February 20, 2018
Adelaide Randolph does not meet me at the airport. Instead, she sends the intern, Owen, to fetch me. A scrappy little man-boy who looks as if his mother has just finished scrubbing him up for church waits outside the curb at baggage claim, holding up a sign that reads “Mueller: Belle Rive Plantation.”
He offers his hand and I pretend not to see it. Handshakes are the Devil’s germ-delivery system.
“Hey, I’m Owen. Flight okay?”
I nod as he grabs the handle of my wheelie bag and steers us out to the parking lot, his mouth going the whole time.