Isle of Palms (39 page)

Emily and David had returned home. I sat up in shock, not looking their way, and tried to recover my hairdo and composure. My body temperature was about three thousand degrees. Arthur struggled to sit, dumping me on the other cushion. I pulled my dress down the best I could.

“Um, I’ll just wait outside,” David said as he turned and left, snickering.

Emily’s bedroom door opened and closed.
“Disgusting!”
she said in a most guttural voice. Then the bathroom door slammed. A minute passed. Then it opened and slammed again. Then my bedroom door slammed.
“Ahhhh!”
she screamed. Then it opened. Then it slammed. Then she rushed past us, slamming the door.

Arthur and I looked at each other. We heard David’s car pull away. It was almost dead silent except that the sound of Jim’s snore penetrated the walls and the mood. How he had slept through all this carrying-on was a mystery.

“Your girl sure knows how to bust up a party,” Arthur said.

“I could die,” I said. “That’s never happened before. I mean, if I had caught her in the same position, she’d be grounded for about a hundred years.”

“Then let’s not get caught,” he said. “Come on. We’re going to my house.”

“What about dinner? I already ate, actually.” Was that the dumbest thing I could say or what? Boy, when my passion cooled, it sank like a stone to the freaking South Pole. “I mean, are we going to be late? Should we call somebody? I mean, not that I
want
to call anybody . . .”

He was standing in front of me with his arms crossed, shaking his head, dimples showing and eyes twinkling.

“You know what? You’re making me insecure over here. I already ate, too. Why don’t you just get your purse and let’s get out of here.”

Well, then I felt like an ass. A complete, world-class ass.

We drove to his house, or rather his friend’s house. It was another old island home, much like the one where I grew up, except that it was on the Intracoastal Waterway and the front of it faced the water. I could hear the dogs barking wildly from inside the house.

The house was elevated from the ground and the screened porch was casually strewn with old painted rockers of varying sizes on either side. The overhead light was corroded from the salt air and the door could have used a coat of paint. I wasn’t being critical. In fact, the imperfections were comforting. I followed him through the door into the kitchen on the left. Nikki and his other setter were jumping all over us, begging for a scratch or a cookie or to be let out. I was never sure about what dogs wanted. I had enough trouble with people.

“Come on, girl, get down. Come on, Ringo, cut it out! Glass of wine?” He stuck his head in the refrigerator. “Beer?
Cos-mo-pol-i-tan?”

“Very funny. God! Will I ever live that down? A glass of wine would be perfect. Ringo? The dog’s name is Ringo?”

“Yeah. My friend is a huge Beatles fan. So am I.”

“Me too.”

He smiled at me, probably because it was reassuring to know we had something in common besides this raging desire to rip off our clothes.

“I was thinking we could sit on the front porch and watch the lights and maybe take a walk on the dock if the bugs aren’t too bad.”

I exhaled and said, “I’d love that. There’s a nice breeze.”

I was relieved that he wasn’t going to try and pick up where we had left off on my couch. Emily and David’s return had my nerves all jangled and, frankly, it had given me a chance to think about rushing to the mattress mambo. Yes, I wanted to sleep with him but the old-fashioned Lowcountry girl in me told me to hold out. I knew the world jumped into bed the first chance they got, but I didn’t want to do that. I liked him too much.

I watched his hands as he uncorked the bottle. They were large and beautiful, manly hands. Naturally, I wondered about the implication of hand size and his—well, you know what I mean. I had read about that in
Cosmopolitan
magazine but I sure didn’t have much field research to back up their claim. I told myself that I should be ashamed and then I giggled, not ashamed one bit.

“What’s funny?” he said and handed me a goblet.

“Everything,” I said. “I was just thinking about what Emily must have said to David when they left.” This was a complete lie, but not a bad recovery. “Can you imagine?”

“It’s your job to give your kids something to get over, isn’t it? Cheers.”

“Man. I’ll bet she’s still stressing about it!”

“Well, I’m sure we were a pretty scandalous sight to her. Come on.”

I followed him down the center hall of the house and he paused to turn on a few lights. It was a pretty nice house, but clearly a man’s place. I stepped in the living room behind him. The sectional couch was black leather, and from its sheer bulk, I guessed that it probably had a pullout bed. There was a large-screen TV for ball games and the two recliners were positioned to watch Clemson attempt to kick Alabama’s butt. The coffee table was empty and there wasn’t a framed photograph of a human being to be seen—only wildlife and landscapes—or a live plant in sight. The dining room on the other side had a dark Victorian table and was covered in mail. The chairs around it looked like no one had used them in years. I didn’t see any bedrooms and assumed they were upstairs but I wasn’t asking for a tour. I was back on my good behavior. Temporarily.

“Ah! The porch! I’ll bet you I’ve spent more late nights on this porch since I’ve been here than anywhere else.”

For the record, the porch was wide and long, furnished with oversized chairs on one end and a hammock on the other. It was the best feature of the house and no doubt the reason his friend had bought it in the first place. I stood looking at the twinkling lights across the water and the small boats that shifted in their own wakes. What a night for dreaming, I thought.

“This is really beautiful,” I said.

“Come sit down,” he said. “You know what I’ve been thinking?”

“Well, there’s just no telling.”

“I’m thinking that although this is the third or fourth time I’ve seen you, I don’t know anything about you except that you used to be married to Jim, you have a daughter who’s a knockout if she’d get that shit out of her hair, that you can’t drink vodka worth a damn, and that you own a new house and a new business. Who are you, Anna?”

“What do you mean, who am I?”

“Just what I said. I want to know what you think about, what your childhood was like, how many guys you’ve slept with . . .”

“I’m just kidding about the other guys part. Come on. Sit next to me and tell me all about yourself. What’s your passion?”

“Like I’d tell you anyway?” Another clever retort designed to dodge the question.

I caught my breath and took a seat next to him. Now, I’m a chatty gal, but all at once I was at a loss for words. I was fixated on his question and wondering when the last time was that someone had asked me about myself. Maybe it was because of the kind of business I was in but I was
completely
used to listening to others talk about themselves. I was the one who took care of other people’s problems, dispensing advice with every twist of a round brush.

And passion? Did I have any beyond a physical one? Now that my geographical passion for island and my desire for autonomy had been met, what was next? What else, if anything, did I crave?

It wasn’t that I thought no one cared about what went on in the deep recesses of my head—certainly Daddy, Jim, Frannie, and even Crazy Lucy would have gladly listened to almost anything. This was different. Arthur’s question presented a chance to try on my new persona, that independent-woman cloak I started wearing when I signed my mortgage and lease.

“Cat got your tongue?”

The breeze was blowing all over the porch and the air smelled sweet. I was trying to find the way to tell him what I wanted him to think about me. I decided I would just dive in and let my thoughts of the moment rip. It was easier to tell the truth in the dark, whatever that truth had become on that night.

“No, it’s just that it’s been a long time since anyone asked. A lot has changed. I mean, I just threw my life into forward after spending most of it in reverse, or neutral.”

“You have an automatic transmission in that tight little dress somewhere?”

“Yeah, and you’re a comedian.”

“Come on. Tell Uncle Arthur about Anna’s secrets. I won’t tell a soul!”

“Okay, here’s a secret about me. I love porches at night and I have to be on this island to be happy. I don’t know what it is about the Isle of Palms.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to live with me in Nepal?”

“Is that north of Columbia?”

“Yeah, way north.”

“Then, I can’t go. I’d die.” I smiled thinking about running away with him.

“Damn. I really love Nepal too—yak cheese and all that. So, is it this island? Or do you think it could be the Atlantic Ocean that has this mysterious pull on you?”

“No, it’s this island. Definitely.” This swung me back to childhood and I had a memory of something amusing. At the same time, I was trying to decide whether he wanted the real goods or he wanted to be entertained. I opted for entertainment. “Okay. You’re gonna think this is stupid.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s stupid around here.”

“Okay. When I was little, really little, I used to think I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up. To be more specific, I wanted to be the one who found Blackbeard’s trunks of gold that are supposed to be buried on this island.”

“You’re kidding, right? Blackbeard?”

“Yeah, Blackbeard. You know, some people think this is just a little sandbar but it isn’t. The Isle of Palms has great historical value.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I swear, it does!”

“Look, I’ll give you Sullivan’s Island and Charleston. I mean, even a Yankee foreigner like me knows they dug up the
Hunley
here. I thought all the pirates were in Barbados or someplace like that.”

“Well, they were there too, but Blackbeard’s ships actually worked as Charleston’s first navy, guarding the port, with a lot of pillage and plunder thrown in.”

“I never heard that one. So, what would you have done if you had found a trunk of gold?”

“Tough question. I think I would have just been rich. You know? A great bicycle, better toys . . . that sort of thing. My brain was young at the time. I mean, I wouldn’t have called a broker to discuss setting up a portfolio.”

“Right.” He sighed and stood up. “Don’t you know, little girl, that money is the root of all evil?” He refilled my glass.

“Money can make people wicked, that’s for sure. Thanks. The way I figure it,
enough
has always been about twice as much as I had at any given point in my life.”

“Me too.”

Then there was silence and I sensed he was disappointed that I hadn’t given him something more. And maybe, just maybe, it would be nice if I got interested in what he wanted to tell me. People often asked questions they wanted you to ask them, didn’t they?

“So, what are you doing in Charleston? Where are you from, anyway?”

To my surprise, he positioned a large footstool with a big cushion under my legs and I stretched out, kicking off my shoes for the second time that night. If I had realized we’d be porch sitting instead of going out to the city, I would have worn shorts. But if I’d worn shorts, the dress I was wearing could never have delivered its deadly effect. There was something much sexier about bare legs hanging out of a tight dress than khaki shorts.

“Well, I was born in Connecticut and then I went to school in New York when my parents got divorced. They got divorced when I was a kid.”

I was right. He wanted me to know him. “Any brothers? Sisters?”

“Nope. Just me.”

“Another only child. Me too.”

“Anyway, I got a degree in business from NYU and then I got interested in the food business when I was managing a restaurant with a friend and then the next thing you know, I was up to my neck in cheese. Cheese is a trend thing, you know.”

“Seems like everything has its little moment in the sun, I guess. Like quiche and all that? Jim would probably agree.”

“Exactly, I mean, ask him about the Chardonnay fever versus Sauvignon Blanc grapes recently. And, Merlots versus Cabernet. Same thing.”

“So, have you ever been married?”

He heaved a deep sigh and confessed the bare minimum. “God, yes, I was married. I’d never do that again.”

Me either, I thought. “Children?”

“One son. He lives with his mother on the Upper West Side. I have a studio in the Village on East Tenth Street. I’ve always liked downtown Manhattan better.”

I said, “Umm. I’ve never been to New York, but I think I’d like downtown better too. I mean, you always hear it’s more charming and less chaotic.”

“Yeah, but it’s never as quiet and peaceful as this. You might be right about this island. Come on. Let’s go look at the night.”

“Okay,” I said, and watched Arthur reach for the bottle. “How old is your boy?”

“He’ll be eighteen this fall. You want to have another splash?”

“Sure,” I said, standing to leave with him, “why not. So, what’s he like?”

“He’s better than me.”

“I doubt that. What’s his name?”

“Charlie. He wants to be a child psychologist, of all things. But he’s probably trying to sort out all the emotional crap he endured while his mother and I were trying to ruin his childhood. He has a huge heart.”

“I doubt that you ruined his childhood. I mean, if he knows you both love him, that’s a lot.”

Then I saw Arthur’s eyes and, even in the dark, they told me he had failed to give his son that most basic requirement of all parents—confirmation that he loved him. I wondered why.