Folly Beach (10 page)

The rest of the day should be easy, I thought. Straight down I-95, bang into I-26, whip over to Highway 17, and then get on Folly Road. I’d be at Aunt Daisy’s by eight, still in time for supper and to begin the next leg of my odyssey.

Around one o’clock I stopped at a Cracker Barrel for lunch and to fill up the car with gas. I looked around the gift shop to see if there was something I could bring my sweet aunt, well, maybe
feisty
is the better descriptor, something she’d really want. Naturally, there were lots of things from which to choose: cast-iron cookware; a wall clock that looked like Felix the Cat with eyes that darted left on
tick
and right on
tock;
ceramic cookie jars; aprons, towels, and oven mitts that matched; coffee; packaged mixes for cakes and breads; relishes; music; and every kind of old-fashioned candy under the sun. She would probably not want any of it, because like most people over the age of whatever-the-age-is-when-you-get-peculiar, she was very, very particular. I’d buy her something when I got to Charleston, maybe an armload of flowers and a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts that I knew she loved. Ah, Krispy Kreme. Every girl should have a guilty pleasure, no matter her age.

It was around seven-thirty when I rolled into the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly on Folly Road. My intention was to zoom in, scoop up several bunches of flowers and a box of glazed sin, and zoom out, but as you might imagine, that never happens. I hadn’t been to the Piggly Wiggly in years, and Ruth’s Pimento Cheese Spread, the Pig’s own brand of breakfast sausage, a jar of pickled okra, and White Lilly Flour seemed to jump in my basket as soon as they caught my eye. I bought a can of boiled peanuts (sacrilege, but it was February and raw ones didn’t come around until summer), a bag of barbecued pork rinds, a box of MoonPies, and a six-pack of Cheerwine. All I needed was a loaf of Little Miss Sunbeam white bread and I was set for the duration. And cereal, instant coffee, and skim milk. Addison loathed instant coffee. It occurred to me while I went through the checkout line that the flowers I had chosen were pretty pitiful and that I, The Widow who was no longer accountable to anyone, was no better at making healthy choices than the kid at breakfast in Virginia, but then I wasn’t going to eat all this mess at the same time. I would allow myself to indulge in it all bit by bit. It was a good thing my pants had five percent spandex woven in the fabric.

It was very chilly outside, probably somewhere in the forties, but cold and damp enough for gloves. So I pushed the two bags and the flowers into the back of the car, hopped in, cranked it up, stepped on the gas, and bam! I hit something. Hard. I looked behind me again and there was a huge SUV awfully close, in fact, right on the right side of my back bumper. Shit. A wreck. Great. That’s just great, I thought, just what the doctor ordered. I pulled back into my parking space and put the car in park. I really didn’t need this and I don’t know why but I burst into tears. Boy, I thought, for someone who never had a history of tears, I had developed some impressive waterworks. But I forgave myself, thinking I was probably overtired from all the driving and just overwrought from the most recent events of my miserable life. All that said, I put my head on my hands that were resting on the steering wheel and sobbed like a four-year-old.

Did I even have collision insurance? Was it my fault? Jesus. Couldn’t life cut me some slack? Just a little slack for The Widow please?

There was a tapping on my window and I didn’t want to look up. But the tapping continued and I picked my head up, sniffed like a stevedore, wiped my eyes, and lowered my window. There stood the most gorgeous man I have ever seen, with the most sympathetic eyes.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes. No. Yes. No,” I began to babble. “Look, my husband just died like ten days ago and I just drove here the whole way from New Jersey to stay with my aunt on Folly and I’m just so tired. I’m so tired.” I took a deep breath and waited for him to tell me that I had caused at least a thousand dollars worth of damage to his car but he was just looking at me so I added, “And he left me with no money, too. Our house was foreclosed on and I lost everything,
everything
I ever owned except for what’s in the back of this
stupid
car that I bought because it was all I could afford.” I reached for the box of tissues I had on the passenger seat, pulled two out, blew my nose, and wiped my eyes.

“Holy smoke, ma’am, that’s awful. Sounds like you need a break.”

“Right? But no breaks for me! I still can’t believe what’s happened to me, but hey,” I said and tried to smile, “some days you get the bear, right?” I opened my door and got out, my knees somewhat wobbly with shockwaves from the accident. “Let’s see what happened to your car.”

“It’s no big deal. Really it isn’t.”

I closed my door and stood next to him. Good grief, I thought, this guy is electric or something. I mean, it had been years since I had been around raging testosterone. Well, I shouldn’t say
raging
really, more like
any
. Yes,
any noticeable testosterone emanating from men
would actually be the more appropriate way to put it. I was long immune to the allure of any of Addison’s friends or any other men who came and went in my life. Who was this guy?

“Wow,” I mumbled stupidly, looking at him and alternately appraising the scrape across his left rear bumper, hoping he would think I meant the damage. “Look at your bumper,” I said, thinking it might help clarify that The Widow wasn’t on the prowl. Yet.

“Entirely my fault. I backed out without looking,” he said. “By the way, I’m John Risley.”

His fault? I sighed with relief. John Risley. Nice name. Was John Risley trying to spare me the expense of the repairs? He was about my age, I thought.

“Cate. I’m Cate Cooper.” I smiled at him. I must’ve looked like a refugee from Fright Night. We shook hands and then stepped back to examine the cars again. My taillight was in pieces on the ground. And my bumper had a crack in it. “Have to fix that, I guess.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“Gosh, that’s okay. It’s nothing really.”

“Look, my car belongs to the college . . .”

“What college?”

“The College of Charleston.”

“Oh.”

“I teach there. Anyway, our insurance will cover it. I don’t know if your bumper needs to be replaced but it looks like a maybe. We can find that out. If you’ll just give me your number, I’ll call you tomorrow and get it all taken care of right away.”

He took off his gloves to pull out his wallet to get a business card and there it was. A wedding ring on the left hand. I knew this was completely ridiculous but something inside of me sank.

“I just need a good night’s sleep,” I said, which probably sounded like a stupid thing to say. I took his card while I dug around in my purse for a piece of paper, deciding to use the receipt from the Pig.

“You too? I haven’t slept through the night for about fifteen years,” he said. “Do you need a pen?”

“No, thanks.” I leaned on the hood of his car and wrote out my cell phone number. “Yeah, sleep’s a precious commodity these days. My mind just whirls around all night. I should write a book.”

“Shouldn’t we all? I’ll call you in the morning?”

“Sure.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m fine. Just beyond exhausted in mind, body, and spirit, but other than that?”

“Cate? I’m really sorry about this.”

“No sweat, really. I needed a jolt.”

“Right. Okay, then . . .”

He smiled at me again, climbed into his SUV that was heavy-duty enough to pull a trailer of horses, started the engine, and then he drove away into the night.

“Wow,” I said.

Inside of twenty minutes I was climbing the steps up to Aunt Daisy’s front porch. I had called ahead to say I had been delayed by a fender bender but save me a plate of whatever they were having and I would see them very soon.

All the lights in the house were on and I rang the doorbell. I was excited then, smelling the salt rolling in from the ocean, feeling the dampness swelling my hair. I felt myself sliding back to my childhood and I remembered being really young and how complete I felt then. Maybe this would be good for me, to be here, to remember who I had started out to become, to find that girl and resuscitate her, see if she had any life left in her. Maybe if I could find her I wouldn’t feel like an old, used up, and fractured middle-aged woman. Maybe I’d try to figure out a way to stay until I could put myself back together again. I heard uneven footsteps.

“It’s open! It’s open! Come on in! Come in out of that cold!”

It was Aunt Daisy, of course, hobbling toward the door. I tried the handle and the door opened with no problem. I stepped inside, adjusting my eyes to the bright lights.

“Hey!” I said. “Look who’s back just like the flu! How are you?” I hugged her so hard I thought she might break but I was so filled with relief to be there at last.

“Close that pneumonia hole!”

I closed the door behind me as quickly as I could.

“Oh! My dear girl! How I’ve missed you! Let me look at you!” She stood back to give me the once-over and the tears in her eyes tumbled down her cheeks.

“You can’t cry, Aunt Daisy! Don’t! Believe me! I’ve shed enough tears for both of us, enough to last all our lives!” I hugged her again and we made our way toward the kitchen, from where the smell of something wonderful was beckoning us to follow. Good grief, we were surely turning into a bunch of weepers.

“Oh, shoot,” she said and pulled a tissue from her sleeve to blot her eyes, “look at me!”

“You’re fine! How’s that foot?”

“Like hell. Hurts like hell.” She blew her nose. “I’m just a sentimental old fool!”

“No. You’re not. You’re perfect. Now, what do I smell?”

“Okra soup. What else? In this weather? It’s so damn cold you could lay down and die.”

“Well, don’t do that! I couldn’t handle another funeral quite yet. Hey, Ella! You’re here!”

Aunt Daisy’s companion and partner of forty years stood there with her hands on her hips, grinning wide. There was a warm pecan pie on the sideboard that I could smell from across the room.

“And just where else would I be? We can’t have Miss Daisy running around in that cast, falling down and breaking her other foot, too, can we?”

“Ella? Are you making us martinis or what?”

“Yes, Your Highness!” Ella mumbled.

“I heard that! I finally moved her in,” Aunt Daisy said. “After all these years? Let ’em talk and see if I care!”

“That’s right!” I said. “Wait till the neighbors hear what happened to me, you two old scandals will look like Republicans.”

“Grey Goose good for you?” Ella said, shaking the martini shaker like mad.

“Anything. Believe me. For the first time in my life I can honestly say I have earned a cocktail.”

As she poured the drinks out into three martini glasses, I realized the shaker was meant to look like a penguin. It seemed to me I had seen one before, ages ago.

“How cute is this?” I said. “Where’d you find it?”

“Catalog,” Aunt Daisy said. “Restoration Hardware, I think. Maybe Target?”

“Ever since she became an invalid . . .”

“I am not an invalid!”

“All she does is sit around and order frivolous junk from catalogs, HGTV, QVC, and the Internet,” Ella said and Aunt Daisy pouted. “Did you see the doormat with the smiling shrimp?”

“You said you liked the penguin,” Aunt Daisy said.

“Well,
I
think it’s adorable!” I said, wondering if the two old biddies went at it around the clock and how long I could bear it before it got on my nerves.

Ella carefully passed me a glass filled right up to the rim and one to Aunt Daisy, too. We held them up to toast.

“What are we drinking to?” I said.

“Welcome home, Cate,” Aunt Daisy said. “We have missed you more than we can say!”

“Yep, it’s fuh true, like we say down ’eah in the Lowcountry. More than we can say.”

“Thanks,” I said and took a deep sip, vowing to let them bicker all they wanted and I would never say a word.

Over dinner we talked about the recent days, finding Addison, the funeral, his whores, his maybe-love child, the foreclosure, my diamonds, moving—the whole horror show was briefly revisited right up to my car accident of that evening.

“His name is John Risley. He teaches at the College of Charleston,” I said.

Aunt Daisy and Ella put down their spoons and looked at each other. For the first time since I had walked in the door, the chatterboxes were dead silent.

“Yeah, so, John Risley’s one gorgeous devil,” I said. I looked at them still staring at each other. Then they finally turned to me. “What? He’s married! And hello, I’ve been a widow for less than two weeks. Although, I gotta say that if he got lost in the night and fell in between my sheets, I wouldn’t have him arrested.”