The Last Original Wife (7 page)

Saturday night arrived before I had a chance to think about it and there we were at the Piedmont Driving Club sitting at a table for ten. There were Cornelia and Harold, Lisette and Paolo, Wes and me, and two other couples about whom the casual observer might say, “Oh! Aren't those men nice to take their granddaughters to the club?” These were not granddaughters but man-eaters.

Cornelia and Lisette were carefully avoiding any direct conversation with me. Ever since our ladies' room chat, they were less congenial.

After dinner, all the boys went outside to smoke cigars, Cornelia and Lisette were drinking their third cosmos, and I was still sipping my first glass of wine. The other two were sipping their second dirty martinis, comparing their diamonds and how they spent their new husband's money on lingerie, day spas, and shopping sprees in New York. And it seemed that everyone had a Brazilian bikini wax except me. When did pubic hair go out of fashion? I missed that memo.

Lisette said too loudly, “Paolo said he had the
best
time in Atlantic City!”

“Don't you worry about all those hookers?” Cornelia said.

“Nah. Paolo said he would never,
ever
sleep with a hooker.”

He didn't need to,
I wanted to say,
he had one in-house
.

“Yeah, right. And you believe him? What about you, Les?”

“Wes hasn't been to Atlantic City in years.”

“That's what
you
think.” Cornelia giggled, leaned into Lisette, and said over the music, “Shhh! See that girl at our table? That Tamara whatever her name is? She used to work for an escort service.”

“No!” said Lisette. “No way!”

“Word!” said a very indiscreet Cornelia and fist bumped Lisette. “Saw her on the Internet.”

Never mind why Cornelia was surfing escort services on the Internet—probably visiting old friends.

The winds suddenly shifted, and I could smell trouble. I saw Tamara's expression change as she stared a hole through Cornelia. Her friend, Sasha, perked up as well.

“What about the other one?” Lisette said.

“Girls!” I said, knowing these other two were about to explode.

“Big ho,” Cornelia said and burst out laughing.

Well, that was it. All hell broke loose. Never mind the club rules, a loud catfight—albeit a brief one—ensued. Cornelia and Lisette were on their feet and the other girls took off their shoes. Tamara and Sasha began to come at Lisette and Cornelia with the obvious intention of trying to stab them in the eyes with their spike heels. Cornelia, who was all muscle, grabbed Sasha with the long hair and yanked on it for all she was worth, coming away with a handful of extensions. Lisette threw her drink in Tamara's eyes, and then Tamara slapped Lisette across the face. Sasha kicked Cornelia in the stomach, which was quite the acrobatic feat given the confines of her outfit. I was so shocked and it all seemed to be happening so fast, all I could do was inhale! Finally, I jumped up and got the attention of the captain of our table and said, “Get my husband! He's on the terrace with Mr. Stovall and Mr. Ferretti!”

There was hair on the floor; vodka, olives, and glasses of iced water were flying through the air; chairs were overturned; and a lot of mascara was running down all their faces. The next thing I knew they had pulled the tablecloth from the table, sending plates and flowers and glasses all over the floor. Cornelia was doubled over in pain, and Lisette was still at it, giving Sasha a solid punch in her jaw. Shrieking and well-composed guests recoiled, gasping in horror and scurrying away like mice.

“In my life, I've never seen anything so
disgraceful
!” said Lynn Bagnal, notorious for her gorgeous pearls and perfect thank-you notes.

Her husband, Scott, the president of the Board of Trustees, was heard to exclaim, “Why, this is the most disturbing thing I know of since McIntosh called Button Gwinnett out to the Field of Honor in 1777!”

“Ladies! Please!” someone said.

“Please! Let's stop this right now!” another man said.

There would be fines levied, memberships would be placed in jeopardy, and Lord only knows what other kinds of consequences would arise. I could see Paolo and Harold's names on the Wall of Shame bulletin board. This club meant everything to them. Despite the influx of Barbies, the club itself was very conservative. In my peripheral vision, I saw Harold swoop in and grab Cornelia by the arm just as Paolo grabbed Lisette. Wes was huffing and puffing, bringing up the rear, picking up the overturned chairs in his path.

“What happened here? I demand to know what happened here!” he said to me.

“Why don't you ask them?” I said, pointing to Cornelia and Lisette with my good arm.

“You know I hate this kind of thing, Les. It's deplorable.”

“It's also deplorable for you to go to Atlantic City and cavort with God knows who and not tell me!” I said this quietly and evenly. I was pretty certain no one heard me but him.

“What?” He was clearly surprised. “That has nothing to do with this! This is
our
club and you're supposed to set a good example!”

“Wesley? Number one, I am not a babysitter; two, I'm not stooping to their level; and three, I had and want nothing to do with it. It's not my problem! Take it up with them.”

I turned to get my bag with every intention of leaving.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“I think I've had enough, Wes. Enough of you, your friends, their asinine wives and their infantile behavior. I've had enough of this whole circus to last me for a long, long while.”

“We're not leaving yet,” he said. “I can't abandon my friends with this mess!”

“Well, you sure didn't have a problem abandoning me in Edinburgh, did you?”

“That was different, Les.”

I got very close to his face and said, “Really? Shove it up your ass, Wesley Albert Carter IV. I'm leaving.”

And I did. I could feel Wes's fury burning holes in my back as I walked away. I had defied him and I had defied him in the club with his friends theoretically looking on. The truth was that Paolo and Harold were definitely going to be occupied with restoring order and dignity to the remainder of the evening. Maybe they'd take their silly wives in hand and punish them with a big time-out between them and their black American Express cards.

It would never occur to Paolo or Harold that I might walk out on Wes. Not in a million years. I had never done anything like that before. I was Leslie, the Good Wife. The one who never complained too much. The one who let Wesley do exactly what he wanted, no questions asked. The one who seemed happy with what little tokens Wes threw her way. Good old Leslie. We were Wesley and Leslie—wasn't that precious? Well, I wasn't feeling
precious
then and might never feel
precious
again.

Did Wes follow me? No, he did not. This fact did not make me angry. It made me deeply sad. It was another affirmation that it was more important to Wes that he call the shots than it was to explain to me how he wound up in Atlantic City without my knowledge or to understand the depth of
my
fury for once in our married life. Because I left, Wesley would say I had some nerve, that just because the other girls didn't know how to behave themselves, I shouldn't give into my emotions and throw a hissy fit in public. Well, I'd be ready for him if he did say that. I had not thrown a hissy fit or any kind of fit at all. I had just let him know calmly and politely that I knew he was a liar and that I wasn't going to be held responsible for the juvenile behavior of his friends' wives. It was absurd.

I stood on the portico of the club and waited in the night air, which was blessedly cool and not too terribly humid. The doorman had called for a taxi for me. I smiled at him and he said, “Nice night, isn't it, Mrs. Carter?” I think I said something like, “Yes, you can feel summer in the air!”

Strangely enough, I was composed. I felt like a gracious adult woman, sophisticated enough and savvy enough to know when it was time to say
Stop! No More!
So what if I was wearing St. John with Ferragamos with a lowish heel instead of some skintight strapless tube with spike heels that looked like it all came from a catalog for pole dancers? My whole outfit was beautiful. To me and to other women who wanted to look like a lady it was elegant and beautiful.

I was sick to death with feeling bad about not being some hot number with a fake tan, straight hair, and a bald you-know-what. (I still don't understand that last one.) Honestly! Going forward, this world of Barbie wives would only be my life if I allowed it to be my life and I already knew I was done. The door on that entire part of my life was closing, and for no good reason and every good reason it was suddenly fine with me.

I rolled down the window and let the night air play havoc with my fifty-dollar blowout. I felt liberated. It felt very, very good. The taxi driver must have seen me smiling in his rearview mirror.

He said, “Fresh air feels good, huh?”

“Sure does,” I said.

“Dull party at the club?” he said.

“Anything but!” I said. “Just not for me, that's all.”

“I see,” he said.

“Well, it used to be, but not anymore.”

“I see,” he said again.

My driver was smart enough to know some kind of foolishness was afoot and polite enough not to pry. Sometimes taxi drivers loved to regale you with stories demonstrating the accumulation of their lifelong gathering of wisdom, wisdom gained by hearing and seeing every imaginable thing in the world come to pass right there in their cab. In their minds, all humanity winds up in a taxi at one point or another. Maybe it did.

“Yeah, things change,” I said.

He said, “My momma used to say the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

I had absolutely no idea how that philosophical nugget applied to my situation.

Then he added, “Me? I'd rather stay home with the wife and watch
Dancing with the Stars
.”

Now that made perfect sense. In the strangest and most humorous way, it actually did.

CHAPTER 7

Les Goes to Charleston

O
n Sunday morning at first light, Wes left to play golf. I pretended to be asleep. I didn't want to hear one word come out of his mouth. No more grief. I didn't even want to hear the sound of his voice. Who died and left him in charge of me? I was thoroughly disgusted with him, his lying, his friends, my daughter, and honestly, I was disgusted with myself. If my son had been in town, I wouldn't have been too happy with him, either. My insides were roiling. Something had to change that very day.

When I heard the garage door roll down with its familiar clunk, I knew he was gone. I rolled over and picked up the business card my taxi driver had given me the night before. I had slipped it under my alarm clock. Joe Sanchez—404-555-5222.

“Call me anytime,” he had said. “I'm here to serve.”

Yeah, just like my husband. Somehow the story was always about Wes—how he was annoyed, how he was insulted, how he wasn't getting the right amount of homage from his minions (that would mean me and the kids). And then there was his other problem—appearances. Well, I was all done with homage and putting on the bright smile for the sake of appearances and I didn't feel like being around when the IRS or the FBI showed up to throw him in the Big House. He didn't need me because he sure knew where to find a lawyer (read: golf club), and he knew where praise and glory could be found as well—just ask Cornelia or any of her silly little friends.

My mind was made up. I was headed for the Lowcountry and the company of my darling brother. I needed to smell some pluff mud and to feel Harlan's arm around my shoulder. I didn't plan to drive to Charleston because I didn't think it was wise to take a five-hour road trip steering the car with one hand. But it was not impossible to fill a couple of suitcases with summer clothes and pack my makeup and toiletries in a duffel bag. Besides, I didn't need a car in downtown Charleston. I thought about calling Danette and telling her where I'd be, but I didn't want to drag her into the middle of something that would make her uncomfortable. She didn't need another episode of anybody's domestic drama. And I thought about leaving Wes a note, but I didn't know what to say. Well, there was plenty I could have said, but I decided to let him stew in his juices. Eventually he'd realize I was gone somewhere when he checked my closet and the bathroom.

So I called Delta Airlines and booked a flight to Charleston for early that afternoon and I called Joe Sanchez to take me to the airport. And, of course, I called Harlan.

“You get yourself to Charleston as fast as you can and I'll be waiting for you in the baggage claim, okay? Oh! This is too wonderful! We finally get to spend some time together! And Wes doesn't mind?”

“I didn't ask him.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“All righty then! Woo! I'll get to chilling the vodka right away! Miss Jo and I will see you soon!”

The flight from Atlanta to Charleston would take less than an hour, a mercifully short transfer from my tortured internal bedlam to what I hoped would be a slice of peace. I was nervous in one way, but then, as I sat in the gate area flipping through a magazine, a sense of calm overcame me and I was rather proud of my decisiveness. I had discovered a weird strength in the back of Joe Sanchez's taxi. Wes had gone beyond my limit of what I was willing to endure for the final time. I had officially lost interest in his game of charades. Just like that. I felt something phenomenal would have to happen to make me love my marriage or him again. And guess what else? I felt free.

I marveled at the Atlanta Airport and how efficiently it moved tens of thousands of people every day. It was organized chaos on a very grand operatic scale. Funny that I knew tons of people but I never saw anyone I knew there. I could have bought a ticket for Istanbul and the Atlanta airport would surely have had at least three flights there a day. Istanbul. There's a thought. Wes would never look for me there. But would Wes look for me anywhere? Probably not. So here I was, perhaps on a launch pad from one life to another.

We boarded the plane. I was already dreading the phone call that would surely come from him. I could hear him in my head.
Where the hell are you? Just what the hell do you think you're doing?
I was happy when the flight attendant told us to turn off our cell phones. Maybe I'd just leave mine off forever. Well, for the day anyway. Let him sweat a little. I mean, I knew that eventually I'd have to tell him where I was, but for the next few hours while he was chasing that stupid little white ball all over hell's half acre, I'd have some peace. I closed my eyes and tried to nap. Miraculously, I did sleep until I heard the pilot announce that we were to begin our descent.

Our compact fifty-seat plane came down through the clouds and circled the marshes around Charleston as we prepared to land. I love flying in small planes because the experience is visceral, so much more exciting than the Airbus that took us to Scotland. When you hit turbulence, you felt it in every nerve ending. Turbulence combined with bad weather brought about copious prayer and desperate promises while I furiously searched my purse for my St. Christopher medal. As I thought about that I realized I had precious few thrills in my life if bumping around at thirty thousand feet got me excited.

But, my pathetic life aside, I was awed once again by the natural beauty of the Lowcountry. It was impossible not to be impressed and then be drawn into it. The crystal blue water in the tiny streams below sparkled and curled like tendrils around and around until they reached the Wando or the Cooper or the Ashley Rivers. Flocks of snowy egrets roosted in the shallow waters, unaware of the rest of the world. That's what I wanted for myself for even just a little while—to be unaware of the rest of the world. I needed some time.

I managed to remove my compact from my bag, intending to reapply some powder and lipstick so I wouldn't look a fright, and I was surprised to see the scowl staring back at me from the small mirror. When did I become a woman who scowled? When did my eyes become so disappointed? My smile and my eyes had always been my best features. Now I looked angry and defeated. Maybe I was. It had been so long since I'd even thought about what I wanted out of my life, about what would make me happy. God only knew, I was getting very little personal satisfaction from the two children I had raised. And we already know about Wes. How much of all that failure was my fault? Maybe Harlan would help me sort things out. He was good at getting to the bottom of things and making practical choices. Actually, Harlan was brilliant about most things.

We pulled up to the terminal, and the signal
binged
to let us know it was all right to unbuckle our seat belts and get moving. I scooped up my carry-on bag and my purse and stood, hunched a little so I didn't bang my head on the overhead compartment until the door was opened and we began to disembark. A nice-looking man stepped back to allow me into the aisle.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Can you manage all that?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I'm fine, thanks.”

So chivalry wasn't completely dead. I smiled and went ahead of him, thinking that was a nice thing for him to do. More men should offer help.

As I took my first step onto the Jetway, there was a powerful change in the air. The humidity mixed with the perfume of salt and the foul traces of fuel was profound. Immediately, I could feel dampness on the back of my neck and each one of my hairs began to rise and expand. The first order of business would be to find a salon and a stylist who could tame my hair back into submission.

I passed the security lines on my left and turned the corner to see Harlan there with Miss Jo. At first I was smiling and then I became overcome with emotion. I dropped my bag and threw my free arm around his neck, planted a big smooch on his cheek, and then I promptly burst into tears.

“My little runaway! A run, run, run, run, runaway!” Harlan sang to me, and I began to laugh.

“Oh, Harlan!”

“What? I don't sound like Del Shannon? Come on, little sister. Dry your eyes.” He handed me a tissue. “Let's get your bags. Miss Jo has been stuffing olives with blue cheese all morning!”

I looked down to his charming dog, and don't you know she was wearing a cotton sundress with olives and martini glasses printed all over it. I laughed again and told Miss Jo she was beautiful.

“She thinks you are too,” Harlan said. “I'm so happy you're here.”

We walked arm in arm to the carousel, and as I pointed out my bags, Harlan whipped them into the air as though they were empty and lined them up on the floor.

“Been spending a lot of time at the gym?”

“Honeychile, it's beach season, you know,” he said, pulling another bag off the carousel. “I bought a new Speedo. It's a Pucci print.”

“Oh, right! I can just see you wearing a Speedo!”

“Oh, fine. Maybe not. What the heck is in your bags? Rocks?”

“Housecoats.”

“Jeepers. Housecoats? Who are you? Ethel Mertz? We can't have that! Truly, I'm working out for my cholesterol. I'm down fifty points! And without eating oatmeal.”

“God spare us oatmeal. Ethel Mertz?”

“Yes.”

“The housecoats are a metaphor for my misery.”

“Got it.”

Harlan piled my bags in the trunk of his fully restored 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air. It was blue and white with white leather interior and one gorgeous trip down memory lane.

“You're still driving this land yacht?” I asked.

“Excuse me! This is one of the great American classics!”

“With an AM radio and manual locks?”

“I prefer the past,” Harlan said, smiling.

“Know what? Maybe I do too!”

We drove to downtown Charleston listening to the hum of the engine on I-26 and the sounds of the city on the peninsula where we were born and where we grew up. I wondered how I would tell the story to my brother. It was pretty obvious from the amount of luggage I had that I was staying for longer than a weekend. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, I knew he loved company. I thought about Harlan and what his life was like in Charleston. He had so many friends and things he was involved in—everything that had to do with the arts in any way, shape, or form had a place in his princely heart. And he was a marvelous cook, entertaining all the time. He was a great storyteller too. People adored him and loved to come to his house. Harlan was gregarious and so filled with historic facts that we used to laugh and say we were going to put him on a quiz show. Surely he would have made millions of dollars, not that he needed money. Leonard had left him tons, in addition to the house they shared.

We turned off I-26 and began to make our way downtown. Traffic thickened and we slowed to a crawl. By the time we reached the corner of Meeting and Market Streets, throngs of tourists were everywhere, taking pictures and peering through windows of local businesses. It was high season for tourism. Spoleto Festival and its many amazing events brought hundreds of thousands of culture lovers to the Holy City every year as it had for decades. In fact, tourism was one of the more important engines that powered Charleston's economy.

Professional guides dressed as Civil War soldiers driving horse-drawn carriages regaled tourists with stories of the bygone glories of the Confederate South and what it was like to be a true Charlestonian. Harlan and I always laughed as we listened to them because they could embellish a story like no other tour guides the Holy City had to offer. To my way of thinking, the tourists were getting a great bargain, and I suspected that mostly they knew when they were being offered a fish story with a side order of truth. When you looked at their faces, everyone was always smiling, a sure sign of customer satisfaction.

There would be plenty of time for Harlan and me to talk. Plenty of time. As much as Wes's secrets frightened me, I had to tell someone the truth. Harlan was the person I trusted most.

We pulled off the street, rolled through the beautiful wrought-iron gates at 36 Chalmers Street, and came to a stop. In their curls and swirls I noticed for the very first time that the left gate had a J worked into the design and the right gate had a P for, of course, Josephine Pinckney.

“I never saw that before!” I said. “The J and the P, I mean.”

“What? Oh! That's because it was overgrown with roses and Lord knows what else! Philip Simmons made those gates.”

“Really?”

Philip Simmons had been Charleston's premier wrought-iron worker.

“Yeah, I thought you knew that.”

“I probably did. Harlan, I swear, I can hardly remember my own name these days.”

“My poor sweet sister! Why don't you take yourself inside and I'll get your bags.”

“Thanks. Come on, cutie.” I turned to Miss Jo, who perked up and yipped as though she meant to say,
We're home!
We went inside Harlan's beautifully restored ancient town house. I stepped into the small foyer. There stood a small demilune over which hung a portrait of Josephine Pinckney in an elaborate gold gilded plaster frame. On the table sat a small arrangement of fresh flowers, a picture of Leonard in a silver frame, and an Imari bowl where I suspected Harlan dropped his keys. To my right was a small living room, and to my left was the dining room. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen, and farther back was a comfortable den with French doors that led to the garden.

Ahead of me was a gracious flight of steps, each one inlaid with geometrical border insets of blond walnut and deep red mahogany. Each landing had gorgeous inlays of fruit and flowers that must have taken years to construct by hand. I had always thought that Harlan's house had the prettiest interior stairs in town. There were stairs that seemed to hang in midair and others worthy of a Scarlett O'Hara descent but none prettier than Harlan's.

Charleston was chock-full of architectural wonders, to be sure, and every unique detail of her homes was carefully preserved and pointed out when the opportunity arose, but only discreetly and among dear friends, of course. The only thing more important to Charleston than her glorious history was the refined manners of her citizens. Charleston was not a city of braggarts.