I needed a Coke. A Coke and a good book. I headed to Jake’s.
Only eight fifteen and Jake’s was already lively. The atmosphere and the company, even more than the coffee, is why people return. In the past thirteen years, I don’t think Dad has lost a customer. Judge Hoddicks, Jake’s most loyal patron, is in every morning at eight, and Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Culpepper, who live above the coffee shop, follow moments behind. The Culpeppers have two decafs with no sugar and extra cream. They firmly believe that caffeine after seven a.m. will keep them awake.
Jennifer, Hope, and Karen from the Legislative Plaza next door pick up their usuals around eight thirty, before they head into the office. They get cappuccinos later in the day at that other coffee shop, the mere mention of which is not allowed at Jake’s. But they wouldn’t miss seeing my dad at the beginning of their day for anything.
Most everything in the Savannah Historic District, besides restaurants and that other coffee shop, closes around five. My father’s main business comes from his square alone, and he figures when they are gone, he can go home too. Dad is home no later than five fifteen. Oh, and he is closed on Sunday. He, like Chick-fil-A, operates by the motto “After six days of work, everyone needs a day of rest.”
As my face registered with old friends, there were hugs all around. Louise and Mervine, twins who came out of retirement to work with Dad, stopped midpour, abandoning countless customers.
“Mervine, this child is too thin. Savannah Phillips,” Louise continued,“sit yourself down while we try to find you some food.” They flitted around the counter that separates the tables from the back offices, storage rooms, and Coke machine, leaving their customers to fill their own cups.
Richard, one of the sweetest men I know and Dad’s right-hand man, was standing behind the counter refilling a couple of obvious tourists’ cups when he heard Louise’s commotion. Richard’s sixty-five years showed only faintly on his dark skin, as gray had begun to infiltrate his coarse black hair. He grabbed me and hugged me the way only Richard can, hugging me so hard it would take hours before I would breathe correctly again.
“Savannah Phillips, I can’t believe you finally got out of school. I thought you were going to stay until they made you leave,” he told me, his beautiful smile lighting up his face.
“You didn’t hear, Richard? They did kick me out. Vicky came by and told them unless they changed the color of the brick on campus, she wasn’t going to pay the rest of my tuition.” Richard laughed with me as I pulled up a chair at the counter.
Since the death of notorious Savannian Jimmy Williams, my mother has done more for Savannah’s architectural integrity than anyone in recent history. Jimmy Williams is the man from the acclaimed book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, a book that put Savannah on the map for things many like my mother would rather have kept off. He came into this city bringing his own demanding perspective and rather extravagant taste and colorful lifestyle. Prior to his death he purchased and restored seventy-two homes. The publication of his story caused this city’s tourism to increase by 46 percent.
Since Williams’s death,Vicky, a member of the Historic Review Board, started a program in conjunction with the Savannah College of Art and Design, a co-op in which the students work with the city on the restoration of historic homes and landmarks. They have beautifully restored more than fifty of the downtown-area homes, turning them into museums of Savannah’s history and stores reflecting Savannah’s taste and style.
Vicky also helped to pass a law that banned changes on the outer structure of any home in the Historic District without those changes first being approved by the city. It passed easily in the state legislature. The only thing that still rankles her is that some modern buildings were grandfathered in, including one up the street that she refuses to drive by,walk by, or discuss. She wanted to have them torn down, but no one was brave enough to tackle that one. She is this city’s greatest lobbyist and advocate. She is the government’s greatest thorn. But Savannah loves her. I think one day she’ll run for mayor. I also think she does most of this in hopes that someone will write a book about her. Then she can say, “Jimmy Williams may have increased tourism 46 percent, but I, Victoria Inez Phillips, increased tourism 54 percent and didn’t have to murder a soul to do it.” Not that a few of us haven’t died a thousand deaths in the process.
“Your mother will eventually learn that not everything requires her opinion,” Dad said as he appeared from the back room, Coke in hand, and pulled up a chair next to me at the counter. His six-foot-one frame is still sturdy at the age of fifty-three, a brief eight years older than my mother. He was probably considered “fine” when he was young, though I can’t say I’m comfortable ascribing that kind of adjective to my father.
“Well you can dream in Technicolor if you wish,” I pronounced, “but as long as there is breath in ol’ Vicky, there will be a helpless victim on the other side of her opinion.”
“Dreaming in Technicolor is something I do often,” he said, laughing that genuine laugh I have grown to love. None of that fake southern stuff just to make you feel good. Jake only laughs if it’s funny. He also cries when his kids make him proud and lights up like a fifteen-year-old schoolboy when Vicky enters the room. “But you don’t need to talk that way about your mother. And it is ‘Mother,’” he added. Dad got up to wipe off a table that had just been vacated by two businessmen. “What’ve you been doing this morning?”
I stopped for a moment to watch him in this environment that he loved. He looked happy. “Oh, nothing much really. Just rode around for a bit to see what has changed.”
“You look mighty nice to have been just riding around,” he said, giving Richard a wink.
“Oh, well, I’ve been trying to look a little more professional. You know, with graduating and everything,” I said, apparently unsuccessful in my attempt to convince anyone, including the two women who had just come out of the back room with a banana and a muffin.
“Do you have a busy morning?” Dad asked.
“Nope.” I pulled a book out of my bag and waved it around.
“I have a little time to kill before lunch.”
“Well, we could use an extra pair of hands round here,” Richard said.“Why don’t you go grab an apron so you don’t mess up your new look?”
I gave Richard my best woeful sigh and put the book away. Then I headed to the back of the store, grabbed an apron, and proceeded to fill cups.
Above the counter at Jake’s hangs a blackboard that features daily pieces of wisdom or, as my father calls them, “Thoughts for the Journey.” Some folks take these little thoughts to heart, like the one that read,“A man who works hard is guaranteed success.” Dad said he saw more activity on the square that day than he had seen in years. Or the other that had people falling all over themselves trying to live right: “Live righteously and rewards will seek you out. Live like the devil and misfortune will pursue you.”
Some people, like Vicky, take the ones they like and leave the ones they feel don’t apply. She was especially offended the day Dad had written,“A quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping.” She thought he had it up all day, but he only put it up when he saw her come out of the courthouse and head over toward the shop.
“Are you calling me ‘a constant dripping,’ Jake Phillips?”
Dad simply smiled, removed her hands from her hips, wrapped his arms around her defensive body, and whispered in her ear,“No. You, my love, are a consistent nurturer.” To this day, whenever Vicky begins her constant dripping, Dad, or any of us nearby, lets her know that she is consistently nurturing that which has been nurtured enough.
Today Dad’s thought for the journey read, “Anxiety in the heart of man can make him depressed, but it takes only one nice word to make him happy.” Surely I had caused enough anxiety for the entire population of Savannah already that morning, making this a justifiable penance. So for the next three hours, Dad and I determined to get rid of everyone’s anxieties with a nice word. We complimented suits, hairdos, grandchildren’s pictures—we even complimented things that really shouldn’t have been complimented at all, like Mrs. Taylor’s new wiry-haired, rat-looking dog. When it came through the door, Duke ran to the other side of the counter where he would be safe from such a rodent. Dad made over that dog until Mrs. Taylor was beaming from ear to ear.
By the time the morning and midmorning rushes had cleared, depression had vacated the streets around Jake’s Coffeehouse. I was even feeling better myself.
As I walked to my car, I could feel the heat challenge the coolness of my skin. Crawling into the black car and its warming conditions made me dread what the actual summer would hold. I pulled out of my parking place and was forced to stop as a group of ubiquitous tourists made their way across the street in front of me.
They give themselves away too easily what with their visors, hanging cameras,walking shorts (which no one should be walking in), sneakers with crumpled-up socks, and even colored socks with loafers. Fanny packs and guidebooks usually finish off the colorful ensembles. Some visitors take the opportunity to wear hats they aren’t brave enough to wear in their hometowns. And everyone over fifty has a jacket on, just in case our 100-degree, humidity-filled afternoons might turn into a chilled breeze. Tourists keep Savannah alive, however, and they love to try locally owned places like Jake’s, or Clary’s Café, the restaurant I was aiming for before this flock of poorly attired geese stopped me.
Clary’s is perched directly across the street from my house. Paige and I have patronized Clary’s for their BLTs since I can’t remember when. We have been friends since my second week at the Massie School. We were paired up for a history project in Mr. Gilbert’s class, and the rest, as they say, is . . . When I left for the University of Georgia, she stayed here in Savannah to go to the Savannah College of Art and Design.
I parked my car beside my house, crossed the street to Clary’s, and arrived inside to, no surprise, Paige’s absence. Paige was always late, whether it was fashionable or not.
Her parents—Sheila,my mother’s best friend since childhood, and Patterson Long—own a beautiful antique shop on Abercorn Street right across from Saint John the Baptist’s Catholic Church. Paige doesn’t care much for antiques, but she is one of the most skilled painters I have ever met. I would’ve commissioned her to create the cover for my first book, had my original dream still been intact. Paige has been selling paintings since she was in high school. Her parents, out of sheer pride, put her first paintings up in their store. By the time she graduated college, she was so popular and had sold so many paintings, she opened up her own little area in the back of the antique shop. But Paige had recently declared at least partial independence by moving into her own apartment in the Lafayette Building—right next to her shop on the square.
Paige entered Clary’s in total Paige style: out of breath.“You are not going to believe what happened.”
“Try me,” I said, leaning back in my chair and knowing I was in for an interesting narrative.
“I got pulled!”
“You got pulled?”
“Yeah! There he was. Mr. I-don’t-have-anything-better-to-do-than-pull-over-people-for-no-reason Millings.”
“He does need a life.”
“He needs a mint. Have you smelled that man’s breath?” she asked as her entire face contorted in horror.
“Can’t say I’ve gotten that close.”
“Well, hold on to your hat, Hannah; it won’t be long,” she said, flipping her hair, which was really too short to flip.
“Did you flash him a smile? Offer him money? Bribe him with a portrait?” I laughed as I took a sip of the chocolate shake my favorite waitress, Helen, set down in front of me the very moment of my arrival.
Paige slumped back in her chair. Then, as if getting a second wind, she sat up, patted me on the arm.“So, how did your meeting go?”
Before I could reply, Helen returned. The waitresses here rarely change, and Helen is an icon. She cusses like a sailor, smokes like a forest fire, and talks like a man. She has been reprimanded for the first two offenses a trillion times; the third is out of her control. Oh, and she has a photographic memory. She has never written down an order, and she gets each one right every time. Even down to a table of ten.“Girls, I’m so glad to see you both. But, Savannah, you are too skinny and, Paige, your hair is too blond. I’ll have your BLTs out in a minute.” And away she went.
“Why is it that you are always skinny, and all she notices about me is my hair color? I’ve had this same color for five years.”
“And I’ve weighed the same since my senior year in high school.”
“Anyway, didn’t I ask you about you and your job?”
“Well, I have successfully told Vicky about forgoing the book deal and kept it a secret that I am trying to get this job at the paper.”
“Aren’t you the woman?”
“Well, I’m not so sure I’m all that, not after this morning.”
“Savannah, what did you do?”
“Why would your first thought be, what did I do? Why couldn’t it possibly be something someone else did?”
“Please. What did you do?”
“I pulled a Vicky,” I told her, crinkling my nose.
“No!” Both hands slammed down on the table, her eyes wider than a hoot owl.“You pulled a Vicky on the very man who could give you a job? That’s a tad audacious.”
“Did you just say tad?”
“Probably. My mother uses it all the time.”
“Well, thank the Lord! I must have picked it up from you. I was afraid I had picked it up from my mother. Well, it was really a huge mistake.” Paige sat in complete and total silence and listened to the rest of my story. Helen brought our lunch and Paige finished most of her BLT before I’d taken my first bite.
By the time I was through, all she could say was,“Get out.”
“I did!” I told her, laughing.
“Do you think you’ll hear from him?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“Well, since he didn’t call security, odds are I’ll hear something.” I took a sip of my shake.
Paige looked up and nodded, then swallowed and said,“There is something I need to tell you.”
“OK. You are way too serious. What is it?”
She paused long enough to make me look her in the eye. Then as she always does in her rare serious moments, she placed her hand underneath her porcelain chin. She gave up on tanning years ago after a severe burning episode. Now she wears SPF-105. “I heard that Grant is getting married.”
“Well, we all want to get married one day, don’t we?” I said, hoping she was just joking.
“Savannah, I’m not joking. He met this girl from Converse College while he was at Clemson. They started dating after he got out of school and started working for his dad’s firm. She is graduating this month, and they are supposed to get married this summer.”
Grant and I had only seen each other a couple of times since I started graduate school. He had been my best friend through middle school. Then in high school we realized that we felt more for each other than just friendship, and we dated through my senior year in college. Until this halting moment, I had somehow thought that he and I would one day get married. He was the only guy I had ever cared about. Now, I knew that things had changed since graduate school, but we still talked.
Our last serious conversation had taken place one morning at my dad’s shop, right before I went back to school for my master’s and he started full-time at his dad’s architectural firm on Oglethorpe Square. I’ll never forget how beautifully golden his skin was from spending most of his summer on the ocean. I stared at him through the front window at Jake’s, where I sat at a table facing the sidewalk.
He walked in wearing wrinkled khaki shorts and a T-shirt, which, like the majority of his wardrobe, bore the name of a local store or a race he had recently participated in.“Out for a day of fun?”
He gave me a gentle kiss and sat down.“Actually, I’m working today.”
“Dressed like that?”
“I’m helping Dad do some things in the yard,” he said, laughing.
“When do you start your real job with your father?”
Instead of answering, Grant sat and reached across the table to take my hand.“Savannah, I think we have some decisions to make. We’ve done this relationship thing for four years now. Except I’m not sure I would even call it a relationship. I need more. I think it’s time. I want us to take our relationship to the next level. Really focus on our future.”
I blinked, wishing I had an answer he would want to hear. But school required everything of me. And at that time, I was so consumed with writing, I didn’t know how I could offer a real, committed relationship much of anything.“We’ve got all the time in the world for that,” I responded.“You know I love you. I’ve always loved you. And next to Paige, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. I just need to get this master’s behind me. And I just can’t commit to any more right now.”
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he left that afternoon. He hugged me a little longer than usual. But school would be over eventually. Then there would be time to solidify our relationship. Obviously, Grant hadn’t been clear on the plan.
“Earth to Savannah,” Paige said, waving her hand in front of my face.
“Do you even know her name?”
“I think it’s Eliza or something like that. One of those real southern kind of names.”
“Oh, more southern than Savannah?”
Paige rolled her eyes.
“Do you think he really loves her or does he just want to get married?”
“Savannah, you know Grant isn’t going to marry someone he’s not in love with.”
“Maybe she’s dog ugly.”
“No such luck,my friend. I saw her over the Christmas holidays.
He brought her to an exhibit. She was very tall and very gorgeous.”
Paige turned up her nose in mock disgust.“I mean legs up to—”
“That really is enough. I bet she’s fake. I bet there isn’t a thing on her that’s real.”
We wrapped up our lunch and declared that we would do this every Monday.
“Call me as soon as you hear something about the job. And no cleaning excursions. It’s going to be OK.” She sealed her solace with a hug.
I watched as she faded up the street, the consummate artist, from the way she dresses to the way she walks. If she weren’t my best friend, I would hate her, so irritatingly perky and cute.
Looking out over the same street I had viewed only hours before, I was amazed by how a morning could change things.