“What’s on Tinkie’s agenda for today?” I didn’t want to think about cheaters and losers. If someone was lucky enough to have love and then too stupid to appreciate it, I was happy walking on by. Not people I wanted in my life.
“You’re touring the Waverley Mansion estate and heading over to West Point today to see that town. Tonight is the Columbus Christmas pilgrimage of homes.”
“This sounds more fun than shopping, but what is this your business? You make it sound like you’re not coming to Waverley.”
“Oscar, Jaytee, Harold, and I have some work to do.”
“What?” I sat up. “You really aren’t going with us?”
“I think you can tour a mansion on your own, and I’ve been to West Point a number of times. Oscar has, too. We really have to finish up some stuff.”
“Finish up some stuff? On your secret mission?”
“Exactly,” Coleman said. He stood up and refilled my coffee cup. He was already dressed for the day, and I realized too late that he was making a break for freedom. “See you tonight for dinner before the pilgrimage.”
He was out the door and I heard his footsteps in the hall. Whatever those men were up to, I was going to find out. All this secret-schmeecret business was getting under my skin.
I showered, dressed, and met “the secret mission widows” in the front parlor. The limo was back from delivering the men to whatever destination they had picked. Rex was as silent as the grave. Oscar and Harold had either bribed him well or threatened him into zipping his lip. No matter what we asked, we got stonewalled. When Tinkie asked him if he’d like to tour Waverley with us, he declined, saying he’d stay in the car.
“So much for wheedling information out of him,” Millie said with a laugh. “Few men can stand the onslaught of Zinnia’s Queen Bee Daddy’s Girl. You have to give the devil his due, Rex is loyal to Oscar and Harold.”
“We could withhold sex from the men,” Cece said as we walked up the brick walk to the beautiful old house with a unique design. The place was surrounded by forest. Not far away was the Tombigbee River, which had been crucial in the selling of goods and development of Waverley plantation, as it was originally known.
“No! We are not withholding sex,” I said with more force than I’d intended, and my friends laughed out loud. I calmed my voice. “We don’t have to do anything rash. We can just follow them tomorrow,” I said.
“True enough,” Tinkie agreed. “Now on with the tour. This place has a fascinating history.”
Two hours later, filled with stories of tragedy and joy centered around Waverley, we were on the way to West Point. The city, one of the three in the “golden triangle,” was decorated with tinsel and lights for the holiday season. Shoppers were out in force, and the town literally bustled. I’d suggest to Tinkie that we make a trip to West Point next Christmas. We could make a tradition of visiting a Mississippi town every year just before Christmas.
7
After lunch and more shopping, we headed back to Columbus. Per our plan, we met up with the men for dinner and then went on to Rook’s Nest, one of the oldest homes in Columbus. It was a three-story gingerbread beauty with all of the Gothic architectural twists of the finest pre–Civil War homes in the South.
People were coming and going, oohing and aahing over the twinkling lights and the beautiful décor. We entered and accepted a glass of wine as a server passed by. The people of Columbus had retained the grace and social niceties of a time gone by. On this one magical night when local residents opened their homes to strangers for some holiday cheer, I was reminded of a period when grace and manners marked the character of a town. I was in awe of the elaborate decorations in Rook’s Nest. To be honest, I had no idea who our hosts were—I hadn’t read the detailed itinerary Tinkie had mailed out. But I was glad that Tinkie had bullied me into taking the pilgrimage. This was something my parents would have enjoyed. They were small-scale party-givers. Except at Christmas. My mother had adored Christmas, and I knew she would have loved the huge fir tree with the hand-carved and -painted figures of rocking horses, toy soldiers, angels, elves, and other Christmas creatures. The fir smelled wonderful, and I inhaled the delicate odor, taking in all the memories that came with it. I’d come to realize that almost everything I loved was bittersweet. I felt the joy of the holidays and of being with the ones I loved, but also a tinge of sadness for the ones I had lost.
“Sarah Booth, are you okay?” Millie had sidled up to me. She was an astute judge of character and mood. She, too, had suffered loss.
“I am. This is a beautiful house. Would you say Victorian?”
“Queen Anne, I think. I’m not an authority on architecture,” Millie said. “I can attest to the fact it’s beautiful and lends itself to all this decadent decoration.”
Harold had joined us. “In the days when this house was built, you could actually order pattern books to show you how to add the recognized Queen Anne flourishes like the turrets and wraparound porches. Another identifying characteristic is that the houses are asymmetrical.”
My home, Dahlia House, with its wide sweeping front porch and huge columns, was more formal and less fanciful. “This is just pretty. And did you see the staircase? It almost floats!” I was also a big fan of the cantilevered staircases. The one in Waverley Mansion had been astounding, and
