Page 13 of Just a Number (Magnolia Row #2)

RHODES

M y day in Magnolia Row is hyper-productive.

I meet with Jaxon and we do an in-depth inspection of the hotel.

He has a structural engineer lined up to come to the property next week.

We have lunch, catch up, and present our plans to Wilhelmina.

She flirts so hard with Jaxon I think she’s going to take her clothes off right there in the ruins of the old hotel lobby, but I’m glad her attention is off me for the moment.

By far, the highlight of the day is seeing Micah.

I could tell she was awkward, and I don’t blame her.

I guess I was sending some mixed signals with the whole go-on-a-date-without-following-up thing, but hopefully I’ll make up for it on my outing with her and her grandmother, which I admit is an odd second date.

Or maybe it’s not a date? I don’t even know anymore.

After a night of restless sleep, I’m sitting in the cheap hotel chair in my room, looking out the window, waiting for them to pick me up. I extended my stay by one day in the hopes of having dinner with Micah tonight, so I haven’t checked out yet.

My button-down and khakis with dress shoes are probably too dressy for today, but those are the clothes I brought, so they’ll have to do. Micah’s blue hatchback pulls into the parking lot, so I put my keys, wallet, and phone in my pockets and meet them outside.

It’s only eight in the morning—the sun is still low in the sky—and it’s already blazing hot. I should’ve brought lighter clothes to wear.

I get into the back seat of the car on the passenger side, mostly so I can see Micah better.

“Good morning, Rhodes,” says Ms. Barbara.

“Good morning, ladies.”

Micah smiles at me. Her thick hair is down and she has it wrapped over one shoulder. She’s wearing a long white linen dress with a lavender cardigan. The dress is cut low, showing off an amethyst necklace with matching earrings.

“So where is this place?” I ask.

“About forty-five minutes from here,” answers Micah. “It’s a beautiful house. I can’t wait to see the inside.”

“I assume the owners passed away?”

“Yes,” answered Ms. Barbara. “The real estate agent is meeting us there. He does appraisals for these estate sales in addition to selling houses.”

“That’s convenient,” I say.

On the drive, Micah is mostly quiet while Ms. Barbara points out various landmarks and tells me the history of the area.

She’s lived in this part of Alabama her entire life, so it seems like she has a story for every mailbox we pass.

She speaks with a deep, musical drawl that is rare nowadays, even in the South.

It’s a generational accent slowly being lost. I could listen to her all day.

Finally, Micah pulls off the highway and turns down a long driveway with old white fencing on each side. It looks like there used to be cows or horses on the massive property, but the land has been left fallow for what looks like years.

The house itself is stunning. It’s a late Victorian farmhouse—dating from the 1890s, I would guess—and though it’s clearly been neglected for some time, it has a lot of character.

It doesn’t have the dainty, gingerbread house-looking woodwork a lot of people associate with Victorian architecture, but it has the characteristic gabled roof and bay windows with a huge wraparound porch.

We get out of the car and approach the house. There’s another car in the driveway, which I presume belongs to the realtor/estate sale manager. The haint blue paint on the ceiling of the porch is flaking off, and the boards below our feet creak.

“Hello!” says the realtor with a huge grin as he opens the door. His dark skin sets off his chalky-white hair, and his bright blue suit is complete with a tie.

“Julian, you must be hot as blazes in that coat,” Ms. Barbara says when we approach.

“Oh, I got the air cranking, baby. It’ll be cool in here in no time.”

We enter the foyer, which is packed with massive ornate furniture, huge vases, a grandfather clock that is remarkably operable despite its obvious age, and a two-inch-thick rug spanning nearly the entire length of the house.

I glance into some of the adjoining rooms. Everything I see is oversized, ostentatious, and loud. It’s overwhelming.

Julian gives Micah and her grandmother a hug, then introduces himself to me. He’s delighted to hear about the Florablanca Inn project, and I fill him in on some of the plans we have. Apparently he was the one who handled the sale of the property to Wilhelmina.

“She’s a piece of work,” he says, laughing. “Good luck with that one.”

“She is a handful,” I answer with a chuckle.

He takes us through the house, and Ms. Barbara and Micah both carry a notepad and take notes as we walk. They talk prices with Julian on several items and I wander around, trying not to eavesdrop.

A few of the trinkets I find are high-end designer names: Wedgwood, Tiffany & Co., S. Kirk & Son, and so many others I lose track. Room after room after room is like this. It’s an impressive collection, especially for the middle of nowhere in south Alabama.

Once we go upstairs, there are six bedrooms packed with old oak, pine, and cherrywood furniture.

I follow Micah into one of the bedrooms, where she approaches a heavy sleigh bed with dark finish.

She runs her hands along the rough wood and closes her eyes.

Then she sits on the bed, flopping down hard on purpose to check its integrity.

She lifts the blankets and inspects the joints, then writes comments on her notepad.

She stands, rubbing her hands along the footboard another time, then puts her face close to it and examines the finish.

It’s fascinating to watch her work, and I want her to tell me what she’s thinking at every moment.

I approach her from behind and put my hand on top of hers. She smiles only for a moment, then glances down like she’s sad. She doesn’t pull away, but I notice she catches her breath for a moment before looking up at me with those big, radiant green eyes.

“How are we doing in here?” Julian, clueless, interrupts us, and I pull my hand away.

“Great!” she answers. “If Nana doesn’t want this bed, I may have to pull out my own credit card for it.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely piece,” says Julian. “I imagine Garion is going to have a time getting it down those stairs.”

“If he says one word in complaint, I’ll get Patsy on him,” Micah says.

Julian laughs.

I walk out of the room, then continue to wander the house as Ms. Barbara catches up to Micah and they discuss the sleigh bed.

There’s a bay window with a bench in another room overlooking the west lawn, so I sit for a bit to collect my thoughts.

When Micah and her grandmother enter the room, they hardly notice me, so I watch them work.

They are in their own little world, picking up each piece, looking at every detail, feeling every texture, whispering to each other about whether it would be a good fit for their store and who may be interested in buying it.

We’re here for hours, so long that Julian offers us sweet tea and sandwiches.

Ms. Barbara says she wants a glass of sweet tea, but Micah slaps her hand and tells Julian to give her water.

Micah is like a little mother to her own grandmother. It’s cute.

It’d be a shame if she never has kids. She’d be a great mom.

And, once again, I’m back in the headspace where I’m agonizing about our age difference. I’m so far ahead of myself I’m choking on my own dust.

We go back down the grand staircase, and Micah and her grandmother sit at the dining room table to review numbers and make final decisions on what they’ll purchase.

Julian and I step outside and sit in the rocking chairs on the front porch.

Even though it’s sweltering hot, the sun is going down behind the house, so we’re in the shade.

He asks me where I’m from and about my new firm, and we each talk about our kids.

He has a grandson in seminary school in Birmingham, so I give him restaurant recommendations for his next trip.

When Micah and Ms. Barbara finally come out, they talk figures with Julian and walk through the house to put a red sticker on the items they’re taking.

“Garion will be here shortly to get everything,” Micah says. “But the Wedgwood we’re taking now.”

Micah walks to her car and gets several rolls of bubble wrap, and when she returns I help her carefully wrap the jasperware vases, plates, urns, and planters.

“Nana’s crazy about some Wedgwood,” she tells me as we roll, tape, and repeat.

“I don’t blame her,” I say. “You know, the art museum in Birmingham has the largest Wedgwood collection in North America.”

“Really?” she says. “I had no idea.”

“You’ll have to come up sometime. I’ll take you there.”

She hesitates, then smiles. “That would be nice.”

All of a sudden the front door slams, and we walk into the foyer to see a tall, thin older lady with square shoulders and a crazy mass of white hair standing by the door like she owns the place.

For a moment, I wonder if it’s the ghost of the former owner.

She’s wearing all black, but there are sequins covering her loose shirt and pants.

She has a ring on every finger and enough necklaces to make Lil’ Wayne jealous.

She almost reminds me of Ruth, the lady I met at Finnegan House, only wilder and unhinged, even feral.

“Pauline,” says Julian in an accusatory tone, “what are you doing here?”

“There’s an estate sale tomorrow,” she says.

“That’s right,” he answers. “Tomorrow. Not today.”

“Well, I wanted a sneak peek. Hello, Barbara.”

Micah’s grandmother steps out of the sitting room with a look of amusement. “Causing trouble again, Pauline?” she asks.

“No trouble. Just nosy. You know that old bitch never let anyone in, and we all knew she was loaded.”

Ms. Barbara shakes her head with a smirk. Micah, wide-eyed and ghost-white, and gives me an uncomfortable look.