I thought her green eyes were just perfect. Vivi was a real Southern blue blood, too. She came from sugar cane. Really! An actual plantation was part of her family history. And that made what Vivi did seem like the end of the world. Someone from the “uppa crust” wouldn’t dare be involved in such activities. But Vivi wasn’t quite as “uppa crust” as the rest of her family. I mean, how could a blue blood be a redneck? That’s exactly what made me love her. She was different. Unexpected. Surprising. What she did was a surprise, all right, but not the kind you hope for on Christmas morning….
Harry, my husband and my law partner, was in the lobby of the old Tutwiler Hotel when the news came. He was waiting to meet me. It was our tenth anniversary and we were meeting for lunch. We did this every year; same table, same bourbon-n-peach cobbler. I wasn’t looking as forward to this lunch as I had been on other anniversaries, though. Harry and I had been having some problems. Well, unless you don’t consider silence a problem. We had been growing apart as he grew ever closer to his political dreams. With every step toward his coveted Senate seat, he stepped farther away from me. My plan was to talk to him during our lunch, to tell him that I’d had enough of his absentee husband routine. I spent all morning gearing up to tell him that I was through with being second to his career and his political dreams—it was time to focus on our marriage, or I wanted a separation. Of course, I’d been a nervous wreck since I’d opened my eyes that morning. But, lucky for me, I was saved by the belle…a belle named Vivi.
I was running late that morning, which was basically on par for me. I was stuck at the law school in an alumni meeting that was reaching into an eternity. I was sure Harry stood patiently waiting, checking his pocket watch at least once every 23 seconds, then glancing into the nearest mirror to check his gorgeous hair. If there was a mirror within 20 yards, you’d find Harry looking at himself—usually in admiration—but checking, always checking, for perfection. Every thick strand of hair in place, gold cuff links hitting just at the hem of his suit sleeves—down to the last detail, Harry liked to be in control. His cell phone rang in his vest pocket. It was Vivi.
“Harry, where are you?” she said.
Now, Harry is rock-solid by anyone’s standards, by far the most patient soul. His emotions are buried deep, like down near the Earth’s core. But, as even-keeled as he is, Vivi could almost always manage to rattle his cage. This phone call would shake Harry to his soul.
“I’m in the Tutwiler waiting on Blake,” he answered.
“Shit! I forgot it’s your anniversary,” she said. “Harry, forgive me for this. I need Blake.”
“She’s at the university, Vivi. You okay?” Harry asked.
“Harry, I’m drivin’ and I don’t have a destination,” Vivi said in her thick-as-molasses Southern voice. This wasn’t the typical Vivi call for help.
“Vivi, where are you?” he said.
“I don’t know. I’m just drivin’. When can I talk to Blake? When will she be there?”
Harry was having trouble making sense of her words between her frantic nonsense and the god-awful cell reception.
“Vivi, just tell me where you are and Blake and I will meet you,” Harry said.
There was no response.
“Vivi! Vivi! Can you hear me?” Harry shouted. By this time, he’d stepped outside onto the courtyard for a little more privacy once he realized everyone in the lobby was staring at him for all the wrong reasons.
Vivi answered slow and sober. “Harry…I think I’ve just killed Lewis.”
Silence followed.
“Harry? Did you hear me? Lewis is layin’ dead in the bed, buck naked and blue, at the Fountain Mist on I20!” Vivi screamed.
Harry Heart came from a long line of legal counsel—defense attorneys to be exact. Generations upon generations of Hearts were all University of Alabama Law School graduates.
All except for Lewis. Lewis was Harry’s younger brother. He was the wayward son who wound up on the radio. He was the play-by-play announcer for the University of Alabama Crimson Tide; a partygoer so popular with the women, he never married—never had to. All of his needs were met nightly by the groupies, from cheerleaders to professors to coach’s wives. Lewis Heart was at your service, so to speak.
Harry stood among the gardenia blossoms in the Tutwiler courtyard, dumbfounded, wanting to utter something, but unable to make a sound. Finally, he managed to ask, “Vivi, are you talkin’ ’bout my Lewis?”
“Yes, dammit, Harry,” Vivi said. “Who the hell else? Oh, my God, he’s dead. He’s dead, Harry! And I’ve killed him, I know it!”
“Stop, Vivi. Slow down,” Harry said. “Okay. Let me get Blake. We’ll meet you at Mother’s.”
“I’m sittin’ in front of her house right now, Harry. I didn’t know where else to go.”
* * *
Meredith Blakely Fletcher is my maternal grandmother and the matriarch of everything. She is known affectionately as “Mother” to everyone who knows her. Her house has always been the command center. At one time or another it had been home to all of us, both friends and family alike. It became known as “Mother’s” decades before I was even born.
Mother has a real rags-to-riches story. A young woman during World War Two, she was born in the mud of the Mississippi Delta, surrounded by money and old plantations, but never quite able to grasp it herself. She was absolutely gorgeous, a movie-star type of beauty with dark, wavy hair and eyes as blue-green as the Gulf. She worked at a five-and-dime during the war as a cosmetic salesperson. One day a handsome young law student by the name of Frank Fletcher came into the store and approached the lunch counter. Her Southern beauty caught his Yankee eye and they were together for 41 years, until his death twenty-one years ago. My New York–born grandfather always bragged that he found a million-dollar baby in the five- and ten-cent store, just like the song says.
Frank gave Meridee, as he affectionately called her, everything: a big Southern home and the exciting life of a wealthy lawyer’s wife in the late forties and fifties. Frank set up his practice and Meridee gave birth to three children. She entertained with lavish parties for Frank’s clients and two maids helped her care for her home and children. Meridee was the epitome of a Southern blue blood, even though her blood had originally run plain ole red.
Eventually, after much success on his own, Frank Fletcher and Hank Heart set up practice together. Yes, Hank is my Harry’s grandfather and, no, mine was not an arranged marriage. They were affectionately known in Tuscaloosa as Hank-n-Frank, Attorneys-at-Law. Go ahead and laugh now and get that out of the way.
I remember as a child, Mother’s house was my favorite place to be. Her bedroom was so full of the thick scent of perfumes that I can’t think of her and not recall those fragrances. Her dressing table was a place of pure fascination to a little girl. The French pink glass bottles and the powder she had custom mixed to match her delicate skin tone made that table an island of enchantment to me. And the silver makeup brushes were the wands of magical transformations. Meridee wore black transparent stockings with seams running up the back. Her long nails were always perfectly manicured and always matched her endless array of bloodred lipsticks. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.
Mother’s was a stone’s throw from the law school, so it made for a very convenient hangout. Frank was a huge success
