At least she asked nicely.
“What’s going on back here?” I ask, bursting into the kitchen to find the three of them huddled close. “We need some warm crackers out there. Luisa’s getting hangry.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Irma says. “We got distracted by juicy gossip.”
“Did you hear Dennis is retiring?” Byron asks.
Dennis is the club’s general manager—the sixth since I arrived at Dogwood Hills, and among the best of them. He’s not the brightest bulb on the circuit, if I’m being honest, but he’s reliable, and a good enough boss to know when to step aside and let those of us who’ve been around for longer make and execute the plans—as long as they don’t include such earth-shattering propositions as replacing mimeographed locker lease forms with online documents. That sort of thing simply wouldn’t fly.
I shudder, recalling a particularly foreboding moment last spring when, entering my shoebox office, I found Griggs already standing inside the doorway, demanding to lease a second locker in the men’s locker room. Though I’ve never been in there, Byron tells me the lockers are enormous—nearly the size of my office. I was so busy wondering how many pairs of golf shoes that man must have that I didn’t notice until it was too late: He had positioned himself so that I’d be forced to brush against him to approach my desk, where I keep the stack of mimeographed lease forms. Seriously, the forms are in triplicate—the kind you have to press hard on with a ballpoint pen. And then I file them in an actual folder, in an old-school metal file cabinet. Another part of the club’s timeless charm, I suppose. But also a pain in the ass for staff. I had to make the split-second decision as to whether I’d let my tits or my thigh brush against his body. I went with thigh. Looking back, I should have known where all this was going.
“Dennis is headed out to pasture,” Justine says, “which means he’s about to move to Carrolton and join a bowling league, or maybe take a bus tour of America’s national parks, or something equally dull—”
“Don’t be cruel, Justine,” Irma interjects.
“Well, you’re the one who called him mediocre the other day,” Justine retorts.
“I said trustworthy and reliable,” Irma replies, her voice rising. “He’s a classic Taurus.”
I know these two all too well, and their play-fighting banter could go on for days. Before we know it, Irma will be explaining the planets in Dennis’s first house or his moon or something equally incomprehensible, and Justine will be calling bullshit on her astrological insights.
“You should apply for the GM position.” Justine turns to me with sudden clarity, all hint of banter gone. I look to Irma and then at Byron, and they both nod vigorously in unison.
Have these people lost their minds? There’s no way I’m qualified to be the general manager of this club. I wonder for a moment how Luisa would respond if she were in my situation. If her three closest friends were to tell her she had the chops to be their boss, she’d say,Hell yeah, I do. Thanks for finally noticing.
But I’m not Luisa. (And, come to think of it, I’m not sure Luisa actually has three friends.) So instead, I shake my head and do what I do best: get back to the task at hand.
“Focus, people,” I announce. “We have a meal to serve.” They all stand at attention, and Byron even gives a little salute.
It doesn’t matter what I want, anyway. Before I can even consider seeking a promotion, I have one enormous obstacle to deal with: Griggs Caldecott Johnson III. That man stands firmly between me, my son, and our future, and we’re way past the days when I could awkwardly slip by him. Our Tripp is the only person with any chance of knocking him down.
CHAPTER 19Luisa
On the first Saturday in May, Tripp makes his debut into old-money, genteel Southern society.
The day began early, when Eli and I met Holly and Aunt Edna at the old dame’s swanky Midtown address. The instant Aunt Edna’s Fleetwood came into view, Eli turned into a starry-eyed schoolboy with a crush. Aunt Edna tossed him the keys, then gingerly slid into the passenger seat, where she spent the hour-long drive chattering and flirting, Holly and I practically forgotten in the back seat. Needless to say, Aunt Edna is smitten with our Tripp.
Now, Eli veers the Cadillac off Madison’s main street, then glides into the driveway of a stunning Greek Revival that covers an entire city block. We learn from Aunt Edna that her bridge partner, Judy Swanson, married one of Georgia’s Cotton Kings, who then bought her a “house on a quiet little street” in Madison, a town south of Atlanta that was spared by General Sherman’s troops. Two Southern red oaks, aptly nicknamed “The Generals,” welcome us to the estate. I guess this is what some would call Antebellum “charm.”
Eli parks the Fleetwood, and we pour into a magnificent azalea garden in full bloom. Aunt Edna’s friends quickly whisk her away, several dozen diamonds sparkling in her wake. I’m convinced the oversize floral brooch pinned to her hat is worth the equivalent of a developing country’s GDP.
“Okay, this is it,” Holly whispers, her voice shaky with nerves. “We can do this.” She’s wearing a peach nightmare of a ruffled dress, and half her face is shaded by a giant hat, with birdfeathers in various shapes and lengths shooting into the sky like the plumage of a cockatoo. She’s really leaning into her Southern rich girl heritage today.
“Don’t talk unless you have to.” Holly brushes away a microscopic speck of lint from Eli’s shoulder. “And if you do, stick to the weather or sports. Safe topics. Got it?”
Eli nods, opening and closing his mouth, barely swallowing a “Yes, ma’am” that would’ve likely launched Holly into another lecture about the expression’s proper use. I’ve gotten so used to native Southernerssiring andma’aming, that it never occurred to me there was a whole rule book to follow.
Eli nods, sliding an index finger inside his collar, then tugging at the shirt. “This bow tie is strangling me,” he protests. To be fair, it’s unseasonably hot for May—even in the South. I’m quickly regretting my choice to wear a tulle “statement skirt.” Equally regretful is the stupid fascinator that keeps digging into my scalp.
“I look ridiculous”—Eli yanks at the carnivalesque fabric of his shorts and takes off his boater hat—“like a circus act.” He turns to me for support, and I stifle a laugh.
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “I’m practically wearing a tutu.”
“You look perfect,” he says, his tone straightforward. “You have great legs.”
I struggle to think of something funny to deflect his compliment, but I’m too agitated by the unpredictable heart sputter that comes when his eyes trail up from my legs, hungrily roaming over my body. My mind goes blank. I pat at the pleats of my skirt, trying to contain the warmth spreading over my cheeks, deeply annoyed by the effect that penetrating gaze has on every one of my limbs.
“I, on the other hand,” Eli continues, “should not be showing this much skin. These shorts are too damn short.”
