Polished Off (23 page)

The meal went off pleasantly enough. I’d take a piece of fried chicken over roast vegetables any day, but the portabellas, zucchini, onions, and tomatoes were tasty with the marinade Mom had found online. Kwasi talked a lot about his multicultural and oppression studies program. “Althea says she may even sign up for a course in the spring semester,” he said, smiling at her.

She thrust her jaw out a tad. “Maybe,” she said. “It’s been a long darn time since I went to school and I’m not sure I’m up for having homework assignments at my age.”

A tiny frown puckered Mom’s brow and I wondered if she shared my concern: Althea sure seemed to be doing a lot of things—changing her clothes, thinking about going back to school—because it was important to Kwasi. I hoped it was important to her, too.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about going back to school, too,” I said, surprising everyone. I drained my wineglass. “I could finish off my business degree in a little more than a year and a half at night school. If I focus on accounting, I could do the books, Mom.”

“That’s a great idea, Grace,” she said, beaming.

I rose to clear the table, motioning Mom back down when she started to stand. “You cooked. I’ll clean up.”

Mom is constitutionally unable to sit while someone else putters in her kitchen, so she rose and made coffee, prompting a lecture from Kwasi about the superiority of African coffee over the Kona blend she served. He promised to give some of his favorite Ugandan Gold Rukoki coffee to Althea to pass along to Mom.

“I’m sure it’s very good,” Mom said, a little tight-lipped.

Althea caught the note of restraint in Mom’s voice and turned the subject, talking about how robust the tourist season had been in St. Elizabeth this summer. “Thank the good Lord we didn’t end up with that Morestuf on the west side of town,” she said. “That would really have cut into our business.”

The Morestuf organization had wanted to erect one of its big box stores last spring, but the town had voted it down. Preserving our reputation for Southern charm and hospitality trumped convenience.

“My sales are down overall,” Walter said, chewing on a corner of his mustache, “but my Internet sales are up.”

“There’s a fund-raiser tomorrow night at the college,” Kwasi said, pushing aside his mostly undrunk coffee. “It’s to raise money for a team of students visiting Africa over Thanksgiving to get in touch with their heritage. I have extra tickets if you’d like to come.” He looked expectantly from Mom and Walter to me and Althea.

“Thank you, but I’m going to the pageant tomorrow night,” Mom said. “To cheer for Rachel. They’ll announce the finalists after the evening gown competition.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I’m visiting my sister in Fort Lauderdale for the weekend,” Walter said.

Everyone looked at Althea. She got a cross look on her face—peeved at being put on the spot, I assumed—and tossed her napkin on the table. “I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow night,” she said. “I’ll have to check with my social secretary.”

And on that note, Althea and Kwasi said their good-byes. Walter left soon after, saying he had to pack. Mom and I finished cleaning up, carefully not talking about Althea and Kwasi, and I hugged her before heading back to my apartment. “Althea’s a strong woman,” Mom said, apropos of nothing we’d been talking about. “I’m sure she’ll find her way.”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince me or herself.

HANGING OUT WITH BEAUTIFUL, FIT WOMEN ALL week prompted me to hie my fanny off to the gym Friday morning for the first time in . . . well, at least a month. I wasn’t what you’d call a regular exerciser. I relied on walking and doing isometric exercises while standing in line at the Piggly Wiggly and taking stairs instead of elevators to keep me in reasonable shape. After hanging out with the beauty queen wannabes, though, my definition of “reasonable shape” was a bit skinnier and buffer than it had been on Monday.

With my hair in a ponytail, I joined a step class minutes before it started. Someone waved at me from the back corner and I lugged my step over to a free space beside Brooke Baker. She had three blocks stacked under her step. I was debating whether to use one or lay the step flat on the floor.

“I didn’t know you worked out here,” she greeted me. She looked svelte and buff in a yellow spandex top and matching shorts. Her chocolate skin glowed with good health and she bounced from foot to foot as we waited for the instructor. I was getting worn out just watching her.

“I don’t,” I said. “This is an aberration. You and the other contestants inspired me.”

“Really?” She giggled. “I can tell those protestors that something good
does
come from pageants. Who knows how many women and girls decide to work out more because they saw a pageant or know someone in one?”

Not a bad point. “Do the protestors bother you?”

“Nah, not really. It just pisses me off that they think they know the right answer for everyone. Until they’ve walked a mile in my shoes, they don’t have any right to belittle the choices I make. That Dr. Yarrow dude gives me the creeps, going on about women’s body-image issues. Where does he get off thinking he knows anything about how women feel about their bodies?”

The instructor appeared, a whippet-thin woman in her forties wearing a leotard combo that looked very Jane Fonda. She cranked up the Village People—as if this weren’t already painful enough—and adjusted her head mic. “Ready, ladies?”

“You don’t think the protestors have a point?” I asked as we swung our arms to warm up. Some of what Kwasi had said last night actually made me question whether or not beauty contests were as benign as I’d always thought.

“Maybe for some women.” She shrugged as if to say it takes all kinds. “I just don’t accept that you have to give in to marketing messages like what toothpaste to use or what car to buy or how to look. Am I using my body to get ahead, to make money for school? Absolutely. But isn’t that exactly what a scholarship athlete is doing?”

I was breathing hard and hoped it was a rhetorical question. We quit talking as the routine got more complicated. An hour later, limp as a soggy toaster waffle, I hobbled from the room beside Brooke, who still looked disgustingly energetic.

“I’m going to do a quick circuit,” she said, nodding toward the room full of weight machines I was pretty sure were designed by Torquemada and his henchmen from the Spanish Inquisition. “Want to work out with me?”

“Thanks,” I said, deciding to be flattered that she thought I’d even be able to stagger to the locker room, never mind push some weights around. “But I’ve got to get going.”

“See you this evening.” She waved and bounced into the weight room.

 

 

THE EUCALYPTUS-SCENTED BODY WASH IN THE showers revived me so I arrived for my appointment with Kevin Faye looking reasonably perky in a khaki skirt topped with an emerald tank top. I felt leaner already and resisted the urge to flex my biceps as I passed the plate glass window in the store beside Faye’s office. It was located in an upscale strip mall slightly west of the downtown area. Nearby businesses included a day spa, an independent bookstore specializing in Southern fiction and guide books, and an adventure travel agency. Laughing at myself for thinking one aerobics class had made any difference in my fitness, I pushed open the door and found myself in an expensively decorated office foyer that didn’t show signs of being hit by the recession. Plush blue carpet, handsomely framed oil paintings, and heavy walnut furniture upholstered in tan leather set the tone. On the other hand, the receptionist’s desk was empty—out to lunch or laid off?—and Kevin Faye hurried from an interior office to greet me himself.

His dishwater hair was slicked back and his hand was out. A summer-weight suit and a tie with a fish pattern on a maroon background made him look every inch the successful businessman. “Grace,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.” His broad smile revealed large upper teeth and cramped and misaligned lowers. I realized he hadn’t smiled once during his visit to the salon. No surprise there . . . his wife was murdered just three days ago.

“We can do this another time,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward about wanting to buy a house so soon after Audrey died.

“Why—Oh, no, it’s better for me to stay busy.” Grief flitted across his face and was replaced by professional solicitude. He led me into his inner office. “How about you tell me what you’re looking for?” He grabbed two waters from the small fridge behind his desk and handed me one before seating himself.

I glanced around the office, tastefully decorated in warm earth tones. A sixteen- by twenty-inch portrait of Audrey accepting the Miss American Blossom crown dominated one wall. A smaller photo on the desk showed three towheaded kids with gap-toothed grins.

Following my glance, Kevin said, “My nephews.”

“They’re adorable.”

“Audrey and I wanted children,” he said, unscrewing his bottle cap. “We tried, but it just wasn’t to be.” He glugged water like he was washing away a bad taste.

Little did he know. It certainly didn’t sound as if he were aware of Audrey’s pregnancy. And did the fact that he and Audrey had tried without success mean that the baby wasn’t his?

“When will Audrey’s service be?” I asked.

Without the smile, he looked older, his face sagging into lines that dragged at his eyes and mouth. He fingered the mole on his temple. “There won’t be one.”

I must have looked startled, because he added, “It’ll be a private cremation and interment. I don’t want a media spectacle.”

I could respect that, although here in the South we like to show our respect and love for those who have passed on with music and flowers and a little hoopla. “Can I send flowers somewhere?”

“That’s kind of you. I’ll have Stephanie—my assistant—let you know. Now, what is it you’re looking for? You’re a first-time buyer, right? There’s a new condo community going up a couple miles south of here—Delta Bayou—and the properties are very affordable if you get in now.”

“I don’t really think I’m the condo type,” I said.

He listened attentively as I described the small bungalow I wanted with its two or three bedrooms, eat-in kitchen, and yard big enough for a couple of bird feeders and flowering shrubs. “A couple of big shade trees would be nice, too,” I added as he took notes.

“I don’t think we’ll have any problem finding something that will suit you,” he said.

I mentioned the paltry sum I thought I could afford to pay.

“Hm, well, there are plenty of starter homes out there, and quite a few handyman’s delights.”

I didn’t consider myself “handy,” but I could read up on painting and tiling and give it a try. I drew the line at plumbing, though.

“I’m busy this afternoon, but we could set up a couple of showings for tomorrow morning, if you like. Say, eleven o’clock?” He rose and came around the desk to usher me out. Still no sign of a receptionist. Maybe she was out sick for the day.

“Sounds good,” I said. “But I have to be at the Oglethorpe by three to help the girls get ready for the finals.” I bit my lip, hoping mention of the pageant didn’t grieve him. Apparently not.

“It’s a date,” he said.

 

 

MY CELL PHONE BUZZED AS I WALKED OUT OF THE cool office.

“I’m here,” Marty said.

A smile spread over my whole body. “Already?”

“I left Atlanta at six. I was supposed to meet the Keen woman at the theater so she could show me around, but she’s not here.”

“On my way,” I said.

I saw Marty’s yellow and white MINI Cooper parked on the curb across from the Oglethorpe. Pulling up behind it, I got out and crossed the street. Marty came around the side of the building as I reached the sidewalk and I smiled at the sight of him. He just has that effect on me. Six-foot-five, with sandy hair that flops across his forehead and brushes his collar in the back, he had a lanky elegance that a crisply ironed shirt, red-patterned bow tie, dark slacks, and shiny loafers played up. I could see him swinging a croquet mallet with Jay Gatsby at an early-twentieth-century lawn party. His sensibilities are all modern day, though. He eats, drinks, and lives politics, especially Georgia politics, and his condo in the Buckhead section of Atlanta hums with leather and granite and sleek lines.

He caught sight of me and smiled in return. He picked up his pace and swept me into a big hug when he reached me. Kissing me lightly on the lips, he let me go.

“What were you doing back there?” I nodded toward the rear of the theater.

“Just checking out the scene of the rabid cat attack. There’s a shiny new padlock on the door now.”

“He didn’t really attack me—just chased me into the building. Want a tour?”

“Sure. I left a voice message for Jodi Keen. Hopefully, she’ll show up before long and explain my judging duties.”