Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (31 page)

Aunt Tootie sat down next to me. “Cecelia Rose. People are, by nature, curious. And as you go through life, many people will ask questions about your past. And when they do, you just say the truth, plain and simple—your mother passed away and your father travels for his work, so you came to live with me. That’s all you ever have to say, honey. Everything will be just fine, as long as
you
make it fine. Now, there’s something I want you to think about. Something important. And I promise you, it will serve you well throughout your life. I’m going to tell you something that my mother said to me a long time ago.”

My aunt’s face was so serious I couldn’t imagine what she was going to say.

She took hold of my hand and looked into my eyes. “It’s what we believe about ourselves that determines how others see us.”

I considered her words as we sat knee-to-knee, looking at each other. “You make it sound so easy.”

“You know what, sugar? Once you set your mind to it, it
is
easy. So, is this where you’d like to go to school?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

She stood and tilted her head toward the door. “Well, then, shall we go tell Mrs. Fontaine you’ll be her newest student?”

I was so happy, I all but jumped out of the chair.

Mrs. Fontaine was thrilled and assured Aunt Tootie and me that neither of us would be disappointed. “Let’s get you measured so I can order your new uniform,” she said, pulling a measuring tape from her desk.

After my measurements had been recorded, Aunt Tootie fi lled out a few forms and signed some papers. As we were about to leave, a man dressed in a suit and tie stepped through the open door. Beside him stood a girl about my height with startling green eyes framed by a pair of gold-rimmed granny-style glasses. A mop of curly, reddish-brown hair fell to her shoulders, and splashed across her nose and cheeks was a handful of pale freckles. Her face was round and full of questions.

“Excuse me,” the man said. “When I saw the door open—”

“Oh, please, come in,” Mrs. Fontaine said, stepping across the room. She shook the man’s hand and made introductions. His name was Howard McAllister, and the girl was his daughter, Dixie Lee.

Mrs. Fontaine grinned. “Dixie, Cecelia will be in your class.”

Dixie’s eyebrows arched and her eyes widened. A bolt of fear shot through me when I saw the look on her face.

Dixie chirped, “You are? That’s great. Where do you live?”

I was so stunned by her words that it took me a moment to respond. I swallowed and glanced up at Aunt Tootie with pride. “I live on Gaston Street.”

“We’re almost neighbors. I live on West Jones.”

Mrs. Fontaine, who at this point was all puffed up like a proud Mother Goose, said, “Dixie, you and Cecelia have a great deal in common. Cecelia loves English, and I understand she enjoys reading as much as you do.”

“Did you see the new library?” Dixie asked.

I nodded, and the next thing I knew, the adults began talking and Dixie led me out of the office, down the hall, and out the front door. She told me about her new kitten and how she’d begun taking tap dance lessons. We walked side by side as Dixie jabbered like we’d known each other for years. And me? I was tongue-tied and dumbstruck by this gregarious green-eyed girl. And as we strolled along a shady brick path that surrounded the school, I don’t think my feet ever fully touched the ground.

“We’re leaving tomorrow to visit my grandmother in Louisiana,” Dixie said, trotting to her father’s car. “But we’ll be back a few days before school starts.” She pulled a notepad and pen from the glove box. “Let’s walk to school together.”

I wanted it so badly my voice squeaked when I answered, “Okay.” And when we exchanged addresses, I felt happier than a dog with a brand-new bone.

“I’ll be at your house at seven forty-five,” she said, folding the paper and sliding it deep into her sock. “Gosh, I’m so glad we met, Cecelia. I was real scared to switch schools.” She laughed and said, “But not anymore.”

Her laughter was a wondrous, liquid thing that splashed across my face, over the toes of my shoes, and into the grass.

“I’m glad we met too. If you want, you can call me CeeCee.”

The front door of the school opened, and we turned to see Aunt Tootie and Dixie’s father walk out. They waved good-bye to Mrs. Fontaine and headed toward the parking lot.

“Well, looks like I’ve gotta go now,” Dixie said with a shrug. She climbed into a green convertible sports car with her dad and waved as they headed down the driveway.

I prayed the name Dixie McAllister was written in my Life Book.

Just before the car turned into the street, Dixie jumped up in her seat and called out, “I promise I’ll be waiting for you, CeeCee!” Her father reached up, grabbed the hem of her dress, and pulled her down.

As I stood in a pool of bright lemon light and watched the car disappear into a tunnel of shady trees, I believed Dixie McAllister. I believed her with all my heart.

T
hree days following my visit to Rosemont School a box arrived in the mail. It was a small box, not much bigger than my hand. The neatly typed label was addressed to Miss Cecelia Rose Honeycutt in care of Mrs. Tallulah Caldwell. There was no return address.

Positive it was something special from my new school, I set the rest of the mail on Aunt Tootie’s desk and took the box upstairs.

I sat on my bed and ripped away the tape.
What can this be? Oh, my gosh, maybe it’s a school pin.

After opening the box, I pulled out a square of cotton. I sucked in a breath of air when I saw the silky pink pouch. I knew what was inside.

Momma’s pearls.

Slowly I opened the pouch and slid the necklace into my hand. It was cool and smooth to the touch, just as I remembered. I closed my fingers and held it for a long time, feeling so many emotions I couldn’t move. I might have stayed like that for hours, sitting frozen on my bed, had the box not slipped off my lap and tumbled to the floor. A small piece of paper fell out, and when I picked it up and opened it, I recognized my father’s writing.

I put the note aside and looked down at my mother’s necklace. Gently I began rubbing a single pearl between my thumb and forefinger, feeling myself slip backward in time.

I remembered a rainy day when Momma and I were in her bedroom, playing dress-up. After dabbing rouge on my cheeks, she pulled her favorite pink sweater over my head and slid her pearl necklace from its pouch.

“Nothing brings light to a woman’s face like pearls,” she said, clasping the strand around my neck. “If you want to glow like you’re lit from within, CeeCee, wear pearls and a pale pink sweater.” She lifted me onto her vanity bench and smiled. “See how pretty you look?”

I grinned at my reflection.

She put her arms around me. “Do you know how pearls are made?”

“No, Momma.”

“Well, let me tell you the story. One day an oyster was just sittin’ at the bottom the ocean, all happy and minding its own business. Then, when it was time to take an afternoon nap, the oyster yawned and a little grain of sand floated into its mouth. That grain of sand irritated the oyster something awful, but no matter how it tried, the oyster couldn’t spit it out. Six long years went by and the oyster kept rolling that piece of sand around in its mouth. The grain of sand got bigger and bigger, and then one day the oyster felt a lump under its tongue. Well, the oyster mustered all of its strength, opened its mouth, and spit it out. But it wasn’t a piece of sand anymore. It was a beautiful pearl.”

I looked up at her, amazed. “Really?”

She sat on the bed and nodded. “Oysters are a lot like women. It’s how we survive the hurts in life that brings us strength and gives us our beauty.” She fell silent for a moment and gazed out the window. “They say there’s no such thing as a perfect pearl—that nothing from nature can ever be truly perfect.”

Abruptly she turned to me, and the look in her eyes was fierce. “But they’re wrong,” she said, pulling me close. “You, Cecelia Rose, are a perfect pearl.
My
perfect little pearl.”

When the memory faded, I slid the necklace back inside the pouch and placed it in the drawer of my night chest.

Later that afternoon, Aunt Tootie and I drove to the hardware store in search of a new garden rake. She found the kind she wanted, and some other things too—a dirt sifter and an odd-looking contraption for planting bulbs.

After loading everything into the trunk, we climbed into the car, and to my surprise, Aunt Tootie put the top down. The afternoon sunlight sparked off the tips of Delilah’s wings as we drove back to town. I leaned my head against the seat, enjoying how the wind pushed through my hair.

“I bought that bulb planter because I want to do something different at the front of the house,” Aunt Tootie said, glancing over at me. “Last week I ordered two hundred tulip bulbs and a thousand grape hyacinths.”

“A
thousand
? Holy cow! It’ll take us forever to plant that many.”

She laughed. “I hired a gardener to do the autumn planting. But you and I will lay everything out. Half the tulips are pink and the others are yellow. We’ll surround them with all those gorgeous purple grape hyacinths. Won’t that be pretty?”

I nodded. “But I like to plant bulbs. We could do it together, couldn’t we?”

“Honey, I hate to admit it, but I’m getting old. My back aches something awful when I bend over for too long. And come November, when the bulbs arrive and planting season begins, you’ll be busy with school and all sorts of fun activities. But we can plant some things in the side yard,” she said with a wink.

Aunt Tootie threaded her way through town, but when we got to our street, she sailed right by. When I asked her where we were going, she just smiled and said, “You’ll see.”

A few minutes later we rolled to a stop in front of the house that was saved from the wrecking ball. My jaw dropped. Gone were the saggy roof and dilapidated front steps. A web of scaffolding surrounded the house, and workmen were busy scraping and sanding old paint from the arched windows.

“Oh, my gosh,” I said, climbing out of the car. “It looks so different.”

“Just wait till you see the inside.”

We walked under the scaffolding and in through the open front door. “Hi, Jake,” Aunt Tootie said to a man who was up on a ladder, painting a wall in the living room.

“Afta-noon, Miz Caldwell. So how’s she look?”

“She looks beautiful. You’re doing a fine job. Was it hard to get all that old wallpaper off ?”

The man laughed. “About killed me.”

“I’m here to show my grandniece around.”

“Sure thing,” he said, going back to his painting. “But don’t go up the stairs, they were just stained this morning.”

Aunt Tootie led me into the dining room. “Look, Cecelia. Remember this?” she said, flicking a switch.

The chandelier exploded with light, and all the icy crystal prisms came to life. It was so dazzling all I could say was, “Wow.”

“And come see this,” she said, heading down the hall. I followed, walking over smooth refinished floors that glowed from beneath layers of new varnish.

Taped to a length of rope that had been stretched across a doorway was a piece of cardboard. Printed in bold red marker were the words STOP! HISTORICAL PRESERVATION AREA. DO NOT ENTER!

Aunt Tootie and I ducked beneath the rope, then she turned on an overhead light. “Cecelia, look,” she said with wonder.

On the wall opposite the windows was something the likes of which I’d never seen. A painting fi lled the entire wall from floor to ceiling, yet it was far more than a painting—it was like stumbling upon the entrance to a secret garden. Beneath a blue sky fi lled with pink-tinted clouds was a scene so real I had the urge to step right into it. Flowers lined a stone path that wound its way toward a reflection pool that looked so cool and wet I wanted to dip my fingers into its shimmering surface. Birds in flight seemed to lift from the walls, and a ladybug crawled along the branch of a tree—its green leaves so real they all but rustled in a breeze.

“When the workmen removed all that nasty wallpaper, they found this beneath. The technique is called trompe l’oeil; that’s French for ‘tricks the eye.’ It’s the ultimate in artistic optical illusion. This is a masterpiece.”

We stood side by side, our lips parted in wonderment as if we were gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

“It doesn’t appear to be signed anywhere, but we’re going to try to find out who painted it, and when. The house was built in 1859, and I suspect it was painted shortly thereafter. Oh, Cecelia, this house was once dearly loved. It’s been an honor to save it from destruction.”

I watched her. Studied her. She was still the aunt I had come to love, yet there was something else, something I became aware of for the first time. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice, and I could feel it radiating from her body.

It was her fire.

And it was real.

As I followed her down the hall toward the front door, I stopped for a moment and looked down at my feet. And as sure as my name is Cecelia Rose Honeycutt, I felt the life of that old house humming through the soles of my shoes.

M
y new life had begun to bloom as sweetly as a Georgia peach. Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get better, Oletta walked into the kitchen and set a stack of mail on the counter. “You got a letter from your friend in Ohio.”