Lowcountry Summer (21 page)
“Great. Now the food police are here,” Belle said.
“No, I’m not the food police. I’m your aunt who is trying to help you girls understand that taking care of your body is something to be taken very seriously.”
“You think we don’t know that? You think we’re stupid?” Linnie said.
Lord above, and that’s a prayer, this child had the sassiest mouth I had ever heard.
“No. I do not think you’re stupid. I think you are both exceptionally bright young women with marginal ambition and questionable ethics. How’s that? The good and the bad. It is my intention to teach you about integrity and the great happiness that can come from living a more organized and healthier life. And a little gentility wouldn’t kill you either.”
“Oh, great,” Belle said. “Are you going to try and make debs out of us, too?”
“No, not today. Today I am going to the grocery store. My intention is to fill this house with healthy choices for your meals and to reestablish some kind of order in your lives. And when I come back, which will be in about an hour, I expect to find this kitchen cleaned, the refrigerator wiped down, and all the trash outside where it belongs.”
They just stared at me as though no one had ever tried to give them any boundaries or instructions.
“And the clothes washer humming away.”
The stare continued.
“Okay, then,” I said, and walked from the house to my car with a stride that meant all business. I backed out of the yard, turned onto the street, and drove to the stop sign.
“Oh, dear God!” I rested my head on my arms on the steering wheel and prayed. “This is much harder than I thought it would be. What am I going to do with those girls? Plan a party for Belle?
And just who in the hell is Erica Swink?
”
T
WO WEEKS PASSED, STILL NO
housekeeper, and the running back and forth between Tall Pines and Walterboro was putting a strain on Rusty’s and Trip’s nerves. As each week went by and we got closer to Belle’s graduation, we also got closer to the return of Frances Mae, which Trip, Rusty, and I were dreading more and more. How would she be? Sober, of course. But would she try to weasel her way back into Trip’s heart with some insane dramatic fight? I hoped not. The girls didn’t need any more turmoil. None of us did.
Speaking of the sweetie pies, Trip’s girls were tolerating Rusty better than they were tolerating me, as I was obviously driving them to the limits of what they could endure. She was the devil they preferred. At least that was what they told Amelia, who told Eric, who repeated the story to me. Eric’s report, and there was no mention of Erica and no inquiry from me, had its surprises, as Amelia said that Linnie and Belle were actually grateful for the kindness with which Rusty treated Chloe. Even though Linnie and Belle would have loved for the world to perceive them as tough cookies who didn’t care one whit for the rules of the game, they were still sensitive enough to recognize that their baby sister had been the most damaged by the weaknesses and personal failings of their parents. Or perhaps they were just beginning to accept the inevitable—that Rusty was going to be in their lives whether they liked it or not. In any case, they appeared to be less combative when Rusty showed up at their Walterboro door. At least that’s what she and I surmised since they didn’t make guttural noises or hiss in her face.
When they saw me on the other side of the door, they rolled their eyes and made some unflattering remarks like “Aunt Nazi is here,” and there was no smile as they said it. They didn’t exactly have Stockholm syndrome. But I still considered this to be an improvement.
We always arrived unexpected, thinking that element of the unknown would put them constantly on their guard, and hopefully make them worry about being caught doing something they should not have been doing. So far, try as we did, we had not been able to nail the little darlings, which surprised me, as I knew they were naked all the time and snorting the fumes of every product under the kitchen sink. Rusty thought I was being unduly harsh. I knew better. I knew it in my bones.
Rusty always brought them thoughtful food like a decorated carrot cake, blueberry muffins with perfectly glazed crunchy tops, a roasted chicken still warm from the oven, or organic eggs that had just been laid that morning. I brought cleaning supplies, a healthy lecture, and a surreptitious inspection of their rooms, the refrigerator, and the levels of dust throughout the house. Maybe that had something to do with their noticeable lack of enthusiasm for me.
It was Wednesday morning and I was talking to Rusty on the phone.
“I still can’t believe Belle skipped her prom,” Rusty said.
“Honey, that girl? She’s way too cool for something so traditional.”
“Maybe, but if I had missed my prom I would’ve been suicidal.”
“Me, too. So the girls get out of school two weeks from Thursday and Belle graduates on Saturday morning. How are the plans for the party coming along?”
Rusty and Trip had taken on the planning of a barbecue and swim party for Belle’s entire class. Belle had a thousand objections to that because she felt the plantation was too far away from Walterboro and no one would come. The invitations went out over the weekend and Belle was proven wrong.
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning. I guess the invitations must have arrived and were intercepted by the parents. They all want to know if there will be adult supervision and a lifeguard and all that. They are especially concerned about alcohol.”
“Alcohol is always a worry. Drugs, too.”
“Well, I just told them all that they’re welcome to come and help chaperone.”
“And?”
“And I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that not one of them shows up. But you know what? I’m going to make some adult food, like maybe some marinated chicken or something, and have enough to serve just in case. I mean, it’s their child’s graduation, too? Maybe they want to take pictures or something?”
“I’ll bet you’re right. So what can I do to help?”
“Let’s see. The food’s covered and I’ve ordered tons of balloons and I got a pile of those foam-rubber noodle things that work like rafts.”
“Kids love those things.”
“Yep. And I found great beach towels on sale, so I bought two dozen. We can always use them, right? Gee, maybe I should have bought more. What do you think?”
“I think a lot of kids will bring their own. Don’t worry.”
“You’re probably right. So I got the cutest plates and napkins and I was thinking about getting a DJ? What do you think?”
“Nah. Let the girls make their own mix and blast it from your sound system. You have outdoor speakers, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes we do! Great idea! In fact we just got them—they’re fake rocks and they’re wireless.”
“Good call. We don’t want anyone getting electrocuted. That would ruin the whole day.” I was completely deadpan, entertaining the vision, knowing there wasn’t enough current in little speakers to cause a catastrophe.
“Right! God, you’re so bad.” Rusty giggled. “And then I was thinking about getting banners made, you know ‘Congratulations, Graduates!’ Or something like that. Or a bubble machine? Or a Sno-Kone machine? What do you think?”
I giggled then, too. Rusty was going to break the bank and Trip would have a full-blown conniption fit and die gasping for air.
“Um, I think somebody’s spending too much time on the Internet? This isn’t a wedding, girl!”
Rusty laughed and agreed with me.
“You’re right, you’re right. Gosh, can you imagine if I had my own children how spoiled rotten they’d be?”
“They’d be rotten from head to toe. Now tell me: What I can do?”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe Matthew knows some young policemen who could work as lifeguards?”
“I’m sure he does. I’ll call him right away.”
We hung up and I stared at the phone for a few minutes. Rusty had to be one of the most considerate and generous people I had ever known. She was using her time to plan every conceivable detail of this very nice party for Trip’s daughter who would just as soon spit in her eye as say thank you. All she wanted to do was make Belle know that she and Trip cared about her graduation day and that they wanted it to be as happy and memorable as possible. Just as I was musing away on the positive qualities of Rusty, there came across my internal monitor a mental image of Frances Mae. I could see her just gnashing her teeth and wallowing in misery over missing her daughter’s graduation. But truth be told, it was better to miss it from the confines of a rehab center in sunny California, where she could do yoga and meditate, than from some dismal jail cell where she had to wear an orange jumpsuit that flattered no body part. If Frances Mae had not gone away to Promises, she would surely be a guest of the state by now. Poor thing.
I called Matthew.
“Darlin’ man? You busy tonight?”
“Why, no, ma’am. What’s going on?”
“Well, I was thinking about making a fabulous dinner for you around seven?”
“Just us?”
“Why not?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Hunger.”
“Hunger? Hmm. What are you hungry for?”
“Oh, Matthew. You know me. I’m hungry for everything.”
“I’ll see you at seven.”
I was in an Italian mood. Everyone loved Italian food, Italian wine, Andrea Bocelli, and those three young tenors. Didn’t they? It wasn’t quite eleven. I still had ample room on the clock to make a round-trip to Charleston and be home in plenty of time to put together something that would thrill him.
I picked up seven pieces of veal shank at the New York Butcher in Mount Pleasant to make osso buco, figuring Millie and I could eat the leftovers the next day. Tomorrow the meat would be married to all the flavors and absolutely mouthwateringly delicious. As usual, I got into a conversation with Bill the owner, who was the coolest guy around.
“You making brown gravy with this?” he said.
“You know it. I like to use the gravy on risotto.”
“Me, too. You having a party?”
“Nah, just cooking for a friend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, actually, a man friend.”
“Aha! I knew it! Nobody comes all the way here from Timbuktu to cook for an old aunt or something. Am I right?”
“Oh, Bill! Yeah, he’s . . . well, he’s . . .”
“Got it.” He raised one eyebrow and gave me a smile. In general, Bill was a serious fellow, but when it came to matters of the heart, he softened. “I’m gonna give you a quarter pound of pancetta, too. Dice it and sauté it with the meat to give it a trace of smoke.”
“Sounds great,” I said, and actually blushed, something I rarely do.
He handed me the package. “My mother always said, love makes the world go ’round.”
“Mothers always say things like that, don’t they?”
“Yeah, and she was right, okay? My mother was always right.”
“Mine, too,” I said to be agreeable, knowing that my mother did so many things wrong it was just ridiculous.
As my heels crunched along the gravel in his parking lot, I suddenly remembered making veal chops for Richard years ago when I was young and in the business of serious seduction. It was that butcher at Zabar’s in New York, Abe was his name, I think, who made me realize that I could bring a man to his knees with the right cut of meat. For a while I drifted from broiling everything to concocting pastas and stews. But ever since Bobby Mack had come into my life, I became a roasting and braising fool. Low and slow was how you turned meat into butter. There was something very satisfying about cooking a meal for someone, especially if it was good, and if they appreciated the effort. Matthew always did.
I stopped at Whole Foods for cheeses, olives, and a fresh baguette, and in a moment of weakness I picked up a quarter of a seedless watermelon to cube and serve over vanilla sorbet with champagne. Watermelon was just about my favorite fruit in the world—besides strawberries, of course. I hoped Matthew would think that champagne in his dessert was a little exotic. Even though my relationship with Matthew didn’t quite qualify as a serious love affair, somewhere between the butcher shop and passing Rantowle Creek, I decided it wasn’t nice to just treat him like a friend with benefits. Mother might not have minded if we fooled around, but I didn’t think she’d be quite so sanguine if I wanted to marry him. If I intended to continue on with him, it would seem that I should give the long-term possibilities a real shake. It was a good thing my mother was dead. Well, she was dead but only technically. Still, there was only so much she could do to interfere. I hoped.
When I got home I dropped all the groceries in the kitchen, grabbed my clippers, filled a bucket halfway up its sides with warm water, and went out with the intention of cutting roses to make a huge bouquet for the living room and to fill the vases on the dining-room table.
Even though the afternoon sun had traveled across much of the sky, steam was still rising from the lawn. Heat owned the Lowcountry from May until well into October. It was almost like watching a time-lapse photography documentary on something like the evolution of the earth because every day you could count on something new emerging, being born and reborn. By small degrees, the temperature would rise each day. Leaves reappeared on shrubs and trees, quietly unfurling to show their pale green bottoms and shiny green leather tops. Flowers bloomed each week, tiny buds at first then growing in profusion and enough sweet fragrance to drive you mad. By May, the Lowcountry was more alive than ever, dressing herself for the annual parade of admirers who would arrive from Ohio and Pennsylvania to take pictures and say oh how magical it all was just to be here, even if only for a few days. Of course, while all these lovely tourists filled the coffers of various businesses around Charleston various species of bugs multiplied by the millions after each rainfall, eating everyone to pieces as the months rolled forward.
