Alicia Pace - Simple Gone South

No one seemed capable of breaking the threshold. Well, he would do it. He was the cause of this and he could at least lead the way.

Brantley marched to the sideboard like he was wading into war. “Just let me pour y’all a drink.” Everything was laid out like it had been for so many holiday and Sunday brunches. Silver coffee service, crystal bowls of fruit, steaming silver chafing dishes. He reached for the pitcher of bloody Marys and poured three.

Big Mama and Charles had scaled the fiery mountain and were at his elbow. Big Mama raised her glass, like she always used to do, though Brantley wondered what she could possibly be glad enough about to toast.

“To Brantley,” she said.

“Indeed,” Dad said.

“Yep, me!” he said, because why not? And they clinked glasses and laughed a little.

Now what? There was one thing that was different. The plates would be on the sideboard ready for filling, but Evelyn had always laid the silver, napkins, and coffee cups on the table. Not so today because she probably didn’t know where they would sit.

“Let’s fill our plates, shall we?” Big Mama turned to the table to set her glass down. She looked barely panicked, but for no more than a split second. Most people wouldn’t have even noticed. One thing for sure, that woman always did what she had to. She set her glass in the place that had always been hers, at the foot of the table.

“Charles,” she said, “As my son, please do me the honor of sitting at the head of my table.” She looked at the place that had always been Brantley’s and gestured. “Brantley, please.”

And he set his glass at the place across from where Mama should have been—where she would have been if not for his asinine behavior seventeen years ago.

So they filled their plates and ate. Brantley related the details of the Follies and party. They dissected the details of the previous day’s Southeastern Conference football games. And yes, the sermon was good this morning. According to Big Mama, Lucy Mead probably wasn’t in church because she attended the eleven o’clock service, the same one that his family usually attended. And wasn’t Missy’s baby beautiful?

Brantley had just begun to think that the point of this meal was simply to get them back into the dining room. Then he saw Dad and Big Mama lock eyes and barely nod to each other.

Charles took a sip of his coffee. “Son, how are things going with your business?”

“Good,” Brantley said. And it was true. The time he’d spent at Hargrove, Smith, and Associates had been valuable and productive but he had not wanted to be an associate anymore. And he had wanted to pick his own jobs. Hanging out his own shingle was the best thing he could have ever done. “You know how I worried that there would be too much time between jobs, but these days it seems like I always have a choice.”

“So you already have a commitment?” Big Mama asked. “Now that the San Francisco job is done?”

“No.” Brantley rose and poured everyone fresh cups of coffee. “Not yet. I’ve got a couple of possibilities. There’s a Federal style town hall in a little town a couple of hours from Boston that is very appealing. They’ve even got all of the funding in place. I would go in a heartbeat but the job will take quite a while and the idea of Massachusetts in the winter . . .” He settled back into his chair.

“And your other possibility?” Dad stirred sugar into his coffee.

“Private residence in New Orleans. I’m going down there next week to look it over. Probably wouldn’t be as much money, but it won’t take as long. I’ve never done a Greek Revival plantation house before. Or any plantation house—not by myself. I worked on one when I was at Hargrove. Let’s hope the money they are paying me to come isn’t all they’ve got and they’re planning on using some Voodoo to get me to do it for free.” Suddenly, a winter in New Orleans seemed very attractive. “I could like it there. Saints games, hurricanes—the drink, not the storm—French Quarter music, and the food.” Maybe if he liked it, he might even move there. There was nothing holding him in Nashville. He could set up shop anywhere.

“Brantley,” Big Mama said. She looked hard into his eyes. “I’d like you to consider something.”

Oh, damn. Here it comes. Just when he was beginning to get comfortable.

“The city approached me about buying the Brantley Building.”

His head shot up so fast he was surprised he didn’t break his neck. Sell the Brantley Building? The building that had been in their family since before the turn of the century? The turn of last century—as in 1887, when the building was built.

She raised a hand. Her gold Tiffany bracelet clanked against her watch. “I am not selling it.”

Well, that was something.

“But it started me thinking.”

Never good. Let the status quo continue. Let it reign supreme!

“The city wants the building for a multi-purpose center. You know, a meeting place for civic groups. A small auditorium for lectures, and the like . . . perhaps a space for art lessons. And there’s the ballroom. It’s bigger than the one at the Merritt Inn, and the country club can’t handle every function. It would be wonderful to have a nice place for dances, receptions, and such. Don’t you think that sounds nice? Nicer than renting it out for random office space the way we’ve been doing?”

What? Was she selling or not? “But if you aren’t selling?” He left it hanging in the air.

“I am interested in giving the building to the city. I would be the permanent board chair, until I pass the position on to someone of my choosing. Charles would have a place on the board, as would you, if you want it. I would reserve the suite of offices on the third floor—the ones that Brantleys have always used—for my use. And if you should ever want those offices—”

His head was spinning. This was an ambush. Or so he thought until she spoke again. That’s when the real ambush came.

“The building is in good repair, but in some places its integrity has been sacrificed for function.” She paused and looked as chagrined as she ever did. “At a time when the building needed attention, your grandfather and I were young and did not appreciate the past as we might have. We made mistakes. I want it restored. I need an architect, and I need it to be you.”

Still shell shocked, Brantley stood on the sidewalk outside the building where his Papa Brantley had had his law offices before becoming a judge.

He loved that building. Second Empire style, circa 1887. Original red brick, cast iron colonnade, single light sash windows, neat brick pilasters.

“You’re a grand old girl, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Just like Caroline Hurst Brantley.” He hadn’t told her yes, but he hadn’t told her no either. How could he? And that went for yes and no. He had only listened and nodded as she talked about funding, relocating tenants, and timelines. She’d mentioned talking to Lucy Mead about the interior design. He hadn’t responded to that either. He had just asked her for the keys to the building.

She had put a silver key ring in his hand. “That’s your set,” she said. Just as he was leaving, she told him to take until Thanksgiving to decide. But clearly she considered the matter closed. The proof was in his hand. His initials had been engraved on the heavy oval disc of the key ring.

He sighed and fitted the key in the front door. If the route to that dining room had been a fiery mountain, this was a sea of lava.

He walked quietly on the industrial carpet, not thinking about the ornate woodwork that had been painted or the drop ceiling. He went straight to the elevator that would take him to the third floor.