Killer Market

“Because she probably doesn’t fully realize it yet,” Dixie said darkly.

She gave me a considering look. “You know something, Deborah? I’m really glad you turned up tonight. I seem to be in need of some up-to-the-minute legal advice.”

“Advice? But you probably know as much as I do.” Suddenly though, I wondered. “You did pass the bar, didn’t you?”

“Nope. I went back for a while after Evelyn was out of therapy, but I couldn’t seem to stick it. Luckily, a good job opened up here and one thing led to another and here I am—B.A. but no J.D.”

Briskly, she checked her watch and swung into what was probably her Executive Director’s mode. “We can talk about my problems later though. Right now, let’s see. It’s only eight-fifteen. I saw Pell—he’s the one with the spare room—cruising the halls about twenty minutes ago which means he won’t be home yet. Tell you what. Why don’t you wander around, enjoy the Market while I mingle and show the flag? Things’ll start winding down in another half hour, so let’s meet back at my office around nine?”

She gave me her card and sketched a simple map on the back. “These buildings can be a little confusing if you don’t know where you’re going. The easiest way is to take the elevator out there in the lobby down to nine, cross over the sky walk into the first building and then take the main elevator down to six. Here’s what you do when you get off the elevator.”

I was still studying her sketch when she walked over to Chan, handed him the plate Drew had fixed, then began making nice to those two retailers who seemed so upset with Fitch and Patterson’s new sales policy.

The sea of people around the table parted briefly, and sitting on the blue tablecloth like a small island was a platter of those moist and chewy brownies, studded with walnuts and dusted in powdered sugar. Their siren voice of chocolate sang to me, tempting me with promises of sensuous pleasure, assuring me that of course I was strong enough to take just one tiny bite and throw away the rest. Since there wasn’t a mast in sight to which I could lash myself, I launched off in the opposite direction.

Up by the bandstand, the American Leathergoods Wholesale Association’s blue ox had grabbed a mike and was belting out “We Are Family.”

He didn’t sound at all like Sister Sledge.

Out in the vestibule, people were starting to leave both ballrooms and the elevators were as crowded going down as they had been coming up. In the second elevator, after crossing the skywalk, I was pushed against someone wearing such strong perfume that my sinuses began to close up and I got off as quickly as I could even though it was only the eighth floor.

These halls were as brightly lit as the others I’d seen, but most of the showrooms were locked and dark, and there were fewer people wandering around. A set of benches and planter boxes filled with flowering azaleas, irises and buttercups were clustered where four halls intersected. I had to touch the flowers to convince myself that they weren’t real. A small sign announced that they were silk creations fabricated in Arizona and that orders could be placed at their showroom around the corner.

A harried-looking man in shirtsleeves and loosened tie had slung his jacket over one arm of a bench and papers spilled from his opened briefcase beside him as he spoke angrily to someone over his cell phone.

“—so they’d only give me one car. No, I do not know where Mary is. We lost her at the airport this morning and the fucking rental clerk wouldn’t take my word that I was authorized to pick up the car she reserved in her name alone for some fucking reason. She’s God knows where and the five of us are stuck with one car. Nothing to be had between here and Durham. So here’s what I want you to do and I don’t give a damn what it costs: start phoning and get me another fucking car! And if Mary calls in, tell her she’s fired and I really mean it this time.”

Having been through the same thing with hotel rooms, I could sympathize with his frustration over the shortage of rental cars, only there was nobody I could call up and bully into getting me what I needed.

I walked past him and wandered aimlessly through the nearly empty halls, pausing here and there as a leather chair or chrome and glass coffee table or a sofa upholstered in a rich tapestry caught my eye. I tried to imagine Kidd Chapin’s lanky, six-foot-three body stretched out on that couch, his head in my lap, flipping through the channels by remote control. Antique tapestry fit the picture better than the polished floral chintz in the adjoining showroom. Somehow I couldn’t see Kidd amid floral chintz.

The trouble was I really didn’t know what my tastes were when it came to furnishing a home.

There was a stretch of several years between the time I stormed away from my father’s comfortably shabby farmhouse and the time I moved into the apartment my Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash had carved out for his mother on the second floor of their big white brick house, a few blocks from the courthouse in Dobbs.

In those years, home was wherever I happened to light for ten minutes. Some of the places were furnished in early Salvation Army; some were bare except for futons and sleeping bags and a few rickety tables and chairs.

Old Mrs. Smith had died the summer before I came home to Colleton County, and since Uncle Ash’s job required a lot of traveling, Aunt Zell said I’d be doing her a favor if I moved in. Uncle Ash said he’d rest a lot easier on the road, knowing she wasn’t alone in the house when he was gone. There was no way I was going to swallow my pride and go back to the farm, so it’s worked out fine all around.

I’ve rearranged the furniture to accommodate some updated audio and video equipment, but otherwise the three-room apartment—bedroom, sitting room, efficiency kitchen—still reflects the late Mrs. Smith’s taste for white organdy curtains, pale greens and blues, and dark wood. The place is bland enough not to jar on my nerves and pretty enough that I’ve never been motivated to redecorate, even though Julia Lee, the wife of my cousin and former law partner, is itching to redo the whole place.

A lot of my sisters-in-law have worried that I’ve settled in too comfortably at Aunt Zell’s, and now that Uncle Ash is talking about retirement, they’re pushing me to get a place of my own. Their thinking here is that while I’m acquiring new furniture and curtains and kitchen equipment, I’ll get so caught up in domesticity that I may decide to go on and acquire myself a husband at the same time.

Land isn’t a problem. Mother left me some and I’ve bought more of my own over the years. Several of my eleven brothers have offered to cut me off a couple of acres of their land anywhere I want, and Daddy would probably have the deed drawn up in ten minutes if I asked him for a building lot next to him.

Andrew’s April knows of a 1920 bungalow in Cotton Grove that’s up for sale. “You could move it out by the long pond. Be cheaper than building from scratch.”

Zach gave me floor plans for some houses that would use passive solar design to heat and cool.