But she quickly got down to business, telling me that her Atlanta attorneys were sending one of their real estate lawyers to represent us in slipping in behind the Ridgetop people and buying up the block we wanted.
“Their advice,” she said, “is to form a real estate holding company which would be the actual owner of what we buy. It’ll have tax and liability benefits as well, but the big thing now is to come up with a name so they can draw up the papers. What do you want to call it?”
“I don’t know. I’m still coming to terms with the term ‘liability.’”
She laughed. “It’ll protect us from liability, Julia. Don’t worry, I’m paying people to look after us. Think up a name.”
“I don’t know,” I said again. “How about M and J, for Mildred and Julia? Or just MJ, or we could go with last names and do A and M for Allen and Murdoch. I’m not good with names.”
“Well, you’re not very original, that’s for sure. But, listen, we don’t want people being able to guess who we are. I was thinking of something like Great Dane Properties or some such.”
“That’s not bad,” I said, thinking of a neat logo for our enterprise, “and it’ll provide a little misdirection, too. People will think it’s Mr. Pickens or Thurlow, since Ronnie’s the only Great Dane around, but they’d hesitate to tackle either one of them.”
“Just so they don’t think we’re an offshoot of Greyhound bus lines,” Mildred said with a laugh. “Anyway, go ahead and start converting to cash, because I’m instructing our agent to offer cash sales with immediate closing dates. We don’t want Ridgetop to come back in and top our offers. In fact, I want to get it done before they realize we’re nipping at their heels.”
“But,” I said, another worry popping up, “what if the homeowners feel obligated to Ridgetop? They’ve already accepted their offers.”
“Julia,” Mildred said firmly, “this is business. More money tops less money, and Ridgetop has for some reason delayed closing on those houses—waiting, I’d guess, the usual thirty days and probably to make sure they’d get the variance as well. They’ll get their earnest money back, so all they’ll be losing is the fruition of their grand scheme. Whatever it is.
“By the way,” she went on, “are you going to Sue’s tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Was I supposed to?”
“I’m sure you were. She’s trying to get some Christmas ornaments made for a couple of nursing homes.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’d forgotten about that. Since they’ve stopped doing the Christmas fair, I haven’t given making ornaments another thought.” I stopped and gave it a thoughtful moment. “I guess I should go, but I expect LuAnne will be there and I’m not sure I could keep from wringing her neck.” I laughed then, realizing that I’d almost put that agonizing evisceration called an intervention out of my mind. I’d pretty much consigned it to the “consider the source” category.
—
Well, almost, anyway. Every once in a while I’d get a flashback of Lynette’s earnest face or Madge’s authoritative voice or the self-righteous assumption of them all that I needed correction, and that they were the ones qualified to administer it. The insolent pride it had taken to sit in judgment on me—on anybody, for that matter—was staggering. So, no, I’d not entirely gotten over it.
So I sat down and wrote another note to Helen, telling her that I now fully understood how she felt and that I bitterly regretted my part in offering any kind of criticism of her use of Thurlow’s funds—which, I assured her, was the business of the two of them and no one else. Having been put in the same position in which I’d helped put her, I wrote, I now humbly begged her forgiveness.
And after signing my name, I felt a whole lot better. Humbling oneself when needed does wonders for the soul. And quietens the conscience as well.
But whether it would make Helen rethink her offer of Thurlow’s house for the Homes for Teens fund-raiser, I didn’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t be finished with her decorating—painters can be slow, to say nothing of back orders of fabric and wallpaper. It was entirely possible that she’d have to cancel the appearance of Thurlow’s house on the house tour.
One could only hope.
—
I spent the afternoon worrying over Sam, who was now racked by a horrendous cough. Urging him to go to bed, I plied him with liquids and aspirin and suggested calling the doctor.
“It’s just a cold, honey,” Sam said. “It’ll run its course in a day or so.”
“Lillian,” I said, turning to her, “do you know where we stored the humidifier? Steam is what he needs.”
“What he need,” Lillian said, with the authority of one who knows, “is Vicks VapoRub and a hot flannel cloth on his chest.”
Well, for goodness’ sake, there was neither a jar of Vicks nor a piece of flannel in the house. Nor, as it turned out, a humidifier, having been discarded years before when it had sprung a leak. So I went to the drugstore and got what we needed, then had to listen to Sam moan about reeking of Vicks.
Chapter 42
Hesitant about leaving Sam to struggle alone with his cold, I nonetheless prepared to go out into the night to make Christmas ornaments. After pulling a thick sweater over my head, I had to redo my hair, apply a little color to my face, and use almost the last few drops of precious perfume before feeling ready to face another group of women. It was like putting on a coat of armor in case of an attack.
I had at first decided to forgo
