Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (16 page)

Later that afternoon, Trixie came home, quickly showered, dressed, and parked herself by the front window to watch for Rodney's arrival.

“Trixie,” I ventured, careful to keep the least hint of criticism out of my voice, “it might be better to wait upstairs and let us call you when Rodney gets here.”

She frowned, cutting her eyes at me, then turned back to the window. “Why?”

“Well, it doesn't do to appear too eager. Young men expect to wait, and waiting increases the suspense of getting to see you again. And, well, I don't know. It's just always been the way things are done.”

She mulled that over, then said, “How long?”

“Oh, just a minute or two. I'll answer the door and invite him in, then usher him into the living room where he can visit with Sam while I run up and get you. And see,” I went on, “that way you can come down the stairs and appear suddenly in the doorway. Rodney will immediately get to his feet and give you a big smile.”

Trixie frowned again, thinking about it, then said, “Okay.” And up the stairs she went.

And it happened just that way, although as soon as Rodney rang the doorbell I glanced upstairs to see Trixie's bedroom door already open—her way of getting ready to dash down the stairs as soon as she was called.

I delayed calling her for a few minutes, because as soon as Rodney was seated, he began talking to Sam. Explaining his sedate dress—a dark gray suit with a light gray tie—Rodney made sure that we knew he'd just conducted a funeral. He was a somber picture of a mortician, but that didn't curb his enthusiasm for discussing his newest venture with Sam.

“I'm thinking,” Rodney said, as he leaned forward in his chair, intent on gaining Sam's interest, “that Abbot County could use another funeral home, located maybe out toward Delmont. McCrory's gets all their business now and I tell you it's booming—the demographic out that way tends toward the elderly. So I'm thinking of organizing a consortium of investors to purchase some land out there and putting up a nice Colonial-type house that looks nothing like a funeral home. We wouldn't want any kind of commercial or modern-looking building. The bereaved feel better in a homey, family kind of setting.”

Sam just nodded, but Rodney needed no further encouragement. “Yes, I'd like enough land to have a scattering garden with a few appropriate statues and benches for the bereaved to rest on while they commune with their departed. And with enough land, we could have our own cemetery—with perpetual care offered, of course. I've been looking around and I've found the perfect place out on Springer Road. It's level and I think it's big enough. I guess you know you have to have not less than thirty acres to get a license from the state cemetery commission. And they're firm about that.” Rodney grimaced at the picky requirements of government bureaucracy. “Anyway, it's close to the highway for easy access, and we wouldn't have to tear down anything—just move out some mobile homes and we'd be in business.”

Sam's eyes slid toward me, and I knew he was about to laugh. I jumped up and said, “Excuse me. I'll get Trixie.”

She was waiting at the top of the stairs and as soon as she saw me in the hall, down she came. “You look very nice,” I whispered, only half truthfully. “There's no need to sit and visit any longer. You and Rodney can go right on with your plans.”

And so they did, but as I returned from seeing them off and Sam had retaken his chair, I was fuming.

“You know what he was talking about, don't you?” I demanded. “He had to be talking about the Hillandale Trailer Park—
my
trailer park where Etta Mae and a dozen other people live!”

Sam grinned. “I know, but I don't think he did.”

“I'm not so sure. He's probably been to the county clerk's office and looked up the owner, the taxes I've paid, and everything else about it.”

“Oh, I don't know. I think he was trying to get me interested in investing in his project, and just threw out that land as an enticement.”

“Well, he can just throw it back in. I'm not selling, so if you do get involved you can nip that in the bud. I wouldn't any more evict Etta Mae than I would fly. And you know how I feel about flying.”

“Don't worry about it,” Sam said, still amused. “I'm not getting involved in anything. I have enough on my plate as it is.”

“I know,” I said, sitting down and calming myself, “but Rodney has certainly latched on to you, and he's likely to pester you to death about investing in his project.”

“Well, let him pester. It just rolls on past me. Besides, the senate race is all I can handle.”

“But, Sam,” I said, “have you noticed that he seems more interested in you than in Trixie? You don't suppose he's calling on her just to get to you, do you?”

“Oh, I doubt that. Although,” Sam went on in a musing way, “I can't help but wonder what he sees in her—they don't appear to have much in common.”

“My sentiments exactly. They're as mismatched as, well, as I thought you and I were.”

Sam's eyes twinkled as a smile spread across his face. “Just goes to show, doesn't it?”

—

About nine-thirty that evening, while Sam and I sat in the library, the television set almost muted as he read and I worked on a needlepoint piece, we heard the front door open. Rodney had brought Trixie home, then lingered in the hall while they whispered for a few minutes. I stuck my needle into the canvas and waited,
assuming that Rodney would soon come in and pick up where he'd left off with Sam.

Instead, only Trixie appeared, surprising me, as she usually went straight upstairs, never bothering to speak or to wish us a good night.

“Come in, Trixie,” Sam said, putting aside his book. “Did you have a good time?”

She half sidled into the room, giving me a brief glance, but obviously intent on Sam.

“Rodney said I ought to be looking for more opportunities,” she said, easing onto a chair beside Sam. “He said to talk it over with you.”

“I'll be glad to help if I can, Trixie. What do you have in mind?”

The better question is what does Rodney have in mind?
I thought and took another stitch.

“Well,” Trixie said, squirming in her chair, “Rodney thinks the fitness business is gonna run its course pretty soon if something's not done to perk it up. So he thinks I ought to think about opening a hot yoga room somewhere—kinda as a sideline. I could keep working for Susan Odell and get some of her customers.”

“Hot yoga?” Sam asked, his eyebrows practically up to his hairline.

“Yeah, what it is, see, is a place where you do regular yoga, but you turn the heat up high. That way you sweat out all the poisons, and it leaves you clean in mind and body.”

And limp as a dishrag,
I thought.

“I guess that's something new,” Sam said. “What would you need—a rented place with a good heating system?”

“I guess, and some yoga mats. Maybe a water fountain and a drinks machine—you're supposed to keep the heat up real high.”

“How high?”

“I don't know,” Trixie said, shrugging. “Eighty or ninety degrees, I guess. Maybe more. I'd have to find out.”

It was ninety-two degrees this very day. Trixie could've yogaed to her heart's content in the backyard.

“Well, here's the thing, Trixie,” Sam said, seemingly giving her
business plan serious consideration. “What's your background in yoga? Do you know it well enough to teach it?”

“Uh-uh, I never done it before.”

“Oh,” Sam said, his eyebrows on their way up again. “Well, I think you have to have a lot of experience before you can offer instruction to other people. Don't you think?”

“I guess.” She lowered her head, then said, “Rodney thinks I could learn real quick, but I don't know as I want to.”

“Well, my advice, if you want it, is not to go into a business until you know it backward and forward. And you have to really want to make it work. I think, if I were you, I'd find something I wanted to do, train myself in it, and then open up for business.”

“I'll tell him.”

“But, Trixie,” Sam went on, “I'm glad you're thinking of your future and what you'd like to do. Is there anything you're really interested in?”

Her head came up and, if I wasn't mistaken, her eyes began to shine. “Yeah, I been thinking about it and I want to be a cosmetician or a beautician or whatever you call 'em and work with Rodney. He says it's a wide-open field, 'cause not many beauticians want to work on dead people. But I could do it. It wouldn't bother me at all, and Rodney would be there to keep me comp'ny, so even if I had to do it at night I wouldn't be afraid.”

They Lord,
I thought, jabbing my needle into the canvas.

Sam, ever considerate of her feelings, said kindly, “I think you have to have a license to be a cosmetician, Trixie. Which means going to beauty school. Are you willing to do that?”

“You got one around here? I don't want to go off somewhere.”

“There might be one. We could find out if you're really interested.”

“Oh, I am, and I could have business cards with my name on 'em, something like Beautician for the Bereaved or something. And I could pass 'em out at funerals. You know, so people in the right frame of mind would have 'em for future reference. Rodney says you have to advertise yourself.”

“Well,” Sam said, clearing his throat, “the first thing to do is look into getting yourself trained. Why don't you check the yellow pages for beauty schools, then go from there.”

“Okay,” she said and hopped up from her chair. “But Rodney already said I could have a job at his funeral home when he gets it. I oughta be trained by the time he opens for business, and if I'm not, he could show me how to do it.” She stood for a few seconds, apparently thinking it over while one hand scratched her other arm. “And if I'm not too good at it at first, it won't matter. It's not like a dead person would be a return customer anyway.”

And off she went to bed, while Sam and I just sat and looked at each other, too stunned to say a word.

The next morning, as soon as Sam was off to plan his ad campaign and Lloyd, who'd spent the night at his mother's, had called to say he was meeting friends at the tennis courts, I picked up the phone to start my own campaign.

“LuAnne?” I said when she answered her phone. “I've been thinking about you and thought I might run up for a visit this morning if you're not busy.”

“Well, how nice, Julia, but I'm on my way out the door right now. I've got to get to the post office and the bank, then pick up at the dry cleaner's. It's one of those days, don't you know. But I tell you what. Why don't I drop by your house when I get through, maybe in a couple of hours?”

“That'd be lovely,” I said, delighted that I wouldn't have to make the drive up the mountain to her condo. “Why don't you plan to have lunch with me? We'll have something light and have time to catch up with each other.”

So it was settled and I went into the kitchen to ask Lillian to plan for a luncheon guest. But with plenty of empty time before LuAnne appeared, I didn't want to lose momentum. So I went back to the library and dialed Miss Mattie Freeman's number, preparing myself to be frustrated. Miss Mattie was either hard of hearing or intentionally dense so she could get out of doing something she didn't want to do.

“Miss Mattie? It's Julia. How are you?” I began when she answered. “No, Julia Murdoch. We talked yesterday at Sunday school, remember?”

“Oh,” she said, “of course. Sorry, but I always think of you as Julia Springer. If you're having a party, I'd love to come. When is it? I'll get my calendar.”

Miss Mattie lived for parties, and no one would dare have anything without inviting her. This time, though, she was going to be disappointed. I didn't have time to plan a party . . . although, I mused while waiting for her to return to the phone, maybe I should have something for Sam. And if I did, I told myself, I'd be up front about its purpose. I'd never invite people to a social affair, then spring a political harangue on them as some people had been known to do.

“No, Miss Mattie,” I said when she picked up the phone again. “I'm
thinking
of having a party, but I'm just in the planning stage. Right now, though, I'm contacting people I know we can count on to tell them that Sam is running for the North Carolina senate and, as much as I hate doing it, asking them for a donation to his campaign. Would you be interested in contributing to his senate race?”

“Race? What are you talking about? Like a Walk for Hunger thing?”

“No, no. It's to support Sam so he can represent us and do some good for the people of the district. There're an awful lot of people who need help and they're not getting it. It's up to us to see that they do.”

“What? What? I'm already tithing, Julia, yet every time I turn around, the church is asking for more. I'm about tired of it.”

“It's not for the church, Miss Mattie. It's for Sam.”

“Sam? Why? Is he broke? I told him years ago to stay out of the stock market. But, Julia, you have a nerve asking for money for him. He's your husband, not mine.”

By the time I got off the phone with her, I still wasn't sure that she'd fully understood. Nonetheless, she'd finally promised to send a small check to Sam's campaign. It was, however, one of the most unsatisfactory calls I'd ever made, and I wondered if I was cut out for this kind of solicitation.

Taking a determined breath, though, I dialed Mr. Pickens's office number, expecting to get his answering service.

I got him instead. “Pickens Investigations, Pickens speaking,” he said, sounding abrupt and professional.

“Mr. Pickens, it's Julia Murdoch. How are you?”

“Ah, Miss Julia,” he said, and I could picture him leaning back in his creaky chair. “What can I do for you? You having trouble?”

“Oh, no. No trouble, it's just . . . well, maybe I am.” And I went on to explain that Sam was far behind Jimmy Ray in his race for the senate and that I was asking, though I hated to do it, for campaign contributions.

“Why, sure,” Mr. Pickens said, lightening my heart, “we've already sent something in, but I think we can manage a little more. I tell you what's a fact, Miss Julia, we need somebody down there who knows what he's doing.”

I heartily agreed and hung up, feeling reassured that I was on the right track.

—

When LuAnne arrived a little after eleven-thirty, she came in wiping her face with a Kleenex. “I'm about to melt,” she announced and, heaving a big sigh, sat down on the sofa. “It's good to sit for a minute and catch my breath. I just hate these days when it's one chore after another, don't you? But I'm glad to get them done. How are you, Julia, I never see you anymore except at church when we don't have time to talk. Have you heard about Thurlow?” She leaned forward and, without giving me time to respond, went right on. “I heard that he's about to make a big contribution to the town—some kind of park or something, maybe for skateboarders or for bicycle or walking trails, I don't know. Maybe he wants a place for Ronnie to run, something weird like that.”

“Why, no,” I said, picturing Ronnie, Thurlow's Great Dane, bounding around a racetrack. “I haven't heard anything. But why in the world would he do something like that? I mean, he's strange, but that's a little much even for him. Especially as tight as he is with money.”

“Well, don't quote me, because I really don't know. All I've heard is that he's about to make a big contribution for the good of the town. And name it in honor of somebody—like a public servant or something—but nobody knows who.”

That struck fear in my heart, because Sam had said that Thurlow was a Mooney supporter, and in the midst of a senate race, who else but Mooney would benefit from a big contribution for the good of the town? And if it was built in his honor, why, Sam might as well go back to fishing. I could just see the bronze plaque:

With great effort, I managed to keep my anxiety under control. It wouldn't do to let LuAnne know how disturbing her news was—it'd be all over Abbotsville by nightfall that I was worried sick about Sam's chances.

As we sat at the table eating the chicken salad that Lillian had served, I kept wondering how to approach LuAnne about making a campaign contribution to someone who was a long and dear friend and who was also the husband of a long and dear friend. She would, I knew, not respond well to that kind of approach, and would immediately accuse me of imposing on our friendship.

But finally I steeled myself to bringing up the subject, straight out asking for her support in the form of a sizable contribution.

“Oh,” she said, putting down her fork, “well, Julia, I'll have to think about it. And talk to Leonard, although he's the least political of anyone I know. But you know Jimmy Ray's doing a good job—at least he's not being investigated. And I'll tell you frankly that I've voted for him every time, so I'll have to give this some thought.” She picked up her fork again and moved some salad
greens around on her plate, not wanting to look at me. Then she laughed. “Oh, now I get it. Sam's just doing it for the experience, isn't he? I bet he's going to write about it in his book. He doesn't really want the job, does he?”

I had to hold on to the sharp retort that almost got away from me. Instead, I responded as forcefully as I dared, saying, “Why else would he run, LuAnne? Of course he wants the job, and both of us expect our friends to support him, if not with a contribution, at least with their votes.”

The visit went downhill after that although the subject changed several times. When she left, the atmosphere was a little huffy, but friendly enough. The only good thing, I told myself as she drove away, was that I had not actually lost Sam a vote, it had just never been there in the first place.

I was about half discouraged by this time, but decided to make one more phone call, then call it quits for the day. And if that didn't work out, I'd have to rethink my bundling efforts.

I dialed Emma Sue Ledbetter's number, hoping to catch her at home. Our preacher's wife was forever on the go doing one good deed after another, then worrying herself to death for not doing enough.

“Emma Sue?” I asked when she answered, although I knew good and well who it was.
Why do we do that?
I wondered. “It's Julia. How're you feeling? We missed you at Sunday school.”

“Oh, I'm much better, thanks for asking. I hated missing Sunday school, but when a migraine hits it's just better to give in and let it run its course. Although of course I never like missing a church service. It's the least we can do.”

“I know, and you are the most faithful of us all.”

“Well, I have to be, don't I?” she said, sighing. “If the minister's wife doesn't go, how could we expect anybody else to? Be that as it may, though, how are you, Julia?”

“Oh, I'm fine, but the reason I'm calling is to ask if you feel you could support Sam in his race for the state senate, and if so,” I said, hurrying on to get it all out at once, “would you care to make a contribution to his campaign. It's tax deductible, I think.”

“Oh,” Emma Sue said, pausing to ponder her response. “Is Sam running? I didn't know that. Well, I tell you, Julia, I try not to mix politics with my faith. Render unto Caesar, you know.”

Can you believe that?
She was turning me down and doing it on the basis of her faith! And after all Sam and I had done for her and the pastor.

It was all I could do to hold on to my temper, but I managed a cool head and a moderate response. “Yes, I understand, but that's what I'm asking for—Caesar's portion for Sam.”

That didn't go over too well and certainly didn't change her mind. She put me off, saying she'd have to talk to Larry and pray about it, then she'd let me know. Which meant it'd probably be the last I heard about it from her.

I put down the phone, completely disheartened, wondering if it had been my methodology that put people off or if the people I thought were our friends really weren't. Whatever it was, I had not done well, either by the bundle or by one small bill after another.

It was time to go see Mildred Allen.