Dancing Naked in Dixie (6 page)

I glance down at my standard New York garb—black head to toe. What else did I pack? Oh, right. Almost everything I own, down to my panties, is black.

So what?
I argue with myself. Why compare myself to a random girl on the street? Someone I’ll
never
see again.

“Um, that’s my girlfriend,” Shug leans closer to explain. “Mary Katherine.” He gestures for her to come across the street.

Of course.
So, she’s not a random girl.
Lovely.
I’ll bet we’ll be seeing her every day.

But Mary Katherine shakes her head coyly, points a finger to her cell phone, and steps onto the opposite sidewalk. By the time I decide to wave back, she disappears around the corner.

Shug doesn’t seem bothered in the least. He holds open the door to the diner.

Sweet salvation.

My knees weaken at the sight of steaming breakfast plates on every table. Raucous laughter, animated conversation, and the clang of pots and pans from the kitchen make it almost impossible to hear. Shug motions for me to follow him, but stops every few feet. He shakes hands, exchanges back slaps, and chuckles as we move through the crowd.

Curious stares follow us. Polite, inquisitive looks. A wrinkled forehead, pursed lips, a raised eyebrow. If I make eye contact, which I’m trying not to do, the person smiles brightly and chirps a greeting.

Great. I can imagine what they are dreaming up. Star magazine-type rumors, followed by a heinous paparazzi photo. I see it all too clearly. The headline will read:
Who’s that girl? Is Shug Jordan cheating on Mary-what’s her name?

Oh well. There’s always food. At least I’ll die embarrassed and happy.

I center my attention on the tiny empty table in the back corner. Mentally, I push Shug toward it. When I start walking, I almost kick him in the ankle. Closer, closer, there you go. A few more feet.

Without warning, another roadblock appears: A short, round, heavily made-up woman stops Shug to hug him and kiss the air next to his cheek. And then someone, who must be her daughter, goes and does the same thing. No one’s in a hurry. Except me.

Five long minutes and three stops later, we make it to the table and sit down. I pick up the narrow menu, hold it in front of my face, and scan the list. Grits, biscuits, red-eye gravy—

“It must be overwhelming,” I hear Shug say.

I edge the menu to one side and peek out. He gives me one of those open and honest looks, with piercing eyes. Like an actor on daytime television about to reveal who killed so-and-so’s sister’s cousin’s mother.

“What must be?” I tilt my head in his direction, thinking Shug must mean the menu. It certainly wasn’t what I’d call gourmet, but even ostrich eggs and endive smeared with peanut butter would do at the moment. Can’t he tell I’m about to gnaw apart the table?

“All of this.” Shug makes a sweeping gesture at the rest of the room. “I’m used to it. I was just thinking, to an outsider, well …” Shug seems to lose his train of thought. He glances down at his own menu, suddenly self-conscious.

Very observant.
Pasting on a big smile, I grasp for a witty and off-hand remark, which comes out a jumbled mess. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s different from New York, but I’m not uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. I feel right at home.”

Shug gives me a thoughtful nod and picks up his menu.

It’s not the truth. Me being right at home in small-town Alabama is the equivalent of Kim Kardashian never shopping again.

In New York, it’s all about anonymity. No one cares who you are, unless your last name is Trump. No one says hello or waves, unless it’s to grab a taxi.

A waitress hovers nearby. I hurry to take a look at the menu, and then realize she’s not just wiping down the table next to us. She’s staring. Shug hasn’t even noticed.

Another server appears, and two hands plop down glasses of light brown liquid. “Good morning, y’all! Cute hair, sweetie,” the girl, who appears to be all of nineteen, is calling me sweetie. She inspects my roots and chews on the eraser of her pencil. “Did I hear you say New York?” Her voice raises several octaves. “I’ve always wanted to visit New York. Rocker-feller Center at Christmas time. The big tree. All of the lights.”

I try not to visibly wince at the mispronunciation, but keep my lips buttoned. The minute I correct someone, I’m certain to butcher some Southern phrase in front of a dozen people.

Shug speaks up. “Julia’s here to do a preview on the Pilgrimage for
Getaways
Magazine.”

The girl’s eyes widen like I’m a movie star. Her voice rises a few octaves. “A real magazine reporter?” Several heads swivel near our table. “Can you interview me? Can I be in the article?”

I attempt a serious look at Shug, who stifles a laugh, entertained by the entire situation.

“Um, I’ll do my best to include everyone.”

That seems to placate her. The waitress prattles on, waving her notepad. “If you feature the Honeysuckle Inn with a picture,” she taps her lip, “Brad Pitt could see it and come in here. People from London, and Europe. Zillionaires.” She practically jumps up and down.

I shrink down in my seat and reach for the closest glass. Suddenly parched, I take an enormous swallow.

YUCK!
It’s so syrupy-sweet I gag. My eyes water. The liquid swills around in my mouth and I long to spit it on the ground. Don’t think about it, I instruct myself. Just do it. I force the tea down my throat in one big gulp.

And start to choke. Then cough. I can’t stop.

“Bless your heart!” The girl drops her notepad and starts pounding my back so hard I’m certain my ribs will crack any second. “She’s choking. Oh, my Lord! Someone help her!”

Chapter 6

All around us, people stand up and gawk. Shug jumps to his feet. He pushes the waitress away, wraps his arms around my waist, and shoves his fists into my diaphragm. Over and over. In fact, I almost can’t breathe.

Doesn’t anyone realize I haven’t eaten a morsel?
It’s the awful tea
, I want to scream, but I’m being squeezed too tightly; the helpless prey of an anaconda.

Somehow, between compressions, I manage to gasp, “I’m fine.”

Mercifully, Shug lets go. I want to fall to the floor and roll around in pure joy. But I can’t move. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he whispers, inches away from my ear. His hand still rests on my waist, which after all the drama, feels rather cozy. I lean against his arm and close my eyes briefly. And inhale.

Oxygen. Blessed oxygen.

My eyes blink open. How embarrassing. But, thankfully, because I haven’t spat a chunk of food across the room or gone into convulsions, the diner patrons have already lost interest and are back to gossiping about someone else.

“Julia,” Shug says urgently when I don’t answer. “Are you okay?” He circles back around the table and sits down across from me. As he does, his hand slides from my waist to my fingers, which he squeezes tightly. “Do you need a drink? More tea?”

With his free hand, Shug holds up the offending liquid.

Between my elbow pressed into the table and Shug’s grip on my hand, I shudder but keep my balance. I realize if I don’t answer, Shug’s likely to leap back into rescue mode. Or make me drink the tea, which will cause me to vomit.

“I’m okay. Absolutely,” I say, attempting to appear perfectly normal and refreshed, like I haven’t just made a spectacle of myself in front of thirty strangers eating breakfast.

I actually somewhat lost my appetite. Especially when I see Mary what’s-her-name heading straight for the table.

Mary Kate?

Mary Anne?

Mary Katherine. That’s it.

“Yoo-hoo,” she chirps at us, making her way toward the back of the room, all white and sparkly. Like a hummingbird, Mary Katherine flits from one group to another, pausing momentarily to preen in the large mirror hanging on the far wall.

Except I realize she’s not looking at her reflection; she’s scrutinizing me. The girl who happens to still be holding her boyfriend’s hand.

At that moment, I jump back and grab my fingers like I’ve been scalded, but it’s too late. Her eyes probe my face as she moves toward us. I take it all back, what I said earlier. She’s not a hummingbird at all. She’s a lioness stalking a defenseless—

“Well, hey, y’all!” says Mary Katherine sweetly. “What do we have here?” The words slide off her lips like beads of honey.

No. No. Don’t sit down, I beg silently.

I need to start my interview. I’m already behind.

Of course, she’s sitting down.

On cue, Shug bolts up from the table and offers his seat to Mary Katherine, who slides into the modest wooden chair like it’s her royal throne. He clears his throat. “Mary Katherine, this is Julia Sullivan. The writer from the magazine I’ve been telling you about? In New York.” His tone is important, solid, all business.

Mary Katherine’s mouth forms a slight ‘o’, but if she’s impressed in the least, I can’t tell. She gives me a thorough once over, pausing at my black jacket, black pants, and then my black shoes. At any moment, I expect that cute couple from “What Not to Wear” will jump out from behind the partition that hides the kitchen.

I start swinging my foot, a bad habit, but it tends to soothe my nerves.

The waitress is back. “Try again?” she asks innocently. “You feelin’ better darlin’?”

Mary Katherine swivels to look at Shug. “Oh dear, did I miss something exciting?”

The waitress is staring at me. I motion for her to stay quiet, widening my eyes in alarm.

Evidently, she thinks it means recap the entire choking event in vivid detail. Then embellish on the facts. I flush cherry-red up to my hairline and do my best to examine my fingernails and cuticles.

Holding the entire restaurant spellbound, the woman launches into her story. Five excruciating minutes later, she wraps up with flourish, probably because the manager is glaring in our direction.

“… and he practically saved her life,” she says, finishing with a little bow at the end.

Mary Katherine’s eyes narrow. Shug is flustered.

I have to say something. I have to fix it. “It really wasn’t like that at all,” I interject.

“Aw, sweetie, go on. It’s all right.” The server winks at me. “We needed some excitement around here.” She taps her pen on her notepad. “So, can I take your order?”

Fabulous.

“May I please have some water?” I ask in a meek voice. “And some …” I scan the menu. “Grits. No cheese. And bacon please.”

The waitress scribbles on her pad and turns to Mary Katherine, who’s scowling. This isn’t going at all like I planned.

I steal glance down at my watch. “Look at the time,” I exclaim. “We have to get busy.”

Shug looks confused—something that translates into ‘you said you needed to eat, now we need to leave?’

“Oh, after breakfast, I mean. We have a lot of ground to cover. A schedule to keep, right?” I chirp and wave a hand as if he shouldn’t worry, then pretend to check my iPhone.

What am I talking about?
Schedule
is not even in my vocabulary, unless I have a plane to catch. Schedules mean confinement, like the four walls of an office. I don’t schedule. I rely on my local contacts for who to see, what to do, and where to go.

It’s worked so far.

Well, maybe not every single time.

There was that luggage mix-up in Greece when I ended up with someone else’s suitcase. Little did I know it was full of nothing but cigars, condoms, and a pair of men’s red silk pajamas.
Gag.
Five seconds later, I was back in a taxi on the way to the airport to find my real baggage.

And I did get lost in Madrid, but only for a few hours. This I-thought-they-were-nice couple took pity on me, offered me a ride, and then wanted to stop off for a glass of wine. I was all for it until the husband propositioned me. He thought a threesome with his wife would be delightful. I begged off, citing a recent Hepatitis flare-up, fingers crossed behind my back the whole time. The man deflated like a stuck balloon faster than I could say ‘adios.’

Then, there was a hotel snafu in Cozumel, when I ended up sleeping in a youth hostel. After my roommate left her taco half-eaten on her backpack, we had a midnight bug infiltration. Big. Huge. Bugs. Thank goodness I was on the top bunk.

Anyway, it all worked out, in the end.

And here, in Eufaula, Alabama, Shug seems every bit the reasonable, responsible host. I can rely on him to point me in the right direction. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

“I do have some things in mind,” Shug wrinkles his brow. He’s probably trying to remember if I asked for a schedule. I’m not about to correct him. He takes a long drink of the dreaded sweet tea. Ugh! How can he stand it? My teeth are rotting in my head just thinking about the cavities. Dentists must make a fortune around this place.

“Great! I can’t wait to get started!” I exclaim.

Mary Katherine giggles like we’ve just shared the funniest joke ever. The sound crawls right up my back. “Shug has been beside himself—we’re thrilled that you’ve decided to come to Eufaula and do the article!”

I smile at the ‘we’ comment. And have a sneaking suspicion they’ve known about this little project a lot longer than I have.

With a nudge at Shug, Mary Katherine throws me a hopeful look. “If I’m
lucky
enough to be in the article, I’ll need to buy at least thirty copies and send them to everyone. All of my friends in Birmingham and Mobile,” Mary Katherine ticks off names on her fingers. “There’s Stacey, Melissa, Candy, Alicia…”

Shug clears his throat.

Mary Katherine pauses, “You do know I’m on the Pilgrimage committee, don’t you Julia?”

I don’t know this, but nod anyway.

“Breakfast,” Shug announces, no doubt as glad as I am for the interruption.

One by one, the plates are set in front of us. On Mary Katherine’s is one slice of toast, no butter, and a plain bowl of sliced melon. Shug has what looks like several biscuits topped with gravy and something else I can’t identify.

My grits and a side of bacon arrive seconds later. “May I have some brown sugar, please?” I ask the server. She gives me a strange look, then disappears.