The Fixer Upper (8 page)

Things, I thought, were going to get interesting.

“M
y” bathroom had a high ceiling, a yacht-size bathtub, and an old-fashioned pedestal sink. Those were the pluses. The minuses were lengthy. The fluorescent light over the cloudy mirrored medicine cabinet winked on and off as though telegraphing an ominous message. The tiny hexagon-shaped tiles were cracked and yellowed with age. The sink, the commode, and the tub bore decades’ worth of rust stains, and their porcelain coatings were pock-marked with chips. But when I stepped into the tub and turned on the hot-water faucet, I got the nastiest surprise of all.

The old pipes groaned and knocked behind the cracked plaster. A thin trickle of lukewarm brownish water finally came sputtering out of the showerhead. It was the fastest shower I’d ever taken. A new hot-water heater would definitely be on my shopping list.

When I got downstairs, there was no sign of Ella Kate. But there was a note, in crabbed handwriting, Scotch-taped to the refrigerator door.

Actually, it was more of a bill than a note.

“Caught red-handed,” I muttered, tucking the note in the pocket of my jeans. As I heated water for a cup of instant coffee, I wondered how the old lady would amortize the price of a tablespoon of Piggly Wiggly coffee. Deciding to err on the side of generous, I found a pencil in one of
the drawers and made an addendum to her note—“Cup of coffee—$1.” I taped three dollar bills to the note, and put it back on the door of the pink fridge.

As I sipped my coffee, I made my first list of the day. It consisted mostly of every kind of cleaning supply I could think of, plus enough basic groceries to get me through the week without dipping into Ella Kate’s larder.

The kitchen was still chilly, but sun streamed in through the window, which I took to be a good sign. After rinsing out my coffee cup, I zipped up my fleece sweatshirt and stepped outside. A squirrel perched on the limb of a nearby oak tree chattered at the sight of me, and I heard rustling in the underbrush. A cardinal made a bright splash of red as it darted from the handlebars of one of the rusted bicycles I’d seen last night, and two or three small bright-winged birds hopped about on the ground, pecking at a sprinkling of bread crumbs. So. Ella Kate had established her own nature preserve at the aptly named Birdsong.

I picked up another stout stick, and beat back the undergrowth as I began my exploration of the grounds. A few yards from the kitchen I came up against a dilapidated outbuilding of weathered gray clapboards. I’d passed right by it the night before, but hadn’t even noticed it in the dwindling light of day.

With effort, I managed to pull the double wooden doors open. Rusting hinges screamed a protest, and the doors scraped against the concrete floor of the building as I yanked them open.

The shed was more barn than garage, but resting inside I was thrilled to find a dark red American-made sedan. “The Catfish, I presume,” I said aloud, walking around the car to appraise its roadworthiness.

The Crown Vic’s paint job was faded to a dull maroon, and the car was covered with a thick film of dust, but I noted that the tires seemed fine. The doors were unlocked, so I slid into the black-vinyl-covered driver’s seat. “Keys,” I muttered, “where are the keys, Ella Kate?” I flipped down the sun visor, but no keys fell out. Checked under both floor mats, unsuccessfully. Dejected, I got out of the car and walked around the shed.

A workbench at the back of the building held ancient, rusting cans of paint; a jumble of tools; and jars of nails, screws, bolts, and other hardware. Finally, on a Peg-Board rack nailed to the wall above the bench, I found a ring of keys. Most of the keys looked like house keys, and a few were large, old-fashioned latchkeys, but finally, I found one that looked like a car key.

The Crown Vic’s motor coughed politely when I turned the key, and then died. “Damn!” I tried again, gave it a little gas, and the engine roared to life. I wanted to cheer. Instead, I gave it a little more gas, and the engine hummed agreeably. I checked the gas gauge. There was a quarter of a tank! None of the other gauges was issuing any alarming levels, and no warning signals flashed on the dashboard.

Barely able to suppress my excitement, I hopped out of the car, found a rag on the workbench, and wiped off the windshield and rear window. Back in the driver’s seat, I adjusted the mirrors, and slowly backed the car out of the shed, my heart thumping a mile a minute. I managed to make a three-point turn, wincing as tree branches slapped and scraped at the paint.

Despite my initial impression that the old driveway was impassable, I discovered that by going slowly and steering the car down the center of the cracked concrete path, I could barely, and with more scrapes, make it out to the street without the use of a machete, or even the bush hog that Tee Berryhill had recommended.

Once I was on Poplar Street, I felt another rush of exhilarating freedom that reminded me of my first time behind the wheel, after I’d passed my driver’s exam at sixteen. I had to stop and think to remember when the last time was that I had actually driven. Had it been over a year ago, when Pilar had pressed me into car-pool duty for the twins?

Retracing the route Becky and I had taken the day before, I made my way back to the business district. The Catfish’s engine was surprisingly powerful, and I had to make an effort to stay under the speed limit.

I found the hardware store again with no trouble. Once inside, I steered my shopping cart up and down the aisles, loading it with mops and brooms, plastic trash bags, window cleaner, Pine-Sol, Comet, rubber
gloves, paint scrapers, steel wool, and every other implement I could find to help in my cleaning project.

I studied the paint chips in the paint department for nearly an hour, debating the merits of white versus cream, sage versus celery, tan versus taupe. I was so lost in my own mental rainbow that I realized, with a start, that a man was standing right beside me, peering over my shoulder at the cards I held fanned out in my hand.

“Aww, no,” he drawled, plucking the taupe card from my hand. “You don’t wanna go with that color. Every yuppie in Atlanta is painting their media room Bennington. I swear to God, it’s the Pottery Barn influence. Everybody wants their house to look like the goddamn Pottery Barn catalog.”

I blinked. “I happen to love Pottery Barn.”

He was unfazed. “Baby, that’s all right for one of those minimansions up in Alpharetta or Dunwoody, but you’re living in a nineteenth-century Greek Revival mansion in Guthrie, Georgia. Why would you wanna junk it up like that?”

I took a step back. My unpaid paint adviser smiled, revealing a set of brilliant white teeth. Despite the weather outside, he was deeply tanned, with light brown hair having just a touch of gray at the temples. His eyes were a brilliant green, with laugh lines etched into the corners, and he had a cleft chin. He was dressed for a day on the greens, albeit a winter day, in khaki golf shorts, a long-sleeved pale yellow V-neck argyle sweater, and well-worn Top-Siders. His calves were muscular, and his legs were just as deeply tanned as his face.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

He stuck out his hand. “You do now. Jimmy Maynard. And you’re Dempsey Killebrew, right?”

I took his hand and shook it. “I am. How did you—”

“Saw you drive up in the Catfish,” he said. “Carter Berryhill was telling me about you just last night at the country club. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the pretty lady driving old Norbert’s car must be his niece.”

“Great-great-niece,” I corrected him. I looked down at the paint
chips in my hand. He plucked one in a warm white, and another in a deep black-green, and held them up. “This one, this white, for the outside. And then, the window casings, you wanna do them in this Charleston green. Give ’em some depth. The rest of the trim, you wanna find a medium espresso tone. I’d do the front door in a barn red. Benjamin Moore’s got one I like, but you’ll have to drive to Macon for that. You’ll do oil—not latex, right? A primer, then at least two coats. The paint guys, they’ll tell you all you need is one coat, but take it from me, it’s gonna take an ocean to cover up that puke pink ya got now. I know, I know, oil’s a pain in the butt to work with, but Dempsey, honey, Birdsong is a historic property. You don’t wanna go muckin’ it up with cheap paint.”

“Are you an interior designer?”

“Me?” He hooted derisively. “An interior designer? No, ma’am, not on your life. Here.” He pulled a money clip from the pocket of his golf shorts, and handed me a business card. maynard & associates, it read. james r. maynard, Principal. There were two phone numbers, and an address.

“Real estate sales,” he prompted. “I do a little consulting, a little insurance work, some property management. But it’s mostly real estate that pays the bills.”

“I see.”

I started to hand back the business card, but he gently pushed my hand away. “Keep it. You’re gonna need it. You ask around. Ask ol’ Carter, or Tee, or anybody else. Buyin’ or sellin’ let Jimmy do the tellin’. That’s my motto. Corny, huh? But you’ll remember it. I guarantee.”

“Uh, thanks.”

He laughed. “Aw, now. Did I come on too strong?”

“Well,” I began. “I just got here. I’m still feeling my way around. It’s my first time in Guthrie.”

“Carter mentioned that,” Jimmy said. “And he did say your daddy is Mitch Killebrew. I used to know some Killebrews, when I was at Auburn. You any kin to them?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. My father was an only child, and he and his dad
moved away from Guthrie when he was a little boy. Mitch only came back here a couple of times after that. He barely remembers his time here.”

“I gotcha,” Jimmy said. “Well, it’s not a bad town. Not once you get used to small-town life.” He cocked his head. “From your accent, or lack of one, I’d say you didn’t grow up in a small town. Not in the South, anyway.”

I realized I was being grilled, but Jimmy Maynard was such a skilled practitioner, I found myself giving in to his unabashed charm.

“We lived in Atlanta until my early teens, but after my mom remarried and moved to California, Mitch and I moved around a lot. Nashville, Orlando, places like that. I went to boarding school in Richmond.”

“And you’re a lawyer, I hear tell.”

“Does everybody in this town already know all my business?”

He laughed again. “Not all of it. Not yet, anyway. But give us a few days.”

“From the look of Birdsong, I’m going to be here for quite a few days,” I told him. I started to push my cart toward the cash register, intending that to be a signal that our paint consultation was done.

But Jimmy Maynard didn’t shake that easily.

“You’re not gonna try and tackle that place all by your lonesome, are you?” He looked me up and down. “Expensive jeans, I can’t see the label, but I’m guessing those are Nine Lives. They run, what, a hundred and fifty bucks? Suede boots, North Face parka. You studying to start painting dressed like that?”

“These are Nine Lives,” I said, “but actually, they cost more like a hundred and seventy-five. And thanks for reminding me. My girlfriend told me to buy myself some Carharrts.”

“Next aisle over,” Jimmy said. “Don’t think I’m a pervert or anything, but it’s a shame to hide a cute little butt like yours in a pair of them big ol’ baggy Carharrts.”

My eyes widened, and I felt myself blushing.

“Aw, damn,” Maynard said. “There I go again. My second wife used to tell me, ‘Jimmy, you need a filter between your brain and your big mouth.’ Guess that was maybe one of the few things she was right
about. I’m sorry, ma’am, for being so forward.” He bowed deeply. “Please accept my heartfelt apologies for such a boorish comment.”

I giggled despite myself.

“You do forgive me,” Maynard said. “Now, you gotta let me make it up to you. How ’bout lunch? I know, it’s early yet, but Tuesday’s pot roast day at the Corner Café, and you gotta get there no later than eleven thirty, because they’ll run out, just as sure as shooting, and you’ll be stuck with the shepherd’s pie.”

My stomach growled at the mention of food, but I refused to give in to temptation.

“I do forgive you,” I said. “But if you’ve seen Birdsong, you know the kind of job I’ve got facing me. I don’t dare stop for lunch. Not today.”

“All right,” he conceded. “I can see you’re a lady with a mission. But would it be all right if I stopped by someday, to check up on your progress? Birdsong used to be a hell of a place. I’ll be anxious to see what you do with it.”

I made a wry face. “The first thing I’m going to do is scrub it, from top to bottom. Then I’ll start thinking about paint and all the rest of it. And sure, stop by anytime.” I flashed him a grin of my own. “But be forewarned, if you do come by, I might just put you to work.”

He grinned back. And at that moment, I realized, I’d just engaged in my first, official, small-town flirt. And it felt pretty darned good.

I
made a quick stop at the Piggly Wiggly for groceries. Not that I intended to do much cooking. Moving around with Mitch, and then through college, law school, and my life as a lobbyist, I’d never had the time or the inclination to become much of a cook. On the hill, my roommates and I managed to subsist on coffee, bagels, business lunches, and cocktail receptions.

Now, I realized, things were about to change. As Lynda had pointed out, there was no Starbucks in Guthrie. And unless I intended to let Jimmy Maynard treat me to lunch on a daily basis at the Corner Café, I was going to have to learn to feed myself. Quick and cheap would be my bywords. I bought some frozen casseroles, canned soup, lots of yogurt, cereal, and salad fixings. And a big bag of French roast coffee beans. One thing I couldn’t do was deal with instant coffee.

At the checkout counter, the cashier, a middle-aged woman with long, beribboned braids, gave me a bright smile. “You’re Mr. Norbert’s niece, aren’t you?”

Did everybody in Guthrie know me by sight already?

I smiled back. “Well, I’m his great-great-niece. Dempsey Killebrew.”

“And I’m Chellie. Chellie Tighe. My husband, Dave, is kin to the Dempseys on his mama’s side, I think, but I can’t keep all that stuff straight. Anyway, welcome to Guthrie. How are you settlin’ in over there at Birdsong? Is Ella Kate cutting up something awful over having you there?”

“She didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon,” I said. “But we’ll get along. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

Chellie rolled her eyes. “Honey, that’s the understatement of the year. At least when Mr. Norbert was alive, he kept up the yard. He used to
have the prettiest camellias in town. Buttercups too. And roses. He’d cut roses and bring ’em in here, to Delores over at the bank, and church, of course. After Norbert passed, I think Ella Kate tried for a little while, but it all got to be too much for her. She’s gotta be eighty if she’s a day. Anyway, you’re young. And you’re skinny, but I reckon you’re probably strong too. You’ll do just fine, long as you don’t let Ella Kate mow you down.”

“Thanks,” I said, handing her my money. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

When I got back to the house, I was surprised to see a pickup truck loaded with rakes and mowers and other lethal-looking implements parked at the curb. A tall mound of tree limbs and vines was stacked there too, and I could hear the high-pitched whine of a chain saw.

I grabbed a bag of groceries and followed the racket up the driveway. A young man in jeans and a flannel shirt was flailing away at a sapling with the saw. When he saw me, he cut the saw’s motor.

“Hi,” I said. “Did I hire you to clear the property?”

“No’m,” he said. “Mr. Carter sent me over. He told me to tell you it’ll be billed to your daddy.”

That was fine by me.

When I let myself in the kitchen door, I found, to my relief, that Ella Kate seemed to have decamped.

Upstairs, I paused outside Ella Kate’s bedroom door. I tapped lightly, but there was no answer. As I’d expected, her door was locked.

But the next door down was unlocked. This one was another large, square bedroom, approximately the same size as the one I’d claimed for myself.

The wallpaper was peeling, but charming, with a floral stripe of blue morning glories. A narrow bed with a tall iron headboard and footboard was covered by an old army blanket, a worn quilt folded at the foot. The tall oak dresser had a delicately embroidered linen runner with what looked like hand-crocheted edging. Set on top of it was a tarnished silver comb and hairbrush set with a few white hairs still clinging to the bristles. Beside the brush sat a hinged double tintype portrait of the couple I recognized from the picture on the stair landing. I
peered closely at them, trying to recognize my Dempsey ancestors. Was there something in the set of the chin? The woman’s was narrow, making her face nearly heart shaped. Her lips were thin and unsmiling, but the upper lip had a hint of a cupid’s bow. I’d spent a lot of time trying to get lip liner around my own cupid’s-bow upper lip.

I opened a narrow closet door. Apparently, I’d found great-uncle Norbert’s bedroom. Six white dress shirts hung stiffly from their hangers, their collars and cuffs yellowed with age and blotched with brownish rust stains. Four or five faded flannel shirts hung beside those, telling me that Norbert favored utility over formality. There was a rusty black suit with narrow lapels in a plastic dry cleaner’s bag, and on a nail hanging from the back of the closet door I saw three silk neckties in sober maroon and navy stripes. A hook held two pairs of denim overalls, softened from what must have been hundreds of hours of work and washings. On the floor of the closet were a pair of dusty black lace-up dress shoes, a pair of work boots, and a pair of paint-spattered high-top Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers.

Chucks! I picked them up and sniffed. They smelled like red clay and turpentine. I set the shoes down gently.

Back in my bedroom, I undressed and slid my legs into the Carharrts. They were as stiff as a board and ugly as mud. I surveyed myself in the age-clouded dresser mirror and frowned at what I saw. They were big and boxy, and though I’d used the size chart at the hardware store as a guide, they were four inches too big around the waist, and at least six inches too long. Not to mention the fact that they felt like sandpaper long johns. I could roll up the hems of the pants and cinch them with a belt, but until they’d been washed at least a couple of times, they just wouldn’t do.

But Uncle Norbert’s clothes might. I hurried down the hall, dressed only in my panties, bra, and socks, and helped myself.

Norbert had been tall, but thankfully, what my mother would have called a “string bean.” I pulled one of the flannel shirts over my head and rolled up the cuffs four times. The overalls, soft as an old blanket, were several sizes too long too, but I managed to adjust the straps, and
with the pants legs rolled up, I judged them perfect. And what about shoes? The work boots were stiff and mud caked, but I took another look at those Chucks.

Uncle Norbert had been tall and slender, but his feet were surprisingly small for a man, maybe only a size larger than my own. With another pair of socks for extra padding, I decided, the Chucks would work like a charm.

I rummaged around in Norbert’s dresser until I found a stash of neatly washed and ironed handkerchiefs, including a large blue bandanna, which I folded and knotted over my head, kerchief style.

I was ready to do battle with Birdsong.

Although it was still chilly, not even fifty degrees, the day was sunny. I lugged a broom, a mop, a bucket of hot sudsy Pine-Sol, and my iPod out to the front porch. I slipped the iPod into the front pocket of the overalls, put in my earbuds, and got to work.

I’d downloaded the rereleased Michael Jackson
Thriller
album before leaving D.C., and now, with Michael and his celebrity buddies moon-walking in my head, I rocked it hard.

Starting at the front door, I swept my way up and down the porch, knocking down spiderwebs, desiccated insect carcasses, long-abandoned birds’ nests, and a forest of dead leaves as Michael sang “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” Three times, because I kept punching rewind. But even after an hour of sweeping, dirt and mildew clung stubbornly to the worn wooden floorboards. I sloshed Pine-Sol all over the porch, and attacked with the mop, and “Beat It,” smiling with satisfaction as the water in my bucket grew grimy with the accumulated grunge. Four changes of water and two hours later, I decided the floor was done. I’d scrubbed down the old boards so hard that I could see bare wood shining through the faded battleship gray paint.

The windows, and “Billie Jean,” were next. The panes were so caked with grime I didn’t even attempt to start with the Windex. Instead, I hooked up a garden hose and splashed water all over the old wavy glass, sending a dirty river seeping down over my previously pristine floorboards. Damn. I’d have to give the porch another rinsing later. But for
now, I washed and polished and spritzed the eight tall windows that ran across the front of the house, inside and out, until they sparkled like crystal in the afternoon sunshine.

I’d saved the front door for last. I scrubbed away layer after layer of dirt and dust, finally revealing, to my surprise, a faded red paint job where I’d thought was previously a dull gray one. Jimmy Maynard had been right. Birdsong was meant to have a red front door. And a handsome door it was. From the look of the bare wood peeping from underneath the old paint, I decided it must be heart pine. There were six finely detailed raised panels, with a beveled-glass insert and beveled-glass sidelights, along with a fan-shaped transom above the door that I couldn’t reach without a ladder.

With an old toothbrush I’d found under the kitchen sink, and “PYT” blasting into my ears, I worked brass cleaner into the large elaborately worked doorknob and faceplates, the knocker, even the faceplate around the cheap, splintered plastic doorbell. That doorbell would be my first rehab project, I decided. A door as grand as this one deserved better. I didn’t know where I’d get something like a reproduction doorbell in Guthrie. This might take a little research. Fortunately, research was my forte. And at least, I knew, Guthrie had a public library, because I’d passed it earlier in the day.

With the porch rinsed off again, the windows clean, and the brass shining brightly, I decided to step back to take it all in. The iPod was playing “Thriller” as I moonwalked down the wet concrete steps, and a few steps away into the yard.

I stood there, bobbing my head and singing along, thrilled with my results. Once the top layer of dirt was removed, I could see, for the first time, that Birdsong really could be something fine.

But my elation was mixed with the overwhelming realization of all I still had to accomplish. It had taken me an entire day just to get this far. The yardman and his chain saw were gone now, and three head-high piles of vines and tree limbs were stacked at the curb. The good news was that the house was actually visible from the street now. The bad news was that I could see the full extent of Birdsong’s state of decay. Ivy and kudzu crept over the side of the house, and had covered
what little foundation plantings remained. My hands itched to start yanking at vines and limbs, but my arms were already screaming from the unaccustomed punishment I’d given them that day. No Pilates workout had ever left me this sore.

And the inside of the house. My God, I hadn’t even started there. Did I have enough energy left to at least open the front door and start sweeping my way from the front of the house to the back?

A tap on my shoulder made me jump nearly a foot. I whirled around, wild eyed, to see a bemused Tee Berryhill standing there, holding a lethal-looking machete in one hand and a pair of long-handled tree clippers in the other. He was dressed in a navy blue suit, and once again, he had a necktie stuffed in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Where did you come from?”

He reached over and tugged at my earbuds. “I’ve been standing here for five minutes, watching your dance routine. I called your name, but you didn’t hear me. What the hell are you listening to?”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Had he seen the whole thing? The whole hip-swaying, finger-popping routine I’d done to “Billie Jean”?

“It’s
Thriller,
” I said lamely. “The rerelease.”

“Wow,” he said, walking up toward the porch. “It must work for you. The porch looks great. How long have you been working like this?”

“Hours?” I shrugged. “I lost track of the time.”

And I had. The sun had slipped below the tree line, and the air had gotten chillier.

“It’s after five,” Tee said. He held up the machete. “I meant to bring these over earlier today, but I got caught up myself with a hearing in Milledgeville. Anyway, I see you beat me to the punch. You got the yard cleared out yourself? You’re Wonder Woman!”

“Not really,” I admitted. “I was wondering how I could ever tackle this disaster, but when I got back from the supermarket and the hardware store, there was already a guy here with a chain saw. Your dad sent him over.”

“You got the Catfish running? Man, you don’t waste any time, do you?”

“No time to waste,” I said. “I did a walk-through this morning. And
it’s even worse than I expected.”

He gave me a stiff pat on my shoulder. “Well, from the looks of things out here, you’ve made a good start. Are you ready to knock off for the day?”

“Yeah,” I said, already feeling the energy seep from my body. “My mind wants to keep going, but my body says, ‘Hell no.’”

“I vote for hell no too,” Tee said. “Now, what about some food? I know for a fact that Ella Kate doesn’t keep much in the way of food in the house. So Dad sent me over to bring you back for supper.”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “I’m a mess. And—”

“Come along,” Tee said, gently taking my arm and tugging me toward the front door. “Day shift is over. I guess you didn’t hear the mill whistle blow?”

“I haven’t heard anything but Michael Jackson for the past few hours,” I admitted. “Anyway, isn’t the mill closed? Why would the whistle still blow?”

“It’s a long story,” he said, heading up the front steps. “We’ll fill you in over supper.”