One Foot in the Grove (2 page)

Several miles beyond the village, a heavy-duty pickup truck towing a livestock trailer passed me going the other direction. Then, another truck, towing harvesting equipment, rumbled by as I whizzed past gracious Georgian- and Federal-style mansions set well back from the road on exquisitely manicured lawns. Long, cobblestoned drives were lined with flowering peach trees, tall magnolias, ambrosia-scented camellias, and mound after mound of blooming rosebushes. The car motor hummed as I took in a heady breath of the sweetly scented air.

I zipped by dusty pickups and faded cars parked in the gravel lot outside Carter's Country Corner Store. Inside, undoubtedly, weatherworn men in grimy overalls were sipping RC Colas and playing checkers. Same way they'd been doing for generations.

Closer to home, I passed a couple of longleaf pine forests. Typical of Southern Georgia wire grass country, the forests teemed with wildlife, including deer, turkey, rabbit, quail, and largemouth bass. And every now and again, I passed swaths of flat, sandy-soiled farmlands that harvested cotton, onions, soybeans, peanuts, pecans, blueberries, peaches, and more. The neat fields were laid out next to antique barns and rambling farmhouses—several were built before the Civil War, like my family's place, Knox Plantation.

This was quintessential Deep South countryside. Land of exquisite charm. Natural splendor. Southern pride.

A wrinkled, old codger in a rusted Chevy pickup loaded with manure honked and waved as he accelerated and passed by. The truck backfired, enveloping me in a noxious cloud of blue smoke.

Okay. So, on the other side of Abundance there was a chemical plant and a prison. Plus, there were some spooky cemeteries and a couple of big, scary swamps in Abundance County. And lots of crappy little cinder block homes on
unkempt lots on the far side of town near the railroad tracks. And if you weren't from Abundance, you never
would
be from Abundance, even if you lived there the rest of your life. Honestly, when you get right to it, folks were always meddling in one another's business—Tammy Fae Tanner and Debi Dicer weren't the only ones. For that matter, most Abundance women could smile at your face while happily stabbing you in the back. And although they'd rather be caught dead than admit it, the men in Abundance could be just as bad.

Of course, as cold as New England winters had been, Southern Georgia summers were crazy hot and stiflingly humid, with the wildest electrical storms I'd ever seen. And bugs—well, I'd forgotten how huge they could be—the Hercules beetles were bigger than my thumb. Then, there were snakes—copperheads, diamondbacks, cottonmouths—and they were just the venomous kind. As little girls, my sisters and I learned right quick how to tell a bad snake from a good snake. Good snakes got a free pass; bad snakes got the spade—a job always left for middle sister Pep and me because our oldest sister, diva Daphne, couldn't be caught dead handling a “tool,” even if her life depended on it.

I glanced at the speedometer and clucked my tongue.

“Not too fast.”

I still had Massachusetts plates on the car. And I knew to watch for speed traps. As long as I could remember, deputies considered it “sport” to catch speeding out-of-town motorists. Growing up, everyone knew Sheriff Titus rewarded deputies who'd dispensed the most traffic tickets with gift certificates to Woody's Gun Shop.

Oh—there's that. Guns. And hunting. People came from all over to hunt in Abundance. I hated guns. And I disliked hunting. Still, tourists who came to hunt and fish in Abundance helped stave off development and maintain the longleaf pine and grassland forest, one of the most diverse and endangered ecosystems in the world.

I rounded Benderman's Curve, and a giant white heron soared across the road ahead of me. Moments later, I motored
through a tunnel of live oak trees that made a green canopy over the road. Gobs of Spanish moss hung from the ancient, twisted branches overhead. I slowed, breathing in the summery sweet scents of the Southern Georgia countryside. Lush and alive, Abundance County was my home. Heading out of the verdurous tunnel, I punched the accelerator and cruised toward Knox Plantation. Happy to be home, I was eager to get back on my feet again.

Blusters of wind exposed the undersides of leaves on giant live oaks lining the Knox Plantation drive. As I motored toward the big house, surrounded by acres of sprawling lawns and gardens, dark clouds crowded an early-evening sun, bruising the late-summer sky. A storm would roll in soon.

Scents of freshly cut grass mingled with the sweet perfumes of roses and fragrant “August lily” hostas seduced my senses as I pulled up to the white clapboard Knox family plantation house. A mix of neo-Gothic and Victorian styles with peaked red metal roofs and second-story balconies, the pre–Civil War home was fairly modest as far as antebellum plantations go. Like most Southern Georgia settlers who'd been independently minded and poorer than their Northern Georgia cousins, my ancestors had labored on their farmland almost entirely without slave labor. The main house at Knox Plantation had been built for a large, working family.

I parked at the side of the house below the wraparound porch, put up the convertible top, and stepped out onto the
gravel drive just as an earsplitting engine roared from the backyard. A vintage “superbike” Kawasaki Zephyr 1100 motorcycle—restored, repainted red with a retro paint scheme, and upgraded to the max with top-of-the-line performance parts—blasted around the corner of the house, spewing gravel everywhere. Billy Sweet, my middle sister Pep's husband, never acknowledged me as he hurtled past, hunched over the handlebars, wearing black-leather everything with silver chains, studs, motorcycle boots, and a big red helmet. Sporting over-the-knee leather boots and some sort of strapless, miniskirted, black-leather affair, my thirty-something sister, Pep, sat behind her husband on the bike, her bare arms wrapped tightly around his waist. “Pep” is short for Pepper-Leigh, but don't tell her that I told you that—the only person who calls her “Pepper-Leigh” is our oldest sister, Daphne, and Pep can't stand it. Anyway, with the earsplitting engine roar and a huge silver helmet domed over her tiny head, it was difficult to hear Pep as she waved and called out, “Seeeee yah-wwwwwl!” The couple peeled down the drive in a spray of smoke and gravel.

A screen door up at the house slammed shut.

“Thank goodness y'all are
finally
back!” cried Daphne from behind the porch railing. Daphne's Southern drawl was thick and deep. Although we'd all grown up together, Daphne spoke with a far more pronounced drawl than Pep, and certainly way more than me, with my watered-down accent from all my years in New England. Still, I loved Daphne's manner of speaking. It was all part of her elegant Southern veneer. My forty-something sister reveled in being the quintessential Southern belle, and she played the role to the max.

Tall and lithe, the epitome of perfection, and usually dressed in soft, feminine designer clothing, on that evening Daphne wore an uncharacteristically long, baglike linen tunic. Even more bizarre, her head was completely covered by a fancy silk scarf. Like a burka, she'd wrapped the big silk square around her head and shoulders, leaving just a slit for her eyes.

Daphne had four girls—Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. She'd named them after the characters in
Little Women
, one of her two favorite books. Up on the porch, she gripped the hand of her youngest daughter, six-year-old Amy, who was wrestling to free herself as she clutched a metal lunch box to her chest. Like a perfect doll, Amy, was donning a beribboned pink dress with a poofy tulle skirt, suggesting a model little Southern belle. Unfortunately, the dress looked like a Halloween costume on poor Amy, who was anything but a “belle.”

Like her mother, Amy was pretty, slender, and fair skinned. Except, unlike her mother, who cherished all things ethereal and feminine, little Amy had a hankering for all things dark and creepy. During the children's summer visit to Daphne's ex-husband—pro ballplayer Bernard “Boomer” Bouvier, who'd remained in the marital home in Atlanta after the divorce—Amy had gotten ahold of some hair color and had dyed her waist-length, strawberry-blonde hair jet-black. Most likely, an older sibling had conspired in the offense, but no one copped to it. Regardless, against her fair, freckled skin, pale eyes, and blonde eyelashes, Amy's long raven hair gave the child an eerie, otherworldly appearance. In the froufrou mini belle outfit, Amy looked like a wee Vampira dressed for a cotillion. And she didn't like it one bit.

“Eva, I need y'all to help me tonight!” Daphne sounded completely exasperated as Amy wriggled to get free. “Earlene Azalea just dropped off Amy from her Bloomin' Belles cotillion class in town.”

Daphne had convinced her best friend, Earlene Azalea Greene, to send her youngest daughter, Ertha Mae, along with Amy, to a finishing school, of sorts, for kindergarteners and first graders because, according to Daphne, “it's never too early to learn good Southern manners.”

“Oh, that's nice,” I said. “Amy, sweetie, did you have fun at your cotillion class tonight?”

Amy just scowled as her mother lamented, “Oh, Eva! I'm so chagrinned! I don't know how I'll face anyone in town,
ever again! Amy was dismissed early after they discovered she'd brought that dreadful pet snake with her to class—in her new Amelia Bedelia lunch box!”

Amy stamped a foot and let out a grunt. Daphne's heavy gold charm bracelet jingled as she kneeled down and hugged Amy still.

“Fiddle-dee-dee, child, stop your fussin' this minute!”

No surprise, after
Little Women
, Daphne's second favorite book was
Gone with the Wind
. Growing up, her role model had been Scarlett O'Hara, and she used to quote Scarlett ad nauseam. Unfortunately, she still did on occasion, and “fiddle-dee-dee” was one of her favorites.

Amy let out a yowl.

Daphne scolded, “Miss Amy! We've got important guests inside. They've come all the way from New York for our Southern hospitality and a little peace and quiet—I don't reckon they're takin' kindly to your yammerin' out here.”

“Daph, what's with the head wrap?” I stepped in front of the car to the edge of the porch.

“Don't y'all know? I've had a
drrrr-eadful
accident,” said Daphne as she stood.

Amy spun herself free from her mother's grasp and twirled over to a big wicker chair on the porch, where she plopped down, kicking the chair leg and scowling with her arms folded against the lunch box cradled to her chest. Daphne studied her daughter for a moment before clucking her tongue and looking down at me in the parking area below.

“Eva, I'd be much obliged for y'all to help. Everyone's abandoned me, and Chef Loretta can't handle all the cookin' and servin' by herself. We've got important guests from New York, it's the first week of school, and I've got to help the children with their homework and get them fed and ready for bed. Amy's bein' quite contrary, and Little Boomer is coming down with the sniffles.”

Daphne's fifth and youngest child was Boomer, named after his athlete father. To distinguish one from the other,
the child was known as “Little Boomer” and his father up in Atlanta was “Big Boomer.” The
Little Women
thing was bad, but how Daphne could name her child “Boomer,” I'll never know, especially given her high-mindedness.

Amy kicked the chair. Daphne prattled on.

“Daddy is away in Texas this week. Pepper-Leigh just took off with that hooligan husband of hers for some sort of rock concert that she swears they bought tickets to a year ago.” Daphne pulled the wrapped scarf down from her nose and honked into a lacy handkerchief. “I hesitate to say anything negative about anyone, but I must say, I've never understood what Pepper-Leigh sees in him. Although, I guess we should be grateful he decided to step away from the gamblin' table for at least one night.”

I waited as Daphne honked into the hankie again.

“And, much to my utter astonishment, Charlene and Darlene took the night off without telling me in advance, presumably so they could go to the same inauspicious concert! Who's goin' to serve our guests tonight? I should've never hired those twenty-something twins of Earlene Azalea's . . . they're too immature, not at all hardworking or conscientious like their mama. And I can't fire them because I'll insult my best friend. Honestly, if Charlene and Darlene spent half the time cleaning around here as they do texting, we'd have a five-star rating in no time. At least they're each cute as a button, and the guests do seem to appreciate that. Anyhoo, other than you, the only other person left to help me tonight is Leonard.”

“Leonard?”

“Yes. You know, the field guide I hired last month. He's out driving around somewhere in Chef Loretta's car, supposedly getting ice. We're nearly out. And apparently, he doesn't have his own car. Who doesn't have a car these days? I can't believe that I hired a guide without a car. Oh well. So, y'all can see, Eva,
dahhwr-ln'
, the place is goin' to hell in a handbasket, we've got hungry guests inside, and y'all are the only one around to help me.”

“Gee, Daph, thanks.” I rolled my eyes.

“Why didn't y'all answer my calls? I've been tryin' to reach y'all on the cell phone for an hour!”

Daphne's “hour” sounded like “aowah.”

“I never carry my phone anymore.” I grabbed my dry cleaning from the convertible. “When it rings, it's always reporters. Hassling me about Boston.”

Daphne sighed.

“Well then, we need to get y'all a new number if that's what it takes to end this runaway bride nonsense. Y'all can't be goin' around willy-nilly without a phone. It gets busier than a moth in a mitten around this place, and y'all need to be available, twenty-four, seven.”

“Daph, you haven't answered my question. Why is your head trussed up?” I reached into the backseat and piled the busted boxes in my arms. In a minute, I'd be cross the back lawn, to my cottage.

“Who knew! I'm
deathly
allergic to lye!” she wailed. “My face, neck, chest—everything—is all red and swollen!”

“Lye? What . . .”

Daphne waved her arms dramatically.

“I was infusin' olive oil and making lavender soap with our lady guests from New York while their husbands were fishing with Leonard.”

“Omigosh, Daphne, that's terrible. I'm sorry.”

“I can't let folks see me like this. And we've got the big Chamber of Commerce meetin' comin' up in two days. I've been plannin' it for months—with Daddy's new olive oils, and our new hospitality business, it's our Knox Plantation comin'-out party, of sorts. And now,
this
!”

Daphne clutched her bosom, bent over, and made a high-pitched birdlike squeal. Amy looked up from the wicker chair, studying her mother. Showing such overt emotion amounted to an unacceptable lack of decorum, which was a big Southern social taboo. Even Amy knew that. Daphne would never do such a thing in public. Still, I'd seen Daphne do it on occasion, when it suited her, no doubt, while in the privacy of family. Drama Queen Daphne, “DQ” for short—
that's what Pep and I had nicknamed her growing up. Often she'd been prone to bouts of clutching her frail, undernourished bosom as she lamented about one unspeakable calamity or another. Moreover, given that things rarely lived up to Daphne's exacting expectations—her ex had called her “impossibly” perfect—she'd spent a good deal of her life reacting to the tribulations of being Daphne. Although, I'd always suspected that her big boo-hoos were more for effect. Still, I couldn't stand it when Daphne wailed. No one could.

Squinting up at the house against the early-evening sun, I noticed a curtain move in a second-story window behind one of the small balconies. That would be in the room belonging to the Gambinis, one of the two New York couples visiting for the week.

“Alright, I'll help. As long as I don't have to cook. You know I can't cook.”

Just then, my little black dog, Dolly, came skittering around the corner of the house and jumped up on my leg to greet me. All whimpers, licks, and happy wags. As Dolly hit my leg, the cardboard shirt boxes in my arms tumbled to the ground.

“Dolly!”

I cradled Dolly and smothered her with kisses. Daddy and my sisters had given me the pup a week earlier to keep me company, and no doubt, to act as a distraction from the heartache of my broken engagement. I named her after Great Grandma Knox.

Amy climbed down the porch stairs, still holding her lunch box, and followed the rose-lined gravel path flanked by Daphne's carefully pruned shrubs and flower gardens until she stood next to me. I put Dolly on the drive, and the pup was more than happy to jump all over Amy and deliver more licks.

Picking up the spilled boxes and shirts, I caught a smile flicker across Daphne's face, before she dabbed her eyes with her hankie and said, “I knew I could count on y'all, Eva.”