Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (11 page)

She flashed a sideways glance at Oletta. “I was sitting in my garden, having a cup of coffee, when the most heavenly ambrosia floated through the air. And I said to myself, ‘Thelma Rae, Oletta’s making her fabulous cinnamon rolls.’”

Oletta pointed to the rolls with pride. “Your nose was right. I got a dozen of ’em right there on the rack. When they cool, I’ll ice ’em up real nice.”

Miz Goodpepper closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her breast, and inhaled deeply. “Oletta, you are the culinary goddess of Savannah. I know it’s shameful how I come over here sniffing the air like a dog, begging for your baked goods. But I’d love to have one or two if you’ve got them to spare.”

Oletta beamed like neon. “You know I always make extra for you. I’ll send Cecelia over with ’em after I make the icing.”

“You’re such a treasure,” she said with a breathy exhale. “You know, I kick myself every day—I should have snapped you away from Tootie years ago.” She lifted her slender fingers to her lips and blew Oletta a big, lip-smacking kiss, turned, and disappeared, leaving a swirl of spicy perfume in her wake.

It was at that very moment when I first felt the powerful undertow of beauty.

Later in the day, Oletta placed three thickly iced cinnamon rolls on a paper plate. “These should make Miz Goodpepper happy. I gave her the biggest ones.”

“She looks like . . . well, like she’s from a foreign country or something,” I said, dipping my finger into the icing bowl.

“Miz Goodpepper’s lived in Savannah all her life, but she does dress a little strange at times, I’ll grant you that,” she said, smoothing tinfoil over the top of the plate and pinching down the edges. “Take these over to her, will you? There’s a path at the side of the garden that leads into her backyard.”

My heart made a flip-flop. What it was I couldn’t have said, but something about Miz Goodpepper scared me. I took a step back and chewed my lip.

Oletta furrowed her brow. “What’s the matter, child?”

“M-m-maybe-e-e you could go with me?” I sputtered.

She studied me through squinted eyes. “Is you afraid of Miz Goodpepper?”

“I . . . well, maybe a little.”

“Oh, Cecelia,” she said with a laugh. “Ain’t no reason to be. Miz Goodpepper’s just as nice as she can be. So don’t you worry.” Oletta handed me the foil-covered plate and nodded toward the back door. “Now, go on, I’ve got to keep an eye on the oven.”

Knowing there was no way to wiggle my way out of it, I took the plate and headed out the door. Already I felt tongue-tied just from the thought of being alone with Miz Goodpepper.

I walked beneath a giant live oak, and found a small opening in the hedge shrouded by a ferocious twist of moss-covered branches. I took a deep breath and stepped into Miz Goodpepper’s yard. Grateful that she was nowhere in sight, I moved along a path that led to the back porch of her house, hoping I could leave the plate by the door and skedaddle back home.

The yard was a sea of living color. Never had I seen so many flowers in one place. Classical music sailed across the extravagant garden. Where it came from I didn’t know, but it was like an orchestra was hidden in the lush foliage. I walked beneath a vine-smothered trellis, and Miz Goodpepper’s house came into full view. It was a colossal monstrosity of gray stone that looked more like a mausoleum than a place where someone actually lived.

I was startled by a screech and turned to see a peacock standing in a sunny spot on the lawn. He was so beautiful I caught my breath. I stood still as he took a few tentative steps toward me, and then he stopped, tilted his head, and scanned me from head to toe. I figured he was disappointed in what he saw because he flattened his top-knot and strutted away.

I heard a splash followed by a gurgle, and turned to see Miz Goodpepper’s head appear above a thick hedge. Her hair was dripping wet.

“Well, what a nice surprise,” she said, wrapping her head in a towel. “Let me get something on. I’ll be out in a second.”

A moment later she appeared, wearing a pale, silvery-blue satin robe and a pair of iridescent pink flip-flops. When she saw the look on my face, her lips curled ever so slightly. “I take it you’ve never seen an outdoor bath before,” she mused, tightening the belt of her robe. She gestured toward a perfectly clipped opening in the foliage. “Come have a look.”

I took a few steps forward and peered in. On a slab of thick gray marble sat a moss-stained, claw-footed bathtub. Frothy soapsuds spun down the drain, gurgling as they went. Next to the tub stood a life-size marble statue of a naked woman with her arms outstretched. Draped over one of her hands was a damp towel.

Miz Goodpepper gazed at her tub fondly. “It’s charming, don’t you think? I call it my secret garden spa. You’ll have to come over and try it sometime. I especially like to use it late at night. There’s nothing more relaxing than to lean back and watch the stars.” She nodded toward the peacock. “I see you’ve met Louie. He’s such a handsome boy, though he isn’t very social. He belongs to a neighbor, but wanders over here quite often.” She flashed the bird an intimate look. “Louie’s a bit of a voyeur—he likes to peek through the bushes and watch me bathe.”

I didn’t know what to say about her secret garden spa or the peacock being a voyeur, so I offered her the foil-covered plate. “These are from Oletta.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, making an elegant gesture toward her house. “Welcome to my home, Cecelia. Please come inside.”

A warm breeze sent her robe fluttering around her ankles, and the faint scent of bubble bath wafted through the air as I followed her. Louie let out a deafening squawk and headed in the opposite direction.

When we entered Miz Goodpepper’s kitchen, I glanced down at my wrinkled shorts and dusty Red Ball Jets, feeling frumpy—like Daffy Duck standing in the presence of a great blue heron. The next thing I knew, Miz Goodpepper grabbed hold of my hand and whisked me down a long cool hallway.

“This is the library,” she said, stepping into a room that smelled of old leather and books. Above a massive fireplace hung a faded photograph of a military officer, staring out through the dusty glass, looking glum. There were no drapes on the windows. Instead, hanging from various lengths of string nailed to the top of the moldings were crystal prisms, hundreds of them, all sizes and shapes. They caught the afternoon light and sent miniature rainbows shimmering across the walls and ceiling. From a hook by one of the windows hung a gold birdcage with its door propped open.

“Do you have a pet bird?” I asked, looking around the room.

“Oh, heavens, no. I’d never cage a bird. I can’t imagine a worse fate, can you? I bought this cage at a market in Peru several years ago. I hung it here and wired the door open to remind myself how delicious freedom is—financial and otherwise.”

Her lips formed an odd smile, and she turned and gazed out the window. The trancelike look on her face made me uncomfortable, so I picked up a copy of
Vogue
from a chairside table and said, “I like to look at magazines. The librarian back in Willoughby used to give me old copies.”

Miz Goodpepper blinked. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I was saying that I like to look at magazines, especially the pictures.”

She reached out, slid the magazine from my fingers, and studied the woman on the cover. “I used to look
just
like that. But after I turned forty it was a daily struggle to keep myself up. I turned forty-five this past February, and let me tell you, every day is nothing but an insult.” She tossed the magazine on the table with disgust. “Aging is a terrible slap in the face. My body betrays me every chance it gets.”

She lifted her chin and tightened the towel on her head. “Oh, well, I’d much rather die with one of Oletta’s cinnamon rolls in my mouth than a lousy stalk of celery. Anyway, as you can see, I have tons of books. Pick anything you’d like. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

When she turned and left the room, the hem of her robe opened to a full sweep, sending dust motes spinning across the floor. As the rhythmic
slap-slap-slap
of her flip-flops faded down the hall, I began scanning the sagging shelves.

There were books on everything from the healing powers of crystals to studies on the Mayan ruins to a book titled
Exploring the Sacred Fires—A Beginner’s Guide to the Kama Sutra.
I’d never heard of a place called the Kama Sutra and figured it was probably some boring old volcano, so I returned the book to the shelf.

Before too long I had found at least twenty books I wanted to read. Not wanting to appear greedy, I narrowed my choices to seven and found my way back to the kitchen. Miz Goodpepper was standing at the counter, folding clothes and pushing them into paper grocery bags. Hooked over a knob of a china cupboard was a red taffeta party dress with rhinestone spaghetti straps. The dress was really,
really
fancy, and really,
really
red. Bright, screaming Crayola red.

She looked up and smiled. “I’m glad you found some books that interest you. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

Though I was hoping to thank her for the books and be on my way, I didn’t want to seem rude. I nodded and set the stack of books on the counter. While Miz Goodpepper pulled a pitcher from the refrigerator, I asked, “Is the Kama Sutra a volcano?”

She gasped and splashed lemonade across the kitchen counter. The strangest look streaked across her face as she sopped up the mess with a wad of paper towels. “Well, I suppose some might think it’s a volcano of sorts, but I can say with absolute assurance you wouldn’t enjoy that book.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, feeling pleased with myself, “so I put it back on the shelf.”

She let out a barely audible sigh. “Good.”

“That’s pretty,” I said, pointing to the red dress. “Are you going to a party?”

She handed me the lemonade and turned her gaze toward the dress. “It is pretty, isn’t it? But no, I won’t be wearing that dress again. I’m donating it to the local animal shelter for their annual rummage sale.

“That dress cost a king’s ransom. It’s a shame I only wore it twice,” Miz Goodpepper said with a wistful smile. “I bought it to wear to a charity ball back in 1959. I felt wonderful in that dress. It suited my personality. But when my husband and I got in the car to come home that night, he said I’d embarrassed him. He actually had the gall to say I looked like a prostitute. He told me
never
to wear that dress again.”

She leaned her hip against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. “So I tucked it away at the back of my closet and all but forgot about it. But, wouldn’t you know, three years later I had the opportunity to wear that beautiful dress one last time.” Her lips formed a twisted half smile and her eyes gleamed. “I wore it to court on the day I divorced my husband.”

I didn’t know what to say.
Was it a joke, or was she serious?

She let out a brief, wicked laugh, grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter, and pulled a razor-thin goblet from the cupboard. “Come sit with me for a while.”

I took my glass of lemonade and followed. As we stepped off the porch, violin music poured from an open window. It swelled across the garden and ended in a vibrant crescendo. Miz Goodpepper rested back against a cushioned chaise lounge that sat beneath a canopy of gnarled vines. I sat in a rocking chair at her side.

“What is this?” I asked, running my fingers over a smooth twist of bark.

“Wisteria,” she said, pulling the towel off her head and fluffing her damp hair. “In the spring it blooms with the most beautiful purple flowers you can imagine. Wisteria is my favorite flowering vine. Do you know why?”

I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

“Because it’s strong—just like me. But if you don’t take care of it, wisteria will grow wild. It can heave a porch right off its foundation. I remember once . . .”

She talked about plants and the wonders of nature with a passion that lit up her eyes, the whole time drinking wine like it was water. Every time she moved, her silky robe slid off to the side and revealed her long, slender legs.

“My love of nature is one of the reasons why I play music in the garden. See that camellia bush?” she said, pointing toward the far edge of the property. “It’s particularly fond of Mozart’s Symphony Number 12 in G Major. And my roses adore anything by Chopin. And once, when my oldest sago palm looked sickly, I played a Puccini opera as loud as my hi-fi would go, and do you know that old palm perked right up.”

I’d never heard that plants liked music, but I didn’t want to seem stupid by asking about it, so I grinned as if I understood.

“This garden is my greatest joy. It soothes my spirit and elevates my awareness to great heights. Every day I commune with nature. I owe my serenity and love of all living things to His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.”

“Who’s that?”

“He’s the supreme head of Tibetan Buddhism and a master of spiritual teachings. One of the most important things he teaches is that we’re never to cause harm to any living thing. Not ever. It makes for terrible karma.”

I took a sip of lemonade. “Karma? What’s that?”

She rested her head against the cushion and thought for a moment. “Karma stems from mental, physical, and verbal action. It’s the sum of all we’ve said, done, and thought, be it good
or
bad.”

I sat quietly and listened to all she said, but the karma business was way over my head. And when she started talking about how we reincarnate to clean up our karma so we can eventually reach someplace called nirvana, I figured it was time for me to go home. But as I was about to stand up and excuse myself, Miz Goodpepper began spouting off about the countless wrongs people do to the earth and the animal kingdom.

“Right there is a prime example of
terrible
karma,” she said bitterly, pointing to a tree stump by the hedge that separated her yard from Miz Hobbs’s swimming pool. “That poor withering stump is all that’s left of a beautiful magnolia. It was the most glorious thing you could possibly imagine. Every spring it was smothered with thousands of blooms that smelled so wonderful it’d make your heart ache. I loved that tree. Every morning I’d sit beneath its cool shade and meditate. That magnolia had such a wonderful energy force, I could feel it pulse through my body whenever I leaned against its trunk.” She took a big gulp of wine and her face turned hard. “But that beautiful, defenseless tree was
murdered
!”