Miss Julia to the Rescue (33 page)

“You have more trust in your fellow man than I do. I’d probably come home to find the kitchen upstairs or out in the garage. I hate to complain, Mildred, but let me just tell you that I’ve had to
watch both Tucker and Adam like a hawk. I don’t think either of them has his mind on his work. And furthermore, I think Agnes Whitman is the reason for it.”

“Well,” Mildred said, taking a sip of tea, then setting down her glass, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What? Agnes?”

“Yes, she called me to complain about you.”

“Me? What have I done? I hardly know the woman. And why did she call you?”

“She knows we’re friends and, of course, she’s upset about how long you’re keeping Adam.”

“Why, Mildred, you’re the one who told me to keep him busy so she couldn’t get him. Besides, he has left me and gone to her at least one day and he’s worked for her after hours, as well.” I fumed for a minute or so, then said, “And if she’s upset with me, she should’ve called me. I think it’s tacky that she called you to complain about me.”

“I know,” Mildred said somewhat complacently, “and I don’t blame you. I told her she should talk to you directly. I didn’t want to be in the middle of it, but she insisted that I at least speak to you about it. So that’s what I’m doing and that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned.” She patted her lips with a linen napkin, then said, “I told her, just as I told you, that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and there wasn’t much she could do about it.”

I could hardly speak, I was so disturbed. Don’t you just hate it when somebody has a complaint against you and sends the message secondhand? The more I thought about the whole thing, the more incensed I became.

“So what am I supposed to do?” I demanded. “Stand at attention and salute? I don’t think Adam wants to work for her, so her problem is with him, not me.” I paused. “Or you. I have enough on my plate these days without adding Agnes Whitman’s inability to keep help.”

“I know, Julia. I’m just passing it along.”

“Well, I wish you hadn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Mildred said, looking directly at me, “except for the last thing she said.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said she was not accustomed to having her plans disrupted by either a menial worker or a small-town upstart.”

“
Upstart!
She called
me
an upstart? Why, I’ll have her know …” I couldn’t get enough breath to continue.

“Julia, it’s all right.” Mildred reached over and patted my clenched hand. “Don’t distress yourself. You have to consider the source. I wouldn’t have told you, but the more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a threat, so I thought you should know. But what can she do to you, other than keep Adam so busy you never get him back?”

“Well, that’s another thing—calling him a menial worker. There’s nothing wrong with working with your hands. In fact, there’s honor in it, and her saying that just shows how little respect she has for him or anybody else who works for her.” I took a deep breath. “I resent it for him, as well as for myself. I’m insulted and highly offended, especially since it comes from a tattooed woman who ought to be in a circus sideshow. Who is she to criticize or judge anybody?”

Mildred started laughing. “Well, she claims to be a minister, so I guess she’s doing what they all do.”

“Oh, Mildred, that’s not fair. They’re not all that way. Think of Poppy. But listen,” I said, leaning toward her, “there’s not a thing she can do to me—she ought to be worried about what I can do to her. Just wait till she wants to join the garden club or the book club or anything else in this town, then she’ll find out. But I am worried about what she can do to Adam. He’s already indicated that he doesn’t want to work for her anymore, but honorable man that he is, he feels obligated. Mildred, I tell you, something strange is going on out at her place and I think Adam is being drawn into it. Against his will, I might add.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Julia,” Mildred said. “Agnes has led a strange life, I grant you, but I don’t think she’s actually
wicked
. Why don’t you
just tell Adam he doesn’t have to work for anybody he doesn’t want to work for? He may
feel
obligated, but he’s not legally obligated. We’ve all had people walk off a job or refuse a job, haven’t we?”

Well, no, I hadn’t, but Mildred was a lot more picky than I was, so I expect she’d had experience with people who wouldn’t work for her. I decided not to point that out.

“I think,” I said after giving it some thought, “that I should speak to Adam about this. I’m not sure how much good it’ll do, but he needs to at least know she’s upset with him because of me. Then,” I went on with a bright idea, “I’ll give him enough to do so that he can work at my house for as long as he wants to. He can even read his Bible on my time, I don’t care. And Agnes can keep on blaming me, but maybe she’ll leave him alone.”

Mildred opened her mouth to say something, but Ida Lee appeared in the door. “Excuse me,” she said, “but Miss Lillian just called to say that the carpet men have arrived.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thank you, Ida Lee. I have to run, Mildred. Thank you for the tea and the warning. I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

After checking the roll of carpet to be sure they’d brought the right one, I led the two men up to Sam’s new office in the sunroom. I had selected a tightly woven, almost commercial grade of carpet so Sam’s executive chair would roll smoothly over it without needing plastic mats and runners strewn everywhere.

Leaving the men to it, I tapped on the bedroom door, then walked in. Josh was painting in the bathroom while Adam was putting meticulous strokes on the window trim. He turned and gave me a tentative smile as I entered.

“Almost through,’ he said.

“It looks lovely,” I said, surveying the soft ivory paint on the woodwork. “So much more soothing than pink. Adam,” I went on as I walked over to him and lowered my voice, “I don’t mean to interfere in your business or your work schedule, but if you’d like to make a full week here, I could use some help putting furniture and boxes of books into the sunroom. And the carpet will be laid in here tomorrow, so furniture can be moved back in then.” Before he could respond, I hurried on. “Before you decide, I have to tell you that Ms. Whitman is most upset with me and you—you for not dropping everything and going to her, and me for preventing you from going. Frankly, I think she has some nerve for making such demands, and I want you to know that I can find work for you and Josh for as long as you want it. If you stay here long enough, she might get tired of waiting and leave you alone.”

A worried frown creased Adam’s forehead as his eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but at me. Fearful that I had overstepped, I immediately regretted speaking so openly about one of his clients. My first thought was that I had misinterpreted what I had perceived to be a reluctance to work for her.

Yet he was reluctant about something or somebody, and what else could it be? Certainly not working for me.

Looking distressed, Adam said, “She already called me. I told her I had to make the week here.”

“Why, that’s perfect. It’s all settled then, and you don’t need to give it another thought.”

“No’m,” he said, shaking his head miserably, “ ’cause I lied about it.”

“Lied? That’s hard to believe. How did you lie?”

I thought if his shoulders slumped any farther, they’d soon be on the floor.

“I told her you wanted me to stay on here.”

“Well, I do! How could that be lying?”

“Because,” he said, giving me a quick glance, “I told her that before you asked me to stay. So I guess I better go on out there and, maybe, make up for it.”

Scripture verses began flitting through my mind as I searched for some redeeming reference about lying in a good cause. I wasn’t having much success in finding one.

“Uh, well, Adam,” I began, thinking furiously, “you know that the Bible gives us some stern warnings against drunkeness. We’re warned over and over about it. On the other hand,” I went on as his frown deepened, “we are also told to take a little wine for the stomach’s sake. So it seems to me that that’s a good analogy for lying under duress. We shouldn’t do too much of it, but a little now and then can be helpful under certain circumstances, even if we don’t have stomach problems.”

“Ma’am?”

“All I’m saying is that you weren’t lying, you were making a presumptive statement because you knew I’d need you. You were
thinking ahead on my behalf and should be commended, not condemned, for it. So you’ll be here tomorrow and maybe on into next week?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, nodding with some hesitancy. “Don’t know about next week.”

“We’ll see about that later, then. But if Agnes Whitman gives you a hard time, you have my permission to blame it all on me. I’m not afraid of a skinny tattooed woman who thinks she’s the boss of the world.”

That brought the flash of a smile, but it didn’t last long. “I’ll probably pay for it, though,” he murmured.

And, I thought, I probably would, too. I’d taken scripture out of context to prove that a little lie wasn’t as bad as a out-and-out lie. The fact that we all tell little white lies every day didn’t exactly absolve me. But what do you do when a friend needs reassurance about what she’s wearing? I was in good company, though, because I was reminded of some of Pastor Ledbetter’s less efficacious pronouncements after a convoluted effort to find a scriptural basis for some of his opinions.

I didn’t let it worry me. There were too many other things rushing through my mind. As far as I was concerned, Adam was safe for a while and I could focus my worries on Etta Mae, who’d be in the clutches of that possibly snake-handling sheriff in a few hours, and on Mr. Pickens, who would be facing an official grilling by that selfsame treacherous law officer.

So I showed Adam where Sam’s office furniture was stored and explained where I wanted each piece in the sunroom. Then I took the newspaper into Lloyd’s room, where I could occupy myself in a semblance of peace and quiet to await supper. Gradually, I began to hear the sounds of workmen gathering their tools and leaving. When all was quiet downstairs, outside and in, I went to the kitchen, where Lloyd had just come in.

We had supper at the kitchen table by ourselves, for I had told Lillian to go on home, that we’d clear the table and do the dishes. It was something to help me while away the long evening, which
didn’t get any shorter when Lloyd went out to ride his bicycle after we finished.

I wandered around the house, looking at what had been accomplished—not much—by the work crews during the day. The new library was larger by a good two feet where the closets had been removed, and a tarp had been stapled over the hole in the wall where the fireplace would be.

I walked outside to examine the brickmasons’ work and was pleased to see that the fat part of the chimney was coming along nicely. Of course the lawn was a mess with pallets of bricks, wheelbarrows and discarded cement bags ruining the grass and one of my hybrid rhododendrons.

I saved the best for last and went up to Sam’s new office. There was his large mohagony desk and chair, right where I wanted them; his easy chair; his lamps, which needed better placement; and the boxes of books and papers, which he would have to shelve himself. But the room was ready for him, so at least one part of my project had come in on time.

For the rest of the evening and on into the night after Lloyd and I went to bed, my mind was filled with concern about Etta Mae and Mr. Pickens. And all because of one lanky and laconic sheriff of an out-of-state backwoods county who had the power to wheedle his way into Etta Mae’s heart, arrest and remove Mr. Pickens from the arms of his family and totally disrupt my sleep.

My anxiety hadn’t lessened during the night. In fact, by morning, it was worse. My overriding concern at the moment was for Etta Mae: had she gotten home all right, had the sheriff been a gentleman, what was his attitude toward snakes, had she put him in a good mood, although not
too
good, before he interviewed Mr. Pickens this morning?