Sweet Tea Tuesdays

by Ashley Farley

  “You should call it off if it’s too much for you. Everyone would understand.”

  “Nah . . . I’ll be fine.” She popped the aspirin into her mouth and swallowed them down with a sip of coffee. “Now.” She screwed the lid back on the Bayer bottle. “What were we talking about? Right. Georgia. Tell me again why you haven’t told her about Lang’s affair.”

  Tell me again? Midge had never told her the first time. “Because I don’t want to be the one who ruins her life.”

  “So you’re just going to sit by while he makes a fool of her instead?”

  Midge gestured at the phone on the wall behind Lula. “Go ahead and call her if you think it’s so easy.”

  “Fine.” Lula rose from her chair and lifted the receiver. She punched in four numbers and then paused for thirty seconds before hanging up. She sat back down.

  “I’ve been carrying this information around with me for two weeks. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’ve neglected my job. I know I have to tell her. But I don’t know how.”

  “So you decided to drag me into it. You can’t come in here and dump this in my lap when I’m already losing sleep over this party. My daughter is arriving tomorrow. I haven’t seen her in ages. I’d like to enjoy her company without having to concern myself with Georgia’s love life.”

  Midge jumped to her feet. “Georgia’s love life? This is not middle school, Lula. Our best friend’s marriage is in trouble. What is wrong with you? I’m not dumping this in your lap. I came to you for advice on how to handle the situation. But never mind. I’ll figure it out myself.”

  She moved for the door, but Lula stood to block her path. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re right. I was out of line. I haven’t been myself lately. Will you forgive me?”

  Midge’s angry expression softened into a smile. Lula infuriated her at times, but she could never stay mad at her for long. She meant well despite her brusque delivery. “I forgive you. It was insensitive of me to drag you into this with all you have going on. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something to tell Georgia.”

  “Now that you’ve dragged me into it, I might as well help you figure it out.” She pointed at Midge’s empty chair. “Sit. I’ll get us some more coffee.” She topped off their coffee and sat down across from her. “Now that I think about it, maybe we shouldn’t be in such a rush to tell her.”

  “But—”

  Lula gripped Midge’s wrist. “Hear me out before you argue. I ran into Georgia yesterday when I was dropping some flowers off at Tasty. Her face lit up like a firecracker when she told me she was hopeful that Lang would come to the party with her. He’s gotta be sweating it out waiting for you to drop your bomb. What if he’s reconsidering his extramarital activities? What if this close encounter with divorce has made him realize he still loves Georgia?”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Not after what I witnessed at that hotel.”

  “Perhaps not,” Lula said. “But you’ve waited this long. Why not wait a few more days, until after the holiday?”

  “What if they do get back together? Are we just supposed to forget about his fling with Mrs. Jones?” As much as she dreaded telling Georgia about her husband’s affair, carrying the knowledge of Lang’s infidelity to her grave sounded even less appealing. “I’d be willing to bet there have been other women. Don’t you think Georgia deserves to know the truth?” Midge buried her face in her hands. “This is an impossible situation. I don’t think I can bear another week of this agony.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Georgia

  Georgia was unpacking groceries when she caught a glimpse of Lula through her window, clipping away at the wide assortment of colorful blooms in her garden. The more she cut, the more her flowers seemed to grow. Her bouquets were a big hit at Tasty. They now had a waiting list of customers requesting arrangements for certain dates.

  She hadn’t lied to Lula when she told her she hoped Langdon would accompany her to the party on the Fourth. She just hadn’t gotten the nerve up to ask him yet. But she had the afternoon free, and she planned to butter him up by cooking his favorite dinner. She had it all figured out. The aroma of fresh marinara, made from summer tomatoes and basil, wafting through the house would grab his attention when he came through the door around five. He would go upstairs to change out of his scrubs or sweaty tennis clothes and shower. She would have a scotch on the rocks waiting for him when he came back downstairs. One drink would lead to another, which would lead to a candlelit dinner followed by romance. She felt a stirring in her nether regions. It had been too long.

  While the marinara simmered, she straightened the house, set the table on the patio, and put on white linen slacks and her favorite silk blouse, the color of slate that made her eyes look more blue than gray. She heard the creak of the front door a few minutes past five. Right on schedule. She listened intently for the moans of delight once he got a whiff of his favorite dinner, but all she heard was the squeak of his tennis shoes on the hardwood floors.

  Langdon entered the kitchen, set his wallet and phone down on the island, and went to the sink for a glass of water. “What smells so good?”

  “You don’t recognize the aroma? Has it been that long since I made your favorite dinner?”

  He peeked in the oven. “Right, chicken parmesan. It’s been a while.” He gulped down half the glass of water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I hope you didn’t go to any trouble for me. I don’t have time for dinner. I’m headed back to the hospital to check on a patient.”

  “Seriously?” Georgia asked, unable to hide her disappointment. “I was hoping we could spend some time together. I can’t remember the last time we had a real conversation.”

  “I remember it well. It was before you went out and found yourself a job.”

  Georgia planted her fists on her hips. “You’re being absurd if you’re suggesting my job is the reason we never spend time together anymore. We haven’t spent any quality time with each other in years. Years, Langdon. Not just the weeks since I started working at Tasty. You’re never here. You can’t deny that.”

  “You’re right. I can’t deny that.” He drained the rest of his water and refilled his glass. “I’m sorry about dinner, Georgie. But you should’ve asked. You know how busy I am.”

  “Busy? I know you’re busy doing a lot of extracurricular activities outside the hospital that don’t include me.” Turning away from him to hide her tears, she went to the oven and removed the casserole dish. “I can keep dinner warm if you want to go check on your patients and come back.”

  He set the glass down in the sink. “You better go ahead and eat without me. I’ll probably be a while.” He glanced at the Rolex Submariner she’d given him for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She’d scrimped on her household expenses for a year to be able to afford it. “In fact, I’d better get showered and ready to go.” He exited the room, leaving behind a trail of green granules.

  “Take off those shoes,” she called after him. “You’re tracking your tennis court all over my house.”

  That went well, she thought to herself as she turned off the oven and sank down to the nearest stool at the island. She should’ve texted him about dinner. He led a busy life. His job didn’t end when he left the operating room. He was responsible for his patients’ recoveries as well. They counted on him to adjust their meds, order any necessary tests, and release them from the hospital when they were well enough to go home. She shouldn’t expect him to drop everything because she wanted to have a discussion about their plans for the Fourth of July.

  Langdon’s phone vibrated on the counter. Georgia glanced at the screen and saw that the text was from a Tina Olson. She couldn’t recall ever having met a Tina Olson. She picked up the phone and read the text: “What’s taking you so long? I rented our normal room.” She clicked on the text bubble, but the phone prevented her from reading the rest of the message without Langdon’s password. This Tina Olson person was waiting for him in their normal room.
A hotel room, obviously. Normal implying they rented it on a routine basis. Her body broke out in a cold sweat, and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Her husband was having an affair. Bastard.

  As she held the phone in her hand, an image of a woman with sharp, pointy features popped onto the screen signaling an incoming call. Tina’s red-painted lips were pursed in a seductive kiss meant for the photographer. Langdon.

  Georgia picked up the call, saying “Georgia Murdaugh, here. Who may I tell my husband is calling?”

  She heard a click, and the line went dead. She held the phone in a death grip, imagining her fingers wrapped around her husband’s neck instead of the phone. The sound of the shower running overhead jolted her out of her trance. Wonder what other secrets he’s been keeping. She took the phone across the hall to the library and sat down in the leather chair behind the desk they shared. Hers were the drawers on the right, and his the ones on the left. She paid all the household bills, including the credit cards. She always studied the monthly statements to make certain all the charges were legitimate. To her best recollection, she’d never come across anything suspicious.

  She opened his bottom drawer and thumbed through the hanging files until she came to one that wasn’t labeled. She removed the file and flipped through statements from an American Express account with a number she didn’t recognize. The statements went back four years and consisted of charges from hotels, restaurants, and a host of online lingerie sites.

  Her husband had played her like a fool. Langdon was so certain of her love for him, he hadn’t bothered to lock the drawer that contained the evidence of his affair. Four years was a long time. Had there been more than one mistress?

  She heard the pounding of feet on the stairs followed a minute later by her husband calling her name.

  “I’m in here,” she called back.

  He appeared in the doorway. “Have you seen my phone?”

  “You mean this?” She tossed the phone across the room to him. “Tee-na texted while you were in the shower. She’s waiting for you in your ‘normal’ room.” She used air quotes for emphasis. “I take it she isn’t one of your nurses. Maybe she is one of your nurses. It’s just that you’ve always been so critical of doctors who get involved with their nurses. Silly me for blabbering on without giving you a chance to explain. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave or what I should say. Discovering my husband is having an affair is a new experience for me. Is she one of your nurses, Langdon?”

  He hung his head. “She doesn’t work for me. She works for another doctor in a different department.”

  “Oh. I see. That makes it okay, then.” Georgia pushed back from the desk and went to the minibar in the corner. She removed two lowball glasses from the shelf, poured a finger of scotch in each, and handed one of the glasses to Langdon. “I gather Tee-na is married; otherwise, you’d be meeting for sex at her home instead of a hotel.”

  He downed the scotch in one gulp. “She’s married.”

  “Her husband and I have something in common, then. I’d like to meet Mr. Olson some time. We can talk about what naive fools we’ve been for trusting our spouses to be faithful to our marriages.” She took a sip of the scotch, then drained the glass.

  “Calm down, Georgie. If you’ll give me a chance to explain.”

  “You don’t have time for lengthy explanations. You’re already late for your hotel rendezvous with Tee-na, the other doctor’s nurse.”

  Langdon hung his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never meant to hurt you. This has nothing to do with you, with us, or our marriage. This is all on me. I’m having a midlife crisis, however cliché that may sound.”

  She gestured at the file lying open on the desk. “Your credit card statements go back four years. That’s some midlife crisis. Or was it a bunch of mini midlife crises strung together? Tell me, Langdon. How many nurses have you slept with in the past four years, since you opened your own American Express account to hide your secret charges—your hotel rooms, romantic dinners, and sexy lingerie?”

  He went to the bar and refilled his glass with ice and scotch. He turned back around to face her. “That’s the thing, Georgie. None of these women meant anything to me. Not like you mean to me. But somewhere along the road, I lost you. To the boys. To your volunteer commitments. I desperately needed you, and you weren’t here for me.”

  “Are you saying it’s my fault you cheated on me?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “I guess maybe I am.”

  “That is so unfair.” She slammed her empty glass down on the desk. “I’ve always put your needs first. Look at me. I’m the dutiful doctor’s wife who has fulfilled her husband’s every wish and command for the past three decades.” When he refused to meet her eyes, she screamed, “Look at me, damn it! I’m your wife. I’ve been right here all along, cooking and cleaning and raising your children while you’ve been off having sex with other women.” She pointed at the door. “I want you to leave.”

  He had the gall to look surprised. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Like hell I don’t.” Turning her back on him, she moved to the window.

  She felt his footsteps on the carpet and then his presence behind her. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips against her neck. “I’m not leaving, Georgie. I won’t give up on our marriage. I love you too much. Those other women aren’t important. It was all about the sex. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t. I think maybe I should see a therapist. Please don’t abandon me now. Not when I need you the most.”

  Her chin quivered, and tears welled in her eyes. When racking sobs overtook her body, she gave in to them and leaned back against him for support. Marriage was a journey with lots of ups and downs. After more than three decades, theirs seemed more like a voyage over calm oceans and stormy seas. How could she turn her back on him if he truly had a problem? Addiction came in many forms, not just alcohol and drugs. They would need counseling, individually for his addiction and together for the problems in their marriage. And he would have to prove his commitment to her and to their future. She hoped their marriage had a strong enough foundation to get them through this. She owed it to him and to their children to at least try.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lula

  Lula plopped down in the nearest vacant seat in the arrival lounge at the Charleston International Airport and fell fast asleep sitting up. The loudspeaker announcing the arrival of her daughter’s American Airlines flight from San Francisco via Charlotte startled her awake a few minutes later. She shook her head to clear the fuzzy feeling that had inhabited her brain the past few weeks. She hadn’t felt like herself in the three weeks since Brooke had called to say she was coming for a visit and Lula had made the foolhardy decision to throw a party. She was too old to plan parties on a whim. She was too old for a lot of things, or so it seemed her body was warning her. In her younger days, she’d been able to multitask like nobody’s business. Now, on the Wednesday before the Fourth, with only six days to go until the party, she wished she could cancel the whole thing and spend a quiet holiday with just her family. So many details whirling around in her mind like a funnel cloud gave her one great big headache. Whether to rent a tent or not was the source of her angst today.

  “I recommend all my clients rent tents for outdoor events this time of year,” Heidi had said to her on the phone that morning.

  “Have you seen the weather forecast? There’s only a twenty percent chance of afternoon thunderstorms,” Lula had argued.

  “I haven’t see your house, Lula. Can you fit a hundred people inside if it rains?”

  “Let me worry about the weather. I’m confident it’s not going to rain.”

  Heidi sighed. “I think you’re making a big mistake. At least look into it.”

  Lula had taken her advice and called Melissa, the event-planning specialist she’d been working with at the rental company. As she suspected, the cost of renting a tent the size she needed was way
over her budget. The weather forecast was now added to her list of obsessions.

  Everything else for the party was falling into place. She’d spent several days at the beach cottage during the past week, changing linens and stocking the pantry and refreshing the annuals in the planters stationed around the property. Her family—minus Lizbet, who had a hectic work schedule—would head to the beach on Friday, which would give Lula several days before the party to tie up loose ends. Her plan was to stay at the beach until the following Sunday when Brooke returned to California. The rentals—tables, cloths, and chairs—were scheduled for delivery on Monday, the day before the party. Heidi’s crew of bartenders and servers would arrive no later than three on Tuesday. Which, for Lula, cut a little too close to the five o’clock start time, but Heidi assured her they would have ample time to set everything up. She’d confirmed and reconfirmed with the band and the man she’d hired for the fireworks display. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

  Locating the nearest women’s restroom, Lula splashed water on her face and dabbed on some lipstick. For some reason, the pinkish coral color she’d worn for years suddenly seemed all wrong, and she wiped it off with a paper towel. She returned to the arrival lounge and waited for her daughter to emerge from Concourse B. When a stream of travelers approached, she searched the crowd for Brooke. A stunning young woman with wide-set hazel eyes and a boyish hairdo stopped in front of her. On closer inspection she realized this exotic creature was her daughter.

  “Mom! I’ve missed you so much.” She threw herself into Lula’s arms.

  “Brooke? What on earth happened to your hair?” She held her daughter at arm’s length. “Oh God! Please tell me you don’t have cancer.”

  “Of course I don’t have cancer, Mom. Geez.” Brooke ran her hand over her bleached blonde crop of hair. “I take it you don’t like it?”

  Lula studied her daughter closely. Missing were the eyeliner, blush, and lipstick Brooke had worn every waking hour of every day since Lula had agreed to let her try makeup on her fourteenth birthday. Missing were the long, sandy, wavy locks that Brooke, as a child, had insisted Lula brush one hundred times every night at bedtime. The girl who, as a teenager, fussed for hours with her hair, finding the right ribbon for her ponytail or ironing it straight as a board with a flat iron—that girl had transformed into a young woman Lula barely recognized. Something told her this change had everything to do with her daughter’s personal growth and little to do with her makeup and hairstyle.