Miss Julia Paints the Town (18 page)

“Well, of course I would. But I think we're off the track again. I just think that it's incumbent on all of us to help keep marriages together as much as we can.”

“That'd be fine if we could find the other halves of those marriages. It's a little hard to keep anything intact if you have only one of a pair. Pastor, look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I can't in good conscience urge a friend to do what I wouldn't do. As far as I'm concerned, when a man wants to leave, there's not much a wife can do but accept it and go on. And it's the going on with strength and grace that I'm urging my friends to do.”

Pastor Ledbetter sighed deeply. “It looks as if we don't see eye to eye on this matter.”

“Apparently not.”

“Well,” he said, moving some papers over to indicate the discussion was at an end, “I must say that I'm disappointed, but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord wherever and however he leads.”

Not if it means moving to Raleigh,
I thought but didn't say. Emma Sue had about had her fill of decisions being made for her, but he'd find that out when he learned that Emma Sue had been asking my advice, too.

He picked up one sheet of paper, studied it intently and said, “I hope that things are well with you and Sam.”

I stood to indicate I'd gotten the message that the meeting was over. “Thank you, things are fine. And if they're ever not, why then, Sam knows how I feel about straying husbands. Nothing will come as a surprise to him. Good day, Pastor, it was good to visit with you.”

I left then, mulling over what we'd discussed, pleased with myself for stating and holding my position, and possibly making him rethink his.

I was halfway home before it hit me. What did he mean by hoping all was well with Sam and me?
Did he know something I didn't?

Etta Mae and I drove over to the Mary Grace Haddington House that afternoon to pick up Mr. Kessler, but I'd had to talk her into it. She'd been simmering while I was busy straightening out the pastor, and by the time I got home she was ready to pack it in. She announced that she couldn't take any more of the man's arrogance and started begging off.

“Etta Mae,” I'd said, “you can't leave me in the lurch like this. I don't want to be seen tooling around town by myself with him, day in and day out. You know how people talk. Besides, he's hard to talk to, and three make better conversation than two. You have to help me.”

“Well,” she said, reluctantly giving in, “I guess I can do it for you. But if he mentions Granny's farm one more time, I won't be responsible.”

I smiled. “And I won't hold you responsible. Let's go.”

We were both lost in our own thoughts as we drove down Main Street toward the end of the business district where a few large, nineteenth-century houses remained in various states of disrepair. Of course, the Mary Grace Haddington House stood out like a jewel since the Websters had bought it and remodeled it from top to bottom, turning it into a bed and breakfast temptingly advertised in
Southern Living.
Ed and Lila Webster were from somewhere in Alabama, and how they ended up in Abbotsville, I'm sure I don't know. I can't even imagine the money it had taken to convert that old Queen Anne mansion into a modern inn, nor how they'd come to have that much for such a purpose in the first place. Still, they were lovely people, even with an unknown background, and the inn was perfect for out-of-town guests that you didn't want underfoot all day, even if it only served breakfast.

Mr. Kessler was waiting for us on the porch. As Etta Mae approached the curb, I saw him walking back and forth, ignoring the rocking chairs arrayed for the viewing pleasure of the inn's guests. Apparently, rocking and watching cars go by was one of the amenities offered by the Websters. But Mr. Kessler was a man of action, too eager to buy and sell and get on with things to spend time in such a wasteful manner.

He came striding down the walk toward the car, his summer-weight wool suit buttoned, his shoes shined, his tie knotted to perfection, looking as if he were about to chair a meeting. I wondered if the man ever gave it a rest.

As he took his accustomed place in the front seat beside Etta Mae, he greeted us in his typical abrupt, northern fashion, mentioning that he was looking forward to meeting Mr. Jones, whom I'd earlier described as a mover and shaker in Abbotsville. I responded with as much warmth as I could muster, which wasn't much since it still grated on me that he continued to accept the front seat as his due, completely oblivious to my own good manners in leaving it vacant for him. Any southern gentleman would've at least offered to sit in the back.

Etta Mae nodded a greeting, then concentrated on her driving. I can't say that we have a traffic problem in Abbotsville, but when the schools let out, as they were now doing, it does pick up considerably. All those mothers in vans and SUVs, don't you know, and high schoolers whipping their tiny cars in and out are enough to put your nerves on edge.

And my nerves were edgy enough already. I was still reeling from the pastor's implication that all might not be well with Sam and me. He might've meant nothing at all by what he said. Then again, he'd been put out with me, which was par for the course in our dealings with each other, so there may have been a world of harmful intent behind his words. Preachers are human, too, and not above giving a little tit for tat now and then. I'm sure I don't blame them, for I'd hate to have to put up with the complaints and criticisms of your typical church members. Still and all, it's most unattractive for a man of God to get personal.

When Etta Mae maneuvered us out of the traffic jams around the schools and turned onto Woodrow Wilson Drive, which paralleled Polk but ran farther west, I pointed out to Mr. Kessler that we were now in the historic district of the town.

“Many of the early families had estates in this area,” I said. “But, of course, over time the town inched out this way and people began to sell off parcels for others to build on. It's still mostly residential, except for a few groceries and convenience stores here and there.” I sat forward on the edge of the seat to look out the front. “Turn left here, Etta Mae.”

Thurlow Jones's street was lined with huge oaks and it was like driving through a tunnel as their branches formed a canopy overhead. Most of the houses sat far back from the street with mature, well-kept plantings in the front.

“This is it.” I pointed to the right, where a large, brick house almost covered in ivy sat by itself in the middle of a block, surrounded by a crumbling brick wall. Overgrown hollies and straggling nandinas lined the inside of the wall and spread out to hang over the sidewalk. Several large magnolia trees dotted the yard and, peeking through the wrought iron gate that led to the walkway, I could see weeds everywhere.

The gate at the driveway was open, so Etta Mae pulled in and came to a stop. No one had a word to say as we took in the scene before us. The house retained remnants of its former architectural beauty, but now a shutter hung askew from a missing hinge, and a feeler of ivy had snaked through the hole in an upstairs window. The lawn, if you could call it that, was so overgrown that I could hardly make out the front walk. The place looked abandoned, but that's the way Thurlow Jones kept it.

Mr. Kessler peered around, his eyebrows raised. “This is it?”

“Now, Mr. Kessler,” I said, leaning forward on the seat, “don't be put off by what you see. Thurlow is a fine man from a fine family of judges and state senators, and he was educated at Washington and Lee. He's generous to a fault and highly thought of in the community.”

I didn't mention that our thoughts ran along the lines of
eccentric, odd duck
and
crazy as a loon.
I also didn't mention that he was the last of a long line of strange people, which did not exclude the judges and state senators, several of whom had ended up either in jail or in mental institutions. Somehow, though, the family had held on to their wealth, for Thurlow was known to be loaded. As well he should be since he never spent any of it. Well, to be fair, he was generous with his donations and contributions. He just chose to donate and contribute to the oddest causes.

I opened the car door and prepared to step out, then noticed that Mr. Kessler remained in his seat. “He's expecting us, Mr. Kessler.”

“Let's forgo this visit,” he said. “My time's valuable, and I'm pushed as it is.”

“Oh, no,” I said, opening his door. “You must meet Thurlow. If you want anything done in this town, you have to know him. Why, he's behind every progressive step we take, and I'll tell you something else. He has the county commissioners in his back pocket.”

Mr. Kessler frowned and cocked an eye at me, interested but not quite believing. “Is that so?”

“Yes, indeed. Don't let the state of his home fool you. He's a man who doesn't believe in putting up a front—a man of the people who does his work behind the scenes. He's the pride of Abbot County, and I can't tell you how much everybody respects and admires him.”

“Well,” Mr. Kessler said, stepping from the car and smoothing his suit coat as he looked around. “That puts a different light on it. Some of our greatest entrepreneurs were a little out of sync with the common run. I like to think I'm one of them myself. Frankly, Mrs. Murdoch, I admire a man who doesn't flaunt who he is and what he has. I'm looking forward to meeting him.”

Etta Mae lagged behind us as we tromped through the weeds to the front door. I motioned to her to hurry along, but she still had a sulky look on her face and only caught up with us as I rang the doorbell.

The door sprang open while I still had my finger on the bell. Thurlow stood there before us, squinting out from the dark interior. “No need to keep mashing it,” he said. “It don't work just like everything else around here. Except me. I'm still running just fine. So, Lady Springer, is it? Oh, forgive my terrible lapse of manners. It's Madam Murdoch now. Come on in here, woman, and let me get a good look at you.”

He reached for my arm, but I sidled away, smiling as if I wasn't about to smack him. Thurlow had grown smaller since I'd last seen him, or perhaps more stooped. And if his house and yard looked as if they needed sprucing up, they were nothing compared to him. He wore a stained wool shirt—Pendleton, by the looks of it—and baggy pants that may have once helped make up a suit of clothes. His hair was a little grayer and, like his lawn, needed mowing. A glint of white whiskers spread across his face, and the glasses perched on his nose were smudged with who-knew-what.

“Thurlow,” I said, “I've brought Arthur Kessler to meet you, and of course you know Miss Etta Mae Wiggins. I hope you were expecting us since I called to let you know we were coming.”

He ignored Mr. Kessler as he squinted intently at Etta Mae. “Well, that's a sight for sore eyes.”

Since he hadn't invited us in, I attempted to nudge him a little. “I hope we're not disturbing you.”

“Oh, hell, no. What else I got to do except have afternoon tea. Do come in, ladies and,” he glanced at Mr. Kessler, “who-ever you are.”

We followed him across the dark hall filled with huge pieces of furniture into a front room just like it. Tall glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls, while hard, Victorian sofas and rump-sprung Lawson chairs sat in no particular order around the room. Newspapers had been thrown to the floor and left where they'd fallen, and a few books were open and facedown on almost every table.

“Well, have a seat if you can find one,” Thurlow said, which was about as gracious as he ever got. “And just go on and tell me what you want. I ain't got time for chitchat, nor the heart for it either, since you broke it marrying Sam Murdoch.”

“Oh, Thurlow,” I said, sitting gingerly on a blue velvet hard-as-a-rock sofa, “you know that's not true.”

His eyes glinted behind his filthy glasses. “Well, I tried to catch you but you ran too fast for me. I'll say this, though, you brought in a mighty nice substitute today.” Thurlow switched around suddenly to look Etta Mae up and down. “What'd you say your name was, girl?”

“Etta Mae Wiggins,” she said, pulling herself up as tall as she could manage. “And proud of it.”

“Ah, yes. I know your family. Bunch of backwood heathens, if you ask me. But I'm sure you've come up in the world. You look like it anyhow. Set yourself down and be sure to swing your legs thisaway.” He cackled like a fool. “I need a little spurt of adrenaline every now and then.”

Etta Mae's face flushed red, so I quickly stepped in. “Behave yourself, Thurlow. Etta Mae, ignore him. He likes to shock people, but,” I said, reminding her of our purpose in coming, “that's just his way and we love him for it, don't we? Now, Thurlow, Mr. Kessler, here, is a man of parts who's come to Abbotsville to move us into the twenty-first century since we seem to be lagging a little behind. I knew you'd want to meet him and I've assured him that you're the man to know if he wants to get anything done in this town. And what he wants to do is build luxury condominiums down on Main Street. Won't that be nice?”

“Do tell.” Thurlow turned what might have been an appraising eye in Mr. Kessler's direction. “Luxury condominiums, huh? I might just buy me one or two. Maybe move in myself. This place,” he said, flinging out an arm to include everything, “is too much for me. Hard to keep up, even if I wanted to. What size condos you building?”

Mr. Kessler had perched himself stiffly on the edge of a straight chair, and he sat there looking like he'd rather be anyplace than where he was. But, thinking Thurlow had influence, he leaned forward to state his case. “As soon as I get the county's approval of the sale, I'll put up an eight-story building that'll be the crown jewel of my company and this town. I'll call it the Crowne—spelled with an
e
—Plaza, and it'll outshine anything in this part of the state. You'll be proud to have had a part in it, Mr. Jones. But to be specific, the one-bedroom units will start around half a million. The others go up from there. Then there'll be the penthouses for a couple of select buyers.”

I enjoyed watching Mr. Kessler walk a fine line between trying to impress this influential quaint character and trying to hide his own feelings of superiority. Mr. Kessler's throwaway tone implied that, even though he might need a little local help to get them built, his condos would be beyond Thurlow Jones's capacity to purchase. But if he meant to intimidate, it didn't work.

Thurlow nodded as if it were exactly what he'd expected. “You get 'em built and I'll think about it. I got a cousin needs looking after. He's in a home now, but they about to kick him out. I could put him in one of your condos and hire a man to watch him. Just tell the neighbors to lock up. He does like to drop in at odd hours.” Thurlow slapped his knee and cackled gleefully. “Come to think of it, Kessler, you might be an answer to prayer for that boy. Well, he's not much of a boy anymore. Pushing sixty or so by now. He's my burden, but I sure don't want him around here, messing things up. You just put me down for one of them two-bedroomers, and I'll think about a bigger one for me. But not on the same floor, oh, hell, no, don't do that.”