The Hurricane Sisters (19 page)

“Donuts?” I said, my eyes growing wide.

Porter laughed and said, “Please bring the lady donuts and ice cream. I’ll just have coffee.”

Later, at home, he walked me to the door. Mary Beth’s car wasn’t there, which was good and bad. Good because we’d have a little privacy and bad because where was Mary Beth?

“Want to go look at the water?” I said. “Maybe walk on the beach?”

“You know I do! Look at the stars?”

This was code for,
Do you want to go make out like crazy?

“Would you like something to drink? There might be some wine. Mary Beth caught a sale on some kind of red from Chile, I think.”

“I will if you will,” he said.

“Maybe a small glass,” I said, thinking he wants to get me all liquored up and take advantage of me.

Nonetheless, I hurried to the kitchen and as I thought there might be, several opened bottles of wine were there on the counter, leftover from the party. I filled two goblets halfway and went out to the portico to join him.

“Look at that moon,” he said and took a glass from me. “Thanks.”

“Amazing,” I said. “You know, there
is
something very powerful about the moon. Come on. Let’s walk.”

We went down the stairs toward the gate that opened to the beach. We kicked off our shoes and left them there. He rolled up the cuffs of his pants.

“Watch your step. People used to think that full moons could turn you into a lunatic but I don’t believe that.”

He held my elbow until we reached level sand.

“Me either. If you’ve got the crazies, the moon’s not going to make it better or worse. But I love moonlight. When I dream, this is what the lighting is like. Just like this. Light enough to see but dark enough to make you uncertain about the reality around you.”

“Really? You remember things like that?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, I do. It’s the details that matter, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Sometimes, the details make all the difference.”

We walked a short distance down the beach and stood by the edge of the water as the waves washed over our bare feet. He had his arm around my shoulder. This is what it felt like to be falling in love and I knew it then. I was absolutely certain of it.

“Let’s go back,” he said.

“It’s getting late,” I said.

When we reached the gate I put my heels back on and he slipped on his loafers. We went up on the portico to finish our wine. He looked at me and I knew the moment had arrived. The balance of the evening would be played by the damsel trying to hang on to her virtue while hoping her roommate would arrive in time to squash the ambitions of her lover. No such luck. He seemed to be completely overcome with the urge to hold me against the railings of the portico while the waves splashed madly against the jetties like in an X-rated version of
Wuthering Heights
or something. It would be seriously nasty to describe what the senator was attempting to do, but it entailed exposing parts of us to the elements and to, I think the most gentle description might be,
go for it
. He didn’t seem to care that we were standing. Luckily, I was just tall enough to escape the impact of his intentions.

“Take off your heels,” he whispered.

I panicked. “No!” I said.

He stopped, made some personal adjustments in the area in which I had forbidden my eyes to travel, and then to my surprise he pushed me hard by my shoulders, nearly knocking me over.

“You have to stop doing this to me, Ashley.” He was pissed.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Telling me no. ”

I was quiet for a moment and then I said, “You shoved me, Porter.”

“I did. I’m sorry. But you can’t keep on teasing me like this.”

“I’m not teasing. I’m just not ready.”

“Well, get ready. Or maybe you think this is fun; is that it?”

“Maybe we should say good night,” I said. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“Maybe we should say good-bye,” he said.

“If that’s what you want,” I said.
Oh no!

“I’ll call you,” he said. He started to leave.

“Porter! Wait!”

He stopped and turned to me.

“What?” he said.

“Look, I just didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted it to be romantic, not standing up, outside here on the portico like we were. And I wanted to have, I don’t know, I wanted some assurance from you, I guess.”

“Assurance of what?” he said.

“I don’t know . . . maybe that this wasn’t just nothing to you or something like that.”

“I don’t have the patience for this, Ashley.” He was still angry.

“Sorry,” I said. With that, traitorous tears began sliding down my face, and my nose began to run.

“Look, either we want the same thing or we don’t.”

“I want what you want,” I said. “I do.”

I was practically whispering. I was not listening to my inner voice that was telling me to say good night and send him home. He had shoved me! But at that moment, I was so conflicted and miserable. I didn’t want to lose him. I wanted to
marry
him! But then he came back to me, put his arms around me, and held me against him.

“You’re so young, Ashley. But you’re so damn smart that I keep forgetting just
how
young. I’m sorry too.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay, what?” he said.

“Next time,” I said. “We can, you know . . .”

We both knew what I meant.

CHAPTER 12

Liz—Bad News

I could not
believe
my ears! It was Maisie on the telephone, calling me at seven thirty in the morning again. But this time it was for a very different reason.

“Liz, Skipper’s had a stroke. Please. Meet me at MUSC.”

Maisie was calling me from the hospital. Her voice was low pitched and had almost no inflection. That’s how I knew she was frantic with worry.

“Dear God. Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

I had just called her Mom, something I had not done in recent memory.

I was stepping out of my shower when the phone rang. My hair was soaking wet. As quickly as I could, I towel dried it and pulled it back in a rubber band. All I could think was, Oh Lord, please let Skipper be all right. I can’t handle Maisie by myself! Please help me dress and get out of here as fast as humanly possible. Please keep Maisie calm. Please don’t let there be traffic.

Right before eight, I jumped in my car and backed out of our driveway, nearly taking out a couple of tourists and my neighbor who was walking her dog.

“Sorry! Medical emergency!” I hollered out the window.

My neighbor called back, “Let me know if I can do anything!”

I gave her a thumbs-up and turned left onto Church Street. I didn’t even know her name much less her phone number. All the way to the Medical University hospital my mind raced. Skipper was supposed to be taking care of Maisie. Was Maisie now going to take care of Skipper? What if he was paralyzed? She couldn’t lift him in and out of bed or a wheelchair! She can’t be a caretaker! She was too old! Did we now have to hire a driver for the driver?

I called Clayton. No answer. I left a detailed message.

“Clayton? Call me. It’s urgent. It’s Skipper. He’s had a stroke. Dear God, I wish you were home,” I said, knowing I sounded uncertain and probably a bit panicked.

He would call back. It was the one thing he was pretty good about. I called my office and Tom answered.

“Wow, you’re in early,” I said.

“I’ve got a pile of stuff to get together that I promised David and Steve. What’s up?”

“Well, I got bad news just now. My mother’s partner has had a stroke and I have to go to MUSC to meet her right now. She’s beside herself.”

“She’s probably scared to death,” he said. “Of course you have to go! Call me later on, okay?”

We talked a few more minutes about the very exciting gift from the Karols and from All Air. It was the best news we’d had in a long time.

I called Clayton a second time. Voice mail again! I’d left a message to say it was a matter of life and death. Just how bad did it have to be for him to return my call or to take it in the first place?

I pulled into the front drive of MUSC and left the car with the valet, hurrying into the lobby. I stopped at the information desk. There was an EMS worker there prattling on with the receptionist like it was a chat room instead of an emergency room.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m here to see Skipper Dempsey, my mother’s, uh, driver. He just arrived a little while ago with my mother, Maisie Pringle? He had a stroke.”

“That’s your mother’s
driver
?” the EMS worker said with a big stupid grin that infuriated me immediately.

“Is he okay?” I asked. “Where are they?”

I could see that the receptionist was struggling to maintain a straight face. The EMS worker just looked at the floor and shook his head. I wanted to slap both of them right across their smug little faces. What had Maisie done now?

“He’s already in NSICU. Eighth floor. Just ask at the desk.”

“Thanks,” I said. My face was in flames.

On the elevator ride upstairs, I braced myself. Never mind the antics of my mother, I knew the situation could be dire. Skipper could be near death. He could be so damaged that he might be unable to speak or see or any number of things. I said another prayer for him. I also knew that if Maisie lost Skipper, it would kill her. For as much as I disapproved of Maisie cavorting around with a man fifteen years younger than her, he made her happy, and I was probably getting old.

I asked the nurse at the desk and I was directed to his room. When I got there, I opened the door slowly. Poor Skipper was asleep and hooked up to so many machines and monitors it would make your head spin. And he looked so small in the bed, like he had shriveled up to nothing since the last time I saw him. Maisie, who was seated by his bed, looked up at me. Her hair was disheveled. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were puffy and red. In her hands were wet tissues, wadded into golf-ball-size lumps. She’d been weeping. And she seemed like she had aged twenty years overnight. That was when it dawned on me that Maisie really loved Skipper and she was indeed deeply frightened.

“Hey,” I said quietly and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s he doing?”

She blew her nose and cleared her throat, putting on the brave face she had earned over the years.

“Well, he’s getting this special aspirin treatment—tPA, I think it’s called—and it’s supposed to help him recover all his faculties. We’ll see. And they gave him an ultrasound that showed some more blockages. He’s going to have to have carotid artery surgery when he gets stronger.”

“Good grief,” I said. “What happened? Did he just collapse?”

“I’ll say he did! I called 911 as fast as I could. Then I threw all his meds in a Ziploc—I saw a tip about doing that on Dr. Oz’s show. Next I threw on some clothes and before I could tie up my sneakers the EMS people were knocking on the door.”

“What do you mean? You weren’t dressed?”

“What do you think caused the stroke?”

“Oh, my God. Maisie Pringle.” Sometimes my mother could be shameless.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Liz. I’m not dead yet,” she said and stood.

As she stood it was clear to me that in her haste she had neglected to don her foundation garments. Another horrific detail. It was no wonder that the EMS worker was snickering. Most likely, he had probably regaled the receptionist with all the details of how he found my mother’s lover in the sack. I guessed HIPAA laws didn’t apply in this situation. But then, an incident like this would produce more gallows humor over gossip for people like them. The important thing was that Skipper’s life had been saved.

“Obviously. Would you like me to go to your house and bring you a nice outfit and your makeup?”

“Oh, Liz! Would you really? That would be so nice if you would. I must look a fright! If he wakes up and sees me like this, he’ll have another stroke.” Maisie’s wit was on the road to recovery.

“I doubt it.” I smiled and turned to leave. “Is there anyone we should call?”

“No, I don’t think so. He has a sister in Florida but they’re estranged. I mean, if something terrible happens, I’d try to find her.”

“Of course. Okay then.”

“Wait! Do you need a key?”

“No, I have a key to your house right here.” I held up my key ring and rattled it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Did you eat?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t even had my morning coffee.”

“Okay, I’ll make you a sandwich and I’ll pick up coffee.”

“I think there’s egg salad on the second shelf in a little blue-and-white bowl.”

“Got it.”

“Liz?”

“What?”

“Thank you. Thanks for everything.”

I smiled at her. This was my eighty-year-old mother before me, a woman filled with conflicts and wacky ideas about so many people and things, but she loved Skipper. He was perhaps the first man she had cared about since my father died.

I left the room and felt the
whoosh
of the door behind me. Walking down the hall to the elevator, I told myself then that I needed to look way beyond the unconventional nature of their relationship and focus on the genuine affection they felt for each other. It was hard enough to find somebody to love without worrying about obvious differences. Then my bothersome conscience, that irksome nuisance of a chatterbox in my brain, reminded me that I should apply that nugget of insight to Ivy and James as well.

As I passed through the lobby I noticed the receptionist was a different person. I was glad for that. I’d endured enough embarrassment for one day, but wasn’t this a great example of precisely why we shouldn’t judge each other? How could one person see inside another person’s heart?

As soon as I got to Maisie’s house I called Ashley to tell her what had happened. She got very upset.

“Oh,
no
! Is he going to die?”

“I don’t think so. And listen, sweetheart, he’s in a special ICU for stroke victims and head injuries. He couldn’t be in a better place. They have him plugged into so many monitors that they probably know when he hiccups.”