The beauty of Savannah is that it is a place where people come to fulfill dreams. Sure, we have a lot of old money, the kind that joins the Oglethorpe Club and are members of the Garden Club. But there are a number of people who simply come to make their own way, start a business, raise a family, and leave their mark on their own little corner of the world through life and love and loss.
As I walked down River Street, I took a left on Perry, crossing in front of Chippewa Square, which holds the familiar statue of General Oglethorpe, Savannah’s founding father, and the concrete wall behind the bench where Forrest Gump had his box of chocolates. The city was planned on paper before Oglethorpe even arrived and before Forrest was a thought. Oglethorpe’s friend Robert Casteel was an architect in England and later jailed in debtor’s prison. It is said that England’s prisons were dismal beyond comprehension. Casteel died there of smallpox, and Oglethorpe dreamed of creating a new life for the poor, the debtors, and the religiously persecuted. Savannah was his canvas.
In 1733, Oglethorpe’s Savannah had four laws. Law Number One: No hard liquor, only beer and wine allowed. He didn’t want any lushes in his society. That lasted only in dreams. Law Number Two: No slaves. Oglethorpe wanted Savannah built as a place of equals. That was repealed in 1751, thanks in large part to Eli Whitney and the cotton gin. Law Number Three: No Catholics. Oglethorpe feared they would be sympathetic to the Spanish and try to take over this new colony. So much for the religiously persecuted. Law Number Four: No lawyers. That was repealed in 1755, you guessed it, by a lawyer. But until there were lawyers, Savannians needed a way to settle their disputes. So the citizens built the Dueling Field, on the backside of Colonial Park Cemetery.
As I turned my gaze from the familiar square, I couldn’t help but notice the gray-sided home on the corner whose basement had been transformed into a quaint little bookstore. I have never passed a bookstore without going inside; it’s sacrilegious.
During my school years, I spent most of my time and money at E. Shavers Booksellers on the corner of Bull and East Harris Streets. My life’s original plan was to open up a little bookstore in the basement of my own home. Since reading William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, I believed kids needed a place to experience the world of adventure and make-believe, a safe place to get lost in the turmoil of undisciplined youth. Remembering my dreams made me realize I had left little room for someone else’s. Grant had probably figured that out long before.
Trying not to contemplate Miss Converse’s false beauty any further, I opened the tucked-away door and stepped into an enchanted land, Katherine’s Corner Bookstore.
Everything was neatly categorized and organized. There was history, fiction, nonfiction, new releases, and, of course, local-interest titles in a prominent display in the front. I laughed when I saw the book that featured pictures of my home—well, not exactly my home. A local publisher doing a new book about Savannah asked Vicky if she would allow them to shoot a couple of our rooms for the book, because our home is on the Historical Register. Well, you would have thought she had been crowned Miss Saint Patrick’s Day Queen. We thought she was going to make us move to a hotel for a week so nothing would be touched once her interior designer came in and did a “fluff.”
My mother worked frantically to make sure everything was perfect. But in the end, the only pictures that didn’t develop correctly were the ones they had taken of the inside of our house. By the time this was discovered, it was too late to do another photo shoot. Dad would have refused to go through the torture again anyway. So instead of this lovely book having pictures of Vicky’s décor, the publishers used photos someone had taken of the previous owners’ interior.
You won’t find this lovely picture book lying around in Vicky’s parlor, that’s for sure, but a very nice book it is, even if Vicky’s fluffing has been omitted.
A striking lady, probably in her late forties, appeared from behind a bookcase. She caught my eye and smiled, her beautiful dark eyes reflecting the soft track lighting. “Can I help you find anything, honey?” she asked.
She was carrying a stack of magazines to the rack by the front door, and the sun caught her salt-and-pepper hair, a rarity in these parts. Southern women, for the most part, don’t want you to think their hair has ever seen gray, even if they’re eighty and walking with a cane. She wore little makeup, but a stunning color of red lipstick and simple jewelry complemented her natural olive complexion perfectly.
“No, I was just walking and saw your great little store here. How long have you been open?”
“Only about a month. But the remodeling took over a year, so it’s really nice to just feel settled.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here originally, but I moved to Birmingham with my husband when we were first married so he could work in his father’s business. When my husband passed away, I decided to come back home,” she said, taking outdated magazines to the counter.
“Oh, I’m really sorry.”
“Well, thank you. Jim suffered for almost two years with cancer. So I was ready to let him go. Don’t take that the wrong way, but when you love someone like that, the last thing you want is to see them suffer.”
I nodded.
“Eventually, letting go is easier than holding on. Our children are grown and have all moved away, so I decided there was no better time than now to try out my dreams,” she said, indicating the store with a sweeping gesture.
“Well, I think you’ve done a wonderful job with your dream. It’s perfectly quaint.”
“I hope you’ll feel free to stop by anytime. Do you live around here?”
“Yes, ma’am. On Abercorn Street across from Clary’s.”
A flicker of recognition came to her eyes as she posed my most dreaded question.“Oh, are you Victoria Phillips’s daughter?”
“Yes, ma’am. And Jake’s too,” I added for my own peace of mind. “Savannah, Savannah Phillips,” I said, holding my hand out, hoping she would not hold my heritage against me. “Do you know them?”
“Well, I’ve met your father,” she said, grasping my hand in a solid, confident shake.“Hello, Savannah, I’m Katherine Owens.”
I smiled back, still wondering.
“I stop in at your father’s place now and then. He is a doll. And so is that sweet Richard. Now, your mother I haven’t met yet, but I’ve heard a lot about her.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I heard your mother is responsible for much of the recent restoration around here.”
“Yes, she is. There’s something about her and this city.”
“Then perhaps that explains your beautiful name?”
For some reason Katherine’s question didn’t irritate me. I smiled.“Maybe so.”
She smiled back. “So are you just here for the summer?”
“No, I just finished my master’s and moved back here to find a job,” I said, then added, “Actually, I’ve found the place I want to work, but I’m not so sure if they’re going to want me.”
“Oh, really! What do you mean?”
“That’s a long story. But let’s just say that I should hear something by this evening.”
“You sound like a rather interesting character,” she said with a faint laugh. “Well, Savannah, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’m going to go back to my cataloging. New fiction is on the back wall, and new nonfiction is right beside it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, this one isn’t new, but I’ve been rereading some classics lately,” she said, reaching into a shelf and pulling out Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. “It takes me back.”
“I love that one too,” I said, taking the book from her extended hand.“Atticus Finch, a man to be admired.”
Leaving the bookstore to head back home, I noticed the decorative fish spout she had put on her gutters. Another indication of the lady she was, so understatedly overstated. She captured my attention without ever changing the volume of her voice. Not like my mother, who had a Chamber-of-Commerce Victoria voice, and a hold-on-to-your-britches “Mama’s home” kind of voice. Katherine was just a lady. A lady to be admired.
The note on the kitchen counter read, “Vanni, Mom has a late Chamber meeting. I’m meeting Dad after work to do some things at the shop. Dinner is on your own, unless you want to come grab a bite with us later. Love,Thomas.”
The phone rang, commencing a desperate search for it. Thomas never left it on its cradle, so I didn’t stand a chance of get- ting to it before the person on the other end hung up or was sent off to voice mail heaven. Fortunately, it was close by, underneath the newspaper on the kitchen table.
“Hello.”
“Savannah Phillips, please.” I knew immediately who it was.
“This is she,” I replied, trying to hide the terror in my voice.
“Ms. Phillips, this is Mr. Hicks. I’ve been reading your work this afternoon, and, well, it’s not bad.”
“Thank you, sir.” I think.
“I’ve decided I’m willing to give you a month to prove yourself. I’d like you to start a week from Monday. You can run one human-interest story each week, in two parts. And I’m not going to tell anyone you are Gloria’s replacement until I know that you can handle the pace around here.”
“I understand.”
“Most of our entry-level positions start at four hundred dollars a week, with one week’s vacation after the first year. We offer one week’s sick leave your first year and pay health insurance.”
“I don’t believe this position is entry-level, sir. My articles will probably be the most-read next to your headline news. Doesn’t that alone make me more valuable?”
“So what do you think you should be paid, young lady?”
Put on the spot, I backtracked. “You know, Mr. Hicks, four hundred will be fine, actually. I really need six hundred to be able to move out into an apartment. But I’ll just work up to that.”
He probably believed I was playing him. But I really did need six hundred dollars a week.“How about we meet in the middle, Savannah? I’ll give you five hundred and a week’s vacation this year. But you need to remember, the newspaper business isn’t a place for getting rich; it’s a place for creating change.”
He got the no-rich part right. I just hoped I could eat. But decided it would be a good excuse for having to eat at my mother’s . Then I almost got mad, realizing if she hadn’t ruined my publishing deal, there’s no telling what I could be making right now.“That will be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Oh, and one more thing, you’ll make sure you don’t interrupt conversations you are not privy to.”
I simply replied, “I’ll be there.”
“Very well. I’ll see you Monday. Your first story is due Tuesday.”
Tuesday? One could spend a year or two writing a book. How in the world was I going to have two articles ready in a little over a week? “That’s no problem,” I said.“Would you mind if I came in tomorrow and went through Gloria’s research materials?”
“Not at all. I’ll make sure Rich Greer, our weekend editor, knows you’re coming. I’ll see you in a week.” And with that he hung up the phone.
I set down the phone and did a jig around the kitchen. I was going to be Gloria. I was going to be a newspaper writer. Grabbing my cell phone, I got in the car to go to Jake’s and called Paige immediately.
“You goob! I can’t believe you are not answering the phone!” I said when her voice mail answered.“I got a call from Mr. Happy Hicks! He’s giving me the job! For at least a month, he says, but in one month he’ll be mine. Call me!” I pulled up right in front of Dad’s store, almost knocking over two elderly people in plaid shorts. I apologized as best I could.
Richard was behind the counter pouring some decaf for a young woman.“Put the cup down, Richard.” As soon as he did, I gave him a bear hug and a big kiss on the cheek. Then I grabbed him by both arms, looked straight into his eyes, and said, “I got a job, Richard. A real job.”
Richard let out a big whoop and spun me around behind the counter. My foot caught an empty coffeepot, and it crashed to the floor. Out came Dad,Thomas, Louise, and Mervine.
“Savannah, you got a job?” my dad asked.
“Yes, I got a job. Can you believe it? I pulled a Vicky and it worked. I got a job! I mean it could have blown up in my face. But really, it was the perfect thing to happen. He saw my tenacity, my drive, my passion he called it. He—”
“Breathe, Savannah,” Dad said.
Louise and Mervine scurried away and were back in no time with a cherry floating in a big old Coke.“Special occasions require special things,” Louise said. Mervine,well, she just shook her head. In thirteen years I had never heard Mervine do much more than agree. Maybe she was mute, but now didn’t seem like the right time to ask.
“Vanni, you’re the man!” Thomas hooted. “I never dreamed you could get a job so quick. Who’s paying who?” He leaned against the door that led to the back.
“And what kind of job did you actually get?” Dad asked.
“Well”—I spread my arms wide and grinned—“You are looking at the next human-interest writer for the Savannah Chronicle.”
Richard, who was trying to clean up the mess we had made and actually give coffee to the lady at the counter, set down the cup and said,“That was what Gloria Richardson did. My,my,my Savannah, those are some mighty big shoes for your dainty little feet.”
“Savannah, that’s fantastic. When did you decide you wanted to do this?” Dad straightened his apron over his crisp short-sleeve green polo shirt.
“Well, it all started with that paper Mother kept sending me.” I filled him in while everyone else returned to thirsty sojourners.
When I finished, he said,“I’m very proud of you.”
“I learned something along the way, too . Ya wanna hear?”
“Shoot,” he said, leaning on his elbow and giving me his undivided attention. Something he had always done. From skinned knees to broken hearts, Dad knew when the world needed to stop.
“I saw a lot of people pass through the halls of academia, Dad. But they were so caught up in themselves. Everyone wanted to be the best, you know, have the perfect talent or the loudest applause. But no one seemed to see the real joy in the fact that they had a gift at all. Do you know what I mean?”
“How about I see where you’re going to land.”
“Well, it’s like they missed it. Like the guys who sacrificed everything to be the first in the college draft, even if it meant giving up their character. They had the gift but missed the purpose.”
“A lot of people do that.”
“Well, I don’t want to, Dad.”
“Then always be gracious, Savannah.” Dad paused in a way that said I’d better listen up. “Your gift will make room for you. Sometimes it will bring you before great people. But it isn’t your gift, Savannah; it’s simply been entrusted to you. So hold it modestly. And remember, wisdom will be needed for every decision you make, just like you needed it for this one.”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To keep me humble and give me wisdom?” I kissed him on the cheek and raised my half-empty glass.“Here’s to gifts.”
Dad raised his coffee cup and added,“Here’s to a paycheck.”
We closed up the shop, but everyone stayed, and we spent the next three hours talking over Chinese takeout. Everyone had suggestions for what my first story should be. Then they all added their two cents about how I should tell my mother. The real beauty of the moment, however, was that I had a job she didn’t even know about.
Everything was perfectly situated—the pillow, the light, the book,my water—when the slight tap on the door interrupted the quiet. Vicky peeked in.
“I hear you had a rather eventful day!” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Yes, I did. But who told you?” I asked, laying my book across my chest and trying to conceal my annoyance.
“Your father, but that was about all he gave me. He said you would want to tell me yourself.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“So what happened that is so exciting?”
“Well, first tell me about your day. You’re in mighty late.” I knew this would buy me a little time to get my story in place. And like Paige, it never took much to sidetrack my mother. Past adventures proved that.
Like after she tired of decorating our home she went on a Fact Finding mission for our fair city. When Vicky found out there was a store named Jezebel on River Street, you would have thought the sun had stopped shining on the South. Vicky worked herself into a lather, sure the heathens had come to town and pretty soon we were going to have massage parlors on every corner doing “Lord knows what!”
“I’m sure the Lord knows what,” I told her.
She got mad that I would even suggest that the Lord would know what went on inside a massage parlor.
Then one day we heard that she had actually gone inside Jezebels. Well,we figured whoever owned that store had been subjected to a big-time come-to-Jesus meeting. But the store owner, now one of Mother’s best friends, told us later that Vicky was so overtaken by the green linen ensemble in the window that she stayed until three that afternoon, trying on clothes and telling her life story. She denied it was true. But then we saw her leave the house in an outfit in the lovely shade of green.
“Oh, a few members of the Chamber are trying to change my mind about some of the tour guides having to dress in original southern dresses. They want everyone to wear those khaki shorts and logoed button-up shirts. I still can’t believe you were able to talk me into allowing that in the first place,” she said, poking me under the covers. “It’s so unprofessional.”
Vicky is colossally concerned with the impression Savannah visitors take home with them. She feels if they don’t want, even long, to return, then she has failed as the head of the Chamber. So she decided a couple of years ago to make sure that every aspect of our social graces was operating, well, with grace. It began with her incognito rides on the local Savannah touring trolleys, horse-drawn carriages, or walks in one of the walking tours. If the tour guides didn’t entertain the visitors, if they didn’t know Savannah history as well as they did the ins and outs of their own families, if they didn’t create a total feeling of consummate hospitality, Vicky would inform the guides’ bosses of their inability to “capture their audience.”
“Just remember,” established tour guides tell the new recruits, “real tourists don’t wear high heels. If you spot one, it’s her. And if she doesn’t leave your tour crying, you are over.”
She still has no idea they are onto her. And I’m not about to tell her. There’s nothing more amusing than driving past a trolley car and watching the guide with more motions than a synchronized swimmer, while Vicky sits in the back in her pink hat and large sunglasses. She looks like a bad Susan Lucci impersonator, thinking no one knows who she is.
Where I really feel Mother has gone over the edge, however, is in this crinoline controversy. Back when I was in high school, I passed one of the tour guides in a full-length peach dress, with about forty-five layers of crinoline and a huge bonnet with roughly the same number of flowers on top. She was giving a tour dressed up in this garb with the heat index at 110 degrees. Her makeup had melted, and she had mascara tracks all the way to her chin.
Most of it had pooled at the top of her lace collar, which looked as if it was choking her. Poor thing was trying to blot herself with a tissue and spin a parasol at the same time.
I came home and told Mother, “This is totally inhumane. You should at least give those poor pitiful souls a choice.” I didn’t figure anyone would choose to wear those ridiculous getups, and Vicky didn’t either, so she compromised by breaking it up half and half. God bless the miserable creatures who were at the cutoff line of the crinolines.
I closed my book and laid it on the nightstand and put my arms behind my head, thinking we might be here for a while. “People get enough of the authentic here without making others endure human torture.”
“Well, you start snipping away, and pretty soon we’re no better than Charleston.”
“Mother, Charleston is beautiful, and I doubt they make their people dress up like bad southern belle impersonators just to make tourists feel they’ve had a real cultural experience.”
“You don’t think they wear those kind of dresses in Charleston?”
“No, Mother. Charleston is progressive, and you need to be careful not to hold Savannah back from what most would see as progress.”
“But I love those dresses. The girls look so sweet in them,” she said, having no recollection as to why she had come into my room.
I rolled over on my side and yawned, hoping this would not be a terminal discussion.
“Well, I still haven’t decided,” she said, not moving.
“You mean you kept those people in a meeting for almost five hours without reaching a decision?” I asked in mock disbelief.
“Yes, but I’m too tired to worry about it anymore tonight. I’ll think about it tomorrow.” She leaned over and kissed me good night. When she reached the door, she turned back around and cut out the light. Standing in the doorway, the hall light created her silhouette. “I know you think I forgot why I came in here, but you obviously aren’t ready to tell me your news. So I’ll just let you tell me when you’re ready.” The door closed behind her.
“The lady is good,” I said to the door.