Marcia Talley - This Enemy Town

“Not going to happen. NAVSEA’s been there for over a century. Besides, there’s Pax River, and the Weapons Center Testing Facility, and the Naval Electronic Systems Engineering Activity…” She ticked them off so skillfully that I suspected she was reading from a brochure.

“But think about the kids. How about the schools?”

“Charles County has great schools,” Emily claimed. “But for heaven’s sake, Mom, we’re just looking. It’s not a done deal.” She lowered her voice. “Besides, if Phyllis doesn’t like it, the deal’s dead.”

So, early Wednesday morning, I packed an overnight bag, tossed it into the backseat of my LeBaron, and two hours later found myself checking into the only motel in town, a Super 8 on Indian Head Highway, with my grandchildren for roommates. The roommates were my idea.

The green Taurus had followed me as far as the Capital Beltway, but when I turned south on 210, I was handed over to a dark blue Crown Vic. I smiled when I noticed the switch in my rearview mirror. Smooth as clockwork-the Taurus continuing straight across the Wilson Bridge into Virginia, the Crown Vic easing into traffic from the breakdown lane.

After a potty break at the Super 8, we lunched at McDonald’s while the Crown Vic idled in the parking lot, envying us our french fries, no doubt. Then we piled into my son-in-law’s SUV and drove to Charlesmeade with the Crown Vic staying a discreet twenty car lengths behind.

Dante glanced in the rearview mirror. “Who’s that following us?”

“My bodyguards,” I said. “They won’t let me out of their sight.”

Emily turned her head so suddenly I feared she’d get whiplash. “Mother! I thought you were kidding about being tailed.”

“Not kidding. Frankly,” I added, with a casual wave to whomever was keeping tabs on me from the comfort of the Crown Vic, “I’m kinda flattered by the attention.”

“Well,” commented Emily matter-of-factly, “at least nobody will be kidnapping you, not while the FBI is on the job.”

With my shadow bumping along behind, we turned right onto a narrow one-lane country road and rattled along for about half a mile before Dante brought the SUV to a stop in front of a sign, still bright with new paint. I rolled my window down for a better look. CHARLESMEADE GOLF CLUB AND COUNTRY ESTATES, the sign said, 250 SINGLE-FAMILY HOMES. LOTS STILL AVAILABLE! LAND, WATER AND GOLF. IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME NOW.

“This is it!” he announced. After Emily had read the entire sign out loud to Chloe, Dante eased his foot off the brake and accelerated up the winding drive that led to the club, a sprawling one-story colonial-style building, painted white. The driveway was edged with boxwood alternating with saplings that had been so recently planted, they were still supported by stakes. Dante pulled under the pillared portico behind a black Lincoln town car and a Honda Civic. It didn’t take much detective work to figure out which vehicle belonged to Phyllis Strother.

The minute the emergency brake went on, Chloe unfastened her seat belt and was hot to trot. As I struggled to extract Jake from his car seat, Dante slid open my door and offered me his hand. I hopped out, plucked Jake from his seat, and stood beside the van, holding the children’s hands while Dante helped his wife out of the passenger side. The Crown Vic, I noticed, was idling at the bottom of the hill.

We found our realtor, Guy Winebarger, just inside the club, behind revolving glass doors that had been beautifully etched with sketches of Chesapeake Bay flora and fauna. He was dressed in dark blue chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a yellow power tie, but in spite of the cold weather, wore no jacket. I hoped he’d left it in his car.

Phyllis Strother, on the other hand, was sensibly dressed for late February. As she approached from the end of a long hallway, I took in her gray A-line skirt, white blouse, and gray and pink boucle jacket under a Burberry raincoat that flapped open as she chugged our way. From her knees down, Phyllis wore dark gray tights and a pair of no-nonsense stacked heels.

“Dante!” she exclaimed. She grabbed his hand, her bronze-colored page boy swinging from side to side with the vigorousness of the handshake. “And this must be your family.” Under her bangs, her green eyes twinkled as she smiled at me, then turned to Emily and shook her hand, too.

“Phyllis, this is my mother, Hannah Alexander.”

Alexander? Emily had used my maiden name. For a moment I stood there speechless, amazed that nobody heard my molars grinding. Was Emily afraid that Phyllis would recognize my name? Call the deal off? If she hadn’t been my only child, the mother of my grandchildren, I’d have flattened her on the spot. Instead, I shot her a look- we’ll talk about this later -and stuck out my hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Strother,” I managed, dredging up some of the southern charm I’d inherited from my mother.

“Oh, do call me Phyllis,” she boomed in a voice so robust that I thought it’d be accompanied by a vigorous whump on my back.

“And I’d be pleased if you’d call me Hannah, Phyllis.”

“My pleasure, Hannah. And these must the grandchildren.”

Jake chose that moment to go down on all fours on the inlaid marble, while Chloe cowered behind me, grasping my leg, as if not sure what to make of this other grandmother-type who loomed over her.

“Come on, children,” Emily chirped. “Let’s go look at the big house!” With the ease of experience, she grabbed each child’s hand, swung Jake into her arms, and marched off in the direction Phyllis had just come from, with Chloe skipping happily by her side.

The four of us followed at a more leisurely pace. I listened while Guy Winebarger droned on about title abstracts, conveyances, escrow and points, but tuned out sometime during the discussion of how the seller proposed to prorate the property taxes and utility bill. Instead, I concentrated on what might soon be the place where my daughter and her family would be spending most of their time.

Although the floor where we stood had been covered with alternating squares of black and white marble, and several of the rooms that led off the lobby had been carpeted, there was not a speck of furniture anywhere. As we walked and talked, our voices and footsteps echoed hollowly off tile floors and ricocheted off the empty walls.

Dante turned to me and said, “You see what I mean, Hannah? The place has real possibilities.”

My son-in-law was right. But as far as I could figure out, those possibilities all depended upon the largesse of a certain Phyllis Strother of Charlottesville, Virginia. After listening to her for a while, I hoped her pocketbook was as grand as her ideas. “The lobby, of course, will be the central reception area. The receptionists will sign you in, discuss treatments, arrange for payment, and so on, then escort you to the appropriate dressing room.”

“There’ll be a men’s wing and a women’s wing,” Dante explained as we moved down the hallway of what would become the women’s wing.

“The locker rooms already exist,” Guy Winebarger informed me. “They were intended for the golfers, of course. Perfect, huh?”

In each wing, I learned, there’d be a hot tub to accommodate ten, each with its own lounge chairs, fresh towel cabinets, and refreshment centers. A sauna room and a steam room would be adjoining.

As we stood in the future hot tub area for women, Phyllis waxed almost poetic about it. “You’ll wait here,” she mused, “tubbing, reading, sipping a fruit smoothie, whatever, and when it’s time for your appointment, a uniformed attendant will appear to fetch you and take you to a private cubicle-I see walnut paneling, don’t you, Dante?-and you’ll have your massage, or facial.”