Charlaine Harris - The Julius House

“There, you didn’t know all that, did you?” said Neecy in a pleased way. “Not too many of us around to remember things the way they were.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I said sincerely.

“Oh, we old people aren’t much good for anything except remembering,” Neecy said with a deprecatory wave of her hand.

Of course, I protested as I was supposed to, and she ended up happy, which she was supposed to. I thanked her profusely for her gift of scented “guest” soap shaped like seashells, and that pleased her, too.

She got up to go and thought of one more thing to say. “That man you’re marrying, Aurora, is it true he’s from Chicago, Illinois?”

“Well, he moved here from Chicago. Actually, he grew up in Ohio.”

Neecy Dawson shook her head slowly from side to side. She patted me absently on the shoulder and began steering her way over to my mother. I saw her engage my mother in serious conversation.

Later, when we were loading the presents into the trunk of Mother’s car, I asked her what Neecy had been saying. Mother laughed.

“Well, if you really want to know-she asked me if it was really true that you were marrying a Yankee. I said, ‘Well, Miss Neecy, he is from Ohio.’ And she said, ‘Poor Aida. I know you’re worried. But there are some nice ones. Aurora will be all right, honey.’”

NOW THAT I’D TAKEN ON renovating the Julius house-I just couldn’t think of it as the Zinsner house-the time before the wedding flew by. I got the apartment above the garage finished first. The carpet was laid within three days after the painter finished the trim. I cleaned the furniture I’d bought, positioned it invitingly, relined the kitchen shelves, cleaned the stove, and made the bed. I’d gotten a set of china for four at WalMart, and some wedding gift pots and pans I didn’t need went into the kitchen cabinets. I put towels in the bathroom, hung a shower curtain, and arranged some of the seashell soap in a soap dish. It looked pretty and inviting and clean, and I hoped I’d done Martin’s friends proud.

The work on the big house went slower. Some of the workmen I wanted were busy, and the carpet took longer to come than it was supposed to, and I had a hard time picking out paint and wallpaper. I was frantic to have it finished; my townhouse and Mother’s guest bedroom were overflowing with the wedding gifts and furniture I’d kept from Jane Engle’s house. Martin’s furniture was still in storage at a warehouse closer in to Atlanta, and I made a trip there to see what he had. In between making decisions, fretting over delays, and spending hours worrying, I had to get dressed appropriately and punctually for the remaining parties in our honor.

Now, these are all very pleasant problems to have, I know. But I did begin to get tired, and frayed, and desperate. Martin seemed unprecedentedly grim, too, though his bad mood didn’t seem to have anything to do with the wedding.

So I was really glad to greet the Youngbloods when they arrived from Florida. I was at the Julius house when they drove in at noon one day about a week and a half before the wedding.

Angel Youngblood emerged from the dusty old Camaro first. Her legs swung out and out and out, and then the rest of her followed. I gaped. Angel was easily as tall as her husband. Muscular and sleek as a cheetah, she had pale blond hair gathered up in a ponytail. She was wearing the loose sheeting pants that weightlifters wear when they train, and a gray tank top. She had a broad, thin-lipped mouth, a straight nose, and brilliant blue eyes in a narrow face. She wore no makeup. She looked around her carefully, her eyes gliding right over me and then coming back to note me. We looked at each other curiously.

“I’m Aurora,” I said finally, shaking her hand, which was an experience for both of us. “You must be Angel?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a long drive. It’s good to get out of the car.”

She stretched, an impressive process that showed muscles I didn’t even know women had.

Her husband came to stand beside her. He looked even swarthier, his face more pock-marked, against her smooth sleekness.

“Shelby, nice to see you again,” I said.

“Aurora,” he nodded.

The carpet layers, who were carrying in the pad, stopped to stare at Angel. Shelby looked at them. They hastily headed into the house.

It wasn’t that she was pretty. She wasn’t. And her chest was almost flat. She was just very obviously strong and fit and golden tan, and her hair was such a pretty color. It was really just like seeing a wild animal walk into the yard- beautiful and scary at the same time.

“Please come see the garage apartment,” I said a little shyly. “I hope you like it.” I turned to precede them up the steps. Suddenly I reconsidered. “No,” I said, turning. “Here are the keys.”

It was theirs, they should see it alone, without me there to make them feel that they had to admire it. I left to start overseeing the carpet layers.

About an hour later they came to the house, looking about them carefully, like cats examining a new environment.

While Shelby went upstairs at my invitation to finish the tour, Angel put a broad hand on my shoulder to get my attention. I looked up at her.

“It’s the nicest place we’ve lived in years,” she said unexpectedly. “Shelby told me what it was like before. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re welcome. If you want to change anything, now is the time, with all these home repair people coming in and out.”

She looked at me blankly, as if changing her environment was an alien concept. “Where do you want us to park?”

“Since Martin and I don’t have both cars here, just park in the garage. I don’t know what we’ll work out later after the wedding, but we’ll think of something.”

“Okay. We’ve carried our suitcases up, and we’re ready to start work.”

“Work” sounded more formal than the casual “helping you out” relationship Martin had suggested. But I certainly did need help.

“Let me tell you what I want to do here in the house, and how far I’ve gotten on each item,” I began. To my surprise, she pulled a small ruled pad out of her pocket, and uncapped a pen clipped to it. Shelby was suddenly beside her, listening just as attentively as if I were updating them on a missile launch. Feeling nervous and awkward, I started explaining, room by room, the plans I’d made, and showed them the paint, wallpaper, and carpet samples for each room that I’d sorted into a divided accordion folder. In the section I’d accorded each room was also a list of necessary repairs or changes, and taped to the front was a list of things I had yet to do before we left on our honeymoon. This list included such things as “Start paper delivery. Order new return-address stickers. New library card. Box books in townhouse. New stove will be delivered Monday a.m., be there…” and it went on and on.

“I think we can take care of this,” Shelby said after a thorough briefing.

“You do?” I know I sounded idiotic, but I was stunned. It had never occurred to me they’d take the whole thing off my hands.

“Of course we can’t sign things for you,” Angel said. “And you’ll want to come see for yourself, at least once a day. I know I would. But I think we can make sure all this happens on time, and I see you’ve got a list of all the phone numbers we might need, taped here to the folder.”

I am capable of organization.

“You’d do that?” I was still having trouble grasping the idea that relief was standing right before me.

“Of course,” Angel said again, surprised in turn. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“When will Shelby start work at Pan-Am Agra?”