Lowcountry Summer (2 page)

There had always been something charmed about the personality of Mother’s dining room. Food tasted better there. When we gave a party of any sort, the room seemed to sing with its own pleasure of playing hostess and I always half expected Mother to pop out from behind the curtains, announcing her own miraculous resurrection.

The day was warm and we were serving ourselves in the dining room and finding a place to sit in the living room. All the doors were open and spring was in full bloom.

I was telling Miss Sweetie, Miss Nancy, and the others about a dream I’d had last night.

“I was on the veranda and I can’t remember what I was wearing but I think it was a dress, a long one, some gauzy combination of nightgown and beach cover-up. I’m not sure. Mother suddenly came out through the French doors and oh! She was radiant! Absolutely radiant! And, here’s the thing, y’all! She looked to me to be about my own age.”

“Your mother was one of the most beautiful women I have ever known,” Miss Sweetie said, choking up. “Lord! I miss her so! It squeezes my heart every time I think about her!”

“Moi aussi!”
said Miss Nancy. “There was no one like our Lavinia.” She handed Miss Sweetie a tissue from the pocket of her expensive cardigan, French in origin, I had no doubt. “Take hold of yourself,” she whispered to Sweetie.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sweetie whispered back, slightly insulted, taking the tissue and blotting the corners of her eyes.

“Boy, is that the truth,” I said, glossing over Miss Sweetie’s fragile emotions, hoping that telling the rest of the story would hold them in check. “Miss Lavinia was one of a kind! Anyway, Mother took me by the hand and the next thing I knew we were flying all over the Lowcountry. We flew over the Edisto, the Ashepoo, and the Combahee rivers and down to Charleston, over St. Michael’s Church and the custom house. We were so excited looking at all the houses on South Battery. Then we came down and walked along the seawall, arm in arm. And I think she said something like ‘Look! Look at all the happiness!’ Suddenly we were on Church Street or maybe it was Tradd, looking in the windows. Every living room was filled with pink and white balloons and people laughing, having fun.”

“
What?
Mom?” All the color drained from Eric’s face. “That is a very strange dream,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I dream about my mother all the time.”

“No, Mom, it’s bizarre.”

“Really? Tell me why, Dr. Jung. Are you going to interpret my dream for us like your daddy used to do?” I was just teasing my adorable boy and reached out to ruffle his carefully combed mop of strategically placed locks that nearly covered his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

“No, uh, where’s Amelia?”

“I’m right here,” she said, walking across the rug and eating at the same time, a habit I detested. “Aunt Caroline, this is the best meal I’ve had in ages! I sure hope you’re enjoying your birth—”

I forgave her on the spot.

“Amelia!”

“What, Eric? What’s the matter with you?”

“Uh, we forgot something in the car. Be right back.” Eric put his plate on the table and took Amelia’s arm. “Come on.”

“Right!” Amelia said. “OMG! How stupid are we?”

Amelia shook her head and they hurried from the room.

“What in the world?” Miss Sweetie said.

“Who knows?” Miss Nancy said.

“Humph,” said Millie. “I got my own suspicions.”

Millie knew about things before they came to pass, which could be useful, worrisome, or highly irritating.

“Kids!” I said. “Anyway, I kept thinking she was trying to tell me something.”

“Maybe she was telling you to have some more fun,” Miss Nancy said. “All work and no play? Should be the other way around once in a while.
N’est-ce pas?
That’s why I’m off for France! What was she wearing?”

“Bon voyage!” said Miss Sweetie, still slightly bent out of shape.

“I think she was—no, wait . . . I can’t remember!”

My back was to the door but I could see the sudden changes in Miss Nancy’s expression and then Miss Sweetie’s, and there was never a woman who could shoot her eyebrows to the stratosphere so quickly or grin as widely as Millie Smoak.

“What?” I said.

“Turn around,” they said together.

There in the doorway to the outside stood Eric and Amelia holding bouquets of balloons. Pink and white. I nearly fainted. Miss Sweetie sank into a club chair with her hand over her mouth and Miss Nancy patted her on the arm. They both had tears in their eyes.

Rusty said, “Is this a joke?” She rubbed her arms as though she’d caught a sudden chill.

“No, darlin’, it’s just a little birthday greeting from our mother,” Trip said, and chuckled.

“It was my idea but I don’t know where the idea came from,” Amelia said. “You never said anything about liking balloons before.”

“Well, I adore them!” I said, and took the ribbons into my hand. “I really do!”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “Amelia asked me what to buy you for a gift and I said you didn’t need anything. So she said what about balloons?”

“It’s so perfect, you just don’t know!” I said, gave them a kiss on their cheeks, and turned to Millie. She was giggling like a schoolgirl and I joined her in a burst of laughter. Then I looked around the room at my slack-jawed gathering. “Oh, come on! You know Mother! Isn’t this the grandest feat?”

“Freaky,” Eric said.

“Completely weird,” Rusty said.

“For once I agree with her,” Amelia said, and hooked her thumb in Rusty’s direction.

“Thanks,” Rusty said.

“Well, I think it’s completely wonderful,” Miss Sweetie said. “Completely wonderful.”

“I think so, too . . . is that the kitchen doorbell?” I said.

“I think that door is locked up,” Millie said.

“Finally!” Trip said. “Probably my dear estranged wife with my daughters . . .”

I saw Amelia cut her eye at Rusty in disgust as though Rusty were the living embodiment of Hester Primm. I was glad Rusty had missed it because I didn’t want there to be trouble and why insult her? Like most people, bad manners made me uneasy.

“I’ll see about it,” Mr. Jenkins said, making his way toward the dining room.

It buzzed and buzzed with such persistence that Millie and I and then Trip followed. What we found was a horror show. There in the doorway was off-the-wagon Frances Mae, gathered upright by the muscular arms of Matthew Strickland, the sheriff of Colleton County. On his other side stood Chloe, crying like a baby. Her forehead was cut and there was blood all over her. She was entirely disheveled, and Frances Mae, for once in her slovenly, drunken, miserable life, appeared to be penitent—that is, if her silence could be translated into regret.

“Oh Lord!” Millie cried, and hurried to the sink to wet a clean dishcloth.

“Daddy! Oh, Daddy!” Chloe had begun great gulping sobs. She was traveling toward hysteria and I didn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t be hysterical?

What had Frances Mae done now?

Trip swooped up his pudgy seven-year-old Chloe and sat her on the kitchen counter like a rag doll. Millie moved in and gently applied pressure to the wound, handing Trip a second cloth to wipe the rest of the blood away.

“It’s all right, baby,” she said to Chloe in the sweetest voice she had. “It’s just a little bitty cut. You’re not even gonna need stitches.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot. Should I bring this one into the kitchen?” Matthew Strickland said, bringing our attention back to my low-life sister-in-law.

“Good grief!” I said. “Well? Let’s see if you can park old Hollow Leg at the table. I’ll make some coffee.” I reached into the refrigerator for the coffee and into the cabinet for a filter.

Matthew poured Frances Mae into a chair and she put her head down on her folded arms and appeared to pass out. I began filling the coffeepot with water.

“It’s all right now, sweetheart,” Trip said to Chloe, and then asked, “So, what happened, Matthew?”

“I saw her Expedition swerving a little going down Highway 17, so I followed her. I knew it was Frances Mae because of the bumper stickers. So I figured she was liquored up. Then, no surprise, she turned on Parker’s Ferry and I kept on behind her. When she went to turn into Tall Pines, she bounced off the gate and then slid into the ditch. So I picked them both up and brought them to you.”

“Nice,” I said, and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. “God in heaven, Matthew, and that’s a prayer of thanksgiving. What in the world would we do without you?”

“Well, you might be spending some more time in the courthouse. That’s for sure.” Matthew smiled at me and I remembered what it was like to fool around with him not so long ago. God, he was hot. Probably inappropriate for me, but white-hot, honey. By the look in his eyes I could see that he was still interested. I blushed. Okay, I didn’t blush. I twitched in the South.

“Frances Mae?” Trip shook her shoulder. His voice was filled with disgust. “Frances Mae?” There was no response. The fumes coming from her were powerful enough to cure a string of bass. “She’s as drunk as a goat. Out cold.”

“Obviously,” I said.

“The SUV is still in the ditch,” Matthew said. “Fender’s messed up.”

“I’ll call a tow truck directly,” Mr. Jenkins said, and opened the cabinet where we kept the phone book. “Won’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.”

“Jenkins?” Millie said. “Don’t you be scratching they mad place!”

“Humph,” Mr. Jenkins said. “My age? Say what I please.”

At that precise moment, Eric and Amelia appeared at the kitchen door.

“Do you want us to light the candles on your cake, Mom?”

“Yeah, Eric’s eating all the icing around the edges with his finger, Aunt Caroline.”

“Gross, Eric!”

“You do it, too, Mom!” he said.

“Mother would never do something so vile, son,” I said with a wink, and handed him a pack of matches from the drawer.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and then he added, “Hey! What happened here?”

“Aunt Frances Mae wasn’t feeling very well and she accidentally ran off the road into a ditch,” I said, without missing a beat. After all, we had become accustomed to spinning this sort of
situation
into some reasonable explanation over the past few years.

“Mom!” Amelia called out.

Frances Mae raised her head and opened her eyes. “Yewr sisters are li’l bitches. Woulna drive Chloe,” she said, and once again, her head went down and her lights went out.

She referred to her other daughters—my namesake Caroline, known as Linnie, and Isabelle, called Belle, as in southern, and she was anything but.

“Holy shit!”

“Eric!”

“Sorry! But she’s baked!”

“In the parlance of the young people? Duh,” I said, and gave Chloe a kiss on the hand. Poor thing. “Tell Miss Sweetie and Miss Nancy I’ll be right out. The Wimbleys were never ones to let a
situation
ruin a party.”

“A party?” Matthew said.

“Another birthday,” I said, and put the back of my hand over my forehead, feigning the next step to a swoon.

“Well, I should be moving on, then,” he said.

“Heavens no!” I said, and took him by the hand. “Come have a slice of cake!”

Matthew smiled. “Well, thanks! Don’t mind if I do.”

His entire six-foot-two frame just radiated testosterone. What was I thinking? Hmm, maybe he’d like to play with the birthday girl later on? I know, shame on me.

“Tell Rusty I’ve got my hands full here,” Trip said.

“Oh, now. You go on out and sing for your sister’s cake,” Millie said, attaching a Band-Aid to Chloe’s forehead. “Mr. Jenkins and I have this all under control.”

“I want cake!” Chloe whimpered. “Can I please?”

“Of course! Just wash your hands and skedaddle!” Millie smiled and helped Chloe jump to the floor.

The candles were lit and everyone sang, wishing me a happy birthday. Happy birthday? My pig-farmer boyfriend was in absentia, the county sheriff was the current cause of some very naughty thoughts, my drunk sister-in-law was passed out at my kitchen table, and my dead mother had sent me balloons. What else could a girl want?

2
Excess

D
O NOT THINK FOR ONE
minute that I was going to let Frances Mae Litchfield’s—okay, Frances Mae Litchfield
Wimbley
’s—self-indulgent escapade ruin my birthday party. As you might remember, I simply left her in the kitchen with Millie and Mr. Jenkins. But it was a little bit of divine justice for that day to have been the occasion on which Frances Mae would once again show her true colors. I know it doesn’t sound nice for me to take any kind of delight in the weakness of others, but you don’t know what a detestable witch of a sister-in-law she has been to me. So, in the cosmic sense, I had my cake and ate it, too.