The Hurricane Sisters
Read The Hurricane Sisters Online
Authors: Dorothea Benton Frank
Tags: #Adult, #Chick-Lit, #Contemporary Women, #Family Life, #Family Saga, #Fiction, #Love Stories, #Romance, #Women's Fiction
For Peter
CONTENTS
Chapter 1. Maisie—Eighty Candles
Chapter 6. Liz—Feeling Like Mom
Chapter 10. Clayton—On the Ledge
Chapter 11. Ashley—Late for a Date
Chapter 15. Clayton—I Blew It, Didn’t I?
Chapter 16. Maisie—Final Soapbox
Chapter 18. Liz—Another Chance
According to Liz
My husband, Clayton, and I were at the police station getting my mother, Maisie, out of jail for brushing up against the wrong side of the law. Her actual charges were still unclear. She claims it is not against any law in the state of South Carolina to take a llama for a walk on the open road. He was, after all, on a leash. The local police beg to differ, saying this is a case of animal cruelty, endangerment, and reckless behavior. Legal or not, it wasn’t normal. I was glad they brought her in to the police station until I could get there because her behavior surely demonstrates a lack of sound judgment. Or not. Maisie was crazy like a fox and we all knew it. So I sat and waited while Clayton made things right between the Town of Mount Pleasant and Maisie by writing a check.
Anyway, the jailhouse may seem like an insensitive place to begin my story, but I think it’s best if you know the truth about what my family is like. Too many times we all get introduced to people who seem perfectly nice and later on you find out they’re cracked. So, like people used to say, I’m cutting to the chase and telling it like it is. Every single person in this family is highly opinionated. You wouldn’t
believe
how smart and clever they think they are. And even after the hurricane and all we went through with my daughter, Ashley, Maisie still can’t be trusted. And maybe it’s a good thing.
Clayton came back and sat down beside me on the long wooden bench.
“It’s going to be about fifteen minutes until they let her out. You want coffee?”
“No, thanks. The caffeine . . . I’m already a mess. Why is it taking so long?”
“Well, apparently they’re having trouble with the llama. It’s skittish and spitting. I guess I’ll have to go out to the farm and get Joyce, the caretaker, to calm our woolly beast down and take her back. They’ve got her in the dogcatcher’s pen for the moment.”
“I imagine that’s the best plan. It’s not like you can invite a llama into your SUV to take a seat.”
“Your momma is really something else, Liz.”
“You’re telling me? She’s a hundred-and-two-pound sack of pure hell. I can’t wait to hear her side of the story.”
“All the trouble started on her birthday,” Clayton said.
“Maybe.”
It certainly was the date that marked the occasion when I first realized things weren’t right in my family. I looked at my husband and thought how lucky he was to be alive. And luckier for him I don’t believe in packing a pistol. Clayton reached over and took my hand in his, giving it a good squeeze. I squeezed his back. After all, we were all in this soup together.
I wondered then what Maisie thought about that night. Clearly, we had not shared a point of view about very many things in a thousand years. And this llama business? Honey, it would be front-page news for the
Post and Courier
and all over Twitter
.
It might even make national news.
Then I understood it all. It would be perfect if it did.
Maisie—Eighty Candles
Listen, I’m not complaining. I’m an extremely lucky woman to have lived so many years and it was very nice for my daughter and her family to arrange a dinner to celebrate my birthday with me and Skipper. Skipper is the young man who squires me all over town. He’s sixty-five. I know. Bless my heart, I’m quite the scandal.
So there I was at the Charleston Grill, in my best pearls—a triple strand like Barbara Bush wore—sipping my Bombay gin dry martini with two olives, waiting for the others to arrive. I was seated right on the button of five thirty. It was late in May, and even though the streets were bulging with Spoleto Festival patrons and rush-hour commuters, I was punctual. And I live all the way out on James Island. My daughter Liz and her husband, Clayton, live right around the corner on Church Street and they’re
late
. Isn’t that typical? The younger folks haven’t a clue about the value of time. I, on the other hand, was acutely aware of the passing of each day. Eight decades of birthdays will do that to you.
This afternoon Skipper had to go check on his llama farm way out in Awendaw and that’s at least an hour from my little ranch-style house. Then he insisted on driving the whole way back across the county to pick me up. I would’ve been happy to drive myself to the restaurant but then everyone would’ve thrown a fit. They think I’m a terrible driver. I am not a terrible driver at all. It’s just that on occasion I forget where I left the car. And sometimes I forget that I’m driving. That’s why Liz and Clayton hired Skipper to chauffeur me and we know where that led! I’m sure having the last laugh on
that
one. And I know where the car keys are stashed should the mood strike to take the wheel again.
Yes, Skipper raises llamas. It could be worse, I imagine. He could be raising snakes. Or alligators. The first time I saw his herd I laughed my head off because they’re so funny-looking, but do you know what? They are the dearest animals I have ever known! Very intelligent and affectionate. Just like, well, just like my Skipper.
I looked at my watch. Five forty-five. Obviously Skipper was still searching for a space to park. I paused a moment as I shook one olive dry and asked heaven to help him navigate the foreign throngs from other climes. Sometimes all those tourists were really just too much. But they’re good for the economy and they can be interesting to talk to from time to time, if you’re interested in life outside of the Lowcountry, which I am not.
Hopefully, my darling grandchildren would arrive before Liz and Clayton so we could share a civil word. And oh blessed sigh of relief, then the imbibing of a second cocktail won’t be noticed by Liz who keeps a running tally. As Mother used to say, I
swanny
to St. Pete, if the pope had more than one sip of wine from the chalice during the Consecration of the Mass, Liz would have something to say about him too. Someone should count
hers,
but that’s between us. Miss Nosy Nellie Persnickety. And Mother said
swanny
because ladies of her generation did not swear.
“Why does this fetching lass seem so troubled?”
I looked up to see Skipper standing there, smiling. He was so precious with his plaid sport coat and his little Buddha belly. He had a closely trimmed white beard and blue eyes that twinkled like the waters around the Lowcountry.
“Hey there, you handsome devil. Come sit by me right this minute!”
I’d been thinking about how annoying Liz could be while I stared at a family of tourists, trying to guess if they were American or not. I decided they must be European by the way they held their silverware to cut their food: tines down, knife in the right hand. Probably French, since the father had a very Gallic profile. The mother had a Chanel bag but obviously underprioritized having squeaky-clean hair, and their two children seemed particularly sulky. I should’ve been a sleuth.
“With pleasure!”
He sat down next to me and kissed my hand, something he did often and something that I loved. Our waiter, Tyler, appeared at our table to take Skipper’s order.
“May I bring you a cocktail, sir?”
“In the most expeditious manner you have! I’ll have a Maker’s Mark Manhattan with one cherry. And what about you, Maisie? Another? That’s a mighty small glass they gave you, isn’t it?”
“Regrettably, it was a very short pour.” I smiled.
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” Tyler said as he picked up my empty glass (Exhibit A) and disappeared.
I smiled and saw my precious granddaughter, Ashley, coming toward us, sashaying across the floor in high heels that reminded me of Betty Boop, platforms with thick heels. She was wearing a sassy black dress that seemed dangerously short. I gave her a little wave.
“Happy birthday, Maisie!” She leaned down and planted a smooch on my cheek.
Oh Lord, don’t lean over too far, I thought! I reached out with my menu to cover her backside from public view. Unaware of her southern exposure, she put a small gift bag filled with colorful tissue and curled ribbons in front of me.
“Thanks, angel! Now, what’s this? I told you, no presents!”
“It’s just a little something I made for you,” she said.
“Well then, that’s different!”
I watched her take a seat, carefully pulling her skirt beneath her. I remembered how my daughter Liz wore miniskirts when she was young and they made me nervous back then too. But Liz was a professional model with a wild fashion sense, and she could always get away with murder. Although Ashley was tall, thin, and pretty enough to be a model, she was a serious artist and more modest in every sense of the word. Wasn’t she? Maybe I just hated the idea of Ashley growing up. I had to remind myself that she was twenty-three, after all, and perfectly capable of deciding how to dress herself. She loved retro anything that looked like something Jackie O might have worn. There was no law against a beautiful young woman showing some leg, was there? And let’s be honest, Charleston, which at one point in her history had more whorehouses than churches, was not some ultraconservative Middle Eastern country where they shroud their women from head to toe. It was high time Ashley started thinking about snagging a husband. Great legs were an asset. She gets her legs from my side of the family. Actually, in my day I could’ve been a kicker like one of the June Taylor Dancers. I’m not kidding. I still wear high heels. Well, not so high. But Helen Gurley Brown wore heels until she drew her last breath. And fishnet stockings. Sorry, Helen, I can’t see fishnets covering my legs and the barnacles of age.
“Shall I open this now or should I wait?” I said.
“Open it now!” she said.
“Would you like something to drink, Ashley?” Skipper said as Tyler put his drink and mine on the table in front of us.
“White wine?” Ashley said.
“Chardonnay?” Tyler asked.
“Actually, if you have a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, that would be great,” she said.
“Right away,” Tyler said.
I looked at my granddaughter, arched an eyebrow, and thought, What’s this? Since when does a girl her age know a single thing about wine? It was unbecoming for a young lady to be a smarty-pants. Especially about something like alcohol.
As though she could read my mind, she said, “We serve it at all the gallery openings because my bosses love it.” She added in a whisper, “Besides, it’s the only one I know.” Then she smiled that smile of hers that lights up the world.
I began removing sheets of tissue from the bag and to my absolute delight, at the bottom of the bag I found a small canvas encased in bubble wrap and unwound it carefully. It was a miniature landscape of a brilliant sunset on James Island from the best vantage point at the end of my dock. Ashley had inherited my other daughter Juliet’s artistic talents.
“Oh!” I said. “Ashley, sweetheart, it’s absolutely beautiful! What a treasure!” And it was. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it.
“Yay! I’m so glad you like it! I took a picture of this view one afternoon with my phone and I said to myself, you know what? I’m going to paint this for Maisie!”
“How talented you are! Here’s to you!” Skipper said.
“Thank you!” Then she sighed dramatically. “Maybe someday I’ll live in Montmartre and paint Sacré Cœur! You know, go bohemian?”
She toasted with her water glass, smiling so wide with her dimples and all, and I thought, This child doesn’t have a rotten bone in her body. She’s just all goodness and light.
