Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover

Book 15: Miss Julia

by Ann B. Ross

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Miss Julia masterminds a makeover in New York Times bestselling author Ann B. Ross' s latest installment in her popular series
. It' s summer in Abbotsville, and Miss Julia has visions of enjoying a life of leisure. But before she can even sip some iced tea on her front porch, a letter from her long-lost cousin Elsie informs her that Elsie' s granddaughter is on a bus headed to Abbotsville that very day. Reminding Miss Julia of an old family debt, Elsie proclaims that she is sending Trixie to Miss Julia' s to learn to become a lady. The nerve of some people! When the rude and unkempt Trixie arrives, even Sam and Lloyd agree that Miss Julia faces quite a challenge.
Meanwhile, Sam has decided to run for state senate. But when he has a fainting spell and has to go into the hospital for tests, who will run his campaign? Is his no-good rival going to cakewalk into office? No sir, not if Miss Julia has anything to say about it-- and indeed she does, including up on the stump.
In this marvelous addition to the popular series, Miss Julia is sure to have a summer that she-- and Abbotsville-- will never forget!

Release date: April 8, 2014

Publisher: Penguin Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

I didn’t see it at the time—how many of us do?—but it all started back in January, a few days into the new year, when I felt compelled to sit down and take stock as, on occasion, I feel the need to do. So with the house quiet that morning—Sam off meeting with some local businessmen, Lillian at the grocery store, Lloyd in school, and me with time on my hands—taking stock was exactly what I was doing.

Now, I’m not talking about counting up assets and debits in a portfolio—I let Binkie, my curly-headed lawyer, take care of that—but rather, totting up the pluses and minuses of my life while hoping that they’ll balance out in the final accounting. Admittedly, I have a lot of pluses: Lloyd, Sam, Lillian, Hazel Marie. I could go on and on, but I also have a lot of minuses, like stubbornness, self-centeredness, a tendency to jump into the problems of other people—all for their own good, but still—and a certain impetuosity when action is called for.

I would like to report that, at the time of which I speak, I dwelt on the pluses and how thankful I was for them, but I didn’t. I was in a critical frame of mind, and all I could think of were the numerous times that I’d overstepped myself, blithely confident that I knew best and acting on that certainty.

Even as I inwardly cringed at the remembrance of some of my rasher moments, I could also comfort myself with the fact that only a few of them had actually made things worse. I will concede, however, that my recollections can on occasion be a tiny bit selective. But that in itself is a gift, an asset if you will, for who among us could live with our character defects constantly in the forefront?

I know I couldn’t face a day with mine uppermost in mind. I have to keep them safely stored in a mental box, opening it only when I feel the need to take stock, then quickly storing them away again.

So that’s what I’d been doing the morning after Sam had told me in no uncertain terms that he was tired of taking trips by himself and that, furthermore, he had no intention of giving up his trips. In other words, he meant for me to go with him, and right there I had to add another minus to my debit list: I was too self-centered to put his desires above my own, but I’ll tell you the truth, I did not want to go traipsing all over the world.

“But you’d love it, Julia,” he’d said. “Think of all the places we could go—Ireland, for example. Wouldn’t you like to go there? Or we could do a cathedral tour in Europe or a tour of the great houses of England. Or what about Rome or Paris?”

“Yes, and what would we have when we got back? Aching feet and a bunch of pictures with nowhere to put them.”

“Memories, honey. We’d have memories, and we wouldn’t have to take any pictures.”

“I should say not,” I said. “The thought of walking all over creation with a camera around my neck is not my idea of fun. Besides,” I went on, “I don’t fly.”

“We wouldn’t have to fly. We could go by boat. You’d like it if we went first class—dressing for dinner, strolling on the deck, meeting interesting people.”

“And suffering from seasickness the whole way, too. Oh, Sam,” I said, immediately contrite at the disappointed look on his face, “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have no desire to see the world. I like it right here, doing the same things every day. The daily routine ressures me, while constant change disturbs my equilibrium. But I know you love to travel and I wouldn’t discourage you from it for anything.”

“I know you wouldn’t, but I’d enjoy it so much more if you were enjoying it with me. And I think you would, if you’d just try it. We could start with a few short trips to get you used to being away. We could take the Amtrak Crescent to New Orleans, for instance, or take it the other way and go to New York. See some Broadway shows, go to museums, do a little shopping.”

“You’re getting closer,” I said with a smile to show I was teasing. “What about a Sunday afternoon drive? Wouldn’t that suffice?”

“And see what?”

“Oh, there’re waterfalls around and fruit stands and motorcycle convoys. Maybe a fireworks stand. And we’d be home by dark.”

Sam laughed. “You just don’t want to leave home.”

“That’s right. I like it here.”

“Well, I like to travel and I’d really like you to go with me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

That had been the end of the conversation, but I knew it wasn’t the end of the matter. But, I declare, I didn’t want to take off for parts unknown and leave the people who might need me. Why, what would happen to Lloyd without me around to watch over him? And what if Hazel Marie needed help with her twin babies? And what would Lillian do if trouble descended on her or Latisha, her great-granddaughter? To say nothing of the Abbotsville First Presbyterian Church. If I were gone any length of time, there was no telling what Pastor Ledbetter would get in his mind to do. He might change the order of worship again—something that he seemed to do just to keep us off balance. Or to keep us awake, but who knew?

The last time I’d been out of town for a few days—the time I chased jewel thieves all the way to Florida—you wouldn’t believe what had happened while I was gone. I’d been elected treasurer of the garden club, president of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, and leader of the book club for a whole year. And on top of that, I’d been volunteered to host a Christmas tea and to help with Vacation Bible school the following summer.

No, it wasn’t safe to leave town. I needed to stick around to protect myself. Sam, of course, didn’t have that problem. If he returned from abroad or wherever and found himself in an office he didn’t want, he’d just smile and say, “Thank you all the same, but I think I’ll pass on that.” And he’d stick to it, whereas I would be so riddled with guilt for turning down an elected honor that I’d accept it and hate every minute of it.

So the days and weeks passed with no further mention of the wonders of travel while I put aside my stock taking since I couldn’t remedy or rectify any lapses of the past anyway. I noticed, however, a few travel brochures left lying around the house—on the hall table, for one, in the kitchen by the phone, and even next to the sink in our bathroom. It seemed that Sam had in mind a boat trip down the Rhine—or up it, depending on which way it flowed. And all I could think of was how could he expect us to spend a week or more on the high seas just to get to the Rhine, then spend more time on water once we got there.

Looking back now, though, I should’ve jumped at the chance to fill our summer with a globe-trotting trip. I should’ve realized that my husband’s inquiring mind would not be content without something new and intriguing to occupy it, but I made no mention of the brochures nor did I ask about Sam’s plans. I just let things ride while hoping that his wanderlust would wear itself out or, if it didn’t, that he’d get over wanting me along. Neither happened, but a few things came up that took their place, and I’m still not sure which would’ve been for the best.

Chapter 2

“Julia,” Sam said with a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he snapped open the newspaper, “I’ve decided not to take a trip this summer. It looks to be so busy that I won’t have time to get away.” This was on an evening a few weeks later while we relaxed by the fire in our new library at the end of a blustery day in February.

I looked at him in the other wing chair, taking note of his carefully averted eyes, and knew that something was afoot. “Is that right,” I responded. “Well, I’ll be glad to have you home. What changed your mind?”

“Oh, I’ve just realized that there’re a lot of interesting things to do closer to home. I don’t have to go halfway around the world to keep myself entertained.”

He was being entirely too noncommittal, deliberately holding back on something.

“You’re not planning a camping trip in Pisgah Forest, are you? Because if you are, I don’t sleep on cots or in tents.”

He laughed. “Not my cup of tea either.” Then he made a great show of concentrating on an article in the paper—a patent attempt to engage my curiosity.

“May I ask what it is you’ve found that’ll keep you too busy to float down the Rhine? And, yes, I’ve noticed all the brochures you’ve left lying around.”

“Thought you would,” he said without looking my way. “They didn’t tempt you, did they?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They didn’t.” Then waited to hear what he’d come up with to replace his travel plans. And kept waiting, while he read the want ads, the sports page, the editorials, a columnist with whom I knew he didn’t agree, and the letters to the editor. At this point, I realized that I had another character defect that would go on my list of minuses the next time I decided to take stock: lack of patience.

“Well,” I demanded. “What is it? What do you have up your sleeve that you’re dying to tell me about, but not before I have to drag it out of you?”

He frowned and pursed his mouth, as if he were giving it some deep thought. “Well, it’s like this. It might involve a little travel—not far—just around a couple of counties, as you suggested, but still you might not be interested. I can probably handle it by myself, but if not, there’ll be plenty of volunteers to help out.”

“For what? I never heard of having volunteers to travel around a few counties. And who would volunteer, anyway?”

“Oh, a lot of folks, all eager to do whatever I want. I’ll have my pick, but don’t worry. No overnight trips as far as I know.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said, thinking that I’d figured out his plans. “Sounds as if you’ve found some fishing buddies. You’ll be floating around on water even if it’s not the Rhine, and you’ll probably catch more, too.”

“Nope, won’t be any time for fishing. The French Broad and Mud Creek will have to do without me this year.”

“Sam Murdoch,” I said, fully aroused by this time, “put down that paper and tell me what you’re doing.”

He lowered the paper, smiled at me, and said, “I’ve decided that you’re right—home is where I want to be, too. So tell me, how would you like to be the state senator’s wife?”

“Jimmy Ray Mooney’s? Sam, he’s married.”

“So are you,” he pointed out, laughing at the shock on my face. “But no, you won’t have to change husbands. The one you already have has been asked to run for the senate of the North Carolina General Assembly.”

“The state senate,” I murmured, as if it was a new concept, which it was. “In Raleigh?”

“Where else?” Sam asked.

“Well, I guess I’m just surprised,” I said, running over all the ramifications in my mind. “I didn’t know you had political ambitions. How long have you been thinking about this?”

He looked at his watch. “About two hours,” he said with a straight face. Then he put aside the paper to give me his full attention. “Here’s what happened: I was approached about running several weeks ago, but I had my heart set on taking a trip with you this summer. So I turned it down, but then Frank Sawyer had to drop out—you heard about that?”

“He had a double knee replacement, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and not doing very well, I understand. The party was counting on him to run against Jimmy Ray again, but he’s not up for campaigning all spring and summer. Look, Julia,” Sam said, leaning forward, “the deadline for filing is at the end of this week, so if you have any hesitation about this, tell me now. I’ll turn it down with no regrets. In fact, it’d give me a good excuse to go fishing instead.”

“Well, I guess that’s better than going down the Rhine, but I don’t know, Sam. You’re not giving me a whole lot of time to think. Would we have to move to Raleigh?”

“No. The Assembly is in session only a few months a year. We could get a small apartment there, and you could go with me or I’d come home every weekend. They close up shop on Thursdays, so we’d have three-day weekends at home.”

“It’s a long drive, though.”

“About four and a half to five hours.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Depending on how often we stopped.”

I smiled back. I didn’t let many rest areas go by without dropping in. Then I gazed into the fire for a while, thinking over what a political campaign might mean to our comfortable way of life. Then I looked up at him and said, “This may sound as if I’m trying to talk you out of it, but I’m not. I just want to know what we’d be getting ourselves into. You’ve retired from practicing law, do you really want to take on another job? And what about your book—the one you’ve worked on so long? Would you just put that aside?”

“As for taking on another job, the beauty part of this is that I would be a one-term senator—I’ve made that clear. The party is grooming an up-and-comer, but he’s too green this year. In two years in the next election he’ll be ready or Sawyer will be healthy enough to run again. Frank knew he was having surgery, but he assured the party he’d be able to run, but, well.” Sam stopped and chuckled. “He didn’t take into account some complications he’s having. I understand he’s cussing his surgeon up one side and down the other. Fact of the matter is, Julia, I’d be a stopgap, which is fine with me. Two years of politicking is enough, and besides, it’ll give me more material for my book.”

The book of which we spoke was a history of Abbot County’s legal community—the lawyers, judges, defendants, and so on—which Sam had been working on during his retirement.

“But,” he went on, “if you’re against it, I won’t do it. The only reason I’m even considering it is because I’m a firm believer in the two-party system. To let Jimmy Ray run unopposed goes against the grain. He’s been in the senate long enough.” Sam stopped and thought for a minute. “And there is this: I may have no choice. I might not win.”

“Oh,” I said, waving my hand to brush that possibility aside, “you’ll win, all right. Everybody knows you and respects you. I have no doubt you’d win.”

He laughed again. “Thanks, but I’m not so sure. There’s an ingrained group that’s controlled this district, county, and town for years—it’s a tight network of old hands, except they’ve been careful to bring in newcomers so that the same faces don’t appear over and over. But they know what they’re doing. They pretty much stack the town council, then they take turns standing for mayor. And they do pretty much the same with state and federal offices—that’s why it’s such a blow to lose Frank Sawyer. He was the best one to take on Mooney. He almost beat him two years ago.”

“So you’d be running against Jimmy Ray?”

“Right, and he’ll be hard to beat with that crowd behind him.”

As I thought this over, I realized that a lot of underhanded things must’ve been going on that I—and a lot of others—hadn’t known about.

“That just burns me up,” I said, somewhat hotly. “Do you mean to tell me that our elections have all been rigged for years?”

“Not rigged exactly, no,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Just that they’ve been able to preselect the candidates who run, and with this district being mostly a one-party district, voters have little choice. And they put up enough new names now and then to give the appearance of real change. They’re all alike, though, and they all have the same agenda.”

“And what agenda is that?”

“Knowing ahead of everybody else which industry plans to expand, where a new business or a government building will be located, what roads the DOT will widen and where new ones will be constructed—just a few minor things like that. Then they form a corporation to buy up land before any of it is made public.”

“I don’t think that’s legal, and who are they anyway?” I demanded, riled up now at the thought that I’d been freely exercising my right to vote all these years without knowing that I’d not been so free after all.

“Well, look who’s on the town council and on the county commission, and look at our representatives and senators—state and federal. They’re all part of it. But voters might be ready for a real change this go-round. Take Jimmy Ray, our current state senator . . .”

“I don’t have to take him. Every time I hear his name, I feel so sorry for that daughter of his. Jimmie Mae Mooney—who in their right mind would saddle a child with a name like that? He should’ve just named her Junior and been done with it.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” Sam said, thinking the best of people as he usually did. “In fact, they’re all decent enough. But Frank Sawyer was our best bet to take on Mooney and break that stranglehold. I’m trying to consider it an honor that the party asked me to take his place.” Sam grinned in that self-deprecatory way of his.

“Well, I consider it an honor, as well as an indication of the party’s good sense in selecting you. But, tell me something, Sam—were you never interested in being a judge? You would be such a good one—you’re so fair-minded and you certainly know the law.”

“I thought about it a couple of times,” Sam said, shrugging. “But I was caught up in writing my book, then I got a bee in my bonnet about a certain widow lady, and the interest faded away. Now, though, learning and doing something new is very appealing, especially if it appeals to you, too. I think we’d have a good time, Julia, doing this together and doing something good for the district, as well. But,” he said, raising a finger to emphasize his point, “I’m not going to do it without you. We’d be making a two-year commitment if I win, and that would be it. And if I do win, it’ll mean going back and forth to Raleigh when the Assembly is in session, and keeping an office open here for constituents during the off-season. But keep in mind that it’s very likely that I’ll lose, and I don’t want you to be disappointed. As for me, I can take it or leave it.”

As I studied the matter, I realized that I, too, could take it or leave it. However it turned out, I was not so invested in a senate race that I’d be thrilled on the one hand or devastated on the other. Of course, though, it never entered my head to discourage Sam from doing anything he wanted to do, but it was clear that he wanted me to want what he wanted. In fact, it sounded as if he wouldn’t do it at all if I was the least bit hesitant about it. I’d already disappointed him by turning down a globe-trotting trip, but this I could do without having to pack a suitcase.

So I thought about it, and the more I thought, the more appealing it seemed. I thought about those long drives to and from Raleigh—just the two of us in the car alone, the talks we could have—why, we’d have more time together than we’d ever had at home. And the thought of being the representatives of all the people in the district—working for them, improving conditions, speaking for them—I just got all patriotic and shivery at the thought. Well, of course I knew that it would be Sam who’d be their senator, but I, too, would have a small part in sacrificing for my country.

“One question, Sam,” I finally said. “Would I have to make any speeches?”

“Oh,” he said offhandedly, “maybe one or two. Maybe to your book club or to other small groups, that sort of thing. We’d work up a little ten-minute talk, and you’d give that over and over.” He arched one eyebrow at me. “All about how wonderful I am.”

I laughed. “That would be no problem, except I’d probably make every woman in the district jealous.”

“And,” Sam went on, “during the campaign we’d have to show up at every pig-pickin’, barbecue, watermelon cutting, parade, VFW meeting, and civic event around. Your job would be to stand there and gaze adoringly at me.”

“Oh, Sam,” I said, laughing, “you make it sound like fun. And we could take Lloyd to some of the events. He could meet people and learn all about politics. But,” I went on, getting serious, “there’s one thing I want you to promise me. Please, please don’t use the word fight in your speeches or advertising or anything. It just turns me off to hear a candidate—even a sweet, grandmotherly type—say, ‘Send me to Raleigh or Washington, and I’ll fight for you,’ as if they can’t wait to get into a brawl with fisticuffs and hair pulling.”

“Okay, I agree—no fighting. You want to do this?” He leaned over and took my hand. “Are you with me?”

“I’m always with you, and, yes, I do want to do it, because you’re the best one for the job and,” I couldn’t help but add, “it beats floating down the Rhine any day.”

He laughed, then said, “One thing you should be aware of—there’ll be people who’ll be working against us.”

“Like who?”

“Well, like Thurlow Jones for one.”

“What! Why, Sam, you are without doubt the best-qualified, the most experienced, the fairest, most honest, and best-liked man in town. How could anybody be against you? And Thurlow?” I waved my hand in dismissal. “Nobody pays any attention to him.”

“That’s not exactly true, sweetheart,” Sam said, his voice taking on a serious tone. “Thurlow is the money behind the ones in office now. He’s the one who makes the decisions for the other party—he’ll be against us. Not many people know it, but he pretty much runs this town.”

Well, that was a shocker if I’d ever heard one. Thurlow Jones was an unshaven, disgraceful, and disreputable excuse for a man who delighted in showing his contempt for women in general and for me in particular. If you didn’t know him but happened to see him on the street, you’d think he was a tramp down on his luck. There was no way to tell from his appearance that he could buy and sell half the town.

And to think that he was the power behind the thrones of the county and the district—it beat all I’d ever heard. Until the mail came one sultry morning a few months later.

Chapter 3

“Sam?” I called, tapping on the door of his office as soon as I’d scanned the letter in my hand. Hearing his response, I walked into my former sunroom—the one Deputy Bates had rented after Wesley Lloyd Springer left me a somewhat bereaved widow and before Deputy Bates married Binkie—the sunroom that I’d made into Sam’s home office. I was loath to disturb him, because this was one of the few free days he’d had to work on his book since winning the primary the previous month. Of course, having been the party’s only candidate, winning the primary had been a foregone conclusion. “If you’re busy,” I said, though not really meaning it, “this can probably wait. We can talk later.”

“Never too busy for you. Come on in.” Sam had risen from his creaky executive chair behind the desk and pulled a wing chair closer. “Sit down and talk to me. I’m stuck in the year 1966, trying to decide how much to reveal about Judge Alexander T. Dalton. You may remember him better as Monk Dalton.”

“Vaguely,” I said, sitting down and trying to show a little interest in the history he was writing about the shenanigans of the local legal community. “Didn’t he have two wives at the same time?”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, they had him on a bigamy charge until one of the women, the one he’d lived with for years, told him that if he’d make a hefty settlement on her, she’d testify that they’d never had an actual ceremony, and she’d move to Florida. He did and she did, and the charges were dropped.”

“Oh, well then. Tell it all, Sam. That’s the kind of book people will buy. But listen, the mail just came and I need your advice.” I held up the letter—written in pencil on lined notebook paper—that I’d just received.

“Who’s it from?”

“Elsie Bingham. You don’t know her, but she’s my half first cousin or half cousin, first removed, or something. Her father was my father’s half brother.” I stopped and thought for a minute. “Or maybe his stepbrother, which would make her no kin at all to me. Wouldn’t that be nice.”

Sam smiled at my sarcasm. “Not good news, then?”

“About as far from it as you can get. Listen to this.” I began reading.

Dear Julia,

Haven’t heard from you in so long you might be dead as far as I know. But in case your not, guess your still living high on the hog like you always did.

I let the letter fall to my lap in disgust. “Wouldn’t that just frost you! A nice way to start a letter to someone you haven’t had contact with in forty years.”

“Kinda puts you off, doesn’t it?” Sam agreed.

“I’ll say. But she was always like that. Well, listen to the rest of it.” I lifted the letter and began again to read:

I know you remember the summer you spent with us on the farm which is gone now and good riddance I say, except we’re on another one just as bad. Or worse. Anyway your mother was sick and died from whatever she had so that’s why we had to take you and your sisters in and feed and cloth every one of you all summer long cause your daddy was to broke up to lift a hand for his own children.

“I say, feed and clothe us! That was the worst summer of my life. And I happen to know that Papa sent money to Uncle Posey to take care of all our needs. What he actually did with it is another matter because we ate a lot of corn bread and buttermilk and you wouldn’t believe the amount of beans. And as far as clothing us is concerned, by the time we were sent home we’d outgrown everything we owned. Papa had to send Pearl downtown with us to buy school clothes. You should’ve seen what we ended up with, but Elsie’s right about one thing. Papa was out of his mind with grief and not responsible, which was when I as the oldest began to take over.”

“And did an excellent job of it, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know about that,” I mused, recalling the problems of a young girl taking charge of a motherless home. “Did the best I could, I guess, although my sisters wouldn’t think so.” I sighed and took up the letter again, reading aloud:

Anyway, when things get binding families do what families ought to do. There is such a thing as family ties and family responsibilities and so on you know, which is the reason to remind you of what my family did for your family.

“Can you believe this!” I demanded, waving the letter.

Sam smiled and shook his head. “She wants something.”

“She sure does and you won’t believe that either.”

Anyway living out here in the sticks our Trixie don’t have a way to meet nice people and learn that a high-school dropout wont do more than pump gas