Authors: Duffy Brown
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, is this a real Louis Vuitton?” Chantilly Parker breezed into the hall and entered the dining room wearing her brown company uniform, her long curly hair tucked under the official UPS hat. She laid the double rolls on the table and picked up the azure canvas tote I’d gotten at a resale shop in Atlanta.
“You can have it. It suits you,” I told her.
“Girlfriend, I don’t deliver wallpaper for free, and you’ve no reason to hand over a nice purse for nothing either.” Chantilly’s eyes wandered. “Are you selling all this stuff?”
“See that pile of bills?” I nodded to the second step of the stairway, where I’d stacked everything marked “overdue.” I’d sold the mahogany hall table, where I usually put the mail and parked my big yellow purse I thought of as Old Yeller, my best friend and constant companion. The historic walking tours I led around Savannah didn’t make a dent in what it took to keep this old house going. Being a guide was a great outlet for my Southern-history degree, but now I had to either find a new source of income or sell the place.
“Been to the steps myself a time or two,” Chantilly offered. “Then I got this job. I love UPS but don’t much care for the uniform. When I get a tan in the summer, I look like a tree trunk. I fear someday a dog’s going to pee on my leg.” She pulled out a checkbook.
“Think UPS would hire me?” I asked. I could drive a truck and make deliveries.
“They’re laying off, just like everyone else these days, but I’ll keep an eye out for you,” Chantilly promised as she passed me her check.
I waved it off. “That’s too much.”
She shook her head and dropped it on the table. “You should keep that pink chiffon, sugar. That is a to–die-for dress with your blonde hair—when you don’t have three inches of roots showing—your green eyes, and skinny behind.” Chantilly left through the back door with her new tote slung over her shoulder. It looked better on her than it ever did on me.
The front door opened, and Hollis and Janelle (the
cupcake) strolled in, holding hands. Some days it was just me, the rotting timbers, and the cracking plaster around here; other days, like today, it was Grand Central Station. Hollis and Cupcake didn’t even knock but stood there in the hallway looking as if they owned the place. Well, technically, Hollis did own half the house until his no–count, low-rent, conniving, scum-sucking, sleazebag lawyer transferred the deed to me. I forced a smile. The divorce was final six months ago but the house wasn’t officially mine yet. I had to play nice.
Hollis was fit, handsome as always, and looked thirty-five. Were those blond highlights in his hair? I raked back my curls to try and hide the roots. Janelle truly did look like a cupcake today in her yellow silk blouse, white slacks, and a hundred-dollar mani-pedi in creamy peach. I put my hands behind my back to hide nails ragged from stripping wallpaper. At least I didn’t have to suck in my stomach, the upside of an empty fridge.
Hollis laughed at something Cupcake said, his bleached teeth a bit blinding. “We were showing a house over on Bolton and came to get your key to my Lexus while we were in the area,” he informed me as he picked out his own car key from his ring and held it up.
This was Hollis rubbing his success in my face. He and Cupcake were always in the area. The real-estate office was three blocks away, and they worked there together. They did other things there together, too, like the horizontal hula on his desk the night I found them. Cupcake hooked her arm through Hollis’s. “I just love the Lexus,” she cooed.
I loved that car, too. In fact, I’d put down the initial payment on it, which probably had something to do with my forgetfulness in dropping off the key.
“I’ll get my purse,” I said, heading down the hall to the kitchen, where I’d left it on the counter.
“How can you find anything in that yellow-plastic saddlebag you carry around?” Hollis called after me, an I’m–better-than-you lilt in his voice. “And why are all your clothes in the dining room?”
“Selling them,” I called back, my voice echoing through the mostly empty rooms. No need to conceal the truth; the whole of Savannah would soon find out that Reagan Summerside, once-upon–a–time Beaumont, was peddling her wardrobe for cash. The Savannah kudzu vine was alive and well and knew all.
“Oh my goodness,” Cupcake squealed. “I do love this pink-chiffon dress Reagan has here. Don’t you love it, Hollis, honey? It’s perfect for the cocktail party this evening at the Telfair Museum. I wasn’t going to buy anything new since I have to duck out early for that showing on East Hall.”
I came back into the dining room, and Cupcake snatched the key from my fingers and dropped it in her Gucci bag that must have cost the earth. She batted her contact-blue eyes at Hollis. “Bet I get a nice commission when I sell that big, old house for you.” She added a suggestive wink, then grabbing the dress, twirled around, the soft pink-chiffon skirt flowing around her legs. “And this dress is used, so it’s cheap. I’ll look divine.”
My skin got all tingly the way it did when I saw a wolf spider the size of a paper plate on the wall. At times like that, I’d give anything to own a shotgun. I had the same urge now. I’d shred the dress before I let Cupcake have it!
My stomach growled, reminding me that I couldn’t eat shredded chiffon. I quoted a price for the dress that was
double what I paid for it on sale, knowing Cupcake would agree just for the satisfaction of having what was mine. She’d already gotten my husband and my car.
“Seems a bit steep for a used dress,” Hollis groused as he forked over the money.
“I only wore it once.” I shoved the bills into my jeans pocket and mentally paid the electric bill and ordered a Conquistador sandwich from Zunzi’s. I handed Cupcake the dress and watched her drive off with my life.
I went out to the front porch, and since I’d sold the wrought-iron furniture, I sat on the top step that could do with a fresh coat of paint. I could do with a good pity cry except two women hustled up my brick sidewalk as if on a mission. One was dressed in leopard print; the other had on neon lipstick and a black miniskirt that looked more like a low, wide belt.
“We’re here for the deals,” leopard print said with a big toothy smile. “Chantilly sent out a tweet.” She read from her iPhone. “Mighty fine clothes at real good prices at 310 East Gaston. Louis V for dirt cheap.” She looked at my house numbers. “Yep, this is the place, all right. Got any more of those Louis Vuitton purses? I got a thing for Louis.”
This was a lot more action than I expected. God bless, Chantilly.
“What about a Kate Spade?” I suggested, thinking that maybe, perhaps, with a little luck and good friends, selling my clothes could develop into something more. Neon lipstick shook her head, her lower lip in a confident pout. “Kate Spade is yuppie. It’s what all those bony women at the country clubs carry. It goes with their expensive new boobs and bratty kids. I’m into real class, the good stuff.”
I didn’t have fake boobs or kids, and I had a Kate Spade purse. But who am I to argue with neon or animal print and ready cash? “What about an Armani jacket, size 8?”
“Now you’re talking, sugar.” And by the afternoon, I had a few more customers and enough sales to pay a fourth of the taxes on Cherry House. Maybe the City of Savannah would be happy with a fourth of the money since the house was only a fourth restored. Borderline starvation was rotting my brain.
“Who were those people in and out of your place all afternoon?” Auntie KiKi asked as I dragged myself into her kitchen, hunting for food. She’d just put in new marble countertops and painted the walls daffodil yellow. Eyelet curtains hung at the bay window, and there were matching cushions on the six chairs around the mahogany table, which was as old as the house.
I knew there were excellent homemade chocolate chip–oatmeal cookies in the golf-ball cookie jar and snagged six, stuffing one in my mouth. “Customers,” I mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs. “Real honest–to–goodness customers, with cash in hand. Chantilly’s a genius.”
“Do you think it’ll last?”
I glanced at the clock on KiKi’s Viking stove. “It lasted a few hours, and that’s a lot better than what I had going on this morning with all bills and no income.”
The sudden sugar rush resuscitated my powers of observation, and I realized KiKi was not wearing one of her midcalf, flowing dance skirts but a teal scoop-neck dress and Grandma’s pearls that had been in our family since before the unfortunate Northern aggression. “Wow, where are you off to tonight all spiffed up?”
KiKi bit her bottom lip, smudging her lipstick. She looked down at the
Savannah Times
open on the table, the front page sporting a picture of some Atlanta TV personality covering the Homes and Gardens Tour in Savannah. I remembered KiKi was going to the opening party at the Telfair Museum, just like Hollis and Cupcake, and I wasn’t. I felt like the kid in
Home Alone
, when everyone went off to have fun, and he got left behind.
“You look great, you really do. Love that dress. Terrific color—it shows off your eyes and hair.” And I meant every word.
Auntie KiKi put her arm around me, giving a little squeeze. “It’s just a stupid affair, Reagan, honey,” she said in a light voice, the kind meant to console and make something really neat seem trivial because you weren’t included. Auntie KiKi was a good auntie. “We’re only going because it benefits the museum, and Putter wants to meet Raimondo Baldassare, that landscape architect.”
“You’re going to have Raimondo redo your gardens? You already have azaleas the size of a bus.” Everyone wanted a garden by Raimondo. Those lucky enough to get him won the prizes on the Homes and Gardens Tour. The man was also deliciously gorgeous. Just having that yummy Italian in your petunias was worth the price of a garden. “I bet he’s booked for a year.”
“I promised Putter a putting green in the backyard for his birthday.”
Everyone in Savannah called my uncle Putter. It was a fitting nickname for a certifiable golf nut who carried a putter wherever he went, including church, the Piggly Wiggly, his rounds at the hospital, and no doubt the cocktail party
this evening. KiKi said it was in case a golf ball suddenly dropped to earth and he had to save the city by sinking an eagle.
Savannah was all about the Georgia Bulldogs, fried everything, extra-dry martinis, and golf. The order of importance depended on who you were and how much you’d had to drink at the time.
Feeling sorry for myself, I grabbed KiKi’s hand. “Promise me you’ll say you had a horrible time tonight, the tomato sandwiches were soggy, and Cupcake got drunk and passed flat out on the dance floor.”
“You bet, sweet pea.” Auntie KiKi kissed my forehead like she did when I was six and had the chickenpox. She pulled a Tupperware bowl of leftover meat loaf from the fridge and handed it over. “Like Cher says, ‘Get yourself a deep breath and don’t take any of this too seriously now, you hear.’” She paused. “I could lend you some money just for a little while till you get back on your feet.”
“Thanks, but I’m still standing.”
Sort of.
I tucked the meat loaf under my arm and trudged across the front yard to my house. It was easy to see where KiKi’s lawn ended and mine began. She had Kentucky bluegrass, and I had Savannah dandelions.
T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
WOKE UP WITH MY HEAD BY
the empty meat-loaf container. Did I really eat in bed? Then I remembered that my dining-room table was covered with clothes, and I’d sold the little green and yellow bistro table in the kitchen to AnnieFritz and Elsie Abbott, who lived on the other side of Cherry House in a small Greek Revival left
to them by their cousin Willie. Three years ago, Cousin Willie dropped dead over at the Pirates’ House after too many ham and redeye-gravy dinners and not enough Lipitor.
AnnieFritz and Elsie were retired schoolteachers who hired themselves out on the Q.T. as professional mourners. The only social event more important in Savannah than a big, fancy wedding was a big, fancy funeral. Every undertaker in town knew that no one got folks weeping and wailing like the Abbott sisters.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I yelled, realizing it was the doorbell that had jarred me awake. I stumbled my way down the stairs as the chime bonged again. Maybe Chantilly sent out more tweets. I opened the front door to Raylene Carter, who bustled past me in a gorgeous ivory suit.
“What do you want for that bronze fountain you have in your backyard?” She pointed out the rear window. “Last night at the museum, I heard you were in a pinch and needing money. You bought that fountain a few years back from Raimondo Baldassare, and I need it now at my place.”
Raylene’s mouth pinched into a tight pout. “You look a fright, Reagan. Your mamma would be sorely upset if she saw you in this condition. She is a judge, after all. You should keep up appearances for her sake”—Raylene glanced around at the emptiness—“no matter how dire your circumstances happen to be. Now, I need the fountain right quick before they review my gardens for the tour at noon.”
Looking important, she fluffed her hair. “I intend to win again this year, and I want something new and exciting so people won’t go spreading those awful rumors that I don’t deserve to win Best of Show like I always do.” She took out her checkbook.
Up until the checkbook, I was contemplating how to toss Raylene out of my house on her Chanel-clad butt. “Seven hundred dollars.” And I never blinked an eye.
Raylene opened and closed her mouth, landed-fish style, then finally managed, “Why that’s just plumb ridiculous.” And it was, but it was equally ridiculous that her gardens won every year on the tour. Not that her place wasn’t exquisite, but so were others.
“You’re taking advantage,” Raylene muttered while scribbling a check. “I’m not hauling that thing in my Escalade. For this price, I expect delivery to my house, and I want it right quick. And heavenly days, fix yourself up before you come around. What will people think if they see you like this? You look like a ragpicker.” She stopped at the door. “Is it any wonder Hollis went looking elsewhere?” She left quickly, and this time I was the one doing the landed-fish expression.