Lowcountry Summer (37 page)

“Richard?”

No answer.

“Richard?”

“Wha . . . ?”

“Oh, dear, Richard. Now what’s all this? We have bedrooms, you know.”

“Leave me in peace, woman. My head’s spinning.”

“O-kaaay. Your call! I’ll leave the aspirin and water right here, and when Eric gets up for Rusty’s memorial service, which is in just a couple of hours, and sees you here like a derelict, you can explain it to him. How’s that?”

“Good. That’s good.”

“The whole family will be here at ten.”

No answer.

Within seconds, he was snoring again like a grizzly.

Well, as much as the wicked part of me would have loved to let him just completely humiliate himself in front of the entire world, I could not. I would not have this day be remembered for the wrong reasons. I had a vision of the waitstaff we had engaged stepping over him with trays of pickled shrimp and smoked salmon on toast points. No, no.

“Richard! Get up this very instant and go get a shower!”

I knew my voice was leaning toward shrill, and if there was one thing I despised, it was a woman with a shrill voice. But it was effective. He rolled over and opened his eyes, and blinded by the light of day, he shielded his face with his hand.

“Where am I?”

“You are currently regaining consciousness on my living-room floor, where you spent the night. You cannot remain here, as there are several hundred people arriving in the next couple of hours to send the sainted soul of Rusty Peretti to heaven’s gates. So! Get up, go upstairs, and take a shower or I’m calling my brother to make you.”

He stared at me as though he had lost all understanding of the English language, but finally he rolled on his side and pushed himself up into a sitting position. I helped him to his feet.

“I feel like bloody hell,” he said, staggering from the room.

“I’m sure you do. Your things are in the green room, Richard. For God’s sake, pull yourself together.”

“I’m too old for this,” he said.

“I’ve been telling you for years to grow up,” I said. I doubted that he heard me.

It wasn’t long before Trip, Owen, and the girls came through the kitchen door.

“Mornin’,” Trip said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Y’all are good to do this for us again.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s true. So, how are you holding up?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

He was not okay and I knew it. His mood was very dark. Morbid, almost.

“Owen? Y’all help yourselves to coffee if you want and I’ll get everyone else together.”

Eric appeared, showered, shaved, and wearing a coat and tie.

“Oh! You’re here! Sweetheart? Go get your father and tell him breakfast is almost ready, please?”

“Sure.” He turned on his heel.

Somewhere in the middle of the hullabaloo last night, Millie had promised them all breakfast because Owen was in love with Millie’s grits.

“I had no idea they could be so delicious!” he said to her. “I am completely shocked!”

“Well, they are,” she said, smiling. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll have ’em with eggs!”

She had indeed produced another pot of yellow grits, along with dozens of steaming scrambled eggs, sausage patties from Bobby Mack, and two cookie sheets of biscuits. And of course, Miss Sweetie’s strawberry jam. We assembled around the table and Richard was still not there.

“Well, I don’t think we should wait for him, but, Eric, why don’t you go tell him that—”

Suddenly Richard was in the doorway.

“Sorry,” he said, and took his seat. He looked awful.

We passed the platters and bowls all around the table until everyone had served themselves. I lifted my fork and the meal began. Even though the food was absolutely delicious, I couldn’t help but notice that Trip was pushing his eggs around on his plate, not really eating. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t that hungry either. But Eric and the girls, especially Chloe, were shoveling in the biscuits as fast as they could, rivaling Owen, who ate for two men, buttering his biscuits and spreading jam all over them. He closed his eyes while he ate. He was experiencing some kind of culinary rhapsody. I thought he was awfully chipper for someone on the way to his sister’s memorial service, but then everyone handled grief in their own way.

“I think this was the most wonderful breakfast I have ever had in my entire life,” Owen said. “And you make this jelly?”

“Jam,” I said, smiling. “My partner does. You’ll meet her today. I’ll send you a case.”

God, he was as cute as a bug. Because I was under the watchful eye of Richard and in the presence of children, I suppressed a medium-size urge to fly around the table and wipe the crumbs away from Owen’s heart-shaped mouth. Shameful, I suppose, but it’s just how it was. Don’t I get points for resisting the urge?

Right after breakfast, the girls were in the kitchen with Owen, all of them helping Millie assemble ham biscuits. Rosario was there, too, cutting rounds of ham with Millie’s special biscuit cutter.

“I still don’t know why we didn’t hire a caterer,” Millie said. “I must think I’m a young girl! Mr. Owen? Check that pantry for a bottle of Mrs. Sassard’s artichoke relish, will you?”

“Artichoke relish? Ahem. Mrs. Smoak, we can handle this.” Owen placed the quart bottle on the counter next to Millie. “Don’t worry.”

We had no sooner taken the last plate to the kitchen than the doorbell started ringing. I stood there opening and closing it as I directed waiters, musicians, the funeral director from McAlister-Smith to where they should go. Mr. Jenkins and Eric had commandeered our golf carts, taking people down to the chapel, where the tent and chairs were being set up.

Trip was by my side. Richard had excused himself on the pretense of helping Eric and trying to squeeze in a little quality time with his son. What on earth they had to talk about was beyond me. I had not told Eric what I had learned about his half brother Harry’s troubles and I wondered if Richard would. Come to think of it, Richard was so bombed last night he probably forgot that he had told Trip anything, including the part about taking another shot with me. But honestly, after his behavior, did he really think I would be interested? As I understood it, he wasn’t leaving until Sunday, so he still had twenty-four hours to give me nightmares for the next ten years.

Miss Sweetie was the next to arrive. Her delivery truck was right behind her and she waved the driver toward the back of the house. I gave her a hug as she came into the foyer.

“Good morning, Caroline! Come here, Trip, and let this old lady give you a hug. You poor thing.”

She hugged Trip as though he were her own child, saying how sorry she was and that Rusty was such a wonderful girl. Trip choked up from tears and I was not surprised. I fished out a tissue from my pocket and handed it to him.

“What a terrible day this is. If your mother was alive, I know it would break her heart, too. She held Rusty in such high esteem. Oh, dear me! I miss Lavinia so!”

“Me, too,” I said, choking up a little myself. “Every minute of every day.”

“And with Nancy gone off to Gay Paree for so long, I can’t even get a bridge game together for four! Isn’t that awful?” Miss Sweetie blotted her eyes with a tissue. I had not noticed that she was teary, too. We were some trio.

“When is she coming home?” Trip said.

“Not until the end of June, but, darlin’, I spoke to her just last night and she sends you all her love. She’s just sick in her heart that she can’t be here for you.”

“Well, thank you and please send her my love, too,” Trip said, and I thought, Well, that’s pretty sweet coming from him.

“Oh, Miss Sweetie,” I said, “thanks so much for all you did. All the muffins and everything . . .”

“And I brought two hundred cucumber-and-dill finger sandwiches! And chicken salad. But oh, shoo, it was nothing. Now I’d better get out to the kitchen and help Millie. I hope that fool delivery boy of mine brought everything I told him to bring. I gave him a list but he probably never looked at it!”

I smiled then, thinking that this was why Miss Sweetie would live to be a hundred—because every day had a busy agenda.

The valet parking company arrived and a dozen uniformed drivers stood at attention at the head of our driveway, ready to take the keys of our guests and shuttle them down to the chapel. The funeral home had smartly arranged for eight brand-spanking-new golf carts to move those who were aged, infirm, or wearing the wrong shoes back and forth between the chapel and the house.

At least we had been lucky with the weather. It was a beautiful day, the skies were as clear as they could be, and blue, so blue! We stepped back and closed the front door as guests began arriving. We would greet them after the service. Matthew slipped inside the house and gave me a kiss on the cheek and he shook Trip’s hand soundly. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, with a red silk foulard tie, and he looked like a different person.

“Matthew? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit. You look gorgeous!”

“Well, thanks! Y’all doing okay? Do you want me to stay with you or go on down there?”

“We’re good. Go on to the chapel. We’ll be along in a few minutes.”

He looked at me funny for a moment and then shook his head.

“Okay. I’ll see you down there,” he said.

“Why’d you run him off?” Trip asked. “I thought he was your main squeeze.”

“He is, sort of, but everyone here doesn’t need to know it, do they?”

Trip gave me an odd look then. Had I told Matthew I would meet up with him in the chapel because I didn’t want everyone to think I was in a committed relationship with him? Or was I in a committed relationship with an officer of the law, someone allegedly below our social status? Wouldn’t it have been ultrabizarre to have Matthew on one side of me and Richard on the other?

“I can be in love with anyone I want, Trip Wimbley. And I can marry anyone I want, too!”

“I’m sure you can, but what in the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t say anything?”

“No. What’s the matter with you? Hearing voices, Sybil?”

“I’m fine.”

No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t fine either. I was worried that I had inadvertently insulted Matthew and my body temperature skyrocketed.

“Caroline! You’re as red as a beet! Are you . . . ?”

“Menopausal?”

“Yeah!”

“No! Absolutely not! Bite your damn tongue, Trip! How old do you think I am?”

“Hey? I’m just saying . . . it’s no big deal, you know? If you are?”

“Well, I’m not!”

The funeral director was on the front steps, handing out programs with a map showing where the chapel was located on our property and offering people the option of a ride. It was getting to be time to go. The last person to arrive was Reverend Moore.

He came through the door looking very serious, holding his vestments high in a long hanging bag.

“Good morning, sir.” He shook Trip’s hand.

“Good morning, Reverend Moore,” Trip said. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s an honor,” Reverend Moore said. “Truly it is.”

I could almost hear Trip thinking
Ka-ching!
Honored? The bill for Reverend Moore’s services had probably just gone up another hundred dollars.

Trip shot his eye at me and I knew I was right. Sometimes we could hear each other think.

“And, Miss Caroline?” He was ogling me like I was a Bluffton oyster on a half shell.

“Good morning, Reverend Moore.”

“Call me Charlie, please.” He leaned his head to one side and smiled so wide I could count his dimples. He probably thought that posture made him seem boyish. It did. I had never noticed his dimples before.

“Charlie,” I said, and grinned.

I knew I was supposed to be serious today but this man was so silly! Okay, look, if I was interested in Charlie, you would have already heard about it. Charlie was not my type but I couldn’t tell you why. He was handsome enough. He was smart enough. And I suspected he probably had a reasonably decent sense of humor. I guess fate had just not brought us together. And then I realized the real reason was that I was the
last
person cut out to be the spouse of any kind of clergyman.

I wanted to say,
I’m so wrong for you, Charlie, you can’t even imagine!
Instead I said, “You can change in the powder room. It’s a quarter to one.”

“Thanks,” he said, and disappeared down the hall.

We made our way down to the chapel in a kind of a procession. Trip, Owen, and Charlie were in the lead, the girls were huddled in the next golf cart, and Richard, Eric, and I brought up the rear. I knew Millie and Mr. Jenkins would be along and that work would stop until we returned.

I had to say McAlister-Smith had transformed our ancient chapel that sometimes seemed so dark and depressing into a warm and welcoming place of worship. The doors were flung wide open, anchored by enormous baskets of flowers. The front windows were raised so that even if you were sitting outside, or way back under the oaks where we stood, ready to make our way as a family up the long aisle, you could still see the whole way to the table—the table where Rusty’s ashes sat in a beautiful urn, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of flowers.