She sat down at her desk, took a deep breath, then mustered up all the courage she had and called Information. When she dialed the number, the secretary put her through to her old friend Mitzi’s husband, David Lee.
“Hello, David? It’s Margaret Fortenberry from Birmingham. Do you remember me? I used to be a friend of your sister, Pecky.”
The man on the other end said, “Well, hello! Of course I remember you. My God, how are you, Maggie?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“Well, my goodness. Margaret Fortenberry. The last time I saw you was at Pecky’s coming-out parties.”
“How is Pecky doing?”
“Oh, just fine; she and Buck are still in New Zealand.”
“I heard that … And how’s Mitzi?”
He laughed. “Same as ever; can’t wait for me to retire, so we can get back home. Well, my goodness, it’s so nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I hate to bother you. I know you’re busy, but I just heard a rumor that Mrs. Dalton might be thinking about selling Crestview, and I was wondering if you knew whether it was true or not?”
“Well, I haven’t heard anything; another department handles that. But I can sure find out for you. Are you interested in buying the old place?”
Maggie was tempted to lie and say yes, but she didn’t. “Oh, I wish that were the case, David, but no. The truth is, I’m calling on behalf of Red Mountain Realty, and if it is for sale, I’m just curious to find out if they’ve listed it with anyone yet.”
“Oh, I see, okay. Well, can you hold on a minute? Let me see if I can reach anybody downstairs. Hold on.”
Maggie felt her face flush with embarrassment at having called someone she hadn’t seen in years and for shamelessly using him to try to get inside information. But it was her only hope. A few minutes later, he came back on the line.
“Maggie. You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry it took so long. Alex says yes, that it will be going on the market in a few weeks, and it’s being listed with somebody named Babs Binging … something or another. Do you know who that is?”
Maggie’s heart sank. She was too late; “the Beast” had already struck. There was a slight pause; then Maggie said, “Oh yes … uh-huh … well, thank you anyway, David. It was just lovely to speak with you.”
“You too. It was great talking to you.”
It was all Maggie could do not to break down and cry. She might have known that she couldn’t get out of this world without having Babs Bingington kick her in the teeth one more time. And the worst part was that it was all her fault. She had let all her “over the mountain” contacts slip and had not played bridge at the club in months. If she had been on top of everything like she should have been and not so preoccupied with her own little selfish problems, she might have known about it sooner. Now it was too late. She couldn’t have felt worse if she’d tried.
AFTER DAVID HUNG up with Maggie, he had to smile. Of course he remembered Maggie Fortenberry. She probably didn’t remember, but thanks to Pecky roping him in, he had been one of the pageant escorts the night she had been crowned Miss Alabama. Who could ever forget that gorgeous thing, sitting there in the spotlight in her white gown, playing the harp with that gorgeous hair of hers falling down on one side of her face? Mercy! Every healthy red-blooded Alabama male there that night would never forget her. She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She just was. So intense, so serious, and playing the bloody hell out of that harp. Good Lord Almighty. Did he remember her? Oh, yes, he remembered her. What was her story? he wondered. Why hadn’t she ever married? He knew for a fact that his friend Charles had asked her to marry him, but for some reason, she had turned him down. The minute he and the rest of his friends found out, they all wanted to rush over and ask her out themselves, but Charles was a friend, and you just didn’t do that. He knew she had lived in New York and then Dallas, but why had she moved back to Birmingham? She was a mystery. Everybody thought for sure she was going to be famous or, at least, marry someone famous. He wondered what had happened.
He knew Charles had hauled off and married some girl he’d met in Europe and had moved to Switzerland. He had gone to Yale and had married Mitzi Caldwell, his hometown sweetheart, and they had been as happy as clams. But all the guys in his crowd had been just a little in love with Maggie that summer. They had all gone down to the train station to see her off and had been there with roses when she came home from Atlantic City. The thing about Maggie was that she was so nice, not stuck-up or vain. In fact, he’d often wondered if she even knew how really beautiful she was. Damn it. She should have been Miss America that year. The girl that won was not half as pretty as Maggie. Those judges must have been blind.
So Much Hope
THE YEAR MAGGIE WAS MISS ALABAMA, THE MISS AMERICA PAGEANT was the most-watched show on television, other than the Academy Awards. Every September, millions of people tuned in to see who would be crowned Miss America, which girl would walk down the runway, clutching her bouquet of roses and crying, while Bert Parks, the master of ceremonies, sang “There She Is, Miss America.” Certainly, everybody in Alabama would be watching, pulling for their girl to win. Just like Alabama football, it was a matter of state pride. Before Maggie had left for Atlantic City, hundreds of little girls from all over the state had written her, wishing her luck, and every mayor from every town in Alabama had sent her an official good-luck message.
That year in particular, with all the negative press Alabama had received, more than ever their state needed something they could be proud of. Maggie was very aware of how much people were depending on her to do well, and she was so scared she might let them down that she could hardly breathe. But she needn’t have been. On the first night of preliminary judging in Atlantic City, she wowed the judges with her harp and her looks. By the second day of judging, every wire service, including the AP and UPI, had her placed number one to win. Even Jimmy the Greek, who took bets on these things, had her as the odds-on favorite, and reporters had already started calling her hotel room, clamoring for an interview. Jo Ellen O’Hara, who was covering the Miss America Pageant for the Birmingham News sent off nightly press releases that became the next morning’s headlines back home.
* * *
MISS ALABAMA WINS PRELIMINARY
EVENING GOWN COMPETITION!
Last night, Margaret Fortenberry, wearing an elegant white gown from Loveman’s department store, swept her way to victory again.
* * *
In the days leading up to the big night, the judges privately all agreed that they were very impressed with the girl from Alabama. Although there were many talented and pretty girls from other states, she had that certain poise and loveliness they were looking for, that special something; she was someone every little girl in America could look up to and aspire to become one day.
Back in Alabama, people tried their best not to be too optimistic, but as the good news kept coming in, they started planning parades and homecoming ceremonies across the state. They knew by the third day that unless something terribly unforeseen happened, Miss Alabama was going to be the new Miss America.
Maggie understood that if by some chance she were to win, it would mean being awarded thousands of dollars in prize money and numerous network television appearances, and she would become a national celebrity overnight, and her life would be changed forever. But for Maggie, the most important thing about becoming Miss America that year was that it would give her the opportunity to travel all around the country and tell people all the good things about her state, about all the nice people who lived there.
Only something unforeseen happened, and she never got the chance.
MAGGIE WAS STILL sitting at her desk with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach over the news about Babs. She realized now (too late) that she should never have called David in the first place. What had she been thinking? Oh, God … just another bad decision. She guessed the only good thing was that no
w she could finally stop obsessing over it and concentrate on the task at hand. Time was running short and there was still a lot she had to do. And if the worst did happen and Crestview was torn down, it was probably best that she not be around to see it.
She looked at the clock. It was time to go into the office. Since she was leaving Monday morning, today would be her last day at work, and she still had a few things to shred, so she went out and got in the car. On the way over, she decided she wouldn’t tell Ethel and Brenda about Babs getting the listing for Crestview. Why ruin their weekend? They would find out soon enough.
When she got to the office, Ethel was still at the beauty shop; Friday was her day to have her hair and eyebrows tinted, and Brenda and Maggie were just sitting around in Maggie’s office, so Maggie thought this might be a good time to try to drop another hint about her upcoming departure. She took an emery board out of her desk drawer and started filing her nails so she would look casual.
“Hey, Brenda,” she said, looking down at her hands, “did you ever think of just giving it all up?”
Brenda looked over at her. “You mean real estate? Every day.”
“No … I mean just giving up … in general, you know?”
Brenda didn’t say anything, but kept listening. Maggie continued: “I don’t think it means that a person is weak or a coward. Sometimes they might be so tired, they just can’t go on. What do you think?”
Brenda didn’t answer and, after a moment, stood up and went over and shut the door. She sat back down with a serious expression on her face and looked Maggie straight in the eye.
“Maggie, as a friend, can I ask you something?”
Maggie suddenly felt nervous and thought maybe she had gone too far. But she said, “Okay.”
“And will you tell me the truth?”
“If I can, Brenda … yes.”
Brenda paused, then said, “Do you think I should get my stomach stapled?”
“What?”
“Do you think I should get my stomach stapled?”
Maggie was relieved, but disappointed at the same time. “Oh … well, honey, I don’t know … what does Robbie think?”
“She says I’m not fat enough for the operation; she thinks my losing weight is just a matter of willpower, but it’s not. I can lose the weight. It’s the keeping it off that I can’t do. I’m tempted to sneak over to another hospital and have it done behind her back and not tell her until it’s over, but with my luck, I’d die on the table. Then she’d really be mad.” She sighed. “But at this point, if I die, I die … who cares? I’m tired of eating rabbit food.”
“Oh, good Lord, Brenda, don’t talk like that; you have so many people who love you and would miss you terribly. You’re not like me. I don’t have people who would care like you do.”
Brenda dismissed her with a wave. “Oh, right, Maggie, nobody cares about you. Every man in this town would have a fit if anything happened to you.”
“That’s not true, Brenda … I don’t know why you say that.”
“Because it’s true! You could have any man you wanted if you just crooked your little finger. Robbie said that Dr. Thorneyhill said he would love to take you out. He’s a brain surgeon; do you know how much they make? You’d better grab him now.”
“Brenda, don’t change the subject. You wouldn’t really have an operation without telling Robbie, would you?”
“No, I guess not, but don’t think I don’t think about it. I tried to explain to her that I don’t eat too much; I just have a lower metabolism than she does. But you can’t make a point with Robbie; she’s a nurse, and they think they know everything.” She then looked at Maggie. “On second thought, forget about that Dr. Thorneyhill. Stay away from health professionals; they’re just a big pain in the ass. Trust me.”
Maggie could see there was no use to keep trying with Brenda. She had done her best, but it was impossible to drop a subtle hint to her about anything. She hated it, but unfortunately, Brenda was just going to have to be surprised along with the rest.
Just then, Ethel came banging into the office in a fit. They went out to see what she was yelling about and understood immediately why she was so upset. Her hair was not the pretty light lavender they were used to. It was more the color of Welch’s grape jelly.
“What happened?” asked Brenda.
“What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. The new girl Lucille hired can’t read what’s written on the side of the box, that’s what happened. I said, ‘Jesus, Lucille, I don’t give a hoot if you hire an illegal alien or not, but you ought to make sure they can read English before you let them dye someone’s hair.’ I just hope to God it grows out by Thanksgiving, I’ve got a show to do!”
Maggie tried to make her feel better and said, “Ethel … it’s not really that bad.” But it was.
Meanwhile, Back in New York
AS THE DAY WORE ON, THE MORE DAVID THOUGHT ABOUT HIS conversation with Maggie, the more he began to frown. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he knew something was not right. Maggie had not said one word against the other real estate woman, but just the tone of her voice had told him volumes about this Babs person. At around three-thirty, he picked up the phone and called the lawyer downstairs again.
“Hey, Alex, have we signed a contract with that real estate woman in Birmingham?”
“Just getting ready to, why?”
“Don’t.”
“Why? We checked her out; everyone said she’s the top agent in town.”
“Maybe … but not for this property. I want you to go with somebody else on this, okay? I want you to use Margaret Fortenberry at Red Mountain Realty. She knows the house and the neighborhood, and she’ll do a good job. Okay?”
“Well … okay … you’re the boss. Whatever you want, but I can tell you, that Bingington gal is not going to be happy. She just sent us a great proposal; she’s cutting her commission and giving us a great deal.”
David continued, “And listen, when you do speak to Margaret, tell her you checked her out, and you heard that she was the best agent in Birmingham. And tell her we want her to handle the sale personally. Okay?”
Alex sighed. “All right, but she’s not going to be happy.”
After David’s call, Alex pulled out Babs Bingington’s real estate contract on the Dalton house in Birmingham and looked it over. He dreaded making the call and toyed with the idea of just e-mailing her. He had not mentioned it to his boss, but the last time they’d spoken, she had more or less promised him a “good time” if he ever came to Birmingham, and he had sort of gone along with it. Under the circumstances, he decided it would be the gentlemanly thing to tell her over the phone, so he reluctantly dialed her number, but her voice mail said she was not available and to leave a message. He didn’t want to leave bad news on her machine, especially over the weekend, so he hung up. Alex decided it was no use trying to call her again today; besides, he had to leave early, so he could get home and take the kids trick-or-treating. He would just wait and call both Babs and this Margaret Fortenberry woman on Monday. Waiting a day wouldn’t hurt anything.
BABS HAD HAD her eye on the Crestview property for some time. One of the construction companies she was getting kickbacks from wanted the lot, and for the last few months, Babs had badgered the owner’s lawyer in New York with a combination of sweet talk, promises, and relentless pressure, until she was finally about to get the listing. She already had the fake couple set to put in an offer.
Of course, Babs knew as soon as they knocked it down, the snooty “over the mountain” historic-house snots would probably kick up a fuss like they always did, but she didn’t care. They were just a bunch of pain-in-the-ass old dinosaurs trying to hang on to the past. They thought those houses were so special, but to her, they were just some old, outdated, falling-down piles of bricks that needed to come down. So screw them and the buggy they rode in on.
Audrey and the Panty Hose
Saturday, November 1, 2008
 
; BY SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MAGGIE HAD PACKED ALL THE POTS AND pans in one box and the dishes in another, so she was finished with the kitchen. Now all she had to do was decide what she would wear tomorrow night to see the Dervishes so she could pack the rest of her clothes in the boxes for the theater. As usual, she spent ten minutes flipping back and forth through her closet and finally decided on the black Armani brocade evening suit with the green Hermès scarf, simple pearl earrings, and the black suede Stuart Weitzman pumps. She then rummaged through her top drawer, looking for that last new pair of black hose she knew she had, but when she found the package, she was irritated to see they were not the right size. She must have grabbed a bunch of them without looking. There was no possible way she was going to fit into a size A petite. She hated to buy a brand-new pair of hose to wear just once, but she had no choice. She couldn’t wear tan nylons with a black formal evening suit.
Maggie was tempted to run out without putting on her makeup. Just a few short days ago, the very thought of going out in public without it wouldn’t have crossed her mind. It was a good thing she was leaving soon. She was turning into someone she hardly knew. Good Lord, she would be spitting on sidewalks next.
She jumped into the car and drove over to the Brookwood Mall. She thought she would just dash in, pick up her hose, and dash out again, but after having driven around the block at least sixteen times, she was running out of patience. After the tenth or eleventh time around, she said, “Oh, the heck with it,” and pulled into a handicapped parking space.