Susan Phillips - Ain’t She Sweet?

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© 2004

The wild child of Parrish, Mississippi, had come back to the town she’d left behind forever. Sugar Beth Carey gazed from the rain-slicked windshield to the horrible dog who lay beside her on the passenger seat.

“I know what you’re thinking, Gordon, so go ahead and say it. How the mighty have fallen, right?” She gave a bitter laugh. “Well, screw you. Just…” She blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. “Just… screw you.”

Gordon lifted his head and sneered at her. He thought she was trash.

“Not me, pal.” She turned up the heater on her ancient Volvo against the chill of the late February day. “Griffin and Diddie Carey ruled this town, and I was their princess. The girl most likely to set the world on fire.”

She heard an imaginary howl of basset hound laughter.

Like the row of tin-roofed houses she’d just passed, Sugar Beth had grown a little shabby at the edges. The long blond hair that swirled to her shoulders didn’t gleam as brightly as it once had, and the tiny gold hearts at her earlobes no longer skipped in a carefree dance. Her pouty lips had lost the urge to curl in flirtatious smiles, and her baby doll cheeks had given up their innocence three husbands ago.

Thick lashes still framed a pair of amazing clear blue eyes, but a delicate tracing of lines had begun to make tiny fishtails at the corners. Fifteen years earlier, she’d been the best-dressed girl in Parrish, but now one of her calf-high stiletto-heeled boots had a small hole in the sole, and her scarlet body-hugging knit dress with its demure turtleneck and not-so-demure hemline had come from a discount store instead of a pricey boutique.

Parrish had begun its life in the 1820s as a northeastern Mississippi cotton town and later escaped the torches of the occupying Union army, thanks to the wiles of its female population, who’d showered the boys in blue with such unrelenting charm and indefatigable Southern hospitality that none of them had the heart to strike the first match. Sugar Beth was a direct descendant of those women, but on days like this, she had a tough time remembering it.

She adjusted the windshield wipers as she approached Shorty Smith Road and gazed toward the two-story building, empty on this Sunday afternoon, that still sat at the end. Thanks to her father’s economic blackmail, Parrish High School stood as one of the Deep South’s few successful experiments with integrated public education. Once she’d ruled those hallways. She alone had decided who sat at the best table in the cafeteria, which boys were acceptable to date, and whether an imitation Gucci purse was okay if your daddy wasn’t Griffin Carey, and you couldn’t afford the real thing. Blond and divine, she’d reigned supreme.

She hadn’t always been a benevolent dictator, but her power had seldom been challenged, not even by the teachers. One of them had tried, but Sugar Beth had made short work of that. As for Winnie Davis… What chance did a clumsy, insecure geek have against the power and might of Sugar Beth Carey?

As she gazed through the February drizzle at the high school, the old music began to drum in her head: INXS, Miami Sound Machine, Prince. In those days, when Elton John sang “Candle in the Wind,” he’d only been singing of Marilyn.

High school. The last time she’d owned the world.

Gordon farted.

“God, I hate you, you miserable dog.”

Gordon’s scornful expression told her he didn’t give a damn. These days, neither did she.

She checked the gas gauge. She was running on fumes, but she didn’t want to waste money filling the tank until she had to. Looking on the bright side, who needed gas when she’d reached the end of the road?

She turned the corner and saw the empty lot marking the place where Ryan’s house had once stood. Ryan Galantine had been Ken to her Barbie. The most popular boy; the most popular girl. Luv U 4-Ever. She’d broken his heart their freshman year at Ole Miss when she’d screwed around on him with Darren Tharp, the star athlete who’d become her first husband.

Sugar Beth remembered the way Winnie Davis used to look at Ryan when she didn’t think anyone was watching. As if a clumsy outcast had a chance with a dazzler like Ryan Galantine. Sugar Beth’s group of friends, the Seawillows, had wet their pants laughing at her behind her back. The memory depressed her even further.

As she drove toward the center of town, she saw that Parrish had capitalized on its newfound fame as the setting and leading character of the nonfiction best-seller Last Whistle-stop on the Nowhere Line. The new Visitors Bureau had attracted a steady stream of tourists, and she could see the town had spruced itself up. The sidewalk in front of the Presbyterian church no longer buckled, and the ugly streetlights she’d grown up with had been replaced with charming turn-of-the-century lampposts. Along Tyler Street, the historic Antebellum, Victorian, and Greek Revival homes sported fresh coats of paint, and a jaunty copper weathervane graced the cupola of Miss Eulie Baker’s Italianate monstrosity. Sugar Beth and Ryan had made out in the alley behind that house the night before they’d gone all the way.

She turned onto Broadway, the town’s four-block main street. The courthouse clock was no longer frozen at ten past ten, and the fountain in the park had shed its grime. The bank, along with a half dozen other businesses, sported maroon and green striped awnings, and the Confederate flag was nowhere in sight. She made a left on Valley and headed toward the old, abandoned train depot a block away. Until the early 1980s, the Mississippi Central had come through here once a day. Unlike the other buildings in the downtown area, the depot needed major repairs and a good cleaning.

Just like her.

She could postpone it no longer, and she headed toward Mockingbird Lane and the house known as Frenchman’s Bride.

Although Frenchman’s Bride wasn’t one of Parrish’s historic homes, it was the town’s grandest, with its soaring columns, sweeping verandas, and graceful bay windows. A beautiful amalgam of Southern plantation house and Queen Anne architecture, the house sat on a gentle rise well back from the street surrounded by magnolia, redbud, azalea, and a cluster of dogwood. It was here that Sugar Beth had grown up.

Like the historic homes on Tyler Street, this one, too, was well cared for. The shutters bore a fresh coat of shiny black paint, and the fanlight over the double front door sparkled from the soft glow of the chandelier inside. She’d cut herself off from news of the town years ago except for the bits and pieces her Aunt Tallulah had condescended to pass on, so she didn’t know who’d bought the house. It was just as well. She already had enough people in her life to resent, with her own name at the top of the list.

Frenchman’s Bride was one of only three houses on Mockingbird Lane. She’d already passed the first, a romantic two-story French Colonial. Unlike Frenchman’s Bride, she knew who lived there. The third house, which had belonged to her Aunt Tallulah, was her destination.

Gordon stirred. The dog was evil, but her late husband Emmett had loved him, so Sugar Beth felt duty-bound to keep him until she could find a new owner. So far, she hadn’t had any luck. It was hard to find a home for a basset with a major personality disorder.

The rain was coming down harder now, and if she hadn’t known where she was going, she might have passed the overgrown drive that lay on the other side of the tall, privacy hedge that formed the eastern boundary of Frenchman’s Bride. The gravel had washed away long ago, and the Volvo’s worn shocks protested the bumpy approach.

The carriage house looked shabbier than she remembered, but its mossy, whitewashed brick, twin gables, and steeply pitched roof still gave it a certain storybook charm. Built at the same time as Frenchman’s Bride, it had never held anything resembling a carriage, but her grandmother had considered the word garage common. Late in the 1950s, the place had been converted into a residence for Sugar Beth’s Aunt Tallulah. She’d lived there for the rest of her life, and when she’d died, the carriage house had been part of her legacy to Sugar Beth, truly a mark of the desperate, since Aunt Tallulah had never approved of her.

“I know you don’t mean to be vain and self-centered, Sugar Beth, bless your heart. I’m sure someday you’ll grow out of it.”

Tallulah believed she could insult her niece however she wanted as long as she blessed her heart while she was doing it.

Sugar Beth leaned across the seat and pushed open the door for Gordon. “Run away, will you?”

The dog disliked getting his paws wet, and the look he gave her indicated he expected to be carried inside.

“Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

He bared his teeth at her.

She grabbed her purse, what was left of the cheapest bag of dog food she’d been able to find, and a six-pack of Coke. The stuff in the trunk could wait until the rain stopped. She emerged from the car, her short skirt hiking to the top of her thighs and her long, thoroughbred legs leading the way.

Gordon moved fast when he wanted to, and he shot ahead of her up the three steps onto the small porch. The green-and-gold wooden plaque Aunt Tallulah’s handyman had hammered into the brick forty years earlier still held a place of honor next to the front door.

DURING THE SUMMER OF 1954,

THE GREAT AMERICAN ABSTRACT EXPRESSIONIST ARTIST

LINCOLN ASH PAINTED HERE.

And left Tallulah a valuable work of art that now belonged to her niece, Sugar Beth Carey Tharp Zagurski Hooper. A painting that Sugar Beth needed to find as quickly as possible.

She selected a key from the ones Tallulah’s lawyer had sent her, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Immediately, the smells of her aunt’s world swept over her: Ben Gay, mildew, chicken salad, and disapproval. Gordon took one look, forgot that he didn’t like getting his paws wet, and turned back outside. Sugar Beth set down her packages and looked around.

The living area was stuffed with a cozy horror of family pieces: dusty Sheraton-style chairs, tables with scarred claw and ball feet, a Queen Anne writing desk, and a bentwood hat rack festooned with cobwebs. The mahogany sideboard held a Seth Thomas mantel clock, along with a pair of ugly china pugs and a silver chest emblazoned with a tarnished plaque honoring Tallulah Carey for her many years of dedicated service to the Daughters of the Confederacy.

There was no organized decorating scheme. The room’s threadbare Oriental rug competed with the faded floral chintz sofa. A coral and yellow flame stitch on an armchair peeked out from beneath an assortment of crocheted cushions. The ottoman was worn green leather, the curtains yellowed lace. Still, the colors and patterns, muted by age and wear, had achieved a tired sort of harmony.

Sugar Beth walked over to the sideboard and brushed away a cobweb to open the silver chest. Inside were twelve place settings of Gorham’s Chantilly sterling. Every other month for as long as Sugar Beth could remember, Tallulah had used the iced tea spoons for her Wednesday morning canasta group. Sugar Beth wondered how much twelve place settings of Chantilly sterling could bring on the open market.

Not nearly enough. She needed the painting.

She had to pee, and she was hungry, but she couldn’t wait any longer to see the studio. The rain hadn’t let up, so she grabbed a funky old beige sweater Tallulah had left by the door, draped it around her shoulders, and ducked back outside. Rainwater seeped through the hole in her boot as she followed the paving stones that led around the house to the garage. The old-fashioned wooden doors sagged on their hinges. She used one of the padlock keys she’d been given and dragged them open.

The place looked exactly as Sugar Beth remembered. When the carriage house had been converted into a spinster’s home, Tallulah had refused to let the carpenters destroy this part of the old garage where Lincoln Ash had once set up his studio. Instead, she’d contented herself with a smaller living room and narrow kitchen, and left this as a shrine. The rough wooden shelves still held crusty cans of the paint Ash had dripped and flung from his brushes fifty years earlier to create the works that had become his masterpieces. Since the garage’s single pair of windows admitted only a minimum of light, he’d worked with the garage doors open, laying his canvases out on the floor. Years ago, her aunt had covered the paint-splattered tarp with thick sheets of protective plastic, now so opaque from grime, dead bugs, and dust that the colors beneath were barely visible. A paint-speckled ladder, also draped in plastic, sat at one end near a workbench laid out with a toolbox, a collection of Ash’s ancient brushes, knives, spatulas, all scattered about as though he’d stopped work to have a cigarette. Sugar Beth hadn’t expected her cantankerous aunt to leave the painting propped by the door waiting for her, but still, it would have been nice. She suppressed a sigh. First thing in the morning, she’d start her search for real.