“Has he said anything about me?” I asked BeBe. She was helping me paint the carriage house in a show of solidarity.
The team’s current goal was to have my shop open by November 1. And it was already October now.
“Who?” She was painting the trim around the front window in what had been my living room.
She knew exactly whom I meant. “Daniel.”
“He barely speaks to me, let alone mentions your name,” BeBe said. “I tried to apologize. Honey, I groveled. And you know God did not give BeBe Loudermilk a groveling gene.”
“Is he seeing anybody?”
She pretended to be interested in a crack in the plaster, studying it, turning her head this way and that to get a better view.
“Nobody important,” she said finally.
“Who is the slut?” My face burned. In the weeks since Daniel had gone out of my life, I’d made up countless fantasies about him. He was hurt, desperately hurt. And so alone. In my fantasies, he cooked nonstop, dicing and slicing, sautéing away his misery. Or he worked on the Tybee beach house, brooding and alone, obsessing over Sheetrock and cabinets and tile backsplashes. There were no other women in my fantasies of Daniel’s post-me life.
“She’s nobody,” BeBe said. “If she weren’t the best waitress I’d ever seen in any restaurant on the planet, I’d fire her in a minute.”
“She works for you?”
“She’s got a really funny-looking chin,” BeBe said. “And serious depilatory issues. But with tits like hers, I guess guys can overlook a little goatee.”
“You’re not making me feel better,” I said. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is not important,” BeBe said.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.”
“Since you put it like that, it’s Michelene.”
“Tell me she’s not French.”
“Not really French. Sort of Alsatian, I think.”
“Same thing. Is she blond?
BeBe stepped back and gave the wall we were painting an appraising eye. “I think we’re going to knock this booger out with only one coat, don’t you?”
“At least tell me she’s not a natural blond,” I pleaded.
“Usually that shade of blue eyes goes with that shade of blond hair,” BeBe said. “But maybe she’s a mutant. I really couldn’t say.”
Swell. The one love of my life was dating a blue-eyed natural blond French waitress who could balance a cocktail tray on her tits.
“I want her terminated,” I said, dipping my roller into a pan of Benjamin Moore Decorator White. (Eggshell finish.)
“Don’t ask me to do that,” BeBe said plaintively. “Michelene is the best waitress I’ve ever seen. The customers adore her. Especially the men. My wine business is up thirty percent since she came to work for me. I can’t just fire her.”
“I don’t want her fired. I want her assassinated,” I said, staring moodily at the stark white walls. “Are they sleeping together?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, trying for demure. On BeBe, it was not a good fit.
“Well, what do you think?”
“If Daniel’s getting laid, it’s not helping his personality any,” she said. “God, what a crank.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
She considered. “If they are sleeping together, it’s not exclusive.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Is he bonking the whole wait staff?”
“Daniel?” She laughed. “It’s Michelene who isn’t particular. She’s quite the little party girl.”
“Does Daniel know?” As I waited for her answer it occurred to me that I was holding my breath.
“I’ll tell you the truth, since you asked. I’m not sure Daniel gives a tinker’s damn either way.”
I swallowed hard and forced my breath in and out. “So. It’s not…Like…real love? Nothing like that?”
“Not hardly,” BeBe said. “It’s damn odd. I know they…date. But at work, he hardly looks at her. It’s strictly business. He’s not nearly as much fun to be around since you two broke up.”
“Broke up.” I repeated the phrase. “That’s not really accurate for what happened, is it? I mean, it wasn’t like we had a real fight, or agreed to see other people, or to call it off. It was just—bam! Combustion. Spontaneous combustion. One minute we were talking about James and the next minute, after I confessed I knew about his mama and Hoyt Gambrell, that was it. He turned to ice. And then he turned around and walked right out of my life. I haven’t talked to him since.”
BeBe patted my shoulder. “I know, shug.” She sure did. She’d heard me say virtually the same thing at least a dozen times since that night. I’d cried and moaned and gnashed my teeth and just generally gone batshit over what had gone wrong between Daniel and me.
“Why don’t you just call him?” BeBe asked now, not for the first time. “Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“And why in hell not?” she asked.
“He’s over me.”
“Look at the bright side of things,” BeBe said. “You got Tal out of your life, didn’t you?”
“Actually, it was Mama who did that. I don’t want to think about what would have happened to me the night Tal showed up if Mama hadn’t arrived with her tuna noodle surprise.”
BeBe giggled. “Did you ever in your wildest imagination believe one of your mama’s casseroles would save your life?”
“Take it, maybe, but not save it,” I agreed.
“How’s she doing with the rehab?” BeBe asked.
“Pretty good. Her therapist used to be a Jesuit priest. He went to school with Uncle James. Naturally, she thinks he’s God. He told her she should get a new hobby. Something to keep her occupied.”
“What’s she doing? Knitting? Decoupage?”
“I wish,” I said, sighing. “To celebrate Mama’s being sober for a whole month, Daddy went out and got a satellite dish. Now they’ve got one hundred twelve channels of cable, including the Food Network. And she’s gone berserk with cooking. That tuna noodle casserole was just the tip of the baked Alaska.”
“How nice,” BeBe said.
“Being sober has not made her a better cook,” I said. “I hate to say it, but at least when she was drinking, Mama knew her limitations. The only cookbook she owned was the red-and-white checked one she got at her wedding shower. Now she’s trying all these exotic dishes. Couscous, for God’s sake.”
“I like couscous,” BeBe said.
“You could spackle plaster with hers,” I said. “And don’t get me started on her version of ratatouille.” I shuddered. “I chipped a molar trying to eat it.”
“On ratatouille?”
“She hasn’t quite figured out simmering yet.”
“I think it’s sweet,” BeBe said. “What’s the harm in it?”
“She’s about to kill Daddy, that’s all,” I said. “Over the years, he’d gotten used to his little routine. Some tea and toast at breakfast, a sandwich at lunch, and takeout for dinner. Up until Mama got sober, he could still get in the same mailman’s uniform he was issued when he was twenty-two. But now. My God. She gets up at the crack of dawn, whips up pancakes and waffles and omelettes and I don’t know what all. And before he’s got the breakfast dishes cleaned up, she’s shoving something else across the table at him.”
“Has she got a specialty?”
“Cake,” I said. “If it’s not Coca-Cola cake, it’s Seven-Up cake. She bakes like a fiend. Every day when I come home, there’s an aluminum-foil–wrapped package on my back door. Did you ever hear of chocolate cake made with tomato soup before?”
“I always just thought that was somebody’s idea of a sick joke.”
“I don’t think she read the recipe right,” I said. “I was starving, so I took a bite. I think she used Clamato juice by accident. Even Jethro wouldn’t touch it.”
“Does your mama know about your uncle?”
I nodded and smiled. “She even had James and Jonathan over for dinner. We warned him ahead of time, and he had half a pack of Pepcid as an appetizer. You know Jonathan. He’s so proper, so Southern. He raved about Mama’s meatloaf. Now she makes him one once a week. He just sticks them in the freezer. I told him when he has enough he can get some of her couscous and build him an addition onto James’s den.”
BeBe inspected her nails and flicked a spot of paint from her white overalls. “You going to Merijoy’s big wingding tonight?”
I grimaced. “I promised her I would come. It was the only way to get her to help me corner Lewis Hargreaves. And you know Merijoy. She never forgets a promise. God. Why did I ever get mixed up with that woman?”
“Because she helped you get the goods on Hargreaves. And helped you get your mitts on that cupboard of yours.”
I dropped my roller in the kitchen sink and began rinsing it out.
“OK. It was worth it. I never in my life thought I would sell a single piece of furniture for that kind of money.”
“Seventy-five thousand is serious money,” BeBe said. “Does Randy Rucker know how much Merijoy paid for that thing?”
“He knows,” I said. “Merijoy likes to pretend it’s a big game, keeping secrets from him, but Randy is totally gaga over her. And I think he’s really pretty proud that she single-handedly raised the money to buy Beaulieu and tracked down so many of the original furnishings. Besides, the Ruckers are so rich, seventy-five thousand is pin money to them.”
“Are you taking a date?”
“Are you?”
“Emery Cooper.” She actually blushed when she said it.
I whooped. “Emery! I thought you had a moratorium on dating newly divorced men.”
“The divorce papers were final a year ago Tuesday. I made him show them to me. And his wife is getting remarried. She’s taking the kids and moving to Atlanta.”
“Is this getting serious?”
She fluffed her hair so that it fell behind her ears, and for the first time I noticed the earrings. Diamonds. At least a carat apiece.
“BeBe!” I gave her a hug. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“It does if you think a gift of diamond earrings means a gentleman can expect an especially cordial welcome at the end of an evening,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how soon he sells that mortuary,” she said, shuddering. “I can’t be married to a man who plays with the dead.”
“Can I be the maid of honor?”
“Who else?” she said. “I was counting on you baking the wedding cake too. Now what about tonight? Are you taking a date?”
“James volunteered to go with me,” I said. “Jonathan has to work late because he has grand-jury presentations tomorrow. To tell you the truth though, I’d just as soon stay home.”
“No way,” BeBe said. “You two can double-date with Emery and me. We’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Wait ’til you see the darlin’ little Bentley Emery took delivery on last week.”
“I guess,” I said, drying the roller off with a paper towel. “What’s the dress for this thing, anyway?”
“The invitation says black tie, so I’m wearing a cocktail dress. Strapless. And my hair up, so everybody in town will burn with envy when they see my diamonds.”
“Great,” I said. “The only cocktail dress I own is the one that fell to shreds that night at the Ruckers’.”
“Borrow one of mine,” BeBe said. “I’ve got a whole closetful of things. Some of ’em still with the price tags hanging off ’em.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d feel funny wearing your dress.”
“But you don’t feel funny running around town wearing some dead lady’s dress you found at the Goodwill?”
“That’s different,” I said. “Those clothes are vintage.”
“Mine are vintage too,” she said. “There are even a couple dresses left over from my first marriage. Now that’s vintage. I’ll gather some things up and drop them by for you this afternoon. All right?”
“All right,” I said finally. “Can I borrow your diamond earrings too?”
“Never.”