Shem Creek (13 page)

“Hey, Brad! Gimme that and I’ll open it.”

“Thanks,” Brad said. “Lowell, this is Linda Breland.”

“Hey. How are you?” I said.

We shook hands, and I was careful not to wrench his hand. I took the glass of wine he offered. When he turned his attention to Brad, I began to snoop.

The rooms were furnished as though someone was living there full-time. The master bedroom was cozy with its big brass bed covered in layers of handmade quilts. An old wardrobe with a mirrored door guarded the corner on its great ball-and-claw feet. The end table held a stained-glass lamp, the type made by Tiffany a century ago. Stacks of books were piled on the floor. When I pulled back the curtains, light flooded the room and I saw that there were sliding glass doors that led to a tiny balcony.

The other two bedrooms were large enough for trundle beds, a chest of drawers, a small desk but not much more. There was a well-designed bathroom in between with a shower and a tub. The master bathroom had a brown granite countertop that sparkled with flecks like diamonds. The hall had a large walk-in cedar closet combination linen press and the kitchen was in the front, facing the water. The kitchen was open through to the living area and the sliding glass doors on the far end opened to the balcony shared with the master bedroom. I stood there thinking how nice it would be to have breakfast at the little café table, even though it was encrusted with the dust and dirt of one hundred storms. Of course, blooming flower boxes lined its rails, overflowing and trailing down the front of the house.

Situated between the kitchen and living room was a fireplace fashioned of ancient bricks. I could envision myself reading a book, curled up on a sofa while a great pot of stew simmered on the stove. This tiny place, of less than, I guessed, eight hundred square feet, was like a New York apartment but all the windows made it seem endless. I
had
to have it.

“This is very charming,” I said, putting my empty glass down on the counter.

“I usually don’t rent this place,” Lowell said. “My father lived here until he passed away and since then I’ve just used it for friends and family. Barbara and I spend most of our time on Pawleys Island now. I’d just like to have someone around here, I think.”

“Well, that’s probably a good idea. God, I haven’t been to Pawleys in years,” I said.

“Yeah, well, it’s the same as it was when you last saw it,” he said, “and that’s probably why it’s so appealing.”

“I told Lowell that you have two daughters, one going off to college in the fall,” Brad said, “and no pets. Am I right?”

“That’s about it,” I said. “Um, are you thinking of renting this furnished or unfurnished?”

“As you wish. Brad tells me you’re an old Geechee girl, so I guess I’ll have to rent to you, and actually, putting all this stuff in storage isn’t a big deal. In fact, my kids would probably love to have some of these things for themselves. Think about it.”

“Great,” I said, “I just want to bring my sister over to see it before I sign my life away. Is that okay?”

Lowell looked at me, then to Brad and shook his head. “Here’s the key,” he said, handing it to me, “don’t throw any wild parties until we have a deal, okay?”

I had to smile at Lowell’s trusting nature. “Yeah,” I said, “this is just how they do things in New Jersey.” They looked at me in surprise. “Don’t y’all have a sense of irony down here?”

“I just figured in that Liz Claiborne outfit, you probably weren’t a flight risk, that’s all! Sensible women wear Liz.”

“Is it Liz? Shoot! How did you know?”

“He’s a retailer,” Brad said, “with an eye like an eagle!”

“How should I know?” I said. “I bought it at Loehmann’s!”

“Another quality to her credit,” Lowell said to Brad, “doesn’t throw money away!”

“Right! Come on, I have to get back to the grind,” Brad said. “Thanks, Lowell!”

Driving back I sat in the passenger seat, twirling the key chain around my finger. “I can’t believe it! I mean, that little house is a dream!”

“Well, I saw it a while back. Of course, Lowell and Barbara live in the main house, but they don’t care who comes and goes from your part of the place. They just want someone reliable and someone who would pick up the newspapers when they’re away or let them know if something goes wrong, like a tree falls on the house or something.”

“It makes perfect sense, really. I mean, at least I can stay there for a while. I love my sister and all, but it’s too much female energy, right?”

“One can only imagine.”

“Hey, thanks a lot for taking me over there and making the introduction . . . Oh! We never discussed
the rent!
”

“You
really
don’t like to discuss money, do you?”

“Oh! What if it’s like two thousand or something?”

“Girl! Stop worrying! I’ll negotiate it if you want!”

“Okay! Be my guest!”

We got back to the restaurant and it was already crazy with early diners. I talked to the waitstaff about why it was taking so long to get breadbaskets and water on the tables. My feeling was that every customer should be greeted, seated, and drink orders should be taken within the first three minutes they arrived. Even if the rest of the dinner got tangled up in the kitchen with
Doo-wayne
(I loved Louise’s pronunciation of his name), the customers should at least think we were on top of their dining experience and trying to do our best. Besides, the profit margins on tea, soft drinks and salads were a lot higher than anything else. It had taken me one whole day to figure that out! Actually, my annoyance with the slow waitstaff came from my
northern exposure
. If you owned a restaurant in New York or New Jersey and took your sweet, lazy-ass, shuffling time getting water, bread and drinks to the customers, you’d be out of business in twenty-two seconds! Please the customers and turn those tables, baby; that’s the name of the game.

“Miss Linda?” Louise came over and said, “Phone! Line two! It’s your sister.”

“What? My sister? What does she want?”

“A reservation, but she wants to talk to you.”

“Probably wants a window table,” I said, and walked over to the telephones at the reception area. “Hello? Mimi? Kids okay?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re fine. At the beach. Where else? Listen! I’ve got a date!”

“What?”
Mimi had a date? With a man? The last time she had a date George Bush’s daddy was in the White House.

“Yeah! Can you believe it? You know my friend Maggie? Well, her husband Grant has this doctor friend they want me to meet and they want to have dinner so I thought that we could come . . .”

“What time?”

“Seven-thirty?”

“No problem. Window table for four at seven-thirty. Done!” I typed it in the reservation log, which was like carving something in stone.

The restaurant had a software program that recorded phone numbers, birthdays, anniversaries, seating preferences and, believe it or not, it had a special box for notations such as: special needs (for example, slightly deaf, mobility issues or low vision), allergies, and can you stand this,
cheap tips
, which of course was entered in code as
ppc, punta poco costosa
in Italian. There was a code for drunks—
bt
for
bevande troppo,
also Italian, a code for demanding patrons—
dolore nell’asino
for, you got it,
pain in the derriere,
and even a code for the
never satisfied,
which was
non satified mai
. I didn’t know what was up with Brad and this Italian thing, but according to Louise, by the time the hostesses learned it, they usually quit. Anyway, I entered “prefers window table” in my sister’s profile.

I decided to hang around and make sure that Mimi got the right spot. I wasn’t kidding about my sister and her dating history, which was another reason for us to move out into our own place. I mean, what if she wanted to bring someone home for a little ooh-la-la? She would have this army of estrogen flag bearers waiting for her in flannel pajamas, eating popcorn, watching
An Affair to Remember
for the eighty-fifth time, weeping all over her living room. Not exactly the uber-den of seduction.

In any case, I had mixed emotions about telling her about the boathouse. Part of her would be delighted that we found something suitable that was so close to her. The other part of her would not like to relinquish the control she had over us. But then I realized it was silly to worry and decided the best time to tell her would be as soon as I saw her. She would be delighted and flattered when I asked her to see it before I took it.

I got a call from the front that Mimi and her friends had arrived. I reapplied lipstick, ran a comb through my hair and made my way to their table. The late evening sun was beginning to descend and the heat of the day had broken. For the first time that day, it finally felt like the air conditioner was working. Despite the crowded dining room, it was cool. When I finally got to their side, Mimi stood up to give me a hug.

“Y’all? This is my baby sister, Linda,” she said and gave my shoulder a squeeze.

The men immediately stood. Another thing I liked about the south was that gentlemen stood when a lady was to be introduced or when one just entered a room.

“Hi, I’m Grant and this is my wife, Maggie.”

“Hey,” Maggie said from her inside seat by the window, “Mimi’s been talking about you so much, I feel like I know you already! Welcome home!”

“Thanks,” I said, “I feel
very
at home with this view all day long! Is the table okay?” And, who was the nice-looking man with my sister?

“Oh! It’s perfect! Linda! I forgot to introduce you to my new friend!”

“Hi,” he said and extended his hand for a shake. “I’m Jack Taylor. Mimi didn’t tell me she had such a beautiful sister!”

“Thanks,” I said and blushed. “Y’all sit! Please! Hey! Guess what?”

“What?” they all said, the men settling back into their chairs.

“I found a house! It’s adorable and Mimi, we have to go see it first thing tomorrow!”

“How wonderful! Where is it?”

“In a good stiff wind, you could stand on your roof and spit on it!” I realized that wasn’t the most feminine thing to say so I added, “Or throw a rock at it?”

They all smiled, and suddenly I felt stupid standing there with them. Mimi had a funny look on her face that made me uncomfortable. Was it because of my poor choice of words or because we were going to be moving?

“Okay! I gotta go! I hope y’all have a great dinner!”

For decades I had been the renegade little sister. Mimi was the only one who had listened and advised me all through each stage of my divorce from Fred, which was the most traumatic event in my life. If I had my own home right under her nose and a satisfying job as well, she might tell herself that I did not need her as much as she thought I did. It was very easy to make someone feel you were too busy to keep them in your daily life. Too easy, in fact.

Here she was on her first date in ages and she had come here for dinner when there were many other options. She had wanted me to see her out with a man, with other friends, doing fine. It had been natural for her to choose my restaurant because it would make it easier for us to dissect her date the next day. Being a sister came so easily for her. I had been away for so long that I had forgotten how to read the nuances of her moods.

I would take a lesson from her and make the effort to help her see that we were moving out, but not away. After all, there was a great difference between being in someone’s life by periodic long-distance phone calls and being in someone’s life in person. We had both been lonely, which next to poor health was the worst condition for the human heart. I told myself that I would remind her of her significance and that I would welcome and consider any advice she had for me or Lindsey and most especially for Gracie.

Take each day as it comes, I told myself.

IT was Thursday night and I was still at the restaurant talking to Mike O’Malley, the bartender, who was a true sweetheart. He took a phone call from his girlfriend, whose eight-year-old son had broken his left arm playing football. She wanted him to go with her to the emergency room.

“O’Malley!” I said, “Go! Don’t even think about it! I can pump beer and open mini-bottles with the best of them! Louise and I can handle the bar. Right, Louise?”

“Humph,” Louise said, “go on and we’ll take it out of your hide later!”

“I owe y’all one,” he said, “thanks!”

“You take the roof bar and I’ll see about this one,” Louise said.

I grabbed an apron and climbed the steps thinking. A lot had happened that week. Most importantly, I had shown the boathouse to Mimi and the girls. Mimi thought it had great possibilities, but just as part of me clung to Lindsey, I could tell she was not quite prepared for us to leave her. Her urge to be a matriarch was Mimi’s strength and weakness. The girls had never complained about Mimi and her hovering—snickered maybe, but complain? Never. She was the kind of person who had two pillows on your bed—one down and soft and the other more firm. Each nightstand had a package of tissues and bottled water with a glass. Every bathroom had a nightlight and extra tissue under the sink. Her closets had padded hangers, skirt hangers and, well, Joan Crawford would have approved. In ways that cost so little, she injected a modicum of elegance into our lives, cluttered as they were with a surplus of worries and a shortfall of resources.