The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,77

is going to be fun,” Felicia said, pushing her big red glasses up higher on the bridge of her nose. “But shouldn’t we invite Happy too?”

Pris, whose eyes were already starting to look a little glassy, took a large swallow from her wineglass. “Forget it,” she said. “She’ll never come. She doesn’t trust women. Well, she doesn’t really trust anybody, not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because of what happened to her in Savannah.” Before I could ask for clarification, Pris, who was clearly a little buzzed (as was I) volunteered the rest. “Momma and Daddy had this group of friends from the club, the Masons, the Chastains, and the Thatchers. They got together all the time, took vacations together—New York, Miami, Bermuda, even a cruise through the Panama Canal. But four years ago, about two months before they were set to leave for a long weekend in Memphis, Daddy had a heart attack and died.”

Everybody except Polly already knew this, but we murmured condolences just the same. Pris went on with her story. “Birdie Mason came through the reception line after the funeral and hugged Momma and said they were sure going to miss her. Momma thought she was just talking about how they hadn’t seen each other since Daddy’s death, and said she’d missed them too and was looking forward to getting away to Memphis.

“Then Birdie said, ‘Oh, Happy. It’s just a group for couples. I’m sure you understand,’ and walked right out the door. After ten years, they dropped her like a hot potato.” The fire from Pris’s eyes could have started a blaze.

“Oh, wait,” she said, after pausing to take another drink. “I almost forgot. Candie and Dwayne Chastain didn’t walk right out. They stuck around almost until the end of the reception and ate about five pounds of boiled shrimp. Then they dropped her like a hot potato. Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t. Judging from the shocked silence, neither could anyone else. What kind of people dump a friend, especially after her husband has just died? The kind who’d never been friends to begin with, that’s what kind. Suddenly, a whole lot of things about the seemingly misnamed Helen “Happy” Browder made sense. No wonder she was such a miserable individual. I had no reason to like Happy, but I’ve never been able to stand by and watch people get shafted, especially after my third glass of wine.

“That’s outrageous!” Felicia exclaimed.

“Oh, your poor mom,” Caroline murmured.

“That settles it,” I said, smacking my leg. “Happy has got to join the group.”

Even Polly, who had never even met Happy and, unlike the rest of us, wasn’t even the tiniest bit intoxicated, agreed. “We should include her.”

“She’ll never come,” Pris slurred. “Not in a million years.”

“We can ask, can’t we?” I took a fortifying sip from my wineglass and rocketed out of Beebee’s pink chair. “Come on, y’all.”

Five minutes later, we were standing on Happy’s front steps. Pris, who was bringing up the rear and still carrying the now-empty wine bottle, said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“A very good idea,” I assured her. “Maybe even our best idea.”

I poked the doorbell with my index finger.

Nothing happened.

I poked it again. And again. The porch light snapped on. Happy was dressed in a green sateen kimono and had about an inch of cold cream on her face.

“Well? What do you all want?” she demanded.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lorne knelt on the ground next to the front steps, tape measure in hand. I leaned down to get a better look as he stretched it out next to the bottom riser. “See? Seven and three-quarters inches. Exactly.” He looked up at Brett, daring him to deny the evidence.

“But the others measure eight.” Brett ticked a red mark onto his clipboard.

Lorne climbed to his feet. “No,” he said, his voice tone low and menacingly deliberate. “They’re all seven and three-quarters. I measured them. And even if they weren’t, the building code makes allowances for variances for historic properties.”

“Nineteen twenty isn’t exactly historic,” Brett countered, puffing to show he wasn’t impressed. “Not in Charleston. Anyway, you rebuilt the steps, so now they have to comply with current building standards.”

“I only rebuilt them because you said I had to.” Lorne took a personal-space-invading step toward the young inspector, getting up into his face. “There was nothing wrong with the steps before and there’s nothing wrong with them now.”

“I can’t sign off on them until every tread is the same height.”

Brett Fitzwaller, the mid-twenties, pencil-necked, clipboard-toting, power-drunk building inspector, was