I WOKE UP EARLY AND SNUGGLED DEEPER INTO THE COVERS FOR a few seconds before slipping out of bed to open the drapes. From the window, I could see the fountain in the middle of Lafayette Square and a white church with multiple spires pointing toward the morning sky. I wanted to jog around the borders of the historic district without worrying about traffic, and very early on Saturday morning seemed the perfect time. After dressing, I noticed an envelope slid underneath the door of my room.
My heart jumped. It was probably from the nice young porter telling me not to be embarrassed and offering to take me on a tour of the city. Turning down his invitation would only increase the awkwardness I felt. I bent over and picked up the envelope. It had the name of the inn on the outside. I opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper.
I'd misjudged the porter. Mrs. Bartlett had left a phone message at the front desk asking me to meet her in the parlor at 10:00 a.m. I put the note on the nightstand beside the bed and went downstairs. The staff was setting up the dining room for breakfast. There was no sign of the porter.
It was a slightly muggy morning. After stretching, I ran south along Broughton Street to Forsyth Park, the largest patch of green in the downtown area. I explored the park and ran around a fountain with a statue of a Confederate soldier facing north on top. I left the park and ran south all the way to the Savannah River. Large container vessels slowly moved upriver to the port area. I ran along River Street, past Factor's Row and the Cotton Exchange. The streets were deserted. I felt the gates of the city had been opened just for me. As I jogged, I prayed that everywhere I set my feet would be a court of praise.
I crossed West Bay Street and reentered the historic district. After several wrong turns I finally stumbled upon Lafayette Square. There wasn't a place for a long, wide-open sprint, but I ran twice around the square at top speed before coasting to a stop.
When I returned to the B and B, preparations for breakfast were complete, a lavish spread of food that included everything from grits to quiche.
After taking a shower, I selected a bright dress that shared colors with the fruit platter downstairs. The dress reached to the midcalf of my leg. While I brushed my hair, I practiced standing up straight. Mrs. Bartlett was right about one thing. Good posture was always in style.
Downstairs, I sampled most of the items on the breakfast buffet. At home I ate a big breakfast because there was work to do that would burn up plenty of calories. Breakfast at the buffet was decadent-food for the sake of food. I bowed my head for a blessing before starting and kept a thankful attitude all the way to the final pastry.
After I finished, I returned to my room, brushed my teeth, and applied a very faint hint of lipstick not much darker than my natural color. Sunday mornings at home were makeup-free, but Mama said God ordained beauty to females in the human family and subtle enhancements were acceptable-as long as there was no intention to allure. The only times I saw Mama wearing makeup were rare occasions when Daddy took her out to dinner. She claimed her attractiveness to him was based on inner qualities, not her outward appearance. Daddy whispered to me and the twins that he thought Mama was the most beautiful woman, inside and out, in the whole world.
I was blessed with naturally long eyelashes, and in college I'd experimented with a light touch of eye shadow. I liked the change, but I'd always quickly rubbed it off. Each time I put it on I thought it looked nice, but I'd never left the bathroom with it in place. This morning I gave it another try. Perhaps it was the fancy room or being in a new town, but this time I didn't remove it. Also, there was no chance of causing a man to sin since I would only be meeting with Mrs. Bartlett and her mother.
I sat in a comfortable chair in the corner of the narrow foyer that served as the lobby. The people coming and going seemed at ease with the sumptuous surroundings. Or perhaps they were pretending. A well-dressed woman in her fifties came in, and I nervously swallowed, but she wasn't Mrs. Bartlett. A grandfather clock chimed the hour. I thought about reading a magazine, but nothing on the coffee table looked interesting. At 10:15 a.m. a short, slightly overweight woman with reddish-blonde hair burst through the front door and scanned the room. I stood up.
"Mrs. Bartlett?"
"Yes, yes," she said. "You must be Tami."
I tried not to stare at Mrs. Bartlett's obviously dyed hair as she approached. It was accentuated with highlights that would require a lot of maintenance. She was wearing a blue silk blouse, black slacks, and sandals that revealed a pedicure as flawless as her hair color. I held out my hand, but Mrs. Bartlett ignored it and gave me a hug that included a European greeting. She had to rise up on her toes to deliver the peck on both my cheeks.
"You certainly are statuesque," Mrs. Bartlett continued.
"Yes ma'am. I played basketball in high school."
"An athlete? You'd never know it now, but I had a five handicap in golf until about ten years ago. I beat Ken all the time, although I never mention it in public. My putter can still work magic, but I have no distance off the tee."
"Please tell Mr. Bartlett I appreciate the car and thanks for providing such a beautiful place to stay," I said.
"You can tell him later. He's going to meet us this afternoon. Come on, the valet is holding my car at the curb."
Mrs. Bartlett took off.
"Do you ride in a cart or carry your bag when you play golf?" I asked as we rapidly descended the front steps.
"Carry my bag? That would be a plebeian thing to do. I get my exercise walking on the beach early in the morning."
"I ran down to the river and through the historic district this morning," I said. "I enjoyed looking at the houses."
"A runner? I thought you were old-fashioned. There are plenty of registered houses. And every one has a story with many chapters."
Mrs. Bartlett was driving a white Mercedes. She handed a twenty-dollar bill to the valet who opened the door for each of us.
"Mother's house is just a few blocks away on West Hull near Chippewa Square."
"Did you grow up there?"
"No, no. My father would never live in this part of town. She bought the house after he died about fifteen years ago. I grew up at Beaulieu on the Vernon River."
Mrs. Bartlett drove like she walked. Fast. Fortunately, the short streets didn't provide enough space between stop signs to give her the chance to do more than stomp the gas pedal then slam on the brakes. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to ride with her on the interstate. After several quick turns she came to a stop alongside the curb.
"Here we are. Built in 1860, just in time for the original owner to ride off to the war and get killed at Cold Harbor."
It was a square two-story brick structure with tall narrow windows on the first level and broad front steps. On the side of the house was an attached screened porch. Two large live oaks were planted between the house and the sidewalk. An iron railing extended from the steps down the street on either side, then turned toward the rear of the house.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"She wanted it and got it," Mrs. Bartlett responded crisply. "I thought it was a mistake at the time, but it's worth four times what she paid for it. Mother knows how to manage her money. Her father made a mint in real estate, and it rubbed off on her."
We walked up ten steps to the front door. I could see there was a basement with windows partly below street level. Mrs. Bartlett rang the door chime.
"I have a key, but she hates it when I walk in unannounced. It will make her happy to pretend we're here for a formal visit."
After a long wait, a white-haired woman shorter than Mrs. Bartlett but with a similar figure opened the door. She had bright blue eyes that narrowed slightly when she looked at me and made me feel like she was sizing me up in a split second. Mrs. Fairmont was wearing a carefully tailored yellow dress and white shoes with low heels. A string of pearls encircled her neck. Mrs. Bartlett kissed both her mother's cheeks.
"This is Miss Tami Taylor," Mrs. Bartlett said, "the young woman I told you about who is going to work for Samuel Braddock's firm this summer." She turned to me. "Samuel and Eloise Braddock have been here for cocktails many times before going to the opera."
Mrs. Fairmont took my hand in hers. She was wearing a large diamond ring accented with emeralds on her right hand.
"Good morning, child," she said in a slightly raspy voice steeped in a coastal accent.
"Pleased to meet you," I answered.
Mrs. Bartlett patted her mother on the shoulder and entered the house. Mrs. Fairmont still held on to my hand.
"The house has double parlors," Mrs. Bartlett called back from the interior. "It's not an uncommon design. Mother, was Gracie here yesterday? Everything looks so nice. I like the way she arranged these flowers. Where did she get them?"
Mrs. Fairmont stayed by the door, holding my hand. Her skin was wrinkled with age, and her knuckles revealed a touch of arthritis. She put her other hand on top of mine.
"You have nice hands," she said.
"Thank you."
"Enjoy them while you can."
"Yes ma'am."
"Don't block the door, Mother," Mrs. Bartlett called out. "Where do you want us to sit?"
Mrs. Fairmont looked up at me. "Do you prefer green or blue?"
"Blue is my favorite."
The house had two parlors separated by a foyer that faced the main stairway to the second floor. On the right was a pale green room; to the left one painted an ephemeral blue.
"That is the green room," Mrs. Fairmont said, gesturing with her bejeweled hand. "And this is the blue room."
Both rooms contained beautiful furniture, original paintings, and mirrors in gilt frames. I wondered how grandchildren and greatgrandchildren fared in the house. A wrestling match between Kyle and Bobby could have caused thousands of dollars of damage. Mrs. Fairmont went into the blue room and sat in a side chair. Mrs. Bartlett motioned for me to join her on a cream sofa.
"You have a beautiful home," I said. "Mrs. Bartlett told me a little of its history."
"The couple who sold it to me did most of the restoration," Mrs. Fairmont said. "Before that, it was a rooming house. Can you believe it? Workmen and laborers renting rooms by the week." She leaned forward. "If I could understand the creaks in the night, I'm sure there are many stories to tell. Did you know our voices will echo in the universe until the end of time?"
"That's a silly notion," Mrs. Bartlett cut in. "A sound doesn't really exist if it can't be heard, like a tree falling in the forest when no one is around."
"What do you think?" Mrs. Fairmont turned her blue eyes toward me.
"Well, the Bible says God keeps a record of every word that's spoken and will judge us by what we've said."
Mrs. Fairmont nodded in satisfaction toward her daughter. "See, Christine, it's the same thing, only I didn't know God agreed with me."
"Let's not get into anything controversial," Mrs. Bartlett said. "I'd like to know more about Miss Taylor's background."
Controversial could be a synonym for my background, but I knew how to exercise discretion. As I talked, I emphasized my commitment to God and family without going into detail about the rules that guided my conduct. Mama said a question was an open doorway to proclamation of the truth, but I didn't want to come on too strong. Mrs. Fairmont seemed especially interested in our life in the country and asked questions about the garden and the chickens. Mrs. Bartlett interrupted when I described my homeschool experience.
"Your mother taught you Shakespeare?"
"Yes ma'am. I memorized long passages from several plays and quite a few sonnets."
Mrs. Bartlett shook her head. "Of course, I've heard about the homeschool movement, but I thought it an inferior model. Mother and I both attended private schools."
"It can be the best and the worst," I said. "The fact that I did well in high school, college, and now law school is proof it can provide the foundation for a successful academic career."
"Do you embroider?" Mrs. Fairmont asked, her eyes getting brighter.
"Please, Mother, Miss Taylor is obviously a traditional girl, but it's not fair to expect her to embroider."
"No ma'am. I can cross-stitch with a pattern, but I've never tried to create my own designs. I'd love to see some of your embroidery."
"It's in the bedrooms and upstairs along the hall," Mrs. Bartlett replied. "Mother doesn't allow anything in these rooms that isn't museum quality."
Mama proudly displayed my crude cross-stitch in the front room.
"I can't embroider anymore," Mrs. Fairmont sighed.
I saw a tear run down the older woman's cheek. I glanced at Mrs. Bartlett, who had picked up a ceramic figurine.
"Are you all right?" I asked the older woman.
Mrs. Fairmont wiped away the tear with a lace handkerchief she pulled from the side pocket of her dress.
"Please excuse me. It's not about the needlepoint. I've been crying for no apparent reason recently. It's one of the symptoms of a condition I have called multi-infarct dementia."
I couldn't hide my surprise.
"You're still smarter than I am," Mrs. Bartlett added with a nervous laugh. "And I'm not sure it's a good idea to study too much about medical things. That's why we have doctors. Talking about health problems can make anyone depressed. Did you tell me where Gracie bought the flowers?"
Mrs. Fairmont looked directly at me and spoke. "What do you think? Should I educate myself during lucid moments or try to ignore the fact that the blood vessels in my brain are slowing dying?"
"Please, Mother," Mrs. Bartlett spoke with agitation. "That's not a fair question to ask Miss Taylor. Do you have the coffee brewing?"
Mrs. Fairmont stared at me for a few seconds. Her face softened.
"Yes, of course," she said. "Let me serve you. I have decaf for me and regular for you and Miss Jackson."
Mrs. Fairmont used her arms to push herself from the chair. Mrs. Bartlett waited a few seconds then also rose from her seat.
"I'll help. Miss Taylor can relax here."
Standing very erect, Mrs. Fairmont slowly walked from the room. Mrs. Bartlett held back. When her mother was out of sight, she leaned over and whispered to me.
"I'm sorry she brought up her condition so abruptly. She's always been quick to offer her opinion about anything from politics to religion, but recently it's gotten worse. Did you see how quickly she forgot your name? A year ago she would never have made a social blunder like that. Most of the time, she can take care of herself Still, I'd feel better if there was a watchful eye in the house every now and then. Any loving child would want the same thing. How do you want your coffee?"
"Uh, I'm not a coffee drinker. Does she have any tea?"
"Yes, but it might upset her if you don't drink coffee. I'll fix you a cup with cream and sugar, and you can pretend to sip it."
Mrs. Bartlett left, and I gave the parlor a closer inspection. Unlike my grandmother's home, the house didn't smell musty. The plantation shutters on the tall front windows were open and let in plenty of light. A compact but ornate glass chandelier hung overhead. The fresh flowers in a glass vase on a small round side table were an explosion of color. There was a fireplace in the parlor, and I peeked into the other room to see if it also contained one. Neither grate had been used in a long time. A well-preserved rug with ornate flower designs covered the floor.
My inspection was interrupted by the quick patter of tiny feet on the wooden floor and a sharp bark. Around the corner came a light brown Chihuahua. The dog stopped when it saw me and blinked its oversize eyes. I lowered the back of my hand to the floor as a sniff offering. The dog moved forward cautiously, stopped, and looked over its shoulder.
"Hello, little boy or girl," I said. "I bet you've never met anyone who worked in a chicken plant. I've washed my hands since then so you probably can't smell the chickens."
The dog inched forward and stretched out its head toward the back of my hand. I could hear a low growl in its throat. I kept still, aware that smaller breeds can be quicker to bite than larger ones. The Chihuahua took another step forward and sniffed my hand and fingers. The growl receded. I reached around and scratched the back of the dog's neck. The dog's eyes closed in satisfaction. I could see it was a male.
"What's your name, boy? I bet it's fancy. Sir Galahad would be nice. We have chickens at my house with unusual names."
The dog was wearing a narrow red collar decorated with rhinestones. Still scratching his neck, I repositioned the collar so I could see the dog's name tag. When I saw the engraving, I smiled.
"Flip. I have a dog named Flip, but he lives outside and sleeps in the dirt under the front porch in the summer. Have you ever slept in the dirt? Do you know what dirt looks like?"
I picked up Flip and held him in my lap as I continued to stroke him. I was careful not to let his tiny feet touch the sofa. Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Fairmont returned to the parlor. Mrs. Bartlett was carrying a silver coffee service. Her mother followed with a plate of miniature pastries.
"Careful!" Mrs. Bartlett cried out.
The dog launched himself from my lap. Barking ferociously, he skidded across the floor toward Mrs. Bartlett, who stuck out her left foot to keep him away. The tray tipped to the side. I jumped up and rushed toward her as the tray moved the other way and the coffeepot slid to the edge. Flip, his teeth bared, continued to bark and dance around her feet. Mrs. Fairmont stood motionless with her mouth slightly open.
"Stop it!" Mrs. Bartlett said. "Get away!"
Like a basketball player scrambling for a loose ball, I lunged to the floor and grabbed the wiggling animal with my right hand. But it was too late. Mrs. Bartlett lost control of the tray. The pot flew off, followed by three cups, saucers, the sugar container, and a cream pitcher. The sound of clattering metal and breaking china in the quiet house was deafening.
Mrs. Bartlett swore. The black coffee was pooling across the wooden floor toward the rug. Instinct took over. I grabbed the coffeepot, knelt on the floor, and positioned my dress between the coffee and the rug. I pressed down with my hands in an effort to block the progress of the coffee. The long length of my dress came in handy. "Someone get a washrag or paper towels," I said.
Mrs. Bartlett hurried out of the room. Mrs. Fairmont stared at me and seemed stuck in the moment. I could feel the coffee against my free hand. In spite of my efforts, it was continuing to creep toward the rug. There was nothing else to do. I sat down on the floor between the coffee and the rug. I could feel the hot coffee on my thigh, but it wasn't warm enough to burn me. I looked up at Mrs. Fairmont. Flip calmed down, and I held him in my lap. The old woman put the pastry tray on a chair.
"Get up, child. It's not worth ruining your dress to clean up a spill."
"I couldn't let it ruin the rug. I can wash the dress, but I don't know how you would clean a rug like that."
Mrs. Bartlett returned from the kitchen with washcloths. Flip started barking again. Mrs. Bartlett handed the washcloths to me and quickly backed away. I slipped to my knees and tossed the cloths on the rest of the coffee. The rug was saved.
"I thought you were going to keep that dog in his room," Mrs. Bartlett said, turning toward her mother. "I called and reminded you this morning."
"He must have been in my bedroom," Mrs. Fairmont said apologetically. She looked down at me. "I'm so sorry about your dress."
Mrs. Bartlett turned to me as if just realizing what I'd done. "How courageous of you," she said. "To sacrifice your outfit."
"I'm not sure how courageous it was, Mrs. Bartlett. It was coffee, not a hand grenade."
I stood and moved one of the washcloths across the floor with my foot.
"It's that dog's fault," Mrs. Bartlett said, refocusing on Flip. "This isn't a house for a dog, no matter what you think. Especially a vicious one!"
Mrs. Fairmont, a dazed look in her eyes, stared at Mrs. Bartlett without saying a word. I picked up Flip and could feel a growl in his throat. I rubbed his back.
"Take him away!" Mrs. Bartlett said. "And lock him up in that dog palace you created for him."
Mrs. Fairmont seemed to reconnect with her surroundings.
"If Miss Taylor will carry him, we'll put him in his room."
"Yes ma'am."
I followed Mrs. Fairmont through the foyer.
"I'll call Gracie and have her come right over and clean up this mess," Mrs. Bartlett called after us. "She doesn't have a regular house to clean on Saturday, does she?"
"I can take care of it," I said over my shoulder. "Find the broom and a dustpan."
I patted Flip on the head and whispered in his ear. "I understand. You're just protecting your territory like your wolf ancestors."