Too many antiques and whatnots, which I take my time dusting and cleaning. Every room in the house—even the bathrooms—has pictures hanging on the walls, and Oriental rugs on the floors so old they’re about to fall apart. I’ve never counted, but I bet those hutches in their dining room hold three hundred pieces of china each. One time I asked Tansy if they had that many dishes in their Atlanta apartments, and she said, “Honey, you wouldn’t believe it.” She’s right; I probably wouldn’t.
It don’t take me as long to finish Laurel Cottage today because Noel keeps everything nice and clean when he’s here. Funny, him being more persnickety about neatness than Tansy is. Laurel Cottage originally belonged to Noel’s family, though Mr. Clements left it to him and Tansy both. Momma didn’t hold with gossip much, but she did tell me all about that situation. She said Mr. Clements didn’t have to do such a thing, since he only courted Tansy’s mama instead of marrying her, but that was the kind of man he was. Good-hearted and decent, despite him being rich as a lord. Mr. Clements treated Tansy like the daughter he never had. You’d think Noel would resent sharing his house with somebody who’s not blood kin, but no. Momma always said that Noel was every bit as fine a man as his daddy. “Fine” has a different meaning these days, and Noel Clements is sure that, too.
Noel and Tansy have the most peculiar relationship of anybody I know, and that’s saying a lot among the summer people. They live together, but not really. They date other people, or each other, and it don’t seem to matter to them which. Both have been married to other folks, and neither came to Highlands much during those days. Well, Noel couldn’t, I reckon, since he married a Frenchwoman and spent a lot of time overseas. Tansy’s tied the knot twice, both times to men old enough to be her daddy. Seems like one—or both—of her husbands died recently. One of them was funny, I recall—“funny” like in homo, and Noel teases her about it. Not about the guy being homo—Noel’s not like that—but about Tansy marrying him and not knowing. Peculiar as they are, though, Tansy and Noel are sure entertaining to be around.
Laurel Cottage is the prettiest of all the houses I manage, even Moonrise. Moonrise is more famous, but it’s creepy to me. Plus Moonrise is cold all the time, even in the summer. Laurel Cottage is more what a house in the mountains oughta be, but in a good way, not like those gussied-up ones with pictures of bears on everything, even furniture. Summer folks actually think bears are cute. You won’t see any bear stuff at Laurel Cottage, cute or otherwise. It’s been written up in a lot of decorating magazines, which Tansy frames and hangs on the walls.
Standing at the kitchen sink of Laurel Cottage, I arrange a bunch of white dahlias in a heavy antique vase. It’s a personal touch of mine, fixing flowers from the owners’ gardens after I clean their houses. I’m halfway up the stairs with the vase in my hands when my cell phone rings. Probably just Duff, aggravating thing. He knows I’m at work, and he’s supposed to be.
I’ve just put the vase on Tansy’s dresser when my phone goes off again. I pull it out of my pocket, and sure enough, it’s Duff. “Hey. Whatcha doing?” he says.
“I’m at the Old Edwards Spa, Duff, getting my toenails done while I wait for the hundred-dollar massage,” I snap. “What’d you think?” With an exasperated sigh, I add, “What’d you call for? I don’t have time for your foolishness today.”
“Just to remind you about us singing at the prayer meeting tonight,” Duff says.
“You think I’ve gone senile?” I ask him. “We’ve been singing at every prayer meeting for a year now. Though all your churchgoing ain’t done you a bit of good, far as I can tell. Every night you’re not in church, you’re at the juke joint.” Then, hearing him sucking on a cigarette, I sigh again. “And you’re smoking, ain’t you?”
He tries to deny it but starts coughing, bad. “Naw. I quit, like I told you,” the liar says.
“I’m going now,” I tell him meanly. “I’m not listening to no more of your lies. After that doctor said you might lose your voice, I thought you might straighten yourself out.”
I slam the little phone shut, cussing. But before I can get it tucked back into my jeans, it’s ringing again. This time it’s Helen.
“Willa?” she says, and I reply, “Yep, it’s me.” Then I worry that they’re on their way home, and I haven’t even made it to Moonrise yet. But they’re still touring the Biltmore Estate, she tells me. “Listen,” she says, “I called to see if you’d do me a favor when you get to the house.” No surprise, she wants me to make sure the oven’s off. They’d only been here a day or so when Helen smelled gas and had the gas company come out in a hurry. She’d turned the oven on, the guy told her, without making sure the pilot light was lit. Helen had a fit, swearing she did no such thing—she hadn’t even been in the kitchen. It was pretty obvious that no one believed her.
I tell Helen not to worry, I’ll check it out. “I didn’t touch the oven this morning,” she says with a nervous laugh, “but still. And Willa? I’d appreciate you not saying anything about my call, okay? Can’t have everyone thinking I’m scatterbrained.”
Another little laugh, and she’s gone. We hang up, and I start back downstairs, shaking my head. Lord, that poor woman! Bless her heart. Last month, when she called to say she and Emmet had decided to spend the summer in Highlands, she asked if I could get the house comfortable for them. I wanted to tell her that I was the property manager, not a miracle worker. If there’s anything comfortable about that old-timey place, I’ve yet to find it. Turns out she meant having it wired for the Internet and stuff, which was at least doable. She and Emmet couldn’t stay, she said, unless an office could be fixed up for both of them, since they had a lot of work to do this summer. A working holiday, she’d called it, which tickled me.
Helen seems so earnest and is trying so hard to be liked, but I have my doubts. I like her fine myself, but she’s gonna have a hard time fitting in here. I’ve been knowing these folks all my life, and they’re not an easy bunch. I love ’em to death, and they’re good to me, but they’re strange. Linc’s the best of them, but he’s a college professor, and half the time he uses big words I don’t understand. That Yankee wife of his thinks she’s better than everybody else, especially me. I pure-tee cannot stand her. Noel and Tansy couldn’t be nicer to me, but they talk crazy and act the fool. Kit Rutherford is a snot, though she tries to act like she’s sweet as pie. Then there’s Emmet. Momma used to say that Rosalyn Harmon was the only woman who could be married to Emmet Justice because she knew how to handle him. I find him pretty scary myself. Not mean scary, but scary the other way. He stares at you with those clear-colored eyes of his, then fires questions your way like he’s interviewing you on his TV show. It makes me nervous, and I avoid him as much as I can. All I can say is, poor Helen’s got her work cut out for her.
I got another worry besides Helen, though. Driving down the road to the Varners’, I wonder what I’ve got myself into by promising to help out with Linc. I start next week, after that wife of his gets on her broomstick and flies back to Alabama. I love Linc to pieces but have problems with Myna. I can’t figure out what Linc ever saw in her, even if she is a big-shot writer. All those years he’d been a bachelor, then Myna comes from New York City to speak at Bama, and next thing you know, she’s got her hooks into him. And her not even pretty! Everything about her is sharp—elbows, collarbone, chin, eyes, and tongue.
Only good thing is, Myna don’t like Highlands, so she won’t be around much. Never is. She goes someplace—Maine, seems like—where her people have a summer home. She’s always telling Linc how his house don’t measure up to her family’s “compound.” If I was him, I’d tell her to keep her skinny ass up there, then. Although the Varner house is an authentic, old-timey log cabin, and sits right on the edge of the lake, Myna complains that it’s dark, cramped, and smells like a fireplace.
