Hissy Fit (23 page)

“Will! Stephanie!”
My voice was registering just the
eensiest
bit on the shrill side. I felt heavy breathing on my ankle. Erwin was looking up at me, his big liquid brown eyes saying…what? Maybe “I need to urinate”?

Will was wearing wrinkled khakis, a washed-out-looking golf shirt, and huge bags under his eyes. Stephanie looked vastly fresher, perkier, and more in control, dressed in what was probably her idea of pastoral: i.e., denim capri pants, a lighter denim crop top, and blue cork-soled wedgie sandals. There was that damn toe ring again. She clung to Will’s arm like a sailor to a life raft.

“Hey, Keeley,” Will said, giving me an awkward hug with his free arm. “The place looks great.”

My mood lifted, instantly. “You really like it?”

“It’s fabulous,” Stephanie said. She broke away from Will and planted a big, wet kiss on Adam’s cheek.

He blushed, but didn’t seem displeased.

“Will,” Stephanie said, “Adam has been so wonderful. Every Friday, whenever I’ve come out, he stops what he’s doing and shows me all around. He even let me pick the paint color for the new shutters!”

I almost bit my tongue in half. New paint color? I’d spent hours and hours going over the fan deck, looking for the exact right color for the shutters for Mulberry Hill. In the end I’d driven down to Monticello, Georgia, to pick up a paint chip from an 1840s Greek Revival house museum. I’d taken the chip to my Benjamin Moore dealer and had it spectroscopically analyzed, and the paint color custom mixed. It wasn’t blue, it wasn’t green, it wasn’t black. It was exactly what the house cried out for.

“Mochachino!” Stephanie was saying. She beamed over at Will.
“That’s the name of the paint color I chose for the shutters. I just took my Starbucks cup to the paint store and matched it to what they had. Can you believe it? It’s the yummiest color ever.”

I was staring daggers at Adam. He looked the other way. At Erwin, who was relieving himself on one of the two-thousand-dollar jardinières.

“Let’s go inside,” I said to Will. “I guess you must be tired. Exactly where was it you flew in from today?”

“Mexico,” Stephanie said. She held out her wrist and jangled three thick silver and turquoise bracelets. “Isn’t he the most thoughtful man you’ve ever met? He sends me a present every week. Don’t you love a man who understands the importance of presents?”

“Yes,” I said. “Presents are lovely.”

Will yawned. “I could sleep for a week.”

The walk through the house wasn’t what I had hoped for. Will tried to be enthusiastic. He admired the plaster medallions in the front rooms, and showed real interest in the vintage fireplace surrounds I’d bought from my favorite architectural salvage yard in Jackson, Mississippi. But it was clear he was really sleepwalking.

He shook hands with Mr. Moody and ran his hands over the still damp plaster in the new breakfast room, but just nodded at the leaded glass doors on the kitchen cabinets the carpenters were installing in the kitchen.

Stephanie, however, was deeply concerned with the appliances. I’d found a fully restored 1940s six-burner Chambers gas range in an antique appliance shop in Clayton, Georgia. Its porcelain was milky white, all the chrome was polished, it had a clock, a built-in soup kettle, and a shelf for condiments. I’d designed the rest of the kitchen around the range.

She thumped the porcelain with her thumb and forefinger. “Does this thing work?”

“Like a charm,” I said proudly.

“Couldn’t you get a nice Viking?” she asked. “One of those big
stainless steel restaurant stoves? My girlfriend who’s married to the dermatologist has one with warming ovens and a rotisserie and a grill. It’s fabulous.”

“Vikings are nice,” I agreed “But we were going for a period look in here. And anyway, the Chambers has a warming oven too. And there’ll be a fireplace with a gas grill right outside on the new patio when it’s finished, so we didn’t think we’d need two grills.”

“Hmm,” was all she said.

What would you need a grill for?
I wondered.
Tofu? Chilean sea bass?

“I can’t wait for you to see the upstairs,” I told Will. “The guys are right on schedule. I think it’s going to be wonderful.”

On the upstairs landing I pointed to the stacks of crates and boxes. “Here’s the tile,” I said, opening one of the cartons and showing Will what we’d planned for the two upstairs guest baths.

“Looks fine,” he said. “Just like the photos you sent me.”

It was clear he was too fatigued to care about tile just then, but Stephanie was deeply engaged in the whole shebang.

She kicked at the carton containing the whirlpool bathtub. I would have given a kidney to own that bathtub. It wasn’t just the Cadillac of bathtubs, it was the Rolls-Royce. “What about the BTUs?” she asked, looking at the label and the drawing of the tub on the carton. “How much horsepower from the jets? And why does it have to be so plain? Why can’t it have some brass, or gold plating?”

“It’s an exact reproduction of a tub that would have been in the house by the 1920s,” I explained. “But with the most modern plumbing. And the nickel-plated faucets and handles are historically accurate for that era too. Brass just wouldn’t work with everything else going on in the bathroom.”

“It reminds me of my high school locker room,” she said. Now she was looking around at all the cartons of fixtures. “What about the bidet?” she asked. “Surely, in a house like this, we’ll have a bidet?”

I glanced over at Will for guidance. He yawned again and gave me a pleading look. “Can we fit a bidet in the master bath?”

I felt a nerve in my jaw twitch. “If we cut down on the size of the shower enclosure. Which will mean reconfiguring the whole layout.”

He waved his hand in surrender. “You can do that, right Keeley? Call up and order a bidet?”

“If that’s what you want.”

And while we’re at it, why don’t we just order you a new spine?
I thought.

Will nodded and I added “Find bidet” to the punch-out list on my clipboard.

I held my breath when we got to the master bedroom. The architect and I had worked hard to design a seamless transition from the original part of the house to the new bedroom wing.

At the entrance to the new wing we’d placed a pair of columns we’d had made to match the front porch columns, but on a smaller scale. Between them, a pair of massive antique double doors opened into the sitting area of the bedroom.

At least the columns and doors were a hit with Stephanie.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, clutching Adam’s arm. “These weren’t up last week. I just love them. Where on earth did you find columns like this?”

Adam had the grace to look sheepish. “Keeley and the architect designed them, and had them made in Alabama. Keeley found the doors, right?”

“At Back Road Antique Salvage,” I said. “All the old doors and hardware came from them. And the fireplace surrounds and the urns for the front porch.”

“What color are we going to paint the doors?” Stephanie asked, looking at Will.

We
? I wanted to scream.
We aren’t painting the doors
.

“Actually,” I said, my voice calmer than I felt, “these doors have never been painted. They have the original patina.” I ran my fingertips again over the satiny old wood, which had a hand-rubbed beeswax finish.

“I know,” she said excitedly. “Mochachino! To match the shutters. Wouldn’t that be perfect?”

Over my dead, lifeless body will you make these doors look like an advertisement for Starbucks,
I thought.

Will rubbed his eyes. “I kinda like the look of the old wood,” he said gently. “Let’s leave them like they are. For now anyway.”

Oh good, you grew some testicles,
I thought.

Inside the bedroom, Will went immediately to the wall of windows overlooking the back garden. He stepped off a few paces away from it, and I knew what he was doing. Envisioning the view from bed every morning.

“Perfect,” he said quietly.

I felt as though he’d handed me a sack of diamonds and rubies. The architect’s drawings had specified windows, but he’d drawn in oversized stock windows and a Palladian demilune that looked more Italian than Greek Revival. I thought it was his only false move in an otherwise brilliant plan.

Instead, I’d gone to the talented carpenter Will had hired to do the rest of the trimwork on the house. He and I had measured and sketched all the original windows and come up with a new plan, incorporating two sets of tall, narrow fixed windows along the same scale as the front door sidelights, a pair of French doors to match the French doors in the dining room, and a slightly overscaled fanlight to top everything. The carpenter had built the windows on site, incorporating the wavy antique glass I’d scrounged from discarded windows the workers had found down in the root cellar.

It had been the architect’s idea to add the hanging balcony that was a larger version of the front porch balcony.

Stephanie opened the French doors and looked out. The painter’s scaffolding still surrounded the balcony. “Is it safe to walk on?” she asked, turning around.

“Just finished it yesterday,” Adam said proudly. “It’s solid as a rock.”

Stephanie stepped out onto the balcony. “Oh,” was all she said. It was all she needed to say. Will joined her, and the two of them stood gazing out over the fields. He slipped an arm around Stephanie’s waist, and she sweetly rested her head on his shoulder. We heard the clip-clip of toenails on the wooden floorboards, and a sharp bark as Erwin dashed out to join them. Will reached down and scooped up the little dog with his free hand. It was an exquisitely private moment.

In mute agreement, Adam and I left them there and went back downstairs.

You’ve done your job,
I thought.
Maybe a little too well.

In August Daddy
had a surprise for me. Two surprises, as it turned out.

He called me Wednesday morning, the same as always, to remind me of our supper date.

“Got a new recipe I’m trying out,” he said. “I know how you love my salmon loaf, but I thought it was time to branch out. Come hungry, y’hear?”

I hung up the phone and thought about things. Something was different with him. He sounded excited, keyed up. I’d been so busy lately, getting ready to go on a big buying trip for Mulberry Hill, I hadn’t paid much attention to the one constant in my life. In fact, I’d missed our supper the previous week, because I’d had to drive to Atlanta to pick up some wallpaper for one of the guest bathrooms at Will’s house.

“Gloria?”

“Hmm?” She had the checkbook out, matching invoices with billing statements, doing our monthly books, a chore she enjoyed about as much as a root canal.

“Have you noticed anything different about Daddy lately?”

She looked up and gave it some thought. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. He called to remind me about supper tonight, and he said he’s got a new recipe.”

“No more salmon loaf? Your prayers are answered.”

“It’s more than that. He sounded funny.”

“Well, I noticed he’s combing his hair a little different. And come to think of it, I’ve passed him twice this week on my way to work, and he was out jogging.”

“Jogging? My daddy? Wade Murdock—jogging? I didn’t even know he owned a pair of sneakers.”

“I know,” she said. “What’s up with him, do you think?”

“Guess I’ll find out tonight.” I went back to my own work without giving it another thought.

At seven o’clock that night, when I pulled into the carport at Daddy’s house, there was another car parked in my usual spot. Nothing too unusual about that. Daddy brought home loaners from the lot all the time. But his Tahoe was parked there too, and the second car was a red Hyundai, and I knew he’d never buy or sell a Hyundai.

The smell of garlic wafted from the house. This, I told myself, was my father’s big surprise. He’d probably figured out how to make spaghetti and garlic bread.

I let myself in the front door with my key and walked to the back of the house, toward the kitchen. Daddy’s back was turned to me, and he stood at the stove, with a dish towel wrapped around his waist. He had a long wooden spoon, and he was stirring something in a fying pan on the front burner. He wasn’t alone in the kitchen. A petite woman, with a long dark braid that hung to her slim waist, was standing next to him, at the counter, chopping onions.

“Hello?” I called out, wondering if I’d somehow wandered into the wrong house.

“Keeley,” Daddy said, putting down the spoon.

“Daddy?”

The woman turned toward me, offering a shy smile. She was Asian, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses and a pale green jogging suit. On closer inspection, I could see a streak of gray ran through her dark hair. Her face was unlined, and the only makeup she wore was a bit of pink lipstick.

Daddy put an arm around her shoulder. I thought I might faint.

“Shug,” he said, “this is my friend, Serena. Serena, this is my girl, Keeley.”

Serena put out her hand, noticed she was still holding the knife, and laughed before putting it down and wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Keeley,” she said, in a distinct Southern accent. “It’s so good to
meet you. I hope you don’t mind my barging in on your family dinner, but your father insisted it would be all right.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” I said. “It’s nice to have company.”

Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my mother’s kitchen?

“This is actually Serena’s recipe we’re having tonight,” Daddy said proudly. “She’s teaching me how to make it. Shrimp Creole.”

I’d assumed they were making some sort of chop suey or stir-fry. Something Asian.

“Shrimp Creole?” I said dumbly.

“I grew up in Baton Rouge,” Serena said. “This is an old family recipe. Although it isn’t exactly like we make it at home, because your father’s pantry is sort of limited.”

“We’re gonna send off for the stuff she needs,” Daddy said. “You know, Tony Chachere’s hot sauce, all that Cajun-Creole stuff. Serena’s a great cook.”

She gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. “He’s been eating his own cooking for so long, he doesn’t know the difference between adequate and great. I told him, even Cheerios taste good as long as somebody else pours the milk.”

Cheerios? Had she been staying over to fix his breakfast too?

Just then the rice started to boil over. I grabbed a potholder and moved the saucepan, and turned down the burner. Daddy went back to his roux, and Serena very competently managed to coach us both through a very strange dinner.

We were seated at the dining room table, eating off the good china, which I don’t think had been out of the glass-front china cabinet for at least five years. Daddy was in his usual chair at the head of the table, and Serena sat beside him. How, I wondered, did she know to leave the chair at the foot of the table empty?

“You’re wondering how we met, and what I’m doing here, I bet,” Serena said, as she served up the tossed salad. “I told Wade he should have let you know we were seeing each other, but you know how men are.”

Daddy blushed. “Serena is the branch bank manager in Greenville,” he said. “I had to run over there and do some business a month ago, and that’s how we met.”

“He came back twice in the same week, for no good reason,” Serena said, laughing. “I knew he was interested, but he didn’t have the nerve to ask me out.”

“I was working my way up to it,” Daddy protested.

“Maybe in a year he would have asked,” Serena said. “So I asked him out. To lunch. Very proper. I think lunch makes a good first date, don’t you?” she asked, turning for my opinion. “No obligations, no awkward moments at the front door. Just lunch.”

“Uh, yes,” I managed to say. “So you’ve been seeing each other for a month?”

Where the hell have I been? My father is dating and I had no clue?

“It seems like longer,” Daddy said. He must have noticed the odd look on my face. “I meant to tell you, shug, I really did. But you’ve been busy, and I was gonna tell you last week, actually, but you had to cancel, and then we had our dance lessons this past weekend, and a social Saturday night.”

I looked from my father to Serena. They both acted like this was perfectly normal. But there was nothing normal about it. “Dance lessons?”

“Ballroom,” Serena said. “It was Wade’s idea. My bank has a companywide Christmas party in December, at the Marriott in Atlanta, and they have an orchestra and everything. I was telling him I never learned how to properly waltz, and the next thing I knew, he’d signed us up for ballroom dancing lessons.”

“At the Y,” Daddy said. “We’re having a ball. You should come learn too.”

Are you out of your freaking mind? You can’t go dancing with this woman. You’re a married man. And anyway, who am I going to dance with?

Somehow I managed to make it through the salad and the shrimp
Creole, which, I have to admit, was the best I’d ever tasted, and even through dessert, which was a crème brulée. When Serena went into the kitchen to brew what she said was the best chickory coffee outside the Café du Monde, I could stand it no longer.

“Daddy,” I whispered. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

He nodded. “Having the time of my life. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“What about me?” I snapped. “I thought I was the most wonderful thing to ever happen to you? And what about Mama? Remember her? Jeanine Murry Murdock, your wife, the one you never bothered to divorce? You’re still a married man, Daddy.”

“You know what I mean,” Daddy said calmly. “Serena’s the best thing to happen to me in a real long time. I guess maybe she was right, though. I should have told you sooner, let you get used to the idea.”

“I will never get used to this idea,” I said coldly.

Daddy sighed. “I did not expect this from you, Keeley Rae. Your mama ran off from us more than twenty years ago. I spent all those years pining and wondering what I’d done wrong. I tried to find her, tried to find out what had happened, but I hit a brick wall. Now, when you say you want to know the truth, I didn’t stop you. I believe you need to do whatever needs doing, to set your mind at peace. And I think you should extend that courtesy to me. I’ve been a lonely man all these years. I didn’t go out looking for somebody else. It just happened. I went to the bank, and that beautiful face looked up at me and smiled, and I was gone.”

“You’re telling me that you’re in love? Daddy, you haven’t dated in over thirty years. How do you know you’re not just…just…”

“Horny?”

I stared at him in horror.

“You haven’t…”

“That’s none of your business, young lady,” he said sternly. “When you passed the age of twenty-one, I figured you were at the age of
consent. When you spent the night out, I didn’t ask a lot of questions. I trusted you to know right from wrong. And when you got engaged to A.J., even though I didn’t care for the young man, I figured, she’s free, white, and of age. Now, I’m more than twice that, so all you need to know is that I have found a wonderful companion. I enjoy her company and she enjoys mine, and we intend to spend a lot more time together.”

I was near tears now. “But you’re not thinking of getting…married, right? I mean, you can’t. You’re still legally married to Mama.”

Serena came in then, with the coffee tray. She saw me crying, and the look on Daddy’s face. She set the tray down on the table, gave Daddy’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, and went back to the kitchen without a word.

Daddy handed me a mug of coffee and took one for himself. He dumped in two teaspoons of sugar and an inch of cream. He stirred the coffee for a long time.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this, until I had some real news. But since you can’t seem to let it go, I will tell you. I’ve hired another private detective. He’s a real pro, somebody from Atlanta. One way or another, I’m going to find out the truth. You were right about one thing, Keeley. It’s time.”