“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.
