By Invitation Only

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  He said, “You probably ought to ask her first, you know, to see if there’s any interest.”

  Alden said he was unsure of how to respond. Had Floyd missed the fact that every time Alden and I had a date, I came home when the sun came up? Yes, probably, since when I came home I’d see Susan or Floyd sneaking back to their trailers like teenagers. When was Floyd going to make an honest woman out of her? Just yesterday I went down to Susan’s trailer to give her some tomatoes and she wasn’t there. So I knocked on Floyd’s door and it was locked. Walking back, I heard people (them) moaning and the rhythmic squeak of his box spring. It went on and on and on for so long I thought, Oh dear Lord! Please don’t kill her. In fact, every time we turned around Susan and Floyd were MIA and his door was locked. Please. Those two. But I must say I think their antics contributed to her becoming more agreeable.

  My birthday was this past February, and Alden gave me a diamond the night of Valentine’s Day. We went to Grill 225 to have a romantic dinner. We ordered chocolate nitro-tinis, martinis that came with a warning attached to them. He stood up. I thought he was going to the men’s room, but then he dropped to one knee.

  “Alden!”

  I had no idea he had bought a ring, but he pulled it out of his shirt pocket.

  “So will you be my forever valentine?” he asked.

  “Of course I will!”

  Everyone in the restaurant started clapping, and our waiter brought over two glasses of champagne on the house. Then Alden kissed me, and sugah? That man could kiss. He sent chills up and down my spine, just like that old song said.

  Not that it mattered, but my new diamond was twice the size of the one I gave Fred to give Shelby.

  “Very pretty,” Mom said when I showed it to her the next day. “When’s the big date?”

  “There’s no date for now,” I said. “I’m happy as is.”

  “That’s trampy. You’re sending the wrong message to the young people.”

  “Oh, please!” I said, knowing the so-called young people couldn’t care less.

  With the money from the USDA insurance policy, we replanted four hundred clingstone and two hundred freestone peach trees, one hundred more than we’d lost. Two hundred of them would bear fruit this summer because of a new growing technique Susan, believe it or not, found on the Internet that involved building a greenhouse over them and aggressively pruning. Apparently, she had a thing for research.

  We had a morning meeting every day at seven thirty, something instituted by Floyd, to be sure the day was organized and got off to a good productive start. The young people complained about the hour, except Shelby, who was always up early with little Floyd. I just called it breakfast, since I had the joy of cooking for eleven people every day, but they all did their part in the cleanup. Susan buttered toast, saying it was her specialty.

  “Technically, this breakfast is a tax deduction,” Fred said.

  “Really? Do you think the business can renovate this kitchen too, since we meet here three times a day?” I said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my kitchen,” Mom said.

  “Face it, Miss Virnell. It could belong to the Waltons,” I said.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said.

  I gave a kiss on her cheek.

  “I found another article about how they grow peaches in Japan,” Susan said. “They put brown paper bags over each peach and they ripen on the branches into a solid peach-colored round fruit, no red splotches. Rounded bottoms. Like it’s a perfect peach! They probably charge more for those. I mean, I would.”

  “Too labor intensive,” Floyd said.

  “I’m aware,” Susan said. “But it might be interesting to try it on one tree, just for the fun of it.”

  “I love your curious mind,” Floyd said.

  “I love yours,” she said.

  “Good gravy,” Mom said.

  Susan smiled in such an angelic way that it was astonishing to me. She was still a bitch, make no mistake about it. But now she seemed to watch her mouth a little better.

  We were back in business and stronger than ever.

  Sophie had smartly maintained her connections with Starbucks, and they wanted us to bake peach muffins for their southeastern stores. That was 2,233 stores in ten states that wanted our muffins? Really?

  I said, “Why don’t we start with the hundred or so stores in South Carolina and see how it goes?”

  Floyd said, “We don’t have that kind of capacity to produce, wrap, and ship. Anybody do the math?”

  “I did,” Fred said. “You can’t spend more than a dollar on ingredients or ship less than a dozen at a time if you want to make any money.”

  “I think we can manage with six ovens,” I said, “if we can ship frozen. If we can, we need two standing freezers. At least.”

  “I think shipping frozen is fine,” Sophie said.

  “I’ll go to Lowe’s,” Floyd said.

  Lowe’s was to Floyd what Bergdorf Goodman used to be to Susan.

  “I’m just waiting to hear back from my old company,” Ann said. She had flown back to New Jersey with Virnell’s biscuits and a dozen jars of jam to see if she could sell the recipe to the condiment division. It would have its own label—Miss Virnell’s Heavenly Peach Jam. Or strawberry. Naming it after her was the only way she could get Virnell to disclose her much-guarded recipe. She said the folks at her old company found it to be a charming idea.

  Susan’s flower business was really coming together. She had planted hundreds of daffodil bulbs last fall and hundreds of tulips in the earliest weeks of spring, in beds Floyd dug for her. Zinnias were everywhere, dressing up the landscape with a profusion of color. Next, she would plant roses. She started putting together hanging boxes for windows and fences.

  When Floyd saw what she was spending on window boxes, he said, “I can make those.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” she said.

  Believe me, they loved nothing better than bothering each other. All they did was coo like doves, or so it seemed, except when she was giving him hell, which Momma and I loved. Nobody had ever called Floyd on his nonsense or Susan on hers until Susan migrated here.

  “What do I do, Lady Di? She won’t make a commitment to me,” Floyd told me when no one else was around.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Floyd, she’s been traumatized her whole life by one terrible thing after another. Starting with—”

  “Her momma and daddy getting drunk every night and screaming and then him whaling on her and her momma? I’d have shot the sumbitch too.”

  “Build your house the exact way she wants it. She’ll commit.”

  “Probably good advice. She’s not going to live in that trailer forever, even though hers has bumpout sides, granite countertops, and a king-size bed.”

  “You’re too generous.”

  So Floyd built the hanging boxes for windows and fences and she filled them and sold them as soon as she put them out front. But he also broke ground on the Shem Creek house, and once that happened, he and Susan became completely inseparable. Outside of the store, she arranged buckets and buckets of blooms and changed the blackboard to say, stop the car! you need flowers! It seemed that everybody wanted flowers with vegetables or their pie or their muffins in the morning.

  Susan and I, more like sisters than friends given the amount of bickering between us, were the happiest watching little Floyd. He was crawling everywhere faster than a speeding train. Now he had two little bottom teeth and wanted nothing more than to stand up and run. He was the best part of our lives, reducing all of us to sentimental mush.

  Shelby and Fred said they’d like to carve out a little piece of land for themselves down near the creek too. Mom had no objection, and neither did anyone else, but everybody wanted the same thing for themselves. There were too many trailers for everyone’s blood. Sophie and Karen wanted to build a house that would be on the small side. Stephanie and Sam wanted to build a tiny house, a concept that was beyond me. Ann
was happy to take Fred’s old room when Fred and Shelby moved out and maybe build something later. Or not.

  “It might be nice to have a condo for all of us at the beach,” she said the last time we talked about it.

  I’d always dreamed about having one.

  It was late afternoon and Susan and I were sitting on the porch, drinking sweet tea. The days were getting longer and warmer, but we still needed a sweater or something after four in the afternoon. We had just left the farm stand. Karen offered to close up for the day.

  “Fred and Shelby are so happy,” Susan said.

  “Did you call him Fred?”

  “Yes, honey, I did.” Then she laughed. “What a year this has been. I’ve forgiven Alejandro, but I’m going to be angry with him forever. To think I loved him once! What a fool I was!”

  She was looking out over the yard, remembering.

  “Every woman worth her salt has been a fool at least once. Yes, ma’am, it’s been some year,” I said. “Terrible. But wonderful too.”

  “Yes, but you know what? The bad parts brought us to the good parts. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve never been so happy in my whole life.”

  I reached over and patted the back of her hand. “Me too. And me either,” I said.

  “It’s so improbable that I should be here, and yet there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. What is it about this place?”

  “That’s funny. Look, I don’t know if it’s the smell of the earth or the night skies with all the stars or what, but I think it’s a bit like making a cake. You wouldn’t eat butter or flour or vanilla by themselves, but when you combine them with eggs and milk, they become something else. That something else is the magic of the Lowcountry, Susan. What did that crazy cocktail napkin say? Nobody ever retires and moves up north.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Let’s go start supper.”

  “I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” I said.

  I needed a moment to reflect. Susan hadn’t said dinner; she’d said supper, like we did. She didn’t even say you guys anymore. She hadn’t come around to y’all quite yet, but she would say all of you. Someone once said to me that you become like your environment, and I think that’s true. Susan had changed dramatically in the short months she’d been with us. But I also knew you couldn’t really fix a person’s unhappiness until you healed the hole in their soul caused by some terrible incident. The microburst storm and her mother’s and husband’s crimes were a subject of conversation anytime we felt the need to vent. As was her abuse.

  Yesterday she told me a little more. “My mother was a drunk and as crazy as could be. My grandmother was the one who saved me. When things got too violent at home, she’d take me to her house.”

  “Thank heavens you had her.”

  “I thank God every day. It’s a new thing I’m doing. Thanking God, that is. So far it’s a one-way conversation.”

  “That’s good,” I said. I had smiled at that.

  Her violent childhood and Alejandro’s crimes had left deep scars on her in the areas of religion and trust. And the Can You Top This Club was back in Chicago and out of her life. But at least she was no longer pretending to be something she wasn’t.

  The loss of Pop and the terrible storm left scar tissue on the rest of us. We all knew that this life would not last forever. Pop’s sudden death showed us we had better love when we feel it and while we can. The storm had reminded us how fragile the world could be. What we were doing was taking part in something larger than ourselves. Being a good and a whole family. Treating one another with love and respect and tending to the needs of our family as a whole.

  I didn’t know what waited for me in the years to come. How long would I have Alden? Would Fred and Shelby give us more children? Would the others? Would Miss Virnell leave us soon? There was a picture in my mind’s eye of her reunited with Pop that I pushed away every time it came into view. But the truth of all these things would not be revealed until it was time for them to be revealed. That what farming taught you—everything in its own good time. But meanwhile, our tribe had been restored and there was room in our enormous hearts for everyone. I knew that we were going to take good care of one another, better than before with each passing day, and that was enough for me.

  Acknowledgments

  A lot happened during the writing of By Invitation Only. Our daughter and son-in-law brought Theodore Anthony into the world. We are beside ourselves with pure unmitigated joy every single day. I have roughly a thousand pictures of him on my phone and we FaceTime every few hours. Yes, even though I took an oath I wouldn’t be one of those babbling grannies pushing pictures of my remarkable grandchild on anyone who will listen, I have become exactly that person. Sorry. Not sorry. And we are completely thrilled that our son William married Maddie. What a wedding! What a gorgeous bride! And of course, what a handsome groom! It was these two weddings (Victoria’s in 2015) and the birth of Ted that planted the seed for this novel, although there’s not one detail in these pages that isn’t fiction. Last year we were wondering how being a grandparent might change us. This year I know. Being a grandparent is the absolutely coolest thing that ever happened to us, right next to being a mother-in-law.

  Now to the business at hand. Using a real person’s name for a character has been a great way to raise money for worthy causes. And in By Invitation Only, many generous souls come to life in these pages as my characters. I have met some of these folks only ever so briefly, so I can assure you that I would be astonished if the behavior, language, proclivities, and personalities of the characters bear any resemblance to the actual people. From a lunch in 2016 for the Friends of the Shelter in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, I’d like to thank the following: Shelby Cambria, Fred Stiftel, Judy Cunio-Quigley, Alden Corrigan, Diane English, Kathy Christie, and Susan Kennedy. Every one of you plays an important role in this story, and I feel certain Dawn Kettling, who organizes this spectacular event, wouldn’t mind me saying how important it is to support efforts to end domestic violence, how important your support is, and how grateful we all are to have it. So thank you.

  Special thanks to Ashley Hargrove and Virnell Bruce for their support of Literacy for Life in Williamsburg, Virginia, a mighty worthy cause. Thirty-two million people in this country are considered illiterate. If you don’t have the ability to read and write in English, it’s extremely difficult to lead a successful life. I applaud the excellent efforts of Literacy for Life and Ashley and Virnell for their meaningful support.

  Abby’s Friends of Daniel’s Island, South Carolina, which works to end juvenile diabetes, is grateful for the support of the Runey family and in particular, Michael Lawrence Runey III.

  Thank you, Betsy Beyer, for your support of Van Vleck House and Gardens in Montclair, New Jersey, another fine nonprofit that’s dear to my family.

  Special thanks to Irene Hamburger of Blue Hill at Stone Barns for the inside skinny of Chef Dan Barber’s ingenious egg yolk coloring. And special thanks to Sally Metzler, Ph.D., of the Union League Club of Chicago for verifying that it is a portrait of General Ulysses S. Grant which is installed there. And big thanks to Bill Lasche of Bill Lasche Ltd., Interior Design, for identifying the Chicago spots where the elite meet.

  I hope Wendy Wellin, Robin Harris, Lynn Easton, Juliet Elizabeth, Ramsey Lewis, Chef Joho, Warren Edwards, Ed Rabin, Jackie Tyler, Claude Paquin and Corey and Elyse Friedman will be tickled to pieces to find themselves in this crazy story. I enjoyed thinking of y’all as I wrote your names over and over!

  Special thanks to George Zur, my computer web master, for keeping the web site alive.

  To Ann Del Mastro, Stephanie Dunn, and my cousin, Charles Comar Blanchard, all the Franks love you for too many reasons to enumerate!

  I’d like to thank my wonderful editor at William Morrow, Carrie Feron, for her marvelous friendship, her endless wisdom, and her fabulous sense of humor. Your ideas and excellent editorial input always make my work better. I couldn’t do this without you. I
am blowing you bazillions of smooches from my office window in Montclair.

  And to Suzanne Gluck, Michelle Feehan, Andrea Blatt, Hillary Zaitz Michael, Matilda Forbes Watson, Tracy Fisher, and the whole amazing team of Jedis at WME, I am loving y’all to pieces and looking forward to many more years together!

  To the entire William Morrow and Avon team: Brian Murray, Liate Stehlik, Lynn Grady, Kelly Rudolph, Julie Paulauski, Kathryn Gordon, Kate Hudkins, Katherine Turro, Carolyn Coons, Lisa Sharkey, Frank Albanese, Virginia Stanley, Andrea Rosen, Josh Marwell, Andy Le Count, Carla Parker, Donna Waikus, Michael Morris, Gabe Barillas, Mumtaz Mustafa, Elise Lyons, and last but most certainly not ever least, Brian Grogan: thank you one and all for the miracles you perform and for your amazing, generous support. You all still make me want to dance.

  Special thanks to Marah Stets and Carey Jones for their help with recipes and cocktails.

  To Debbie Zammit, okay, so how long have we known each other? No one needs to know! Our years together in this endeavor have now surpassed our years together on Seventh Avenue. What a spectacular friend you are! We finish each other’s sentences, reading each other’s minds—what’s left of them anyway. As the years try to snatch our mental acuity and recall, we need to stick together. Thank you over and over for well, everything.

  To booksellers across the land, and I mean every single one of you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, especially Aaron Howard and Melinda Marquez of Barnes & Noble and Vicky Crafton of Litchfield Books. To my family, Peter, William and Victoria, I love y’all with all I’ve got. Victoria, you are the most beautiful, wonderful daughter and I am so proud of you and I’m just crazy about our Carmine, which he knows. I love everything about y’all. William? You are so smart and so funny, but then a good sense of humor might have been essential to your survival in this house. And proof of your intelligence is to be found in the simple fact that you brought Maddie into the fold. We are so very excited. I’m so proud of all of you. Every woman should have my good fortune with their husband and children. Peter Frank? You are still the man of my dreams, honey. Thirty-five years and they never had a fight.