Page 5 of Jonesing for a Spy

The pale blue of the porch’s ceiling washes everything in a cool hue as I input the code and enter my home away from home for the next week, dropping my bag in the foyer.

Yeah, cottage is a misnomer. This place is bright, airy, and modern, all the while keeping the elements that make me think of those spreads in Southern Living.

Don’t judge me. Too many days off of school growing up means I learned to cook, I can fix most things around the house, and that I read almost anything I could get my hands on. When that wasn’t books, it was magazines my mom had lying around. Besides, that particular one has some dessert recipes Mom would whip up, master, and even go so far as to improve upon.

I won’t brag, but I’ve got skills in the kitchen. Not to mention my early-iteration feminist mother felt if it was good enough for me, it was good enough for her daughters. And vice versa. So she didn’t teach them anything she wouldn’t teach me.

Some kids spent their sick days watching “The Price is Right” and drinking Sprite. That was not my childhood.

I also wasn’t that kind of sick.

Sliding a hand across the marble kitchen island, I wonder what it would be like to have a place like this. A huge, open floor plan. Natural sunlight chasing shadows cast from the limbs of the old oak trees across the wood-plank floors. Maybe a child or two, sitting atop bar stools doing homework, asking questions I have no idea how to answer.

More so, I wonder about this house in particular.

The first time I visited Fairhope was nine years ago. I came after a hurricane when neighborhoods were throttled and infrastructure was decimated. The call went out that all available tradespeople were needed.

That was me. That is me.

I run Electric Peoria now, but Dad founded the company before I was born on respect and honor. That looked like knowing the operation from every aspect. My bachelor’s degree in business took five years because Dad insisted I work.

And by work, I mean pull wire, join the union, learn what it takes to be an electrician, first residentially, then commercially. I worked when I wasn’t in classes and then worked some more.

I wanted to be carefree, to go on trips, date casually… to be a normal kid. Instead, I learned. Now, I’m thankful. Back then I hated it.

When you consider what my youngest sister did schooling-wise, I think I had it easy.

But this house called to me when I was here. In the handful of times I’ve been here since, I’ve driven by, trying to picture inside. The old real estate listings were sketchy. When I saw it on Airbnb, there was no way I’d book anywhere else.

It’s always been the house that got away, even if I wasn’t chasing it. Seriously, one hundred and twenty years old, and two flights and a rental car away from home—it’s not like it’s within reach anyway.

I’m apparently getting sappy in my old age. Sliding my glasses off my face, I wipe my eyes and replace the frames. I wander the house, wondering first about the cooling requirements with the windows and the solar load. It’s an occupational hazard. The energy demands must be substantial, especially in the summer.

More so, it almost grates how comfortable I am here. As if my mind conjured the perfect living space and placed it at my feet. Living space. If only it weren’t eight hundred plus miles away from my job, Mom and Dad, my⁠—

My what? Is that all I have? A job and my parents? My sisters flew the coop. My dating life is non-existent. Sure, it’s convenient-ish to world-class doctors in Chicago and St. Louis less than two hours away, and my high school buddies. And, yeah, there’s the running club, but…

I stare out the front door, through the lead-pane glass, past the porch, and into nothingness. Is my life that empty? Just a nine-to-five, Sunday dinners with the fam, and an occasional beer with a high school friend?

It’s a good job, and a good family, and decent beer with good friends, but damn. I find the QR code and scan it, perusing the scads of data provided. There’s a restaurant downtown that’s only a mile’s walk or so and the name is intriguing. After looking at their menu, walking is a must. Down-home cooking with Creole and Cajun recipes means more butter than I typically consume, but the menu is mouthwatering and the name is great. Fat Bottom Grill, here I come.

3

weird mating ritual

Strider

Not thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at the bar that’s nearly empty in the early afternoon, talking with Tom, the bartender. He slides a bowl of shrimp and grits—his recommendation—in front of me with a flourish and refills my water from the soda gun.

“You enjoy.” He dips his head to the huge bowl in front of me. “I know you will.”

He returns to cleaning the glassware that already looks spotless.

It takes exactly one bite for me to fall in love. “Damn, that’s good.”

Tom’s smile cracks his weathered face. “Told ya.”

“You did. Now tell me about this place from a local’s perspective. What makes Fairhope Fairhope?”