Dancing Naked in Dixie (12 page)

“Run along, dear,” he tells me, steering my arm with a firm grip. “Roger will take care of everything. Including Mr. Wiggles.” His voice is ominous. “Don’t breathe a word, sweetheart. Bad for business.”

“Of course,” I whisper. A cool breeze hits my face as I step out onto the porch and the door slams shut behind me. I stand there for a moment, wanting to rush back in and save Roger from heart palpitations, but my explanation—sneaking out to avoid him—hardly seems polite.

Apologize later. Tell him you were seeing things. That you need prescription glasses. Or you hadn’t slept all night and you’d imagined it.
None of the excuses seem valid. I’ll come up with something, I promise myself.

I blink at the sun’s bright rays as I take the steps toward the sidewalk. A white Mercedes zips by at a speed bound to get anyone a ticket. I catch a flash of blonde hair. Mary Katherine. She turns the corner almost on two wheels. I strain for a glimpse of the passenger, but the top isn’t down. I catch only a swatch of dark hair in the seat next to hers.
Shug didn’t forget about our meeting, did he?

It takes me all of five minutes to reach the Hart House. The wooden sign I pass in the front yard is almost too small to hold all of the letters it carries.
Historic Chattahoochee Commission.
I wonder what Chattahoochee stands for and make a mental note to ask Shug. My hand tightens into a fist and I raise it to knock on the door when it opens.

“Oh,” I say and jump back, covering my mouth. At least I didn’t scream this time.

“Saw you coming up the steps. Just wanted to grab the door,” Shug confesses with an adorable smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I hold my hand over my heart to slow the beating. “I don’t know whether to kill you or thank you, but I guess I’ll let you live, since I
really
need this story on the Pilgrimage.”

“Why, that’s wonderful,” Shug answers with a small bow. “And, the first time I’ve gotten a death threat on the job. From a Yankee, to boot.”

“Ha, ha!” I joke as we walk inside.

“Can you give me a minute?” Shug asks. “I have to wrap up a few things before we get started.”

“No problem,” I hear myself say and try to settle into a wingback chair that’s not nearly as comfortable as it looks. The office is plain, with hardwood floors buffed to a shine, one wall of bookshelves, and rows of photos—homes, gardens, and local scenery.

Shug makes a beeline for a small office. “Make yourself at home.”

The chair is awful, so I stand up. “So you really live here?” The words spill out before I can catch them and put them back. I need to let him finish his work.

“Um, yes,” he calls out, unperturbed. “Let me put it this way, I’m never late for work.”

“You haven’t found anything else you like?” That seems impossible, given all of the gorgeous homes in Eufaula. But maybe he wants something modern. I wrinkle my nose. That doesn’t seem to fit his personality.

It’s quiet for a moment or two. Maybe he’s going to tell me to mind my own business. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“There are a lot of homes I love.” His voice sounds matter-of-fact. “I guess the timing hasn’t been right or it hasn’t been the right place. It’s a question of making everything fit.”

Reasonable explanation. Sort of like the excuse I’ve used to break off a relationship. A little part of me in the back of my heart that says ‘something’s missing’.

The floor creaks under my feet. I glance around at the two clean, empty desks near the windows. Both have the usual on top; a stapler, tape dispenser, and a cup full of pens. Nothing like the haphazard mess in my cubicle at the magazine—my desk is a brewing volcano of letters and to-do memos waiting to erupt.

It seems obvious, but I ask the question anyway. “So, who else works here?”

I hear Shug chuckle. “That would be me, myself, and I.” He stops. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be flip about it. I used to have an assistant, and last year, an intern from Auburn. Funding is tight in the non-profit world.”

“Enough for a decent salary and benefits, I hope?” I frown as he sticks his head out of the corner office.

“Nope.”

At first, I think I don’t hear him right. “Pardon?”

Shug laughs. “No. Because there’s no salary.”

My mouth widens in horror. I hold back a gasp. “No salary?”

There are faint lines that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. There’s no self-important look, no politician’s air. He works here because he wants to. The same shock of hair falls over his forehead as he nods. Already, the motion of him pushing it back is familiar.

“Don’t worry, I won’t starve. But I do need to scrape up some money for a haircut,” he says ruefully.

I squint at him. Compared to my father’s usual safari-look, Shug’s hair barely grazes his ears, the back just starting to curl up. He’s wearing a pressed shirt, orange and blue tie, and khakis that somehow don’t wrinkle. Shug looks pretty close to perfect.

“Really, it is shocking,” I say dryly.

Shug rolls his eyes at me. “Women.”

“So, what are the biggest concerns here?” I ask. “In Eufaula?”

“Convincing everyone that restoration instead of demolition is the way to go. We provide information on grants, loans, and funding for the preservation of historic property.” He takes a breath and nods over to a rack of booklets, leaflets, and pamphlets.

“So, you’re a right-to-lifer for old buildings?” I quip.

“In a sense,” he grins. “I’ve never thought about it that way.” Shug glances down at the tri-fold paper in his hand. “I do spend a lot of my time preparing promotional pieces, going to tourism expos, and recruiting travel writers like you to the area.”

He disappears back into the office. David’s smug expression flashes before my eyes and I swallow. I wasn’t recruited. I’m not the first choice, or the second. I’m the consolation prize.

As I’m having a pity-party for myself, complete with imaginary balloons and streamers, Shug’s voice drifts out into the lobby area, over the top of papers rustling. “How’s your leg? I think you’re the first writer I’ve known who’s been injured in the line of duty.”

I chuckle, a deep belly laugh that makes Shug appear back in the doorway. “Line of duty? This isn’t exactly Fort Knox.” With a sweeping motion, I gesture to the mansions outside the front window.

“Dinner with my family has been compared to surviving a week of boot camp,” he retorts, hiding a smile.

I lift an ankle and inspect my war wounds. “I think the fire ant barrage was much worse.”

Shug wrinkles his brow. “Have to watch out for them today.”

“Well, it’s bees, not fire ants, that I really have to worry about, but I carry an EpiPen for that,” I tell him and glance down at my leg—still puffy and ugly, but not nearly as angry-red as yesterday. I wonder how long it will take for the bumps to disappear. “I’ll certainly think twice before stepping onto the grass.”

Just thinking about those tiny ants makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Without much effort, I think about flailing around in the yard of the Jordan mansion, leg swollen as big as a tree trunk, moaning one last sentence.
Tell David he did this to me.

As I fidget, I notice that Shug is staring at me. I’m saved by the jingle of the phone.

He holds up a finger. “Stay right there.” Shug raises a stern eyebrow. “Don’t leave. Better yet, take a look at the blueprints next to the back wall.” Outside his office, there are large rectangular boards on easels covered with thin sheets of paper.

I force my hands to my sides and stand up. Maybe the blueprints will take my mind off the ant bites. Lifting the parchment paper and flipping it over the top, I scan the lines and lettering. Across the bottom reads
Phase One. Bluff City Inn, Proposed Hotel and Conference Center.
There’s a rendering of a new façade, which keeps the same look and feel as the original brick building. The sketch next to it shows the interior design of a spacious guest room with an adjoining sitting area and bathroom.

And what’s behind door number two? I lift the sheet from the second easel.
Phase Two, Lakepoint State Park, Proposed Updates
. Before I can glance at any of the architectural details, I hear Shug’s voice. He sounds irritated. Very irritated.

The door to the small office closes with a bang.

Very carefully, I slide the parchment paper back in place. I am trying not to listen. Except that Shug is now shouting and I can hear every word.

“No, I don’t understand!” His feet pound around his office, making the windows and floorboards shake under my shoes.

As I tiptoe toward the front door, there’s another pause. Then Shug explodes, his voice loud and strained. “What do you mean, the Phase Three work?”

I stop walking, transfixed by the conversation.
What is going on?

The floor groans again. This time, Shug’s tone is more subdued. “Yes, fine,” he says. “I’ll check into it and get back to you, as soon as I can.”

I look up, hopeful, as Shug opens the door to his office, walks into the room with the phone in his hand, and presses a button to end the call. Immediately, he dials another number. Evidently, the person doesn’t answer, because he stares off into space, his face dark and frowning. He’s so lost in thought I’m not sure he remembers I’m here.

“Everything all right?” I ask, trying to stay positive, despite my nerves jumping all over the place. I hate it when anyone’s upset, even a stranger. “Minor glitch in the plans?” I nod toward the blueprints in the back of the room.

“You could say that.” Shug tilts his head and grimaces. He’s not telling the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.

Shug stares out the window but doesn’t offer to explain, and the room fills with an awkward silence. That kind of stillness makes me a little crazy, almost claustrophobic. When you’re used to noise, you don’t quite know how to act. I search for something else to say, an excuse to go outside and get some air.

Thinking he needs space, I offer it. “If you want, I can go ahead and take a look around the city myself. I’ll meet you later.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” Shug says. “I need to get in touch with my father and can’t—no surprise. My mother should be at Shorter Mansion this morning—we’re headed there anyway.”

He doesn’t move toward the door, like I expect. He walks over to the architectural boards in the corner, runs a finger along the top of one of them.

I jiggle my leg, anxious to walk off my nervous energy. “Is there something wrong with the project?”

Shug doesn’t answer, so I think I’ve made him angry, too. “Sorry,” I explain. “It’s just my nature to ask a million questions. I overheard you say something about Phase Three.” I stop myself from babbling and watch his broad shoulders tense when I say the last few words.

He pivots on his heel, almost in slow motion. As Shug turns, I watch as his demeanor morphs from soldier-like frustration to that of a person filled with determination and resolve.

“I didn’t know there was a Phase Three,” I say.

Shug considers this, and answers with three words I don’t expect.

“Neither did I.”

Chapter 13

Shug is out the door before I can ask for details. Based on his demeanor and the fact that he’s already made it twenty strides down the sidewalk without bothering to shut or lock the door behind him, the news isn’t positive.

I pull on the brass knob, hear the lock click behind me, and hurry after Shug. He’s turned on East Barbour Street. I debate kicking off both heels and sprinting after him, but decide that at least a dozen unwritten Southern rules of decorum would frown on that transgression.

He screeches to a stop in front of the mayor’s office, taking the steps two at a time. I hang back and catch my breath, clapping a hand to my chest. A hunched man with a stubby cigar in his mouth eyeballs me. He’s waiting, too, but not panting like a greyhound that’s just finished the race of his short life. I realize that it’s Stump from the Citgo.

“Runnin’ after Mr. Shug Jordan, eh?” Stump plucks the cigar from between his teeth and rolls it between two fingers. He’s leaning on a crude walking stick or cane, hand-carved.

My lips part to offer a smart retort, but I clamp them back together. “No.” I shake my head. “No, sir,” I add, as it seems the custom for everyone to address everyone else as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ even within their own households and families.

He cackles, revealing a sparse set of yellowed teeth. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me. “You’re not the first,” he offers and smiles in a knowing way. “Plenty of ‘em chase him. Just none of ‘em can catch him.”

I cringe, but keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face. There’s the rumble of an engine in the distance, and Stump looks away. I take the opportunity to steal a glance up at the dark wooden doorway. Under my breath, I begin praying that Shug will burst out to interrupt the semi-interrogation. In the meantime, I wrack my brain for something intelligent to say to the man who’s slightly creepy and seems more than interested in my personal life.

When I turn back to look at Stump, he’s gone. The sound of heavy footsteps causes me to whirl around. It’s Shug, clearly in no better shape than when he set off on his mission.

“City council, planning commission, special emergency meeting,” he mutters as we continue east toward the Chattahoochee River.

“And we’re going to the meeting?” I ask, huffing to keep up with Shug. “Is it open to the public?”

“It should be,” he answers tersely. “We’ll find out soon.”

I want to ask how many blocks we’re going and why it wouldn’t make more sense to drive, but I think better of it. Perhaps his body’s forward motion helps him think more clearly.

“The Heritage Association should know about this,” he says. “I should’ve known about this.”

“How is the Heritage Association different from the Chattahoochee Commission?” I ask.

Shug gives me a quick synopsis. “Historic Chattahoochee Commission promotes tourism and historic preservation for an eighteen county region in Alabama and Georgia called the Chattahoochee Trace.”

I nod.