“It’s more of a Nantucket red,” I reply. “And please, for the love of God, remove the phrase ‘that there’ from your vocabulary immediately.” I shake my head.
“?‘That there’ makes you sound like a backwoods redneck,” Luisa adds derisively.
I raise an eyebrow; Luisa’s been cold to Eli ever since we first brought him into our scheme. This morning, as we were wrapping up OperationMiss Congeniality, she judged his cinnamon-raisin-with-berry-cream-cheese order so hard that I thought shemight reach across the table, swipe his bagel, and toss it in the garbage. Instead, she glowered. I wonder what it is about him that gets under her skin. Besides, hasn’t she ever heard that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?
“Well, ain’t that there somethin’,” Eli exclaims, slapping his knee as his voice dips deeper into the country drawl he intentionally uses to make her angry. “Pro’ly ’cuz Iamone.”
“I guess that decides it,” Luisa says gruffly. “Red belt for our redneck.”
I hand her the red belt, a marina-blue striped polo, and the performance trousers in a thirty-four waist. “Take him back to try these on for size,” I say, “while I see if I can find some five-pocket trousers in highland green.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.
“Also, please don’t address me with ‘ma’am,’?” I remind him. “I’m not your mother’s age.”
I guess this has been another sticking point. For days I’ve been trying to explain to Eli the subtle differences between the country use of “ma’am” and the genteel use of “ma’am” in the South. “Tripp Bedford would only say ‘ma’am’ to women in his own social circle who are a generation or more older than him. When you say it to random strangers or women my age,” I add, “it makes you sound like a hillbilly.”
“Plus, it suggests that you might actually respect Holly,” Luisa adds matter-of-factly. “Don’t forget thekey dispositions.”
Your key dispositions are confusing as hell,” Eli says to me, and then he turns toward the dressing room, red belt in hand, Luisa stomping along in his wake.
I don’t know what she’s so worked up about. I’m making excellent progress on the four looks Eli will need to perfect to successfully undertake his mission. I glance down at my tablet and note with pride that we’ve already mastered Look One: Event Formal, which, contrary to popular belief, is the easiest. Any ol’ properly fitting tux will do, even a rented one.
Look Two: Casual Business is a bit more of a challenge. Take the blazer, for example—perhaps the only clothing item that our Tripp might care a lick about. We’ll need to go semi-custom,selecting patterns that are unique but not too unique, bold but not too bold, interesting though subtle.
The most surprisingly difficult look is Look Three: Getting Away from It All. This is what Tripp would pack in his Patagonia duffel for a weekend in Cashiers, where he’d tool around on a pontoon boat at Lake Glenville or chill with a beer after pickleball at the High Hampton Golf Club. We’re hoping to get in and out so quickly that none of this will be necessary, but we also need to be prepared for a surprise invitation—expect the unexpected—which is why it’s essential to get the look right.
Worn-out khaki shorts, leather flip-flops, and worn-in (but clean) T-shirt or golf shirt, from somewhere only people in the know would go. A bit of fraying around the edges is crucial. I’ve instructed Eli to wash his new shorts at least a dozen times in hot water before wearing them, and I’ve already gone to work finding the appropriate Ole Miss fraternity attire, as well as embroidered logo polos from the Jackson Country Club and River Hills. These, too, will need to be vigorously washed.
This brings us to Look Four: Golf. Since Peter Millar is essential, we’re at the flagship store in a wealthy Atlanta suburb known to benew money.Which means that no one I work for at the club lives out here. Or so I’m confidently thinking when I spot Betty Preston MacArthur behind a sweater rack, looking right at me.
“Holly, dear!” she calls, hanging back the sweater in her hand. “What a surprise.”
Mrs. MacArthur makes her way around a display table, while I launch into fight-or-flight mode. Did she spot me with Eli and his wild, furry beard? Is it too late to pretend I didn’t see her and hightail it out of this store? She catches my gaze and, staring into those watery blue eyes, I know it’s too late.
Shit.According to Janey, Betty Preston MacArthur is the queen of all gossipmongers in the older ladies’ golf crowd.
“I had no idea… well, you know,” she continues, “I wasn’t aware that you play golf.” She leans in for a kiss on the cheek. “Where have you been hiding this little secret?”
“Oh, you know,” I tell her, just as I spot Luisa coming towardme with a camo golf shirt. In a panic, still holding Mrs. MacArthur close, I send a pleading look at Luisa. She gives me a thumbs-up and steps toward the women’s skorts.
“Will I see you on the course anytime soon?” she asks. As soon as the words slip out, she steps back and brings a hand to her mouth. “I’ve gone and done it now, haven’t I?” She sighs dramatically. “Of course you can’t play at the club,” she says. “Since you’re anemployee.”
I give a wan smile.
“It’s a crying shame,” she continues. “You’re absolutely essential to the place, after all. And you’ve been there how many years?” she asks.
“Eighteen,” I reply, trying hard to hold my smile.
“We really should find a way to offer more benefits to the help,” she muses. “Maybe set aside undesirable tee times or let you out on the course after hours. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“No need, Mrs. MacArthur,” I tell her, standing straight and tall. “Atlanta has some great municipal courses.” I’m frankly assuming this is the case, since I’ve never once teed off. The only thing I’ve done on a golf course is drink beer, smoke weed, and hook up with boys, back when I was a teenage hellion in Jackson.
“Why yes, I imagine it does,” she proclaims, nodding vigorously and then glancing down at her watch. “Oh goodness. I must head on back into town. Beat this horrible suburban traffic.”
I say my goodbyes, then watch in blessed silence as she checks out and leaves.
“Who the fuck was that Country Club Betty?” Luisa exclaims as soon as Mrs. MacArthur disappears from sight.
