Beth Hoffman - Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
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- Book:Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
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- Publisher:Pamela Dorman Books
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- Year:2010
- Rating:3 / 5
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Saving CeeCee Honeycutt: summary, description and annotation
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Steel Magnolias meets The Help in this Southern debut novel sparkling with humor, heart, and feminine wisdom Twelve-year-old CeeCee Honeycutt is in trouble. For years, she has been the caretaker of her psychotic mother, Camille-the tiara-toting, lipstick-smeared laughingstock of an entire town-a woman trapped in her long-ago moment of glory as the 1951 Vidalia Onion Queen. But when Camille is hit by a truck and killed, CeeCee is left to fend for herself. To the rescue comes her previously unknown great-aunt, Tootie Caldwell. In her vintage Packard convertible, Tootie whisks CeeCee away to Savannahs perfumed world of prosperity and Southern eccentricity, a world that seems to be run entirely by women. From the exotic Miz Thelma Rae Goodpepper, who bathes in her backyard bathtub and uses garden slugs as her secret weapons, to Tooties all-knowing housekeeper, Oletta Jones, to Violene Hobbs, who entertains a local police officer in her canary-yellow peignoir, the women of Gaston Street keep CeeCee entertained and enthralled for an entire summer. Laugh-out-loud funny and deeply touching, Beth Hoffmans sparkling debut is, as Kristin Hannah says, packed full of Southern charm, strong women, wacky humor, and good old-fashioned heart. It is a novel that explores the indomitable strengths of female friendship and gives us the story of a young girl who loses one mother and finds many others.
Beth Hoffman: author's other books
Who wrote Saving CeeCee Honeycutt? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Beth Hoffman
Natalie Baszile
Camille Fronk Olson
Camille Kouchner
Deborah Ford
Camille Maurine
Frank G. Honeycutt
Angie Frazier
Baku Shibutani
Camille Glenn
Claire Cook
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Table of Contents
This book is dedicated to Marlane Vaicius,
the best friend a girl could ever hope to find. Marlane, you are my Dixie.
And:
In loving memory of my great-aunt, Mildred Williams Caldwell
of Danville, Kentucky, the remarkably generous and wise little woman
who ignited the flame that inspired this book.
the best friend a girl could ever hope to find. Marlane, you are my Dixie.
And:
In loving memory of my great-aunt, Mildred Williams Caldwell
of Danville, Kentucky, the remarkably generous and wise little woman
who ignited the flame that inspired this book.
Acknowledgments
Exceptional people have pressed their fingertips along the edges of this book, and Im indebted to them all.
Grateful thanks to literary agent extraordinaire Catherine Drayton of Inkwell Management, for opening the window and hanging a star in the October sky. With heartfelt gratitude, I thank a rare jewel in the publishing worldthe gracious and enormously talented Pamela Dormanfor her brilliant and inspiring editing. A warm thanks goes to Leigh Butler, Hal Fessenden, Julie Miesionczek, Nancy Sheppard, Shannon Twomey, Carolyn Coleburn, Randee Marullo, Veronica Windholz, Dennis Swaim, and Andrew Duncan for their guidance and kindness. And a big thanks to Clare Ferraro, Susan Petersen Kennedy, and everyone at Pamela Dorman Books/Viking Penguin for believing in CeeCeeand me.
A special thanks to Robin Smith for her sharp eyes, good humor, and friendship. And speaking of friends, had it not been for the support of Marlane Vaicius, Debra Kreutzer, Margaret Vincent, and Marie Behling, Id surely be making macaroni art somewhere in Idaho.
A tender thank-you goes to my husband, Mark, a gentleman of great integrity and kindness.
Often in life there are last things to say, and Id be remiss if I didnt seize this opportunity to tip the brim of my hat in the direction of a man named Dan. He knows why.
One
Momma left her red satin shoes in the middle of the road. Thats what three eyewitnesses told the police. The first time I remember my mother wearing red shoes was on a snowy morning in December 1962, the year I was seven years old. I walked into the kitchen and found her sitting at the table. No lights were on, but in the thin haze of dawn that pushed through the frostbitten window, I could see red high-heeled shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of her robe. There was no breakfast waiting, and no freshly ironed school dress hanging on the basement doorknob. Momma just sat and stared out the window with empty eyes, her hands limp in her lap, her coffee cold and untouched.
I stood by her side and breathed in the sweet scent of lavender talcum powder that clung to the tufts of her robe.
Whats the matter, Momma?
I waited and waited. Finally she turned from the window and looked at me. Her skin was as frail as tissue, and her voice wasnt much more than a whisper when she smoothed her hand over my cheek and said, Cecelia Rose, Im taking you to Georgia. I want you to see what real living is like. All the women dress so nice. And the people are kind and friendlyits so different from how things are here. As soon as I feel better, well plan a tripjust you and me.
But what about Dad, will he come too?
She squeezed her eyes closed and didnt answer.
Momma stayed sad for the rest of the winter. Just when I thought shed never smile again, spring came. When the lilacs bloomed in great, fluffy waves of violet, Momma went outside and cut bouquets for every room in the house. She painted her fingernails bright pink, fixed her hair, and slipped into a flowery-print dress. From room to room she dashed, pushing back curtains and throwing open the windows. She turned up the volume of the radio, took hold of my hands, and danced me through the house.
We whirled through the living room, into the dining room, and around the table. Right in the middle of a spin, Momma abruptly stopped. Oh, my gosh, she said, taking in a big gulp of air and pointing to the mirror by the door, we look so much alike. When did that happen? When did you start to grow up?
We stood side by side and gazed at our reflections. What I saw was two smiling people with the same heart-shaped face, blue eyes, and long brown hairMommas pulled away from her face in a headband and mine tied back in a ponytail.
Its amazing, my mother said, gathering her hair in her hand and holding it back in a ponytail like mine. Just look at us, CeeCee. I bet when you get older, people will think were sisters. Wont that be fun? She giggled, took hold of my hands, and spun me in circles till my feet lifted off the floor.
She was so happy that after we finished dancing, she took me into town and bought all sorts of new clothes and ribbons for my hair. Momma bought herself so many pairs of new shoes that the salesman laughed and said, Mrs. Honeycutt, I believe you have more shoes than the Bolshoi Ballet. Neither Momma nor I knew what that meant, but the salesman sure thought he was clever. So we laughed along with him as he helped us carry our packages to the car.
After stuffing the trunk full with bags and boxes, we ran across the street to the five-and-dime, where we sat at the lunch counter and shared a cheeseburger, a bowl of French fries, and a chocolate milk shake.
That spring sure was something. Id never seen Momma so happy. Every day was a big celebration. Id come home from school and shed be waiting, all dressed up with a big smile on her face. Shed grab her handbag, hurry me to her car, and off wed go to do more shopping.
Then came the day when Dad arrived home from a three-week business trip. Momma and I were sitting at the kitchen table, she with a magazine and me with a coloring book and crayons. When my dad opened the closet door to hang up his jacket, he was all but knocked senseless when an avalanche of shoe boxes rained down on him.
Good Christ! he barked, turning to look at Momma. How much money have you been spending?
When Momma didnt answer, I put down my crayon and smiled. Daddy, weve been shopping for weeks, but everything we got was for free.
Free? What are you talking about?
I nodded wisely. Yep. All Momma had to do was show the salesman a square of plastic, and he let us have whatever we wanted.
What the hell? Dad pounded across the kitchen floor, yanked Mommas handbag from the hook by the door, and pulled the square of plastic from her wallet. Damn it, Camille, he said, cutting it up with a pair of scissors. How many times do I have to tell you? This has got to stop. No more credit cards. You keep this up and youll put us in the poor house. You hear me?
Momma licked her finger and turned a page of the magazine.
He leaned down and looked at her. Have you been taking your pills? She ignored him and turned another page. Camille, Im talking to you.
The sharpness of his words wiped the shine right out of her eyes.
Dad shook his head and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. He huffed and puffed out of the kitchen, kicking shoes out of his way as he headed for the living room. I heard him dump his wide, beefy body into the recliner, muttering the way he always did whenever he was in a bad mood. Which, as far as I could tell, was pretty much always.
My father didnt smile or laugh very much, and he had a limitless gift for making me feel about as important as a lost penny on the sidewalk. Whenever Id show him a drawing Id made or try to tell him about something Id learned in school, hed get fidgety and say, Im tired. Well talk another time.
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