The Fixer Upper Part 24

The cell phone he'd left on a console table near the door rang.

"Just ignore the phone," Jimmy called from the other room. "The d.a.m.ned thing never stops ringing. One of the hazards of being in real estate."

I sat down and sipped my wine and leafed through a magazine on the coffee table. I glanced toward the wall of gla.s.s blocks, and nearly died. The blocks didn't just separate the bedroom from the main room, they also housed a walk-in shower. There, outlined in all his wavy glory, was a very naked Jimmy Maynard, lathering up and whistling up a storm. I took a gulp of my wine and tried hard to concentrate on the April issue of Elle Decor.

Ten minutes later, Jimmy strolled out, dressed in a starched b.u.t.ton-down blue oxford-cloth shirt, knee-length black shorts, and black loafers buffed to a high sheen. He smelled like soap and aftershave and his damp hair still bore comb marks.

"Hey," he said, picking up the gla.s.s of wine I'd poured him.

"Hey yourself," I said. "Do you ever wear long pants?"

"Nope," he said. "And I'll tell you why. In the nineties, when I was in between marriages, I told myself, Jimmy, it's time to grow up and work in the adult world. I got myself a job as a financial a.n.a.lyst. Worked in a high-rise tower in Buckhead. Drove a Jaguar, had an hour and a half commute every day. Made in the high six figures. And I hated every d.a.m.ned minute of it.

"One day, I just up and left. Took my parking pa.s.s and my security pa.s.s, and just left 'em on my desk. On my way back down here to Guthrie, I threw my necktie out the window, doing eighty on I-75. I came home, sold the Jag, bought myself a four-wheel drive, and threw out every G.o.ddarned pair of custom-tailored long pants I owned." He preened a little and stuck out an ankle to admire himself. "Many women have told me my legs are my best feature."

"You do have nice muscular calves," I observed.

He sat down beside me and threw an arm over my shoulder. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, darlin'."

I scooted away and put down my empty winegla.s.s. "I hate to be obvious-but didn't you promise me dinner?"

"I did," he said. "And I never break a promise to a beautiful lady."

Jimmy had the top down on his Jeep. He handed me a new yellow baseball cap with maynard realty embroidered across the bill. I tucked my hair up under it, and off we went. The moon was nearly full and the sky was a deep velvet blue. He drove with one hand draped across the steering wheel, and the other across the back of my seat. His cell rang twice; both times he looked at the caller ID, shrugged, and let it go to voice mail.

"You like prime rib?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Good," he said. "It's prime rib night at the country club."

He turned on the radio, and punched b.u.t.tons until he came to the station he wanted. "'The Sixties on Six,'" he said. "G.o.d, I love satellite radio."

I recognized the song that was playing, "Under the Boardwalk," by the Drifters, because it was one of Mitch's favorites.

Jimmy glanced over at me. "How 'bout beach music? You like beach music?"

"Sure."

Another grin. "You're battin' a thousand."

"I grew up listening to the Drifters, the Tams, and the Platters," I told him. "My dad's a beach music nut."

"Ouch. Now I really do feel like an old fart."

"You'll get over it."

We pulled up in front of a sprawling one-story white stucco building nestled in ribbons of blooming azaleas. A discreet stucco sign told me we'd arrived at pine blossom country club.

Jimmy zoomed up beneath a portico, and a valet-parking kid trotted out to take the keys.

We strolled through the foyer, a tasteful affair with overstuffed sofas and gla.s.s display cases bristling with silver trophies, and into the dining room, a large, gla.s.s-walled room that looked out on the up-lit golf course.

"Mr. Maynard," cooed the hostess, a middle-aged blonde with a short skirt and long legs. "We've got your regular table ready."

The room was crowded with well-dressed people, the men in sports coats, the women in spiffy pants outfits or dresses. It made me glad I'd forsaken my overalls for the night. But n.o.body seemed to be looking askance at Jimmy in his shorts.

"Don't they have a dress code here?" I whispered as we made our way through the room.

"Sure," he said, steering me with his hand on the small of my back. "There's rules, and there's exceptions to rules. I try to be the exception whenever I can."

Every other diner, it seemed, turned from their table to say h.e.l.lo, or got up to pump Jimmy's hand.

"Do you know every single person here?" I asked as he pulled out my chair for me.

He scanned the room. "Hmm. Nope. There's a couple of people I don't recognize. Yankees, probably."

The waiter brought over a large tumbler of ice and a beaker of what looked like bourbon. "Here's your k.n.o.b Creek, Mr. Maynard." He looked at me. "And for the lady?"

I shrugged. "I'll have what he's having."

Jimmy laughed and patted my hand. "You're a fast learner, Dempsey Killebrew."

The waiter brought a basket of warm bread, and salads, and I dove into mine without any prompting.

"I love a lady who appreciates good food," Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair to watch me eat, and ignoring his own salad.

"I'm starved," I admitted. "I've been living off what my mom calls 'bird food' for days now."

By the time the huge platters of prime rib and baked potatoes arrived at the table, I'd polished off all of my salad and half the basket of rolls. Jimmy, on the other hand, merely picked at his salad, while downing two beakers of bourbon. There hadn't been time for him to eat, because every minute or two, his cell phone rang, or an old friend wandered up to the table to say hi and trade golf jokes.

"This is Dempsey," he'd say, by way of introduction. "Oh yes," came the invariable response. "Can't wait to see what you'll do with Birdsong." And after an awkward pause, "Hope the thing in Washington works out."

After the third variation of the Birdsong theme, I sighed. "Everybody in this whole d.a.m.ned town knows all about me."

Jimmy stabbed a piece of beef and chewed thoughtfully. "You're a hero, Dempsey. From what all we hear, the FBI tried to push you around, and you told 'em to stick it up their W-two. This is still the heart of Dixie, darlin'. We may make noises about the New South and all that mess, but what we really mean is, 'Fergit, h.e.l.l.' So you're kind of a celebrity. Don't sweat it. Sit back and enjoy the ride."

I was about to tell him how little I was enjoying this particular ride when I saw a familiar figure get up from a table in the far corner of the room. I'd have known that mane of silver hair and erect posture anywhere. As I watched, he pulled out the chair for his dining companion, a striking brunette of about fifty, dressed in a low-cut black sweater, pearls, and well-cut black slacks. The woman stood, gave him a warm kiss on the cheek, and they strolled through the room, hand in hand, stopping at one table to chat.

"That's Carter Berryhill!" I said in surprise.

Jimmy turned and strained his neck to see. "Yup."

I felt a stab of something-jealousy?-in the pit of my stomach. "Who's that woman with him? I've never seen her before."

"That's because she hasn't been around for the past year or two," Jimmy said calmly. He took another bite of beef. "d.a.m.n, they do a mean prime rib here."

"Jimmy!" I rapped my knife on my water gla.s.s. "Pay attention here. Who is that woman who was kissing Carter Berryhill?"

He put down his fork. "Why, that's just ol' Veronica Lanier. Or maybe she goes by her maiden name now, which I never did know, since she gave poor ol' Hammond Lanier the heave-ho. Your buddy Carter was Veronica's divorce attorney, which was good news for her, because between Carter and Tee, they made sure that Veronica got the gold mine, also known as all the Coca-Cola stock, the house in Highlands, and the newspaper, and Hammond got the shaft. Poor dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Wait. That's the woman who owned the paper-and she didn't want to pay the Berryhills' legal fees, so they ended up taking over the Citizen-Advocate?"

"Same one," Jimmy agreed. "Well, not the exact same. I think ol' Veronica's had some work done. I know she's been livin' down in Florida, but those grapefruits she's sportin' tonight were just oranges before she took Hammond to the cleaners."

I gave him an annoyed look. "You're a pig, Jimmy Maynard."

He chuckled and took a sip of bourbon. "So I've been told."

"Tee told me they had to take that woman to arbitration after she disputed their legal fees. You'd think the Berryhills would have a grudge against her. But here's Carter, playing kissy face with her in dark corners at the country club. I totally don't get it."

"You don't have to get it," Jimmy drawled. "But from the looks of things, ol' Carter's gonna be getting a little sumthin' from Veronica. h.e.l.l, maybe she's working off those legal fees you're so worried about. I say good for Carter. There might be snow on that roof of his, but there's still some fire in the furnace." He grinned that bad-boy grin of his, drained his drink, and signaled the waiter to bring another.

Jimmy leaned across the table, took my hand, and kissed the palm. "See? Us old farts, we've still got a lot to offer a woman. What do you say we skip dessert and go back to my place for some fun?"

I s.n.a.t.c.hed my hand away. When had he turned from endearing charmer to s...o...b..ring drunk? Maybe right after his third k.n.o.b Creek?

"Jimmy," I said sweetly, "I do think we should skip dessert. But I've had a really long day today, starting with an early morning trip to Macon. So, if you don't mind, I'd really like to go home now."

"After I finish my drink, okay?" he said, craning his neck toward the bar to check on the waiter's progress.

I turned around, hoping that the waiter would not be on his way back to our table, just in time to see another member of the Berryhill law firm walk into the dining room with another gorgeous brunette in tow.

Jimmy saw him at the same time I did. "Hey, Tee!" he called, a little too loudly.

Tee looked around the room to see who was greeting him. When he saw Jimmy, waving madly, he gave a perfunctory smile. Then he saw me, sitting right beside Jimmy, and the smile froze.

36.

"Awwww, sheee-uut," Jimmy drawled. "I didn't see he was with her."

"Quick, who is that woman?" I demanded. "They're coming over here!"

"You don' wanna know," Jimmy said.

Tee and the brunette approached the table.

"Hey, Jimmy," the brunette said. She wore a cream-colored business suit, had sapphire-colored eyes, a pointy chin, and full, pouty lips, and in her four-inch spike heels, she towered over Tee by at least an inch. "Who's your friend?"

"Hey, Shirlene," Jimmy mumbled, looking away. "This is...uh, Dempsey."

"Hi, Jimmy, hi, Dempsey," Tee said. There were two bright pink spots on his cheeks. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "So...this is awkward."

"Ain't it just," Jimmy said, jiggling the ice in his empty gla.s.s. "Good thing we were just about to leave."

The brunette grabbed the gla.s.s out of his hand and gave it a sniff. "Jimmy Maynard! Have you been drinking bourbon?"

Jimmy slumped backward in his chair and gave her a lazy smile. "Why, yes, ma'am, as a matter of fact I have."

Shirlene rolled her eyes and gave a huff of exasperation. "Dempsey? Is that your name?"

"Dempsey Killebrew," I said, holding out my hand.

She took mine and gave it a brief shake. "Shirlene Peppers. Look, Dempsey, did Jimmy drive you over here tonight?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Lorrrrd," she said. She had both hands on her hips and she looked down at the two of us as though she'd caught us skipping school.

"If you're gonna sleep with the man, there's something you need to know. You never give Jimmy Maynard bourbon. He just can't handle brown liquor. Everybody in town knows that. He can drink wine and beer till the cows come home, and a little vodka at parties, even, but you do not give this man whiskey. Understood?"

"Whoa! Time-out. Who said I was sleeping with him? And besides that, I didn't give him anything," I protested. "The waiter brought him over a drink before we even sat down."

The aforesaid waiter had the misfortune to arrive back at the table at that exact moment, with another beaker of poison water for Jimmy Maynard.

"Manny!" Shirlene said, whirling around to face him. "Is this true? Did you serve Mr. Maynard bourbon, even after what happened the last time?"

Manny stared down at his lace-up black shoes. "Yes'm."

"Lorrrrd," Shirlene said again, shaking her head with disgust. She looked from me to Jimmy to Tee. "Well? What are you planning to do about this mess?"

Why did I feel like I was the one facing detention-or worse, expulsion? "I was hoping to get out of here without causing a scene," I said in a low voice. "But I think that's probably a lost cause now." When I looked up, a dozen people sitting at the tables around us glanced quickly away-down at their plates, or off into the distance.

Shirlene waved away my concern. "Oh, don't mind these people. They know how Jimmy gets when he drinks whiskey. So-can you drive home? Because I promise you, he cannot."

"Uh, no. I never learned to drive a manual transmission."

She gave another exasperated huff. "I forgot about that d.a.m.ned Jeep of his. Idiotic car for a grown man to drive. Tee? Would you mind? I'll get Manny to pack us up a couple of to-go boxes. We really can't let Jimmy loose on the highway."

"Hey!" Jimmy said. "I resent that remark. I can drive just fine."

"Shut up!" Tee and Shirlene said in unison. Jimmy put his head down on the table and closed his eyes.

"I'll drive the Jeep back to my house and he can walk over and get it in the morning, after he sobers up," Shirlene said. "Tee, can you guys load him into your car and take him home? I really can't deal with him after he's been drinking."

Tee shrugged. It didn't appear that you gave Shirlene Peppers any guff once she started issuing orders. He put an arm under Jimmy's shoulder. "Come on, Jimbo. Time to go home."

It was no easy trick folding a six-foot-two drunk into the front seat of that Prius, but somehow, between us, we managed to wedge him into the pa.s.senger seat. I had to go around to the driver's side to squeeze into the tiny backseat.

Tee drove, the silence broken only by Jimmy's occasional snore. I could tell from the ramrod set of Tee's shoulders that he was p.i.s.sed. Well, I was p.i.s.sed too, if you wanted to get right down to it.