The Fixer Upper Part 41

That got me. I couldn't stop myself. I jumped up from the pew. "I thought we were going down to the Bahamas to talk to a congressman about energy policy," I said heatedly. "I spent weeks working on that position paper. And we never once talked energy policy to Licata. As far as the two of you were concerned, it was golf and tennis and expensive dinners and hookers and champagne-it was all just a big boondoggle."

Allgood and Harrell turned and stared at me.

I felt my face turn as pink as my cashmere sweater.

Allgood clapped her hands slowly. "Excellent, Dempsey. The perfect touch. I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Rehearsal's over," I said, and I turned and ran out of the New Macedonia Full Gospel Church of the Brethren.

57.

The house was quiet when I got home, although Lynda's rented Escalade was still in the driveway. I went directly to my closet and was relieved to find that, despite her dire promises, Lynda hadn't gotten around to destroying my clothes. I s.n.a.t.c.hed up Norbert's overalls, a faded T-s.h.i.+rt, and my Chuck Taylors and went to my new room to change.

My mood was definitely much darker than it had been in the morning. Seeing the location where my meeting with Alex was to take place, and actually antic.i.p.ating how the meeting might play out, had not had the effect the FBI agents had hoped for. Instead, it had only heightened my anxiety and desire to be done with the whole nasty mess.

I struggled out of the too-tight cashmere togs my mother had bought me. I knew she meant well, but I couldn't help resenting her makeover campaign. Did she think that dressing me like Hannah Montana would really be an improvement over the Dempsey Killebrew look? Or did she unconsciously hope that making me look like a teenager would, by default, make her look and feel like a thirty-something?

It was all too much psychodrama for one morning. I should have gone looking for Lynda, to ask her if she'd postponed her shopping trip, or even to offer to go with her now. Instead, I headed downstairs, to the kitchen, determined to finish tiling the counter and backsplash.

I'd already laid out and cut all the tiles to the needed size with the tile saw Bobby had loaned me. I plugged in my iPod and opened the bucket of premixed mortar, slathering it on the tile pieces, troweling off the excess as Bobby had shown me, and then slotting each tile neatly into place.

The thick mortar mix reminded me of cake icing, and once I got the hang of applying it at just the right consistency, and using the tiny plastic s.p.a.cer bits to achieve uniform s.p.a.cing between the tiles, I got into my tiling groove. The music played and my neat little rows of white tiles grew, and I lost all track of time. I didn't stop until I'd sc.r.a.ped up the last bit of mortar mix from the bucket, only one row short of finis.h.i.+ng the whole project.

d.a.m.n! Now I'd have to go buy another whole bucket of mix-just to finish that one last row of tile. I glanced up at the kitchen clock. It was already 4:00. I knew the hardware store closed at 5. I unplugged the iPod buds, grabbed my purse, and was scrabbling around inside it, looking for the car keys, when it dawned on me that I didn't have the keys, because the Catfish was still out of commission.

I went looking for Lynda to see if she'd give me a ride to the hardware store. I tried the dining room first. She wasn't there, but I knew she had been, because she'd set up her jewelry-making equipment on the dining room table. Bits of beads, gla.s.s, metal, and a basket of a.s.sorted unidentifiable stuff were strewn all over the tabletop.

I went into the parlor and was astonished by what I found. She'd been there too, and she'd somehow managed to move down most of the furniture that had been stored in Ella Kate's bedroom. She'd obviously found a stash of Dempsey Mills bedspreads, because she'd covered all the drab Victorian wool and damask sofas and armchairs with the white cotton bedspreads, cleverly pinning and tucking them into makes.h.i.+ft slipcovers. She'd pushed two large, tufted velvet ottomans together in front of the settee to subst.i.tute for a coffee table and centered a black-and-gold tole tray, painted with peaches and cherries, on top of the ottomans. The tray held a cut-gla.s.s bowl of bright green apples, on top of a stack of three red-leather-bound books, and a horn-handled magnifying gla.s.s looked like it had just been set down.

Lynda must have had a field day digging through the crates of family china, silver, and other doodads that were packed away in Ella Kate's room. She'd sprinkled an array of blue-and-white transferware vases and platters around the room. Two ma.s.sive blue-and-white ginger jars, filled with glossy green sprays of magnolia branches, now stood on either side of the mantel. A trio of transferware platters stood atop a stack of leather-bound books on the table in the corner, along with a tall sterling-silver loving cup filled with artfully arranged pink dogwood blossoms.

The heavy velvet drapes that had hung at the windows were now piled in a heap in a corner of the room. She'd rolled up the oriental rug too, and the dark wood floors gleamed in the weak rays of afternoon sunlight that now streamed in through the undressed windows.

I was outraged that she'd had the nerve to invade my decorating territory, and chagrined by the seemingly effortless charm she'd managed to achieve in one brief afternoon.

For the first time, I was aware of low voices coming from the direction of the hallway. I walked toward the voices. They were coming from Ella Kate's room. As I grew closer, I heard Lynda laughing, and then her voice.

"Oh, come on now, Ella Kate. That's not a real word!"

The door to the bedroom was open. I looked in and saw my mother and Ella Kate, sitting on opposite sides of a card table they'd set up in front of the window beside Ella Kate's easy chair. Their heads-Lynda's blond one and Ella Kate's steel gray one-were bent over a Scrabble board. Shorty was curled up on a pillow on the bed.

"Sure is a word," Ella Kate said with a cackle as she scooped up more letter tiles from the tabletop. "You can look it up if you want to. Any fool knows it."

"Well, I've heard it before, but I don't think it's a proper word," Lynda said indignantly.

I poked my head in the doorway. "What's the word? Maybe I can be the tiebreaker."

Ella Kate gave me a calculating look. "Skeeter. S-K-E-E-T-E-R."

"I know how to spell it," I a.s.sured her.

Lynda turned her face away from Ella Kate's and gave me a secretive wink and nod.

"You mean skeeter, slang for mosquito, right?" I asked.

"What else?" Ella Kate demanded. "Even a Yankee knows what a skeeter is."

"Sorry, Lynda," I told my mother. "She's right. It's slang, but it's acceptable. I think you have to give her the points."

"That's thirty-three points for me!" the old lady crowed. She tapped the R tile. "See that? Triple-word score."

"I see it," Lynda muttered. She looked down at her own tiles, then back at the board. Carefully, she picked up four tiles and placed them in descending order, using Ella Kate's S tile as a launching pad.

"Squat!" Lynda said. "Ta-da!"

"Hmmph," Ella Kate said.

"Well, it's a word," Lynda insisted.

"Not a very nice one, though," Ella Kate opined. "Anyway, it's only fourteen points. I'm still winning."

"Don't care," Lynda said, picking up a pencil to record her score. "Besides, maybe you didn't notice, but my Q is sitting on a double-letter spot. So, actually, that's twenty-four points for me."

"This is getting pretty vicious," I said, looking down at the board. "How long have you two been playing?"

"Since lunch," Ella Kate said. "Your mama-"

"Don't call her-" I started to say, but Lynda gave me the nod, so I shut up.

"Fixed me homemade tomato soup with b.u.t.termilk in it. Best thing I ever put in my mouth," Ella Kate said. "Gimme some wheatgra.s.s juice too, but I spit that stuff out. Tastes like mud, if you ask me."

"The secret for the soup is using fire-roasted San Marzano tomatoes," Lynda offered. "I saved you some soup. I even went out to the kitchen after you got back from your meeting to see if you wanted some, but you were so fixated on your tiling, I decided not to bother you."

"Sorry," I said. "I have a hard time stopping once I get started."

"Oh!" Lynda said, clapping her hands over her mouth. "I almost forgot. Dempsey, you were in such a hurry to get to your meeting this morning that you left your cell phone."

"You didn't answer it, did you?" I asked, horrified at the idea of her having had a conversation with Alex Hodder.

"Well, of course I did," Lynda said. "But don't worry. It was just a nice young man named Tee Berryhill."

"Her boyfriend," Ella Kate said knowingly.

"How nice." Lynda beamed. "Then I'm glad I accepted his invitation for tonight."

"What invitation?"

"To dinner," she said. "He and his father are taking us to the country club tonight. There's even a dance! Doesn't that sound divine?"

I hesitated. My relations.h.i.+p with Tee was teetering on the brink of something, but I wasn't sure what yet. A night out with him-dinner and a dance-did, in fact, sound good, if not "divine," but did I want to expose Tee and Carter to my flamboyant mother this early in the game?

"I can't wait," Lynda said enthusiastically. "A real country-club dance. It sounds so quaint. Your father and I used to go to lots of dances when we first started dating."

"You and Mitch?" I'd never seen my father dance. It was hard enough imagining him married to someone as outrageous as Lynda, harder still imagining him doing anything as adventurous as the frug or the boogaloo, or whatever the dances were that they did in their youth.

"Oh yes," Lynda said dreamily. "Mitch was a great dancer back then."

"He was a little p.i.s.sant when I knew him," Ella Kate volunteered.

"I think he reverted back to his p.i.s.sant ways after Dempsey was born," Lynda told her. "But believe me, he wasn't like that when we first met. He was funny and sweet, and so thoughtful! A real Southern gentleman. And s.e.xy!" She grinned and fanned herself vigorously. "I have never had so much fun in bed in my life," she declared.

"But you got yourself a divorce from him anyways," Ella Kate pointed out.

"Well, you can't stay in bed all the time," Lynda said sadly. "We never should have gotten married. Although it was worth every minute of it, considering I got a beautiful daughter out of the deal."

She stood up and kissed the top of my head. "Our fellas are picking us up at six. Don't you think you'd better start getting ready?"

I showered first, and while Lynda was still in the bathroom, I stood in front of my tiny closet, surveying the possibilities. I'd packed away most of my business suits and dressy clothes from my lobbyist life-no need for them now that my working days were spent painting and sc.r.a.ping. That didn't leave a lot of possibilities for a dance. I'd already worn my long skirt and top to the country club on my last "date," with Jimmy Maynard, and, as it turned out, Tee. There was a long-sleeved charcoal gray knit sweater dress, but it looked more suited to a funeral than a dance. As I rummaged through the clothes, I came across my old reliable, a navy blue matte jersey Marc Jacobs c.o.c.ktail dress.

It was sleeveless, with a deep V-neck, pin-tuck details at the shoulders and the set-in waist, and a flirty little ruffle at the hem.

Ah yes. Marc had seen me through half a dozen weddings and c.o.c.ktail receptions in the past couple of years, and he'd never let me down.

I took it off the hanger and held it up to my shoulders while I checked myself out in the mirror, turning to and fro to get the full effect.

Just then, Lynda walked in. She was in her bathrobe, and her damp hair hung in ringlets to her shoulders. "Oh, sweetheart," she exclaimed, catching the fabric of the hem between her fingertips. "No, no, no. This isn't right for you at all. Wait! I've got just the thing in my suitcase."

I walked over to her suitcase, which was open, and closed it.

"Mom," I said firmly. "We have to talk."

She sank down on the bed. "About what?"

"About you. And me. And your effort to make me into you."

"What? No, that's not true at all," Lynda protested. "I just think-"

"You think I'm ugly, and my clothes are ugly, and that basically I'm wasting my time down here."

"I never said that," Lynda protested, grabbing my hand. "I think you're the most beautiful girl in the entire world. You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not a girl," I said gently. "I'm a woman. I'm nearly thirty. I've been dressing myself for quite some time now, and although not all the choices I've made in my life have been the right ones, they've been mine. I love you, Lynda, but you have got to give me some s.p.a.ce."

Her periwinkle blue eyes filled with tears. She stood up and reopened the suitcase. "I knew it! You don't want me here. You resent me. You've resented me ever since you were a teenager. I told myself you were feeling abandoned, and I wrote it off to your father's influence over you. No matter how hard I try, you'll never let me make it up to you. So I'll go."

"No, wait," I said, flipping the lid of the suitcase shut again. "I'm not telling you to leave. I don't feel abandoned. It took me a while, but I finally realized years ago that you were doing what you thought was best for me when you sent me to live with Mitch."

I took a deep breath. "Maybe it was the best thing for me. I don't know. My childhood is in the past. Parts of it were good and parts of it sucked, but I got through it. That's all that matters."

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "You haven't said a word about all my hard work in the house today. You hate it, don't you?"

I bit my lip and decided to be honest. "Lynda, I love the way the parlor looks. I never would have thought to use the bedspreads as slipcovers, or to take down the drapes. And I can't figure out how the h.e.l.l you got all that furniture downstairs. But the thing is...I'm feeling kind of territorial here. Birdsong is my project. The house is Dad's, I know, but the work, it's mine. I'm sorry to be so selfish about it, but right now, this run-down, c.r.a.ppy house is all I've got. So, yeah, I was kind of bent out of shape when I saw what you'd done."

"That sweet contractor of yours, Bobby? He dropped by and I roped him into helping me. We can put it back the way it was," Lynda said tearfully. "I had no right."

"Don't you dare," I told her. "It's gorgeous. Fabulous. I can't believe how much you accomplished in a few short hours."

She smiled tentatively. "I've had the most amazing surge of creative energy since I got here. I don't know what it is. After you left this morning, I decided it wouldn't be any fun to shop without you. I took another walk, and then I poked around in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and I came up with just the coolest stuff-pecans, sweet-gum b.a.l.l.s, arrowheads, old marbles and c.o.ke bottle caps, and bits of broken china. I got so stoked, I made three necklaces in less than an hour. Wait until you see! I think they're the best work I've ever done."

"I can't wait to see them," I said.

"I made one just for you," she said shyly. "Now, you don't have to wear it. You're right, I have no business telling you how to dress or act, or any of that. I'll try to do better, okay?"

"Okay," I said. "Can I see the necklace?"

"Sure you want to?" Lynda asked. "It's kind of a departure for me."

I held out my hand. "Give."

She went to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and brought out a little gold silk pouch. Lynda sat down on the bed beside me and, after a moment's hesitation, dropped the necklace into my open palm.

I'd been expecting one of my mother's usual bizarre combinations of broken gla.s.s, twisted metal, maybe even a fossilized bird's egg or racc.o.o.n tooth. But what she'd made for me was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

A long, slender golden chain, maybe twenty-four-inches, held half a dozen charmlike tokens. Some were gold, others were silver. The center pendant on the chain held a tiny diamond-studded platinum woman's watch face, suspended from a bit of platinum chain. Beside it was a pale green cat's-eye marble. There was a small, scrolly, golden, heartshaped locket, and an intricately worked brooch that seemed to represent some sort of fraternal symbol with a small red stone in the middle. Another charm was a stud of some sort, with a pearl in the center, and the last one was a simple, worn gold band.

"Oh, Lynda," I whispered. "It's...exquisite."

She smiled. "Well, it's much more sentimental than anything I've ever done before, but then, I don't think it's too terribly self-indulgent, considering who I made it for, and what it represents."

"Represents?"

"This," she said, pointing to the watch face, "was your great-grandmother's watch."

"Olivia?" I asked.

"No, it was Olivia's mother's watch," Lynda said. "This little marble belonged to your grandfather Dempsey, when he was a little boy. Now, the locket, that was Olivia's. Open it up, why don't you?"

With a fingernail, I pried open the locket. Only one side of the locket held a photograph, the other held a lock of pale gold hair. I looked closely, then up at Lynda. She nodded.

"Your father's baby picture," she said. "And that's Mitch's first curl."