Miss Julia Paints the Town (15 page)

“Mildred?” I said when Ida Lee got her to the telephone. “I'm glad to hear how well Ida Lee sounds. I hope there're no lingering effects from her hospital stay.”

“No,” Mildred said with a long-suffering sigh. “The doctor said all she needs is rest and good nutrition, of all things. I told Ida Lee it would've been so much easier on me if she'd had an actual disease that could have been treated and cured. Instead, she has to have some nebulous condition that'll take months to correct. But I missed seeing you today, Julia. The reason I called is to remind you that Horace is still missing and to tell you how hurt I am that everybody seems to have forgotten me.”

“You mean to tell me that Lieutenant Peavey and all those deputies he's got out looking still haven't come up with anything? Mildred, that is the strangest thing. No wonder you're feeling neglected. Hasn't he told you anything?”

“Well, yes, he came around early this morning and, I'll tell you, Julia, that man needs some training in compassion and empathy. He just flat out told me that they now consider Horace a missing person, not a victim of a car wreck. And then,” she stopped to take a rasping breath, “he had the nerve to ask if I was sure I hadn't heard from him. And the worst thing of all, he said they were calling off the search party because they believe Horace disappeared of his own volition.”

“Oh, my word.”

“Yes, and I had to go back to bed for the entire morning. But, you know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Lieutenant Peavey isn't right. If Horace was having financial problems, which he always was, and if I refused any more advances, which I did, then the poor man had no recourse but to disappear. Except he certainly didn't give any thought to me when he did it. Here, I've been worried sick about him, spending these wretched days with my mind filled with all the terrible things that could've happened, only to learn that he just took off and left without any concern for what I would suffer. So, I decided that I'm not going to ruin my health by mourning a man who's probably sunning himself on a South Sea island somewhere.”

A South Sea island?
Those words rang a bell, but she didn't give me time to pursue them.

“So,” Mildred went on, “I got up about noon, determined to take a new lease on life. And to make the point, I put on the new coral silk dress with matching sweater I ordered from Neiman Marcus. The sweater has gold embroidery on it.”

The thought of all that coral silk made me shudder because Mildred was a big-boned woman with a thyroid condition. I put the thought aside and said, “I'm so glad to hear it, Mildred. I've been worried about you, and I think you're right to take care of yourself and look to your own well-being. But let me tell you what's been going on while you were in mourning.” And I started in telling her about Arthur Kessler and the courthouse and the mayor and the county commissioners, but I stopped short of revealing my plans to undermine them all. “Now, I know that you expressed some interest in buying one of those condominiums, but, Mildred, I hope you'll reconsider. For one thing, have you ever been downtown on a Saturday night? You wouldn't believe the racket all those souped-up trucks and cars make as they cruise Main Street. And during the summer they have street dances every week and parades for every holiday. They'd be right outside your windows, and you wouldn't have a minute's peace, living down there. And have you noticed all the men who hang around downtown looking for handouts? You wouldn't like it, Mildred, and consider this, there could be other condominiums built by other people in a more congenial area. You're accustomed to peace and quiet, and believe me, a serene atmosphere is the last thing you'd get in Arthur Kessler's courthouse replacement.”

She was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I hadn't thought of that. And you're right, I do have to have my peace and quiet. It's my nerves, you know. I'm glad you reminded me, Julia, because that decides it. I wouldn't buy one of his condominiums for anything.”

“Well, see, Mildred, we want to fix it so nobody will buy one. In fact, we don't even want the thing built. That courthouse is an architectural treasure and some of us are trying to save it.”

“Oh, that sounds like a good cause. How much do you need?”

“No, I'm not looking for donations, at least not yet. What I want to know is how would you feel about helping me discourage Mr. Kessler? You see, he wants to know how cultural we are, so I'm thinking of having a musical soiree—something tasteful yet boring. Since your house is so much better suited for such things, would you mind being the hostess? I mean, now that you're out of mourning.”

“Well, why not?” she said with a gaiety that made me wonder at her state of mind. “I'm not one to sit around moping about a husband who's flown the coop of his own volition. Let him go, I say. And good riddance, too.”

“My goodness, Mildred, you sound just like LuAnne. That's exactly what she said about Leonard.”

“Don't bring LuAnne Conover up to me! Our situations are not at all the same. She ran her husband off herself. Julia, that woman talks all the time. I'm surprised he stood it as long as he did, and I wouldn't be surprised if he never comes back. But wait a minute,” she went on, “I don't get it. How would a musical soiree discourage Mr. Kessler from putting up his building?”

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? I'd hoped I wouldn't have to explain it to her, because you never knew how much she took in or how much would end up spread around town. I always watched what I said around Mildred for fear it would come back at me. She had a good heart, though, so I tried not to hold it against her.

“Well, it's like this,” I started, choosing my words carefully. “The mayor asked me to show Mr. Kessler around town, which I'm doing with Miss Wiggins's help. And Mr. Kessler wants to see what Abbotsville has to offer, culturally speaking. I was at my wit's end until I thought of you and Tonya. You two are the most cultured of all of us—so well traveled and all of that. And Tonya has lived in New York and seen all the plays and concerts, so I'm hoping your cultural experiences will sort of rub off on the rest of us.” I stopped for a minute, then added, “Besides, you have a piano.”

I rubbed my forehead, thinking that was the weakest excuse for an explanation I'd ever given anybody. “And,” I went on, “I guess I want to show Mr. Kessler that we small-town southerners are sort of a closed society. We're not going to welcome with open arms any incursion of retired outsiders, no matter how wealthy they happen to be. That's not exactly true, of course, but he has this idea of using us as a selling point to upscale buyers. Which, I don't mind telling you, I heartily resent.”

“Well, put that way, I do, too. I'm not interested in being put on display. And you know something else, Julia? Those people'll come in here and be so high and mighty we won't be able to stand them. Yes, let's do have a soiree, and I'll make it so grand that his condo owners will be too intimidated to want to join us. Upscale, my foot. I'll show him upscale!”

“Well, good,” I said, hoping I'd explained enough. “But, Mildred, we don't want him to think we're too grand. He'll put us in a brochure or something. Now as for who to invite, I thought the book club and the garden club. And some from our Sunday school class. Of course there'll be a lot of overlap, but it can't be helped. We'll just have an intimate gathering of good friends to hear entertainment by Tina Doland, who I'm hoping can't sing too well. We'll invite Mr. Kessler and try to bore him to death.”

“For goodness' sakes, Julia, you're thinking too small. Let's have a big group, the more the merrier, I always say. You know the garden club wanted to put my house on the tour this year, but I just wasn't up to it then. But I am now. I'm going to open my house to anybody who wants to come. Put an invitation in the newspaper and everything.”

I backed away from the telephone, frowning at it, then pressed it close. “Are you sure you want to do that? No telling who you'll get.”

“Let 'em come! Let 'em all come, I don't care. Listen, Julia, everybody in this town knows about Horace and what he's done to me, and I want them to know that I'm not sitting here grieving my life away. What better way to do that than to have a big blowout? And I know you want to have a dainty little garden party type of thing, but since it's at my house, I'm going to have a pig pickin'. I'll have Robert dig a pit in the backyard, so he can smoke that pig all night and half the day. We'll set up tents and tables around the pool so people can eat outside. We'll have beer and soft drinks and a bluegrass band. That'll be fun, won't it?”

I was stunned. Mildred Allen, the grandest lady in town, wanted to have a pig pickin'? But then again, I thought to myself, how perfect would it be to present Mr. Kessler with a whole roasted pig as our idea of a cultural feast?

“And listen, Julia,” Mildred went on before I could say anything, “if you want to have something more sedate inside the house, you can. People can just wander back and forth between Tina Doland and the Crooked River Boys until they reach their particular comfort level. I tell you, this will be a party to end all parties, and not one soul in this town is going to think that Horace Allen has stabbed me in the heart.”

I was finally able to get off the phone after we decided on a date for the party and after she told me she'd have Ida Lee telephone a few personal invitations. Even there, of course, my idea of a pseudo-grand social occasion began its downward spiral. We should've had engraved invitations sent out at least three weeks ahead of time. But as far as Mr. Kessler would know, our party had been planned for weeks and wouldn't be at all a last-minute affair thrown together for his benefit.

Of course, it was turning out to be more for Mildred's benefit than for Mr. Kessler's. If she wanted to have a musical-soiree-cum-pig-pickin', though, who was I to complain? It would certainly give Mr. Kessler a taste of Abbotsville culture, although it might come more in the form of culture shock than anything else.

I couldn't have been better pleased if I had planned it all myself.

“Well, Sam?” I sat down beside him on the sofa after supper and after Lillian had left and after Lloyd had gone upstairs with homework on his mind. I had been anticipating this time alone with Sam all day, in spite of the fact that I'd had a gracious plenty of other things to occupy my mind. During the afternoon Etta Mae and I had made our plans for the soiree, engaged Tina Doland to make a special appearance and, being pleased with the prospect of what we were doing, laughed whenever we looked at each other. Etta Mae had been elated when I told her about Mildred's pig-pickin' plans, but Lillian had shaken her head, saying over and over, “Y'all done lost yo' mind.” Lillian was more set in her ways and determined to do things in the appropriate manner than I ever was.

All along, though, the niggling thought of Sam and Helen driving to Asheville together stayed in the back of my mind. Where were they, what were they doing and when would they stop doing it? I kept reminding myself that I had married an affable and obliging man and had no one to blame but myself when those virtues were put to use in the service of somebody else. In contrast, Wesley Lloyd Springer, my late first husband, would never have gone out of his way to be helpful to anybody, and I'd thought the less of him for it. Of course, if I'd thought any lesser of him, I wouldn't have thought of him at all.

But that was neither here nor there as far as my current situation was concerned. I was ready for Sam's amiability on Helen Stroud's behalf to come to a screeching halt.

“Well?” I said again.

Sam folded the newspaper and turned toward me. He smiled and said, “Well what?”

“You know what. How did the afternoon go? Did Helen meet with that lawyer? What all happened?”

He picked up my hand and threaded our fingers together. “It was a long afternoon of hand-holding. Metaphorically only, I assure you.” He squeezed my hand. “To tell you the truth, Julia, I might've made a mistake in the beginning by offering my help. I felt sorry for Helen because none of Richard's problems were of her making, and I thought a little support from a friend would be appreciated. But she may be becoming too dependent on me.”

I could've told him that two days ago, but all I said was, “Didn't she like that lawyer?”

“I don't think she knows what she likes. He gave her good advice, pretty much what I'd already told her, but it's as if she's lost all sense of herself. You know, I'd always thought Helen was a strong woman, capable and independent-minded. But she's not, at least not in this situation. It surprises me how clingy and helpless she seems to be.”

“That surprises me, too. I guess Richard was her foundation and now that he's apparently out of the picture, or will be if he goes to prison, she has to have somebody else to lean on. And it looks like that's you, Sam, but I have to tell you that I am not comfortable with her making you his substitute.”

Sam's forehead wrinkled and he leaned his head back against the sofa. “Neither am I, Julia. For one thing, it's not good for her.”

I snatched my hand out of his. “For
her!
It's not good for you, first of all, and second of all, it's not good for me. I don't like it that you're always in her company and I don't like the way you jump whenever she calls. In fact, I don't like anything about it, and I think you ought to put a stop to it. She's got a lawyer now. Let her lean on him.”

“I may be in too deep,” Sam said. “I'm not sure how to get out of it.”

“Well, I'll tell you how. You can just be too busy. You can have other appointments. You can be doing something with me. There're all kinds of ways to get out of being at her beck and call. And I'll tell you something else, though I doubt it'll matter to you, but people are beginning to notice and to talk. So just think about the position you put me in anytime you feel the urge to run to her aid.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow at me, a smile beginning at the corner of his mouth. “And what about my position when somebody says that you're running around town with Arthur Kessler?”

“That's different! And just
who
is carrying tales about me?”

“I'm teasing you, Julia.”

“Well,” I said, somewhat mollified, “I'm only doing it for the good of the town and you know it. The idea of thinking I feel sorry for that man the way you feel sorry for Helen, there's just no comparison at all. I don't even like him. In fact, I'm trying to get rid of him, while you, well, you just keep encouraging Helen.”

“Not anymore though. She has a lawyer now to look after her interests, so I can bow out. Why don't you get her involved in the soiree? She's a good organizer and maybe what she needs is something else to think about.”

“Well, I would, if she'd answer her phone. I've left I don't know how many messages and she never returns my calls. But I'll write her a note. That way, she can't say I didn't try.” I scrooched up close to him, pleased and reassured that he'd had enough of Helen and her problems. “What she really needs, Sam, is to take a few lessons from Mildred and, I guess, LuAnne, too. Both of them are saying good-bye and good riddance to their husbands, although I'm not sure they really mean it. But still, they're taking hold and going about their business instead of falling to pieces like Helen's doing.”

“Lot of husbands missing, aren't there?”

“There sure are. But I'll tell you this, Sam Murdoch, if you decide to take off I might just come after you.”

“You might, huh?” Sam grinned and put his arm around me. “To bring me back or to beat me to death?”

“It depends on how I'm feeling at the time.” I leaned my head against his chest and listened to the strong beat of his heart. “The way I feel now, I'd bring you back.”

He rubbed his face against my hair and pulled me closer. “Tell you what, let's not waste that feeling.”

I got up the next morning wondering why I'd ever worried about Helen alienating Sam's affections. I didn't have a thing to worry about with that man, no matter how much she depended on him. So, bright and early, I called Mr. Kessler to see if he was free to visit a few people around town. He seemed eager enough and asked specifically to meet some natives of the area. The way he said it put me off, because it sounded as if he expected to view a bunch of aborigines in their native habitat. And if that's what he wanted, I could certainly give it to him.

I called Etta Mae immediately afterwards. “Etta Mae, would your grandmother be up to having visitors this morning? Mr. Kessler wants to meet some natives.”

She giggled, and it so early, too. “Sure, she'd love to see him. But I have to tell you, my granny is not too with it these days. She's as sweet as she can be and I love her to death, but she says exactly what she thinks when she thinks it.”

“That's perfectly all right. But, Etta Mae, I don't want her to think that we're putting her on display or making fun of her in any way. And I don't want you thinking it, either.”

“Oh, I don't. If he wants to meet a native, she's certainly one and no different from a dozen others I could name. She was born and raised in this county, and the only time I can remember her leaving was when I took her to the beach a few years ago. It was the first time she'd seen the ocean and all she said was, ‘That's more water than anybody needs. Let's go home.”

I asked Etta Mae to drive my car since she knew the county better than I did, so Mr. Kessler sat up front with her and I was relegated to the back seat. On our way to Hattie Wiggins's house, Etta Mae began to prepare Mr. Kessler for what he'd see.

“My granny still lives in the house she came to as a bride, some, oh, I don't know, maybe sixty-five years ago. My great-granddaddy Wiggins built it, but it's been added onto several times so it's kinda crookedy. She has an electric range I helped her buy, but she still uses her wood stove half the time. And one time when we were having a heat wave, I went by and she had the refrigerator door standing wide open. She said she didn't much like how it took up so much room, but it was hard to beat when it came to cooling down the kitchen.” Etta Mae laughed. “I have to warn you, Mr. Kessler, she's a pistol.”

Mr. Kessler settled back in his seat and smiled complacently. “Sounds like the salt of the earth.”

We traveled a few more miles with little being said, while I thought to myself that Mr. Kessler was not the easiest person in the world to converse with.

But after a while he half turned toward the back seat and said, “And how is Hazel Marie? I haven't seen her lately.”

“She's away,” I said. “Out in San Francisco seeing the sights. She'll be back in time for the soiree.”

“She's your daughter, isn't she?”

I saw Etta Mae's eyes snap up to the rearview mirror to glance at me, as I tried to think how to best explain Hazel Marie. But then I wondered why explain at all. The unusual relationship between Hazel Marie and me could be another nail in Mr. Kessler's coffin.

“No,” I said blandly, as if the relationship was perfectly normal, “Hazel Marie is my first husband's almost second wife, and Lloyd is their child.”

Mr. Kessler's head whipped around, a look of astonishment on his face. “What?”

“It was one of those, you know,” I said with a wave of my hand, “off-the-books arrangements.”

“And she lives with you?”

“Oh, yes. Ever since Mr. Springer passed, we've been the best of friends. We have so much in common, you know.”

Etta Mae glanced again in the rearview mirror and I could see her eyes sparkling. I hoped she wouldn't laugh out loud and spoil the moment.

Mr. Kessler apparently mulled over my answer for a few minutes, then he said, “If you don't mind me saying, that sounds a little polygamous.”

I'd thought the same thing myself, especially when I'd first learned of Wesley Lloyd's extracurricular activities. But my purpose now was to make Mr. Kessler think we were a bunch of ingrown and inbred unsophisticates, unlikely to be thought of as your ideal neighbors. “Well, not exactly,” I responded, “because Mr. Springer didn't actually marry her before he passed. And, you know, it takes all kinds. People around here learn to make do with what they have. I decided I wanted to help raise that child, so it made sense to pool our resources and raise him together.”

Another few minutes elapsed while Mr. Kessler thought about this, but he couldn't leave it alone. “And you all get along?”

“Like a house afire. When we're all together, you won't find a happier bunch of people. Why, there's Mr. Pickens, who's at our house more often than not. He's Hazel Marie's steady boyfriend, although I think he's a little more than that, but we don't talk about it. I've been trying to get them legal for the longest time, since I think there's a law in this state against cohabitation, but Hazel Marie didn't get caught when she was doing the same thing with Mr. Springer so she's not worried about it now.”

Etta Mae ran the car off the road, spraying gravel everywhere, and had to swing it back on.

“And,” I went on, “there's Lillian and Latisha, who's her great-granddaughter. They're at our house half the time, and I'll tell you this, whoever happened to hire Lillian if she ever left me would have to take Latisha, too. Lillian would never go where that child wasn't welcome. They're both part of our family. That's the way we do things in the South. At least in this part of the South.”

Mr. Kessler didn't have another word to say, but Etta Mae broke the silence as we passed a brick ranch house perched on a rise to the left of the road. “That's Boyce and Betty Sue's house. Boyce is Granny's last living son and he tries to look after her.” Etta Mae laughed. “When she'll let him. Right now, she's mad as thunder because they put in an above-ground swimming pool. Says it's a waste of money since there's a perfectly good pond down in the pasture for whoever wants to strip in public.”

Etta Mae slowed as dust billowed up around the car, then she turned down a rutted drive toward her granny's house.