Waking Up in Dixie
Waking Up in Dixie
A
LSO BY
H
AYWOOD
S
MITH
Ladies of the Lake
Wedding Belles
The Red Hat Club Rides Again
The Red Hat Club
Queen Bee of Mimosa Branch
Haywood Smith
St. Martin’s Press
New York
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WAKING UP IN DIXIE
. Copyright © 2010 by Haywood Smith. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smith, Haywood.
Waking up in Dixie / Haywood Smith. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-60976-4
1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Bankers—Fiction. 3. Small cities—Fiction. 4. Georgia—Fiction. 5. Midlife crisis—Fiction. 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.M53728W35 2010
813'.54—dc22
2010021669
First Edition: September 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to Debbie McGeorge, a kindred soul and the world’s best friend and librarian. Thanks for the laughs and the “poor babies,” sweetie.
My life has been pretty crazy for the past ten years, but the end of 2009 and the start of 2010 have been especially challenging. I couldn’t have completed this book without the active support of St. Martin’s Press; my editor, Jennifer Enderlin; my agent, Mel Berger at William Morris Entertainment; and my amazing network of friends, neighbors, and family, particularly my brothers and sisters in Christ from Blackshear Place Baptist Church in Oakwood, Georgia, and my support group in Suwanee. Without them, I wouldn’t have been able to make it after my hip replacement went south and I shattered my femur.
My first and foremost thanks go to Mama, who was recovering from her own surgery when she brought me home and took care of me after my hip replacement, then provided wonderful Millie Griffith to help me when school started after my broken femur repair. (Not the best time to start college, but at my age, I don’t have time to postpone anything.)
Second, my deepest appreciation goes to my mighty, fearless,
and wonderful friend and Christian sister Brenda Davis for braving Atlanta traffic to get me to the doctor and the hospital. Thanks, too, to sweet Dorene Graham and my precious “Jawja Hattitudes” Red Hats for bringing me some Christmas cheer in the hospital.
And how grateful I am to my precious daughter-in-law and son for taking me in for a wonderful Christmas with my three grandchildren as I recovered from my second surgery. There’s nothing like grandchildren’s hugs and kisses and visits to make the world better.
Thanks, too, to my kind and faithful neighbor Celia Dasher who brought me food and checked on me, and to my roommate, Sandi Grimsley, for keeping an ear out to make sure I was okay upstairs. My gratitude goes also to my Red Hats, and Alexis from SPLASH, and to my Bonds of Love Sunday School class for their unceasing prayers, cards, calls, and food, especially Harvey and Diane Roberts and sweet Ruth Jones and Tommy and Donna Cooper and Melinda Owenby, and Patty and Von Jennings, to name only a few. There’s nothing like hard times to show what a blessing God gives us in good and faithful friends.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to my helper Callie Brooks for volunteering to push my wheelchair at school every Tuesday and Thursday, and to Pastor Dave Chappel and the pastoral care staff at Blackshear Place Baptist for making that possible. I am so blessed to be a part of a fellowship that cares so well for its members.
Thanks, too, to Dr. R. Marvin Royster and his staff for putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again, and to Piedmont
Hospital’s Acute Rehab Department for wonderful care after my second surgery.
And to neurosurgeon Christopher Clare for coming in when he wasn’t even on call to consult. Chris, you’re definitely one of my guardian angels.
Now that I’m back on my feet (with one leg shorter than the other), I’m working on my degree and grateful for the best job in the world: writing uplifting stories for my readers. As long as I can punch two fingers at the keyboard, I’ll keep on writing.
Watch for my next book,
Wife-in-Law,
in 2011, a fun story about two totally opposite best friends from across the cul-de-sac whose relationship is strained when one marries the other’s ex. Can we say,
awkward
? But there’s plenty of fun before the surprise finish, spiced by humorous flashbacks that send up life in the Atlanta ’burbs in the seventies and the eighties, complete with Little League baseball, ALTA tennis moms, pot-smoking protester PTA members, the “me” generation, and Young Republicans—all with a satisfying conclusion.
Last but not least, thanks to you, my readers, for making this all possible. In these difficult economic times, every book purchase makes a real difference to my career, so thank you, thank you, thank you for your loyalty in buying my new books. You’re the best.
Waking Up in Dixie
There’s something to be said for being married to the meanest man in town, as long as he’s the richest.
Elizabeth Whittington stood in the elegant foyer of her elegant house and reminded herself that she’d gotten what she’d wanted when she’d landed handsome Howe Whittington, the crown prince of the prosperous town his family had owned for generations: respectability, for herself and their children. She’d escaped the shame and squalor of her roots. For that much, she was deeply grateful.
She told herself to be content and tried to count her blessings. In some ways Howe treated her well, despite the fact that, over the years, he’d gradually withdrawn till their lives were merely tangential, politely lived in separate rooms. She’d long since known about his fancy women down in Atlanta, but fear had kept her silent—fear of losing what was left.
At least he was discreet.
He’d given her security, too. She and the children had all the
material things they could ever need, though their son and daughter took it all for granted.
She had a magnificent home that she had come to love, even though her domineering mother-in-law had refused to let her change a thing “out of respect for the Whittington ancestors.” And Howe, prophetically, had refused to take up for Elizabeth with his mother.
Elizabeth told herself she should be grateful, but instead, she was lonely. Had been, for far too long. If it wasn’t for her old friend P.J.’s recent attentions, she didn’t know what she would have done. But as appealing as P.J. was, she would never risk her precious respectability with an affair, so their relationship had remained platonic—on her side, anyway.
Still, deep inside, some stubborn remnant of her girlhood hunger for a “happily ever after” ending still smoldered, heating the anger and loneliness she’d buried for so long. Naïve though it was, she still wished her husband would love her the way he once had. That he would want only her, so they could be happy together, the way they’d been at first.
But life was real, not fairy tales. So she’d stand by him for yet another of their annual Christmas extravaganzas and pretend she was happy, at least.
Elizabeth sighed, then pressed the electrical remote and watched with satisfaction as the tastefully opulent Christmas decorations in the tastefully opulent mansion blazed to life. And in that moment, her house, if not her marriage, glittered with warmth and beauty.
Then she frowned. She still had to speak with Howe before
the party, and time was running out. For three days, she’d hoped to find just the right situation to ask him to help her friends the Harrises, but he’d been too busy, almost as if he sensed she wanted something from him. And now, here it was, only thirty minutes before everybody who was anybody in Whittington would be arriving, and Elizabeth still hadn’t found the perfect moment.
Talking about work was against Howe’s unwritten laws. When they’d first moved back to Howe’s hometown so he could take over the bank when his father died, Howe had talked to her about the bank every day. But when he’d discovered his father’s double-dealings, he’d gradually shut her out of that part of his life. At first, she’d excused it as stress. Gradually, though, he’d become more and more distant, until they were polite strangers, their lives tangential only through their children and their place in Whittington society.
She knew he wouldn’t like what she was going to ask of him, but Elizabeth had to draw the line when it came to the girls in her “Sewing Circle” (which had nothing to do with sewing and everything to do with wine and whine). The bank was about to foreclose on Elizabeth’s closest friend Faith Harris and her husband Robert. She had to do something. For God’s sake, it was Christmas! She couldn’t just sit there and let Howe take away their home.
Robert Harris was the best builder in town. It wasn’t his fault that the bottom had fallen out of the housing market and left him holding the bag on three huge spec houses Howe’s bank had financed. Surely Howe would give Robert a break if Elizabeth asked him to.
She’d never interfered in his business before, or asked for anything this important.
Speak of the devil, Howe descended the stairway with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the jacket of his custom-made suit in one hand. Even at fifty-nine, Howell Whittington was still a gorgeous man, lean and tanned and agile from playing cutthroat tennis twice a week, without a single thread of gray in his dark, close-trimmed hair.
