Plantation (41 page)

“Well, then, you call me Rusty. All my friends do. It’s the hair.”

“I figured that! Would you like a glass of tea?”

“Sure, thanks.”

At first blush, I liked her. A lot. She was old enough to have P l a n t a t i o n

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had some experience. Her personality was lively and she was pretty.

Eric would like that. I poured and handed her a glass.

“Please sit down,” I said. “Tell me about yourself. How did you become a tutor?”

“Thank you,” she said, and took her seat on the wingback with a definite grace. “Well, I’ve been teaching for eight years as a substitute in Walterboro. The problem is that the average age of the faculty is fifty. They’re not going anywhere for a while. Supply-and-demand theory. So, I tutor. To tell you the truth, I think I like doing this better than I would being in a classroom.”

Her green eyes twinkled with an honest gaiety. Here was someone who liked her life and her work.

“Why’s that?”

“When you teach a child one on one, you have them in your hands. And, homeschooling is so flexible. We can use the Internet for research and build a Web page and link it all over the world. We can take field trips to the library, collect specimens from the river for science. When it’s a nice day, we can study outside. When we want to study astronomy, we can have a night class with a telescope.”

“Eric loves the constellations.”

“How old is he?”

“He’ll be twelve soon. He’s adorable,” I said.

She went on to tell me that she had special certification in special education for dyslexic children. Her younger brother was dyslexic, she said, and it had not stopped him from becoming a veterinarian. It wasn’t a big deal, just a learning-style difference.

She got points for good attitude.

“And what curriculum of math do you use?”

“Standard math—the old-fashioned kind. There are all these horrible new systems of math out there that confuse the kids more than teach them.”

“Chicago math?”

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“That’s one! Lord, what a disaster it is! You see, I know from my own education that without a good solid foundation you fall apart. Once the foundation’s in place, then you can go crazy and have fun.”

“Do you let your students use calculators?”

“Only when they can spit out their basic math facts as well as they do their own name.”

Okay, one down, two to go. I hired her on the spot. Eric would adore her. I adored her. Forty dollars an hour. I didn’t care.

Eric would learn something from this woman. I showed her the textbooks and workbooks Eric had been using. Rusty, the red-headed, long-legged science and math tutor, accepted and would start the following Monday. Six months with her and Eric would be Einstein.

At three on the nose, the doorbell rang again. It was Peter Greer, the language arts tutor.

“Hi!” I said. “I’m Caroline Levine, Eric’s mother. You must be Mr. Greer.”

He switched his briefcase to his other hand and we shook hands. He was every bit a southern gentleman, insisting I enter the door first and that he would close it behind me. He wore a perfectly pressed tan suit, polished brown wing tips, a white shirt, and a little bow tie. From behind his wire-rimmed glasses twinkled blue eyes of understanding and patience. I guessed him to be near seventy and retired.

We went through the same routine that I’d just been through with Rusty. He was a darling, darling man.

“So you were the assistant superintendent of schools in Charleston?”

“Forever, but my real love was curriculum planning.”

He was about to reveal all to me when Mother appeared in the hallway. Mr. Greer just about fell over himself getting to his feet when she entered the room. Mother couldn’t take her eyes away from him. He was a pussycat—even I thought so!

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“Mother? This is Mr. Greer. He’s here to discuss tutoring Eric in foreign language and English.”

“How lovely to meet you, Mr. Greer.” Mother extended her hand with a slow and deliberate movement, causing Mr. Greer to clear his throat and consider proposing marriage to her. I’d seen it a million times. When Mother flipped the Miss Lavinia switch, she was not to be trifled with. “What foreign languages do you speak?”

He still held her hand as though he were in a trance, but finally found his voice.

“Please. Call me Peter.”

“Languages?”

Mother rolled her eyes at him and batted her eyelashes for good measure. I couldn’t believe that a woman in this day and age could bat her eyelashes at a man without him laughing right in her face. But he didn’t laugh. He went nearly catatonic.

“Mother?”

He dropped her hand, cleared his throat again, and, thank God, recovered his dignity.

“Mrs. Levine? I’m fluent in seven—”

“Peter? I’m not Mrs. Levine. My daughter carries that name.

I’m Lavinia Boswell Wimbley. Please. Call me Lavinia, won’t you?”

Well, the rest of that interview was shot to hell. He called her Lavinia, all right—all afternoon! They walked the yard together, her arm looped through his. I saw him wipe off a chair with his linen handkerchief before he would allow her to sit in bird squat.

The last sighting? They were on the way to the chapel on the bluffs with a picnic basket. I watched them from the kitchen window.

Millie was at the desk, paying bills.

“Millie! Come yanh!”

She got up, grumbling. “What you want with me, huh? I got things to do! I’m trying to reconcile the phone bill. It’s full of nine hundred–number calls and I can’t imagine . . .” She looked out of the window at Mother and Mr. Greer as they ambled and sashayed their way across the lawn. “Jeez-a-ree!”

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“He’s a dead duck,” I said.

“Humph,” she said, “ain’t no fool like an old fool, yanh?”

“Which one are you talking about? Mother or poor Mr.

Greer?”

Millie and I had a good laugh.

“Don’t make no never mind to me,” she said.

“Me either!”

It was almost five and Joshua Welton, who was supposed to have been here at four-thirty, had not called. I was mildly annoyed.

His résumé was so fabulous, I decided to refrain from judgment until I knew something. Hell, he could have had a flat tire. That
had
happened in the history of travel.

I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw an old white Triumph TR6 convertible. Cool. Millie answered it and I assumed she showed him into the living room. I applied a little lip gloss and hurried downstairs to meet him, stopping dead in the entrance. His back was to me as he stood before a portrait of one of my ancestors. He had dreadlocks. Nearly down to his waist, gathered up in a ponytail. This wouldn’t work. Too weird. Oh, well, I thought, I’ll just interview him briefly and let him be on his way. I cleared my throat and crossed the room.

“Hi!” I said, “I’m Eric’s mother, Caroline.”

“Hi!” He turned to face me and for the second time in ninety seconds I stopped in my tracks. He was so handsome, I gasped. I mean, we were talking male model—and not gay male model, okay? Industrial-strength testosterone filled the air. I nearly fainted.

“Is this a Sargent?”

His voice was melodious and soft. He was probably my age.

Maybe younger. When he smiled, his gold-flecked brown eyes flashed. This guy had more sex appeal in one eyeball than I could handle.

“No, he was a corporal. That’s another one of our
. . .
Oh!

You mean, did John Singer Sargent paint it! Oh, golly!” I slapped the side of my head. “How silly! Of course it’s Sargent. Here, P l a n t a t i o n

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would you like to sit down? Can I pour you some tea?” I started to blather. I was mortified by my lack of control. Oh yeah, Mrs.

Freaking Cool from New York is a big-time freaking ass in front of the freaking art tutor with the freaking dreadlocks.

“Tea would be great.”

The pitcher was long gone so I excused myself to refill it in the kitchen. Millie was just putting away the accounting books. I opened the refrigerator and stared into it, trying to remember what I had come in here for in the first place. My breathing was uneven and Millie couldn’t let it pass without comment.

“What’s the matter with you, Caroline? You taking a shine to hippies now? That boy in your mother’s living room looks like a drug dealer!”

“He ain’t no boy, Millie. He’s hot. I need tea. Please?”

“You need a cold shower, that’s what! Between you and your mother today! I don’t know what’s come over the women of this house! Go on! I’ll bring it out!”

I stared at her. A drug dealer? A hippie?

“Get! Skedaddle!”

I went back through the swinging door and heard her say in Gullah under her breath,
“Hot, my foot. Humph! Dese women ain’t
know hot was iffin it bit ’em in dey behind!”

I reopened the door and she looked at me. “Oh, yes, we would!” I said and she started to laugh.

In the living room, Joshua Welton was looking from painting to painting.

“Whistler?” he said, pointing to a seascape that had belonged to my grandmother.

“Yes, he gave it to my grandmother as a gift when she got married. They were friends.” Okay, it was a damn lie, but I wanted him to be impressed. He was.

“Well then, that would explain why I’ve never seen it. I did a paper on him in graduate school. It’s probably always been on this wall.”

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“That’s right. It has.”

It felt like he was the source of all air in the room, that I could only breathe when he did. What in hell was the matter with me?

“Do you want to ask me any questions?” he said.

He had a smirk on his face that I should have slapped but all I wanted to do was lick it. Jesus! Was my estrogen out of whack?

“Of course! Let’s sit for a few minutes. Millie’s gonna bring some tea for us.”

I sat in one of the oversized rolled armchairs and tucked a leg under me. Realizing it was an unprofessional posture, I sat up straight. He smirked again. Every move I made held his notice. He was playing with my head and I couldn’t get control of myself.

This had never happened to me before. Who was this guy? He wasn’t arrogant. No, that wasn’t it. He seemed to be as off-kilter as I was. But not quite. He sat opposite me. Waiting for me to speak.

“So! You’re an occupational therapist, I see? Tell me about that.” There. That was officious enough to get back on professional footing.

“Are you married?”

“No, separated. Are you married?” This was stupid. Stupid but inevitable.

“No, divorced two years ago. No kids. No dogs. I live alone in downtown Charleston on East Bay Street in the home I grew up in. Parents left it to me. I’ve been knocking around the world studying indigenous cultures and religions.”

“You’re hired,” I said and shrugged my shoulders.

“Tough interview,” he said. “Wanna have dinner?”

“I’ll get my coat.”

“I’ll cook for you.”

“Cool. I’ll help.”

I nearly collided with Millie and her tray in the hallway. Once again, I looked like an idiot.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Out to dinner with Mr. Weston.”

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“Uh, that’s Welton,” he said, “but call me Josh.”

We didn’t talk in the car. The top was down and there was too much noise from the wind. I had on my huge sunglasses and held my hair back with one hand. Every now and then, I looked at his arm. It was toned and tanned. All I wanted to do was run my finger down the muscle and see if the blond hair was as silky as it looked. He’d catch my glance and smile. I’d smile back. We screamed down Highway 17 north and I knew I was going to be a bad, bad girl. It was out of character, to say the least.

His house on East Bay Street, overlooking Charleston Harbor, was nearly three hundred years old, one of the wonderful old historic pastel-colored ones with earthquake rods running through it.

He got out of his car to open the elaborate wrought-iron gates. I could tell through his clothes that he was in very good shape. His khaki trousers hung from his backside like a tablecloth.

He probably worked out all the time.

All the way to Charleston, I wondered if he planned to seduce me. What would I do? When had I showered? That morning. Legs were waxed, no trauma there.
Oh, please,
I told myself,
get over it.

You’re just gonna have a little dinner and go home.You’ll discuss the state
of education and religions and you’ll go home. Try to remember the part
about going home
.

We pulled into the courtyard, he closed the gates and came around my side to help me out.

“Been a while since I was in one of these,” I said. He gave me an arm and I pulled against his weight to get out. As gravity and nature would have it, my chest brushed his, but he dropped my arm and I smoothed out my pants. It was already dark. Too early to have Studly Do-Right throw-me-down. And please! Go inside for heaven’s sake!

I was so busy talking to myself that I didn’t hear him talking to me. “Oh! I’m sorry! What did you say?”

“I said, why don’t we get a glass of wine and then I’ll show you around. Sound good?”

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“Sounds great,” I said, following him up the front steps and inside.

We passed down a long wide hall with roped-off period rooms on either side, through an almost invisible door, into the kitchen.

“House tours?”

“Yeah, I promised my parents I wouldn’t change anything. I figured if I was destined to own a museum, I may as well open it to the public. Pays the taxes and I don’t have to work full-time, all year, which is why I tutor.”

“Trust fund?”

“Yeah, thank God. The interest isn’t huge, but there’s not much I want. White okay?”

“Sure.” I dropped my bag on the center island and thought what else could there
be
to want. He lived in a virtual palace. “May I ask a question?”