Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

As I crept along, the responsibility of operating such an expensive piece of machinery hit me. Even the slightest dent or ding would stand out like a broken leg. I stopped at the exit for the parking lot and waited until there wasn't a car in sight in either direction before pulling into the street.

The route out of town took me near the law school. I stopped at a light and heard someone call my name.

"Tammy Taylor! Is that you?"

It was one of the law students on my basketball team. She was standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street. I waved nonchalantly.

"Hey, Donna."

"What a beautiful ride! When did you get it?"

"It's not mine. A man in Savannah rented it for me. I'm going down there for a weekend visit."

The girl's green eyes grew even bigger. "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"He's not a boyfriend. He's married."

The light turned green, and I had to pull away before providing a more complete answer. In the rearview mirror I could see Donna staring after me. Our next game wasn't until Tuesday, and she would have plenty of time to broadcast erroneous information to others before I could provide the facts. I debated turning around, but when I looked again in my mirror, she was gone.

As I drove along the city streets, people on the sidewalk and other drivers turned to stare. I was used to stares for dressing differently, but this was a new kind of stare. Two college-age boys yelled at me, and a balding man in a Corvette nodded my way when I pulled up next to him at a traffic light. It was a relief to leave the city behind.

The route south from Athens led me through the heart of middle Georgia. I'd tied my hair in a ponytail that swirled in the breeze. I passed through several small communities. The most picturesque was Madison, a town spared the torch by Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman during his march to the sea after the destruction of Atlanta. The restored antebellum homes lining the main street of town seemed grander from my seat in the convertible. And I looked at the houses in a new way. My car would fit in perfectly parked in front of one of the fine old homes.

I reached the outskirts of Milledgeville, the early capital of Georgia, and pulled into a convenience store to buy a bottle of drinking water. When I got out of the car, I could see my reflection in the plate-glass window of the store. With my collared, short-sleeved blouse, kneelength skirt, and plain sandals, I looked totally out of place beside the stylish sports car. I took my hair out of the ponytail and shook it. Through the strands in front of my face, I saw a man walk out of the store and glare at me with a hostile look that scared me. I sat back down in the car, flipped the switch to raise the top, and locked the vehicle before entering the store.

When I came outside, the man was putting gas in a blue van that looked a lot like the one parked in our front yard in Powell Station. In the front passenger seat I saw a middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun and behind her several children hanging out the windows. It could have been my own family a few years earlier. The man saw me and clearly broadcast a message of judgment against a frivolous, sinful girl who shouldn't be driving a fancy convertible and shaking out her hair in front of a convenience store. Daddy would never have looked at someone the same way, but there were men in our church who would.

In a more subdued mood, I drove away from the store and merged onto the interstate. The next fifteen miles I spent my time praying that the lure of wealth and the things it offered wouldn't ensnare me in sinful pride and compromise.

The interstate deposited me directly into the downtown area of Savannah. I stopped and lowered the top of the car. No one paid attention to me as I drove slowly into the historic district. I'd read about Savannah's twenty-one squares and the restored homes and buildings surrounding them. But as I drove along, the information and images were jumbled in my memory. There would be plenty of time later for leisurely exploring on foot.

My destination was a massive postbellum residence near the home of Juliette Gordon Low, the founder of the Girl Scouts. The bed-andbreakfast was built by a confederate blockade-runner who served as inspiration for Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. I slowed to a stop in front of the opulent three-story residence with iron railings in front of ornate windows. Carrying my own luggage, I entered the house where I was greeted by a stylishly dressed hostess.

"I'm Tami Taylor," I began. "I have a reservation."

"I'll have someone show you to your room. Mr. Bartlett made all the necessary arrangements"-the woman leaned forward-"includ- ing gratuities for the staff."

A porter who looked about the same age as my brother Kyle took my suitcase and garment bag. I followed him to the third floor where he opened the door to a very feminine room with high ceilings and a collection of antiques that surrounded a four-poster bed.

"The Mary Telfair room," he announced as he placed my suitcase on a stand. "It's decorated in Eastlake and named for the daughter of an early governor and plantation owner. The house is mostly vacant tonight, and I'll be glad to show you rooms appointed in Renaissance/Revival and French Empire, the architecture of the house itself. We also have a great wine selection."

Mama had taught me about art and classical music, and I could instantly recognize a Rembrandt and identify Beethoven within a few notes, but my knowledge about antiques and wine could be summarized on a 3 x 5 index card. Jesus made simple furniture and drank wine, but I'd never been around antiques, and no wine had ever touched my lips.

"You know a lot about antiques?" I asked.

He grinned. "I'm a senior at the Savannah School of Art and Design."

I reached for my purse. The young man held up his hand.

"No, it's taken care of I'll be downstairs until eleven o'clock tonight if I can give you a tour or help in any way. What time would you like turndown service?"

"What?"

"Someone from housekeeping will prepare your bed."

"I'm a country girl from the mountains," I answered with a smile. "I've never been in a place like this in my life."

The boy leaned forward. He had nice eyes. "Most people who pretend to be experts about antiques and fine wine make fools of themselves. I've studied a lot to learn a little."

"Thanks. I guess I'd like turndown service about ten o'clock."

I peeked into the bathroom. It had a claw-foot tub. The twins would have so much fun in a room like this. I eyed the queen-size bed. The three of us could spend the night together, so long as I slept in the middle to prevent pushing and arguing.

After all the excitement of the day, I felt tired. I pulled back the covers, lay down, and stared at the ceiling. Every detail of the room was a work of craftsmanship.

I dozed off and woke with a start. It was almost 9:00 p.m. I hurriedly made the bed so it would be ready for turndown service.

The bathroom was stocked with four kinds of bubble bath and salts. None of them had been opened. I read the labels, debating whether to indulge. I turned on the water in the tub. The sight of water splashing against the bottom of the tub ended any debate. I'd taken bubble baths as a child, but the sensation of bath salts would be something new.

I lay exulting in the warm water until time to put on my pajamas in anticipation of the turndown service. For extra modesty, I slipped on the complimentary robe I found in the armoire and sat in a chair beside the bed. I didn't want to wrinkle the bedspread. Precisely at 10:00 p.m. there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, the young porter and a woman from housekeeping were there.

"Would you like a nightcap?" the porter asked as the woman brushed past me and walked to the bed.