The Hurricane Sisters (35 page)

There was a very strange acrylic of a wolf dressed in a uniform with a wolf’s tail, hands, and feet. He was playing cards with a bunch of other wolves, and oddly, he looked familiar through the eyes. I didn’t know what the symbolism meant, but I was sure Ashley would tell me. And there was a portrait of a young woman on a balcony. Juliet. My sister. Except she was Ashley. Or was she? Then there was some kind of homage to
The Birth of Venus
that looked a bit like me and another of Mona Lisa except that the face was clearly Maisie’s. What did they mean? Well, Maisie surely kept secrets when she wanted to and she certainly considered herself to be all-knowing. Me? There was no question that I had been reborn. So had my marriage and in fact, the whole darn bunch of us had taken a huge turn for the better. I took it upon myself to be sure we stayed on the right track.

So after weeks of planning, my entire family, including a fully recovered Skipper and of course Ivy’s James, were all gathered at the Turner Gallery for the opening of Ashley’s first exhibition. The Turners used their extensive mailing list and sent beautiful invitations to everyone they knew. I had invited Tom and Vicki and of course the Malcolms and the Karols.

In less than an hour, guests would start to arrive. Clayton had offered to underwrite all the catering, which Mary Beth was hired to provide, but the Turners wouldn’t hear of it. They wanted to give Ashley a grand debut because they loved her. And they said she would always remember that they hosted the first professional show of her career. So contracts were drawn up; canvases were insured and transported, installed, and lit; and a catalog was produced with a price list. How the Turners determined the prices was beyond me, but it was amazing to Clayton and to me that they thought her smallest canvas could bring fifteen hundred dollars.

“I’ve got my doubts about that,” he said.

“What do we know?” I said.

He shook his head in agreement.

Despite our misgivings, we were, all of us, bursting with pride over the confidence the Turners had in Ashley’s talent and about the dignified way she continued to handle herself. She was fully emotionally prepared to enter the ranks of professional artists. By the way, Tommy Milano was at her side and had been a fixture in her life for quite a while.

“We’re just friends,” she said. Nevertheless, she bought him a new bow tie with tiny pianos all over it. And any fool could see they were very fond of each other.

I can’t tell you that the past few months were easy. Buckets of tears were shed, especially between Maisie and me as we struggled to bury our hatchets. But a new peace was forged at last, and things between us would be remarkably kinder for the rest of our days. I hoped.

Just last week, we were on the portico of our house on Sullivans Island talking about Ashley’s show and the subject of Juliet came up.

“For once and for all, you have to stop blaming yourself,” I said. “You talk to me about forgiveness? It has to start with you, Maisie. I’m sure Juliet doesn’t blame you or me.”

“She was my firstborn child,” she said. “I lost my beautiful daughter.”

The anguish in her voice had diminished over the years but the profound sorrow was still there. Her eyes, the color faded from her years, were rimmed in red and brimming with tears.

“She was my only sister,” I said. “I lost my only sister.”

Suddenly, she threw her arms around me and said for the first time, “I’m so sorry, Liz. I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” I said.

“I should have tried to comfort you.”

That was all I had
ever
wanted to hear her say.

Needless to say, Clayton was a changed and better man. Retirement agreed with him. He decided he wanted to spend more time on the island and said that in the fall he was going to renovate the whole house.

“It’s a sin not to take care of this old place,” he said. “Hey! Maybe next month Maisie can show me how to plant tomatoes. It would be nice to have tomatoes all summer. What do you think?”

“I think she’d love to plant a whole vegetable garden with you,” I said.

It would be a good project for him. He was as sweet as a little lamb and I’m so happy to report that he played golf with Skipper three times a week and with David and Steve on the weekends. Now I wouldn’t have to chase a stupid little ball all over the place for hours in the blazing sun. Thank you, Skipper. Really.

But the best news of all was that Porter Galloway resigned from office and was rumored to be moving to East Africa on a mission sponsored by his mother’s church. His plan was to try and redeem himself and his reputation by becoming a member of the clergy. Please, I know. But he could only leave the country after he served a little time as a guest of the state. He made as many public apologies as he could until none of the press would take his phone calls. Apparently his hubris and violent nature were no longer news. All I cared about was that soon he was headed to the other side of the world, away from my daughter. I hoped he’d stay there forever. And just to be sure he stayed away, Maisie walked a llama down Highway 17. He could never reconcile with Ashley or, heaven forbid, try to marry her when her grandmother had such a loose screw. Especially if he had delusions about running for public office ever again.

And, I have to say, my Ashley looked so beautiful at her opening. She was wearing a new dress her father and I bought her. It was a simple design, a deep blue lightweight wool dress. Maisie’s triple strand of pearls hung around her neck.

“Jackie O would’ve loved this dress,” I said.

“So would Audrey Hepburn,” she said.

“Audrey Hepburn?”

“Yes,” she said, quite seriously. “I’m closing my chapter on politics and politicians’ wives. I’m moving on to Hollywood and old film stars.”

Now, who would blame her for that?

We opened the doors at six and people drifted in, showing their invitations and giving their names to a pretty young girl with a guest list. By six thirty, the gallery was quite full. Among them was a young lawyer named Cindy Lue Elder. Ashley brought her over to introduce her to me.

“I thought y’all should meet,” Ashley said.

“Oh? Well, hello, Cindy, and welcome!” I said. “How do y’all know each other?”

“I used to be the princess of denial,” she said, and when she saw my puzzled expression, she added, “I used to be involved with Porter Galloway.”

“Oh, dear. Denial. Classic victim response,” I said.

“Now I do legal work for a battered women’s shelter in Cleveland,” she said. “I’m just so glad Ashley is okay.”

“So are we,” I said.

Soon Ashley had been photographed by all the local papers and interviewed as well. Clayton was holding court in one room and Maisie in another, both of them going on about how Ashley inherited her talent from them. It really made me laugh. And Ivy? He was making sure that Ashley worked the room and didn’t miss meeting anyone who might be a potential buyer. His retail experience was invaluable that night because by the time we left the gallery for dinner at Charleston Place, every canvas but one was sold.

“Which one didn’t sell?” I asked after we had toasted Ashley so many times it was just ridiculous.

“The wolf,” she said.

“Give it to me,” Maisie said. “I’ll give it to Porter’s mother. I never liked her anyway.”

“What?” I said. “That wolf was Porter?”

I whispered Porter’s name for the sake of our family’s privacy. I was still afraid that if we mentioned him in public it would wind up in all the media.

“Who else could it have been?” Tommy said.

“That is so perfect,” Ivy said.

“I love your family,” James said. “I mean
love
!”

“So do I,” said Tommy. “Hey! Where’s Mary Beth?”

“She’s cleaning up. She’ll be along soon,” Clayton said.

“She’s a treasure,” I said and thought about how hard she worked at My Sister’s House.

“Well, Ashley?” Skipper said. “It’s time to go bohemian, don’t you think?”

“Paris?” she said, and her pretty eyes were filled with dreams once again. “Montmartre?”

“You can’t afford . . . ,” Clayton said and stopped. “Wait. Yes, you
can
afford it. You made a small fortune tonight and you know what? If you run out of money, let me know. I’ll help you.”

“I will too,” Maisie said. “Artists have had patrons throughout history.”

I gave my mother a look.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said. Soon, Ashley wouldn’t need a dime from anyone.

“I was thinking maybe next April?” Ashley said.

“Should I sing it?” Ivy said. “Hmmm?”

“Juliet would have loved Paris. I’ll have to paint for two.”

April in Paris. Maybe I’d go with her, help her find a safe apartment in a suitable neighborhood. We could use a mother-daughter trip. And she was right. Juliet would have loved Paris.

I looked around the table and marveled at how our lives had changed so much in such a short period of time. We were an imperfect family. I knew that. But at last we were on each other’s side, dug in with a new and more profound commitment. Our happiness was hard won, it was ours and I was determined to keep us whole. The world had not heard the last of this Hurricane Sister or of the others as well. We all still have a lot of noise left to make. You can count on it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Friends,

While doing research for
The Hurricane Sisters
I came across the startling facts about South Carolina’s high ranking in cases of domestic homicide in the United States. I began to dig and ask questions only to discover that the problem is dramatically worse than I ever would have imagined. The statistics at the national level are even more staggering.

In the United States every year, an estimated 1,300,000 women are victims of physical assault. The crimes are usually committed by an intimate partner. The 1,300,000 are only the cases that are reported. One point three million. Many, many more women remain silent because of denial or fear. And ultimately, an estimated 1,800 women in America die each year as a result of domestic violence.

On September 12, 2012, on just that one day, across the country over ten thousand cries for help from victims were unmet because of limited resources and funding.

I didn’t know any of this before I started writing this book. I mention it here because I want to start a conversation with you and for you to have conversations with each other. What can we do? Battered women’s shelters all over the country are in constant need of support—goods, services, and, of course, money. If you live in South Carolina, please consider a donation of any kind to support My Sister’s House. If you don’t, please support the battered women’s shelters near you. They save women and children, help to make them whole again, and, most of all, give victims hope.

Many thanks.

Dear Readers,

For the third time in a decade, South Carolina ranks FIRST in the nation for the number of women murdered by men, per annum.

Although this novel is a work of fiction, the statistics are a hard fact. My Sister’s House, Inc. is a real nonprofit organization, located in Charleston, SC, and was founded in 1980. Women and children in immediate danger from verbal, emotional, physical, or sexual abuse are eligible for services at no charge. The organization provides 24-hour temporary emergency shelter and a crisis line to victims of domestic violence in addition to group and individual counseling, children’s programs, outreach programs, and a host of other services. My Sister’s House, Inc. strives to improve community awareness of and an appropriate response to the devastating effects of domestic violence.

In 2013, My Sister’s House touched the lives of 4,286 clients, answered 2,043 crisis calls, supported 462 advocacy cases, hosted 1,584 participants in our outreach programs, made 2,526 referrals, sheltered 197 women and children, and spent 84 cents of every dollar raised on programs and services for our clients. In order to provide a safe, more spacious environment where victims can not only make decisions but also take action to make those decisions a reality, a new facility is the next large endeavor. At 9,500 square feet, the current shelter accommodates up to 36 residents and the new facility would accommodate 46. No waiting lists! It is clear that a new facility is not just a “want” but rather a “necessity” in our continued efforts to help victims, to educate the public, and to eradicate abuse. Currently, we are in the process of launching a 3.5 million dollar capital campaign to raise funds for the project.

We invite you to visit our website at www.mysistershouse.org and to learn more about our organization’s mission, programs, and services. Then please consider making a donation to our capital campaign at www.mysistershouse.org/donate. Your contribution will make a significant difference in the lives of so many women and children who have chosen to flee an abusive, potentially life-threatening situation. Please help us in our mission to provide a “home away from home” for victims who long to feel safe and secure.

Thank you in advance for your generosity!

Warmest regards,

Mackie Moore

Director of Development

My Sister’s House

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Using a real person’s name for a character in a book has been a great way to raise money for worthy causes. And in
The Hurricane Sisters
four generous souls come to life in these pages as my characters. I have never met two of these folks so I can assure you that the behavior, language, and personalities of the characters bear no resemblance to the actual people. My thanks go to Cindy Lue Elder for her generous support of the Lamb Institute, and to Porter (and Lorraine) Galloway for their support of the auction my dear friend Catherine Hay organized for the Regional Medical Center of Orangeburg, South Carolina.

However, I do know Bill and Judy Turner well, as they are my neighbors and friends in Montclair and strong supporters of the Van Vleck Gardens Gala. Thank you for letting me rewrite your lives and I hope y’all get a kick out of this.