The Hurricane Sisters (7 page)

“Does he have to pile his unmentionables on the kitchen table?”

“Lord! I had no idea you were such a prude! He can pile his bloomers on my dinner plate if he wants, okay?”

I just stared at her. Her skin looked radiant. Hmmm.

“Let’s go,” I said. “There’s going to be a waiting line if we don’t move it.”

“Oh, fine,” she said and clicked off the television. “Cher’s going to be on tomorrow.”

“I thought she retired,” I said.

“Guess not,” she said.

“Well, she should.”

“Why?” Maisie said, setting me up.

I took the carrot.

“Mother. She’s sixty-seven years old. Isn’t it a little undignified to be prancing around half naked at her age?”

We left the house through the kitchen door and she turned back to double-check that the door was indeed locked.

“I guess
you’re
the expert on
that
sort of thing,” she said. “Gosh, I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

The
expert
. On
that
sort of thing. Thank you.

“Famished,” I said, and opened the passenger door for her.

Maybe I slammed the car door a little too hard, inadvertently letting her know I caught her slight. We rode to the restaurant with only the mournful sound of Joni Mitchell crooning away one of her very sad songs in the background.

At the table she scrutinized the menu and said, “So I imagine you want to split the pad thai? You always do.”

“Not really. I think I’m going to have the stir-fry.”

“Doesn’t all that broccoli cause intestinal distress?”

Intestinal distress.

“No. What are you going to order?”

“Well, I guess I’m not having the pad thai, am I?”

“That’s up to you. You don’t have to eat the whole thing.”

“I’ll have the seared scallops.” She said this with a sigh, exhaling deeply enough to dust the restaurant.

We ordered and when our iced tea arrived, it seemed the air had cleared, mainly because I just let it go. I always did. I had other things on my mind besides her snippiness.

“Did you see the Weather Channel this morning?” she said.

“No. What did I miss?”

“Well, there are a number of storms in the Caribbean. Any one of them could develop into something very nasty.”

“Mother? It’s hurricane season and if a hurricane’s coming, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of notice.”

“Let’s hope so. Is your bracelet new?” she asked.

“Yes. It’s from Tiffany’s via Clayton’s guilt. I think Clayton’s having an affair. Maybe.” In fact, Clayton and I had not had sex in months, but I didn’t tell her that.

“Why on earth would he do a stupid thing like that?” she said. “It’s very pretty.”

“Thanks. The reason I think he’s fooling around is that the last time I was in New York our bed had not been slept in. He’d been there for three nights. And the towels were unused. And there was no half-and-half in the refrigerator. You know he can’t drink his coffee without half-and-half. It was pretty obvious he hadn’t needed to call the cleaning girl.”

“Hmmm. He’s getting sloppy,” Maisie said. “Do you think he wants to get caught?”

“No man wants to get caught unless they’re really Catholic or really Jewish except the politicians who think they’ll never get caught. Idiots. All of them.”

“Amen to that. But if you think he’s dicky dunkin’, you can do one of two things.”

“Really? What might they be?”

“Well, you could fly up there without warning and surprise him.”

“I’m not so sure I want to do that. It’s not cricket, you know? What’s my other option?”

“Wait a short while and see if he buys you earrings to match the bracelet. Then you’ll
know
there’s some funny business going on.”

“They make a necklace too.”

“If he shows up with earrings
and
a necklace, get a lawyer.”

I knew she intended to be funny but I didn’t smile. Nothing about the topic was funny to me. I just looked at her, realizing then that indeed, my marriage had a fault line right down the middle. Our food arrived.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said, cutting a slice of asparagus and eating it. “This is good.”

“Well, I’m happy. My scallops are wonderful. All right. Tell me about my darling granddaughter. You know, she really is an extraordinary girl.”

“She’s very thoughtful and sweet,” I said. “But she’d starve without us.”

“Liz, I don’t think reminding her of that every five minutes is particularly beneficial to anyone.”

“What should I do? Applaud? Mother, she earns ten dollars an hour. She’s dating no one. How and when she finds time to paint is beyond me but I haven’t seen anything new from her in ages. And a bachelor of fine arts? She may as well have studied indigenous cultures for all the good it’s ever going to do her! I wish you’d encourage her to get her master’s—at least she could teach.”

“Teach? She’s too introspective for that. She really should be painting all the time, you know. Working for the Turners, nice as they are . . . well, you’re right. It won’t put bread on the table.”

“She can’t even afford a
table
. Probably painting supplies either. And anyway, her work seems so amateurish to me.”

“Who are we to judge? Skipper says even this new pope over in Rome says we shouldn’t judge. Would you pass the salt, please?”

Skipper was a Roman Catholic. I pushed the saltshaker toward her, biting my tongue about it. If she wanted to send her blood pressure through the roof, it was her prerogative.

“Miss Maisie? We’re Protestant. We don’t take direction from the Vatican. You don’t think I should stand in judgment of my children? Like you never judge me?”

She harrumphed and said, “You listen to your mother, Elizabeth Pringle Waters, before you get on your high horse over there. Your husband is a horse’s patootie, and it doesn’t matter if he’s having a fling. It seems like half the men in this country can’t keep their pants on. I don’t know everything but I know this much. If you want to, you can put a stop to it. He loves you, and, plus, he’d die if he had to give up half his assets. And by the way, missy, I saw you having lunch the other day at Sermet’s and it looked like monkey business to me.”

“
What?
I was with a potential donor for the shelter, Mother. I don’t like your tone.”

“My big fat foot. You were drinking a glass of wine. Sitting right there at a window table for all of Charleston to see! It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon. Would you like a scallop?”

“No, thank you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Take up gardening. Then at least you’ll have something wholesome to brag about. You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

“I do not!”

“And don’t worry about pushing Ashley. She has a
very
special talent.”

“Like Juliet had?” Oh brother, I thought. Here we go again.

“Yes, like Juliet.”

“So, because Juliet died before she could fulfill her artistic ambitions, you think we should just let Ashley live her life without a solid career path and see what happens? I just find it odd, given your parents and the Depression and all that . . .”

“What? What in the world does the Depression have to do with this?”

“Self-reliance!” I knew I was speaking too loudly. “It was the most important thing you taught me! And it’s odd that you don’t think Ashley needs a more-well defined career path. She’s got to start paying her bills at
some
point! Or do you want to keep throwing money at her?”

“Lower your voice. And stop exaggerating. I hardly do a thing for that poor child.”

“Oh, right.”

“She’s my only granddaughter. Listen, I’ve never told you this before but I went to my psychic friend. She says there’s a very strong possibility that Ashley
is
the reincarnation of Juliet. She says there’s an unusually powerful heart connection between us.”

I sat back in my chair and stared at my mother. It wasn’t news. I had heard the reincarnation story at least a thousand times. Never mind what Ashley used to say when she was little, I wasn’t going to encourage this nonsense. My mother was finally losing her mind. Did I need to see about her power of attorney? Pay her bills? I’d ask her doctor.

“Mother? There’s also a very strong possibility that your psychic
friend
is milking your wallet.”

CHAPTER 5

Ashley at Work

I was at work and organizing the catalog JPEGs for our upcoming show of artists from the coast of the Carolinas and Georgia. It was to be called
Tidal Water Gems
. I loved organizing catalogs but I couldn’t decide which painting or photograph should be on the cover. The Turners had turned this job over to me a few months ago, saying I had a better eye for that sort of thing. Obviously, I wasn’t so sure. I only wished my work was ready to be on a cover.

“What do you think, Mr. Turner? Should we use Jack Alterman’s photographic landscape of the Ashepoo River or the Jonathan Green painting of the church ladies?”

I must have looked superserious because Mr. Turner smiled at me in that weird way grown-ups smile when they think you’re precious.

“If only I was twenty years younger,” Bill Turner said, “I’d steal your heart and whisk you away to the Kasbah!”

“Aw, Mr. Turner. That’s so sweet!” I said. “What’s the Kasbah?”

“William Turner? You stop harassing Ashley and get in here right now! You’ve got a pile of contracts to read and sign!”

“Yes, dear. Yes, dear,” Mr. Turner said, and scurried away like a frightened mouse.

I gave him a wave with the roll of my fingers and he smiled at me again, happy he had not offended me. As if I took him seriously. Please.

Judy Turner came out of her lavish office and toward mine, which in reality was a closet I shared with the copier, the watercooler, the cleaning equipment, the coffeemaker, the tiniest refrigerator on earth, and all the office supplies.

“Old fool,” Judy said. “Don’t pay him one bit of attention.”

“You’re the love of my life!” Mr. Turner called out and I giggled.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Turner called back and rolled her eyes. “And you’re mine!”

“He’s hilarious,” I said and held up photos of the two cover options. “Cover?”

“Hmmm. Tough one. They’re both so incredible. Put Jonathan Green on the front for the humanity, Jack Alterman on the back for the atmosphere. Then run the Altermans first in the catalog followed by the Greens. Sprinkle the others in between. It’s equitable that way. Blame me if they squawk.”

“Excellent. Another decision made. If we reprint, I can reverse it. Then everyone’s happy, right?”

“Such a lovely brain! This is why we adore you!”

“Ha! Ha! Now I have to choose paper. The show’s been live on our website for almost a week.”

“Oh, Ashley
, dahlin,
the website gives me nightmares! Even though I’ve known you since you were just a little bitty thing, I never dreamed you’d grow up to be my right arm. Your momma must be so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to make eye contact. I was thinking something else entirely. The Turners wouldn’t believe what it’s like to try and live on ten dollars an hour. I’d bet they hadn’t had ramen for dinner since Nixon left office.

The opening for
Tidal Water Gems
was only a few days away. But the event for Senator Galloway was that very night. I was so excited. I’d brought my dress to work in a plastic hanging bag from Belk. It hung suspended from the top drawer of the filing cabinet. My shoes and makeup were on the floor in a Vera Bradley tote bag I got for Christmas when I was in the eighth grade. Maybe seventh. It’s hard to remember now but it was plain to see that I wasn’t exactly drowning under the weight of overindulgence. And, yes, I’d brought
that
dress to wear simply because it was the best one I owned.

I wouldn’t be doing anything special that night except checking in people on the guest list, directing people to the bathroom, and so on. Still, I was excited to see him in real life. Porter, that is.
Ashley Galloway!
What a beautiful name.
Ashley Galloway, First Lady of the United States of America!
Even better.

We were coming to the end of an exhibition of watercolors, which was a fortuitous thing because they were all protected behind glass. In case somebody tripped and accidentally tossed a glass of red wine in the wrong direction, only minimal damage could happen to the art, unless, of course, they broke the glass that protected the painting, which has never happened. Besides, we only rented out the gallery when there was very small risk to the installation. I was still debating my scheme to rent out my parents’ house for events, and leaning toward doing it, especially when I opened the envelope containing a check for twenty-five hundred dollars from the Friends of Porter Galloway. That was what the Turners were earning for merely opening the doors and turning on the lights. Twenty-five hundred dollars was some serious bank. No doubt about it. Even though Ivy gave me enough money to give the first floor of our house a coat of paint to make it presentable, I was nervous. And even though Mary Beth had figured out how to serve decent wine and hors d’oeuvres for less than twenty dollars a person, mostly self-served, I was still nervous.

I wasn’t going to do anything until I was very sure we had a foolproof plan, one where my parents would
never ever
find out. If Big Liz and Big Clay caught me in a lying scam that huge, they would throw me into the streets. I’d be living in a refrigerator box from somebody’s recycling garbage, pathetically begging strangers for time on an electrical outlet to recharge my iPhone. I did not want to live in a cardboard box. No, ma’am.

The afternoon blew by. Around four, Mary Beth’s catering company showed up and started setting up. It was time to take
the dress
out of the bag and attempt to put my hair up in a French twist. I thought an updo and a string of pearls might make me resemble a young blond Jackie Kennedy. With cleavage. She was my idol. I slipped into the tiny bathroom and did my best. When I came out, Bill Turner was there, using the copier.