The Hurricane Sisters: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Half a billion,” I said. “But it’s a Subaru, therefore I can leave it to my children.”

  “What kind of a car does the senator drive?”

  “Porter? Oh, gosh, it’s like an unmarked police car. You know, a gray four-door sedan with no sex appeal whatsoever. What are you driving these days?”

  “My same little two-seater Beemer with a stick that’s ten years old. But hey, I get my thrills in the hills of San Francisco by reenacting the chase scene from Bullitt. Right?”

  “I guess. Porter’s not a car person. It’s something we have in common.”

  “You’re not a car person because you can’t afford to be one. But once you become a famous artist, you won’t have to drive—you’ll be driven! Maybe in a big ol’ Rolls, powder blue to match your eyes!”

  “Wouldn’t that be amazing? What a nice dream.”

  We pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and walked across the street.

  “You know where you’re going, right?” he said.

  “I got this one,” I said and went straight to the elevators.

  As we rode up Ivy said, “Do I need to brace myself for some ghastly scene?”

  I giggled. “No, only an old dude in a hospital gown and a bunch of monitors.”

  We pushed the door open and there was Maisie sitting in the same chair she was in last night. Skipper, who was also sitting up in bed, perked up to see us.

  “Well!” Skipper said, and I could see it was a struggle for him to get that one word out of his mouth.

  Maisie jumped to her feet, surprised and thrilled to see Ivy.

  “Ivy! I knew you’d come! I told Liz you would! She’s such a party pooper. Oh! I’m so happy you’re here!”

  She smothered him with kisses and hugs and Ivy was ridiculously happy.

  “Thanks, Maisie. You know I couldn’t stay away. How are you feeling, Skipper?”

  “Pretty good,” Skipper said and nodded.

  It seemed then like he was speaking naturally and not forcing himself to find his words and I thought that was an awfully big improvement over yesterday. The first day he could barely nod yes or no but my imagination could be exaggerating. All I knew was this—strokes were cruel and mean. It was like Skipper had been made a prisoner and had to fight his way out of his brain to freedom. I was so happy to see him getting better every day.

  “I’ll just wait outside,” I said. “Visitors are limited to two people for ten minutes every hour during whatever the visiting hours are. I might be wrong. Anyway, I’ll be outside.”

  I wasn’t sure if Ivy even heard me, but it didn’t matter; I was certain Maisie knew the rules and they’d find me. I found a vacant chair in the waiting area and plopped down to check my e-mails. Porter and I were now in the habit of sending each other smiley faces when we were missing each other. It was innocent enough—so innocent, in fact, that if the whole world found out they’d probably sigh, go AW!, and think it was sweet. I had two smileys from him so far that day. I mean, maybe there was something in Porter’s personality that was a little off but he was being so great to me. I sent him back a smiley with a small x. I couldn’t wait to see him that night. He’d been so busy in Columbia all week and my whole world was a little crazy too, with Skipper’s stroke and all. We’d have lots to talk about, that was for sure. And I couldn’t wait for him to meet Ivy.

  It wasn’t long before Ivy came out of Skipper’s room.

  “So here’s the plan, Ashley River,” Ivy said. “Skipper wants us to go out to his llama farm and check on his animals with the caretaker, not that we know what to check. Then I need you to bring me back here to get my car, and I’ll pick up Maisie. Next, I’m going to take her to the grocery store, get us some supper, and bring her back here. Then I’m going to come meet you and The Senator for one drink. And last for the night, I’m coming back here to get Maisie and take her home. I called Mom. She knows I’m here.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘Great!’ and that was about all. Apparently, she’s all involved in some new project. She hardly had time to talk to me.”

  Maisie walked out from Skipper’s room to say good-bye to us.

  “Yeah, she’s trying to build a new safe house,” I said.

  “Too bad the city needs one,” Ivy said.

  “I’ll say,” Maisie said. “Men who hurt women and children should be strung up by their you know whats. The ones who shoot them should be shot too.”

  “Maisie!” I said.

  Sometimes my grandmother said the most outrageous things!

  “Sorry,” Ivy said, “I’m with Maisie on this one.”

  “You’re such a sweet dear,” Maisie said to him.

  “See you in an hour or two,” Ivy said.

  “I can take Maisie back and forth tomorrow night,” I said to Ivy as we headed up Highway 17 North. “Then you can go see your friends.”

  “That’s great,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. What’s wrong?”

  We were quiet for a minute and then Ivy said, “You know, here’s the thing that upsets me. One day Skipper was living his life, mixing it up with Maisie, and the next minute he’s in an ICU struggling to say his own name. Awful.”

  “I know. What causes strokes?” I said.

  “How the heck would I know?” he said. “Brain tumors? Aneurysms? Head injuries? High blood pressure?”

  “Maybe too much salt? Who knows? All I know is I don’t want to have one.”

  “Boy, that’s for sure. Take the next right.”

  “Thanks for the navi. I’ve only been here like a thousand times! Did Maisie call Joyce to say we were coming?”

  “Yes. I think so. Well, she said she would. Jeez, Ash, Skipper is a mess, huh?”

  “You should’ve seen him two days ago. You can’t believe how much better he’s doing.”

  I bumped along the dirt road to the cattle gate and Ivy got out of the car to open it. Then I drove through and he closed it behind us.

  “Llamas,” he said, slamming his door shut.

  “I know, but they’re hilarious,” I said.

  We continued on, passing llamas grazing in the fields, until we reached the barn that also had an office, which was where we figured we’d find Joyce Cerato, Skipper’s manager. Her car was parked right where it should’ve been. I thought my car was old but she drove a restored 1947 Ford Sportsman Woodie convertible. It was absolutely gorgeous with highly polished wood on the sides and the trunk, and the color was something called pheasant red. Luggage leather interiors. Someday my Subaru would be a classic. I was counting on it.

  I remember she said, “It was the best thing that came out of my first marriage.”

  And I said something like, “Oh Joyce! You’re so awesome! You never got married again?”

  And she said, “The right car just never came along.” And we laughed like crazy.

  Anyway, I liked her a lot. She must’ve heard us coming because the door of the office opened and she came out to greet us. Ivy was already out of the Subaru inspecting her car.

  “Hey! How y’all doing?”

  Now, even though she was a little older than us, I had to say Joyce was a beautiful woman. She had naturally curly black hair and the prettiest hazel eyes. She was tall enough to look Skipper’s llamas right in the eye and so Zen that when she went into the fields they all gathered around, nuzzling her, as though her pockets were stuffed with treats for them.

  “Hey, Joyce!” I said. “You remember my brother, Ivy, don’t you?”

  “I sure do. How are you?”

  “Great, thanks. What a car! I love it!”

  “Thanks! You here for a while?” she said.

  “Well, actually, I came here because of Skipper.”

  “That was awfully nice! How’s he doing? I’m goi
ng to pay him a visit later on after I give the kids their supper and put them away for the night.”

  She hooked her thumb in the direction of the llamas. They were the kids? Goats, maybe, but llamas? Ivy and I smiled at each other, then at her.

  “He’s doing really well,” I said. “Considering what he’s been through.”

  “He just asked us to take a drive out here and see if you needed anything.”

  “He did? Now, isn’t he the sweetest man alive? He’s in a hospital and worrying about me and the farm. That’s Skipper, all right. No, I don’t need a thing. Maybe two weeks in the south of France but that’s all I can think of right now! Or a big bag of fifties? Ha-ha!”

  She laughed and we laughed with her. She and Skipper had very similar personalities. They laughed easily and were supermellow.

  “Have you ever seen a llama up close?” Joyce said.

  “No,” Ivy said. “I live in a city. We have little dogs and the occasional cat but no llamas, at least none that I know of.”

  “Well, they’re really sweet. Did you know they hum all the time? Come with me,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to the one named for your grandmother. She’s in that pasture with all the girls.”

  “You separate the males and females?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? If I didn’t, they’d never stop breeding! They’re like the sexiest animals in the world! It’s Saturday night all the time!”

  “Wow,” Ivy said. “I did not know that.”

  “Yeah, nymphos! Ha-ha!”

  We followed Joyce over to the fence and she called out.

  “Maisie? Maisie? Come on over here, girl!”

  One of the llamas lifted her head and looked in our direction, chewing a mouthful of something I imagined was grass.

  “She’s curious, I guess. I mean, is she curious?” I said.

  Maisie the llama began coming toward us.

  “Yes, she is. Llamas are very curious and they’re good listeners. That’s a good girl,” Joyce said. “Come on, come say hello!”

  “She’s a beauty,” I said.

  “Look at those eyes!” Ivy said and held out the palm of his hand the way you would for a dog to sniff. “Come here, Bette Davis eyes!”

  Well, Ivy must have frightened Maisie because she walked right up to the fence, took one look at Ivy’s hand, lifted her head, and gave a projectile spit of grass—and who knows what else was in that nasty wad—that landed a direct hit in the center of his face. It reeked.

  “Oh, shit!” he screamed.

  “Maisie!” Joyce yelled. “Bad girl! Bad girl!”

  “I guess she doesn’t like Bette Davis,” I said.

  We rushed Ivy back to the barn and quickly cleaned him up. He was complaining in a nonstop diatribe that had Joyce and me dying laughing. What else was there to tell about our visit to the llama farm? That about covers it. I drove him back downtown to his car.

  “See you later!” I said and blew him a kiss.

  “Llamas,” he said, still completely disgusted. “Foul creatures.”

  I didn’t blame him.

  It was around four o’clock when I finally got home to take a shower and get dressed for the evening. Mary Beth was almost out the door; she was working that night. Some Broad Street lawyer was throwing his wife a fiftieth birthday party at Boone Hall Plantation for two hundred people. They had a twelve-piece Motown band coming to play and valet parking and everything you could think of that would make a party spectacular.

  “Even fireworks!” she gushed. “Can you imagine somebody loving you so much that he had fireworks for your birthday?”

  “No! That’s like really amazing. Take pictures!” I said to her as she was leaving. “There might be some good ideas for my wedding!”

  “Wedding?” she said. “What wedding?”

  “You’ll see!”

  Porter arrived on time. We were having an early dinner because this was supposed to be the night that we, well, went to the next level in our relationship. At least that’s what I was thinking. I was a little nervous for a lot of reasons. But when I saw him I knew he would be completely impossible to resist.

  “Gosh! You look so pretty!” he said when I opened the door. “And you smell like spring in the Garden of Eden! Come here, girl!”

  It was another weak-in-the-knees kiss and I thought, Oh, Lord!

  “Do we really have to go to dinner?” I said, thinking all I wanted to do was, well . . . be a very bad girl. “We could just walk the beach and order pizza?”

  “The night’s young,” he said. “First, I want you fed and then we’ll see to your other needs. Besides, it’s not even dark.”

  “Oh? Does it have to be dark? I didn’t know that.”

  “You are too adorable,” he said.

  “Well, then let’s get going because I actually have a surprise for you.” I locked the front door of the house and practically skipped down the steps, trying to keep up with him.

  “Oh, what’s that?”

  “Well, my grandmother’s boyfriend, Skipper, had a stroke two days ago . . .”

  “Your grandmother Maisie who went to school with my grandmother? That’s too bad.”

  “Yes, the same one. Anyway, he’s in the hospital and . . .”

  “Is he going to make it? I mean, he’s got to be pretty elderly.”

  “Well, not exactly. He’s actually younger than she is.”

  Porter opened my car door and I slipped in. Then he closed it and came around to the driver’s side and got in.

  “Okay,” he said. “How much younger?”

  “Fifteen years. He owns a llama farm out in Awendaw.”

  “A llama farm in Awendaw?” He cleared his throat. “Why?”

  “Why Awendaw or why llamas?”

  “Llamas. Why in the world would someone want to raise llamas?”

  “Well, they’re very sweet. Practically domesticated. And their wool has a lot of value. It’s much more fun to raise llamas than say, alpacas because they, alpacas that is, are not nearly as friendly. Alpacas are more like sheep. Have you never seen a llama? Up close, I mean. They hum to their babies. Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Do you know how often you say the word awesome?” He was smiling when he said it but I knew it was another lesson in how to be a politician’s partner.

  “Probably too much. I’ll try to be aware of that. Anyway, have you ever seen a llama?”

  “No. Can’t say I have, except on Animal Planet.”

  “I love that show. So, would you like to?”

  “Maybe someday,” he said. Porter was smiling. I thought he liked the idea. “So is that your surprise? You’re going to take me out in the country to a llama farm?”

  “No. Well, I can, any time you want. But my big surprise is that because Skipper had his stroke, my brother, Ivy, flew in from San Francisco to see what he could do to help . . .”

  “What kind of a name is Ivy for a man?”

  “Well, it’s a nickname because he’s Clayton Bernard Waters IV, so the IV is like ivy. Anyway, we’ve all called him that since he was really little.”

  “I see.” He was quiet for a moment. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “And so?”

  “So he’s going to meet us at Cypress for one drink and then he’s got other things to do. I just wanted him to meet you.”

  “Okay. If it’s only for a drink. I really want this night to be ours, you know?”

  He seemed slightly miffed but maybe I was imagining things.

  “Of course, I know. I feel the same way. But Ivy’s hardly ever here and he’s just so great. So I thought it was a good idea.”

  “Then let’s park the car and go find your brother who’s named for a houseplant.” He snickered and I thought it was funny. At least he had a sense of humor.


  We pulled into the parking lot and paid the attendant.

  “Hello, Mr. Senator? He’s also named for a category of very select schools. And for Old Moneybags, our father.”

  Porter turned off the engine and looked at me. His smile was a little too wide then.

  “So I imagine then that your father is a gentleman of means? Not that I googled him or anything.”

  “Massive. Not Rockefeller or Bill Gates fortunes but enough to live a pretty large life. I guess. But he’s pretty frugal so what can I say?”

  “And your mother works, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes. She works for a nonprofit that helps battered women and children.”

  “That’s a nasty can of worms, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know about that. I mean, I’m sort of proud of what she does.”

  “Yes, I’m sure in many ways you would be. But I just think it’s strange for your father, if he’s so successful, to let her be exposed to that kind of thing.”

  What did he mean? People who were rednecks on drugs? Or that it was too unpleasant a business for a lady of refinement?

  “I don’t think he thinks of it that way.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m just glad to know he can pay for the wedding,” he said and reached over to tickle me on the inside of my knee, a move that totally creeped me out. He got out of the car and came around to open my door.

  However, he had said that magical word—wedding! That wasn’t my imagination, was it?

  We went into Cypress and took the elevator upstairs to the bar. There was Ivy waiting at a small table. He stood up and extended his hand to Porter.

  I could tell that Porter hated Ivy on sight. It might have been because of the way he dressed. Ivy was a cutting-edge fashionista. Porter was not. We all ordered a glass of wine. They made pleasant enough conversation about San Francisco and Ivy’s business and James and the state of politics in the South and across the nation. We talked about Maisie and how she was living with Skipper and the unfortunate accident with the llama spit. It should’ve been a home run but the night was lost. What had happened? Why was Porter so uneasy? Ivy, for some reason beyond me, seemed to get an unspoken signal from Porter that he should leave and so he stood to go. His wineglass was still half full.