Dancing Naked in Dixie (8 page)

He swivels around and straightens at the sound of my footsteps on the hardwood floor. The door had been propped open as if he knew I was about to arrive.

“Darling Miss Julia!” he exclaims in a heavy British accent. His arms fling open, and he rushes over to greet me. “I’m Roger.”

Before I can speak, Roger hugs me to his chest, kisses the air on both sides of my cheeks, and then holds me out at arms’ length. “Gorgeous, simply gorgeous. You’re lovelier than anyone said. Naughty them.” He wags a finger, then asks, admiring my outfit, “Donna Karan, darling?”

I nod and my head swirls.
Naughty them?
Who is he talking about?

Roger takes in my blank expression with arms folded elegantly across the breast of his suit. “The girls at Honeysuckle Diner, of course. And Elma from the Citgo. They all called my cell the second your big, bad Excursion pulled into town.”

“Oh,” I manage, a little in awe and somewhat bewildered that my arrival had been announced in a phone chain from the local gas station.

My host lets his gaze linger over me, appraising everything from my upturned nose to my bare left ring finger. Roger draws a breath. “We can’t wait to read your article. I mean, it’s not everyday someone from New York is here. Of course, you’ll be previewing the Pilgrimage. The Christmas tour will give you a little taste.” He looks dreamily at the wall. “Historic Eufaula by candlelight is unparalleled.”

I suddenly feel a little ill. How many people are banking on my very presence in this sleepy town producing the article of the century? I hadn’t even written the first word.

Perhaps I look blue—in an oxygen-deprived sort of way—causing Roger to snap his fingers in front of my face. “I know just the thing to help!” he says, carrying away my bags before I can stop him. “If you need background information,” he lowers his voice, “I know a little about
everybody
. I can be your ‘source,’” Roger adds with a sly wink. “Don’t worry. By the end of this week, you’ll feel right at home.”

I’m not celebrity gossip columnist Liz Smith. I’m only staying one night if I can manage it—two at the very most
.

Roger’s already disappeared around the corner. “Follow me, sweetheart,” he calls out.

I step cautiously onto the plush Turkish rug. The parlor to my left is filled with antiques, gun cabinets, and writing desks. A poker table sits in the middle of the room. To my right, the ladies’ parlor is draped in expensive burgundy fabrics, a piano in one corner. Portraits and gilded mirrors grace the walls.

From down the hall, I hear Roger whistling. My Lord, he’s probably unpacking everything in my bag as I’m dawdling in the foyer. I follow the sound to the second bedroom on the left. Roger’s already placed my suitcase near the closet door. He’s lit an enormous white candle and is blowing out a match as I enter the large room. The scent of gardenia drifts from the flame.

“And so?” Roger says, not pausing to gauge my response. He’s flitting around, plumping pillows, rearranging towels in the adjoining bathroom.

“It’s lovely, thank you,” I say and look longingly at the antique four-poster bed. I’d love a nap. I would give my favorite Prada boots to a stranger for eight hours of sleep. Instead, when it’s obvious Roger’s not in a hurry to leave, I perch on the edge of the bed.

“New York,” Roger looks past me at the wall, this time sounding not at all like he’s from the UK. “I’m so jealous. It’s a huge dream of mine. Go to the city. Get my big acting break.” His eyes brighten as he speaks.

“Have you ever been to New York?” I say, curious. “I thought at first you were—”

Roger claps his hands. “A world traveler? From London? Magnificent. You’ve made my night.”

That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, but …

Roger’s still talking at warp speed. “Darling, I wish. I grew up in tiny Newville, Alabama, on a farm. Henry County, just down the road.” His nose wrinkles as if he’s smelled manure. “I didn’t fit in at all,” he laughs, sounding a little forced. “Still don’t.”

This answers quite a few questions. “So, why don’t you go? To the City?” I ask.

Roger’s brow puckers up, like I’ve just asked him to explain the theory of relativity.

“To follow your dream?” I clarify, reaching over to stroke one of the pillows. It’s soft as silk, with elegant tassels and trim.

Rogers bends near the bookcase to brush off an imaginary piece of dust. “Oh, you know,” he says casually. “I’m so busy here. I’m involved in theatre productions in Dothan. The Understudy, SEACT. I’ve done
The Music Man, Grits on the Side
, you name it. And I do have my small social circle … supper club, book club. And up until this very minute, I didn’t know anyone in New York.” He looks at me, lashes fluttering, his words pointed and meaningful.

I giggle at his dramatics. “Well, now you do.” The words slip out before I can think. What am I doing? I never offer anyone a place to stay—especially to men—although Roger is far from intimidating. I swallow. “I’ll be sure and give you my number, so you can look me up.”

Roger’s face is a mix of sheer terror and delight. “Bless your heart! That’s so kind. So wonderful. I just don’t know what to say. I just didn’t think …” He rubs his hands together and wiggles around so much I think he’s going to start dancing. “I actually know someone in New York,” he says to himself in a whisper. “You probably have all kinds of connections; being a magazine writer and all…”

“Magazine writer,” I repeat and slap myself on the head. Oh no! In all of the fussing and chatting, I’d almost forgotten about dinner. I jump off the bed, grab for my suitcase, and fumble with the handle. “What time is it? Oh, no. I’m going to be late.”

“Late?” Roger echoes. “Is there a big soirée I’ve not been invited to?” He pouts a little.

Gosh, I hope not.
Ignoring the comment, I unzip the silver track on my suitcase. Frantic, I dig through my clothes to find my makeup, jewelry, and a decent dress.

Roger hasn’t moved. He’s still waiting for my reply.

“Um, I don’t think so. Dinner at the Jordan’s tonight.” I find the makeup case and hold it up triumphantly. My watch face glints in the candlelight. It reads five-forty-five. Phew. Still some time.

Roger is tapping his fingers along one dresser. “At the Jordan’s? Meaning his parents’ place … with everyone?” He peers at me intently. “Not the little shack of an office Shug calls home for right now, I hope. I do have to get him going on my decorating plans. I’m thinking
Southern Living
meets
Metropolitan Home
—”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, I think it’s a casual family get-together. His mother, his sister. His dad, maybe? I’m really not sure.”

A sudden thought hits me. I imagine a throng of people, elbow to elbow, and I won’t be able to see or hear because of the crowd.

“Well, well.” Roger adjusts his tie and takes a few steps toward the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, then half-turns to look back at me. “That should be interesting.” A strange expression crosses his face—halfway between amusement and fascination.

It’s obvious there’s something I don’t know. It’s also clear he has no intention of telling me. I know I should let it go, allow him to leave, and find out for myself. Three seconds later, I can’t stand it any longer. My insides are twitching every which way, but I keep my tone even and calm. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Roger says. “We’ll chat tomorrow, darling. Catch up.”

With that, he struts out the door. It shuts behind him with a gentle click.

I shake my head. Catch up? What’s with these people? I think for a moment. Well, I guess that’s what normal people do when they sit still long enough.

Come to think of it, when I’m home, I can’t be bothered with office gossip. It seems I’m always a dozen episodes behind on who’s dating who, who’s getting a divorce, or who’s having a baby.

All this worrying isn’t good for me. My breathing is shallow and fast. My throat is scratchy and dry. I glance around the room, slightly panicked. No mini-bar, no bottled water. No Diet Dr. Pepper because I drank it already.

Do I dare get that RC? And the Moon Pies?

Desperation knows no bounds when I have to quench my thirst. I start to fish around in the pockets of my tote bag. Ah ha! Gotcha, I think triumphantly. Except for the Moon Pies are hot and half-melted. The RC is a bit warm too.

Ice. Surely they have ice here. I take a step toward the door. No, I can’t bother Roger. If I do, I’ll never get to the Jordan’s.

Bathroom sink. They have to have one of these. Behind the door, a lovely white pedestal sink sits in the center of the far wall, a huge claw-foot tub to the right.

I take a peek in the mirror; run a hand through my hair. The handles of the faucet creak when I turn them. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, blessed water! I let it run, then tuck my hair behind both ears and stick my mouth underneath. Water is dripping across my cheek and up to my ear. Even so, it’s delicious, wet, and cold. Refreshed, I throw myself into getting ready.

Black skirt, matching jacket, a pair of deep red, open-toed heels, dash of lip gloss. There.

It’s six o’clock on the dot. Certainly, I don’t want to be early. Or late. I glance at the directions. Shug has written down an address on North Eufaula Avenue. It’s not far.

I walk over to the window and hoist the wooden frame up a few inches so that a slight breeze can come through the screen. The room is taking on a golden glow from the setting sun. A sudden gust blows past my arm. Several papers, which were neatly stacked on the writing desk in the corner, flutter to the floor. Stationary, envelopes, and a few brochures about the Pilgrimage, thanks to Roger. There’s a postcard, too. I pick that up last.

It’s a lovely one, actually. The towering white structure cuts an impressive figure against a turquoise blue sky. Bright pink azaleas hug the columns and steps leading up to the veranda.

I flip it over and read the back.

Shorter Mansion. 340 North Eufaula Avenue. Built in 1884 by Eli and Wylena Shorter, the home took on its present Neoclassical Revival appearance after its 1906 renovations. Headquarters for the Eufaula Heritage Association. Open Year-Round.

Out of habit, I reach for a pen, uncap it, and hold it above the white rectangle.

Wait. Who am I going to send it to? Emptiness fills my chest.

Andrew would like it—he’d probably die of shock, actually. The man’s not used to impromptu displays of affection. Better not start now. I’ll be expected to keep it up, then disappoint him when I don’t.

Marietta would appreciate it, but it wouldn’t be quite as special as sharing it with family.

And David? I begin to laugh out loud, then cover my mouth. I’ll send him a postcard the moment I start craving red eye gravy and biscuits. Or say y’all.

As I think, I run a finger along the edge of the postcard, rub the glossy coating with my thumb. There’s only person I want to send it to, and she can’t get mail.

Mom, I really miss you.

Chapter 9

Outside Roger’s bed and breakfast, I feel a little bit like Alice in Wonderland. I keep waiting to hear the angry honk of taxis and the squeal of tires. I expect to smell of motor oil and see clouds of smog dotting the tops of silver skyscrapers.

Like many city dwellers, I find comfort in the anonymity of New York’s sidewalks. You can vanish into a sea of bobbing heads, ponytails, and baseball caps. The constant noise, jostled elbows, and the steady crinkle of shopping bags provide a buffer from anything remotely personal. Sunglasses shield every eye, even when it’s cloudy. On any given day, the line in front of the hot dog stand stretches a mile, where people stand closer than husbands and wives, yet are strangers. Amidst it all, brakes squeal, horns honk, and cell phone conversations buzz from all sides.

Here, it’s quiet. Really serene. The azaleas and gardenias, full to bursting with pink and white blooms, have obviously been tricked into thinking it’s spring because of the warm weather.

By accident, a person might fall in love with a place like this. It’s the silliest thing in the world for me to think. I’m not one of those sentimental types. I prefer the hustle, bustle, the noise, and the action. I’d be bored and restless in a place like this. At least, that’s what I’ve told my friends. And myself.

I actually can’t remember a time in the last decade that I’ve spent more than five minutes in a small town. Okay. There was the time I was handed a whopping speeding ticket in La Jolla on my way to San Diego, but that really doesn’t count. A three hundred dollar fine does tend to dampen the moment.

Here, though, at this very moment, the sky turning a deep shade of violet, but it’s clear enough to see a sprinkle of stars overhead. Under the streetlights, crickets begin chirping, and the air is so sweet and heavy with moisture a person could almost drink it in. My breathing is slower, my heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy, and I’m letting myself stroll along, absorbing the details of everything around me.

I pass Shug’s office. One light burns in each window opposite the center door; the building is still and quiet. Next to his office is the Eufaula Library, a two-story red-brick building with light yellow trim. The large hanging eaves under the hipped roof give it a stately feel; long, narrow balconies face north and west.

Up ahead and across the road, a dark, gothic-looking church strikes an imposing figure as I come nearer. The bricks are pale, set off by dark, tall, stained-glass windows. Beneath a small white cross, the centerpiece of the church is a rose window set between the two main towers. To the left, a fountain sits in the center of a stone-paved garden.

I cross the street to get a better look at Shorter Mansion, which stands out in bright white with its Corinthian columns. A balcony sets off the double wooden doors and leaded-glass windows beneath. Dentils and a balustrade run along the top of the structure above a frieze of leaves and scrolls. It is certainly worthy of its stature as one of Alabama’s most magnificent historical sites.

The home next to it is a dark, sprawling estate with an expansive porch and a tower that must reach three stories high.