Miss Julia Paints the Town (11 page)

“Miss Julia! Guess what!”

In spite of trying to catch up on lost sleep, I'd heard the clatter of Hazel Marie's high-heeled mules as soon as she came in the back door. I tracked her as she hurried toward the living room where I was resting my eyes and trying not to worry about what designs Helen might have on Sam.

Blinking blearily and struggling to appear awake, I lifted my head from its resting place on the wing of one of my new Queen Anne chairs. Every time I caught a few winks in the middle of the day, I congratulated myself for getting rid of those hard, uncomfortable Victorian chairs. “I can't guess anything, Hazel Marie. After being up half the night, I'm too sleepy.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Why don't you go lie down for a while?”

“No, all I needed was a little catnap. Now, what's going on?”

“Well, I stopped by Mildred's after I took the children to school, and guess who's there?”

“Etta Mae Wiggins, I hope.”

“Oh, poo, you already knew!”

“No, I didn't. I'd urged Mildred to try to get her, but I didn't know she'd succeeded. And thank goodness for it, because she'll keep Mildred off our backs. I just hope Etta Mae can please her. Or, rather, I hope that Etta Mae can stand her.”

“It was so good to see her,” Hazel Marie said, sitting on the sofa and leaning toward me. “We haven't talked since the two of you got back from Florida. But, listen, you haven't heard the latest.”

“About Horace?” I was wide awake by now.

“No, not a word about him. But Tonya called while I was there to see how her mother was and, I guess, to see if there was any news. Anyway, she and Mildred really got into it. And it ended up that Mildred told her about Etta Mae and then told her she could just stay in Charleston for all she cared.”

Hazel Marie took her bottom lip in her teeth for a minute, then she said, “It was awful just hearing one side. I can't imagine what Tonya said back to her.”

“Well,” I said, covering a yawn with my hand. “I hate to say this, but Mildred is a little on the self-centered side, and I expect Tonya has to do everything she can to stand up for herself. Actually, it surprises me that Tonya is still living here. I'd think New York would be the place for her, especially since she used to live there.” I did a little lip biting, myself. “Of course, that was when she was Tony, so maybe her friends wouldn't be the same.”

“That's probably it. Listen, you won't believe what Latisha said on the way to school. She said she'd about had enough of school and as soon as she finished first grade, that would be it for her.”

“You never know what that child will come out with,” I said, smiling. “Well, speaking of Lillian, looks like we're having a guest for dinner tonight. Sam invited Arthur Kessler, who's breezing into town for a few days. He's that developer who wants to replace our beautiful Georgian courthouse with a modern high-rise. I can't for the life of me understand why Sam took it upon himself to do that. He knows I'll have to constrain myself and not get into an argument. I wish we had somebody else coming to keep the conversation as pleasant as possible. Will Mr. Pickens be around?”

“Oh, I wish, but he's in Charlotte for a day or two.” Hazel Marie's face had a disappointed look, but then she brightened. “I know! Let's invite Mildred and Etta Mae.”

I doubted that either of those could add much pleasantness to table talk, what with Mildred's whining and Etta Mae's penchant for raving about roadhouses and Disney World. Yet, they'd fill the silences since, as the hostess, I'd be constrained in saying what I wanted to say to Mr. Kessler.

So I said, “I don't know that Mildred would come, but it would do her good to get out. And I expect Etta Mae would appreciate a break. All right, let's see. There'll be Sam and me, you and Lloyd, Mildred and Etta Mae, and Mr. Kessler. That's an uneven number at the table. Who else could we ask?”

“Well, we could let Lloyd eat in the kitchen,” she said, but I shook my head to that. “Then what about LuAnne? She's a single woman, temporarily at least, and she might enjoy getting out on her own. Then there's Helen, who's also a temporary single.”

“No,” I said a little more sharply than I'd intended. “Even though she's in dire need of friends, Helen has cut me out in every way possible. I'm not giving her a chance to do it again. No, let's stick with LuAnne, and that'll make eight at the table. But that's five women and only three men, counting Lloyd.” I thought for a few minutes, then said, “I know. Let's ask the Ledbetters. That adds another woman, but if we get the pastor talking about the state of the church, he'll keep us off the courthouse. And I don't want to get into that with Mr. Kessler, especially at the dinner table.”

Hazel Marie got to her feet. “We'd better start calling. It's getting late.”

“I don't know what got into Sam to ask that man for tonight,” I said, still feeling put upon. “He knows a dinner party takes time to plan.”

Hazel Marie laughed. “He was probably thinking of just an extra plate. He wouldn't figure you'd go all out like this.”

Yes,
I thought, and he wouldn't figure that I'd be worried sick while he was even now visiting Helen again. My stomach tightened at the thought, but I resolutely put it behind me, temporarily at least.

“Let's go talk to Lillian,” I said, and headed for the kitchen.

After Lillian got over the shock of hearing that there would be ten for dinner that night, she said, “Somebody got to go to the sto' if we gonna feed that many. What you want me to serve?”

“I don't know. What do you think, Hazel Marie?”

Hazel Marie gazed at the ceiling, a sure sign that she was thinking. “Well, since Mr. Kessler is from up north, I think we should have a typical southern dinner. If he's going to move here and tear up our town, we ought to let him have a taste of what we're like.”

“Why, Hazel Marie,” I said, as the germ of an idea formed in the back of my mind, “that is inspired thinking. Which typical southern dinner are you thinking of?”

She shrugged, having lost all inspiration. “I don't know. Fried chicken?”

“Watermelon,” Lillian said, grinning. “Collard greens. Barbecue ribs. Fried pork chops, maybe.”

“Fried pork chops are tempting,” I said, “but Pastor Ledbetter's watching his cholesterol. What about shrimp and grits? You don't get any more southern than that.”

“That be good,” Lillian said, “an' easy to fix. What you want with it?”

“Well, we need something green, so let's have collards as a side dish. That'll give him something to talk about when he goes home. And a fruit cup to start and your good yeast rolls, just to show him we're not entirely in the backwoods. And pecan pie for dessert. Now, Hazel Marie, let's start calling, and do apologize to everybody for being so last-minute. Explain that Mr. Kessler has been unexpectedly foisted on us by the mayor, which is the truth and, believe me, I'm not forgetting it.”

The rest of the day was spent scurrying around preparing for our impromptu dinner party. Lillian started on the rolls, since they needed time to rise, and Hazel Marie went to the Winn-Dixie with a long list, while I began setting the table. And all the while, my mind was on Sam, wondering where he was, how long he'd stayed with Helen, what he'd learned from her and why he was getting more and more entangled with her and the case of her missing husband.

After putting the finishing touches on the table, I took my flower snips and went out into the yard, hoping to find enough blooms to make a stab at a centerpiece. I could've called the florist, but I wasn't in the mood to go all out for Mr. Kessler. He'd have to take what we gave him, even if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

As I wandered around the yard, I realized that Hazel Marie's suggestion of giving him a sample of what we were like was flitting around in my mind. As a high-powered developer, he'd assuredly surveyed the area and come up with Abbotsville as the ideal location for his project. If the mayor was right about the plans, Mr. Kessler intended to sink a lot of money in the town. I couldn't think of what had made him pick us off the map, unless he knew something that none of us living here knew. We had a reasonably mild climate, beautiful mountain views, a lower than average cost of living, neighborly people and, well, maybe that was enough for people unaccustomed to any of it.

I knew there would be few, if any, local buyers of his condominiums, which meant that he intended to attract outsiders to life on our Main Street.

Now, I had nothing against outsiders. They could bring new ideas and cultured tastes and a boost to the economy. I knew that because I was not a native myself, having moved to Abbotsville as Wesley Lloyd's bride some years before and, without boasting, I could say that I'd added immeasurably to the general tone of the town, both socially and economically.

Still, your average outsiders, especially your wealthier ones, tended to think they knew better than the people they came to live among. If I'd heard it once, I'd heard it a dozen times. They were prone to point out that things had been done better where they'd come from. It made us wonder why they'd left.

I found a few bedraggled blossoms in the side yard so I carefully snipped them, hoping they weren't drooping too badly. Then I cut some sprays from a flowering cherry tree, which was about all the color I could find. I'd have to fill in with some greenery and hope for the best. Walking back toward the house, I glanced over at the Family Life Center across the street, that huge brick building erected purely on Pastor Ledbetter's pride, and smiled in remembrance of the image that had once appeared on it. I almost laughed out loud, because that brought to mind something Latisha had said. She'd heard us discussing the Madonna-like apparition that had spread over the bricks and thought we'd had a visitation by a rock star.

I came to a sudden stop beside a hydrangea bush, struck with the possibilities opened up by Hazel Marie's suggestion of giving Mr. Kessler a taste of the South.
Uh-huh,
I thought,
since he seems to have such an appetite for Abbotsville, why don't we give him something to really chew on?

No one seemed to have had plans for a Monday evening, as they all accepted our invitation. It had, however, taken some persuasive talking on my part to get Mildred out of her house and into mine. As soon as she walked in the door that evening, she whispered to me, “You're the only one who knows what I'm going through, Julia.” And before I could answer, she went on. “But at least you had somebody to bury.”

“Oh, Mildred,” I said, taken aback at the expression of a tinge of resentment because she didn't. “Let's hope it won't come to that.”

“Well, it's all so strange. I'm sure everybody thinks I should be home mourning Horace, not here at a dinner party. But it gets old sitting around waiting for word that never comes.”

Etta Mae, who was right by her side, said, “Now, Mrs. Allen, Lieutenant Peavey knows where you are and he'll call if he needs you. Why don't we find you a place to sit so you can see who all's here?” She grinned over her shoulder at me as she maneuvered Mildred toward a chair. “Hey, Miss Julia. How you doing?”

As our eyes met in mutual recall of our Florida adventure, which some might label criminal in nature or as close to it as to not matter, I was glad to see that she'd eschewed her white uniform in favor of a navy pantsuit. I was fairly sure that Mildred had not approved, but then, Etta Mae probably hadn't asked her opinion. Mildred may have met her match.

As the doorbell rang again, I turned to greet LuAnne and the Ledbetters who walked in with her. Lloyd was right there to take the ladies' coats to the bedroom, and a good thing, too, for Emma Sue sidestepped the pastor as he reached out to help and shed hers into Lloyd's arms. I detected a distinct marital chill in the air.

Sam, undaunted by, or perhaps unaware of, the frigid atmosphere, greeted the pastor and Emma Sue warmly and ushered them into the living room. LuAnne, her color high and her breath rapid, remained expectantly at my side.

“Is he here?” she whispered.

“Leonard?”

“No, Julia, the
developer.
I don't care if I never see Leonard again, but don't tell the pastor I said that. Do you know what he told me?”

I had a pretty good idea, but she didn't give me a chance to respond.

“He told me,” she went on, “that I should pray for patience and be ready to welcome Leonard back into the fold as soon as he comes home. That's my duty as a wife, he said, and he told me that divorce is not an option and to not even think of it. Well, I knew he didn't approve of divorce in general, but you'd think he could make an exception occasionally, wouldn't you? So I said, what about adultery, which I'm sure Leonard is committing. Or, trying to commit, but either way the Bible says that's grounds for divorce, but he said that's only allowed, not encouraged, and even then it's only for the spiritually weak. Which I think is crazy, because it takes more strength to divorce than it does to just sit around and let somebody run all over you. And,” she said, taking my arm and pulling me close, “he said if we did divorce, neither of us could ever remarry. Don't you think that's going too far? I mean,
I'm
the innocent party here. It's no wonder so many transfer to the Episcopal church.”

“I don't know, LuAnne, but Leonard's only been gone two days. It's too soon to be thinking along those lines.”

She squinched up her face and whispered, “Not for me, it's not. Is he married?”

“Who?”

“The
developer!
Why do you think I came tonight?”

“Oh, this must be him now,” I said, as the doorbell rang. “And all I know is that Mr. Kessler is coming. The mayor didn't mention anybody else.”

When Mr. Kessler stepped inside, I introduced myself and LuAnne, who immediately latched onto him. I took his measure as he spoke, first thanking me pleasantly enough for my hospitality, then questioning LuAnne on such topics as how long she'd lived in Abbotsville and how she liked it. Beaming under his attention, she took his arm and guided him toward the living room.

I followed slowly, since all the guests had arrived, musing all the while over my first impression of Mr. Kessler. He resembled someone I knew or had seen, but I couldn't place who it was. He wasn't a tall man, but neither could he be called short. In his beautifully cut gray suit, white shirt and light blue silk tie, his shoulders were heavy and it was obvious that he was well fed. Not exactly overweight, just thickset and solidly built. But well maintained in all particulars, I gave him that. He had that sleek, carefully barbered look, with a fair complexion that I suspected had been aided by the application of a serum product. I'd have to ask Hazel Marie what she thought. His hair was completely white and meticulously combed, except for the top of his head where there was none to comb. Unobtrusive wire-framed glasses rested halfway down his nose, so that, with his head tilted down, he did most of his looking over instead of through them. He had a clipped way of speaking, snapping off each word in an authoritative manner. And even when he merely thanked me for having him, it was as if he was daring me to contradict him.

I wished I could think who he reminded me of. It was somebody I didn't like, I was sure of that. I don't care for aggressive people who feel they have to attack others before they get attacked themselves—which is generally because they're hiding something that needs attacking.

Walking into the living room, I saw that Sam was making sure that everyone was comfortable as he went from one to the other with a few words of welcome. Sam was an easy and thoughtful host, always knowledgeable enough to ask about special projects or interests of each guest. But, given the general tenor of thought and concern pressing in on most of those present, he would have to make a mighty effort, as would I, to keep the party from degenerating into a lament over the possible loss of either a husband or a courthouse.

Lillian came in with a tray of drinks, a fruit punch laced with ginger ale and served in my Waterford cystal. I saw Mr. Kessler take a sip, then look askance at the contents. As his eyes followed Hazel Marie, he took another sip, possibly to confirm the absence of alcohol, and swallowed with a slight curl of his mouth. I smiled to myself, thinking that he'd be further dismayed when he learned there would be no wine with dinner, either. He liked Lillian's hot olive cheese puffs, though, and even stopped her on her way back to the kitchen to ask how she'd made them.

“I jus' th'ow in a little of this an' a little of that,” she said, “an' enough cheese to make a dough, then wrap it 'round them olives. Then I cook 'em till they done.”

When we went to the table, I placed Mildred at Sam's right and Mr. Kessler at mine. I would have preferred a more amiable guest beside me, but you either do things right or you don't do them at all. I made up for it by placing Etta Mae next to him, in the hope that she'd keep him occupied. Conversationally speaking, of course. Emma Sue was at my left, which earned me glares from LuAnne, who'd wanted to be seated close to Mr. Kessler. But I didn't see it as my responsibility to aid and abet a married woman who was intent on waging a campaign to outdo her delinquent husband.

I placed Lloyd next to Etta Mae, since they enjoyed each other, and Hazel Marie beside him on Sam's left. Pastor Ledbetter and LuAnne filled out the other side. It wasn't the most evenly balanced table, but it was the best I could do, given what, or rather,
who
I had to work with.

Hazel Marie tried valiantly to converse with LuAnne, but she kept getting interrupted by Mildred who wanted not only Sam, but those on either side, to commiserate with her. And, of course, LuAnne was straining to hear anything Mr. Kessler said.

Finally Hazel Marie picked up the condiment dish. “Would anyone care for watermelon rind pickles?” she asked, as she passed the dish to Sam.

Mr. Kessler did not, nor did he much care for the rest of his meal. Oh, he ate the shrimp and took a roll every time the silver bread basket was offered. As for the grits, he only spread them around on his plate so that it would look as if he'd eaten some. I was familiar with that tactic, since Lloyd also used it when green peas were served. Lillian frequently found a pile of them hidden under a lettuce leaf.

As for the collards, well, I pretended not to hear when he quietly asked Etta Mae what they were.

“Collard greens,” she whispered back. “They're what helped the South rise again.”

I tried to engage Emma Sue in conversation, but it was a losing proposition. She mostly sat like stone, her face white and drawn as she picked at her food. Pastor Ledbetter, on the other hand, was at his voluble best, essentially carrying the conversation for the table and eating heartily. If you ever want to be heartened by the food you serve, invite a preacher to eat it. They like any and every thing, and will make you feel that you're an exceptional hostess by the enjoyment they exhibit in consuming it.

“Well, I tell you,” he said, as he cleaned his plate, “that was some fine eating. Lillian is an absolute jewel, Miss Julia, not another one like her.” Then looking across my bedraggled centerpiece at Mr. Kessler, he said, “I hear you're planning to move to our fine town, and if you do, you won't regret it. I've been here for years now, and it's a fine place to live. Of course,” he went on with a big smile, “we know it doesn't have the advantages of a big city like Raleigh, but it has its compensations.”

At the mention of Raleigh, Emma Sue bowed her head and, in the process of patting her lips with her napkin, did the same to her eyes. Fearing a tearful breakdown, I quickly pressed the bell under the table with my foot to summon Lillian, and met Sam's eyes down the length of the table. His eyebrows went up just a fraction, then Mildred leaned toward him to regain his attention. I had to smile. She had monopolized him throughout the meal, undoubtedly regaling him with the same complaints I'd had to put up with during the Night of the Prowler. Ordinarily, it was a pleasure to have Mildred, since she knew what was expected of a guest, but this night was different. But then, I suppose that any night in which your husband is missing has to be different by any definition.

“It certainly does,” Mr. Kessler said, responding to Pastor Ledbetter. “And that's exactly what people who live in metropolitan areas are looking for when they retire. They want a small-town atmosphere with quaint characters who're friendly and community minded. They want to see salt-of-the-earth types when their cars need a lube job. They want to walk down the sidewalk and have people speak to them, and they want repairmen who'll come when they're called.”

Yes, and so would I. I couldn't help wondering what fantasyland Mr. Kessler was living in. No one replied to his dream of small-town living, silenced, I supposed, by what he'd apparently seen in Abbotsville that we hadn't.

“One thing I want to do while I'm here,” Mr. Kessler went on, “is to meet some of these people, get to know them, learn what they do with their time and how they live their lives. I'll have my staff put some talking points together, so as soon as the sale goes through, we'll be ready to spread the word all over the country about the good life in Abbotsville.” He managed a quick, one-sided grin. “You'll all be celebrities by the time I'm through.”

The thought of sudden and unwanted fame silenced all of us until Pastor Ledbetter cleared his throat and said, “I hope you won't leave out this community's commitment to the church, although I must say I'm leery of widespread exposure through the media. But I'm sure whatever you do will be tasteful and appropriate.”

I wasn't sure it would be, because when it comes to selling something, which in this case would be us, all bets are usually off.

But Lillian distracted us when she came in and efficiently cleared the table, then served generous helpings of her pecan pie, which Mr. Kessler clearly enjoyed. He would've probably accepted another slice if it'd been offered since he'd eaten so little of the main course.

As I rose from the table and indicated that we move to the living room, I mentally sighed with relief. The dinner had gone off well enough. No one had instigated an argument about high-rise condominiums where they weren't wanted, and no one had dissolved into tears in spite of Emma Sue's fragile hold on hers. Of course, LuAnne had made no effort to add to the conversation. She'd limited herself to frowning at me, still unhappy with the seating arrangements. And poor Sam had been stuck with Mildred, but, I thought with grim satisfaction, he'd already put himself out for one woman with a missing husband, why not for another?

Actually, though, I'd guess that only two people had truly enjoyed themselves: Pastor Ledbetter who, as I've mentioned before, is easy to please when food is served, and Etta Mae Wiggins who was always thrilled to be included in anything. She'd kept up a constant chatter with Mr. Kessler on one side and with Lloyd on the other, displaying more social ease than I'd previously given her credit for. Mr. Kessler seemed intrigued with her, or if not her, then Hazel Marie. He glanced from one to the other of them often enough for me to notice, though I'm not sure anyone else did. Of course, they were the only women at the table without wedding bands, so that may have been the attraction. I'd have to mention that to LuAnne.

Then as we wended our way back to the living room, Mr. Kessler said, “I'd like to extend my compliments to the cook,” and he pushed through the door to the kitchen to speak to Lillian. I almost followed him, but went instead with the rest of the guests. But he had surprised and confounded me by this manifestation of good manners. Especially since he'd eaten so little of what the cook had served.