I Still Dream About You: A Novel (18 page)

Hazel, who usually thought the best of everyone, couldn’t understand why her office suddenly began losing so many big contracts to Babs’s company. But all Hazel ever said was “Well, my hat’s off to her; she’s a darn good saleslady.”

T
HE FIRST THING FRIDAY MORNING, MAGGIE HAD TO RUN DOWNTOWN
to the main branch of Alabama Bank & Loan to close out her account and withdraw what little money she had left. She hoped closing her account so abruptly wouldn’t arouse suspicion, but it couldn’t be helped. When she drove past the empty lot where the old Melba Theatre used to be, she noticed the big white sign:
RAZED IN THE NAME OF PROGRESS
.

Driving around the block looking for a parking space she could manage, she had to see it over and over again. She hated that sign. It had stood on so many lots where buildings she had loved had once stood. Of course, the new revitalized downtown, with its tall, sleek, modern buildings was beautiful, but still, Maggie couldn’t help but miss the old downtown of her youth. In the late sixties, people had begun leaving the downtown area and moving out to the suburbs. Slowly, one by one, the great department stores had started to close. Gone forever were the gleaming silver escalators leading up to eight and nine floors full of beautiful clothes and the second-floor mezzanine tearooms, where delicate little finger sandwiches of chicken salad, cucumber, and cream cheese were served on soft white bread baked that morning. Gone was the glamour of downtown; no more
nighttime window-shopping, no more grand window displays at Christmas. By the seventies, even Santa had moved out to the mall.

For Maggie, it had been like watching a good friend die. Each time she had come home, she could see more places she had known as a child shut down; all the elegant deco buildings with the elaborate facades, deserted and standing empty. Nothing left but empty shells and boarded-up windows; the sparkle in the cement now covered over with dirt and grime. “Urban blight” they called it. “It’s happening everywhere,” they said. Still, it was hard to see all the places you loved crumble before your very eyes. But when they demolished the beautiful old downtown train station terminal and knocked down the big electrical
WELCOME TO BIRMINGHAM
sign, it broke her heart. She had loved that train station, with the big glass dome and all the excitement and hustle and bustle of people coming and going. It was there, on Platform 19, where she’d left for New York on her way to try to become famous. And that was the last time she ever saw Charles.

F
INALLY, AFTER
M
AGGIE’S
sixth time around the block, two spaces opened up, and she was able to park and go into the bank. Twenty minutes later, after she was almost finished withdrawing all her money and was ready to leave, the teller must have pushed a button, because the manager came out looking very concerned.

“Miss Fortenberry, is there something about our service you’re not happy with? We hate to lose your business. Is there anything we can do?”

“Oh no, I’ve been extremely happy with everything. It’s just that I’m moving …”

“I see. Well, we would still be more than happy to handle your account online.”

Oh, dear. She had to think fast.

“Oh thank you, but I really don’t know how to do that, but I can assure you, it’s nothing personal.”

She almost ran out of the bank. She hoped she hadn’t hurt his
feelings. But she hadn’t lied. She
was
moving, and she really didn’t have a clue how to bank online.

Maggie had cleared her morning and didn’t have to be at the office until eleven, so she could try to finish up as much as possible before the weekend. When she got home, she sat down and made out a new, shorter list.

Things to Do

1. Pay gas, electric, water, MasterCard
   
2. Drop hint to Brenda
   
3. Call Salvation Army for pickup on the second
   
4. Call Boots to arrange for pickup on the morning of the third
   
5. Call and cancel all future doctors’ appointments (hooray!)
   

Her doctor had just informed her that he was insisting that all his patients over fifty-five have a colonoscopy. Something else she was
more
than happy to miss.

After Maggie had made her calls, she was cleaning out the medicine cabinet and thought about Crestview again. Coming home from the bank, she had (of course) gone out of her way and driven by it, just to torture herself one more time, she supposed. She knew it was silly. As she was putting fresh towels in the guest bathroom, she was sure she was worrying about nothing. Fairly Jenkins had to have heard wrong. Mrs. Dalton would never sell Crestview in a million years. She walked down the hall to the linen closet to pack up what was left. She really had nothing to be concerned about. But still … just the thought of Babs Bingington even having the slightest chance of getting her hands on Crestview was appalling. She didn’t trust Babs as far as she could throw her. In the past, the woman had somehow been able to have zoning classifications changed. Now, in what used to be pretty residential areas, there was a Popeyes Chicken or a Jack in the Box right next door to a lovely home. Who knew what might happen next? Babs could turn Crestview into a suite of dentists’ offices. My God, it could wind up just like Dr. Zhivago’s home, with strangers running in and out of every room. They would probably tear up the gardens and put in a parking lot.
The more she thought about it, the madder she became. GOD-DAMMIT TO HELL! She should have run Babs over when she had the chance. Oh God, now she was cursing. Something she had vowed she would never do.

M
AGGIE FINISHED PACKING
up the extra blankets and sheets and towels and threw all the bath mats in the washing machine, but as hard as she tried, she just could not get Crestview off her mind. She hated to leave not knowing if its sale was just a rumor. She should at least
try
to find out if it was true, shouldn’t she?

As she was putting out the ant traps under the sinks, she began to toy with an idea. Hazel
had
said to use every advantage you had, and in this case, she did have a slight advantage: she knew the lawyer in New York who handled all the Dalton family business. She could go ahead and just call him. Just to ask. She could then find out once and for all, and she could jump into the river in peace. Of course, it felt unethical; not to mention rude and pushy. It was something she normally would never even think of doing. But if by any chance it happened to be true, she could at least try to get the listing for Brenda. Lord knows the office needed the business, and under the circumstances, she owed them that much, didn’t she? Maggie looked at her watch. She still had time to make one more phone call.

She sat down at her desk, took a deep breath, then mustered up all the courage she had and called Information. When she dialed the number, the secretary put her through to her old friend Mitzi’s husband, David Lee.

“Hello, David? It’s Margaret Fortenberry from Birmingham. Do you remember me? I used to be a friend of your sister, Pecky.”

The man on the other end said, “Well, hello! Of course I remember you. My God, how are you, Maggie?”

“Just fine, thank you.”

“Well, my goodness. Margaret Fortenberry. The last time I saw you was at Pecky’s coming-out parties.”

“How is Pecky doing?”

“Oh, just fine; she and Buck are still in New Zealand.”

“I heard that … And how’s Mitzi?”

He laughed. “Same as ever; can’t wait for me to retire, so we can get back home. Well, my goodness, it’s so nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I hate to bother you. I know you’re busy, but I just heard a rumor that Mrs. Dalton might be thinking about selling Crestview, and I was wondering if you knew whether it was true or not?”

“Well, I haven’t heard anything; another department handles that. But I can sure find out for you. Are you interested in buying the old place?”

Maggie was tempted to lie and say yes, but she didn’t. “Oh, I wish that were the case, David, but no. The truth is, I’m calling on behalf of Red Mountain Realty, and if it is for sale, I’m just curious to find out if they’ve listed it with anyone yet.”

“Oh, I see, okay. Well, can you hold on a minute? Let me see if I can reach anybody downstairs. Hold on.”

Maggie felt her face flush with embarrassment at having called someone she hadn’t seen in years and for shamelessly using him to try to get inside information. But it was her only hope. A few minutes later, he came back on the line.

“Maggie. You still there?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry it took so long. Alex says yes, that it will be going on the market in a few weeks, and it’s being listed with somebody named Babs Binging … something or another. Do you know who that is?”

Maggie’s heart sank. She was too late; “the Beast” had already struck. There was a slight pause; then Maggie said, “Oh yes … uh-huh … well, thank you anyway, David. It was just lovely to speak with you.”

“You too. It was great talking to you.”

It was all Maggie could do not to break down and cry. She might have known that she couldn’t get out of this world without having Babs Bingington kick her in the teeth one more time. And the worst part was that it was all her fault. She had let all her “over the mountain” contacts slip and had not played bridge at the club in months. If she had been on top of everything like she should have been and
not so preoccupied with her own little selfish problems, she might have known about it sooner. Now it was too late. She couldn’t have felt worse if she’d tried.

A
FTER
D
AVID HUNG
up with Maggie, he had to smile. Of course he remembered Maggie Fortenberry. She probably didn’t remember, but thanks to Pecky roping him in, he had been one of the pageant escorts the night she had been crowned Miss Alabama. Who could ever forget that gorgeous thing, sitting there in the spotlight in her white gown, playing the harp with that gorgeous hair of hers falling down on one side of her face? Mercy! Every healthy red-blooded Alabama male there that night would never forget her. She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She just was. So intense, so serious, and playing the bloody hell out of that harp. Good Lord Almighty. Did he remember her? Oh, yes, he remembered her. What was her story? he wondered. Why hadn’t she ever married? He knew for a fact that his friend Charles had asked her to marry him, but for some reason, she had turned him down. The minute he and the rest of his friends found out, they all wanted to rush over and ask her out themselves, but Charles was a friend, and you just didn’t do that. He knew she had lived in New York and then Dallas, but why had she moved back to Birmingham? She was a mystery. Everybody thought for sure she was going to be famous or, at least, marry someone famous. He wondered what had happened.

He knew Charles had hauled off and married some girl he’d met in Europe and had moved to Switzerland. He had gone to Yale and had married Mitzi Caldwell, his hometown sweetheart, and they had been as happy as clams. But all the guys in his crowd had been just a little in love with Maggie that summer. They had all gone down to the train station to see her off and had been there with roses when she came home from Atlantic City. The thing about Maggie was that she was so nice, not stuck-up or vain. In fact, he’d often wondered if she even knew how really beautiful she was. Damn it. She should have been Miss America that year. The girl that won was not half as pretty as Maggie. Those judges must have been blind.

T
HE YEAR MAGGIE WAS MISS ALABAMA, THE MISS AMERICA PAGEANT
was the most-watched show on television, other than the Academy Awards. Every September, millions of people tuned in to see who would be crowned Miss America, which girl would walk down the runway, clutching her bouquet of roses and crying, while Bert Parks, the master of ceremonies, sang “There She Is, Miss America.” Certainly, everybody in Alabama would be watching, pulling for their girl to win. Just like Alabama football, it was a matter of state pride. Before Maggie had left for Atlantic City, hundreds of little girls from all over the state had written her, wishing her luck, and every mayor from every town in Alabama had sent her an official good-luck message.