Pawleys Island-lowcountry 5 (5 page)

“Too bad we can’t bottle the air,” she said. “We could all retire tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that the truth? This apartment is pretty far from the beach, but the view still takes my breath away. Especially at night.”

“I’m sure. Well, we’d better get going. Huey My Love is waiting for his Coke.”

“Coke?”

I slid the door back and locked it, not that anyone was going to scale the building and burglarize the place.

“Don’t you drink Coke for breakfast?” Abigail said with a laugh.

“Uh, no. When I was a kid I did, if I could get away with it.”

“Well, our Huey has a Coke for breakfast every day. Sometimes two. Only in little glass bottles.”

I grabbed my portfolio and closed the door behind her. “Well, in this sweltering heat…”

“Sometimes he puts peanuts in them and calls them lunch!” As we stepped into the sun, the heat hit us full force. “Whoo! Gonna be a thousand degrees today! And genius that I am, I’m playing golf!”

“I never understood golf,” I said. “Especially in the summer…unless you’re in Scotland or something…”

“You don’t play golf?”

“Uh, no. A little tennis but that’s about it.”

She just looked at me, shook her head and added my lack of appreciation of golf to the list of many things that I thought she and Huey intended to change about me.

Sure enough, I spotted an expensive pair of black-and-white spectator, flapped and tasseled golf shoes in the backseat. Obviously, Abigail had money. Besides her Jaguar and no visible means of support, on the three occasions that I had seen her she had been dressed and accessorized to the hilt. I wondered for a moment why someone as together as Abigail was happy to trot around with Huey. Why wasn’t she married? Where did her money come from, and what was
her
house like?

She blasted the air-conditioning, turned down the radio and backed out of her parking space.

“I really appreciate this,” I said. “My car was fine last night.”

“Glad to help! I’m stopping at Sam’s Corner. Want something? I’m dying for a sausage biscuit.”

“Sure. Do you mind if I just wait in the car?”

“No problem. Want a Coke?”

“Diet?”

“Sure.”

I reached in my handbag to get a dollar and she stopped me.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll start a tab.”

She smiled at me and disappeared inside the restaurant. Sam’s Corner. The parking lot was always crowded. I guessed all the locals got their breakfast there, The Eggs Up Grill or the Litchfield Restaurant. Unless you did fast-food drive-through, which was totally disgusting to me. I mean, there wasn’t anything in the world like McDonald’s french fries when they were right out of the hot oil. But breakfast? I’d rather go without than eat plastic cheese, rubber eggs and greasy sausage on a gummy biscuit.

Abigail returned in minutes, and we made polite conversation all the way to the gallery. When we arrived, Huey was in a bit of a dither, arranging the sold paintings in stacks along the wall, taking notes in his book.

“Good morning!” he said. “Did you bring your car keys?”

Abigail kissed him on the cheek, and I handed him his Cokes and my keys. “Abigail bought you several since it’s so hot,” I said.

“Bless you, angel!”

He took the bag, disappeared into his office, where he kept a small refrigerator. I went to the framing area, where I thought I would be spending most of my day, unwrapped my sausage biscuit and took a bite. It seemed like a normal moment until I looked up. Abigail and Huey were staring at me.

“What?” I said. “Is something wrong?”

They looked at each other, unsure of where to start.

“Spit it out, Huey,” Abigail said.

“Okay, okay.” He took a drink, draining his first Coke of the morning.

“Want another one? I’ll get it for you…”

He shook his head. “Listen, Rebecca, sweetheart. My mother told me that you have a Ph.D. in psychology and that you have a husband and children in Charleston. And that your husband was given custody and the house. Are you in some kind of trouble? I mean, is there something we can do?”

I was stunned. But Pawleys Island was no different than Charleston. People talked. I couldn’t even respond to him. I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Listen to me, Rebecca. Byron is coming to pick up your car and take it to the garage where I get mine fixed. They’re very fair and do excellent work. I want you to come for dinner tonight. Come out, spend the evening with us and we will try to help you straighten this mess all out.”

I was furious. My disaster was my disaster, no one else’s.

“Rebecca?” Abigail said.

“What?” My face was red hot.

“You aren’t the first woman who ever had this happen to her. I’ll make you a bet.”

“What?” I said again.

“I’ll bet you my Rolex that your husband has a girlfriend and that’s why he wanted you out—so he could move her in. I’ll bet you my diamond studs that he did this to avoid paying alimony and child support. And I have never met your husband, but I’ll guarantee you that he’s more arrogant than Donald Trump.”

A girlfriend? Avoid alimony and child support at the expense of my relationship with my children? Would Nat do that? Would he? I had never thought of Nat as scheming or diabolical until that moment. Since I’d left, I had driven myself nearly insane trying to figure out why he didn’t love me anymore. But then maybe he did love someone else and I’d been too blind to see it.

“What time is dinner?” I said.

“Always at eight,” Huey said.

“I’ll pick you up,” Abigail said.

“Fine,” I said and I felt all the blood drain out of my face. “Thank you.”

All kinds of things were spinning around in my head. I had come here to avoid gossip and now my problems were scheduled as the main topic of conversation for the night. Part of me was very angry—I didn’t want to relive the battles simply because they felt a need to know about them. I thought introspection was futile.

They were meddling. I didn’t want to be the cause célèbre for a little group of people who had too much time on their hands. I just wanted to work, support myself and be left alone to paint. Was that too much to ask? Did a paycheck entitle Huey and then Abigail to the lurid details of my marriage? I never should have opened my big mouth.

W
HY
I consented to play nine holes when the heat index was somewhere in the stratosphere was anybody’s guess. Maybe some optimistic sliver of my postmenopausal brain still thought I was a young girl and that a good sweaty round of golf in the blazing sun would be rejuvenating. But to tell the truth, the heat left me dizzy and slightly nauseous. The day had been hot and sticky like you cannot believe.

Rebecca was on my mind as the hours ticked by. I knew she was smoldering from our prodding and I understood why. She thought her personal business was hers alone, and technically she was right. However, and this is the big however, she didn’t know
us
.

There is so much to be said about power and its correct usage that it’s all but impossible to choose a beginning point for the discussion. But let’s just say this. I was not the kind of woman who could stand by with my mouth closed and watch a bloody crime unfold. And Huey was not that kind of man. We didn’t bring home kitties from the rain, but whenever we could stomp out a wrongful fire, we did. We dispensed plenty of unsolicited advice for the good citizens of our community who, believe it or not, actually thanked us. On occasion. Well, not often.

There are all levels of transgressions that people commit against each other. In Rebecca’s case, it was one of two things. Either Rebecca had been so thoroughly demoralized by her husband that she had somehow been fooled into believing the courts had done the right thing. Or Rebecca
was
an unfit mother, a concept that we absolutely could not swallow. I was coming in on the side of bamboozle. The courts had made a terrible mistake, probably based on trumped-up evidence or hearsay or some campaign gone awry. Huey had taken the first step in helping her by giving her a job.

We had liked her right away. Her talent was rather astounding. She fit a need in the gallery for a framer, and I would have advised Huey to give her a try, which he did before I could even articulate an opinion. As her employer, there was no reason why we—that is, Huey—shouldn’t know a little more about her. Despite its global fame, Pawleys Island was a small town. It would be better for her when the inquiring minds asked questions, and we knew they would, if we knew what to say. If someone new moved to Pawleys and Fate plopped them in the spotlight, as it had Rebecca, then the residents of Pawleys and Litchfield were going to want to know every detail about them.

We were a little worried. For all we knew her ex-husband might be a lunatic. Pawleys Island was just a short drive from Charleston, and who could say what form his anger might take? People committed crimes of passion every day, and far-fetched as it may sound, Huey and I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of some risk to our personal safety—that is, if there
was
risk. Who knew? So the pragmatic side of us wanted to know and the humane side just wanted to be helpful.

I thought about all this as Rebecca and I drove in near silence to Huey’s. She was on her guard, and so was I. I had a CD playing of Ella Fitzgerald singing great crooner music to try and put both of us in a social state of mind.

“I think I would have enjoyed living in the forties,” I said, trying to lighten the air. “Life was so much more civilized.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, men were gentlemen and women were ladies. People were modest about themselves. I mean, they knew what they were supposed to do and how they were supposed to act. Life now is so, I don’t know, loose.”

A pithy pause ensued.

She finally said, “That’s true, but I don’t know if it was really any better then. There was polio and TB.”

“Polio and TB? Heavens to Betsy, girl! What a thing to think of! What about the good things? Like the fashion? All those padded shoulders and platforms? And women worked in real jobs…”

“And got pushed out of the workforce after the war. It just seems like we’re smarter today. But they did have great shoes. And cars.”

I smiled and glanced over to her. She was smiling then. I said, “Love the cars, the clothes and the music. But I’m not sure we’re any smarter.”

I could see her head swinging in my peripheral vision, weighing the question of our collective national intelligence.

“Well, we’ve got technology. Yeah, boy. We’ve got technology in spades. But you’re right. We’re probably not any smarter. We’re just flooded with information that nobody knows how to use. God knows, we still have war. So how far have we really come?”

“I always say that women should run the planet. Don’t get me started on the politics of war. It would be even more interesting if our
elected
officials actually had a voice. Instead we’ve got this cockamamy cabinet of old zealot farts running the bloodletting, but we could talk about them all night, couldn’t we? And here’s our turn.”

I turned on to Huey’s road, opposite the entrance to DeBordieu. If I hadn’t known where the plantation was, I would surely have missed it.

“Anyway, screw politics. I think about this stuff, probably more than you would guess. Our government is such a disappointment. All of them…this entire out-of-control testosterone thing…Let me tell you about Huey’s house.”

“Holy hell!”

The big house had just come into view. And it was a spectacle to behold, with its spreading wings and grand front stairs fit for the arrival of Queen Elizabeth herself.

“Yeah, isn’t that something? That was Miss Olivia’s family home, but they don’t live in it anymore. The taxes were ridiculous, so they made it into a museum. See? There’s the parking lot for the tour buses. Huey and Miss Olivia have houses down the road by the river.”

We continued to drive, my car crunching along the gravel road, and had yet to catch sight of Huey’s or Miss Olivia’s.

“Good grief! How many acres do they own?”

“Honey, around here we just say
enough
. But I think it’s around fifteen thousand.”

“Holy hell!”

“You said it, sister.”

We finally arrived at Huey’s house and spotted Rebecca’s car, pulling in alongside of it. We were close to the row of boxwoods that served as the wall between Huey, his mother and the rest of the world. That may sound like a bit of braggadocio, but it was true. Once you rounded the long span of English boxwood hedge, time stopped and you found yourself light-years away from the gnawing panics of twenty-first-century living. It was not surprising that Huey had created such an oasis. His eighteenth-century gentleman’s spirit could never survive without a sanctuary for quiet reflection.

I opened the car door and the humidity slammed me so hard it nearly took my breath away.

“Ugh,” I said.

“You would think that by eight o’clock the heat would be broken,” Rebecca said.

“We’ll be all right in a minute,” I said.

As predicted, we rounded the hedgerow and the breeze from the Waccamaw washed us in cool waves of Japanese honeysuckle and sweet olive. It was going to be a beautiful night.

I loved coming here and had always thought that Huey’s gardens were one of the best-kept secrets in the world. The terrace floor of ancient rose-colored handmade bricks was laid out in a basket-weave design, held together with a cracking mortar that allowed baby moss to creep through here and there. Around the edges at perfect intervals of twenty feet stood great lead urns planted with decorative grass climbing for heaven and asparagus ferns that dusted the earth. All of it waved in unison to the rhythm of the river’s breeze.

Huey was standing by Miss Olivia, who was seated in one of eight wrought-iron chairs that surrounded the heavy glass-top dining table. The relentless sun had faded the magenta-striped cushions in the seats and backs of the chairs, but they were still cool and inviting. There was a centerpiece of pink hydrangea blossoms stuffed in a large cut-glass bowl. On either side of it stood oversized hurricanes, tall enough to ensure the glow of its columned candles.

Off to the side, closer to the house, was another seating area with chairs and glass-topped end tables. Nearby stood the butler’s field table on which was placed a silver Revere bowl of cracked ice and silver tongs. Crystal tumblers and bottles of white wine in an oversized silver ice bucket waited on a round silver tray. There was bourbon in a decanter and Perrier wrapped in a linen napkin. Byron moved in the sidelines in his starched linen mandarin-collared jacket, coming forward to offer a cheese straw or a napkin or to refresh a drink.

Whatever it was that Miss Olivia was saying, Huey’s face was filled with delight. Their affection for each other was so obviously genuine that anyone would have wanted to be a part of their lives.

It was the kind of freeze-frame you found in a magazine feature article on old money and how the vastly rich really passed their time. Dressed for the evening and drinks with mother at dusk. The music of water and floral air gently moving the landscape back and forth in a dance of grace. Delicious bits served on silver trays to whet the appetite for the beautiful dinner that was sure to follow.

Rebecca was excited. Huey spotted us and waved. I couldn’t wait to walk on the Valentine stage and take up my part.

“This is like a movie,” Rebecca whispered to me as we walked toward them.

“Yep. It’s Cary Grant and Bette Davis all over again, except that Cary’s a plump old bird.”

Rebecca giggled and I made a guilty face.

“Hello, Mr. Valentine! Miss Olivia!” I said. “What a perfect night!”

“Don’t you look fabulous? As always…” Huey said to me, and then to Rebecca he said, “Miss Rebecca! You shame my rose garden! Look at you! Come join us!”

Byron had already poured a Perrier for me and offered the goblet from his small cocktail tray. Even the tray had a linen doily with lace edges, starched within an inch of its life.

“Good evening, Miss Abigail,” he said and arched his eyebrow in familiarity. I was sure he plucked them. They were too perfect.

“Byron,” I said, nodding my head in greeting. “Thank you.”

“And what can I get for this lovely young lady?”

“A glass of white wine would be nice,” Rebecca said.

“Tonight we’re pouring an extraordinary ninety-six Louis Jadot, Meursault and a three-ninety-nine California char-doe-naay that I wouldn’t serve trailer trash. Does the lady have a preference?” His eyebrows began to undulate as he waited for Rebecca to respond.

Rebecca didn’t know whether to be horrified or entertained, so I answered for her.

“I think the Meursault will do the trick. And Byron?”

“Hmmm? Oh!” He reached in his pocket and handed Rebecca the keys to her car. “Good as new!”

“Thanks!” Rebecca said.

“Where on earth did you get the swill?”

“Miss Olivia bought a case at Sam’s Club the last time she took off and drove herself to Charleston. It would destroy her not to offer it.”

“Save it for the next opening—we can make sangria,” Rebecca said.

Before turning, Bryon waved his hand behind his head and then pointed his finger in Rebecca’s direction. “Sangria! Oh, I
love
it. It’s so
eighties
! Isn’t she the
clever
one?”

“He’s a little—I mean don’t you think he’s…” Rebecca said.

“Over the top? Of course he is! But he’s hilarious and I’m just used to him, that’s all. His squeal is a little bit addictive.”

“What do I do about the bill for my car?”

“Don’t worry. Huey will twist it out of you.”

Rebecca smiled and shook her head.

We sat with Miss Olivia. Huey finally took a chair and we began to talk about everything except Rebecca and how she lost her home and children.

“We had a tourist nearly drop dead today in the big house,” Miss Olivia said. “Screamed bloody murder and passed out. Some woman from Pennsylvania. They said she looked like a giant halibut, just flopped on the floor! EMS came and everything!”

“Yet another sighting,” Huey said, as droll as Oscar Wilde.

“Sighting of
who
?” Rebecca said.

“Alice,” I said, “the ghost of Alice Flagg. She’s always coming around, or so they say. She used to take music lessons here in the big house from Miss Olivia’s great-grand-something or other. I guess she feels at home here.”

“Who is Alice Flagg?” Rebecca said.

“Oh, my dear!” Miss Olivia said, as though Rebecca had spent the most of her life on the moon. “You’ve never heard of Alice Flagg? Why, it’s the most romantic story in the world!”

“Sentimental sop, if you ask me,” Huey said. “I wish she’d find that ring and get her misery moving to the light.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Rebecca was either politely stonewalling us, getting down to the dirt, or she had a fascination with the other side.

“Well,” said Miss Olivia, moving closer to Rebecca, fully ready to reveal the goods on Alice, “she was a young woman in love with a fellow from the wrong side of the tracks…”

“He was the son of a merchant—not a rag picker, Mother.”

“Don’t interrupt me, son, or I’ll go get a switch! Anyway, as I was saying, her family wanted her to marry the son of another plantation owner so they could join the properties.”

“It’s always about money,” I said and gave Huey a little jab in the ribs.

“Quite,” he said.

Miss Olivia cut her eyes at us and continued. “Well, the story goes that she took this young man’s ring, caught a terrible fever and had to be brought home from school to recuperate. She was very ill and her brother spotted the ring around her neck on a chain or a ribbon or some such thing that kept it near her heart. He snatched it away and threw it in the Waccamaw, and Alice has been coming back ever since, looking for her ring. Isn’t that the saddest story in the world?”

Huey played four violins with his fingers and Miss Olivia reached over and slapped his hand. Huey and I smiled along with Miss Olivia, but Rebecca was somber.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I said.

“It’s not the saddest story in the world. Mine’s worse, don’t you think?”

By this time, Rebecca was working on her third glass of wine, Miss Olivia had knocked back her third sherry and Huey had drained his third bourbon. The tide turned and the elephant was on the table for inspection.