Simple Gone South

details of the previous day’s Southeastern Conference football games. And yes, the sermon was good this morning. According to Big Mama, Lucy Mead probably wasn’t in church because she attended the eleven o’clock service, the same one that his family usually attended. And wasn’t Missy’s baby beautiful?

Brantley had just begun to think that the point of this meal was simply to get them back into the dining room. Then he saw Dad and Big Mama lock eyes and barely nod to each other.

Charles took a sip of his coffee. “Son, how are things going with your business?”

“Good,” Brantley said. And it was true. The time he’d spent at Hargrove, Smith, and Associates had been valuable and productive but he had not wanted to be an associate anymore. And he had wanted to pick his own jobs. Hanging out his own shingle was the best thing he could have ever done. “You know how I worried that there would be too much time between jobs, but these days it seems like I always have a choice.”

“So you already have a commitment?” Big Mama asked. “Now that the San Francisco job is done?”

“No.” Brantley rose and poured everyone fresh cups of coffee. “Not yet. I’ve got a couple of possibilities. There’s a Federal style town hall in a little town a couple of hours from Boston that is very appealing. They’ve even got all of the funding in place. I would go in a heartbeat but the job will take quite a while and the idea of Massachusetts in the winter . . .” He settled back into his chair.

“And your other possibility?” Dad stirred sugar into his coffee.

“Private residence in New Orleans. I’m going down there next week to look it over. Probably wouldn’t be as much money, but it won’t take as long. I’ve never done a Greek Revival plantation house before. Or any plantation house—not by myself. I worked on one when I was at Hargrove. Let’s hope the money they are paying me to come isn’t all they’ve got and they’re planning on using some Voodoo to get me to do it for free.” Suddenly, a winter in New Orleans seemed very attractive. “I could like it there. Saints games, hurricanes—the drink, not the storm— French Quarter music, and the food.” Maybe if he liked it, he might even move there. There was nothing holding him in Nashville. He could set up shop anywhere.

“Brantley,” Big Mama said. She looked hard into his eyes. “I’d like you to consider something.”

Oh, damn. Here it comes. Just when he was beginning to get comfortable.

“The city approached me about buying the Brantley Building.”

His head shot up so fast he was surprised he didn’t break his neck. Sell the Brantley Building? The building that had been in their family since before the turn of the century? The turn of last century—as in 1887, when the building was built.

She raised a hand. Her gold Tiffany bracelet clanked against her watch. “I am not selling it.”

Well, that was something.

“But it started me thinking.”

Never good. Let the status quo continue. Let it reign supreme!

“The city wants the building for a multi-purpose center. You know, a meeting place for civic groups. A small auditorium for lectures, and the like . . . perhaps a space for art lessons. And there’s the ballroom. It’s bigger than the one at the Merritt Inn, and the country club can’t handle every function. It would be wonderful to have a nice place for dances, receptions, and such. Don’t you think that sounds nice? Nicer than renting it out for random office space the way we’ve been doing?”

What? Was she selling or not? “But if you aren’t selling?” He left it hanging in the air.

“I am interested in giving the building to the city. I would be the permanent board chair, until I pass the position on to someone of my choosing. Charles would have a place on the board, as would you, if you want it. I would reserve the suite of offices on the third floor—the ones that Brantleys have always used—for my use. And if you should ever want those offices—”

His head was spinning. This was an ambush. Or so he thought until she spoke again. That’s when the real ambush came.

“The building is in good repair, but in some places its integrity has been sacrificed for function.” She paused and looked as chagrined as she ever did. “At a time when the building needed attention, your grandfather and I were young and did not appreciate the past as we might have. We made mistakes. I want it restored. I need an architect, and I need it to be you.”

* * *

Still shell shocked, Brantley stood on the sidewalk outside the building where his Papa Brantley had had his law offices before becoming a judge.

He loved that building. Second Empire style, circa 1887. Original red brick, cast iron colonnade, single light sash windows, neat brick pilasters.

“You’re a grand old girl, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Just like Caroline Hurst Brantley.” He hadn’t told her yes, but he hadn’t told her no either. How could he? And that went for yes and no. He had only listened and nodded as she talked about funding, relocating tenants, and timelines. She’d mentioned talking to Lucy Mead about the interior design. He hadn’t responded to that either. He had just asked her for the keys to the building.

She had put a silver key ring in his hand. “That’s your set,” she said. Just as he was leaving, she told him to take until Thanksgiving to decide. But clearly she considered the matter closed. The proof was in his hand. His initials had been engraved on the heavy oval disc of the key ring.

He sighed and fitted the key in the front door. If the route to that dining room had been a fiery mountain, this was a sea of lava.

He walked quietly on the industrial carpet, not thinking about the ornate woodwork that had been painted or the drop ceiling. He went straight to the elevator that would take him to the third floor.

It took a second key to make the elevator let him out. Like the ballroom on the top floor, the third floor was no longer used. When Papa was elected judge, he’d had his office furniture moved to his chambers at the courthouse. Later, they had moved it back here. At least that’s what Brantley had been told. For all he knew there was a tattoo parlor set up in there. Unlikely, considering Big Mama’s view of the world, but one never knew.

But no. It wasn’t like it had been, of course. The bookshelves were empty, though boxes marked books sat in neat stacks against the wall. There was no artwork. There were no lamps or family pictures on his desk, but the antique walnut burl wood desk and chair, matching filing cabinets, and credenza had been placed where they had always sat.

There probably wasn’t any candy in the top left hand desk drawer either. Still, Brantley couldn’t stop himself from checking. No, but what was there broke his heart when he thought there wasn’t a piece big enough left to break.

In an ornate walnut frame that matched the furniture was a double matted piece of green construction paper with a purple crayon drawing of a man and little boy. The man was holding what Brantley knew to be a golf club, but could have been a stick or an axe. At the bottom printed in a shaky hand was TO MY PAPA FROM BRANTLEY. Some of the letters were backwards. It had hung in his office and later in his chambers until—well, until then.

Brantley put the picture back in the drawer and then sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk. “Hello, Papa,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit in your chair. I won’t spin it around. We haven’t talked in a while. I know we usually have these little conversations at the Merritt Cemetery, but I figure you are more here than there. I’m okay, doing pretty good.

“Do you remember when I was little, and you would take me to eat lunch at the diner and then back here to your office? I’d hide under the desk at your feet while you saw clients. You would slip me chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections to keep me quiet. By the time Mama or Big Mama came to get me, I’d be one nasty sticky mess. You always got in trouble.

“I still eat chocolate stars from Heavenly Confections. Miss Clarice is gone now, but Lanie runs the shop. She is a better grandchild than I am.

“I know I say it every time, but I am sorry. I as good as killed you and Mama and I am sorry. I know I tell you this every time too, but I mean it this time. Pretty soon, I am going to find a way to tell Big Mama and Dad what a brat I was that day and how I threw a fit and sassed Mama because I didn’t want to get dressed and come pick you up. If I had done what Mama had asked to do, if I hadn’t made her mad, that car wreck would have never happened. If I could undo it, I would. I can’t. But I can face them like the man you would want me to be. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s no excuse, but it just seems like there is never a right time. Never enough