The Hurricane Sisters: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Well, I’m happy. My scallops are wonderful. All right. Tell me about my darling granddaughter. You know, she really is an extraordinary girl.”

  “She’s very thoughtful and sweet,” I said. “But she’d starve without us.”

  “Liz, I don’t think reminding her of that every five minutes is particularly beneficial to anyone.”

  “What should I do? Applaud? Mother, she earns ten dollars an hour. She’s dating no one. How and when she finds time to paint is beyond me but I haven’t seen anything new from her in ages. And a bachelor of fine arts? She may as well have studied indigenous cultures for all the good it’s ever going to do her! I wish you’d encourage her to get her master’s—at least she could teach.”

  “Teach? She’s too introspective for that. She really should be painting all the time, you know. Working for the Turners, nice as they are . . . well, you’re right. It won’t put bread on the table.”

  “She can’t even afford a table. Probably painting supplies either. And anyway, her work seems so amateurish to me.”

  “Who are we to judge? Skipper says even this new pope over in Rome says we shouldn’t judge. Would you pass the salt, please?”

  Skipper was a Roman Catholic. I pushed the saltshaker toward her, biting my tongue about it. If she wanted to send her blood pressure through the roof, it was her prerogative.

  “Miss Maisie? We’re Protestant. We don’t take direction from the Vatican. You don’t think I should stand in judgment of my children? Like you never judge me?”

  She harrumphed and said, “You listen to your mother, Elizabeth Pringle Waters, before you get on your high horse over there. Your husband is a horse’s patootie, and it doesn’t matter if he’s having a fling. It seems like half the men in this country can’t keep their pants on. I don’t know everything but I know this much. If you want to, you can put a stop to it. He loves you, and, plus, he’d die if he had to give up half his assets. And by the way, missy, I saw you having lunch the other day at Sermet’s and it looked like monkey business to me.”

  “What? I was with a potential donor for the shelter, Mother. I don’t like your tone.”

  “My big fat foot. You were drinking a glass of wine. Sitting right there at a window table for all of Charleston to see! It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon. Would you like a scallop?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Take up gardening. Then at least you’ll have something wholesome to brag about. You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

  “I do not!”

  “And don’t worry about pushing Ashley. She has a very special talent.”

  “Like Juliet had?” Oh brother, I thought. Here we go again.

  “Yes, like Juliet.”

  “So, because Juliet died before she could fulfill her artistic ambitions, you think we should just let Ashley live her life without a solid career path and see what happens? I just find it odd, given your parents and the Depression and all that . . .”

  “What? What in the world does the Depression have to do with this?”

  “Self-reliance!” I knew I was speaking too loudly. “It was the most important thing you taught me! And it’s odd that you don’t think Ashley needs a more-well defined career path. She’s got to start paying her bills at some point! Or do you want to keep throwing money at her?”

  “Lower your voice. And stop exaggerating. I hardly do a thing for that poor child.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “She’s my only granddaughter. Listen, I’ve never told you this before but I went to my psychic friend. She says there’s a very strong possibility that Ashley is the reincarnation of Juliet. She says there’s an unusually powerful heart connection between us.”

  I sat back in my chair and stared at my mother. It wasn’t news. I had heard the reincarnation story at least a thousand times. Never mind what Ashley used to say when she was little, I wasn’t going to encourage this nonsense. My mother was finally losing her mind. Did I need to see about her power of attorney? Pay her bills? I’d ask her doctor.

  “Mother? There’s also a very strong possibility that your psychic friend is milking your wallet.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ashley at Work

  I was at work and organizing the catalog JPEGs for our upcoming show of artists from the coast of the Carolinas and Georgia. It was to be called Tidal Water Gems. I loved organizing catalogs but I couldn’t decide which painting or photograph should be on the cover. The Turners had turned this job over to me a few months ago, saying I had a better eye for that sort of thing. Obviously, I wasn’t so sure. I only wished my work was ready to be on a cover.

  “What do you think, Mr. Turner? Should we use Jack Alterman’s photographic landscape of the Ashepoo River or the Jonathan Green painting of the church ladies?”

  I must have looked superserious because Mr. Turner smiled at me in that weird way grown-ups smile when they think you’re precious.

  “If only I was twenty years younger,” Bill Turner said, “I’d steal your heart and whisk you away to the Kasbah!”

  “Aw, Mr. Turner. That’s so sweet!” I said. “What’s the Kasbah?”

  “William Turner? You stop harassing Ashley and get in here right now! You’ve got a pile of contracts to read and sign!”

  “Yes, dear. Yes, dear,” Mr. Turner said, and scurried away like a frightened mouse.

  I gave him a wave with the roll of my fingers and he smiled at me again, happy he had not offended me. As if I took him seriously. Please.

  Judy Turner came out of her lavish office and toward mine, which in reality was a closet I shared with the copier, the watercooler, the cleaning equipment, the coffeemaker, the tiniest refrigerator on earth, and all the office supplies.

  “Old fool,” Judy said. “Don’t pay him one bit of attention.”

  “You’re the love of my life!” Mr. Turner called out and I giggled.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Turner called back and rolled her eyes. “And you’re mine!”

  “He’s hilarious,” I said and held up photos of the two cover options. “Cover?”

  “Hmmm. Tough one. They’re both so incredible. Put Jonathan Green on the front for the humanity, Jack Alterman on the back for the atmosphere. Then run the Altermans first in the catalog followed by the Greens. Sprinkle the others in between. It’s equitable that way. Blame me if they squawk.”

  “Excellent. Another decision made. If we reprint, I can reverse it. Then everyone’s happy, right?”

  “Such a lovely brain! This is why we adore you!”

  “Ha! Ha! Now I have to choose paper. The show’s been live on our website for almost a week.”

  “Oh, Ashley, dahlin, the website gives me nightmares! Even though I’ve known you since you were just a little bitty thing, I never dreamed you’d grow up to be my right arm. Your momma must be so proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, unable to make eye contact. I was thinking something else entirely. The Turners wouldn’t believe what it’s like to try and live on ten dollars an hour. I’d bet they hadn’t had ramen for dinner since Nixon left office.

  The opening for Tidal Water Gems was only a few days away. But the event for Senator Galloway was that very night. I was so excited. I’d brought my dress to work in a plastic hanging bag from Belk. It hung suspended from the top drawer of the filing cabinet. My shoes and makeup were on the floor in a Vera Bradley tote bag I got for Christmas when I was in the eighth grade. Maybe seventh. It’s hard to remember now but it was plain to see that I wasn’t exactly drowning under the weight of overindulgence. And, yes, I’d brought that dress to wear simply because it was the best one I owned.

  I wouldn’t be doing anything special that night except checking in people on the guest list, directing people to the bathroom, and so on. Still, I was ex
cited to see him in real life. Porter, that is. Ashley Galloway! What a beautiful name. Ashley Galloway, First Lady of the United States of America! Even better.

  We were coming to the end of an exhibition of watercolors, which was a fortuitous thing because they were all protected behind glass. In case somebody tripped and accidentally tossed a glass of red wine in the wrong direction, only minimal damage could happen to the art, unless, of course, they broke the glass that protected the painting, which has never happened. Besides, we only rented out the gallery when there was very small risk to the installation. I was still debating my scheme to rent out my parents’ house for events, and leaning toward doing it, especially when I opened the envelope containing a check for twenty-five hundred dollars from the Friends of Porter Galloway. That was what the Turners were earning for merely opening the doors and turning on the lights. Twenty-five hundred dollars was some serious bank. No doubt about it. Even though Ivy gave me enough money to give the first floor of our house a coat of paint to make it presentable, I was nervous. And even though Mary Beth had figured out how to serve decent wine and hors d’oeuvres for less than twenty dollars a person, mostly self-served, I was still nervous.

  I wasn’t going to do anything until I was very sure we had a foolproof plan, one where my parents would never ever find out. If Big Liz and Big Clay caught me in a lying scam that huge, they would throw me into the streets. I’d be living in a refrigerator box from somebody’s recycling garbage, pathetically begging strangers for time on an electrical outlet to recharge my iPhone. I did not want to live in a cardboard box. No, ma’am.

  The afternoon blew by. Around four, Mary Beth’s catering company showed up and started setting up. It was time to take the dress out of the bag and attempt to put my hair up in a French twist. I thought an updo and a string of pearls might make me resemble a young blond Jackie Kennedy. With cleavage. She was my idol. I slipped into the tiny bathroom and did my best. When I came out, Bill Turner was there, using the copier.

  He took one look at me, slapped his hand over his heart, and gasped.

  “Great God!” he said, trying to determine the length of my legs.

  “Bill? Leave that child alone!” Judy called from the gallery as though she had eyes in all the walls. Maybe she did. Or radar maybe.

  I giggled and squeezed past him intending to find Mary Beth. I had legs like a flamingo but what was I supposed to do about that? Wear a toga?

  I loved our special events. The gallery always looked so glamorous with all the flowers and the glow of all those tea candles. The food and bar tables were draped in black to the floor with square white cloths laid over them in diamond shapes. On the ends of the tables were dozens of sparkling glasses in perfect lines like soldiers at attention. All the waitstaff stood at the ready wearing black shirts and pants with white aprons from their waists to their ankles. Very Parisian, I thought and sighed. A sign from God that once again it was clear I was going to have to do something drastic to get to France. Or Italy or how about just Tribeca in New York?

  I spotted Mary Beth. She was fanning stacks of cocktail napkins with a highball glass.

  “Hey, girl” I said and gave her a hug.

  “Ooooh, honey! Look at you!” she said.

  “Do I look okay?” I tugged at my hem a little, covering my rear a little more but revealing more of the girls. “I mean, this dress is sort of short, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it ain’t PG-13.”

  “It’s too skimpy, isn’t it?”

  “Hell, no. You’re rocking that thing! Screw the old biddies! Wait till you know who sees you.”

  “Let’s hope. It’s just not very Jackie.”

  “Oh, so what. And you ain’t gonna believe who’s on the waitstaff tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Tommy Milano.”

  “Well, isn’t that great.”

  “Please. He’s a sweetie.”

  Soon people began arriving and I stood by the door, checking off names from the list provided by the Friends of Himself. Another girl from “the Friends of” helped the supporters attach peel-and-stick name tags to their shoulders. In no time at all there was a crowd of well-heeled people my parents’ age milling about, drinking wine, looking at the watercolors, and talking louder and louder by the minute. I didn’t see Tommy Milano anywhere. But to my surprise, out of the night and into the gallery stepped Maisie with some people I didn’t know.

  “Maisie! What a wonderful surprise!” I hugged her and delivered a peck to her cheek.

  “Hello, sweetheart! Lorraine? This is my granddaughter, Ashley Waters. Someday, she’s going to be a famous artist! Ashley? Say hello to Mrs. Galloway.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, thinking, Here’s my future mother-in-law. She seemed like a nice woman. I loved her earrings.

  “And you too, Ashley,” Mrs. Galloway said.

  “Lorraine’s mother, Lucille, and I went to school together,” Maisie said.

  “Oh!” I said, sounding like an airhead but what was I supposed to say? I mean, was Mrs. Galloway’s mother still with us? Why didn’t Maisie tell me she was coming with her? “Maisie? Can I get y’all a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Galloway said. “I’m the designated driver.”

  “I’ll help myself,” Maisie said. “It’ll give me a chance to flirt with the bartender.”

  Oh Lord, I thought. “Okay, well then, y’all have fun! Love you, Maisie!”

  “Love you too, baby!”

  They drifted into the crowd and my mind began clicking away. Maisie might be able to help me with Porter. But how?

  Just when my list of names was almost all accounted for, a black car pulled up to the curb. Press from the Charleston Post and Courier, the City Paper, the Charleston Mercury, and Charleston Magazine hurried to the sidewalk. Even Garden & Gun magazine was there. Camera flashes exploded as his driver opened the back door and Senator Porter Galloway got out and stepped to the curb. His aide got out on the street side and came around. The senator paused, smiled for the photographers, and answered a few questions. His aide began taking questions after that. My heart was racing. I couldn’t swallow. Porter turned to come inside and caught my eye.

  “Well, hello there,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Ashley. Ashley Waters.” God, he smelled so good.

  “Beautiful. You have a beautiful name.”

  He said this so politely I thought I might faint or something.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I guess you don’t need a name tag, huh?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. How stupid and awkward could I be? Huh? Why not just say duh? Oh my God! I had just blown my only chance to make him notice me. Of all the things I could have said! My mouth got dry.

  But he was cool.

  “No, save a tree.”

  There was a funny little moment when he looked into my eyes and I looked right back into his, a moment of recognition that something potent was brewing. Or that something could.

  “Our grandmothers went to high school together,” I said. My tongue was clacking against the roof of my mouth like it had a suction cup on it.

  “Really? Well, how about that? Small world. Sadly, I have to go work the room,” he said, “but I’ll see you later?”

  “I’ll be around,” I said and thought, Okay, this is it, I’m definitely going to drop dead right here. But the other side of my brain was already living in the White House, pregnant with his twins and pushing our toddler on a swing while a Secret Service detail looked on with concern. I had to find Mary Beth right away.

  I spotted her across the room passing a tray of mini beef Wellingtons.

  “Want one?” she said. “I’ve had four. Delish!”

  She really was packing on the pounds lately. But I wasn’t saying a word about that.


  “Are you kidding me? I can’t eat. Did you see him talking to me?”

  “Yep, so did half the room. I hate to say I told you so, but I did.”

  She walked away and I felt someone tap my shoulder. It was Maisie.

  She whispered, “I saw that damn fool looking at you and I need to tell you something about him.”

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “I’ve known him since the day he was born. He used to come around with his grandmother, God rest her soul. But he was bad, Ashley. I mean he was a bully.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like once he was playing with some neighborhood kids in my yard? He turned the hose on all of them and made them cry. He must’ve been about four or five years old”

  “Oh! But he was just four or five years old. Wasn’t Prince William a little stinker when he was that age? He grew up to be great!”

  “I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Don’t worry, Maisie,” I said.

  “Now you listen to me; I’m just saying all these politicians aren’t worth a hill of beans anymore. Didn’t you read the papers about that idiot, what’s his name? That guy in North Carolina with the four-hundred-dollar haircut?”

  “That guy? He’s old. They’re all old men, Maisie. They’re from a different time. Porter is the new generation. The new generation of politicians are a lot smarter.”

  “Really? They’re all a bunch of egomaniacs. Remember that man in New York sending his you know what all over the country by phone? How one does that, well, I’m uncertain but he did it! He wasn’t old.”

  I started laughing then. It was too funny to me that my eighty-year-old grandmother was almost hip to texting but not quite.

  “Um, Maisie, it was seriously gross but he’s way over forty. That’s old.”

  “Whatever. Where does that leave me? Decrepit? Just watch yourself, that’s all.”

  “Oh, stop worrying, Maisie. Don’t you think Porter exudes, you know, something special?”