So Faux, So Good Page 7

  Wynnell has a key and took the liberty of letting herself in. She claims she called my name loudly before laying a hand on me, but all I know is that when I woke up I was being shaken like the paint mixer at Home Depot. It was not a good way to start the day.

  “You said eight o’clock, Abby. It’s already five after and you’re not even dressed.”

  I groaned. “Perhaps I was being a bit optimistic about our departure. How does ten sound?”

  “But we’re all ready, Abby. Peggy and C. J. will be here in a minute. Besides, I want to get there well before dark.”

  “It’s only a nine-hour drive, Wynnell, and it doesn’t get dark until seven.”

  Wynnell shook her head. “My neighbors, DeLand and Corky Ledbetter, drove to Ohio last summer. They said you have to drive real slow up north if you don’t want to get caught in those speed traps.”

  “Speed traps?”

  She nodded with the power of second-hand conviction. “Every little town has them. Some skinny Yankee sheriff sits off to the side of the road just waiting for a car with southern plates to drive by. Well, if you aren’t going the exact speed, or maybe even a few miles under, they haul you off to jail.”

  “And you don’t get to pass ‘GO’?”

  She stared at me blankly.

  I sat up. “You mean they don’t even give you a speeding ticket first? They haul you straight to jail?”

  Wynnell frowned. “That does seems a little harsh, even for Yankees, doesn’t it? Maybe the Ledbetters left something out of the story. But I do know that northern jails are no place for a southerner. Both Deland and Corky said it was the worst food they’d ever eaten.”

  “Do tell, dear.”

  “Well, for one thing, they don’t eat grits up there.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  “And they put sugar in their cornbread.”

  I feigned gagging.

  Wynnell looked at me sternly. “Abby, are you mocking me?”

  I stretched. “Guilty, dear.”

  Mercifully the doorbell rang and Wynnell trotted happily off to get it. By answering my door, Wynnell would once again prove to the others that she was indeed my best friend. Not that I am such hot stuff, mind you, but since this trip was my idea, that put me in charge. In our little world, where friendships and business relations are as intertwined as a cat’s cradle, the pecking order has to be preserved somehow, and Wynnell, bless her heart, was eager to establish her place.

  While Wynnell pecked, I slid back down between cool sheets and grabbed another wink.

  9

  Peggy and C. J. were not nearly as patient as dear Wynnell. They too had heard the horror stories of gaunt Yankee lawmen who preyed on innocent southerners.

  “And don’t you dare try and pass for a Yankee,” C. J. said to me. “That only makes it worse. My cousin Elmo was hired to drive a car to Chicago that had Illinois plates. They stopped him at the border and made him say his ‘ahs.’”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, the alphabet letter that comes before ‘s.’”

  “Get out of town!”

  C. J. shuttered. “It was terrible. Not only did Cousin Elmo flunk that test, but then they tried to get him to spit on a picture of Jesse Helms.”

  “No way, Jose! Well, did he?”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Peggy said, “but if we don’t hit the road soon, we won’t make the border before dark, and I am not driving around Pennsylvania at night. If we hit an Amish buggy we’ll end up in jail for sure.”

  I ran fingers through my wet hair. My friends had literally thrown me into the shower. Worse, they had refused me the time to eat—even a bowl of instant grits, may Granny Wiggins rest in peace.

  “Well, I’m ready,” I said, picking up the hastily assembled collection of clothes and toiletries Wynnell had laid out on the bed. “All we have to do is find Dmitri.”

  My cat eschews strangers. Thank goodness I finally broke him of the habit of leaping from high places onto the backs of unsuspecting visitors. But alas, he is still a long way from greeting my guests by purring and rubbing against their legs. The last time I had company it took me a day to find Dmitri. If it hadn’t been for that foul odor coming from the linen closet, I am sure it would have been much longer.

  Peggy froze. “You weren’t planning to take that mangy mutt with you, were you?”

  I forced a pleasant smile. “Dogs are mangy mutts, dear. Felines are pathetic pussies. And yes, I’m afraid we have to, if we plan to leave anytime soon. Happy Paws Pet Motel doesn’t open until noon.”

  “There are lots of other kennels,” Wynnell said. “I’m sure some of them open early.”

  I shot her a warning glare. “My shnookums wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those.”

  My friend recovered quickly. “Ah, yes, I forgot. So many people travel these days that you have to make reservations days in advance. We have to take him with us, all right.”

  Peggy paled. “But aren’t we taking my Lincoln Town Car?”

  “Absolutely, dear. The five of us will be ever so comfortable.”

  “But—”

  “Or, we could take my little Grand Am. Of course Dmitri thinks the front seat is his. But that shouldn’t matter too much, since y’all are wearing slacks, and I trimmed his claws just last week.”

  There was a hasty conference and from the get-go the pressure was on Peggy. While she protested, I searched Dmitri’s favorite haunts, starting with the microwave—don’t get me wrong, he is a smart kitty, just not brilliant—and ending with the dishwasher.

  “Oh, there you are, you naughty boy!” I cried, genuinely glad to see him.

  Dmitri was so grateful to be rescued he didn’t even hiss, but purred contentedly in my arms as I started the empty washer. Rest assured that I set it on the pots and pans cycle, with the water as hot as possible. I even used extra detergent.

  By the time I returned to the living room the palaver had been settled. Dmitri could come, but he would be restricted to my lap. At night he would sleep in my bed. If there were any accidents, I would have to clean up.

  “Understood,” I said, perhaps a bit smugly. Happy Paws Pet Motel was not cheap, and Kitty Blattner refused to give me a price break even though I once sold her a cast-iron Scotty bank at cost.

  I am proud to say that Dmitri behaved very well—much better than we. Peggy has a preference for meat-locker temperatures. I am convinced that she plans to have her body cryogenically preserved when she dies, and she is practicing for that occasion. We mumbled and grumbled until we were blue in the face (given the temperature setting that didn’t take long) and by the time we reached the interstate had worn her down to the point of compromise. She turned the knob to a setting that might put an ice sculpture at risk, but was still no danger to milk, and we shut our mouths gratefully.

  Peggy eased the Lincoln on to I-77 at Tyvola and by the time we passed the Metrolina exit Dmitri was fast asleep, his tail curled snugly around his nose. By the time we hit Statesville I nodded off and slept three hours straight.

  I woke up to Peggy poking me in the ribs. I grunted and slapped her hand away.

  “Lord have mercy,” Wynnell cried gratefully. “I was beginning to think you’d been drugged.”

  “Or frozen to death,” C. J. said through chattering teeth.

  “Where are we?” I slurred. I had a gut feeling that we had already passed the spot where Billy Ray Teschel became a buzzard buffet. I know it sounds morbid, but I had really wanted to see it.

  “West Virginia, hon. That’s Beckley right up ahead. There’s a Cracker Barrel just on the other side, and we voted to stop there for lunch. That all right with you?”

  “Fine. Just as long as it has a bathroom.”

  We found the Cracker Barrel. I let the others go on in while I apologized to Dmitri for having to leave him in the car. The poor dear was obviously miffed, because as soon as the car stopped, he jumped off my lap and crawled under the seat. It took me forev
er to coax him out, and I wouldn’t have bothered, except he appeared to be wedged in there tighter than summer feet in new fall shoes. Finally he forgave me, and we struck up a deal of sorts. He promised not to rip up Peggy’s leather seats if I brought back a piece of chicken. By the time I joined the others they had already been seated and were poring over their menus.

  “Looks like the exact same menu they have back home,” Peggy said. She, for one, would know.

  Wynnell scanned the breakfast portion. “Well, I’ll be. They even have grits. I wonder if they put sugar in their cornbread.”

  “Is West Virginia a southern state?” C. J. asked. “I mean, we’ve gotta know, because this is where we get off the interstate and catch Route 19. It’ll save us a lot of time, and we’ll get to see New River Gorge. Of course we shouldn’t take the shortcut if this is a northern state.”

  “But we must see New River Gorge,” Peggy cried. “Folks who’ve been up this way say it’s spectacular. I was going to come up here on my honeymoon, but Danbo broke his leg at the bachelor party.”

  We stared at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

  “I didn’t know you were married,” I said.

  “Was. It lasted three months. I was seventeen. That doesn’t count, does it?”

  “Seventeen is just a baby,” C. J. said. She could afford to say that now that she was twenty-four.

  “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to see it, and I don’t think I’ll ever get to the Grand Canyon. This might be as close as I come to ever seeing a big hole in the ground.”

  Wynnell shuddered. “But what about the speedtraps? Just thinking about those gaunt Yankee sheriffs gives me the creeps. I’m not sure even the Grand Canyon would be worth a night in a Yankee jail.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “and never mind about the bigoted lawmen, it’s the people in general that give me the creeps. It must be all that outbreeding. Did you know that up here folks sometimes marry complete strangers?”

  Wynnell looked shocked. “You’re kidding!”

  I nodded solemnly. “Just look around you, dear. Have you ever seen so many full sets of teeth?”

  Wynnell’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Lord have mercy! This must be a northern state!”

  We were just kidding, of course. At least I hoped we all were. Still, it was an interesting question. Was West Virginia a southern state—it had once been a part of Virginia, after all—or was it, as some cartographers claim, a mid-Atlantic state? If the latter was true then where, pray tell, was West Virginia’s coastline? Our map didn’t show it. We decided to ask our waitress for her opinion.

  The woman who brought me my tea—I had to ask for it sweetened—had beautiful teeth. She was tall, and thin, and her waitress uniform did nothing for her. That woman was flat as a shuffleboard court. I guessed her to be about thirty-five. Her name was Susannah and she seemed about as interested in her job as I was in the Lithuanian stock market.

  “Excuse me, dear,” I said. “Do y’all consider yourselves Yankees or southerners?”

  Susannah shrugged. “Beats me. I’m from Pennsylvania. I’m only here because I broke up with my boyfriend and this is as far as I could hitch in one day.”

  “Where in Pennsylvania are you from, dear?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of it. Nobody has. It’s a dinky little town in the mountains called Hernia.”

  “Well Lord, Abby, isn’t that where we’re headed?” Wynnell asked.

  I nodded.

  Susannah’s jaw dropped. “No way! Whatever for?”

  “We’re antique dealers,” I said. “We’re headed up there to buy Amish quilts.”

  “And,” Peggy said, sucking back the drool, “we’re going to be staying at a famous bed and breakfast where movie stars stay. I heard that Brad Pitt was there recently.”

  “Down, girl,” I said.

  Susannah rolled her eyes. “Do you have reservations?”

  “No, dear,” I said. “This trip has been a little last minute.”

  “You are talking about the PennDutch Inn?” Susannah asked.

  “Yes. Is it hard to get a room? I mean, because we could share one if we have to.”

  Susannah’s eyes rolled so far back in her head I was afraid they would get stuck. Apparently C. J. shared my concern.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” she said. “My niece Betty Mae, back in Shelby, North Carolina, did that once to her eyes and they stayed that way. We thought sure she was going to be blind for the rest of her life, but then a surgeon up in Raleigh figured out a way to drill two holes in the back of her head so she could see. The thing was, she had no eyelids, and she had to walk backwards from then on. But it made her a terrific slow dancer because she never backed into anyone.”

  “You’ll have to forgive her,” I said. “Her mama dropped her on her head when she was a baby.”

  C. J. stared at me. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess, dear.” I turned to Susannah, who was mercifully sporting irises again. “I take it we’ll have to find another place to stay. Isn’t the town of Bedford nearby?”

  “Bedford is twelve miles away. But—and I’m not promising anything—I’ll see what I can do about you getting someplace to sleep at the PennDutch.”

  “You know the owners?”

  Susannah smiled. “My sister is the owner. However, she and I don’t get along as well as we should. Still, there’s always the chance that somebody canceled. If so, I’ll try and convince Mags to fit you in instead of going down her waiting list. Don’t hold your breath though.”

  Peggy exhaled. “We understand. Just do your best. Is it true that Tom Selleck swims naked when he stays there?”

  The eyes began an upward turn, but, thanks to C. J.’s story, Susannah caught herself in time. “We don’t even have a pool, and if we did—well, you don’t know my sister.”

  We placed our orders—none of us had the nerve to order the cornbread—and Susannah sauntered back to the kitchen. Halfway there she turned around and sauntered back. I realize it isn’t my place to complain, but the woman moved with all the rapidity of a teenager sent to clean her room.

  “Yes?” I said, perhaps a bit testily. I was hungry, after all, and as long as our orders had yet to reach the kitchen, nothing was being done to remedy the situation.

  “Well, ladies, as long as I’m doing you a favor, how about you doing one for me?”

  “You mean a finder’s fee?”

  “Ah—that would be nice too, but I was thinking more along the lines of a ride.”

  “We’re really on a tight schedule,” Peggy said. “We want to have time to stop at New River Gorge.”

  Susannah yawned. “Whatever for? It’s just a hole in the ground with a river at the bottom.”

  “I want to see it,” Peggy said stubbornly.

  “Hey, that’s cool then. Whatever you say. New River Gorge is right on the way.”

  “Where is it you want to go?”

  “To Hernia, of course. I know I’ve’ only been gone five days, but I miss my Melvin. Maybe if I beg, he’ll take me back.”

  Despite Wynnell’s warning look, I had to speak my peace. “Never give a man that much power, dear. Besides, they don’t respect a woman who begs.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Peggy said.

  I don’t think Susannah even heard us. “Well? How about it? Can I hitch a ride? As it just so happens I brought my luggage with me to work today.”

  I stroked the rock on my ring finger. “You mean you’d quit your job just like that?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’ve done it oodles of times.”

  I told her we’d think about it while she placed our orders with the cook. That seemed to light a small fire under her. At least she made it as far as the kitchen that time.

  Since the four of us were kind, southern women, well schooled in the art of hospitality, we agreed to take her with us. She would have to sit in the middle of the back seat, of course, and there would be no
smoking. We had all smelled smoke on her.

  We had agreed to meet Susannah on the porch in five minutes, and by some miracle we found four empty rocking chairs in a row. We settled into them and were quietly and contentedly digesting a mighty good lunch when fifteen feet of filmy fabric floated out the door. It took me a second to realize there was a person somewhere inside that swaddling swirl.

  “Gotta love that woman,” I whispered to Wynnell.

  Wynnell frowned and smoothed the bodice of her creation of the day. Actually it was a fairly substantial outfit, because in addition to the usual plethora of pins, it contained a few scattered stitches.

  “You’re just jealous because you can’t sew, Abby.”

  “You’re absolutely right dear.”

  The walking bolt of cloth headed in our direction and I briefly contemplated fleeing. The last time someone dressed like that approached me I ended up paying ten dollars for a single, wilted rose. Call me a sucker for the freedom of religion.

  “Hi,” the material girl said.

  We all stared at her.

  “It’s me, Susannah. You know, from Hernia.”

  We eventually closed our mouths.

  “Don’t I look a hundred times better?”

  “You certainly look different,” I said quickly. No telling what the others would say if I gave them a chance. “What about your luggage?”

  For the day’s second miracle Susannah whipped out a pink American Tourister train case. Who knew what else the folds of her garment hid?

  “That’s it?”

  She giggled. “I like to travel light.”

  I, for one, was beginning to have second thoughts. The woman might have all her teeth, but it was beginning to look like she was a page short of a chapter. Dmitri definitely didn’t like her. He hissed like a steam iron on a corduroy shirt. Then he slunk under my seat and refused to even look at the chicken I’d brought him.

  With a great deal of effort we managed to arrange our guest on the back seat between Wynnell and C. J. and not have her smother them. Fortunately she didn’t have any suitcases.

  It was a surprisingly brief but pleasant ride from Beckley to New River Gorge. On the way there Susannah regaled us with tales of the famous people who had slept in her sister’s inn. Several times C. J. tried to interrupt with tales of Shelby, but Susannah wouldn’t have it. She was clearly a one-woman show with a captive audience. C. J., bless her heart, finally gave up.