as far as I know, and the law’s concerned, your parents are still married.”

“On paper.”

“There’s something else.”

I felt a jab of unexpected pain, right around my rib cage. Why was this so hard? I’d written my mother off years ago. After she’d missed my eighth birthday. After she’d missed Christmas. Middle school graduation. Having my tonsils out. My first date. High school and then college graduation. Each occasion had been another reminder that she was gone, well and truly gone. Never coming back gone. “She’s dead, then.”