Divas Do Tell (14 page)

Bitty smiled as she pulled a cheese and veggie tray as big as a sedan out of the state-of-the-art refrigerator. “Yes. I know. She doesn’t
have
to eat any. Do you think all this will be enough, Trinket?”

“You mean to go with the petit fours, Hummingbird Cake, pimento cheese finger sandwiches, sweet tea, hot tea, coffee, and Jack Daniel’s? Maybe. After all, there are going to be four of us here.”

“I just like to be prepared. I’d rather have too much than too little.”

I looked around at her house, a statement in the “too much” category. “You succeed in that quite admirably, Bitty.”

“Good.” She smoothed her hands over her little apron, an accessory I’d never seen her wear before, and said, “Sandra Brady probably lives in a multi-million dollar house overlooking the Pacific. I don’t want her to think we live like white trash here.”

“I’m sure she’ll be suitably impressed.”

Bitty eyed me. “I’m not trying to impress her. I’m just trying to make her feel comfortable. Lord knows, Dixie Lee didn’t exactly give that impression in the book.”

I immediately understood. Dixie Lee had made it sound like a much younger Bitty had no taste and decorated her home in the Early Hoarder style. It’d been one of the unnecessary things she’d written about Barbie, aka Bitty.

“Every person who comes through your door is made to feel comfortable,” I assured her. “You’re not one to be ungracious to your guests. Even when provoked.”

There has been a time or two that someone has provoked her, but Bitty had played the Southern Belle part to perfection and put them in their place without them even realizing it until later, when they must have wondered exactly how she’d meant what she’d said to them. It’s a neat trick that I haven’t mastered, but I wish I could. Insulting someone with a smile and a backhanded compliment is the bastion of social survival.

“I had to beg Sharita to make up a batch of Mama’s pimento cheese,” Bitty said distractedly. “It was a trade-off. I let her use Mama’s recipe for the movie people, and she shared the pimento cheese with me.”

I was a little shocked. “You shared Aunt Sarah’s recipe with movie people?”

Bitty looked horrified. “Only with Sharita. But she won’t give it to anyone else. Sharita is trustworthy that way.”

Aunt Sarah’s pimento cheese recipe is coveted by half of Holly Springs and probably all of the garden club members. It’s worlds away from the pimento cheese sold in small plastic containers. Ingredients for just one small batch cost well over thirty dollars. I have no idea what her secret is, but once you’ve eaten it you never go back to mass produced stuff willingly.

“It’s a good thing you have Sharita,” I said. “Otherwise, all Aunt Sarah’s recipes would have been lost to the world.”

“I know. I’m going to leave them to my daughter-in-law one day.” Bitty no longer pretends she can cook. A recipe might as well be written in Mayan code if she’s expected to read it.

“You don’t have a daughter-in-law.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Brandon and Clayton will marry eventually. They have to finish college first.”

Bitty had her twin sons late in life, right before her thirtieth birthday. Back in those days girls got married right out of high school or college, had babies, and focused on making homes, gardening, charity events, and generally doing what was expected by our parents. Our generation had been on the cusp of women’s liberation as well as Civil Rights. I’d gotten involved in sit-ins for peace, saving whales, picking up litter, and a few other causes as well. My parents had been horrified. Their horror was only slightly mitigated by my marriage to a fellow protestor, whereupon I embarked upon a career of keeping us financially solvent while he rambled happily from job to job across the country. I’ve since regretted the lack of foresight in choosing a mate solely on the appeal of washboard abs. It wasn’t his fault. It was good for the first year, okay for the next three years, and after the birth of our daughter I held on just because I wanted her to know her father. Once she left home we’d divorced by mutual consent. No fireworks, no angst, just synchronized relief.

Contrary to Bitty’s lively, occasionally headline-producing marriages and divorces. She’s always made a big fuss with everything, including a simple interview.

“I’m sure your prospective daughter-in-laws will appreciate your kindness,” I said instead of laughing. “So what time are your guests due?”

“Dixie Lee is due here in a few minutes. So is Miranda. Sandra will get here as soon as she can. It depends on how the filming is going, of course.”

Miranda Watson arrived first. I wasn’t at all surprised to see her pig tucked under her arm, but it annoyed Bitty and her pug to no end, I knew that. I sensed imminent disaster.

“Miranda,” I said as I showed her to the formal living room, “we’re so glad you could come.”

Bustling inside, she smiled back at me and shifted her pig to a more comfortable position. She’s a large woman even after a recent weight loss, and her bleached blonde hair was tortured into a careful bob that could probably withstand hurricane-force winds. I think she mimics Bitty as much as possible. Bitty is convinced Miranda is bent on ridicule. There’s a fifty-fifty chance we’re both right.

“You know I’m always glad to interview Holly Springs’ most talked-about residents,” Miranda said as she seated herself in a graceful Louis XVI chair with an alarming creak of old wood. She plopped her purse on the floor next to the Turkish ottoman.

Chen Ling gazed sullenly at the pig sitting in Miranda’s lap. The pig gazed back, unruffled by the stare. She’s really cute, in a porcine kind of way, all pink with a turned up nose, funny little pointed ears, and tiny cloven hooves. Miranda stroked the pig’s blush-colored head.

Before I could offer her refreshments the doorbell rang again. Accompanied by a yodeling pug, I went to the door since Bitty had returned to the kitchen. Dixie Lee breezed in, dressed to the nines, smiling as she trotted into the living room on six-inch heels. Then she stopped short, staring at Miranda in horror.

“What is
that
?” she asked, and pointed to Chitling.

“This,” replied Miranda, narrowing her eyes at Dixie Lee, “is my pet.”

“Good God.”

Pausing in the living room doorway with a crystal platter of finger sandwiches, Bitty teetered on her own six-inch heels for a moment. Then she pasted a smile on her face and glided into the room. “I do declare, Miranda, every time I see you you’ve lost more weight. You’re looking marvelous.”

Miranda immediately smiled. Dixie Lee rolled her eyes and sat down opposite her, while Bitty placed the platter of finger sandwiches on the ottoman between them. “I’ll be right back with the tea and cake,” she chirped. “Trinket, do tell Miranda all about your parents’ Mediterranean cruise. I’m sure she’d just love to write about it in her column.”

I looked at Miranda, who was looking at Dixie Lee, and Dixie Lee who was staring at the pig, and knew that neither one of them gave a fig about my parents’ Mediterranean cruise.

Apparently this interview was going to be a lot more lively than anticipated.

Chapter 8

DIXIE LEE EYED Miranda and her pig with obvious disgust. “What is Sandra going to think about you bringing a barnyard animal to an interview?” she asked irritably.

“Chitling is not a barnyard animal,” said Miranda a bit testily. “She’s a Stewart miniature pig. They start at five thousand dollars.”

Mistake number two: Never discuss money when in polite company. It’s crass. Mistake number one was in bringing a pig, but since Bitty totes her pug everywhere she goes that was a moot point.

Dixie Lee lifted a brow and looked at Miranda like she’d lost her mind. “The cost of the pig is not the issue. The issue is that you brought it to an important interview with a movie star. While stars are often eccentric, I’ve never heard of one taking a pig or a goat to an interview.”

“Dear,” Bitty interrupted with a syrupy sweet smile, “Miranda is kind enough to straighten out all the mess about Billy Joe, so I don’t think bringing her pet to an interview is that big an issue.”

Dixie Lee shut up at the reminder she needed a positive spin on this interview about Billy Joe’s death. She forced a smile and reached for another finger sandwich.

Miranda settled back with her china plate on her lap, and I thought Bitty was going to pitch a fit when she fed her pig an entire pimento cheese finger sandwich. She didn’t, but her smile was positively feral as she politely asked if Miranda needed another plate for the pig.

“No, we’re fine. This is delicious pimento cheese, Bitty. Where did you buy it?”

“It’s not store-bought. It’s my mama’s recipe.”

“You just have to share the recipe with me. I’ve never eaten pimento cheese this good.”

“Nuts.” Bitty held out the crystal bowl of cashews. She’d used her Waterford crystal and good china, and I’d helped her polish her mother’s silver flatware and tea service. Everything sparkled. If not for the fact the antique settee was stuffed with uncomfortable horsehair and a glowering Dixie Lee, and the Louis XVI chair was fragile under Miranda’s weight, it’d have been a charming scene.

By the time Sandra Brady arrived Miranda and her pig had nearly demolished the plate of finger sandwiches, and Bitty had developed a twitch in her right eye. Chen Ling, ever mindful of possible food falling into her hemisphere, sat grumpily on the floor and eyed the few sandwiches left. She’s a huge fan of pimento cheese. Chitling the pug has been known to disrupt a Diva meeting in order to get at the tray of pimento cheese. Chitling the pig was apparently becoming an enthusiast as well. I feared an impending uprising.

While Bitty went to the front door to greet Sandra, I reached for the plate of sandwiches with the intention of removing them from danger and replenishing them with the meager bit left in the kitchen. I also hoped it might prevent Chen Ling from plopping herself in the middle of the Turkish ottoman that served as a small cocktail table just to get at them. It had happened before, but I was determined it wasn’t going to happen this time.

I can be so optimistic.

Chen Ling apparently didn’t know or care that I had the plate firmly in my grasp. She lunged at the ottoman with all twenty pounds of her bulk, alarming the pig sitting in Miranda’s lap. Chitling the pig squealed loudly. Chitling the pug didn’t even slow down. She’s not as spry as she should be, so only half-landed on the ottoman. It was just enough to send nuts flying into the air, the silver tea service launching across the Persian carpet like shiny missiles, and hot tea splashing all over Miranda and her pig. Both of them protested very loudly. I couldn’t tell the squeals apart, but I did manage to save the crystal plate with the few finger sandwiches from destruction. Chen Ling scrabbled at the velvet ottoman in a desperate effort to pull herself all the way on the top. The silver tray dislodged and dumped onto the floor, spilling petit fours and cake everywhere. When I tried to catch it, what was left of the finger sandwiches slid off the crystal and ended up practically in Chen Ling’s lap. She was delighted.

Bitty and Sandra stood just inside the living room staring at the carnage while I tried to get Chen Ling off the ottoman, and Miranda waved her linen dinner napkin in the air over her head like a white flag of surrender. Chitling the pig, dumped on the floor when Miranda tried to avoid the tea, snuffled for food.

I felt a little sorry for Bitty. All her careful preparations to make just the right impression on a movie star were for naught. My sympathy was tempered with my memory of the reminder I’d given her about letting Chen Ling attend the interview, however.

“Don’t do it,” I’d said to her. “Things happen.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bitty had replied. Perhaps next time she’d listen to me, but I doubted it. People are going to do what they’re going to do, I’ve learned, no matter how much sense someone makes when warning them it might not work out well.

Dixie Lee sat with her mouth slightly open as I took Miranda’s napkin and helped wipe the tea off her head and shoulders. Chen Ling squatted triumphantly in the middle of the Turkish ottoman and licked smears of pimento cheese off the velvet. The pig worked her way through spilled nuts and petit fours scattered across the Persian carpet.

After a moment of stunned silence Bitty said, “It’s so kind of you to come, Sandra. Tea or whisky?”

Sandra’s eyes looked dilated as she followed Bitty into the living room. “Just whatever you have left will be fine, thank you.”

Bitty smiled bravely. “I still have the cheese tray and more sandwiches in the kitchen. Trinket, when you finish there could you help me, please?”

Apologizing to Sandra and Miranda as I cleaned up as much of the mess as I could, I followed Bitty into the kitchen with the crystal platter sans pimento cheese finger sandwiches. “She got them all,” I said when Bitty looked at the empty platter. “Chitling is pretty fast for an old dog.”

“The pig wasn’t doing very badly, either. We’ll put out the cheese tray and rest of the petit fours. There are more finger sandwiches in the fridge. I’ll put on the kettle to boil for more tea if you’ll bring the silver tea service. Mama’s china is clean. We can use that.” She opened a cabinet door and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “I’ll just fix myself a little drink first.”