The Hurricane Sisters: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  When Clayton arrived at around eight, I asked him if he was hungry. I opened the front door for him but I averted my eyes from his. I just couldn’t look in his eyes because I knew I’d burst into tears. He followed me to the kitchen, and I was trying to act as though everything was calm because I really didn’t want to fight. What was the point of a screaming match? And to be honest, I was more sad than angry and that was what I wanted him to know.

  Anyway, I had made some pasta from what I had in the house and what I didn’t eat was still in a pot on the stove. It would taste even better tomorrow.

  So I said, “You hungry?”

  He said, “No.”

  This surprised me because I couldn’t recall him ever turning down food of almost any sort and certainly not pasta. And maybe, just maybe, he could see the irony in expecting me to serve him a meal juxtaposed by the fact that it was unacceptable for him to just help himself. I took this as evidence that he was deeply and genuinely upset.

  “Someone send flowers?” he asked.

  I had to smile then because we were truly surrounded by a virtual botanical garden bonanza.

  “Yes. Someone sent flowers.”

  He smiled and picked up a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen and considered it. To my surprise he put it back and said, “Let’s talk first and then maybe we can share a bottle later?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “That depends.”

  “I know. Do you want to sit in the kitchen? Or the living room or where?”

  “The kitchen is fine,” I said.

  After all, the kitchen was where most of our family’s drama had always played itself out. And the important conversations, whether they were about science projects, math problems, college applications, hurt feelings, or family illnesses, all happened in the kitchen. Usually you’d find us around the ancient walnut trestle table I bought out in Summerville from an antique dealer right after we moved into this house. I wished then that I had a dollar for every meal I had cooked and served on this table. Or for every problem solved, hand held, and heart mended.

  “Okay,” he said and took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, moved several arrangements to the floor, and sat down. Apparently, taking water was not overstepping whatever boundaries he had imposed on himself. It was interesting that instead of sitting at the head of the table where he’d sat since the children were little, he took a chair on the far side. Maybe that was some unconscious signal that he was uncertain about his position in the family. I sat opposite him where I always sat. And waited. He just stared at me through masses of pink roses and Stargazer lilies.

  Finally, he took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair, and spoke.

  “I made a terrible, terrible mistake, Liz.”

  “I’d say so,” I said.

  “You couldn’t know how profoundly sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you or anyone.”

  “Do you want to tell me why this happened? I didn’t know you were so unhappy with our marriage. I really didn’t. I mean, I know it’s not fabulously exciting every day of the week, but it’s dependable and solid. And we’ve had lots of wonderful things happen to us, haven’t we? Happy years?”

  “I wasn’t unhappy with our marriage. I really wasn’t. I guess the only explanation is that I was weak. And I don’t know why I was so weak with Sophia . . .”

  “Wait! Stop! Stop right there. I never want to hear that nasty filthy name in my house again. Ever.”

  “Okay. I’ll never say it again, but my point was that I don’t know what made me so weak because I’ve said no thanks to lots of women over the years.”

  “You have?” What kind of a thing was that to say? “Where are we headed here, Clayton?”

  “Oh, come on. Like you haven’t said no to other men?”

  “Actually, only once.” Okay, maybe there was one other guy but that was so long ago.

  “Who was it?”

  “You don’t know him,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said and looked at me as if the guy’s name would appear across my forehead as though it was hidden under my makeup. “Okay. But remember the rush of excitement you felt when he first came on to you and you realized he wanted you? That he was practically possessed with you?”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering how I blushed then and how exciting it was that someone else found me attractive and even desirable enough to suggest something so dangerous and illicit. It had been almost staggering to consider but in the end nothing happened. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to sleep with him. And it wasn’t because I stood on some high moral ground. Nothing happened simply because I was a coward. But that decision had almost nothing to do with Clayton. In fact, for the duration of the flirtation, Clayton rarely came to mind. What Clayton was trying to tell me was that his affair with her, the Wanton Whore of the Upper East Side, had nothing to do with me or our marriage. I understood that this was possibly true.

  “I was seduced,” he said. “Like Adam and Eve and I took the apple.”

  “I’m sure she seduced the hell out of you,” I said. “She has a long history of leading men down the path to her well-worn mattress. She’s horrible. She’s a man-eater.”

  “Yes, she is. I’m so sorry, Liz. I don’t know what in the hell I was thinking.”

  “I’m so disappointed, Clayton.”

  “I am too. I’ve never been the kind of man who did those things and I don’t want to be that kind of man now. It’s despicable and tawdry behavior. I’m just so glad it’s over.”

  “You cried, Clayton. You cried to me. You cried like a baby and told me that you loved her.”

  “There was a moment that I thought I did love her. Then I came to my senses. And I have the deepest shame and the most horrible regret that I said those things to you. I must’ve been out of my mind.”

  “It’s possible. You wouldn’t be the first man who ever took a leave from his senses over a pair of outrageous implants. But that’s not the problem. Do you love her?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Are you really and truly certain of that?”

  “Yes. Listen, Liz. I’ve done more soul-searching in the last two days than I think I’ve ever done in my entire life and I’ve made some important decisions.”

  “I’m listening . . .”

  “First of all and most important, I realized how much I really do love you. You’ve been a wonderful wife and mother all these years. You deserve better than what I’ve given you up until now and I am determined to make this up to you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “And I’m retiring. I don’t really need to work anymore. We have plenty of money. I’m putting the co-op on the market and selling it. I want to be here all the time.”

  “To do what?”

  “Well, a friend of mine who has been married for a long time told me the secret to a happy marriage is to operate like a team. I’ve been flying solo for too long. So I want us to take up golf.”

  “Golf? Golf? Are you serious?” I burst out laughing. He didn’t even crack a smile. “Holy mother! You are serious! Clayton? You think a sport like golf can repair a broken marriage? That is the most ludicrous thing you have ever said for as long as I have known you! Golf?”

  “Okay, tennis then. Or kayaking. Or hiking. Something. The point is we need to find something to do that brings us together that we can do all the time that we like.”

  “What’s the matter with grilling or gardening or traveling?”

  “Nothing! Those are all great ideas too! Let’s go to Bali!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! The point is we should enjoy what we have earned. You know, it’s time to spend some of the fruits.”

  “Or we can leave it all to the children.”

  “Dumb idea.”

  “Well, at least we agree on something. Look,
Clayton, here’s what it comes down to. Either we’re staying married or we’re not. But one thing’s for sure, if we remain married, we’re not going back to how things were.”

  “I completely agree.”

  “You’ll have to accept the fact that you’re not the center of the universe.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that. You are no longer going to stroll out of here when you feel like it and stroll back in expecting my world to stop and for me to wait on you hand and foot. We’re at a different stage in our lives now. The children are gone. And now I want you to pay some attention to me, be nice to me, and be my friend. Start acting like you love me. Even if you don’t love me, maybe you can convince yourself you do if you act like it long enough.”

  “No, Liz. I do love you. More than anyone in my entire life.”

  “And you are never going to utter one syllable that devalues my work. Is that understood? What I do literally saves lives and you know it. You and Maisie act like I’m working with gunslinging, drug-addicted lowlifes who live like animals when nothing could be further from the truth. Just look at all the abuse among the clergy! And the police officer in Beaufort who was beating his wife for years until she finally shot him? It’s the people who are supposed to protect us that abuse us! There’s so much anger and rage out there . . . it has to stop.”

  “You’re right. I know that’s true, and I promise to learn more about your work and your mission. I swear I will.”

  And then what? I thought.

  “This work is my legacy, Clayton. What’s yours going to be?”

  He stopped and stared at me again. He surely didn’t want the world to say that he was nothing more than a philandering moneymaking machine with the soul of a miser.

  “I don’t know. I guess it would be good if our family knew that I changed. That I became a changed man. A much better man. Maybe I’ll join forces with you? I do love you, Liz. When I realized I might lose you, I thought I would die because I don’t want to live without you. It made me see how much you mean to me and how much our family means to me. And I want to be your best friend, the best one you’ve ever had. Please, I’m begging you, Liz.”

  “You’re begging for what?” I said.

  “I’m so, so sorry and I’m begging your forgiveness. I swear on everything that’s holy that I will be a better husband and that nothing this stupid will ever happen again!”

  There was a long silence then as he waited for me to respond.

  “Okay, Clayton. You’ve got the new ground rules committed to memory?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then we’re going to put this ugly business behind us and never speak of it again. Is that clear?”

  “Clear as a bell. So I’m forgiven then?”

  “I’m going to work on forgiving you, Clayton. You can sleep in the guest room and maybe you can seduce me into full forgiveness over time.”

  “Can we kiss?”

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  He stood and came around to my side of the table and pulled me to my feet. Then he kissed me like he used to and I felt a wave of something wonderful radiate through me like I just stepped into the warmth of the sun for the first time in years. He put his hand on the back of my head and ran it down my hair.

  “I love you,” he said. “Thank you, Liz.”

  “For what?” I said. I looked at all the little wrinkles around his eyes, the deep creases in his forehead that appeared when he worried, and I knew I loved him too. I did.

  “For another chance,” he said. “Um, is that spaghetti over there on the stove?”

  “Yes. Would you like for me to heat it up for you?”

  “Please. I’m starving. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Oh, why not?”

  Ingrained behaviors are hard to change. I was like the proverbial horse to the barn as I served him a plate of pasta and he poured wine for us. We truly were creatures of our habits. I watched with some measure of satisfaction as he twirled and devoured every last strand and with a heretofore unwitnessed gusto, declaring it was the best thing he had ever tasted in his whole life. At least that’s what he said. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t so. I’d had enough truth for one night.

  Nonetheless, we stayed up late, talking and talking. And we wept together as we made a vow to take his affair off the list of topics for discussion. Tears were so rare between us that we were reduced to a kind of vulnerability I hadn’t known since my sister’s death when I learned that anything can happen. He told me I was beautiful and smart, no, brilliant and such a wonderful woman, so selfless and generous and he praised how dedicated I was to my family and how none of them, the wretches they were, deserved me. The whole time he was running his mouth, telling me what a magnificent creature I was, I kept thinking, This is some bodacious bullshit coming out of his mouth. But I sort of loved it. I did. Bullshit, used smartly and with discretion, could be a very pleasant change of pace.

  So that’s how I wound up here at the stove making pancakes this morning. It was almost eight and I planned to leave for work by nine, to avoid traffic. I put some bacon in the microwave to cook and melted some butter into the syrup over very low heat. I was no Barefoot Contessa but I could put the hurt on breakfast food. All I needed was a box of Bisquick. I set the table, and a few minutes later there was Clayton in the doorway, in his bathrobe and flip-flops.

  “G’morning!” he said. “Do I smell bacon?”

  “Yes, sir! Coffee?” I poured him a mug because I knew the answer and handed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  I poured some batter into the pan and took two plates from the plate rack and set them on the counter by the stove.

  “You should try the guest room mattress. It’s fabulous.”

  I looked at him and he raised his eyebrows in amusement.

  “Maybe I will,” I said and smiled.

  “I meant what I said about taking a vacation, just you and me. Someplace really exotic where we’ve never been before. Like what about Bali? You always wanted to go there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I’d love to go. Who wouldn’t want to see Bali?”

  He already sounded more like the Clayton I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. Most important, he was thinking of a future with me, a future of mutual discoveries, a starting-over adventure.

  “Well, then, let’s do it!”

  “You arrange it and I’ll pack. Meanwhile, I’m going to be late for work.”

  We had a quick breakfast.

  “Liz, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Seems like we’ve been working overtime in that department.” I smiled at him. A smile didn’t cost anything. “What are you thinking about now?”

  “Well, I’ve got to retire from work. And I want to put the apartment on the market. So I was thinking of leaving for New York on Monday and I’d come back as soon as I can, if this is okay with you?”

  “I think that sounds great, Clayton. I think that sounds like a good plan.”

  “I can just call a mover, right?”

  “Absolutely. They’ll pack up everything for you.”

  “What are we gonna do with all that stuff?”

  “We can put it in the beach house. It needs refreshing.”

  “Perfect,” he said and added, “God, I love pancakes. And I love you too.”

  “Who doesn’t love pancakes? And I sort of still love you maybe.” I laughed. “Would you like more?”

  “No, no.” He patted his tummy. “I’m completely satisfied.”

  “Well, good,” I said, and I got up to put the dishes in the dishwasher.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” he said. “New rule. You cook? I clean.”

  “I like that,” I said. “See you tonight.”

/>   I got in my car and while I was buckling my seat belt I was thinking that Maisie was right about two things. One, a reconciliation might be fun after all and, most important, I wasn’t going to let the one really stupid thing that happened in all these years tear my marriage and my family apart. But hell would freeze before I’d admit that to her.

  I had no intention of discussing my marriage with anyone but Clayton, except to say here that I’m really glad I went to New York and that privately I was grateful Maisie and Ivy gave me the impetus to make the trip. I feel like facing the problem and dealing with it as I did was the only course I could have taken. Was I certain that forgiving Clayton and letting him come home would work? No, I was not. Not at all. But listen, Clayton didn’t have a history of catting around and I had known Sophia for what she was a long time ago. She was not a nice girl. Men were playthings to her. I’d seen her melt them and pour them in the sink like cold coffee, watching them circle the drain without a care for the havoc she left in her wake. She was heartless and jaded. Clayton didn’t know women like her. I did. There was a reason why they called the catwalk a catwalk—there were some dangerous felines up there slinking around. Mostly there were nice girls in the modeling world, but every now and then you’d run into one who was so narcissistic it would blow your mind. Sophia was a sparkling example. I hoped she’d have fun with her five-foot-four-inch-tall polo player. Poor Clayton. But at the same time I was saying poor Clayton, I was hoping he never completely healed from the stinging humiliation of his encounter with her.

  My cell phone rang. As expected, it was Maisie.

  “All right,” she said, “tell your mother. Is everything hunky-dory between you and Clayton?”

  “We are going to be fine, thank you.” That was all I said.

  “Well, for the record, it was Skipper who told him he should beg your forgiveness.”

  “How’s Skipper feeling this fine sunny day?” I said, wondering if she had told the story of Clayton and Sophia to the mailman and the UPS deliverywoman and the woman who did her hair too.