Authors: Virginia Brown
“Would you tell Miss Bitty that we’re tired of listening to that racket?” Richard Simmons requested as I got out of my car, and I said I would.
As I passed Mrs. Tyree and Allison Kent, they both passed along the same message. By the time I got to Bitty’s front porch, neighbors all along the street were standing in front of their houses with hands on hips. I sensed an imminent uprising.
No one answered my knock at Bitty’s door, but that didn’t surprise me. A lit stick of dynamite wouldn’t be heard. I went on in, passing through the entrance hall and by the living and dining rooms, the breakfast room, and into the kitchen, where I saw evidence of food and drink. The parlor just behind the dining room was empty, as was the butler’s pantry, a nice little nook Bitty also uses as a wet bar.
So I went down the steps onto the screened porch, and saw a lively group out on the lawn and in the gazebo off to one side. Music blared from a stereo system that looked very expensive. Most of the people were college-age, obviously friends of Clayton and Brandon, but it was a little startling to see Jefferson Johnston and Melody Doyle there as well.
Bitty and Jefferson were dancing on the paved drive in front of the three-car garage, and Bitty was laughing and bright-eyed. A little too bright-eyed. Fair, lanky Jefferson gave Bitty a spin, then whirled her back into his arms and bent her over his arm in a classic dance move that had nothing at all to do with the music blaring from stereo speakers the size of small cars.
It wouldn’t do me any good to try and get her attention by shouting. I’d never be heard over the rat-a-tat-tat of lyrics blasting holes in my eardrums. Finally Bitty noticed me standing there, and dragged Jefferson along with her to greet me.
“Trinket! We’re having a lawn party!” she said, or at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what she said. I had to lip read, and only caught every other word, so it came out
Trinket– having– lawn
.
Instead of answering, I nodded with a smile that probably looked feral since Dr. Johnston took a startled step backward. Bitty just laughed, her amusement obviously well lubricated by whatever had been in her empty glass. My cousin is quite talented, able to dance, fall, carry on a decent conversation, and probably sleep, with a glass in her hand that remains unbroken and most of the time well-filled. Not that she drinks too much. Just on special occasions like moving a frozen corpse, or with company. Or getting arrested for murder.
“Brandon, fetch Trinket a mint julep,” Bitty called over her shoulder, suddenly sounding much too loud in the quivering silence that fell when the noise disguised as a song ended.
“Bitty, the neighbors are complaining about the loud music,” I said quickly before another song started and nothing less than breaking the sound barrier would get her attention. “I’m sure I heard someone mention tar and feathers.”
“Oh, how inconvenient,” she said, “we were having such fun. Jefferson is really a good dancer. Don’t you think so, Melody?”
Melody had been talking to Brandon, smiling up at him like most members of the female persuasion do when faced with one of the Caldwell boys. As I’ve said, they’re quite handsome young men, with thick blond hair streaked with shades of gold and brown no hairdresser could ever duplicate at any price. Like their mama, they have smooth California-beach skin that’s only partially due to the sun, irresistible grins, and that smooth Southern charm that often borders on chauvinistic but doesn’t quite cross the line. They’re likely to call you darlin’ or sugar or honey, open doors for you, and insist upon walking on the curb side of the sidewalk when escorting you anywhere, but they’re just as likely to expect a young woman to stay home after marriage to keep house, husband, and babies happy. Southern men can’t really help it. It’s been imprinted in their genetic make-ups for just as long as the right to own guns and drink whiskey.
Curling his arm around Melody, Brandon grinned at his mama and said, “Melody was just telling me that Jefferson used to win dance contests all the time. You’ve been dancing with a professional, Mama.”
Cutting her eyes up at Jefferson, Bitty gave him a little push with the flat of her hand and said, “Why, you mean thing, you should have told me!”
When Jefferson opened his mouth to reply, a piercing shriek came from one of the stereo speakers that made him jump six inches into the air. What followed sounded like a train wreck, but was, Brandon and Clayton assured us once they cut off the volume, an excellent band at the top of the music charts.
Bitty sagged into a lawn chair and fanned her flushed face with one hand. “What musical charts, the Top Ten in Hades? Mercy, I’m about done in. Where’re our drinks, Brandon?”
Brandon and Melody went toward the house, and Jefferson excused himself for a few moments, either meaning he had to find a bathroom or keep an eye on Melody—the last just my own opinion and observation—and I grabbed Bitty’s wrist to get her full attention.
“Sherman Sanders left an heir,” I said without softening the blow, figuring that bourbon and crushed mint would be cushioning enough.
The smile on Bitty’s face dimmed. I hated to see that, but I’d rather her hear it from me than for one of the legion of gossips tell her just to be mean.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “is it someone we know?”
“No one knows who it is. Or if he or she or they even live here. Or anywhere near here.”
Bitty’s eyes got wide. “Oh my . . . what if it’s someone who’ll just tear it down to build a Mini-Mart?”
“Good Lord, Bitty, stop worrying about a Mini-Mart out there. It won’t happen in our lifetimes, and probably not your grandchildren’s.”
Bitty looked startled. “I’m not a grandmother. I’m too young for that yet.”
I sighed. “That’s not the point. And anyway, I didn’t hear this from a completely reliable source. I just know it’s being said and I wanted you to be prepared.”
She put her hand on my arm. “Oh Trinket, you’re such a good friend. I just love the way you take care of me, and watch out for my feelings. I don’t know what I’d do without you. If you ever move away again, I’ll just die, I swear I will.”
That was probably the Jim Beam talking. I smiled and nodded. My personal opinion was that Bitty didn’t need any more bourbon, and I think Brandon agreed with me. He brought me a mint julep in the silver cups used especially for juleps, and told his mother that hers was specially made. She tasted it, frowned, and said, “I think you forgot the bourbon.”
“No ma’am, I just grated a little nutmeg on top. Don’t you like it?”
Bitty’s eyes widened. “Good Lord, son, what have they been teaching you down there in Oxford? Nutmeg on my mint julep? That’s sacrilege.”
“I’ll make you another one,” he said, and gave me a wink. “I just thought the syrup might be old.”
“Of course it’s not. I make it up a quart at a time, and that lasts for months. Now, don’t you be listening to people down there who tell you how to make mint juleps. My mother taught me, and her mother taught her, and since you’ve obviously forgotten, I’ll show you again. Come on, and I’ll give you the receipt my great-grandmother Mullen wrote out years ago.”
I felt much better watching Brandon handle his mother. Obviously, he knows how to get her sidetracked.
It’s funny that Bitty can’t even make a sandwich properly, but makes the best mint juleps anyone ever tasted. I suppose it’s a gift, rather like that of great French pastry chefs. Some people have their own special talents. My julep tasted excellent, with bruised mint leaves from the new mint that grows in huge flower pots by her garage—it’ll take over the yard if not cut back—and crushed mint and sugar, and shaved ice packed into the cup so you have to suck the drink against your teeth to taste it. And of course, served in silver cups to hold the chill so when you get down to the very last, there’s this exotic blend of sweet syrupy mint with a tang of bourbon. They taste nothing like the juleps purchased in bars and restaurants, or even from those little stands at the Kentucky Derby. The difference is similar to the difference between canned biscuits and scratch biscuits—they may look a lot alike, but one taste is all you need to realize that canned biscuits will never taste as good to you again.
Jefferson came to sit down in the chair Bitty vacated, and I saw Melody amble over to a cluster of young people she obviously knew.
“No patients this afternoon?” I asked politely, for lack of something else to say.
“Friday afternoons are always my free times,” he replied with a smile. “I don’t have a lot of patients yet anyway. You know. New in town.”
“What brought you to Holly Springs? Do you have family here?”
“No, it’s just such a lovely town, close to a larger city, but self-contained, far enough away from big city crime but with big city conveniences only forty-five minutes away. And if I don’t want to, I never have to leave here as long as FedEx and
“Don’t forget the new Super Wal-mart,” I said, and we both laughed. Nothing about Easthaven had looked as if it’d come from a discount store. “I’m newly returned myself, and I’ve forgotten many of the people I used to know, and met quite a few new citizens. Holly Springs is no longer a well-kept secret, it seems.”
Jefferson nodded. “It’s my first time to live in a small town. I’ve been very pleased and gratified to be welcomed into the community.”
“Have you tried one of Bitty’s famous mint juleps yet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m more a scotch and water man. Bitty tried though, took away my glass right before you got here, threatened to cut me off unless I at least tried her specialty.”
“If Bitty wants you to do something,” I said, “you might as well go ahead and do it. Save yourself a lot of time, because eventually, you’ll end up doing it anyway.”
Grinning, Jefferson said, “I’m beginning to realize that. She’s a most persuasive woman.”
“She always has been. If our military sent her into war zones, she’d have everything straightened out in no time.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
I smiled at Jefferson, thinking he seemed such a pleasant man, even if quite a bit younger than Bitty. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, and that’s a pretty big age spread in most opinions, though not so bad if it’s the other way around. I’ve never completely understood that. Men in their forties can marry sweet young things in their twenties and no one bats an eye. But if a woman in her forties even looks at a man in his twenties, eyes roll, heads turn, cruel comments fly. Of course, while I can certainly see Ashton Kutcher’s attraction to Demi Moore, I honestly wonder what on earth
she
can be thinking. Ashton either has to be very mature for his age, or Demi wears earplugs. But then, since I’m not really up on Hollywood gossip and star-mating, they may well be the perfect couple. Heaven knows, my generation of the Truevine family hasn’t exactly been a good example of lasting relationships.
After some mundane conversation about the upcoming pilgrimage and undisputed queen of the antebellum homes, Montrose, hosting weddings and parties as well as being the most photographed house during the pilgrimage, Bitty returned to save me from making conversation. Brandon bore a silver tray holding more silver cups of mint juleps.
“Not me,” I said when Brandon politely lowered the tray to me, “one is enough or I won’t be able to drive home.”
“Then you can stay the night here,” Bitty said. “Besides, a proper julep is mostly ice anyway, so just one of them can’t possibly intoxicate you.”
Jefferson stood up and smiled at Bitty. “Why, you’re the most intoxicating presence here, Miss Bitty.”
It was an oddly jarring note. Even Bitty, obviously having had more bourbon than ice in her cup, looked a little startled. On the surface it was a bit of old-fashioned gallantry, but beneath the trite phrase it seemed false and overdone.
As Bitty recovered and said graciously, “Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” I caught the look on Brandon’s face. It was an expression of dislike. It could have been because Jefferson Johnston seemed a little bit too attentive to his mother, but somehow I didn’t think so.
When I got Brandon alone, I asked casually, “How did your dinner go the other night? I’m sorry I missed it, but I just felt like I needed to go home and check up on my parents.”
“Oh, it was all right. You know Mama. She can put on the dog when she wants to, and we had all these different courses served in the dining room with candlelight and funeral music.”
“Good Lord. On second thought, I’m not sorry I missed it.”
Brandon laughed. “It probably would have been a lot more boring, but Mama insisted on having a real dog in her lap the entire time. Fed it right there at the table. I think Dr. Johnston nearly got sick when she used her fork.” He grinned. “I told him not to worry, that we rarely feed our hunting dogs off the good silver.”
“So where is Chitling?”
Brandon found that very funny. “Chitling is napping. I’ve missed you, Aunt Trinket.”
I gave him a hug. “And I’ve missed you boys, too.” I didn’t say that because I should have said it, it’s the truth. I just get over it quickly.
“So why don’t you like Dr. Johnston?” I asked, and to his credit, Brandon didn’t try to deny it.
“I don’t know. There’s just something about him. Why don’t you like him?”
“I didn’t realize I don’t until just a few minutes ago. You know, I can’t help but wonder why he’s paying so much attention to Bitty when he obviously has a crush on Melody.”
“You make it sound like he’s in high school.” Brandon paused, and then said thoughtfully, “I get the same feeling, though. Melody’s a nice enough person, I guess, but she’s got a sharp edge to her. Like she’s mad at the world.”
“Maybe she’s upset because Dr. Johnston is paying so much attention to Bitty.”
“Could be. But Mama’s not serious. Anyone can see that. She might be flattered, and she’s always been flirty, but that’s just Mama. She’s never outgrown the belle thing.”
“Honey, it’s something you’re born with and you die with, not a childhood phase like thumb-sucking or bed-wetting. Bitty and my sister have it in spades, but in different ways. I’ve never had it.” I didn’t add
Thank God
lch, even though I was thinking it. It’d have been impolite.