Lowcountry Summer (9 page)

Mr. Clyde looked up from the sink when I entered the pantry and he smiled to see me. Amazingly, he still had a full head of white curly hair, which he wore cut close to his scalp. Because silver polish was deadly to remove from clothing, he wore old-fashioned, blue cotton sleeve protectors that covered his arms from his biceps to his wrists. A black canvas apron covered the front of his shirt, tie, and trousers. His wing tips shone like melting licorice and his black-striped necktie was knotted in a full Windsor. I had never seen him without a tie in all my entire life. Mr. Clyde was buffing a small silver tray with an unhurried vengeance and a chamois cloth.

“Well, good morning, Miss Caroline! How are you this fine day?”

“Mr. Clyde? I just had to come in here and wish you all the best for your birthday! Miss Sweetie told me you had a big one coming up this weekend!”

“Well, at my age they all big ones. But I’m still on the right side of the grass and thanking God every day. My daddy? He live to see one hundred and seven years!”

“My goodness!” I said. “What’s the secret to such a long life?”

“What’s the secret? Well, I reckon it’s staying busy so you don’t lose your beans, eatin’ right—always have my daily dose of greens, you know—and being happy. Yes, ma’am! Stay happy ’cause it makes your heart want to keep ticking!”

“I’ll bet you’re right! And that’s it?”

“Well, before bed I always take me a little nip of Oh Be Joyful to ease my aching bones, but that’s more medicinal than recreational.”

“And just how many doses does it take to ease your bones?” I giggled and so did Miss Sweetie.

“Well, now that depends on the ache! Yes, ma’am! That depends on the ache.”

Mr. Clyde, pleased that his clever remark had amused us, returned his attention to his work and we went on into the kitchen after I wished him well again.

“He is the dearest man on earth,” Miss Sweetie said, peering into the refrigerator. “Oh, me. Sometimes I stare inside this thing half expecting something to talk to me!
Drink me!
”

“I know just what you mean. Iced water is fine for me. Really.”

“All right, but I can make us some tea in five minutes.”

“No. Don’t trouble yourself. Water’s fine. You know, I think all that caffeine can’t be good for me.”

“Oh, pish! These darned doctors and all their advice! They’d like us all to weigh one hundred pounds and never eat a blessed thing except unsalted oatmeal with no butter. They like to scare us into going to them every time you turn around.”

“Yeah. If you’re sick, they make money. If you’re not, they don’t.”

“Glory! You’re right! Everything’s a racket these days, isn’t it?”

She took two tumblers from a cabinet and filled them with ice and water.

I looked around her pristine white kitchen with all the red accents and smiled to myself. She had certainly cornered the market on strawberry accoutrements. There were dishes, mugs, canisters, dish towels—you name it—all of them had strawberries on them somewhere. She even had a red Viking range with eight burners and two ovens. It looked like a big valentine centered on the back wall. In fact the entire kitchen was a kind of valentine, a love letter showing how important her kitchen was to her. I agreed with that position because I had always felt that as much as I enjoyed the drama of a gorgeous living room or the glamour of a beautiful dining room, the kitchen was the heart of a home.

Her kitchen was where we usually worked, all of our papers spread across her oversize trestle table. It was still early in the day and sunlight was pouring through the windows. I noticed a grouping of bird feeders outside on black wrought-iron shepherd hooks and I thought how nice it must be for her to sit across from the windows and watch the migrating birds come and go.

“That’s new, isn’t it? The bird feeders, I mean.”

“Yes! It is. Isn’t it just the perfect thing to keep me company? After Jake died last year, I decided I was too old for another dog and then I saw these on the Internet and thought, well? Why not?”

“Why not indeed? Now, let’s talk about inventory. It’s planned for next week . . .”

We talked about shrinkage due to expiration dates, breakage, and how much we had to write down for taxes for 2006.

“It’ll be a cold day in you know where before I insist on producing strawberry-pomegranate jam again. Remember how we thought all those little seeds would be a surprising burst of flavor? All those antioxidants? All people did was run to the dentist and write me letters of complaint.”

“Yeah. Way worse than raspberries. We couldn’t give it away. How much do we own?”

“I’m afraid to tell you,” Miss Sweetie said. We stared at each other for a few seconds and then she said, “Okay. Four hundred cases. That’s forty-eight hundred jars.”

“Holy smoke. That’s a lot. Maybe I can give them to Bobby Mack at a big discount and he can use it as a marinade?”

“Maybe we should try it as a marinade first?”

“I’ll ask him to send me a pork shoulder and I’ll try it tonight. Is that the worst problem we’ve got?”

“Yes, I’m happy to say. Other than this, it’s strawberry chiffon heaven around here! And, by the way, we’re very close to landing the Sara Lee account as well. Did I tell you about this?”

“No! Oh, Miss Sweetie, that’s wonderful!”

“Yes, it is! Even though I am supposed to be just a spokesperson, our head of sales drags me into everything. Anyway, they have a whole new line of low-fat muffins and our strawberries . . .”

Her eyes twinkled and she became very animated as she told me how Sara Lee proposed to market the muffins and how much revenue we stood to gain if we acquired the account. For all of her complaints about how it was time for her to retire, it was obvious that Sweetie’s was keeping her going.

“And, Caroline? I had a call from Nancy this morning about our bridge game this week. She was headed to Beaufort for a breakfast and she saw the billboards. Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Mother McCree! We had no idea Frances Mae was so, well . . .”

“Crazy?”

I felt the back of my neck ignite and my face was in flames.

“Oh, come on now.” She reached across the table and patted the back of my hand. “I know it’s none of my business, but if I can help in any way, you know how much I loved your mother and—”

“Miss Sweetie? Frances Mae is no Picasso and she’s always up to something awful, isn’t she? Such an embarrassment. But this time? She’s all done.”

“Whatever do you mean, dear?”

“That Trip is finally, pardon my language, beyond the fury of every devil in hell.”

Miss Sweetie gasped in false shock and said, “Well, it’s high time! I know this is none of my business but I have to tell you, your mother would not have liked this one bit. Nice people don’t hang their dirty laundry out in public.”

“No, you’re right. And I don’t like it either.”

On the way back to Tall Pines, my trunk loaded up with four cases of strawberry-pomegranate jam, my cell rang out with the theme song to
Goldfinger
. It was the music designated for only Bobby Mack and don’t ask why. I had not heard from him in ten days and the way my life went? Anything could happen in ten days.

“Princess!”

“I was just going to call you! Where’ve you been hiding, darlin’? I’ve been missing you,” I said, thinking now here he is and what am I to do with Matthew Strickland? Hide him in the closet?

“Just working like a fiend, that’s all. I was up in Hyde Park, New York, teaching a bunch of Yankee chef wannabe kids at the CIA how to make sausage and, of course, the most efficient way to finish a hog.”

“You mean, finish him off for good?”

“Ah, come on, pussycat. That sounds so harsh.”

“Booooobbeeeee?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you have someone bring me a shoulder of pork? Pleeeeease?”

“I can have someone bring you a shoulder of pork, and later on, I’ll bring another shoulder for you to lean on and cry about how you been missing your man. How’s seven?”

“Oh, Bobby! That would be so wonderful! I can’t wait to see you!”

We hung up and I prayed, Oh dear Lord, please help us get Frances Mae on a plane to California and Trip back to his house with Rusty and Matthew Strickland on duty at the other end of the county by six forty-five. Thank you Lord, Amen. P.S. Oh, and also with my hair blown out, necessary places shaved and moisturized, and Millie tucked away somewhere out of sight with Mr. Jenkins. Amen and thanks, again.

It didn’t seem like a lot to ask for from heaven given all the pious things I had done lately. Okay, perhaps I’m not exactly pious, but I had certainly given Trip’s kids lots of well-intentioned thought. I hoped that counted for something.

Trip arrived at three-thirty with his lawyer, who was a precious thing named Oscar Rosen. I saw no evidence of a wedding ring and filed that detail away for later, should Bobby and Matthew exhaust their talents or pitch their tents elsewhere. What was the matter with me, always planning my next liaison? Nothing. Because if I didn’t, who would?

By ten minutes to four, Millie’s mystery cake was on Mother’s buffet with plates, forks, and small linen napkins, and the silver tea service was ready to go.

“What’s in the cake?” I asked Millie in a whisper. “Can I eat it?”

“It’s a chocolate pound cake and you’d better have some! I’ve been baking all day!”

“But what’s in it?” Millie narrowed her eyes at me and I narrowed mine right back. “Besides chocolate, I mean.”

“You don’t be worrying yourself about that, ’eah? Just serve everybody a nice fat slice.”

Trip was pacing like an animal. The tension was building. Even Millie was nervous. Frances Mae was predictably late. The doorbell rang.

“Who the hell is that?” Trip said. “Coming to the
front
door? Who comes to the
front
door?”

“Religious and environmental fanatics. And on occasion, the authorities. I’ll answer it,” I said.

“Hold yourself together,” Millie said, and picked up the intercom and asked who it was.

“Mack Farms! Got a delivery for Miss Caroline!”

“It’s my pork shoulder. I’ll go get it.”

“What? You’re having a pork shoulder delivered?” Trip said.
“Today?”

“Yeah, we got pig coming and going today,” I said, hoping a little levity might lighten Trip’s anxiety.

It did not.

At first Trip said to Oscar, “Stay with me, okay?” And then a minute later he said, “Why don’t you all wait here in the kitchen with Millie and I’ll call you when I need you?”

“Fine with me,” I said, trying to strike a sultry chord with Oscar and an acquiescent one with Trip. I unwrapped the roast and looked at it, plumping it with my hands like clay that would become a sculpture. Why I did this I have no idea, except to me, there was nothing more beautiful in the world than a pork shoulder. I dumped a bottle of the wicked strawberry-pomegranate jelly in a saucepan with some mustard, cloves, and brown sugar and turned the heat to low and the oven to 250 degrees. “But I think we should serve cake first, you know, so it doesn’t appear to be some kind of ambush, don’t you?”

“You’re probably right. Okay, then. Oscar? Change of plan. We’ll all be in the dining room when she arrives. I just hope she doesn’t expect me to be nice to her. It’s costing me another five thousand dollars to clean up her mess from this morning. There’s paint all over the damn place.”

It was twenty minutes after three when Frances Mae’s SUV rolled into the side yard at last. She got out, smoothed her shirt and hair, and moved toward the kitchen door, wobbling a bit.

“She’s in the bag,” I said to Millie, who stood by me as we both peeked through the kitchen window, standing just off to the side so that she couldn’t see us.

“Good,” Millie said. “That’ll make it easier for Trip to stand his ground.”

“You’re right. Lord, I hope he doesn’t lose his nerve.”

“Humph. What in the
world
has that woman got on her back today?”

The door opened and the room was filled with Frances Mae. There she was, inappropriately dressed in what appeared to be one of her daughters’ short skirts and a knit top. On a skinny teenager it would have been fine, but on her matronly figure it was too revealing and downright ridiculous. Millie’s eyes took a roll and so did mine.

“Hi, y’all,” she said.

“Hi, Frances Mae,” I said. “Trip’s in the dining room.”

“Okay,” she said, and left the room so quickly she could have been walking across hot coals.

“Her breath is a freaking fire hazard,” I said.

“Poor thing,” Millie said.

“You think so, huh?” I stirred my marinade, basted the pork, and put the roasting pan in the oven.

“Shush! I wouldn’t want to be her, would you?”

“No, ma’am, but you and I would never be her. Not for all the money in this world.”

I gave them a few minutes and then went to the dining room to cut and serve the cake. When I got there, Frances Mae was already eating an enormous slice in large bites, probably in an attempt to disguise the alcohol on her breath. For Frances Mae to make herself at home annoyed me beyond words, but then it wasn’t unusual for Frances Mae to break rank and assume the cake was hers to cut. She had all the manners of a goat.