The Hurricane Sisters (9 page)

She responded with,
Look, if he can’t be seen having a glass of wine with you, then you can’t be seen coming and going from his room either. It just isn’t right.

She was right.

I wrote back,
Save me a glass of swill. I’ll be home in twenty.

She sent me a smiley face.
Not having drinks with Saudi Arabia. Details later.

That was a relief!

The waiter appeared at my side. “Can I get you another?”

“No, thanks. But could you bill this to Porter Galloway in four sixteen?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said with such assurance that it occurred to me he’d seen the Galloway act maybe more than a few times. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

“Thanks,” I said and left.

I cursed Porter Galloway all the way across the Cooper River Bridge and all the way through Mount Pleasant. I double cursed him as I turned right on Middle Street on Sullivans Island. And I triple cursed him, getting out of the car and stomping up the steps to my house. Mary Beth opened the door and handed me a glass of wine over ice.

“Men stink,” she said.

I took a sip and winced. That bottle had been open for a week. The ice improved it but not much.

“What kind of a girl does he think I am? I
was
going to have his babies but I didn’t want to start
tonight
!”

“No kidding. Well, Momma says men only want one thing.”

“She’s right and Porter Galloway ain’t getting this.”

“Asshole.”

“For real.” I walked into the center hall and threw my bag on the bottom step that led to the upstairs. I was completely disgusted. “Want to sit outside for a minute?”

“Are you kidding? I want to hear every word.”

We sank into the cushions on the ancient wicker sofa. We were at opposite ends and I folded my feet under me and told her the whole stupid story.

“This damn dress. I’m burning it.”

“No way. It’s a great dress.”

“I’m so disappointed, Mary Beth! I’ll never hear from him again.”

“I predict otherwise.”

“Yeah? Based on what?”

“His big fat ego. You said no to his nasty invitation when every other girl in the entire state of South Carolina would’ve run up there as fast as she could. This makes you more interesting.”

“We’ll see. I doubt it. What happened to Samir?”

“I stood around the marina for like half an hour. Finally, he sent a guy in his launch to pick me up. This guy hands me an envelope from Samir with five hundred dollars inside.”

“Holy crap! That’s a lot of money. What did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I told him to tell Samir I wasn’t for sale.”

“What’s the matter with these men?” I said.

“Egos gone wild. Completely out of control.”

“Or maybe they’re just the wrong men. Wow. Five hundred bucks!”

“I thought about it for a minute but I gave it back.”

“I’ll bet! That’s like three weeks’ salary for us. But unfortunately, you’re not a whore.”

We giggled then in the darkness, laughing at our pathetic financial and social circumstances.

“Not yet. Anyway, Galloway might be a skunk tonight but you’ll be in love with him all over again by tomorrow.”

“Sad. Sad but probably true.”

“I’m gonna hit the sack. My legs are killing me.”

“Go ahead. I’ll get the lights.”

Mary Beth turned in and I went to the kitchen to start the dishwasher. Her purse was just sitting there on the counter, which was full of popcorn kernels and crumbs and needed a good wiping. I thought of my mother and felt guilty. Old Liz might’ve been a bitch from time to time but she never left food on her kitchen counters before she went to bed.

I got the spray cleaner from under the sink and pulled a couple of paper towels from the roll. Then I lifted Mary Beth’s purse by one strap just to swipe the crumbs from underneath it. Of course, the entire contents spilled out onto the counter, including an envelope. My heart dropped. I shouldn’t have looked inside but I did. Count them. Ten little oval-shaped pictures of President Grant looked back at me. This was not good. I deliberately put her purse at the foot of the stairs with the envelope positioned right inside. I would never bring it up again.

CHAPTER 6

Liz—Feeling Like Mom

The first thing Maisie did after seeing Porter Galloway looking down my daughter’s dress last night was to call me at the crack of dawn. It wasn’t even seven o’clock when my phone rang.

“Liz? We need to talk. I couldn’t sleep all night.”

“What’s the matter?” I thought some tragedy had occurred. Who calls anyone at that hour without horrific news?

“Well, here it is. I was at the Turner Gallery last night with Lorraine Galloway. And her son, that scalawag senator of ours, was positively peering at Ashley’s bosom. The whole room noticed it.”

Really? She got me out of bed for this?

“Well, Mother? Ashley is going to be twenty-four years old in a few months. It’s probably time someone had a look, don’t you think?”

“I don’t like it one bit.” She sighed an epic sigh as only she could. “This isn’t funny, Liz.”

“Oh, come on now. Ashley wouldn’t be interested in someone like him. He’s a big flirt and everyone knows it.”

“Humph. Shows you what you know about your own flesh and blood! She’s positively smitten with him.”

“Really? Well, that’s news. Was she wearing that dress, the one she wore to your party?”

“I think so.”

I made a mental note to confiscate Ashley’s black dress for the sake of the family’s reputation and hers.

“Well, Mother, we have to face the facts. All men like to look at pretty young women. They all let their eyes go where they shouldn’t. And if they don’t, they’re singing big-eyed Carol Channing show tunes with Ivy, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, I’m just letting you know, that’s all.”

“Maisie? Don’t worry about Ashley.”

“Maybe I’ll buy her a new dress,” she said.

“Please don’t. Clayton would pitch a fit.”

“Clayton doesn’t have to know.”

“It’s wrong to give her money all the time, Mother. She needs to live on what she earns.”

“A shrimp couldn’t live on what she earns and you know it.”

We hung up and thank you, now I was annoyed too. My mother had too much time on her hands. You’d have thought that Porter Galloway desecrated a holy shrine the way she carried on. Maisie can’t imagine that Ashley is old enough to attract the attention of a man. In her mind, Ashley is and always will be an innocent little virgin. My mind knew better. Ashley was not a little virgin. She wasn’t an easy touch but she was no stranger to the ways of the flesh. She was about eighteen when I saw it in her face. She was suddenly less moody. Maternal wisdom: when your teenaged daughter starts acting nice, she’s having sex.

I never told Maisie when I found birth control pills in Ashley’s bathroom, and I didn’t have a fit over it with Ashley, either. I simply waited until I got used to the new reality (read: stopped weeping), composed myself, and then I had what I thought was a relaxed and civil discussion with her about being sexually active. I think I said something like it’s fairly normal these days for young women to have an intimate relationship with someone when they fall in love but that it was extremely important to be safe and stay healthy.

I wasn’t some prim old bat. And I didn’t want to seem to be judgmental in any way. I just didn’t want her to have a surprise pregnancy or catch some disgusting disease. I remember like it happened yesterday that she looked at me with that eye-rolling, head-cocked-to-one-side teenaged expression of
Duh, I think I knew this in seventh grade, Mom
and I realized we probably should’ve talked about sex years earlier. But with all that was going on with my son, I was too racked with fear and trepidation to even allow myself to think about
anybody’s
sex life, mine included.

However, even though Ashley was now almost in her midtwenties and her private life was none of my business, I wasn’t going to stand by and see my child humiliated. I mean, a relationship was one thing but a sexual encounter with a politician was entirely another. Her pretty face could wind up on the cover of the tabloids at the checkout counter in Kroger’s. Politicians were what they were—an easy target for scandal. And so was everyone around them. Sometimes I thought the public’s expectations of politicians were ridiculous but on the other hand, I sure was weary of being embarrassed by them.

Two hours later, the Galloway Report via Maisie was still bothering me, not the part about him having a peek but the part about her liking it. I just wanted to be sure Ashley knew who she was dealing with. Porter Galloway was not exactly a fresh-faced college boy of the ilk she used to bring home. He was a grown man on a career path that could lead him anywhere. The only real criticisms I had about her having a crush on someone like him was that he probably had a very high opinion of himself, and he was much older than she was. I knew I shouldn’t be so judgmental. On the other hand, with Ashley’s fascination with all things Jackie Kennedy Onassis? And she understood the role of politicians in American history from all the courses she took in college. She wasn’t a stupid girl right off the farm and I halfway assured myself that there was no reason to be concerned. Except that he lived in the public eye.

I decided to approach the issue with some motherly grace. Things between Ashley and me have been sort of chilly lately and I wanted to warm them back up again. If I have learned anything about raising children, it’s that keeping the conversation going is so very important. Once you stop talking to each other terrible things can happen. So I did what any sensible mother would do. I bought a box of donut holes from Dunkin’ Donuts and drove out to the beach. And yes, I know she’s not a child anymore. But in my heart she is still and will always be my little girl. And maybe I had been picking on her a little. Just a little. But you have to understand I can’t stop myself. I just get so nervous for her.

It was still early, before nine, but I figured that Ashley would be up and about getting ready for work. It was hard to believe that she got herself up and dressed and showed up on time at her job. She was certainly growing up whether I wanted to accept it or not. I remembered the battles we used to have to get her out of bed in the morning. All that was in the past now.

She was a stunning young woman but she had been a
gorgeous
child. As I rolled from the Cooper River Bridge onto Coleman Boulevard, I could see Ashley as a young girl with those blazing blue eyes and tumbling curls so blond they bleached white in the sun like sand dollars. There were so many sweet memories—Ashley running down the Sullivans Island beach with Ivy, chasing seagulls that swooped and then scattered in every direction. And how Ashley laughed! Ivy too! The sound of them calling after each other and their peals of innocent giggles rolling across the salty air were so joyous. Whenever I remembered their music, I could almost sing along, if you can imagine such a thing. Ah me. When images of their childhoods run through my head, my chest actually swells. And to be completely honest, going over to Sullivans Island always made me sentimental. I think the island has that effect on many people because for generations it has been where families have come to relax and be together without all the stresses of life in the city. Naturally it’s a depository of good memories.

Life on Sullivans Island was the polar opposite of life downtown. For example, like many other families, we set up sleeping porches. There were humble single beds with lots of pillows and old quilts that lined the walls of our side porches. The bottom half of our porch was shuttered for privacy and the louvers were opened to allow air flow. Eventually, after much pleading, Clayton had ceiling fans installed. May I just say that there were still days and nights when the heat was so unbearable, the humidity so high, and the air so still that we all felt like we could lie down and die, ceiling fans or no ceiling fans. It was like being Katharine Hepburn in
The African Queen,
minus the leeches, plus mosquitoes. Clayton didn’t believe in air-conditioning the beach house, saying it destroyed the whole point of having a beach house in the first place. On those dog days and nights, the fan’s paddles merely pushed around muggy hell. But for the normal hot night, sleeping on the porch was a brilliant solution to our sticky misery.

At some point in the night the tide would turn, bringing a breeze and the sounds of the waves hitting the shore and receding with a
whoosh,
which would lull us all into the deepest sleep I’ve ever known. Clayton was right. If the house had been air-conditioned, we would’ve missed all that.

We passed our days doing the same things our island neighbors did. A morning swim, a picnic lunch in the shade, a nap at home, and then back to the beach we went, moving like ducks in a line across the blazing white sand. Late in the afternoon, I would take the children home after hours and hours of building sand castles, looking for shells, and engaging in every other kind of game children played at the shore. Their skin was warm to the touch and salty to my kisses. Outdoor showers washed away the remnants of the day, and new freckles appeared like tiny trophies across the bridges of their noses and on their cheeks and arms. We’d have a supper of vine-ripened tomato sandwiches and iced tea and they were so tired from the sun that they’d be dreaming before they slept. Clayton and I would play gin rummy and enjoy an adult beverage while something like “Moonlight Sonata” or some Chopin streamed from our stereo. I’m telling you I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. And believe it or not, Clayton feels the same way—about the old days and about the island. We were so in love with each other then. And it’s our mutual love for the Lowcountry that has been our glue in many of our dark moments. Well, maybe that’s overstating it a bit. But loving something together seemed to help.

I was driving across the Shem Creek Bridge, looking out at the few remaining shrimp boats to my right. I slowed down to stare. The water was deep blue and so calm and still. The boats against the bright clear blue sky were as pretty a sight as I’d ever seen anywhere, begging for a photographer to document their existence. They were a dying breed, those shrimpers and their boats. Most of the restaurants used farmed shrimp these days. And farmed fish. Heaven knows what the fish farmers fed their critters but I have always thought farmed seafood couldn’t be good for us.