'Bout to Dye in Birmingham, page 10
I looked at Sam. "You're working in the guest bathroom now? We should've called the insurance company two days ago. Enough is enough."
"I'll take care of it right now," Sam said. "And I'm also having a cold beer." He got up and opened the front door. "I'll be heating some water on the stove for anyone who wants a sponge bath," he added.
"That's it," Francis said, clapping his hands for our attention. "Pack your bags. You're all coming home with me."
The kids looked at each other and then at Sam and me. Their stunned expressions changed to hopefulness as they waited for us to respond.
"No, Francis," I said. "That's too much. You don't need all five of us over there. Besides, what would we do with the dogs?"
"Bring 'em," he said. "What's a big ol' house for, except to live in?"
"Well, for starters, it's there to be a 'paragon of style and grace' like Lois wanted it to be."
"Lois-Shmois," he said. "She doesn't live there anymore, and Ward and I could use some company."
"You're sure Ward will want to share his things with other dogs?"
"He'll learn," Francis said. "It'll be good for him. Now, go pack."
Who was I to argue with that?
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Only bring what you need," Sam said. "We won't be there long, just until things get fixed." He then proceeded to pack three boxes of kitchen tools, including the food processor, the bread maker, and his KitchenAid Mixer.
"Sam, Francis has a well-stocked kitchen," I said.
"I like my own stuff," he told me. "It works the way I want it to."
"I'm sure Francis's works fine."
"I'll bet Francis's food processor is still in the box it came in," he said. "It hasn't even been broken in yet."
I gave up and went to put my suitcase in the car, along with Shirley and Mo, their doggie beds they never slept on, and all the toilet paper Francis had brought over. We all reconvened in the driveway for a family meeting.
"Okay, listen up," I said. "Do what Francis asks. His house, his rules. Right?"
They all promised, and we piled into the cars. Shirley and Mo stuck their heads out the windows and lolled out their tongues as Sam backed down the driveway. Besides small appliances and his favorite spatula, veggie peeler, and cast-iron skillet, his car was also full of groceries and frozen foods.
I waved to Valerie and Bill, who were grilling under their carport. They'd promised to keep an eye on things and let us know when the insurance company showed up.
We drove down Highway 31, hit Highland Park, and caravanned to Francis's generous home, feeling like a parade of lottery winners. Francis and Ward were waiting on the front porch. I noticed Francis had put Ward on his leash, a wise choice since the dogs had never been on Ward's turf, but I shouldn't have worried. All it took was a few sniffs, a few markings of territory in the front yard, and they were good to go.
We gathered on the front porch. "Evan," Francis said, not unlike the Wizard of Oz talks to the Tinman when he grants him a heart. "I'm putting you in the Belvedere bedroom. It's at the top of the stairs, first door to the left."
"Nice," I said, since I knew that room to have a masculine feel with heavy plaid fabrics in navy and gold. "Evan, use a coaster under anything and everything you put down in there, especially on that antique desk." I knew it was supposed to have belonged to Emmett O'Neal when he was governor and Lois had used a special polish on it. "Actually," I said, "don't even touch the desk. It's off-limits."
"Oh, don't be such a wienie, Maggie," Francis said. "Evan will be careful.
"Jenna and Anna," he continued. "You'll be in the East Suite, which includes the Landstrom bedroom and the Maddox bedroom. You can decide who's going where."
I looked hard at the girls, hoping for no arguing.
Francis turned to Sam and me. "Sam needs an office, so you two will go into my room so he can use the attached sitting room as office space. There's plenty of room for his computer, the dogs, and whatever else you need to have in there with you."
"No way," I said. "We're not coming in and taking over your personal space."
"It's fine," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "I'll just move downstairs into Lois and Don's old bedroom."
"That tiny little room? That's just the old parlor they turned into a bedroom when they couldn't get up and down the stairs anymore. We'll be more than glad to stay there."
"No, miss bossy," he said, stamping his foot. "It's my house and you're my guests." He finally broke from using his imperious tone and grinned like a little kid. "This is going to be so fun! Like a big sleepover!" He bounced on his toes and rubbed his hands together with glee.
Sam scratched his head and said, "I hope it's okay that I brought some of my cooking things."
"There's going to be cooking, too?" Francis put his hand over his heart. "This keeps getting better and better," he said in disbelief. "I should've invited you people over here years ago."
We made our way indoors with dogs and suitcases in tow. Francis escorted the kids upstairs while Sam and I took a few things into the beautiful kitchen. Although I was over at Francis's on a regular basis, the kids and Sam typically only came to his house on holidays, which added to the feeling of this being a special occasion. Sam looked around appreciatively at the eight-burner gas stovetop, the subzero refrigerator with custom panels, and the pot-filler faucet protruding from the marble backsplash over the cooktop. "I swear," he said with awe. "This kitchen is better than anything I've seen on the Cooking Channel."
Before we'd even gone upstairs to the bedroom, Sam had laid out the ingredients for our inaugural dinner as Francis's houseguests: Orange-Teriyaki pork tenderloin, roasted asparagus with sea salt and balsamic vinegar glaze, and a creamy ginger rice dish topped with scallions. He stole a kiss as I walked past him to bring in another box of dry goods. That was one happy man.
Dean came over for dinner. For the first time, I could see how he probably was great in sales. He chatted with each of the kids, asking them about their interests and opinions on things going on in the world. He listened to their answers with real interest and an obvious open mind about their perspectives, which pleased them and plumped their egos. As any parent would do, Sam and I observed these exchanges with an ever-growing fondness for any person who recognized and honored our children's intelligence. It didn't hurt that Dean gushed over Sam's cooking, either.
"I promise this is as good as anything I've ever ordered at Jean-Georges in New York," he told Sam with a blissful expression after his first few bites.
"Sam's food is to die for," Francis said. "Wait 'til you taste his desserts."
Dean looked at Sam with admiration. Then he glanced at Francis and sighed with pleasure. "I've traveled enough to know all about Southern hospitality," he said. "It's a real thing. But there's a difference between the tastiness of a country roadside diner and the elegance of a true Southern home." He patted his mouth with the antique linen napkin that Lois Montgomery had received as a wedding present in 1956 and took a sip of sweet tea garnished with a wedge of lemon and a sprig of pineapple sage. "I'm going to be too ruined to ever go back to New York City if we make it through this pandemic thing."
Francis and Sam both swelled with pride, and my fondness for Dean grew even more. My mother used to say that the quickest way into someone's heart was with genuine interest and sincere compliments. Dean was great at both. Whatever it was he sold, I'd probably buy it.
"Dean, tell us more about yourself. You mentioned you've been in sales for years," I said, taking another sip of tea.
"It's business-to-business products," he said. "Boring supplies for boring businesses, but it's been a good career. I get to wine and dine our customers, which isn't a bad gig in New York City."
"Do you ever take your clients to Broadway shows?" Jenna asked.
Dean chuckled. "You bet," he said. "Fancy restaurants and Broadway shows are what they expect in the city, so I deliver. I've seen Hamilton three times."
"No. Way," Jenna said, putting her fork down and leaning forward. "What was your favorite part?"
"Guess," he said, eyes twinkling, and they were off. I should've realized that a native New Yorker might have a fondness for the theater scene, and Dean continued to surprise us all with his never-ending cultural knowledge paired with charming wit and charisma.
It was in the middle of dessert—caramel cake with honey-roasted fig ice cream—that the dogs all lost their minds. It started with a low growl from Shirley as she looked out the back window. She was staring into the dark yard towards the carriage house. That got Ward's attention, and he joined her; His front feet were braced on the windowsill next to Shirley, and he threw his head back in loud protest of whatever dared to be in his backyard. I could tell this type of barking wasn't just general dog folly, where there may or may not really be something to bark at. This type of barking was sounding an alarm. Something was out there that definitely shouldn't be. Mo hopped up beside them, his geriatric limbs requiring a few extra hops, and then he joined in too, even though he probably couldn't see anything with his bad eyesight.
"What in the world?" Francis said. He got up and went to the back door to switch on the floodlights.
Sam and I got up from the table and tried to corral our dogs, pulling them down from the windowsill and shushing them.
Ward shot to the back door and scratched on it frantically. "Should I let him out?" Francis asked, his hand on the doorknob.
"I wouldn't," Dean said. He took another bite of cake and ice cream. "What if it's a wild animal or a stray dog or cat? You wouldn't want him to get hurt."
"True," Francis said, peering out the window of the back door. "I don't see anything though.'
"It could've been a possum or something passing through," said Anna, who'd resumed eating her dessert, too.
"Or a raccoon," Sam said, narrowing his eyes. "Although, why in the world these dogs never raised a stink at home over the army of animals that were living inside our own walls, I'll never know."
Later, as we climbed into bed, Sam said, "That Dean's a charmer. I can see why Francis's so taken with him."
I pulled back the covers and adjusted the pillows. "Taken with him? What are you talking about?"
"I mean he's thrilled to have Dean as his new friend. He seemed pleased that we all like him, too. Didn't you think so?"
"I guess," I said. "I mean, I like Dean, Francis likes Dean, and now you and the kids like him. But Francis doesn't like him any more than the rest of us do. Dean's just a great guy."
Sam had already put his head on his pillow and settled in. The last thing I saw as I turned out the light was his one raised eyebrow, which he'd managed as usual to pull off with his eyes closed.
I lay there staring at the ceiling. His new friend. Well, of course Dean was Francis's new friend. Just as long as he wasn't his new best friend. I thought of the way Francis had watched Dean talking to the kids, the way Francis had been so excited to help Dean pick out paint colors. But that would be silly. Francis and I weren't just related; we had history. We were as tight as ticks.
But there in Francis's own master bedroom, by the light of his stained glass, monogrammed turtle night light, I had my first flicker of jealousy.
The next morning, I took my coffee and went out onto Francis's sun porch to check my work email. A case manager from the office had sent a notification to "The healthcare team of Stella Castinelli: This patient is no longer in the state of Alabama. Her services will be put on hold, and you will be notified in the event of her return with a Resumption of Care form."
Well, that figured. Mrs. Castinelli had gone off to Florida with Lula. I knew that. Or maybe I'd just assumed it because of what I'd witnessed at their house. Either way, Mrs. Castinelli hadn't answered her home phone since that day, and Lula hadn't answered her cell. At least all Lula's financial problems were now the norm due to the pandemic. So many others in the service industry couldn't pay their bills right now, either. I hoped the financial institutions were taking measures to deal with the situation as humanely as possible.
Then I wondered what kind of loan Patti had given Carolyn and why she was being such a jerk about the monthly payments. And although I couldn't figure out what it had to do with anything, why did Carolyn have purple hair, the same as Brittany's and Lula's? And why in the world had Lula chopped her purple ends off in a rage? They were all hairdressers. Somehow it didn't seem that they were on the forefront of fashion or a new trend, though. I'd seen no one else with it, not in real life, not on television, and not even in a quick Google search I'd done the day after Carolyn had mischievously offered to "make the magic happen" and give me some purple tips as well. She'd seemed to be joking—making fun of them, even. She sure hadn't mentioned her own dye job that had likely been hidden in her up-do that day.
My phone dinged with a text, and I reached for it as I took another sip of coffee. It was from Shaina, the physical therapist. Did your girl Lula reach you last night?
Huh? I typed back. I haven't talked to Lula since that crazy day I went to see her mother last week.
She called me last night, Shaina replied. Wanted to know if I knew how to reach you. Said you weren't answering your phone.
Did you see the email from the office? Therapy for her mother is on hold now. Does she not know? I asked.
She says she left you a message. Sounds cray-cray. Leave it be, Shaina advised.
Will do, I typed. Thanks for the heads-up.
No prob.
As always, I was glad to have Shaina as a friend. I trusted her perspective and intuition, and it certainly was good to have each other's backs in some of the work scenarios we'd been in. Even so, I switched my phone over to the voicemail messages. Sure enough, a Florida number had tried to reach me when we'd been in the middle of dinner last night. Curiosity got the best of me, and I pressed play to hear the message.
"Hi Maggie. This is Lula Medlin, Stella Castinelli's daughter. I know we only met once and it was when I was in a bad situation, but Mom thinks so highly of you." She gave a self-conscious sounding cough. "We were wondering if you'd do us a favor. I promise it's nothing that might get you in trouble. We're just… I'm just… Please… Call me, okay? Please?"
I groaned. How was I just supposed to ignore that? Shaina and Sam would both tell me not to do it. They were both strong in their convictions to leave trouble at the curb of life.
But I was a nurturer, dangit. I couldn't just ignore a cry for help. What if it were one of my own children?
I couldn't help myself. I called Lula back.
She answered on the first ring. "Maggie?"
"It's me," I said. "Are you guys okay?"
"Somewhat," she said in a hesitant voice.
"Where are you?"
"Safe, for now," she told me.
"What does that mean? Safe from what?"
She started to cry. "I've gotten myself into a really bad situation," she whispered. "And I don't know how to get out of it."
"Have you talked to the police?"
"It wouldn't matter," she said. "I think I'm being framed. I know I'm being blackmailed. It's gotten really, really ugly, and my mother doesn't deserve this." Her voice broke again.
Well, I agreed with that part at least. Sweet Mrs. Castinelli didn't deserve this, whatever this was.
"Can you go by our house and get a few of her things? I can't go back there."
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said.
"Please? If anyone stops you, just tell them you have permission to go inside and get some of your therapy things you left there. I can tell you where the key is. She doesn't even have her nightgown, and she wants a picture of my dad that's on her bedside table." She started crying harder. I could barely stand to hear it. It was breaking my heart.
"Okay, okay, fine," I said. "Text me a list and tell me where the key is."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," she sobbed. "You really are as sweet as Mom says you are."
I was possibly also as dumb as a fly who chooses to take a little nap in a spiderweb. But I was a nice fly, right? Too bad dumb and nice were often on the same side of the scale. They never seemed to balance each other out.
Lucky for Lula, I was already going in the direction of her mother's house in Pleasant Grove. First though, I needed to see my patient in Hueytown, whose appointment time was at 10:00.
Mr. Murphy and his wife lived in a one-story ranch house, where, with Shaina's help, he'd progressed from being bed bound to getting up and into his wheelchair every day. He was one of those patients who was scared and willing to do anything he needed to in order to get better. The better he got though, the more he thought he could do, and the more he was ready to get back to his old way of life. Unfortunately, he was also getting grumpy that he wasn't back to normal already.
His wife let me in the front door. She hooked her mask behind her ears as always and offered me a cup of coffee. I normally didn't take it, but today I made an exception. I was fighting off a mild headache due to what I feared was the impending doom of dealing with Lula's mess.
I followed her to the cozy kitchen, where red plaid curtains hung at the windows and a dishpan full of hot, sudsy water waited for her to resume washing the breakfast dishes. The smell of bacon and toast still hung in the air. Mrs. Murphy handed me a hot cup of black coffee in a John Deere mug, and I quickly lowered my mask to sip it gratefully.
"He's in rare form today," she warned me. "He won't wear a mask and thinks you shouldn't either."
"But isn't he worried I might be contagious?"
"No, he thinks the whole flap over the virus is hype. He's going to fuss at you if you wear it in there."
"But…I have to," I said. "My company requires it."
She shook her head. "I know, honey," she said. "I tried to tell him, but he just gets more cantankerous every day."
Sure enough, Mr. Murphy glared at my mask as I entered his room. He was dressed and in his wheelchair. "You don't need to wear that thing," he said. "I'm not sick with that dang virus, and you aren't either."
