Inside her bathroom, upstairs, Lillian removed the sales tag from a new jogging suit. She laughed to herself, returning the scissors to the top drawer, and stealing a quick glance in the large mirror above the vanity. “Oh boy, I needed that,” she whispered to herself. “Aging is a bitch.” She was naked other than a bikini bra and panties. Stepping into her sweatpants, she moved closer to the mirror. Gone were the firm boobs and abs. Gone was her curvaceous figure of long ago. Even her bright blue eyes were growing darker, sadder. “I need to jog for sure, maybe begin with a daily walk down Skyhaven Drive. Sixty-six is not too late for some radical change.” Again, whispering aloud, then standing mum. She imagined it would take weeks before she could jog back to the Lodge from the foot of the Drive. Hate was the only word she could think of to describe how she felt about the Lodge and Skyhaven.
After dressing, she combed her silky brown hair (Camilla, her hairdresser, hid the gray) and heard the front door chime. Ray’s voice thundered and floated upwards throughout the great room and its twenty-four feet ceiling. It also slithered through the opened bathroom door. “Let’s have a drink.” She knew he had been at Attorney Wright’s office all day with the real estate closings, even though it wasn’t necessary. Archer, Inc. was leasing the property from the City.
But she didn’t want a drink. She’d rather, well, what? Take a jog? A walk would be more practical. Anything except playing happy with Ray. A second before announcing her declination, Lillian heard a second voice.
“How about some bourbon? We deserve an entire bottle.” It had to be Mayor King. He, like Ray, had spent all day in Guntersville, just to make sure none of the property owners got cold feet. They hadn’t. All had gone as planned. Attorney Wright had even said he was certain Judge Broadside would grant the City’s motion. Clearing the way to acquire the Hunt House.
“Jack and Coke, okay?” Ray’s favorite. Lillian eased to the bathroom door. If he stayed downstairs, he couldn’t see her. She wondered if he knew she was home. But how could he? An hour ago, she had dropped off her Lincoln Aviator at Alexander Ford for service and to investigate that strange grinding noise when she braked. Kyla, her friend, had driven her home and had left only a few minutes ago, after coming inside to borrow Lillian’s copy of Grisham’s new book.
“Where’s Lillian?” Ted didn’t care for Ray’s wife, but he certainly cared about privacy.
“She must still be with Kyla. She’s not here. Her car wasn’t in the driveway or garage.” Ray said from the bar, ice cubes clattering.
“Is she liking this place any better?” Ray had shared Lillian’s dissatisfaction over their move six months ago from their home in Country Club. He knew it was the Lodge’s history. Two years ago, local entrepreneur and City council member Wiley Jones was murdered upstairs inside his study. Lillian was standing less than twenty-five feet from where it happened. A door on the other side of her bathroom led inside a walk-in closet and on to another door and secret room, one Mr. Jones had used as a private office. His wife, Linda, had found him tied to his desk chair, his brains everywhere.
“Not really. I’m hoping the renovation of Wiley’s hideaway will solve the problem.” It will, Lillian thought, anything to have her own space: large bath and bedroom with private balcony, and the huge hideaway where she could read and scribble. And anything to avoid sleeping with Ray in the giant master bedroom downstairs.
Lillian eased through the bathroom door onto the landing. She peeked over the railing and saw Ray sitting in his favorite chair with Ted standing, backed up to the dormant fireplace. She quickly retreated when she imagined Ted’s eyes looking straight at her.
“We still set to sign on the fifteenth?” Ted was excited. Ray’s in-progress development was the City’s fifth major project since he’d become mayor in 2016. Old Mill Park, the new recreational center, the downtown renovation, and the high school’s Fine Arts Center were the other four (although the school board was due more credit for the latter). Once completed, Ray’s development, Rylan’s, with its thirty retail stores, would be the most expensive investment in Boaz since the outlets in the late 80s.
“Probably. My attorney’s reviewing the lease agreement. He says it’s imperative we wait until the city acquires the Hunt House. None of my cajoling has changed his mind.” The attorney wasn’t the only holdout. Ray himself had no interest in going forward unless he controlled the entire block.
“That’s nearly two weeks. Rob will sign the deed. He’ll have no choice.”
“You’re assuming the Judge will get on board.”
“I don’t think he has a choice either. I assume you’ve been reading the community anger from the Reporter’s article. Lillian had read every letter to the editor and Facebook comment since last Thursday’s newspaper. She was angry the Sand Mountain Reporter had been so open about Rob and Rosa’s opposition. Many online commenters expressed their thoughts with vitriolic terms: “the Kern’s don’t love Boaz”; “they are greedy”, and on and on with the same negative theme. But Lillian knew the true reason Rob was so adamant, even if every other citizen except Ray didn’t have a clue. Now that Ray’s mother was dead, the group who knew about Ray and Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion grew even smaller: Ray, his semi-senile father, Rob and Rosa, and possibly Lee. But he was just a guess. The group’s remaining member was herself, but that was her secret.
For the next several minutes, Ted responded to Ray’s question concerning additional parking. The mayor was confident the city would find the funding needed to acquire the block due west of Rylan’s. The deteriorating property contained one abandoned residence and three buildings whose glory had long passed. Built in the mid-fifties, Cox Chevrolet, and Jack Oliver Ford had once been the heartbeat of North Main Street. Now, the crumbling buildings barely survived. The old Ford place was now a warehouse of sorts, mostly junk. A Hispanic church and a Mexican restaurant leased the two Cox buildings from an out-of-town great-granddaughter. Making the City more ‘American,’ as Ted described it, had been a vibrant but unspoken goal of the four-year mayor.
Lillian got bored and retreated inside the bath. She lowered the commode lid and sat. She could still hear voices but was free of words. The two egoists were reviling for many reasons, least of which was their hypocrisy. She wasted thoughts comparing the Sunday Ray with the every-other-day Ray. Chairman of Deacons and Men’s Sunday School teacher at First Baptist Church of Christ. That’s Sunday Ray. Chasing women and money was the every-other-day Ray.
Finally, a Crimson Tide ring tone erupted. It had to be Ted’s cell. Ray normally set his to vibrate. Another minute, more voices, and the front door chime. Lillian rose and walked to the landing. Both men were walking outside. This was her chance. She hurried down the winding staircase, across the great room, and out the back door. A few seconds later, she descended eight steps, turned left to the patio and outdoor kitchen, and sat in a chaise lounge.
***
Lillian dialed Kyla, but the call went to voice mail. Before the Facebook APP opened, Ray descended the back porch stairs.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“Kyla dropped me off. I came here to read and enjoy the view.” Lillian kept a novel or two in a bottom cabinet next to the char grill. The Lodge, constructed of cypress wood, river rock, and glass, sat perched atop the highest point in the county, just beyond the dead end of Skyhaven Drive. The valley below was all forest. It had been a brilliant fall. Red, yellow, brown, and orange still glowed, even glistened, for miles and miles.
“I’ll grill some steaks.” Ray said, walking to the refrigerator, satisfied with Lillian’s response.
“Sounds good. I’m hungry. If it’s okay, let’s eat inside. I’m freezing.” It was early November and one week into daylight savings time. It would be dark in twenty minutes.
Lillian’s cell beeped with a text notification. “I’m putting up groceries. Will call in a few. I hate Walmart.” Kyla had seen the missed call.
“Wait thirty minutes. I’m about to eat dinner. With Ray.” Lillian responded, regretting not having her car, but resigning herself to an evening spent upstairs, talking with her childhood friend.
Kyla Harding was Lee’s younger sister. By one year. Lillian and Kyla had been virtually inseparable until she went away to college and a career in marketing. Six weeks ago, the Coca Cola corporation executive retired and returned to Boaz, to Kyla and Lee’s home place. It had been a tough decision for the never-married Kyla. Not that she didn’t love the cozy farmhouse, barn, and pond centered on forty acres off McVille Road. It was the death of her and Lee’s parents that haunted her. No one, especially an eighty-five-year-old couple, should die in a car wreck.
“You want a salad?” One good thing about Ray was his cooking skills. He fashioned himself a chef. The Lodge’s outdoor kitchen was another reason he’d bought the Lodge. It provided a powerful daily temptation. The kitchen’s semi-circle design displayed a combination of cypress cabinets and ten stainless appliances: two stoves, three grills, an offset smoker, a warming cabinet, a double-door refrigerator, a single door freezer, and a custom designed ten-foot steam table. The lone non-stainless grill was a Blackstone. This eccentric home setup had always motivated Ray to keep a generous supply of pork, beef, chicken, fish, and lamb either fresh or frozen. When he was in town, he grilled something every day, some days he even cooked breakfast on the Blackstone.
“Caesar’s. With Vinaigrette.” Ray nodded his head and turned his attention back to the steaks. The days were long gone when she would have gotten up and walked over and wrapped her arms around the tall and dark-haired man with muscular arms and ribbed abs. Now, it wasn’t just the extra pounds and semi-bent back (post, 2 surgeries). It was the barren desert that lay between them. Lillian pushed aside memories of Ray’s multiple affairs and her own midnight investigations.
Inside, after the rib-eye and salad, and a painfully slow glass of white wine, Lillian excused herself to read and walked upstairs. If she had to hear more about the Rylan’s chain, she would puke.
Lillian lay across her bed, opened The Pelican Brief, and adjusted her reading lamp. It was John Grisham’s third novel, first published in 1994. Darby Shaw was an amazing woman, albeit wholly fictional. Three weeks ago, Lillian had started re-reading her favorite author’s novels. She had already read A Time to Kill and The Partner. It would take her months before she’d need A Time for Mercy, the latest novel she’d loaned Kyla.
It was almost seven-thirty before her cell vibrated. “Hey girl, thought you’d forgot to call.” Lillian laid Pelican aside and stood. The jogging suit was hot. She walked to the doorway and flipped on the ceiling fan.
“Sorry, the goat man came. I thought he was coming tomorrow. He was half-drunk, but I love my Nubians.”
“What?” Lillian wasn’t a farm girl and didn’t understand or appreciate Kyla’s interest in country life. She’d spent forty-plus years in a Buckhead suburb.
“That’s the breed. Anglo-Nubian.”
“How many did you buy?”
“Five. Four females, all pregnant, and one male. They’re beautiful and adorable. Like pets.”
“What color?”
“The male is mostly black. One female is solid brown. The others are a mix of brown and white spots. They all have pendulous ears.” Lillian didn’t ask.
“And you’re really going to milk them?” Lillian remembered visiting Kyla’s home and farm during their high school days. Then, Kyla was naturally smart but country, an outdoor, tom-boyish girl with a distinctive southern twang. Now, and most all her years since college in Atlanta, she was cultured, exuding confidence with her coherent speech, anything but a slow drawl.
“And make cheese.” The sounds that followed Kyla’s statement had to be the bleating of goats.
“You still outside?”
“I’m headed in. I’m leaving them in the barn’s hallway. You should come see them tomorrow when I let them out to pasture.”
“Don’t forget, I’m hoofing it. I’ll be climbing the walls by Friday, assuming my car’s ready by then.”
“I can come get you. Oh, this’ll pick you up. Guess who I talked to?”
“George Clooney? Did you give him my number?”
“Ha. Not George, but the next best thing. For you that is.”
“And who would that be?”
“My brother.” Kyla had always thought Lillian and Lee would get back together. They had dated in the eleventh grade and gone steady throughout their senior year. The bust-up had occurred during Lillian’s freshman year in Tuscaloosa at the University of Alabama. Ray Archer had swooped in and snatched her up, promising a leisure life with travel, money, and none of the headaches of working. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, calling Lee at the University of Virginia and giving him the news. Looking back, it was the worst decision Lillian had ever made.
“Is he retiring? Coming to see you?” Lillian crossed the room and opened the sliding door to the balcony. She needed some cool air. The moon cast its soft light across the narrow porch. She took three steps and looked skyward. The full moon was so close she could touch it, so she imagined.
“Don’t you wish?” Kyla and Lillian shared every secret, well, almost everyone. For sure, through the years, Kyla had listened to her best friend, as her marriage crumbled. To start, the sex had been passionate and frequent, but without intimacy, it was only a quick thrill. Kyla knew Lillian had stayed for the money, not the love. Anyway, what would she do now? She had never worked a day in her life, although there had been that tenth grade Christmas job at Fred King’s, a clothing store in downtown Boaz.
“Is he any better?” Kyla had shared how devastated Lee was over Rachel’s suicide, that he was seeing a counselor, and spending most of his time teaching, advising students, and researching. Except for Saturdays, he was rarely at home.
“Maybe a little. I’m hopeful. He called to ask if Rachel had loaned me a book, one by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. You know, the Lutheran preacher who the Nazi’s hanged during World War II.”
“I think there’s a copy in the church library, but I’ve never read it.”
“No surprise there. I’m hoping this is a sign Lee is rekindling his love for Jesus. His searching for this book is encouraging.”
“It’s probably not what you think. I doubt he’d change his mind. Lee’s too smart.” Lillian remembered her and Lee’s high school conversations, and his surprise she believed the Jesus story.
“Oh, please. Let’s not go there.”
“Alright but tell me when Lee’s going to pay you a visit.” Lillian’s mind was flying at warp speed, trying to figure out a believable way for her to pop in after Lee arrived.
“I don’t see that happening. You know he hasn’t been to Boaz since 2002, our thirty-year class reunion.” Even though Kyla was a year younger than Lee, they were in the same grade. She academically had been smarter than the very smart Lee, skipping third grade to join her brother, Lillian, Rachel, and a hundred others in the class that would change the world. Or so Mrs. Sims, the high school counselor, had claimed.
Kyla and Lillian talked and giggled another forty-five minutes before Ray pecked on her closed bedroom door. “I’ve got to go out. Do you need anything?” Lillian stood and semi-panicked, remembering she’d flipped the lock. She knew he’d be mad if he tried the doorknob. Even after their agreement, he was always in the mood. Charming, he thought.
“No, I’m good. You be careful,” she said as she slowly unlocked and pulled open the door. Ray’s aftershave wafted inside the bedroom, drawn by the draft from the balcony. “I’m talking with Kyla.” Lillian whispered and pointed to her upheld iPhone.
Ray gave her that curled lip of a smile and delivered his usual salutation as he descended the stairs. “Don’t wait up for me.”
A smart-ass remark almost followed. Lillian kept it to herself. She had wanted to say, “Tell Karen, or Cindy, or Brenda, whoever she is, that she can have you.”
Lillian closed her door and returned to the balcony. And Kyla’s patient ears.
Richard L. Fricks 