Phase Four:OperationMy Fair Lady, the etiquette lesson (of course!).
Eli was a little less excited about my mnemonic device, but he’s proving to be quite a good sport about the whole thing. And Luisa? She can’t get enough of calling that poor boy Miss Congeniality.
The three of us have spent the past few mornings deep in Phase One, hovered over coffee and bagels at my kitchen table, working our way through the detailed lists of information Eli will need to memorize as he assumes his false identity.
Eli is sharp as a tack, and a real quick study, so we moved efficiently through most of OperationMiss Congeniality. This allowed me to review some more general principles, like the three key dispositions of our angel investor:
Bubba:He is handsome, well-heeled, mildly bigoted, and assertively masculine. He hunts and fishes and is naturally, though not excessively, athletic.
Gentleman: He has impeccable manners in mixed company and is especially polite to his elders. He makes his way through life without trying too hard.
Misogynist Prick:When alone with the guys, he at least occasionally acts as a blustering lecher, and he routinely degrades women.
These were a bit more difficult for Eli to process, so I had to offer several concrete examples. For instance, I explained to the enormous surprise of both Eli and Luisa, that “making his way through life without trying too hard” will be evidenced by a specific choice of clothing and accessories. Both of them assumed that since our angel investor is supposed to be filthy rich, he’d wear expensive watches, clothes with designer labels, etcetera.
“Absolutely not,” I exclaimed. “Nothing garish, and certainly nothing prominently displaying a brand name!” Even polo-style shirts, I made clear, may bear the logo of a country club or event (preferably, of course, the Masters), but rarely the brand. That one really took the two of them by surprise. It is, I’ll admit, a fine line to walk. Men like our angel investor are, in fact, very careful and thoughtful about their appearance, but they need to make it seem like they’re not—which is why we came here to execute OperationPretty Woman.
I actually took a vacation day for the first time in three years. I’m having so much fun with all this that it sort of feels like a vacation. Which is pathetic, I know. We’ve just left the outlet mall, for Chrissake. If I’m being honest, it’s a relief to have a couple of days away from the club, or, more specifically, from the worry that Griggs could corner me in an empty hallway atany moment. I’ve become hypervigilant of his comings and goings, doing my best to avoid the driving range on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, the Terrace Restaurant on Sunday evenings—anyplace he seems to have a pattern of going. A tall order, given the man seems to spend most of his waking hours at that place.
Which is why we need to execute our plan, fast.
“As I already made clear in this morning’s tutorial,” I remind Eli, “Brooks Brothers is perfectly acceptable for a handful of basics.” I return the sand trousers to the rack, since toasted almond brings out the highlights in Eli’s hair. “But if you show up for your tee time wearing Brooks Brothers straight-fit chinos or—heaven forbid!—pleated khakis, everyone will assume you’ve raided your granddaddy’s closet.”
“Oh, right. The cotton king,” he says, leaning hard on the sarcasm.
“Magnate,” I correct. “And what’s his name?” I urge, quizzing him on this morning’s lesson, during which I carefully detailed the false identity he’ll assume.
“Theodore Reynolds Bedford, God rest his soul,” he replies dutifully. “T.R., for short. But his buddies all called him ‘The Colonel.’?” He crosses his arms, holding his chin with one hand thoughtfully. “Wait,” he says, “don’t these country club types all know each other? Won’t they recognize the family name?”
“That’s exactly the point,” I tell him, my voice rising. “People in Atlanta will knowofthe Mississippi Bedfords, but no one will actually know them personally. They’re one state removed and they’re a reclusive bunch.” I turn my attention to a display of belts and begin to sort through them. “Not even the Jackson Country Club crowd I grew up with reallyknewthe Bedfords. That’s why they’re so perfect.”
“And please at leasttrythe Mississippi accent you’ve been practicing with Holly.” Luisa sighs. “I heard you use it at the bait and tackle. Where the hell did it go?” Judging from the scowl on her face, she’s having a little less fun. She’s got a point, though. We both assumed, based on how effortlessly Eli switches between country and city accents, that he’d easily pick up how to talk likesomeone from Mississippi. I fear that we may have overestimated his abilities.
Eli studiously avoids Luisa’s question, twists his face into a grimace, and continues, “Gentleman farmer from the Mississippi Delta, town of Greenwood. Lived his entire life at Bedford Hall, the family estate, except, of course, for his glory days at Ole Miss and the years he bravely fought for our country overseas. Upon his return, T.R. made a discreet but enormous fortune investing in the manufacture of weapons, while continuing to expand his cotton holdings.” His details are perfect, but his accent is abysmal. “The Colonel is survived by his only son, T.R. Junior, and me, his beloved grandson, T.R. the third, known to all as Tripp.”
Eli pauses, looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes. “C’mon. Does it have to be Tripp?”
“For the thousandth time, yes,” I reply, frustrated. “Stop fighting it. And don’t forget to elongate those vowels.” I’m starting to really worry about Eli’s ability to pull off the smooth Mississippi drawl. Maybe I should have gone with Tennessee. In addition to the frequent casual misogyny that spews from Griggs and company’s mouths, I’ve overheard them say plenty of classist crap about accents. They’ll suss out a fake in no time.
It’s amazing how quickly my own accent returned, once I started trying to teach Eli, even though my childhood in Jackson feels like it was three or four lifetimes ago. I’ve almost completely lost the Mississippi cadence, which is fine by me. Luckily, though, I still have lots of useless cultural knowledge stored in this old brain, like what shoes a frat boy from Mississippi would wear—Rainbow flip-flops—when kicking back with a beer. It’s really come in handy over the past couple of days.
I worked long and hard to find the right identity for Eli. I even reached out to “Aunt Peg,” the house mother at Phi Delt, and told her I was working on a scrapbook for my second cousin Jack, who is five years younger than me and went to Ole Miss. I failed to mention that I haven’t spoken with him, or anyone in my family, for eighteen and a half years. That detail didn’t seem particularly relevant. Aunt Peg sent me photos of all the member boards from his years there, and I scoured the “not pictured” listsuntil I came across Theodore (Tripp) Reynolds Bedford III, blessedly absent from social media, and very fortuitously a descendant of The Colonel.
It’s nearly impossible to garner praise from Luisa, but my strategy for finding Tripp earned me a nod of approval. It’s a little pathetic how ecstatic I felt, to have impressed her. I even checked to be sure that none of the men Tripp will be hanging out with at the club—Griggs, the judge, and Jim Wade in particular—are Phi Delts, since those fraternities have all sorts of insider information I’ll never be able to get my hands on.
Luisa also used her investigative skills to confirm Tripp’s lack of digital footprint and run a thorough background check for details that could be helpful. I gotta say, we make quite the team.
“And Tripp’s mother?” I ask Eli, resuming his quiz while I select a belt.
“Charlotte Walker Porter Bedford, of the esteemed Porter soybean dynasty. Tragic small plane crash back in 2007, when I was a child.”
“Whenaaaahhhwas a child,” Luisa interrupts. “Christ, Eli. It’s the easiest part of that accent to master. ‘I’ becomesaaahhhh.”
“When aaaahhhh was a child,” Eli says, his jaw stiffening into an angry scowl.
“Ooooh, the pear belt is nice!” I say, observing the way Eli recoils at her criticism, and trying to divert our attention back to the task at hand. “But maybe a bit too much?” I ask, weighing the boldness of the red against the Tripp we’re creating. It’s quite a delicate balance, perfecting this not-trying look.
“That there belt ispink,” Eli interjects.
