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“Did we go there?” said Phoebe, obviously confused and nodding off in her chair.

“Yeah,” said Woody, “that’s where you ate the pickled egg.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Then we went to AC’s, the Silver Dollar, and Beer Works.”

“And the Blind Tiger,” said Woody.

“Well, you did get the grand tour,” Beth said. “Did y’all eat dinner?”

“Eat? Dinner? Man! I knew we forgot something. Is there anything in the fridge?”

Mike was not as bombed as he had been the night before, although the prior night they had set the bar pretty high. Maybe he was just noisy, partially intoxicated, and in love with loud music. But Beth didn’t want to feel responsible for them being hungover the next morning because they had not eaten. She did feel a little guilty, but only slightly so, about slipping the verbal knife between Phoebe’s ribs earlier in the day. Clearly, she thought, Relais & Châteaux was not stopping by to present me with the Hostess of the Year award.

“Would you like me to make some scrambled eggs and toast?”

“Ah, geez, Beth. We don’t want you to mess up the kitchen, do we, y’all?”

Beth could see Woody smiling at her. He said, “Well, for me, I could always go for some scrambled eggs. You cook and I’ll clean and we won’t let them anywhere near us.”

“Deal.”

They were all fed, and as expected, drowsy from a full stomach, the hour, and the alcohol. Mike and Phoebe held Woody and Beth to their word and did not help at all. They simply rose, said thank you, and moseyed down the hall. But this time, Beth didn’t care. She liked the idea of having Woody’s company for a little while. He was terrifically pleasant to be around. In the parlance of her peers, Woody had his merde together.

They were leaving after morning coffee, and as they loaded the car, Beth sighed in relief. Woody saw her face and said that he would bet that she was glad to see them go, wasn’t she?

That was when Beth realized that she liked Woody a lot, but still, only as a friend. Without a second thought that he might misinterpret her words, she said, “Woody? You can come and visit me and Lola anytime you’d like. You don’t even have to come with Mike.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Okay, y’all drive safely and call me to let me know you’re not dead in a ditch.”

“We will,” Woody said.

“Don’t work too hard!” Mike called to her.

Beth just waved to them from behind the screen door. Her mind was already traveling to her dinner that night with Max. He had called to say that he would pick her up at seven. She thought that she might like to go somewhere to watch the sunset with him too. It surely sounded like the perfect way to start the night, but first she had to work.

One hundred and forty-odd brunches and who knew how many Bloody Marys and mimosas later, Beth was back at home getting dressed for her date.

“So, miss, Mom’s got a hot date tonight. Should I wear this or this?”

Beth was holding up two dresses for Lola to consider. Lola just made a noise that sounded like
ark ark
and walked around in circles on Beth’s bed. Finally, she plopped down and looked at Beth as if to say, How the hell should I know? I’m a dog, not Anna Wintour.

“Okay, you’re right. I’ll wear the white one.”

10

Tabasco Night

[email protected]

Susan, Just, FYI, don’t get mad but Beth spent a bunch of money on contact lenses and a professional hair rescue. Cecily says she looks terrific. xx

[email protected]

Well, good! She has two jobs, doesn’t she? Why would I get mad about that?

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Because you ain’t spent a hundred dollars on your own hair all your life?

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Unlike some people! xx

B
ETH STYLED HER
hair in long fat ringlets held back with combs. It took some effort to keep them from frizzing out because of the humidity but she managed with the help of long clips, pinning them up until the last moment. Then she sprayed herself with a sample of cologne she found in the bottom of her makeup bag. She wished that night had already arrived so the heat of the day would have been on the wane. In addition, there was something peculiar about dressing for a date that would begin in broad daylight. But she relaxed knowing the cool air of night and the right atmosphere would all come soon enough.

At the last minute she was uncertain about wearing white. It seemed too young and virginal, not at all the image she wanted to convey. She put the dress on and looked at herself in the large living room mirror from as many angles as she could. It was the newest and most flattering dress in her closet, and so in the end she decided to wear it after all. Maybe darker lipstick and more mascara would make up the difference. So she worked on her makeup a little more and thought to herself that she had done all within her power to make herself attractive. If he didn’t think she was, well then, perhaps he was not so smart after all. She turned on the stereo and streams of “At Last” sung by Etta James drifted through the rooms. Although it was written and recorded long before Beth or even her mother was born, it still sounded contemporary. And very seductive.

Unlike their first dinner date, where Max arrived late to find her on the floor with a bloody lip and half strangled in stereo wires, on that particular evening Max was prompt and Beth was vertical. This time he would find her in the kitchen, folding the last of the laundry from her company and replacing a dish towel neatly on the rack. As she tried to make the old funky kitchen look like a magazine layout, she laughed to realize she had a strain of the Maggie Gene. Mike may have been right. Truly, she was becoming more and more persnickety about the tidiness of the house just like Maggie.

She heard his car and went to the screen door, opening it. It delighted her to see him coming up the back steps with a fistful of flowers for her. They were obviously from the grocery store but what did it matter? The florists were closed on Sundays, he had gone to some effort and she had to give him credit for that.

“Wow, look at you!” he said, standing back appraising her. “You look like a vision of…I don’t know…who’s the artist that painted that gorgeous woman rising from the sea in a clamshell?”

“Botticelli. A family favorite. Yeah, actually people tell me that all the time.” Beth giggled and took the flowers. “Thanks. Gosh, they’re so pretty!”

“Can I have a squeeze or something?”

“Uh, sure!”

She hugged him lightly in a fraternal way but somewhere in that moment more than fraternal feelings passed between them. Well, for Beth especially, whose head was swirling in the ethers of what it would feel like to sleep with him. Just as quickly she chided herself for considering giving the mattress a shake just because he showed up with five dollars’ worth of flowers and threw her an Art History 101 compliment. Nonetheless, she was warmer all over, not so sure about how he was feeling, but since he couldn’t read her lascivious thoughts, the night was off to a good start.

“Would you like to come in?”

“Sure. Why not? Did your cousin and his friends go back to Atlanta?”

“Yep. They left this morning.” Beth searched the cabinets under the sink and counters for a container.

“I really liked your cousin Mike. And that Woody is a real straight-up guy too. Very smart.”

“And Phoebe?”

Max sighed and looked at her in all innocence.

“Beth? The woods are crawling with Phoebes. And just so you know, she’s the one who pushed me into the hammock. I know that it must have looked bizarre to you, but believe me, not my type.”

What she had seen with her own eyes didn’t line up with his explanation but she decided to let it go. What was the point of making an issue? She didn’t own him.

“I wouldn’t think so. It’s okay.”

Finding a dusty relic from the last time someone had flowers delivered, she rinsed it, filled it with cold water, and placed the flowers inside, fluffing them around as though she was trying to make them comfortable in their sudden chill.

“Is it really okay?”

“Of course!”

“Good.”

“Would you like a glass of wine or something?”

“If you want one, or we could just get going.”

She put the vase on the kitchen table and took a step back to admire it, buying herself a second or two to decide on whether to stay for a while or to depart. Flowers or no flowers, Lola was in her crate, eyeballing them from below her eyebrows, showing zero enthusiasm for Beth’s visitor. Beth noted that but then thought perhaps Lola was just worn out from the heat.

To stay or to go? Part of the decision was based in vanity. In that weather and at that time of day, Beth’s hair had about a thirty-minute window of perfection before it would begin to droop. Individual strands would soon lift up to resemble a frothy halo. Should he see her curls in the sunset from the widow’s walk with a glass of wine? Or should she save that for later? She decided. Save the hair. Hie thee coif to the restaurant. Surely, wherever he planned to take her had to be air-conditioned.

“I think we should go, and if we’re not out too late I can show you the island in three hundred and sixty degrees, later when it’s dark. All the stars come out around ten.”

“You mean the widow’s walk, right?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome. You know, I saw the widow’s walk the first time I came here and I wondered if you all ever went up there.”

“Used to. When my mom was a kid it was her favorite hiding place. Later on when Aunt Maggie married my Uncle Grant he enlarged it a little, putting that enclosure on. It’s a great place to watch a storm.”

“I’ll bet.”

“We used to play there when we were little. I haven’t been up there in years. So, where’s dinner?”

“I was thinking Shem Creek. There’s a sunset bar on top of Jackson Hole, and then we can either eat there or walk over to the Water’s Edge. They’ve got the best wine list.”

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me. Wait one sec. I have to get my bag. And lock the front door. Twice.”

“Twice?”

“Family tradition.”

“Got it. All family’s are a little crazy.”

“Ours especially.”

Beth passed through the living room and gave the big mirror a glance. Nothing. Good, she thought.

“How about you just keep your opinions to yourself tonight, Livvie?”

“You talking to someone?” Max called out.

“Yeah. No,” she called back. He’d never believe what goes on in this house, she thought.
I’m
not even so sure. “Okay, so, I’m ready to go.”

When they arrived at the restaurant they were greeted by the owner, Brad Jackson.

“Hey, how’re y’all doing tonight? Can I put your name on the list for a table?”

“No, I think we’re just gonna watch the sunset, maybe have a glass of wine,” Max said.

“Sounds good! Nice to have y’all! Just watch your step there.”

Beth and Max climbed the stairs and made their way through the crowd to the bar. Beth could feel her hair start to rise.

“What’s it gonna be?” said the bartender.

“Two Pinot Grigios?” Max said, not looking at Beth for an okay signal.

“Fine,” Beth said. What if I wanted something else? she thought, but said nothing.

Beth noticed that the bartender, a pretty blond woman around the same age as her mother, had an exquisite diamond ring and wedding band on her left hand. Why would someone with a door-knocker on her hand be tending bar? She put the glasses in front of them and said, “Here we go. So, where are y’all from?”

“Atlanta,” said Max. “You?”

“Old Village. Moved back here a few years ago. Got married.”

“What does your husband do?” said Beth, determined not to be left out of the conversation.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m Linda Jackson. My husband Brad and I own the place. Our regular bartender is on vacation.” Linda shook Max’s hand and he grimaced in pain.

“Wow,” Max said.

“Oh, sorry! I gotta keep working on that handshake thing. Brad says I shake hands like a trucker! How about you all? Is this your daughter?”

“What?” Max said, as though she had asked if he had raging syphilis. “No! Are you kidding? I’m single!”

Beth saw her question and his answer as providential.

“Oh, shoot! Whoops!” Linda said. “Well, it’s a big mistake not to get married, Max.”

“And just why is that?” he asked, amused by her emphatic statement.

“Well, they did this study? At the NIH or someplace? Anyway, the study said that men who marry before fifty live ten years longer than those who don’t. So basically, you’re cutting your life short if you stay single. That’s all. Go ahead. Kill yourself. Stay single.”

“I guess she told you, huh?” Beth said. “I heard about the same article. She’s right.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” Linda said with a laugh, and stepped away to serve another customer.

Beth was embarrassed that Linda assumed Max was her father, but if they were from a third-world country he technically could have been. Gross, she thought.

Max was seriously and thoroughly annoyed at Linda’s question too because what did that make him? A dirty old man? Max had never been too old for
anything
in his entire life! And since he arrived at her door that evening he had been thinking of Beth as a morsel, his own personal Lolita. I have intentions for tonight and this Linda person is blowing it for me, he thought.

He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we step over to the railing where we have a better view?” Max said.

“Sure,” Beth said, just as happy to leave Linda’s watchful eye as he was.

The deck was bulging with humanity as it usually was and it was difficult to turn around without bumping into someone’s elbow and sloshing their drink from their glass. The music was a little loud and the other people were laughing and carrying on, feeling more festive than Beth or Max at the moment.

Beth looked out over the water and took in everything from the old shrimp boats tied up to the nearby pilings to the deepening colors on the horizon as the sun began its fiery descent. Was he really too old for her? she wondered. How would she know if she didn’t at least give the whole thing with him a try? But my mother would flip out, she thought. But maybe not. Wasn’t history loaded with couples who had age differences? Weren’t there other reasons why the outside world would have thought they had no business being together? Of course there were. But should she care? Didn’t Edgar Allan Poe marry his thirteen-year-old cousin? Okay, she thought, that’s disgusting. We’re not that bad. What about Miss December, Demi Moore, and Mr. May, Ashton Kutcher? I’ll bet she’s glad she went to the gym, she thought. And weren’t John and Cindy McCain like eighteen years apart? Yes, they were. So, she decided, if it all seems okay to me, then I shouldn’t worry about what other people think. Screw ’em, she thought. I’m crazy about Max.

“What are you so deep in thought about?” Max asked.

“You’re gonna die if I tell you. I was wondering what it would be like to sleep with you. I mean, well, yep, that’s what I was thinking, to be brutally honest.”

Max’s eyebrows took a jump for his scalp and he could not conceal his satisfaction as he flashed every tooth in his head in a grin as wide as a big-mouth bass.