Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (30 page)

After calling Hazel Marie to ask if it would be convenient for me to visit, I started the four-block walk to her house, recalling the phone conversation as I went.

“How is Trixie this morning?” I'd asked, wanting to be prepared for whatever mood she was in.

“To tell the truth,” Hazel Marie said, “I'm a little worried about her. On the one hand, she gets up early, dresses nicely, puts on her makeup, and does her hair. And she's pleasant enough to be around, although she acts kind of dreamy-like—like she's off in her own world. But then she goes to the den and sits there
by the hour
watching
Magnum, P.I.,
one DVD after the other. I think that's a little strange, don't you?”

I certainly did, although Trixie had done stranger things than that, so perhaps we should be thankful for small blessings.

I walked up onto the porch, where Hazel Marie met me at the door. “She's still at it,” she whispered. “I told her you were coming, but she just nodded and kept on watching.”

I followed Hazel Marie into the den, found Trixie glued to the television set where Magnum, P.I., was involved in a fistfight on a beach somewhere in Hawaii.

“Trixie?” I said to get her attention. “A letter from your grandmother just came.”

That got her attention. “From Meemaw? What does she want?”

“She wants you to come home. Well, to Florida. Here it is,” I said, handing the letter to her. Frowning, she accepted it and slowly smoothed out the folds.

While she read, I picked up the remote and turned down the sound. Hazel Marie and I stood watching, our eyes drawn
inexorably toward Magnum, P.I.'s antics, as we waited for Trixie to finish absorbing the letter. With Rodney now out of the picture, I hoped the recall would please her. She hadn't wanted to be sent away in the first place, and it was a settled fact that she'd been miserable in my care. The thought of leaving Hazel Marie, however, might dampen her eagerness to return to Meemaw and Pawpaw.

At that realization, I was somewhat saddened by Elsie's summons, for as much as Trixie had wanted to go home at first, I wondered if she'd be all that thrilled now.

—

Trixie held the letter long enough to have read it twice or three times over, but finally she handed it to Hazel Marie. Right in front of my eyes, Trixie's face slowly turned a deep red, almost as if she were holding her breath. Then it crumpled up and a single tear ran down her cheek.

“Oh, honey,” Hazel Marie said, going to her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Don't cry. We thought you'd be happy to go home—I mean to Florida.”

“I am,” Trixie said, sniffing as she ran her hand under her nose. “I guess. Except Meemaw wanted me to find somebody and I have, but . . .” She trailed off, while I stared in surprise.

“Oh, Trixie, you don't mean Rodney, do you?” I'd thought that was over for good. If not, well, I didn't want to think of the resulting complications.

“No!”
Trixie cried. “I wouldn't have him on a silver platter. I'm talking about a real man, but now it's too late. I have to do what Meemaw wants.”

Well, no, she didn't, but I was hesitant to encourage open rebellion. She could be with us forever.

Hazel Marie said, “It'll be all right, honey. She says you can come back at Christmas. Why don't we plan for you to do that? Then we'll both have something to look forward to.”

Hazel Marie was undoubtedly the sweetest woman alive, but
I had little patience with Trixie's vacillations. First she'd wanted to go home and now she didn't. Then she'd wanted Rodney and now she didn't. And now she had her eye on somebody else, except, I realized, she hadn't been anywhere to meet anyone. Of course, she hadn't had to go anywhere to meet Rodney, so maybe she'd matched up again with an online stranger. Which I could live with as long as he had no interest in funeral parlors and cemeteries.

Trixie wiped her face and stood up. “I guess I better go pack.”

One of the babies screamed upstairs and the other one joined in a moment later. Hazel Marie jumped up and hurried off, saying Granny Wiggins needed help. That left Trixie and me alone.

“I'll call the bus station,” I told her, “and find out the bus schedule. But, really, Trixie, there's no reason for you to hurry off. They've been getting along fine without you, so a few more days won't hurt. You'll have time to meet with your new beau and exchange addresses, and maybe make plans to see each other over Christmas.”

“Won't do no good,” she mumbled, then plopped back down in the leather chair she'd just gotten up from. She buried her face in her hands and began sobbing.

I'm not good in such situations, but I tried patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there.”

It didn't help, so I spoke firmly to her. “Trixie, you're old enough to do whatever you want. You can either go to Florida or you can stay here. Well, not
here,
because you've been with Hazel Marie long enough, and it seems to me that she's accomplished a marvelous makeover for you in that time. So if you decide to stay”—I stopped and steeled myself to finish—“you're welcome to your room at my house until you find a job and an apartment.” That was the best I could do.

She sniffed wetly and said, “Guess I'll go on to Florida then.” Which almost hurt my feelings, but then she pushed back her hair, looked up at me, and said, “Wouldn't do no good to stay. I know that. I'm not dumb. All the makeovers in the world won't change a thing. He don't even know I'm alive.”

“But haven't you talked to him?”

She nodded. “We talked. Some.”

“Then he'll understand about sickness in your family, and, think of this, you can stay in touch by email and that Skype thing that Lloyd has. You'll be as close that way as you are now, won't you?” I was beginning to lose patience. Trixie was quick to fall for somebody, and just as quick to fall out with somebody. It was hard to keep up with her.

“Not hardly,” she said with a little more spirit. Then she looked at the television screen. Magnum, P.I., was now driving a convertible on a street somewhere in Hawaii. “Miss Julia? Do you think I could ask Hazel Marie for just one DVD? You know, to remember him by?”

Stunned that she seemed actually to be in love with a figment of some screenwriter's imagination, I stumbled out a reply. “I expect she'd be glad to give you one. They belong to Mr. Pickens, though.”

“I know,” she murmured, turning to gaze at the silent but still active television hero. “He never watches them, but I do. If she'd give me one, I could watch him all the time.”

I blinked in sudden understanding and almost gasped. That was exactly what she'd been doing. Hiding my dismay and mentally making plans a mile a minute, I said briskly, “Well, that's nice, but you don't have time to watch a show now. Why don't you run on and start packing? There might be a bus heading south this afternoon. I'll check the schedule and call Elsie to let her know when to meet you. Hazel Marie will have some shopping bags for your new clothes, or I might have a suitcase you can have. If you forget anything, I'll send it to you. Run on. Trixie, hurry. We need to get you on your way home.”

—

On the evening of the following day, Sam and I returned from a walk around the neighborhood. We'd spent part of the time talking about his campaign schedule, which would get even busier as November neared.

“How do you feel about the race now?” I said, picking a leaf from one of Mildred's boxwoods as we passed. “Will we be going to Raleigh?”

“I can't tell you, because I don't know.” Sam smiled and squeezed my hand. “But it doesn't really matter. I'm having such a good time campaigning that win or lose the election, I'll win either way. I wouldn't have missed this for the world, Julia.”

“Not even for a boat trip down the Rhine?”

We laughed, and he said, “Not even.”

He released my hand as we stepped up on the porch. “Let's sit out here awhile,” he said, pointing to the cushioned wicker chairs behind the wisteria vine that partially shielded the porch from the street.

I smiled, feeling refreshed from the walk, as I always did, especially on such evenings when the day's heat had lifted. Taking a walk with my husband was still new enough to be treasured, and I recalled how I used to feel about couples, young or old, who walked along holding hands. I'd looked at them with scorn, thinking that such displays were unseemly and slightly déclassé. Until I became Sam's wife instead of Wesley Lloyd Springer's widow, I hadn't realized that what I'd felt was not contempt, but envy.

“Think you'll miss having Trixie around?” Sam asked, returning to the main subject of our walk—the Trixie saga. I'd told Sam about getting her packed, missing the bus the day before so she had to spend another night, her determination to spend it at Hazel Marie's house instead of ours, and my concern about her makeover having taken so long that she'd practically moved in with the Pickenses—a momentous mistake in hindsight.

“I had in mind something on the order of a day spa,” I'd said. “I didn't expect her to be there day and night for days on end. Knowing what I now know, though, Elsie's letter came in the nick of time.”

“Did you tell Hazel Marie?” Sam asked.

“No, and I don't think I will. No need stirring up trouble when the troublemaker is gone.”

Sam laughed. “Honey, I don't believe Hazel Marie has anything to worry about.”

“Well, that's true,” I said, smiling. “Besides, I think she'd already figured it out. I stopped by after getting Trixie on the bus this morning, and Hazel Marie was putting away all those DVDs that had been pulled out. She told me she'd put four of them in Trixie's suitcase as a surprise, which was a very kind and thoughtful thing to do. All I said was that Trixie would be thrilled when she found them. And Hazel Marie smiled that sweet smile of hers and said. ‘In his younger years, like he was on these shows, Magnum, P.I., had a remarkable resemblance to J.D., don't you think?' So I think she knows.”

“What about Pickens?” Sam asked, thoroughly amused at the thought of such an unlikely triangle. “Does he know?”

I waved my hand at such a notion. “The man is oblivious. But I tell you, Sam, I think that talking-to he gave her when she was so rude to Hazel Marie turned everything around. I think she was so impressed with his firmness and his . . . well, masculinity, I guess, that she realized the difference between a dilettante like Rodney and a real man. I think her crush began right then. In fact, she referred to her new interest as a real man, although I didn't know who she was talking about at the time.”

We sat in companionable silence for a while. Three cars passed with bumper stickers for Murdoch on one and for Mooney on two. Not a good sign, but we smiled at each other because there was still plenty of time.

“You know, Sam,” I said, musing over the summer, almost in a stock-taking mood, “we've had some interesting events in the last several weeks. First, Trixie landed on us, then you had your surgery—two totally unexpected things, neither of which I'd want to repeat. Then there was my foray into public speaking, another experience I wouldn't want to have again. Then there's been your campaign, which you chose over a boat trip.” I smiled at him. “I'm glad you don't regret the choice. Then, of course, there was Rodney. Just think, if it hadn't been for Trixie, we'd never have known
him—imagine what we would've missed.” We laughed together. Somewhat ruefully, though.

Sam said, “You and Hazel Marie did a lot for Trixie. And, in spite of her disappointment in Rodney, she'll never forget her time here.”

“Well,” I agreed, “I'll never forget her time here, either. And as beneficial as cosmetics and deportment exercises proved to be in her case, I think that just being here with us wrought a much more important makeover in the way she views the world. If, that is, she can separate it from a television show. But since I find myself missing her just a tiny bit, maybe she wrought one in me, as well.” I reached for his hand. “It's been quite a marvelous summer in its way, hasn't it?”

—

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