Lowcountry Summer (22 page)

You see, this was the most addictive thing about living in the Lowcountry. It made me aware—aware of nature’s doings and aware of the passing of time. The geography and all of its trappings were as alive as I could imagine the world to be. I liked the fact that the sun warmed me through and through and I didn’t even mind the beads of perspiration that cropped up across my upper lip and the back of my neck. It meant I was alive, too.

I worked my way through Mother’s rose garden, thinking of her while I clipped flowers for the house and deadheaded the spent blooms. After all, these roses were a part of her legacy, as they would be of mine someday. What would she have said about the state of her garden? She might have been pleased to see it thriving. She would have been thrilled to know that a photographer from
Southern Living
magazine was coming out in a few weeks to take pictures of the roses. But what would she say about our family? Probably plenty. She would have been relieved to know that Frances Mae was safely on the other side of the country but she would not have liked the way her granddaughters were behaving. That much was certain. I thought then that she would have told me I was doing the right thing to be stern with them. She would have said in her royal voice that children needed discipline and to set goals to achieve their own levels of personal excellence. And while she whispered all that from the Great Beyond, there were gusty winds and dark clouds gathering in my mental harbor. I was remembering how, when our father died, she deposited Trip and me into boarding schools so fast it made heads spin. Millie had objected strongly then, but Mother wanted us out of the way. It was so awful.

Our structure had been bought and paid for, not provided in a loving way from a loving mother. Old anger resurfaced immediately, but it was quickly eclipsed by the longing I felt to be with her once more. Even five minutes with her would have brought me unimaginable joy. It was a terrible day, a mighty and terrible heart-wrenching sorrow, when a child buried her mother. Yes, it was. And the pain of it never left you. You just somehow limped along through life having become used to a terrible emotional disability. I sighed so hard then, I was sure the branches swayed.

I wondered then if she ached to be with me from wherever her spirit had flown. Now and then she would send me a sign that she had not evaporated, but where was she the rest of the time? Did she somehow watch me as I went about my daily life? For all our differences, it was her eyes in her final days that swallowed me whole as though she couldn’t get enough of my face to take away to eternity. No one ever adored me as my mother had at that time. I thought then that perhaps one reason she had sent Trip and me away to school was that she was afraid, maybe even terrified, of her capacity to love us and the risk it carried. So she just simply held back? That wasn’t right. But maybe the reason she was so cold to us was that the enormous feelings she had for our father had nearly crushed her when she lost him. Maybe her mourning was too much for her to bear, and if she had some distance from us she might have been more easily healed and then buoyed again with enough loft to eventually reel us back into her orbit. At least it had played out in that order, but I would never fully know the truth. It seemed then that, like every other sorry human being whose heart had been ripped open by loss, I would rewrite that story until I found a truth I could accept as plausible, one that made me feel all right about my mother and about myself. She was my mother, after all.

I began to envision her working alongside me as we used to do so often before she so quickly and unfairly declined. For some crazy reason I told myself that if I concentrated hard enough I could bring her back to life and place her right there with me in the garden. So I thought of her in her big hats and gloves leaning through the bushes, pinching back buds and chatting away, until I could almost feel her breath moving the flowers.

I felt an urgency to tell her everything I was holding back.
I’m lonely, Mother.
What would she have said about me sleeping with Matthew?
He’s so nice to me.
I knew once again she would have said to go and have my fun for now, but that he was not an appropriate choice for a spouse. Real or imagined, I found that opinion to be unacceptable. Who was she to say what was appropriate and what was not? Had she not slept with the UPS man and then Raoul, her gardener? Who knew what other men had made their way to her sheets? Probably scores of them. Well, it did me no good whatsoever to waste much time pondering Mother’s escapades because it didn’t matter anymore, and besides, Matthew had not presented himself as anything but a dear and caring friend
.

Ah, Matthew. Every woman should have a man in her life like my Matthew. He was masculine but sensitive enough, confident but not too arrogant, handsome not pretty like a momma’s boy, and very easy to be with. We had many things in common, most of all a shared passion for the Lowcountry. Above all, Matthew had integrity and compassion, two qualities in short supply among men
and
women these days. He certainly could have thrown Frances Mae in the pokey on many occasions, but his compassion for the family overruled the law of the land. And Matthew’s main rationalization for not locking her up was that he didn’t really believe the state could solve her personal problems. It was up to the family to keep her off the road and to get her into treatment. We had done that and he was satisfied. Besides, in our neck of the woods, the population of our internment center was composed of those who manufactured pharmaceutical products for self-medication and recreational purposes—read: meth-lab junkies who settled their differences with guns and knives. Even Frances Mae had no business in a jail like that.

I started getting excited about spending the evening with him, and who knew what the end of the evening might bring? Was it a Lavinia caftan night? Ooh la la! Yes! Wait! No! God help me, I was so stupid sometimes! Had Matthew not seen me in a caftan, one that was inside out, on that unfortunate night when Bobby Mack almost went to the light? Um, yeah. Jesus, I thought, get it together, Caroline. Nonetheless, I would wear something provocative. I gathered up my pail of roses and went back to the house, leaving the ghost of Lavinia tangled in the thorns, right where she belonged, with those highfalutin Lady Astor opinions of hers. Indeed.

While the osso buco simmered, I showered and dressed, spraying perfume in all the important nooks and crannies. After I pulled ten different outfits from my closet, I finally decided to let shoes rule the night and took out my crazy Pucci wedges that were a pink-and-purple paisley silk. Nothing in the universe matched them, so I decided on white tissue crepe pajama pants with a coordinating big shirt of the same fabric. And, of course, Mother’s South Sea pearls. Given my mileage? I was pleased with my appearance.

The whole house smelled delicious from the pungent fragrances of sautéed rosemary and pancetta combined with the wafting steam of wine and chicken stock. I basted the meat every ten minutes or so and in between I minced shallots for the risotto and set the table with Mother’s favorite china—the Victoria pattern from Herend. The roses I had cut filled two gleaming Chinese export silver vases on the dining-room table. I filled another tall vase that was so old it had probably belonged to Robert E. Lee’s godmother’s aunt. Well, Robert E. Lee’s mother’s contemporary, okay? It was loaded with blooms and stood on an end table in the living room. Needless to say, the veritable mountain of assembled roses smelled like you might think heaven would.

As I flitted around the house attending to all the details that come with making dinner for a guest, my mind hopscotched over such earth-shattering topics as whether or not it was gauche to put paper hand towels in the guest powder room and what cooks did before the advent of paper towels or canned chicken broth. I mean, I could make stock with the best of them, but to be honest, I thought some brands were as good if not better than anything that ever came out of my pots. I had used nearly two quarts with the meat and I would use another one with the risotto. I figured at least six chickens met their demise so Matthew and I could enjoy moist veal and plump kernels of Italian rice. Well, chickens are stupid anyway, but I tried not to think about the poor little cow. All kidding aside, the rumors of how they were slaughtered were deeply disturbing. Much worse than pigs, according to Bobby Mack. Maybe someday I would give up meat altogether. But not now. No, no. Not that night. Was I getting nervous?

It was six-thirty and Matthew would be arriving soon. I filled the ice bucket, checked the white wine to be sure it was chilled to the right temperature, and pressed the remote control to get the music going. The stage was set for a beautiful evening. I stopped in front of the hall mirror and gave myself one last honest critique. I looked positively virginal. Okay, maybe not. But I could still pass for thirty-five. Okay, thirty-seven.

“Oh, just forget it!” I said out loud to no one. “I look good for my age and that’s what matters.”

Minutes later the doorbell rang and there stood Matthew, leaning on the threshold looking less like an officer of the law than ever, holding a bottle of good red wine. He was wearing a black textured linen shirt and his khaki gabardine trousers hung from his hips the whole way down to his (mock?) alligator loafers just as they should. The man smelled divine, as tempting as a Hollywood tabloid packed with scandalous sin of the carnal variety. He was as fine a specimen as ever that walked up to my front door. Ever. I was a little weak.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said.

“I know,” I said, and giggled. “So do you.”

Eventually, after a glass of wine and enough sexual innuendo in the hold to sink the
QE2
, we finally sat down in the dining room. Dinner was delicious and passed at a slow and leisurely pace because what was the rush?

“I need to ask you for a small favor, Matthew,” I said.

“Anything,” he replied.

I told him about the pool party and our concern for the kids’ safety. He started to laugh.

“Are you asking me if the young guys on the force want to come over here and supervise a bunch of eighteen-year-old girls in bikinis? Are you kidding? How much do they have to pay you?”

We had a good laugh at that and I was assured it would be no problem at all.

“And I had some shocking news this week.”

“You wouldn’t be a Wimbley if you didn’t. Tell me.”

“My son has a new girlfriend.”

“You don’t look very happy about that.”

“She’s twenty-seven and has a two-year-old baby. Her name is Erica.”

“Eric and Erica? You’re kidding, right?”

“I only wish.”

“It won’t last.”

“Your mouth, God’s ears. I mean, I’m not naive, you know. I know he’s at the age to be sexually active and all that. But she’s too old! What does a girl her age want with a young boy like Eric?”

“Well, let’s think about this for a minute. Maybe she’s lonely?”

“Maybe. Maybe she’s broke? I know she works at the university bookstore. Can’t pay much.”

“I have some friends in Columbia. Want me to check her out?”

“Nah. Not yet. If Eric found out I was snooping around into his personal life, he’d never forgive me.”

“Yeah, but if this was twenty years ago and y’all lived in a small town, you’d all know each other. Know what I mean?”

“This wouldn’t be going on if we all knew each other and that’s what bothers me. I’d know her momma and the girl would’ve been Eric’s babysitter. Taking down the kid you babysit for is gross.”

“Caroline? I love you to death but sometimes you can be so—I don’t know—
prim
? Is that the word? If that’s what’s happening, there’s not a man in this world who would tell him it’s wrong.”

“Or a woman who would say it’s right.”

“Stop worrying. Let him have his fun.”

“You’re right. I’m a prude. Well, where my son is concerned anyway.”

Shaking his head and smiling, Matthew reached up to the roses, fingered a petal, marveling at its suede finish, and then he stood, inhaling the center of one, and just shook his head as though he had never smelled a rose before.

“These flowers are unbelievable,” he said. “How do you find time to do all this? I mean, run a business? Manage this whole property? Obsess about Eric? And raise roses like these? My God, they smell like I don’t know what!” He sat again, taking a long sip of his wine and then wiping his mouth with his napkin.

“It’s the dirt, darlin’, it’s always about the dirt. And a little time management. Plus I do have Millie and Mr. Jenkins.”

“I guess. Amazing you don’t cut up your hands, though. You know, the thorns and all that.”

He reached across the table and took my right hand in his. The next thing I knew he was standing again, now behind my chair, moving my hair aside and running his mouth across the back of my neck. Then he pulled my chair away from the table, and it should be noted that what was to unfold occurred with zero argument from me, and pulled me up into his arms and you can imagine where it was all headed. Dinner was ended and dessert was transforming into something infinitely more urgent and specific. The watermelon could wait.

“I’m all done playing with you, Caroline.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing about you,” I said, and felt something like a twinge—no, more like a cramp—deep and low in my abdomen. This had only happened once before in my life, when I was about to sleep with Richard for the first time. My body already knew what my mind was just beginning to grasp. Matthew meant business.