At six A.M. I heard the click of the key card in the lock and looked up from tying my sneakers. Austin stood in the doorway with his own shoes in his hands, and on his face, an alluring combination of glee and guilt.
“Nice night?” I asked.
“What are you doing?” he asked, letting the shoes drop to the floor. “We can’t leave yet. I know you said early, but not this early.”
“Relax,” I said. “Get some sleep. I’ve got some shopping to do, so we probably won’t get out of here until at least noon.”
He dropped down on the bed beside me, and buried his head in the pillows. “Thank Gawd. I should know better than to drink gin in this climate.”
“I take it you made some nice new friends?” I asked.
“Nice and naughty.” His voice was muffled under all those pillows. “I could never live down here. I would be dead in six months. Partied completely to death.”
I stood up and did some stretches. “Noon,” I warned. “You’ve got six hours to make a complete and total recovery before we blow town.”
I had the elevator all to myself. And the lobby of the DeSoto was nearly empty too. It was still near dark outside the hotel. As I walked through Chippewa Square, past a homeless man dozing on a bench near the statue of General Oglethorpe, I headed north down Drayton Street. I had no plan. Just to get a walk in before Savannah’s ungodly heat and humidity blanketed the town. And maybe a little window shopping.
As I walked, I thought about Mulberry Hill. I had made a good start on decorating it, but there was something missing.
The sketches looked great, I knew. But when I totaled up all the pieces I had bought or ordered, nothing seemed to come together. It dawned on me that I was designing by rote, buying things because of a pedigree or name recognition. Stephanie would know a Brunswig & Fils fabric. Stephanie could appreciate the glamour of an Empire mahogany sideboard or a gilt Regency mirror and a custom-colored Stark carpet. But as I arranged the rooms in my mind’s eye, it all seemed forced, and cold—stuffy and pompous and decidedly unimaginative.
How could this be? For the first time ever, I had a project with a virtually unlimited budget. And a killer deadine, it was true. But I’d had a killer deadline for the pump house and I’d had a field day decorating it on a virtual shoestring.
Gloria’s rules echoed in my head. Good rugs. Good art. One good antique. I’d blown the opportunity to buy a museum-quality chest the night before. But why did good have to equal expensive?
I certainly had some good—and cheap—rugs. I’d planned on buying an expensive Aubusson for the dining room, and something equally grand for the twin parlors. But the jewellike reds and blues of the rugs I’d bought last night could work in the ground-floor rooms at Mulberry Hill. And the blue and white porcelains—even the slightly chipped and damaged pieces—would bring that imperfect English country house look to rooms that wanted to be warm and lived-in.
As I walked, I watched the downtown Savannah skyline—shabby, yet intimate—come alive with daylight. If I tilted my head at just the right angle, I could see a row of church spires poking above moss-draped oak trees. Slowly, a new plan came together. I would make a home that would make Stephanie fall in love—if not with Will, with it. But I could only do this well if I pleased myself, by pleasing Will. I would not throw money at this project. Instead, I’d invest my own well-trained eye and imagination.
I turned to the right, toward the next square. The historic district was dotted with elegant antiques shops, most of which I’d shopped in before. I paused in front of an old favorite, Josephine’s, on Jones Street, which took up the basement and parlor floors of a red brick 1840s townhouse. In the basement window a woman was busily rearranging her merchandise. She’d stacked paintings, a grandfather clock, and a damask-upholstered Queen Anne wing chair to the side of the window and was pushing a new piece to the center of attraction. The woman had black horn-rimmed glasses. The new piece was the walnut chest-on-chest she’d purchased the night before. She turned and recognized me. A moment later the door to the shop opened and she popped her head out.
“You can still buy it,” she called to me. “It’s the best one I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot.”
“It’s wonderful,” I agreed. “But too rich for me. What are you asking for it, can I ask?”
She smiled broadly. “Thirty thousand. A steal, don’t you think?”
At York Street, on Wright Square, I stopped to look in the window of an antiques shop I’d never seen before. It was called @Home, and the vignette arranged there made me smile. A large pine demilune console table had heavily carved bowed legs and just traces of peeling palest blue paint. A black tole planter filled with lemons was placed askew on the table, with a casually thrown crocheted-lace cloth draping to the floor. I loved the artlessness of the vignette, but the table was clearly the star of the show. Its scale was cartoonish and its condition was imperfect, but it spoke to me. It would be the perfect centerpiece for the entry hall at Mulberry Hill. I put my face to the glass to peer in, hoping to catch sight of a price tag, but I couldn’t see one.
I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even seven yet, and the stenciled sign on the shop’s door said it didn’t open until ten.
So I marched on. Around the squares, with a stop at the Amoco gas station on Drayton, for a surprisingly good banana nut muffin and a bottle of cold water and a copy of the local newspaper. Still only eight o’clock. I found a bench in another quiet square off Charlton Street, near the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. I’d never seen Troupe Square before, but liked it instantly for the cool swath of green grass and the antique iron armillary in the center, instead of the more usual statue.
I sipped my water and nibbled at my muffin, shooing away the scavenging pigeons who flew too close. I killed time by browsing through the newspaper, saving the best—the classified ads—for last. I’d hoped for an estate sale to occupy my time until the shop on York Street opened, but the few sales advertised for that morning were garage sales in the far suburbs of Savannah that I was unfamiliar with.
At nine I trudged through the scorching heat back to the Hilton. When I opened the door to the room, Austin was splayed out on the bed, facedown, still fully clothed. I let the door close loudly. He didn’t move.
I showered, changed, and packed my overnight bag. Finally I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my lips to Austin’s ears.
“Wake up, loverboy,” I whispered. “We’ve got work to do.”
He groaned and put another pillow over his head. “Leave me here. I’ll take the bus back to Madison.”
“Not on your life,” I said, shaking him now. “Come on. I found a great piece at a shop here, and I want to go buy it before somebody else beats me to the punch.”
Austin moaned and groaned, but with a combination of threats and pleading, he finally got moving. While he showered, I went downstairs, paid the bill, and got him a cup of coffee.
We pulled the truck up to the shop on York just as a young woman was unlocking the shop.
I jumped out and met her at the door. “The table in the window,” I said, momentarily throwing caution to the wind. Never appear anxious was the antiques buyer’s rule. To hell with that. I wanted that table.
She jumped, startled, I guess, by my intensity so early in the morning. She had short dark hair, wore a tank top that bared an impressive tattoo on her left forearm, cutoff green fatigues, and black high-top Converse sneakers.
“It’s an awesome piece, don’t you think?” the girl asked, opening the door. A small gray kitten streaked past me as I stepped inside.
“Biedermeier,” the girl cooed, scooping the kitten up in her arms. “Were you out all night, you bad tomcat?”
I looked out the window at the van, with Austin slumped down in the passenger seat. “There’s a lot of that in Savannah, it seems.”
She let the cat down and nodded sagely. “It’s the humidity. People forget themelves.”
“About the table,” I began.
The girl moved around the shop, snapping on the lights. “It’s six hundred,” she said firmly. “We just picked it up this past week, so I really can’t cut the price so soon.”
I reached for my checkbook. “Perfect.”