Lillian, spellbound by the tales of Mr. Pickens’s derring-do, asked, “What in the world else?”
“Well,” Hazel Marie said, as if ridding herself of a great burden, “you know there’s room for three cars to park on the street in front of our house—one between our driveway and the property line where J.D.’s fence is, and two more from the driveway to the corner of the block. Actually, there’s room for three but there’s a fire hydrant at the corner where nobody can park.
“So those places fill up fast with all the ladies and some men coming and going next door, and it drives J.D. crazy to see them all lined up in front of our house. Anyway, yesterday afternoon after they’d all left, J.D. told James to move his car from the garage and put it in one of those parking places. And he was about to put his car and mine in the other two places, until he realized that we’d all be going and coming, which meant that somebody could take our places while we were gone.”
Hazel Marie pushed her hair back, then heaved another deep sigh. “So off he went and came back with three—three, Miss Julia—old, beat-up cars from a used-car lot and parked them in the spaces in front of our house. I said, ‘J.D., did you go out and buy those cars?’ And he said, ‘Nope, I made an arrangement with the owner. If you’ll look on the windshield, you’ll see signs that say GOOD USED CARS FROM CARSON & SONS. I’m giving him free off-site advertising space in return for parking them here.’” Hazel Marie blew out her breath. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Well, no, I haven’t, but I certainly admire his creative thinking.” I didn’t mention the fact that there’d still be cars parked in front of his house, but I guess it makes a difference when you do it yourself.
Chapter 25
Hazel Marie wouldn’t stay for lunch—she had errands to run, and with her husband on a rampage, she knew better than to stay away from home for too long.
But just as Lillian got out the bread and mayonnaise to make sandwiches, LuAnne called and rescued me from another egg salad sandwich.
“I know it’s late to be calling,” LuAnne said, “but if you haven’t eaten, let’s go to lunch.”
Pleased to get out of the house, I agreed and we met at the popular Hot Dog Palace—as a change, you know, from tearooms and fusion restaurants. Not that either of us ordered hot dogs. We both had the bacon, lettuce, and tomato, or BLT, sandwiches. Only they turned out to be bacon, lettuce, and fried green tomato sandwiches, or, I guess, BLFGT sandwiches, which sounded slightly questionable. Whatever they were, they were good and made a hearty change from salads, dainty sandwiches, and strange sauces. An added plus was that the Hot Dog Palace did not offer wine, either by the glass or by the bottle, so I didn’t have to watch and worry as LuAnne imbibed.
“Julia,” LuAnne said as she unwrapped a knife and fork from a paper napkin, “tell me the truth. Did you know about Leonard and that Totsie woman?”
Uh-oh, I thought. Who wanted to get into such a conversation with every plumber, electrician, contractor, and half the secretaries in town eating lunch around us?
Lowering my voice and leaning toward her, I said, “No, LuAnne, I promise you I did not know until you sent me into the courthouse to look for him. And even then, I wasn’t sure.”
Of course, I had heard the rumors, but I had not known, so I hoped that my equivocation would satisfy her. I mean, who would rush to a friend and say, “Guess what your husband’s doing”? On the other hand, no wife wants to be the last to know. When and what to tell certainly presents a conundrum to anyone who wants to both help and protect a friend.
To tell the truth, every time I thought of how LuAnne’s husband had lived two lives for years, I’d get so angry on her behalf that I could hardly see straight. And I wasn’t so dense that I didn’t realize I was identifying with her because the very same thing had happened to me. I was well aware that my anger toward Leonard was partially aimed at Wesley Lloyd Springer, my late unmissed first husband. And I also knew what a futile exercise that was, seeing that Wesley Lloyd was six feet under and had been that way for years.
As the young waitress placed our orders before us, we thanked her and began eating—thank goodness for something to divert LuAnne from further questions of what I’d known and when I’d known it. Her question, however, had been a reminder of the only thing that continued to trouble me about my first marriage. And that was the question of what I would’ve done if I’d learned of Wesley Lloyd’s double life before, instead of after, I’d buried him. I was still not sure if—at that time in my life—I would’ve had the courage to leave him. To see that LuAnne—the neediest woman I knew—so obviously had that courage made me not only admire her but also wonder where it had come from.
Hoping, though, to direct her away from airing her problems in such a public place, I asked, “So how are you getting along?”
“Better by the day,” she said, squeezing a lemon wedge into a glass of tea. “You know, Julia, this is the first time in my life that I’ve lived alone—I had sisters at home and roommates in college, then I got married and had my boys. So this is the first time I’ve ever had constant peace and quiet. And also the first time I’ve not had to pick up after anybody.” Wiping lemon juice from her hands with a napkin, she added, “And that’s a blessing.”
“I can understand that.”
“No, you can’t.
