Dancing Naked in Dixie (33 page)

David frowns. “One and the same.”

“Let me get this straight. You were in love with Aubie?” My mouth fills with a bitter taste, like I’ve brushed my teeth with vinegar. “And she was engaged to someone else?”

My father nods. “I was smitten—a goner—like Cupid had swooped down and shot a dozen arrows into my heart. We were going to run away together.”

I choke back a burst of hysterical giggles. Shug’s mother and my father? Together? It’s so far fetched and ridiculous that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m exhausted and not thinking straight.

A week ago, I ended my own relationship with the man I’d been with for years. Today, I discover that my father has been in love with someone else—maybe for my parents’ entire marriage.

“I realize that it all sounds insane,” David says. “But I really cared about her. I thought that she was the one.” With the confession, his shoulders sag.

“What happened?” I ask in a quiet voice, watching his face for clues.

“TJ’s mother found us and sent Aubie home. We had a little chat.” My father rubs his mouth with his hand. “She told me it was time to leave. That I shouldn’t come back to Eufaula if I knew what was good for me. She had her son’s life all mapped out and she wasn’t about to let some Yankee ruin it.”

“MeeMaw threatened you?” I realize my mouth is hanging open and close it, pressing my lips together.

“When I refused to go, she offered to pay me. A year’s salary, which was big money at the time—”

“Please tell me you didn’t,” I interrupt with a high-pitched squeak.

David offers me a withering look. “I may have been an absentee father and a bad husband, but I’d never take a bribe. Not from her, not from anyone.”

I’m relieved, but a dozen other questions volley back and forth in my brain.
Why did she care? Weren’t there other girls? Why was it so important to get David Sullivan, newspaper reporter, out of the way?

My father draws in a breath and walks back to his desk. “When she figured out that paying me off wasn’t going to work, she threatened to ruin my career. This included calling my boss, the owner of the newspaper, anyone who would listen. She was hell-bent on making my life miserable and I believed she’d do it. The last thing she told me was that I’d never amount to anything.” A bitter laugh rises in his throat.

“How did you say good-bye? What did you tell her?” I ask, suddenly desperate to find out how the romance ended.

“Nothing.” The word is flat and final. His face reveals no emotion, but his eyes are distant and stormy.

“Nothing?” The answer shocks me. My heart races. I am so upset, imagining Aubie’s tears and broken heart, that slapping my father across the face—actually, for a moment—seems like a logical idea.

David, sensing my angst, sinks down in his chair, leaning back against the dark leather. Putting more space between us is wise, I decide, like an invisible buffer. I’m able to breathe and regain my composure. Instead of wild accusations, I ask one simple question.

“Why nothing? I don’t understand.”

“She had a shotgun,” David pauses, then raises an eyebrow. “And it was loaded.”

I press a palm to my forehead and start to pace the room. The story sounds like an old B-movie movie, with a crooked sheriff, damsels in distress, and a posse of deputies running the good guy out of town. If MeeMaw was the sheriff, what was she trying to protect from an outsider? I think about the Jordan’s sprawling mansion, the antiques, and fine furnishings.

“So, MeeMaw obviously had some money to throw around,” I say out loud, though I’m really talking to myself. Then, it hits me. I stop walking and stand still on the thick carpet. “But, if Aubie’s family was the real deal—old Eufaula money—with a family tree tracing back to the 1800’s…” I frown at my shoes, thinking.

David doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Which probably means I’m right.

I put the rest of it together, rehashing the details, tapping my fingers against my elbow. “So, Aubie’s family had the real money, gobs of it, and she stood to get a substantial inheritance. You show up in town, sweep Aubie off her feet, the two of you fall in love, and it messes up MeeMaw’s plans for her darling son.”

I close my eyes, trying to imagine my handsome, dashing father meeting an adorable, naive seventeen-year old Aubie back in 1965 Eufaula. When I picture the two of them, I see the antebellum homes, the blooming azaleas, the blue sky. Add in the festivities of the first-ever Pilgrimage, the excitement, the parties—what a perfect place and time to fall in love.

My father leaving without a word would have devastated any young girl with hopes and dreams of true love. Hurt like that can damage a person, cut them to the bone, leaving a raw, empty soul that might never be filled. A broken heart like that can make a person seek out ways to stop the pain—wine, hard liquor, sleeping pills. Did Aubie drown her sorrows because of my father left? Or was it marrying TJ? Or did she find out about MeeMaw, the money, the threats, the shotgun? Or all of it?

I realize that my father is watching me. And grinning. “You know, as far as careers go, you should really think about becoming an investigative reporter. Or a detective.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I reply with a grin, and then realize my father hasn’t answered my original question. “So, back to the beginning. Who was the friend who sent you the note? And what did he or she want?”

“Believe it or not, it was from MeeMaw,” my father says. “After all these years. After the threats and the shotgun. And though I don’t think I’ll ever get an ‘actual’ apology, as strange as it sounds, I believe it was her attempt to make a peace offering.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

David smiles, “And even after all of this time, I couldn’t say no.”

Chapter 38

It’s a glorious April in New York. Not too cool, not too rainy. I’m walking to the office, swinging my red umbrella, and there’s a bounce in my step. I’ve been globe-trotting again—Nicaragua, then Japan, and back to Montreal, Quebec—but as of this evening, I’m on vacation. Seven entire days of absolutely nothing.

A real vacation. An honest-to-goodness break. Not a working, interviewing, racing-around madness to which I’ve become accustomed. There has to be rest, sleeping in late, and a bit of indulgence—whether it’s the bliss of absolute quiet or the freedom of going barefoot for the entire week.

I’m counting the minutes until five o’clock.

My office building looms in the distance. Imposing, massive, glass-encased. Awards hang on the walls. A few new ones are mine. An impressive number are from last year, when the industry decided to smile on the
Route 66: Back Roads to Big Dreams
column that my boss created.

I kept my job. And I’ve been promoted.

And I
did
make it to New Orleans—several months later. In March, I enjoyed the Tennessee Williams Writers Festival, the
Stella!
Shouting Contest, and dining at John Besh’s
August
restaurant.

Through the lobby, up the elevator. Fourth stop.

I step out and smile, shaking my head as I pass the gleaming, silver frames. It still amazes me how one article about a small Alabama city captured the minds and hearts of America.

But it happened.

After a near-fatal bee sting, a near-death experience, and the deliberate destruction of two Eufaula, Alabama landmarks, my
Getaways
column generated national media frenzy.

I pause and chat with the receptionist, wave hello to the new intern, and pick up my mail. After I drop off my latest article with Dolores, I stop at my cubicle and hug my best friend.

Marietta squeezes me to her, clinging like Velcro. Tighter. Tighter.

“Okay, I can’t breathe,” I gasp, wriggling out of her grasp.

She smiles and ducks her head. “Sorry. I’m just going to miss you.”

“Mar, I’ll be back in a week,” I insist, frowning at her to emphasize that my little trip to Alabama is no big deal.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see,” Marietta nods, making no attempt to hide that she doesn’t believe me.

“It’s the Pilgrimage,” I insist. “I have to be there.”

“Right. I know,” she says breezily. “You can’t miss it. Everyone’s expecting you. That’s what you keep saying.” Marietta eyes me up and down knowingly. “But, girl, it’s as plain as day. You are in L-O-V-E.”

I won’t admit she’s right, but an hour later, I’m still grinning.

Even after an hour of stop and go traffic, one detour, and a thirty-minute wait at airport security, I can’t help but smile. I say hello to strangers. There’s a bounce in my step. I give the Starbucks barista an extra big tip.

When the gate attendant announces it’s time to board the flight, I can’t help myself. I jump to my feet, ready to be first in line.

The jet banks right, hovering at ten-thousand feet.

I readjust my seatbelt, tightening the strap, checking the buckle. According to the cute flight attendant, we’ll be landing in a few minutes.

Out the window, I can see green peanut fields, lush blooms, and wide-open spaces. In the distance, there’s the dark swath of runway. The jet lowers down, banks, and turns toward the blacktop.

We’re minutes from touchdown.

I’m overjoyed and anxious. I’m frightened and thrilled. Will it feel the same? Will I fit in? Will I want to stay?

The explosion changed everything—but I remind myself that it’s over.

For good. For always. Forever.

That’s what Shug tells me.

And how can I help but believe him?

He risked so much to protect everything and everyone he loves.

Once I’d safely returned to New York, Shug spilled his concerns about Phase III to MeeMaw, Aubie, and PD. He explained what he knew about Eagle Investments. Then, bracing himself for denial, backlash, or incredulity, he shared his suspicions about TJ and Mary Katherine.

The trio of women believed him. After my father’s testimony at the public meeting—so did everyone else in Eufaula.

Aubie, sadly, had long suspected TJ’s infidelity. PD confessed that she’d never really liked Mary Katherine, that it felt strange for her brother’s girlfriend to spend so much time with their father. MeeMaw, knowing her own son better than anyone, concurred on both.

So, Shug invented MeeMaw’s stroke, setting his plan in motion. He told everyone—including Roger and Mary Katherine—there was no hope of recovery. He called in Hospice to ease her final hours of life. Of course, Shug lamented in public that the timing was terrible, he wanted to speak out against Phase III, but that being by MeeMaw’s side was more important—vote or no vote.

After the explosions, it took all of twenty-four hours for Aubie to file for divorce.

She produced a valid, notarized copy of their ante-nuptial agreement cutting him out of any share of her family money, then opted for a two-month long stay in a very private, very expensive alcohol rehabilitation facility in Miami.

All reports from Shug indicate that she’s recovered quite nicely, trimmed down fifteen pounds, and has taken up speed-walking. Best of all—Aubie will be back home this week—just in time to resume her duties for the upcoming Pilgrimage.

There won’t be any divorce drama with TJ, thanks to an Alabama Bureau of Investigation probe into Phase III and Eagle Investments. Despite maintaining his innocence for months, the state’s fact-finding mission resulted in a very public arrest for conspiracy and related white-collar crimes. If convicted, he’ll spend ten or fifteen years behind bars.

On the flip side, Mary Katherine came clean. Her high-priced Hollywood attorney advised her to cut a deal. In exchange for sworn testimony against TJ, Shug’s former girlfriend is on house arrest for a year, ala Martha Stewart. Wearing her ankle bracelet for all the world to see, Mary Katherine admitted her role in the Phase III project during a satellite interview with Oprah. After a tearful apology, sobbing through a promise to continue extensive therapy and rehabilitation, she blamed her actions on Shug’s father.

I’ve only seen the show once—Marietta recorded it and swore she’d fast-forward through all but the best parts. We split a carafe of wine and dined on a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos. We’d finished both by the time we reached the grand finale. It was a good thing, because I might have choked to death on a chip during her final confession. As it was, I could barely watch as her face filled the TV screen.

“I was in love with TJ,” Mary Katherine paused and sighed, smoothing back her blonde hair. “He was this handsome, powerful businessman. I adored him, respected him. And he took advantage of my youth and innocence. I believed all of his lies. He promised me he was leaving his wife, he told me that Phase III would make us rich, and that Jordan Construction winning the contract would mean I’d never have to work another day in my life.”

Gripping the sofa, I was transfixed. Marietta rolled her eyes and let the DVR play.

“I was under his spell, it was like he’d brainwashed me,” Mary Katherine lets a tear trickle down her cheek. “He knew I’d do anything for him. Anything for his company.” She sobs here, then catches her breath, bosom heaving. “So when he asked me to turn on the gas stoves in two houses the night of the public hearing, I didn’t think twice. I did what he told me to do. I did it
for love
…”

At the word ‘love,’ Marietta clicked off the remote. The television goes dark.

I clapped both hands over my face. “And they bought this story?”

“The right people did,” Marietta said dryly.

“So, they believed this ludicrous fabrication of facts—that TJ convinced or manipulated Mary Katherine to blow up not just one historic home, but his own house, too—with his mother, wife, and son inside?” I laugh.

“She’s sticking to it, telling everyone who will listen, and TJ’s not saying a word,” Marietta confirmed. “I think Aubie’s divorce lawyer worked out some kind of gag order.”

After Oprah, Mary Katherine started her own blog, posting original articles on relationships, love, and dating. Marietta tells me that her Facebook Fan page boasts five thousand ‘likes.’ Apparently, Mary Katherine also landed a literary agent. She’s begun writing her memoirs and is in the process of negotiating a lucrative book deal.