Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (3 page)

Sam, glancing at me, smiled. “Sounds good to me. Maybe she’d be willing to live in for a few weeks. Sure would save wear and tear on us.”

Lillian leaned forward again. “That Miss Etta Mae a hard worker, an’ real nice. But you better figure out where everybody sleep, so they all under one roof and nobody four blocks off by theyselves. An’, Mr. Sam, don’t you worry. Once you try it, they’s nothing sweeter than a tiny baby full up from a bottle an’ goin’ all slack asleep on you. Even if it in the middle of the night an’ you half asleep, too.”

“You know me, Lillian,” Sam said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror, “I’m pretty much up for anything. You show me how to do it and I’ll be rocking with the best of ’em. And Julia, you won’t have any trouble making the case for them to stay on with us. Pickens still has some follow-up work to do in Charlotte, so he’ll be leaving in a day or so.”

“
Leaving!
Why, he just got married. What about a honeymoon? What about taking care of his wife? What does he mean, taking off two days into married life?”

“Well,” Sam said, “he didn’t exactly take all that into account when he accepted the Charlotte job. He has to close up the apartment he rented and finish what he started, which, I remind you, he cut loose from just to come up here and help me.”

“I know,” I conceded, recalling how Mr. Pickens had dropped everything to investigate the break-in at Sam’s house and ended up not only solving that but discovering the reason for the larceny of the files that Sam needed for the book he was writing, as well as uncovering what proved to be a jaw-dropping scandal. Of course, Mr. Pickens had a great deal of help in doing so.

“Well,” I went on, “I guess I should just be thankful for the marriage and not concern myself with how they conduct themselves in it.”

“They’ll work it out, sweetheart,” Sam said, taking my hand with his free one. “We did, didn’t we?”

I smiled and nestled my hand in his, content in the happiness we’d found in each other. Now, if only Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens could find even a smidgen of the same for themselves.

I won’t go into all the details of that mockery of a bridal luncheon, but we all made an effort toward exhibiting a celebratory spirit. Sam toasted the newly wedded couple with a glass of iced tea, sweetened and lemoned, and Lloyd, giddy with joy at having Mr. Pickens and his mother married, laughed at everything anybody said. The boy was supposed to have been in school—it was the first day of the fall term—but this marriage had been a long time coming and he more than deserved to be a part of it. Latisha sat, fairly silently for her, overcome with awe at being at a real live wedding, a misconception about which nobody disabused her.

Later, I heard her ask Lillian, “Is that all there is to it? Just settin’ around eatin’ chicken salat and drinkin’ ice tea? Look like they’d be doing something else ’sides that.”

I hadn’t lingered to hear Lillian’s explanation of a real wedding, because she’d taken the time to impress on the child the importance of a church function with her whole family present and happy for her—trying to forestall, I supposed, any rash spring into marital congress when Latisha got old enough to make the leap.

But even later, after Latisha had apparently mulled over the difference between what she’d seen and what she’d been told, she said to Lillian, “I guess the reason Miss Hazel Marie and that big ole black-eyed man didn’t walk down no aisle is ’cause they too ole to make it down there, don’t you?”

Lord, I’d have to tell Mr. Pickens that, and Hazel Marie, too, when she was in better spirits. For as soon as we finished lunch, Mr. Pickens insisted that she lie down for a while, and he did it just before I was about to suggest the same. She looked drained, as if the morning activities had sapped all her energy. As likely they had, for she’d hardly been out of the house, much less the bed, for several weeks.

I must say I was heartened by Mr. Pickens’s concern for her and hoped it was an indication of more to come.

While Hazel Marie rested, Lillian sent Latisha outside to pick the last petals of the late-summer roses as a substitute for slippery rice. That kept her entertained while Sam and Lloyd went with Mr. Pickens to Sam’s house to transfer his belongings to our house. Mr. Pickens had meekly accepted our plan for them to stay with us, but he’d hardly had an argument against it because he was already making phone calls and setting up plans to leave.

That was probably one reason Hazel Marie took to her bed again. The whole episode was so far from her long-held dream of a splendid wedding that it was no wonder she was dispirited. Why, as far as I knew, there was not even a honeymoon on the horizon, nor any plans for one.

I’ll have to say here that when I calmly thought over the events of the previous day and of the morning, I had to admit I was not all that displeased with the way things had worked out. We’d gotten them married, which had been my unyielding intention from the minute I’d learned of Hazel Marie’s condition. If, on the other hand, there’d been no compelling reason to hurry up and marry and Mr. Pickens had proposed and provided a ring and an engagement had been announced and the church reserved, what in the world would I have done to dissuade Hazel Marie from wearing white satin with a veil and having half a dozen attendants? The thought of it was so unsuitable for a first-time bride with an almost teenaged son as to give me a throbbing headache.

When the phone rang that afternoon, I hurried to pick it up for fear the noise would disturb Hazel Marie.

“Julia?” LuAnne Conover, my long-standing friend, said as soon as I answered. “You won’t believe who’s back in town.”

“Who?” I asked, but with little interest. I knew I should tell her what we’d been up to that morning, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I would have to work up my courage to tell anybody, much less LuAnne, that Hazel Marie was now a properly married woman, although with an improperly advanced pregnancy.

“Francie Pitts!”

“No!” I said, my interest suddenly engaged. “What’s she doing back here?”

“Well,” LuAnne said, settling in for a juicy discussion, “she’s moved into Mountain Villas. You know, that new retirement complex on the other side of town? But no little apartment for her. No, ma’am. She has a cottage all her own, and you know what they cost, and guess what?”

“What?”

“She’s by herself!”

“You mean she left her husband?”

“I should say she has. Left him in the ground! He’s dead, Julia, can you believe that?”

“Oh my,” I said, thinking over Francie’s numerous forays into marital bliss, most of which had quickly turned into mourning periods.

“And get this, Julia,” LuAnne went on. “She’s not even going by Francie Pitts or Sanders or any name we know. She’s Francie Delagado or Delano or something like that. At least that’s what Arley Hopkins said, and she lives out there, too, so she knows. See, Arley said that when Francie moved to Florida after marrying What’s-his-name, Herb Sanders, I think, well, he died down there, and she married this other person and then
he
died and now she’s moved back here.”

We were both silent for a minute; then I said, “How many does that make?”

“Well, let’s count ’em up. She was a Pitts for the longest, remember? But who knows whether he was the first? Anyway, he died about nine or ten years ago while they were living here, and we all went to the funeral. Then she married Ray Hooper, but he was already on his deathbed, so that didn’t last long. Then she up and married the Sanders man and they moved to Florida, and after that came somebody Welton or Walton. That makes four we know of, and there could’ve been more.”

“I think you left out one, LuAnne, because I remember hearing about her marrying somebody who lived on a yacht or a houseboat or something on the water. Seems like he had a foreign-sounding name.”

“You’re right! That must be where the Dela-something comes from. So that makes
five
husbands, and every last one of them dead and buried. And you know something else? Arley said that Francie is already eyeing every man who lives at the Villas.”

“My goodness, they’re all on their last legs already. I’d be tired of going to funerals, if it were me.”

“Julia, you’re not getting it. I tell you, I think something weird is going on. Tell me this, how many people do you know who’ve racked up five dead husbands over a ten-year period?”

“Well, not any, come to think of it. But LuAnne, you can’t mean you think she had anything to do with those deaths.” I paused to let the idea soak into my mind. “Can you?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” LuAnne said darkly. “But if you tell anybody I said that, I’ll deny it to my dying day.”

Promising that I’d never quote her about such a thing, I went on to ask, “What should we do, LuAnne? I mean, do we include her in everything again?”

“I say we don’t. Everybody who lives at the Villas seems to get all wrapped up in the activities out there, so she may not even have time for us. Or want any, either. That would get her off our backs, but just in case, I think we ought to ignore her. I mean, she’s been here at least six months and who has she contacted? Nobody, that’s who. So as far as we know, she’s still in Florida.”

“That’s true. But I find it strange that she’s not called any of us. You know how she is, always so confident that nothing can go on without her being a part of it.”

“I wouldn’t call it confidence,” LuAnne said. “I’d call it high-and-mighty arrogance. Just because Wilbur Pitts was a diplomat in some country nobody’s ever heard of was no reason for them to retire here with their noses stuck up so high they were in danger of drowning when it rained.”

“He wasn’t so bad, LuAnne. In fact, I thought he was quite nice. A little shy, perhaps, which I thought a bit unusual for a diplomat, but maybe that’s why they retired him.”

“Well,
she
wasn’t shy. She came sailing into town like a queen, and you know, Julia, we all kowtowed to her. We just let her lord it over us as much as she wanted to. Her and those awful hats. And that simpering laugh, remember? Even when you didn’t see her, you always knew when she was around. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Arley said Francie doesn’t have a wrinkle on her face, and Arley thinks she’s had
work
done on it, because she’s started wearing pancake makeup like you wouldn’t believe. Probably to hide the scars.”

“Oh my,” I murmured, trying to picture Francie’s overly powdered face realigned and made up.

“Anyway,” LuAnne went on, “I say that what she’s been up to these past ten years cancels out any need for us to get tangled up with her again.” LuAnne paused, then said, “I never liked that woman to begin with, and I think we ought to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Agreeing that we had no social obligation to seek out Francie Pitts, or whoever she now was, especially because she’d made no effort toward us, we ended our conversation to await developments.

But I couldn’t get Francie off my mind, maybe because it was such a change to have something besides Hazel Marie’s situation to occupy it. I’d never understood Francie’s overweening self-possession. It was as if the idea that she’d be unwelcome anywhere by anybody never entered her head. LuAnne had been right: queenly was the correct word for her. It was not that she’d been pushy, exactly. She’d just accepted inclusion as her proper due.

But the strange thing about it, especially our allowing her to get away with it, was that she was such a nonentity. She was a short, dumpy little woman, one of those whose figures was a solid block with hardly the hint of a waist. And there was not a bit of comeliness in her face. It was full with stubby features and small eyes, none of which she took any pains to disguise with makeup, other than a little lipstick—that orange Tangee kind—and a great deal of powder. The only striking thing about her was her hair, which she dyed red. No, it was more orange than red, but either way, you couldn’t miss it.

Well, there was another striking thing about her: her clothes. I don’t know whether she thought she was a leading fashion icon or what, but she had all her clothes handmade by some seamstress in Atlanta. And she made sure that we knew they were of her own design. As if we couldn’t tell. She liked voile and other filmy fabrics that flipped and swayed with every swishing step she took, and in the winter she topped them with wool jackets and furs. And every last outfit I’d ever seen her in had a matching hat—either a turban in the same material or a brimmed hat trimmed with matching fabric.

And her personality was nothing to write home about, either. She didn’t have any. I’d never known her to make an effort to engage anyone in normal conversation. She simply sat and waited for others to come to her, and even then, her conversation was no more than a litany of complaints.

How she’d attracted so many husbands was beyond me, but, hearing Hazel Marie stirring in her room, I put Francie aside and went in to speak to the new Mrs. Pickens.